Cameroon with Egbert

by Dervla Murphy

  Outside the school, its headmaster stopped me with a peremptory gesture – ‘You are missionary?’ I tried to explain. He looked baffled. For ten minutes we failed to communicate; I gathered only that he was also the English teacher, though incapable of expressing himself in that language. (The calibre of most of the many teachers we met was scandalous.) There are scarcely 250 pupils at Sambolabbo’s government school; Muslims tend to opt for Koranic schools, despite their curriculla being less conducive to success in the modern world. Most Fulanis remain impervious to urban magnets; they do very nicely as cattle-breeders and/or merchants.

  This area is goatless, but many shabby sheep were tethered on arid wasteland opposite our lodgings. I was watching lambs gambolling in the dust when an extrovert young Nigerian introduced himself: ‘I am Garvey, an illegal immigrant.’ He came from a village four hours walk away and was working locally as a carpenter to earn money to finish his BA course at Ibadan University. ‘The CFA is so strong at home, my wages mean a lot. In Nigeria money has become very scarce, if you are not a Big Man. We’re supposed to be rich but Cameroon is better off. It always has good sensible rulers, we have not. And we have too many people – nearly one hundred million! Here are not even ten million, so it’s easier to rule well.’

  Garvey’s English was excellent; in rural Cameroon, the most fluent English speakers are usually Nigerian migrant workers. Whatever that country’s problems, its educational standards are evidently higher than Cameroon’s. Yet the Cameroonian government has always proclaimed that a well-schooled population is the surest guarantee of future prosperity and teachers are among the best-paid officials in the country. Sadly, however, this policy isn’t working: one can guess why.

  When Rachel woke we drifted back to Andrew, stopping on the way for a kebab each. In the bar a Bamileke woman with baby at breast and beer bottle in hand was (with the other hand) vaguely de-lousing a toddler. ‘My young wife!’ beamed Andrew, nodding in her direction.

  Suddenly it rained torrentially. ‘Wah!’ yelled Andrew. ‘Won-der-ful! Won-der ful!’ He slapped himself on the buttocks and jumped up and down. ‘Forever we have no rain, now plenty, plenty!’

  Two non-Fulanis who had been working on the new hut rushed in and demanded beer. One asked how much money our government paid us to walk in the bush, a not unusual question. Andrew however was familiar with the quaint White habit of trekking for fun. ‘These people from Europe,’ he informed the brick-layers, ‘very much like to see places! They like to move around and camp the way nomads do. They are never afraid of the bush.’

  To most Cameroonians we were inexplicable in a way White travellers would not have been during colonial times. Then they were comparatively numerous and everyone had to ride or walk; our arrival would have surprised villagers only because we lacked servants – we might have been traders, missionaries, soldiers, government officials. Sometimes, if persistently questioned about our purpose, I explained that my job is writing books about countries far from Europe. (A statement which always rings false in my own ears; it seems hypocritical to describe what one most enjoys doing as ‘a job’, even if by great good fortune that happens to be how one earns a living.) But this attempt to clarify merely thickened the mystery of our presence. ‘Writing a book’ is an activity as incomprehensible to most Cameroonians as ‘programming a computer’ is to me; neither reading nor writing is part of their culture. Mungo Park had the same problem in a much more acute form. When granted an interview with Tiggity Sego, Chief of Teesee, ‘The old man viewed me with great earnestness … I related to him, in answer to his inquiries, the motives that induced me to explore the country. But he seemed to doubt the truth of what I asserted, thinking, I believe, that I secretly meditated some project which I was afraid to avow.’

  At sunset, as we again relocated Egbert, the humidity, after that brief downpour, felt like a threat to life. An hour later supper was brought to our room: fufu and jammu-jammu plus two big hunks of delicious mutton.

  ‘Those shabby sheep are OK stewed,’ Rachel commented appreciatively.

  Four raw eggs were also provided but alas! Rachel has not yet learned to relish this form of protein. I ate the lot and she had extra mutton.

  Settled on our comfortable bed, we observed the insect night-life swinging into action. I have seen slightly bigger cockroaches, in Ecuador and Madagascar, but nowhere have I seen more lively cockroaches. Their frenzied activities on the white walls were like some entomological Olympiad.

