Before I start this story, I want to add a note... I had written this out as a five part story so that it wouldn't drag on and on and on in one blog post. But, T.I.A., internet and power are unreliable and when one's available the other isn't (yeah I don't understand either how there's enough power for the wifi box but not to charge my computer.) So I'm uploading what I can now, and the rest will have to wait! Fight on :) /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/>>
As I approach the end of my two year Peace Corps service, it’s not all about wrapping up projects, selling/packing/gifting my impressive quantity of accumulated stuff, and saying tearful goodbyes. That’s the hard side.
The fun side is the Close Of Service or “COS” trip that Kate and I have been planning for months now. We’re constantly whatsapp-ing each other Lonely Planet articles and book suggestions, building our pinterest board, or day dreaming.
It’s a lovely pastime, trip planning - but it was still a ways off. Six months out, you can only discuss the winery options in Bulgaria and Macedonia so many times, or speculate about Hungarian baths and paprika-laden cuisine, or…
So we planned a trip before The Trip.
I wanted to visit the my last (open aka safe-isn) region of Cameroon, the East, and both of us wanted to see some exotic wildlife. To cross these items of our Peace Corps fuckit - ah, excuse me, bucket - lists, we planned a trip to Lobéké Wildlife Reserve. Lobeke is a nature preserve spanning three countries (Cameroon, Central African Republic, and Congo) and run by the WWF. It is also one of the last places where visitors have the opportunity to see wildlife like Western Lowland Gorillas, forest elephants, various monkeys, and a plethora of birds without the menace of Boko Haram. We can’t visit Rumsiki or Waza, so we decided to do whatever it took to get to Lobeke.
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| Kate's butcher friend, Abubacar, who just smashed a cow head to pieces and is now showing us the bits of teeth left. |
I don’t think any of us knew what we were getting ourselves into.
If all went according to plan: Joe (another PCV friend) and I would take two days to travel to Bertoua where we would meet Kate and stay with her for two days’ relaxation. Then we’d travel for two days: Bertoua to Yokaduma (293 km), Yoka to Mambélé (100-ish km) aka middle of NOWHERE where the WWF office is located. WWF staff would drive us the last 40k into the park on the third day, provide a guide and a guard to keep us out of trouble. We’d spend three nights camping in the rainforest OR AS MANY DAYS AND NIGHTS AS IT TOOK TO SEE GORILLAS (I was adamant but alone on this point) before hitching back the way we came. Of course, in Cameroon, nothing works according to plan.
It’s hard to explain how hard it is to travel in Cameroon unless you’ve already experienced it… For instance, it’s easy to travel to Yaoundé, the capital. All I have to do is catch a bush taxi (a four door, normal-sized car that is regularly filled with 7 passengers plus the driver) to Bafoussam, take a city taxi (just like a bush taxi except it’s painted yellow) to the opposite end of the city, select one of the many travel agencies, buy a ticket with your ID card, convince someone to stow your luggage on the bus or its roof, ride said bus (no on-board toilet or meal options) for five to six hours to reach the capital, and then take another taxi to your destination within the city. Joe and I did it together, and all the roads are paved, and it was nice and easy. Easy peasy lemon squeezey.
But the East is not like the West. Roads are not paved; infrastructure is spotty at best. Travel isn’t so easy peasy. We were about to discover just how easy that trip to Yaoundé really is. After a stop for burgers and ice cream at Kazoo (priorities) and a very similar six hour bus ride to Bertoua, the regional capital of the East, the real adventurous travel would begin…
But first, a breather in Bertoua. It’s a city, and I thought it would be no different from Bafoussam. Think again Rebecca! It might have the same amenities and same buildings, but the majority is Muslim and speaks Fulfulde. (Joe kept cracking up our moto drivers by having casual conversations in Fulfulde, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Fulfulde-speaking benskinneur* population of Bertoua knows there’s a “white man” who speaks their language by now.) As it is currently Ramadan, very little was open during the day, but the markets and restaurants blossomed as the sun dipped below the horizon and the lights popped on.
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| We all got our hair did. Joe wasn't as pleased as this photo implies. Peer pressure!! |
No travel is without its crazy characters, bizarre experiences, and hilarities. This one would prove to be no exception. Our little group’s odd PCV characteristics didn’t help: some we can’t change, like our skin color, but some are habits we’ve picked up, like pretending we are 100% Cameroonian or making goofy faces at little kids.
Favorite bizarre moment? Kate and I were both on the back of a motorcycle going to the bar. Joe was on another moto ahead of us, and the lights were just starting to come on at the end of the day - almost time to break the Ramadan fast. We were singing Natalie La Rose’s Somebody which we had just watched on Trace Urban (which is everything that MTV should be, music videos 24/7). We were singing at the top of our lungs of course, to be heard over the windy motorcycle ride, and fist pumping for “shots shots shots shots!” (And no, we had not had anything other than water to drink at this point.) Our moto driver was very amused by this, and not speaking English, he asked what we were singing. This resulted in a half French, half miming explanation of a shot. Miraculously, since he was (hopefully) looking where he was driving and could not possibly have seen my acting out a shot, he understood and cracked up! He gave us the Fulfuldé word for a shot (which I promptly filed away in my brain somewhere safe, never to be found again). Then he started doing a wiggle-bounce-dance while giggling that shots make your head tuuuuuurn. But picture the little moto meant for one, but burdened with two American women in helmets behind a beanpole of a brown Fulbe man… he was basically sitting on my lap to drive the thing. And now he was dancing and giggling about shots. Free lap dance from a fasting benskinneur? Perfect start to any evening out on the town!
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| Rise and shine! |
On July 3rd, our wolf pack of three (and yes, in addition to top 40s, I sang a lot of the Hangover soundtrack on this trip, because why not?) took a deep breath and dragged ourselves blearily out of the house in the 5am semi-darkness, laden with backpacking equipment and fingers crossed with hope that we would arrive in Yokaduma under 14 hours later.
Turns out, we should have crossed our toes too.
TO BE CONTINUED.
*slang for motorcycle driver
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