So its time to talk/write about everyone's favorite topic: Food.
The first thing you should know about Cameroonian food is that it consists primarily of starches. And main dishes can be summed up as starches wrapped in/on top of/mixed with starches. As someone with a serious 'meat tooth', I'm having major protein withdrawl. My solution to this problem: soya. Not 'soya' as in tofu, but 'soya' as in Zara's ideal food item. Soya is meat seasoned with spicy pepe (the Pidgin word for pepper'), grilled over coals on the roadside and served on a stick. And it costs $0.25 each. What could be better?? Although a chronic addiction is developing, I'm trying to limit myself to 5 a day, to be eaten in the long afternoon period between lunch and dinner.
In terms of regular meals, we (the interns) eat three, carb-loaded times a day at the Orock's house. Breakfast, at 7:30am is usually some combination of eggs and lots of white bread. On occasion we have that famous Cameroonian specialty (seriously), the spagetti omlet. Lunch, the major meal of the day at 2pm is either lots french fries, rice or pasta served with a red sauce that tastes like Minestrone, some fruit and a minimal amount of grilled fish or chicken. Given that there are now seven of us, we must strategically situate ourselves at the table to give us the best access to the non-carb items. In fairness I should say that there is always enough food at the table and that they do go out of the way to give us Western food and more protein than the average Cameroonian gets. Dinner at the Orock's (and other Cameroonian households) is a light, starchy meal. We usually eat pancakes/crepes, muffins, or on special days, white bread with avocado, cucumber and tomatoes with mayonaise- strangely tasty.
As someone who's already had her fill of french fries and pancakes, I've been asking for some of the leftovers from the Orock family's meals, i.e. traditional West African food. These dishes include 'pap' (mushed up cornmeal), various types of 'fufu' (a boiled and mashed glob of yam, cassava, or manioc served in a banana leaf and which tastes similar to what one would expect from melted rubber), fried plantains (delicious), and grilled meats covered in pepe. My love of pepe, and high tolerance for spiciness (which is at freak levels, according to everyone here) has led to the nickname Ms. Pepe. My regular server of soya, Bobe, claims that I eat spicier food than any Cameroonian, although he watches me carefully everytime I eat his spicy soya to make sure that my head doesn't explode or my tongue fall off. Pepe is so good that I am seriously contemplating leaving all my possessions here and bringing home a giant backpack full of it, not for resale, just personal consumption.
Second to my love of spicy food is my love of street food. Some local specialities include 'poof poof', which is basically extremely greasy, fried dough and another example of the emphasis on carbs here. (Poof-poofs may also be the single cheapest item here, costing only 5F, which is a couple of pennies.) There is also grilled corn on the cob, although it is very much in need of butter, chili pepper and salt, which is how it is served in India to perfection. We also go for roasted bar fish (a local type of fish) on the weekends. Served with a pepe sauce and fried plantains, a whole fish about the size of a forearm costs only 700F, or $1.75. Amazing.
In terms of drinks, there is no better deal than Cameroonian beer. For .65L (about the quantity of two cans in the U.S.) it costs $1.25. There are numerous brands, with the most popular local ones being Mitzig and Export 33, both dark lagers. Guiness is also ubiquitous, and is the corporate sponsor for just about every event, including the Race for Hope up Mt. Cameroon. The beers are way to heavy and dark for me (I've obviously got the American preference for light, girly beers) so I stick with Fanta and Pomplemousse (grapefruit soda), which are $1 for .65L, still a good deal. All the drinks are served in old-school glass bottles so you can only have beer or soda in restaurants or roadside bars- I havent seen any drink in cans or plastic bottles.
Oh, I forgot to mention fruit. Mangos, green oranges (mosumbi in India), and pineapple are all in season and cheaper than dirt. Four mangos costs $0.25 total and a whole cut pineapple the same. I end up eating a lot of these, along with roasted nuts, between meals, because six hours is just too long for me to go without eating. Ironically, its now time for me to go get my regular 6pm soya fix. Today I think I'll have six, five for me and one in your honor. :)
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Climbing Mt. Cameroon: Day 3
We woke up impossibly sore. Our hobbling to the latrine was truly comical. However, after putting up with Peter's impatience the day before, I was determined that we were going to complete the last leg of the trip (another 12-13km mostly through rain forest) in half the time (9 hours) he predicted. (As you all well know, I am rather competitive and there was no way a man was going to tell me again that at our 'girl pace' we were slower than other groups.) Given this, at 7:30am we set out from our campsite, doing 10 minutes in the woods around the spring and going into the savana, just as yellow/brown and barren as the day before but blessedly not as windy. Once my legs became more limber than the concrete blocks they started the day as, I was practically jogging through, although the trail was still difficult. Over the rolling hills, the soil of the savana was like gravel and the path so narrow that my foot barely fit on it, so it was like walking a rocky tightrope and trying not to fall off a mountain at the same time. (I forgot to mention that a couple hours into day 1 a strap on my backpack broke so I had it slung across my body and the heaviness of the water severely affected my balance, which made me even more wobbly during this part.)
After 45 minutes of this (Peter predicted almost 2 hours) we hit the rainforest. Serious dense, jungle-y rainforest. It was almost primordial, with huge ferns and a canopy so dense that it was hard to see through the darkness. Just our luck, it had rained the night before, making the steep descent even harder, with us slipping all over the place thanks to the wet leaves which made up the path and the dense underbrush hiding loose branches for us to trip over. During our 2.5 hours in the forest we met our first non-trekker, a crazy local hunter on his way to the spring. Once he found out that we were Danish and American he started shouting 'You are rich! You are rich! Your father is a rich man!', which reflects the mentality of many people here.
Sweating bullets from the heat and humidy, we were so happy to come into the 'farmlands', a less dense green forest with scattered areas for growing yams, cassava and manioc, none of which is done in the style we think of for growing crops- neat rows of plants. Instead this was just free growing plants that a family, or group of families, would harvest when the need arose.