  ‘And to think they’re only limbering up,’ said Rachel, ‘for when the light goes off!’

  1 SUPER FOREIGNMAN: a gross, grinning giant of indeterminate race whose daily menus for all meals were given in nauseating detail: ‘20 Fried Eggs, 6 Litres of Soup, 10 Loaves of Bread, 5 Kilos of Steak, 4 Litres of Coffee, 6 Kilos of Rice’, and so on.

  2 GOD SEES ALL: a snowy-bearded patriarch gazes sternly down at mankind going about its daily tasks, with insets of the Virgin and Child, the Little Flower, St Joseph, St Anthony of Padua, St Rose of Lima and a dove, shaped like a jet-fighter, presumably representing the Holy Ghost.

  3 STRIP AN’ SQUEEZE!: reproductions of hyper-erotic Playboy photographs which an old-fashioned upbringing inhibits me from describing.

  4 SUPER MAMMA: a Black giantess with bosoms like barrage-balloons, biceps like rugger balls and a necklace of gold medals won at international weight-lifting contests.

  5 OUR HOLY FATHER!: Pope John Paul XXIII blessing a crowd at Bamenda, with quotes from Papal homilies against birth-control and insets of His Holiness at various other African blessing-spots.

  6 WE ARE FREE!: All Black Africa’s post-Independence political leaders (many looking as though badly wanted by Scotland Yard) arranged around a large central photograph of Nkrumah.

  7

  The Tchabal Mbabo

  ANDREW HAD ADVISED us to take the cut-short to Mayo Kelele, also known as Makelele. That, he said bossily, must be our first stop ‘The Chief will give you bed.’ The alternative, a track negotiable by motor-bicycles in dry weather, goes round and round and round the mountains for miles and miles and miles. The cut-short simply goes over them – up-down, up-down, up-down – until the final up, at about 6,500 feet. (The altitude we gleaned from the USAF, not from Andrew.)

  Egbert was loaded by lamp-light, to the accompaniment of Ibrahim Ali and his sons chanting their morning prayers in the compound. The transfer of 2,000 CFA ‘for horse-food’ went smoothly though our host had obviously not expected dash.

  We moved off under a cloudy dawn sky. Beyond the fast shallow Mayo Mbambi cane-fields were replaced by level bush, merging into uninhabited woodland where we looked in vain for the cut-short. Then, on the far side of a swift bouldery stream, we saw our wide track beginning to climb. A faint narrow path seemed to continue up the valley floor, going more directly towards Makelele. It was the sort described as ‘ Tracé incerlain’ on large-scale French maps but for lack of any other I assumed it to be the cut-short. Rachel disagreed, but pandered to me.

  Soon a flood of early golden light was pouring into that green and silent valley – silent but for a myriad bird-calls from amidst a variety of magnificent trees. Densely forested mountains rose almost sheer on three sides and I thought about Africa’s distinctive beauty. As I reacted to it, this beauty had as much to do with atmosphere as with the visual impact of the terrain; somehow I was getting elusive yet important messages about the link between land and people. It seems odd to think (and even odder to write or speak) of a place feeling as well as looking beautiful. But that was how much of Cameroon affected me; even those harsh hot miles between Banyo and Sambolabbo had their own subtle charm. On trek one tends to let one’s imagination off the leash, to give in to all sorts of irrational fancies – which partly explains why trekking is so therapeutic. In that wondrously lovely valley, I toyed with the notion that Africa feels so unlike anywhere else because it is so old – the cradle of mankind, they say … But soon I had something more practical to think about.r />
  Where the ground began to rise the jungle thickened and soon our path had disappeared, conclusively. ‘This can’t be the cut-short!’ said Rachel.

  ‘No,’ I agreed meekly. ‘You were right.’

  A gigantic baboon loped past a few yards away, scowling at us. He was so big that for an instant, before registering his species, we were slightly startled.

  ‘Shall we go back to the track?’ I suggested, well knowing what the response would be.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Rachel. ‘There has to be some way out of here – let’s push on.’