By this time we were salivating at the though of paved roads, showers, and being in our own beds. (And I was mentally preparing a list of complaints about Peter.) And so we were again jogging to the finish line, which was pretty admirable given not only our exhaustion and soreness but Sophie's sprained ankle. We three, along with the Cameroonian girl, we all jumping for joy (and then cringing as our knees hurt upon coming back down) when we finally got to paved roads, and even the porters seemed overjoyed to be home. Getting in the taxi to go back to the office was like riding in a car for the first time- the idea of moving while not walking was earth-shattering. Oh, and we did the supposed 9 hour trek in less than 5 hours, which even Peter had to conceed was a record, not just for girls but for all his climbers.
Back in the office we logged an official complaint about Peter and then tipped the porters and other guide. (The Danish girls had a hard time w/ the tipping- apparently its just not done in Scandinavia.) We then took a cab back down the hill to our place in Molyko (our neighborhood in Buea). Apparently everyone in town noticed our arrival, probably due to our truly disgusting (and smelly) appearance and loud groaning as we stood up again. Walking the 250 meters back to our house was probably the most painful walk of my life, especially when I realized how badly my left shoulder hurt from carrying 20lbs on it all day for three days. The water was still not running when we got home, but our roommates agreed that a shower was extremely necessary and that was probably the best bucket shower of my entire life.
As we hobbled like old/pregnant women over to the Orock's for lunch, the three of us took a moment to look up at the mountain. Most of the time you hardly notice its there, as its often covered by the clouds, but today the sun was shining and you could see the top ridge. It was only then that the sense of achievement we had expected to feel at the summit finally hit us, and we felt proud of what we had accomplished. Even now, a week later, I look at the mountain and am mystified as to just how we managed to get all the way up there. So even though it was one of the most physically demanding experiences of my life (and I dont think I've cursed more in three days before), climbing Mt. Cameroon was also one of the most rewarding and fulfilling things I've ever done.
However, you can be damn sure I'm not doing it again any time soon.
After 45 minutes of this (Peter predicted almost 2 hours) we hit the rainforest. Serious dense, jungle-y rainforest. It was almost primordial, with huge ferns and a canopy so dense that it was hard to see through the darkness. Just our luck, it had rained the night before, making the steep descent even harder, with us slipping all over the place thanks to the wet leaves which made up the path and the dense underbrush hiding loose branches for us to trip over. During our 2.5 hours in the forest we met our first non-trekker, a crazy local hunter on his way to the spring. Once he found out that we were Danish and American he started shouting 'You are rich! You are rich! Your father is a rich man!', which reflects the mentality of many people here.
Sweating bullets from the heat and humidy, we were so happy to come into the 'farmlands', a less dense green forest with scattered areas for growing yams, cassava and manioc, none of which is done in the style we think of for growing crops- neat rows of plants. Instead this was just free growing plants that a family, or group of families, would harvest when the need arose.
By this time we were salivating at the though of paved roads, showers, and being in our own beds. (And I was mentally preparing a list of complaints about Peter.) And so we were again jogging to the finish line, which was pretty admirable given not only our exhaustion and soreness but Sophie's sprained ankle. We three, along with the Cameroonian girl, we all jumping for joy (and then cringing as our knees hurt upon coming back down) when we finally got to paved roads, and even the porters seemed overjoyed to be home. Getting in the taxi to go back to the office was like riding in a car for the first time- the idea of moving while not walking was earth-shattering. Oh, and we did the supposed 9 hour trek in less than 5 hours, which even Peter had to conceed was a record, not just for girls but for all his climbers.
Back in the office we logged an official complaint about Peter and then tipped the porters and other guide. (The Danish girls had a hard time w/ the tipping- apparently its just not done in Scandinavia.) We then took a cab back down the hill to our place in Molyko (our neighborhood in Buea). Apparently everyone in town noticed our arrival, probably due to our truly disgusting (and smelly) appearance and loud groaning as we stood up again. Walking the 250 meters back to our house was probably the most painful walk of my life, especially when I realized how badly my left shoulder hurt from carrying 20lbs on it all day for three days. The water was still not running when we got home, but our roommates agreed that a shower was extremely necessary and that was probably the best bucket shower of my entire life.
As we hobbled like old/pregnant women over to the Orock's for lunch, the three of us took a moment to look up at the mountain. Most of the time you hardly notice its there, as its often covered by the clouds, but today the sun was shining and you could see the top ridge. It was only then that the sense of achievement we had expected to feel at the summit finally hit us, and we felt proud of what we had accomplished. Even now, a week later, I look at the mountain and am mystified as to just how we managed to get all the way up there. So even though it was one of the most physically demanding experiences of my life (and I dont think I've cursed more in three days before), climbing Mt. Cameroon was also one of the most rewarding and fulfilling things I've ever done.
However, you can be damn sure I'm not doing it again any time soon.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Climbing Mt. Cameroon: Day 2
Woke up at 6am very sore but to good weather- not too cold or windy. Our guide, Useless Peter, as we had dubbed him, promised to tell us more about the ecology and history of the mountain, and therefore began our climb by telling us about how there was the dead body of a teenager on the next ridge and that a plane had crashed in the mountain last year. Charming.
After a short, extremely steep and rocky portion, the ground became slightly more level, and the climbing easier, but the weather became cold, windy, and misty. Two hours later we arrived at a huge cave, where we took shelter from the wind for a bit and chatted with Francis, the other guide, who told us about the god of the mountain and how his mood determines the weather at the summit. That day it seemed like the god was feeling blustery.
From there it was another hour to Hut 3 in the wind and cold, and the hike seemed never-ending. By this point we were all cursing ourselves for choosing to do this god-forsaken climb and were angry, frozen, wet popsicles. After resting, exhausted, in the hut for a while with the porters, who were also beat, we set out to brave the storm and climb the last 45 minutes to the summit. The path, although not very steep, was extremely difficult because the land was sandy/gravely and the wind was so bad that it was hard to stand up, let along walk in a straight line. In a determined haze I dragged myself, practically crawling, to the summit where it was so windy that it was difficult to breathe and we had to cling to the big rock there just to keep from blowing away. (If this had been a mountain in the U.S. there is no way the mountain would have been open to climbers. The guides said they had never seen it so bad and estimated the wind was blowing at about 80mph.) It was also so misty that we could barely see the hand in front of our faces, let alone any view of Cameroon. Because of the miserable conditions it was hard to enjoy the achievement of reaching the peak, and we just wanted to get the hell out of there.
After taking the obligatory pictures (which are too misty to really make out anything) we crawled back down over a different route. Useless Peter went ahead and didnt look back while the three of us struggled to navigate between the two huge craters on the other side. I was kneeling farther down the slope trying to direct Sophie so she didnt fall into one of them while Berit yelled at Peter to slow down, which he didnt do. For about 20 minutes more we struggled through these conditions as we slipped and fell down the very rocky, very windy steep slope. It was like trying to stand still during a rock slide. Eventually the weather got slightly better, the visibility improved and we moved into an area of fine black sand/gravel surrounded by brown tundra. Rather than try and walk down it, I realized that it was easier to 'ski' it and had a great time slalom-ing down the huge hill.
At the end of the hill we started to walk through the endless lava flows which seem to reach the furtherest point of the horizon. These particular flows were from the last erruption in 2002 and were just starting to bud with plant life; I'm sure after the rainy season the whole land looks lush with vegetation. We had to go quite slowly through this portion as Berit wasnt feeling well and the ground was really uneven and unsteady. (However, Useless Peter wasnt too thrilled about this and kept going ahead until I told him to stop and slow down.) After a couple hours we finally, finally made it through to the savana. The line between the savana and the flows is very distinct, as are all the transitions from one environment to the next. The contrast between each of them is extreme.
We thought we only had 40 minutes to go until we reached Mann's Spring, our camping point for the evening, but it turned out that it was 40 minutes until the 12 craters and then another 1 hour to the site. The savana was barren, stark and very windy and we were pretty tired, having already done 12km, including a lot of uphill. Unfortunately we needed a lot of energy to navigate between the craters (which we think were caused during the volcanic eruptions- it was hard to get an answer out of Peter) as they were very unstable, and the trail was just loose pebbles in along a narrow ridge. Beyond the craters we could see green rolling hills, which was quite the contrast to the black 40 foot deep craters we were trying not to fall into. After the craters we emerged into a huge, vast black desert made of very fine volcanic rock. It was truly beautiful and the scope of it was amazing- it just kept going and going. (For those of you have have been to White Sands in New Mexico, think that but with pitch black sand.) I ran and skied through this part, going quickly so I wouldnt notice how badly my legs hurt. Finally out of the desert and into the greenery (although the soil was still made of volcanic rock), I ran down the hill towards a mountain, and eventually to our campsite on the far side. Peter and the girls eventually arrived in one piece as well, although we were all, including the porters who met us there, exhausted and barely able to walk to the latrine around the corner.
After resting and chatting with the Cameroonian girl who also made it to the Spring, we made some more spagetti and then talked with the porters about the local history and culture of the SW Province. After eating the porters did a traditional blessing of the ground, and performed a native song and dance with palm fronds that they asked us to join them in. It was a great experience, although we were so sore that it was hard to dance at all. At long last, at 8:15pm and after 22km that day, we crawled into our tiny tent and went to bed.
After a short, extremely steep and rocky portion, the ground became slightly more level, and the climbing easier, but the weather became cold, windy, and misty. Two hours later we arrived at a huge cave, where we took shelter from the wind for a bit and chatted with Francis, the other guide, who told us about the god of the mountain and how his mood determines the weather at the summit. That day it seemed like the god was feeling blustery.
From there it was another hour to Hut 3 in the wind and cold, and the hike seemed never-ending. By this point we were all cursing ourselves for choosing to do this god-forsaken climb and were angry, frozen, wet popsicles. After resting, exhausted, in the hut for a while with the porters, who were also beat, we set out to brave the storm and climb the last 45 minutes to the summit. The path, although not very steep, was extremely difficult because the land was sandy/gravely and the wind was so bad that it was hard to stand up, let along walk in a straight line. In a determined haze I dragged myself, practically crawling, to the summit where it was so windy that it was difficult to breathe and we had to cling to the big rock there just to keep from blowing away. (If this had been a mountain in the U.S. there is no way the mountain would have been open to climbers. The guides said they had never seen it so bad and estimated the wind was blowing at about 80mph.) It was also so misty that we could barely see the hand in front of our faces, let alone any view of Cameroon. Because of the miserable conditions it was hard to enjoy the achievement of reaching the peak, and we just wanted to get the hell out of there.
After taking the obligatory pictures (which are too misty to really make out anything) we crawled back down over a different route. Useless Peter went ahead and didnt look back while the three of us struggled to navigate between the two huge craters on the other side. I was kneeling farther down the slope trying to direct Sophie so she didnt fall into one of them while Berit yelled at Peter to slow down, which he didnt do. For about 20 minutes more we struggled through these conditions as we slipped and fell down the very rocky, very windy steep slope. It was like trying to stand still during a rock slide. Eventually the weather got slightly better, the visibility improved and we moved into an area of fine black sand/gravel surrounded by brown tundra. Rather than try and walk down it, I realized that it was easier to 'ski' it and had a great time slalom-ing down the huge hill.
At the end of the hill we started to walk through the endless lava flows which seem to reach the furtherest point of the horizon. These particular flows were from the last erruption in 2002 and were just starting to bud with plant life; I'm sure after the rainy season the whole land looks lush with vegetation. We had to go quite slowly through this portion as Berit wasnt feeling well and the ground was really uneven and unsteady. (However, Useless Peter wasnt too thrilled about this and kept going ahead until I told him to stop and slow down.) After a couple hours we finally, finally made it through to the savana. The line between the savana and the flows is very distinct, as are all the transitions from one environment to the next. The contrast between each of them is extreme.