  We pushed on, literally – forcing our way through jungle, bending saplings to make way for Egbert. He, as always, became increasingly co-operative as the going got rougher. And it got very rough indeed before we arrived at the edge of a ravine lined with what appeared to be impenetrable vegetation. ‘Now where?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Maybe there’s a way across,’ said I. ‘You two have a rest while I scout around.’

  For twenty minutes I scouted, climbing over some weird botanical obstacles, crawling under others, snake-scaring as I went. There was indeed a way across, for humans prepared to emulate baboons, but even at his most co-operative Egbert could not have made it.

  We considered the surrounding mountains and Rachel indicated the northern crest. ‘If we could get up there,’ she said, ‘we’d probably find the main track.’

  A jumble of spurs lay between us and the slope in question. ‘Rest again,’ I said, ‘while I scout again.’

  Not long after I yelled from a hilltop, ‘Come! This may be a way!’ And it was.

  We zig-zagged as best we could, yet the gradient required poor Egbert to pause often to regain his breath. ‘We’re being cruel!’ declaimed Rachel. ‘He’s only a horse, he’s not a bloody baboon – he’s not built for going up a thing like this!’

  Thirty minutes later we were on level grassy ground, close to the track. I congratulated Rachel and we sat under a tree eating nuts. The wretched Egbert was too exhausted to eat; he moved to stand close beside us and hung his head. ‘If we were at home,’ said Rachel grimly, ‘we’d be gaoled for treating a horse so badly. He seems to love us, but I can’t think why!’

  I gazed down at the valley, very far below, and wondered where the real cut-short could be. Three weeks and many dramas later, we were to find out.

  Our extreme cut-short had abruptly taken us above 5,000 feet and as we continued, under a deep ‘mountain-blue’ sky, the 11 a.m. sun felt pleasantly warm. Inhaling the cool, pure air, I wanted to run and jump. Only then, feeling a normal flow of physical energy, did I realise how enervating the heat had been on that gruelling stretch from Banyo.

  During the rest of the day joy was unconfined. For miles we traversed a bewilderment of topographical contortions; never able to guess what might be around the next corner. As the track dodged through this tangle of spurs and ridges it sometimes overlooked melodramatic ravines, or shallow, enclosed ‘secret-looking’ valleys lined with golden grass, or long, darkly-forested slopes, or strange smooth grey rocks, like domed windowless skyscrapers, suddenly thrusting out of scrubby hills. Swarming baboons made this a noisy and animated region. Each high point was higher than the last and often we glimpsed the whole heat-blurred undulating landscape between us and Banyo.

  On the far side of the most melodramatic ravine a theatrical-looking escarpment, draped with dark green vegetation, rose for at least a thousand feet and stretched for over a mile before merging into a massive, grassy mountain. Two small compounds shared the saddle where our track crossed from mountain to mountain at the head of the ravine. Patches of young maize grew nearby – and tempted Egbert – but we saw only a distant whisk of vivid garments as women or children hid from us.

  Ahead stretched an immensity of golden-green slopes, strewn with odd protuberances of smooth grey rock, characteristic of the area. At once I was taken twenty years back, to the gentler corners of the Ethiopian highlands. Here the vegetation was different, and the distant peaks looked lower, but the light and feeling were similar and the path problem was identical. Our track diversified when, offering a wide choice of cattle-lanes visible for miles in three directions, there was nothing to indicate which path might lead to Makelele.

  Proceeding in the direction Rachel thought most likely, we met our first fellow-travellers of the day – a Fulani father and son. The little boy was leading a sheep and stared at us with apprehensive fascination. ‘Makelele?’ we inquired, after the statutory greetings. The young man smiled kindly, beckoned us to follow and himself led Egbert to a high point. There he indicated our path, providing detailed directions in Foulfouldé. We thanked him effusively. It wasn’t his fault that we remained quite unable to discern the right track. Luckily it didn’t matter when – or even if– we reached Makelele. To be up was enough.

  Below the brow of a rounded hill Egbert enjoyed a long lunch-break on rich grazing. A siesta without flies or ants, or any need for shade, felt like the ultimate luxury. Lying in the sun, we ate stale bread and onion and watched an elderly man, very small and black skinned, coming over the hill. He was carrying a colossal roll of bamboo matting, six feet long and surely as heavy as himself. Suddenly he noticed us and looked pathetically alarmed. He speeded up, to get past us as quickly as possible, and kept his eyes averted; his gait was an odd shuffling trot. We stared after him, marvelling at his knotted neck and leg muscles. Seen loadless in a village street, he would have seemed old and frail. No doubt he was a servant/serf of one of the area’s bovine plutocrats. Not many Fulanis carry loads; that, in their view, is what the Bantu tribes are for.