We thought we only had 40 minutes to go until we reached Mann's Spring, our camping point for the evening, but it turned out that it was 40 minutes until the 12 craters and then another 1 hour to the site. The savana was barren, stark and very windy and we were pretty tired, having already done 12km, including a lot of uphill. Unfortunately we needed a lot of energy to navigate between the craters (which we think were caused during the volcanic eruptions- it was hard to get an answer out of Peter) as they were very unstable, and the trail was just loose pebbles in along a narrow ridge. Beyond the craters we could see green rolling hills, which was quite the contrast to the black 40 foot deep craters we were trying not to fall into. After the craters we emerged into a huge, vast black desert made of very fine volcanic rock. It was truly beautiful and the scope of it was amazing- it just kept going and going. (For those of you have have been to White Sands in New Mexico, think that but with pitch black sand.) I ran and skied through this part, going quickly so I wouldnt notice how badly my legs hurt. Finally out of the desert and into the greenery (although the soil was still made of volcanic rock), I ran down the hill towards a mountain, and eventually to our campsite on the far side. Peter and the girls eventually arrived in one piece as well, although we were all, including the porters who met us there, exhausted and barely able to walk to the latrine around the corner.
After resting and chatting with the Cameroonian girl who also made it to the Spring, we made some more spagetti and then talked with the porters about the local history and culture of the SW Province. After eating the porters did a traditional blessing of the ground, and performed a native song and dance with palm fronds that they asked us to join them in. It was a great experience, although we were so sore that it was hard to dance at all. At long last, at 8:15pm and after 22km that day, we crawled into our tiny tent and went to bed.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Climbing Mt.Cameroon: Day 1
I'm not really sure what possessed us to do it, but Valerie (the Canadian volunteer who arrived the same time as I did), Sophie and Berit (the two Danish girls who've been with UAC 1.5 months) decided that we wanted to climb Mt.Cameroon. Mt. Fako, as its known locally, is 13,500 ft high and known for its diverse terrain, largely due to the fact that the mountain is also a semi-active volcano. The mountain is also the site of the annual Mt. Cameroon Guiness Race for Hope, a 40km (i.e. marathon length) run up and down the mountain, which, unbelievably, the world's top runners can complete in 4 hours. (There is a woman from Cameroon who has won it seven times, largely because she can make it down in less than an hour.) We booked our trek through the Mt.Cameroon Ecotourism Office, the only licensed agency to lead climbs, and choose to do the 'classic' 3 day, 2 night route, along with a guide and 4 porters. (In what should of acted as a warning to us about the difficulty of the hike, the MCEO has a poilcy of one porter per person because a porter must be availble to carry a hiker down in the case of injury or sickness.) Only about 1,200 tourists choose to climb the mountain last year, and even though it isn't as technically-demanding as Mt.Kenya or Kilamanjaro, its very steep and rather arduous.
Because we choose to cook for ourselves, we bought LOTS of bread, pasta and sauce, non-refridgerated cheese, Spam, and fruit for the trip, along with 6 1.5 liter bottles of water each (the water constitutes the majority of the weight the porters have to carry). We got to the MCEO office early Saturday morning and met our guide Peter, a 35-year old local man who has competed in the Race for Hope (he came in 31st) and has been leading treks for about 10 years. Our four porters were fairly young men, and all, suprisingly, wearing green, taped-together Jellies, like the shoes little girls wore on the beach in the 1980s. Somehow they got all of our food, water, clothes, tent, four sleeping bags and sleeping mats, and their stuff into five old-fashioned army backpacks, and by 8:30am we were off to the base of the mountain, only a couple minutes drive away.
We started climbing through open farmland, and past a run-down but still functioning prison, and only made it 15 minutes before we had to stop because Valerie was feeling sick. Although she had been sick since arriving and taking Immodium without success, she had really wanted to climb the mountain. However, it was obvious that there was no way she was going to make it, even in the best of health. She decided to turn around and headed home and straight for the doctor. Then it was three (plus guides and porters).
After she left we continued on and the rolling hills of farmland morphed into dense forest. We had been warned about rains (its the start of the wet season) and cold (due to the altitude) and prepared for that, so we weren't ready for the extreme heat of the forest and by 30 mins in were soaked with sweat. Two hours later, we arrived at Hut 1, the first rest point, where we had lunch (strangely delicious Laughing Cow cheese and Spam sandwiches) and tried to swat off the swarms of bees which live in the hut. There we also met a Cameroonian girl (whose name I think was Maka) who was climbing with her mother, an extremely determined woman who wanted to make it to the top, despite having to walk with two canes.
At 11:30 we got back to the hike and took on the walk from Hut 1 to Hut 2, which is considered the most challenging part of the trail. We came out of the forest and into the vast, green, lush hills of the mountain, overlooking the city. I was ahead of the pack and had a few minutes to enjoy the sheer scope and beauty of the landscape- not another soul in sight, no signs of anything man-made, just unblemished nature. This setting could have been from anywhere: the hills of Scotland, the mountains in northeast Cambodia, the greenery of New England, and thus produced a feeling in all of us of wonderful displacement and isolation.
This beauty temporarily distracted us from the unbelievable steepness of the climb. Once we moved into the more barren savana, with its rocky soil and scattered plant life, the difficulty increased and we were breathing hard, trying to cope with the altitude and thinness of the air. Finally, across the huge savana I saw a hut, and jumped for joy. We arrived ecstatically, praising each other for finishing the most challening section in about half the time the guidebooks had quoted. Unfortunately our happiness was short-lived once Peter told us this was the Middle Hut, not Hut 2, our destination for the day. Grudingly we set out again.
The three of us began walking along but were quickly forced to climb on hands and knees as the steepness increased and the fertile soil turned into ground of loose rocks and pebbles, making it very unstable. We were above the clouds and wanted to enjoy the views of Buea, the beaches of Limbe, the huge sprawl of Douala, and the rest of the landscape, but we were so exhausted that we just wanted to get to the elusive Hut 3 and ignored the views behind us. The trail never seemed to end, for just as we would arrive at the top of a hill or crest, a whole other mountain would appear before us and we would curse and curse. One of the porters was by then climbing with us, encouraging us to keep going (probably because he didnt want to have to carry us to Hut 2), and telling us about landmarks, such as the Magic Tree, named because even as you walk towards it it doesnt seem to get any bigger. When we saw the flag indicating that Hut 2 was nearby, we did a short dance of joy and dragged ourselves the last 200meters. At over 2800m high, Hut 2 consists of a corrugated metal shack with three rooms with raised platforms inside for sleeping, a seperate wooden kitchen and two outhouses. It also has spectacular views of the coast and cities, and we watched the sunset change the sky below us brilliant colors.
By then it was only 4pm, but we were starving, so with our severely swollen hands (due to the altitude) we prepared a dinner of spagetti, tomato paste and Spam. As we ate we talked to the other hikers: a middle-aged Swedish business man, a German student doing a semester at the University of Buea, a French couple who were serious climbers, and the Cameroonian girl, who had been living in France for the past 9 years. At 5:30 it was getting dark and we crawled into our sleeping bags because not only because we were exhausted, but because it was extremely cold and we had nothing else to do. We spent a restless night listening to the wind howling and the mice crawling around our room, and when Francis, the guide of the Cameroonian girl who was sharing the room with us, came in he killed one with his bare hand, scaring us all awake.
Because we choose to cook for ourselves, we bought LOTS of bread, pasta and sauce, non-refridgerated cheese, Spam, and fruit for the trip, along with 6 1.5 liter bottles of water each (the water constitutes the majority of the weight the porters have to carry). We got to the MCEO office early Saturday morning and met our guide Peter, a 35-year old local man who has competed in the Race for Hope (he came in 31st) and has been leading treks for about 10 years. Our four porters were fairly young men, and all, suprisingly, wearing green, taped-together Jellies, like the shoes little girls wore on the beach in the 1980s. Somehow they got all of our food, water, clothes, tent, four sleeping bags and sleeping mats, and their stuff into five old-fashioned army backpacks, and by 8:30am we were off to the base of the mountain, only a couple minutes drive away.
We started climbing through open farmland, and past a run-down but still functioning prison, and only made it 15 minutes before we had to stop because Valerie was feeling sick. Although she had been sick since arriving and taking Immodium without success, she had really wanted to climb the mountain. However, it was obvious that there was no way she was going to make it, even in the best of health. She decided to turn around and headed home and straight for the doctor. Then it was three (plus guides and porters).
After she left we continued on and the rolling hills of farmland morphed into dense forest. We had been warned about rains (its the start of the wet season) and cold (due to the altitude) and prepared for that, so we weren't ready for the extreme heat of the forest and by 30 mins in were soaked with sweat. Two hours later, we arrived at Hut 1, the first rest point, where we had lunch (strangely delicious Laughing Cow cheese and Spam sandwiches) and tried to swat off the swarms of bees which live in the hut. There we also met a Cameroonian girl (whose name I think was Maka) who was climbing with her mother, an extremely determined woman who wanted to make it to the top, despite having to walk with two canes.
At 11:30 we got back to the hike and took on the walk from Hut 1 to Hut 2, which is considered the most challenging part of the trail. We came out of the forest and into the vast, green, lush hills of the mountain, overlooking the city. I was ahead of the pack and had a few minutes to enjoy the sheer scope and beauty of the landscape- not another soul in sight, no signs of anything man-made, just unblemished nature. This setting could have been from anywhere: the hills of Scotland, the mountains in northeast Cambodia, the greenery of New England, and thus produced a feeling in all of us of wonderful displacement and isolation.
This beauty temporarily distracted us from the unbelievable steepness of the climb. Once we moved into the more barren savana, with its rocky soil and scattered plant life, the difficulty increased and we were breathing hard, trying to cope with the altitude and thinness of the air. Finally, across the huge savana I saw a hut, and jumped for joy. We arrived ecstatically, praising each other for finishing the most challening section in about half the time the guidebooks had quoted. Unfortunately our happiness was short-lived once Peter told us this was the Middle Hut, not Hut 2, our destination for the day. Grudingly we set out again.
The three of us began walking along but were quickly forced to climb on hands and knees as the steepness increased and the fertile soil turned into ground of loose rocks and pebbles, making it very unstable. We were above the clouds and wanted to enjoy the views of Buea, the beaches of Limbe, the huge sprawl of Douala, and the rest of the landscape, but we were so exhausted that we just wanted to get to the elusive Hut 3 and ignored the views behind us. The trail never seemed to end, for just as we would arrive at the top of a hill or crest, a whole other mountain would appear before us and we would curse and curse. One of the porters was by then climbing with us, encouraging us to keep going (probably because he didnt want to have to carry us to Hut 2), and telling us about landmarks, such as the Magic Tree, named because even as you walk towards it it doesnt seem to get any bigger. When we saw the flag indicating that Hut 2 was nearby, we did a short dance of joy and dragged ourselves the last 200meters. At over 2800m high, Hut 2 consists of a corrugated metal shack with three rooms with raised platforms inside for sleeping, a seperate wooden kitchen and two outhouses. It also has spectacular views of the coast and cities, and we watched the sunset change the sky below us brilliant colors.
By then it was only 4pm, but we were starving, so with our severely swollen hands (due to the altitude) we prepared a dinner of spagetti, tomato paste and Spam. As we ate we talked to the other hikers: a middle-aged Swedish business man, a German student doing a semester at the University of Buea, a French couple who were serious climbers, and the Cameroonian girl, who had been living in France for the past 9 years. At 5:30 it was getting dark and we crawled into our sleeping bags because not only because we were exhausted, but because it was extremely cold and we had nothing else to do. We spent a restless night listening to the wind howling and the mice crawling around our room, and when Francis, the guide of the Cameroonian girl who was sharing the room with us, came in he killed one with his bare hand, scaring us all awake.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Miscellaneous Observations
So now that I've been here for a week, some patterns of Cameroonian behavior and culture have begun to emerge. These are listed below, and I'm sure more will be added in the months to come.
-If you are not Cameroonian, you are a 'white man'. (This is a particularly odd experience for me, as I am neither white nor a man, but that doesnt seem to matter to the people here.) And everywhere you go everyone, both young and old, feels the need to shout 'white man white man!!!'
-Once people see a 'white man' and get their attention, they say 'You're welcome', which comes off as rude, as if you forgot to thank them for something, like allowing them into their country. What they really mean however is 'You ARE welcome', a much nicer greeting.
-They are obessed with America. Europe is good, but America is great, which is why every cab has an American flag air freshener in it.