  During the afternoon several chestnut-coloured dwarf antelope bounded across nearby slopes and we saw our first warthogs, two families noisily rooting in a patch of jungle. The boars – almost as big as lions – had formidable tusks. The sows were much smaller and the piglets so minute that as they scampered through the short grass only the tips of their tufted tails (always held aloft as they run) were visible. We had been warned that the boars, if accidentally cornered – a most unlikely happening – can be lethal. Having seen their size and tusks, we could believe it. This combination of antelope, baboons and warthogs sharing territory was common, with baboons and warthogs seeming particularly good neighbours. On this occasion, when the latter fled from us they went towards a large baboon colony, sitting staring not far from the track, and once surrounded by their friends they again began to root, as though feeling quite secure.

  At about 5 p.m. we saw far below us – rather to our surprise – the compact village of Makelele, its maize-fields sloping down to the narrow Mayo Kelele. When we arrived only a few men were around. On our long descent they had had time to observe and speculate about us and their welcome was conveyed with a touching mix of warmth and bemusement. As no one spoke French or English, we could do nothing about the bemusement.

  The Chief, a gracious old gentleman in a shapeless white gown, decreed that we should be billeted on his much younger half-brother, whose shrub-surrounded compound we had already passed on the edge of the village. An excited small boy guided us to the guest hut, outside the women’s inner compound, and then led Egbert to lush grazing beyond the river where many fine horses roamed free. We were now in the Cameroonian equivalent of County Meath.

  Our windowless mud hut was ready for occupation: spotlessly clean, with goat-skins spread on the earth floor and blankets and cushions on the grass mattresses of two home-made wooden beds. There was no other furniture, though this was a wealthy family. Our host (Abdoulaye, aged fiftyish) owned the enormous herd we had stopped to admire before seeing Makelele. The dark chocolate-brown bulls – a cattle colour I have never seen in Europe – had prodigious wide-curving five-foot horns and were among the finest we met in Cameroon.

  Abdoulaye’s two beautiful junior wives wore both bead and gold necklaces and seemed on excellent terms with each other. We didn’t meet his senior wife but heard that she had chosen her juniors, as often happens. Children ab
ounded; we never sorted out who was mother to which because, when extended families work well, all adults share responsibility for all children. The Chief had credited my womanhood, after many exclamations of wonder and much chuckling and hand-clapping, but Abdoulaye’s womenfolk remained unconvinced; they welcomed us warmly, yet hesitated to shake my hand. Nor were we invited to enter the inner compound of six huts – two oblong and tin-roofed, the rest round and thatched. By sunset four fires were burning in that compound; it takes a lot of wood to cook for such a family and heat their washing water.

  The boy who brought our bucket of washing water conveyed that we could also drink it. Later we regretted having used it, as we watched three girls ascending the long slope from the river with buckets on their heads. Moreover, we erred by throwing the dirty water away instead of keeping it for the compound’s ornamental shrubs. I suspected at the time that we were doing the wrong thing but it would have seemed disgustingly impolite to leave the family to dispose of our scummy water. Such are the minor culture-clash faux pas that litter the way of the traveller.

  We were flummoxed when two giggling girls, aged elevenish, presented me with a bowl containing raw maize-flour and nine eggs in their shells. As they stood watching, we deduced that they expected us to produce some hi-tech cooking stove. This was confirmed when a junior wife pushed through the many juvenile spectators around the doorway, handed me an agitated cock and also stood back to observe developments. I cradled the cock – a substantial bird – and stroked its head, whereupon it quietened down.

  ‘Sign language!’ urged Rachel. ‘Ask her to kill it and cook it – I’m weak with hunger – don’t just stand there cuddling it! You’ll get fond of it! And if we don’t eat it someone else will!’ This was manifestly true. When I mimed killing and plucking and cooking the juveniles’ mirth knew no bounds.