-The word 'please' is completely unheard of, which makes many people come off as rude in the eyes of foreigners, until you realize that they arent as demanding as they seem.
-There are relatively few wild dogs, especially as compared to India or SE Asia. Instead there are lots of wild goats and chickens.
-'Asha' is the Pidgin English answer to every statement. It means 'sorry', 'thanks', 'thats good', 'fine', 'tomorrow', etc, etc.
-'African Magic' is a Nigerian program which is on 24-7 and may be both the worst and most hilarious TV show ever. The stories are always relatively scandalous (someone takes advantage of drunk woman, someone beats their girlfriend, someone steals from the church, etc) but the acting is so horrible and the plots make no sense that they become farces. I'm going to try and tape some to bring home.
-The men here are fairly skinny, but they all seem to prefer women who are much bigger than them, so it looks like many wives could crush they husbands.
-There is never enough change. Giving someone 2000CFA for a purchase worth 500CFA is like giving someone $100 for a $5 purchase- it incurs the same glare and frustrated sigh.
-All transactions can be done while in a moving car. Taxi drivers love to slow down, make a kissing noise (how you get people's attention here) and then shout something at a vendor down the road, and by the time the cab rolls by, the newspaper/food/candy/cigarettes/change is ready for them and the car doesnt even have to stop.
-Ever wonder where the clothes you donate to the Red Cross or Salvation Army end up? Well its here, but strangely not the T-shirts or shorts, but the wool sweaters and parkas you gave away in the 1980s.
-There are a few Albinos in town (due to a genetic defect) and there are a lot of myths about them. Some people believe they dont die (because they've never been to the funeral of an Albino person), that they aren't whole souls, or they are only ghosts.
-If you are not Cameroonian, you are a 'white man'. (This is a particularly odd experience for me, as I am neither white nor a man, but that doesnt seem to matter to the people here.) And everywhere you go everyone, both young and old, feels the need to shout 'white man white man!!!'
-Once people see a 'white man' and get their attention, they say 'You're welcome', which comes off as rude, as if you forgot to thank them for something, like allowing them into their country. What they really mean however is 'You ARE welcome', a much nicer greeting.
-They are obessed with America. Europe is good, but America is great, which is why every cab has an American flag air freshener in it.
-The word 'please' is completely unheard of, which makes many people come off as rude in the eyes of foreigners, until you realize that they arent as demanding as they seem.
-There are relatively few wild dogs, especially as compared to India or SE Asia. Instead there are lots of wild goats and chickens.
-'Asha' is the Pidgin English answer to every statement. It means 'sorry', 'thanks', 'thats good', 'fine', 'tomorrow', etc, etc.
-'African Magic' is a Nigerian program which is on 24-7 and may be both the worst and most hilarious TV show ever. The stories are always relatively scandalous (someone takes advantage of drunk woman, someone beats their girlfriend, someone steals from the church, etc) but the acting is so horrible and the plots make no sense that they become farces. I'm going to try and tape some to bring home.
-The men here are fairly skinny, but they all seem to prefer women who are much bigger than them, so it looks like many wives could crush they husbands.
-There is never enough change. Giving someone 2000CFA for a purchase worth 500CFA is like giving someone $100 for a $5 purchase- it incurs the same glare and frustrated sigh.
-All transactions can be done while in a moving car. Taxi drivers love to slow down, make a kissing noise (how you get people's attention here) and then shout something at a vendor down the road, and by the time the cab rolls by, the newspaper/food/candy/cigarettes/change is ready for them and the car doesnt even have to stop.
-Ever wonder where the clothes you donate to the Red Cross or Salvation Army end up? Well its here, but strangely not the T-shirts or shorts, but the wool sweaters and parkas you gave away in the 1980s.
-There are a few Albinos in town (due to a genetic defect) and there are a lot of myths about them. Some people believe they dont die (because they've never been to the funeral of an Albino person), that they aren't whole souls, or they are only ghosts.
Touring the Health Centers
So not all of my time here has been about beer, food and beaches. In fact, I've been able to meet a lot of people in the health sector and tour a good part of the province. UAC put me in contact with Mr.Oben, an Oxford-educated former professor and social worker who acts as an advisor to UAC now that he is retired. Oben is also on the board of the local health council and seems to know just about everyone in town. Together we have met with the Director of the Southwest Province Health Delegation, the coordinator of the Mutual Health Organization (a new government-sponsored health insurance program), the head of the Buea Health Office, the surgeon and eye doctor at the government Provincial Hospital, the doctor at a small private hospital, and nurses/'Chief-of-Posts' at two small health outposts in local villages. All of these people have been very welcoming, honest and helpful, talking to me about the challenges they face in trying to provide quality health care with limited resources. Sadly, most of the diseases they see are easily preventable or treatable: malaria, diarrhea, dermatitis, intestinal parasites, TB, typhoid. However, most people fail to recognize the problem (especially in children), or try to self-medicate by buying drugs from street vendors, so they only make it to the hospital or clinic when they are very sick and often beyond help.
Now a shameless plug: If you work in the health sector, or know someone who does (and that means a lot of you), please see if your health facility has any spare resources. What they need here isnt complicated medical equiptment, just things like:
-Gauze
-Foreceps
-Syringes
-Tylenol
-Basic antibiotics
The nurses here work extremely hard, and are often owed salaries from months ago. They don't ask for a lot, but they really appreciate everything they receive. A new Dutch volunteer just arrived and brought glasses with her, and I will deliver them in Mamfe when I head north next week and already the town is excited about them. So please, if you can, start stealing from your hospital or clinic for the good of the Cameroonian people. Actually, I'm kidding about the stealing, but consider if you or your health center could spare any resources. I will publish pictures of the clinics and their very, very basic facilities as soon as the Internet allows to give you all a sense of the challenges they face here. Its pretty daunting.
Now a shameless plug: If you work in the health sector, or know someone who does (and that means a lot of you), please see if your health facility has any spare resources. What they need here isnt complicated medical equiptment, just things like:
-Gauze
-Foreceps
-Syringes
-Tylenol
-Basic antibiotics
The nurses here work extremely hard, and are often owed salaries from months ago. They don't ask for a lot, but they really appreciate everything they receive. A new Dutch volunteer just arrived and brought glasses with her, and I will deliver them in Mamfe when I head north next week and already the town is excited about them. So please, if you can, start stealing from your hospital or clinic for the good of the Cameroonian people. Actually, I'm kidding about the stealing, but consider if you or your health center could spare any resources. I will publish pictures of the clinics and their very, very basic facilities as soon as the Internet allows to give you all a sense of the challenges they face here. Its pretty daunting.
Djino and Limbe!
Djino is a local soda brand, which promised to be 'Full of Fruit, Full of Flavor' (its really just pink sugar water). It also happens to be the sponsor of an annual kid's art competition. On Saturday, my first full day in Buea, the other interns and I went to the awards presentation for the competition because one of the kids who goes to the UAC school and hangs around our houses, Sam, had won a prize. The ceremony, in typical fashion, lasted four hours, comprised mostly of speeches by various local dignataries, poems about how wonderful Djino is read by students but clearly written by Djino marketing agents, and endless award-giving: to students, to the teachers, to the principals of participating schools. And of course, everyone got two Djino t-shirts and a 6 pack of 1.5 liter bottles of Djino. There was also a band which played the Djino theme-song about 70 or 80 times, a ditty which sounded like the theme to a 1970s police sitcom. Also performed were 'Hotel California', 'I Will Always Love You', and 'Killing Me Softly', although I cant see how any of them related to a children's art show. Although fairly mind- and butt- numbing (due to the child-size plastic chairs), the ceremony was entertaining and we did come away with pink Djino paper visors.
More enjoyably, on Sunday, Valerie, Berit, Sophie, Victor (a Nigerian former UAC-volunteer) and I went to Limbe, a beach about 30 mins away from Buea. What makes Limbe unique is that the sand is black because of the lava flows from Mt. Cameroon. To get there we took a cab down to Mile 17, the major transit area. We got in a van bound for Limbe, along with 11 others, although it was only a 9 seater. No public cab, bus or van will leave until jam-packed, which can be rather inconvenient. The ride was fairly painless, and we didnt get stopped at the two police checkpoints along the way, quite the achievement. In Limbe we caught another cab to a beach, which was full of white ex-pats taking a weekend getaway from Douala. Because the sand is so black, the water also appears black, and the tides can be quite strong (apparently 6 foreigners drowned at a different beach in Limbe a few months ago), giving the ocean a menacing appearance. But the water really warm, the sun and sand perfect and the Fanta refreshingly cold, so the afternoon was extremely relaxing.
The main reason for going to Limbe is to enjoy the fresh, grilled fish which can be bought at Down Beach, just down the road from us. Unfortunately, because it was Sunday, there was no fresh fish to be found right off the boat (usually you just pick one from the fisherman and carry it to a woman to grill it, and she brings it to your restaurant, where you should be found enjoying a $1.25 giant beer). So we went back to Buea, ate some fresh donuts to sustain us until a favorite local joint started serving its whole, grilled fish, about the lenght of a forearm. Served with grilled plantains and pepe (spicy pepper in Pidgin), it was delicious, and incredibly satisfying, especially with some Djino.
More enjoyably, on Sunday, Valerie, Berit, Sophie, Victor (a Nigerian former UAC-volunteer) and I went to Limbe, a beach about 30 mins away from Buea. What makes Limbe unique is that the sand is black because of the lava flows from Mt. Cameroon. To get there we took a cab down to Mile 17, the major transit area. We got in a van bound for Limbe, along with 11 others, although it was only a 9 seater. No public cab, bus or van will leave until jam-packed, which can be rather inconvenient. The ride was fairly painless, and we didnt get stopped at the two police checkpoints along the way, quite the achievement. In Limbe we caught another cab to a beach, which was full of white ex-pats taking a weekend getaway from Douala. Because the sand is so black, the water also appears black, and the tides can be quite strong (apparently 6 foreigners drowned at a different beach in Limbe a few months ago), giving the ocean a menacing appearance. But the water really warm, the sun and sand perfect and the Fanta refreshingly cold, so the afternoon was extremely relaxing.
The main reason for going to Limbe is to enjoy the fresh, grilled fish which can be bought at Down Beach, just down the road from us. Unfortunately, because it was Sunday, there was no fresh fish to be found right off the boat (usually you just pick one from the fisherman and carry it to a woman to grill it, and she brings it to your restaurant, where you should be found enjoying a $1.25 giant beer). So we went back to Buea, ate some fresh donuts to sustain us until a favorite local joint started serving its whole, grilled fish, about the lenght of a forearm. Served with grilled plantains and pepe (spicy pepper in Pidgin), it was delicious, and incredibly satisfying, especially with some Djino.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Welcome to Cameroon
May 1-May 2
After some last-minute packing (is there any other kind in my life?), Tanya, Maggie and I dashed to the airport. Of course, Delta managed to lose my luggage IN the airport, which set me back 45 mins, and I barely made my flight to Paris. Charles de Gaulle airport is still horrible but the copious amounts of wine served by Air France makes it worth traveling through. From there I flew to Douala, the economic (but not political) capitol of Cameroon. Although we got in on time, it took 30 minutes to get through the numerous health and security checks and screenings, which really serve as opportunities for government workers to extort bribes from tourists. (Cameroon is rated one of the most corrupt countries in the world, and a little money to civil servants is required to get anything done.) I made it through without trouble, and while my bag arrived, my ride did not. Douala airport is a crowded, hot chaotic mess, which smells like sweat, dirt, spices and urine (i.e. the same as any Indian airport), and full of pushy taxi drivers who try to take you to a hotel where they will get a commission. Although it was pouring, I waited outside, hoping to see someone holding a sign with my name- no luck. After a minor freak-out/foot-stamping, I went back inside, made friends with the Air France luggage representative, convinced him to let me use his phone for free, and called a couple of my local contacts, finally get in touch with the man, Mr.Orock, who was supposed to pick me up. He told me that he was just entering Douala and would be there 'soon'. Turns out 'soon' was in African Time, so that meant 1.5 hours later, making him 2.5 hours late. Tired, sweaty, and frustrated, I finally met him and Tako, another United Action for Children (UAC) worker at 6:30pm, after suffering the harrassment of many obnoxious drivers and girls trying to sell things/soliciting for hours.
Mr. Orock, the Project Coordinator for UAC is a man in his 40s and seems to know just about everyone in Cameroon. Apart from his job with UAC, he is also the head of vocational education for the county, and 'second deputy mayor' for the city of Buea. Turns out these are valuable titles. After driving out of Douala, a sprawling, polluted city comprised of slums and French quarters, we encountered 3 police checkpoints. (In Cameroon, its is required that everyone carry an official form of ID with them at all times; these checkpoints are really another chance for the government to extort money from those people who forget their IDs. ) Although there were two "White Men" in the car, (myself and a Canadian volunteer named Valerie), we did not have to show our passports, thanks to some name/title dropping by Mr.Orock.
It took 1.5 hours to drive to our new home of Buea (pronounced 'Boy-ah'), located at the base of Mt.Cameroon, the highest point in West Africa. The scenery changed from urban overcrowding, to palm trees to dense forest in the matter of a few miles, an example of Cameroon's varied environment. Buea is the seat of the Southwest Province, but is just a small town which centers along one main road. Valerie and I, along with two Danish girls and a Scottish guy who were already there, would be living just off the main road, next to Mr.Orock's house. The complex, a set of three, one-story, white-washed buildings sits on a dirt road near the UAC school. Our rooms are pretty austere- concrete floor, just a bed and small desk for furniture, and our electricity and water are intermittent (and thus we dont have a flush toilet). On the plus side, in our large common room there is a pretty good library, thanks to other interns who left their books behind. This will be priceless, since we dont have TV, a radio, or regular access to a computer/the Internet.
After dropping off our stuff, we walked next door to the Orock's, which is where we eat all of our meals, and met his family. His wife Amelia is nice, although a bit scary, and he has one son and three daughters who live at home: Dan (16), Kelly (10), Evelyn (6) and Clara (2), who has quickly become my little sidekick. There are also a number of nieces, nephews and miscellaneous people around, and its amazing how many of them fit in the rather small house. Even though the Orocks are rick compared to their neighbors, their kitchen is so small that no more than 3 people can fit in it, its rather dirty, and there is usually no running water or electricity. However, great food still emerges from it.
After such a long, crazy day, I crashed at 9:45pm, exhausted but happy to be in Cameroon.
After some last-minute packing (is there any other kind in my life?), Tanya, Maggie and I dashed to the airport. Of course, Delta managed to lose my luggage IN the airport, which set me back 45 mins, and I barely made my flight to Paris. Charles de Gaulle airport is still horrible but the copious amounts of wine served by Air France makes it worth traveling through. From there I flew to Douala, the economic (but not political) capitol of Cameroon. Although we got in on time, it took 30 minutes to get through the numerous health and security checks and screenings, which really serve as opportunities for government workers to extort bribes from tourists. (Cameroon is rated one of the most corrupt countries in the world, and a little money to civil servants is required to get anything done.) I made it through without trouble, and while my bag arrived, my ride did not. Douala airport is a crowded, hot chaotic mess, which smells like sweat, dirt, spices and urine (i.e. the same as any Indian airport), and full of pushy taxi drivers who try to take you to a hotel where they will get a commission. Although it was pouring, I waited outside, hoping to see someone holding a sign with my name- no luck. After a minor freak-out/foot-stamping, I went back inside, made friends with the Air France luggage representative, convinced him to let me use his phone for free, and called a couple of my local contacts, finally get in touch with the man, Mr.Orock, who was supposed to pick me up. He told me that he was just entering Douala and would be there 'soon'. Turns out 'soon' was in African Time, so that meant 1.5 hours later, making him 2.5 hours late. Tired, sweaty, and frustrated, I finally met him and Tako, another United Action for Children (UAC) worker at 6:30pm, after suffering the harrassment of many obnoxious drivers and girls trying to sell things/soliciting for hours.
Mr. Orock, the Project Coordinator for UAC is a man in his 40s and seems to know just about everyone in Cameroon. Apart from his job with UAC, he is also the head of vocational education for the county, and 'second deputy mayor' for the city of Buea. Turns out these are valuable titles. After driving out of Douala, a sprawling, polluted city comprised of slums and French quarters, we encountered 3 police checkpoints. (In Cameroon, its is required that everyone carry an official form of ID with them at all times; these checkpoints are really another chance for the government to extort money from those people who forget their IDs. ) Although there were two "White Men" in the car, (myself and a Canadian volunteer named Valerie), we did not have to show our passports, thanks to some name/title dropping by Mr.Orock.
It took 1.5 hours to drive to our new home of Buea (pronounced 'Boy-ah'), located at the base of Mt.Cameroon, the highest point in West Africa. The scenery changed from urban overcrowding, to palm trees to dense forest in the matter of a few miles, an example of Cameroon's varied environment. Buea is the seat of the Southwest Province, but is just a small town which centers along one main road. Valerie and I, along with two Danish girls and a Scottish guy who were already there, would be living just off the main road, next to Mr.Orock's house. The complex, a set of three, one-story, white-washed buildings sits on a dirt road near the UAC school. Our rooms are pretty austere- concrete floor, just a bed and small desk for furniture, and our electricity and water are intermittent (and thus we dont have a flush toilet). On the plus side, in our large common room there is a pretty good library, thanks to other interns who left their books behind. This will be priceless, since we dont have TV, a radio, or regular access to a computer/the Internet.
After dropping off our stuff, we walked next door to the Orock's, which is where we eat all of our meals, and met his family. His wife Amelia is nice, although a bit scary, and he has one son and three daughters who live at home: Dan (16), Kelly (10), Evelyn (6) and Clara (2), who has quickly become my little sidekick. There are also a number of nieces, nephews and miscellaneous people around, and its amazing how many of them fit in the rather small house. Even though the Orocks are rick compared to their neighbors, their kitchen is so small that no more than 3 people can fit in it, its rather dirty, and there is usually no running water or electricity. However, great food still emerges from it.
After such a long, crazy day, I crashed at 9:45pm, exhausted but happy to be in Cameroon.
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