Rains down in Cameroon

Its been awhile I know. I have many excuses so let me get into them.

July I was traveling a lot. I spent the first week of July doing soy presentations in another village. I gave three presentations on how to use soy in dishes that the women already know how to make like beignets (donuts more or less) and bouille (thick liquid drink made of flour and water). I also taught them how to make soy milk, which by the way is better than all the thousands of varieties in the store. I partied it up for the fourth and then left back to my village. The next week I was in another village for a Peace Corps meeting and since all the people with birthdays in July were there (including me) we partied it up again at a local bar in the village. We rented out the whole space for 12 people and danced and drank to the wee hours. The next week I went to the city where I bank and get my mail to celebrate my actual birthday with my cluster mates (all the people with in 50km of my post). The next week we had to say goodbye to the first volunteer to leave. She had a traditional Cameroonian party with speeches by people saying goodbye, she gave a speech saying thanks for the gifts, there was the awkward opening dance with Americans and Cameroonians and some good food and many more awkward dances with Cameroonians.

Then August came and it came with the rains. Everyone in village assured me that August was the month of rains and that the road would become destroyed and I would have a hard time crossing the river to get out of village. Me being my skeptical American self thought that even if it rained every other day there was no way with the hot oppressive sun that the rain would stay on the ground and in the river. Why do I doubt the Cameroonians, why do I doubt the natives? Here is the story of my harrowing journey from Mandama, somewhere in the bush in North Cameroon to Guider, 51km away on a dirt road.

The day started cool and cloudy with the doubt that I would make it out of village. I had told my moto guy to come and pick me up at 10am, but he showed up at 9am with doubt in his eyes. He thought maybe 1pm we could try, but until then we would let the heat from the cloud covered sun dry the earth just enough for our passage. I should have known when he said 1pm he really meant 1:45pm, which was the time we set off for Guider. Maneuvering through my village seemed fairly normal with the occasional puddle, sandy patch and exposed rocky surfaces. It wasn’t until we reached the bridge or what was to be a bridge, but someone stole the rest of the cement and there now stands two cement pillars in a raging river, that the adventure started. We first came upon several young men with their jeans rolled up to their knees in the middle of the road just before the bridge. I heard from the nuns in my village that when the water gets to high to drive a moto across men will charge the moto drivers money to carry their moto. There were a few words exchanged between them and my moto driver all to a rather large audience of older village men who came to watch the day’s events at the river unfold. My moto guy, Moussa by the way, turned around to my surprise and confusion and entered a neighboring peanut field heading upstream. After descending a muddy vertical rocky cliff we came to a wider and hopefully shallow part of the river to cross without the aid of the bridge entrepreneurs. I was made to get off the moto and wade across with my jeans rolled up to my knees, backpack, purse, helmet and sandals in hand. I did this as gracefully as possible with a rather large audience of naked village boys bathing and playing in the river. Once safely on a moto we passed through a corn field being whipped in the face and legs by the stalks as we searched for the road. Once back on the road it was more of the same puddles, sandy spots and rocky areas until we reached the next bridge. I wondered what we would find there as it already resembled the bridge like the one in the Universal Studios ride that has broken down to the point of falling, but doesn’t quiet fall until just after the last car has passed. I swear every time I go over it I think that just as we touch on the other side it will go crumbling down into the river. It hadn’t crumbled completely, but it had gotten a significant chunk of it taken by the river and now cars can’t pass. Fortunately I was on a moto and only had to get off once again and make the trek on foot. After that we encountered many more obstacles like the road of a thousand lakes. As far as the eye could see there were mini lakes that made up the road and we careened and spun out while zig zagging the road to find the best route. We also came upon areas were during the rains the water had used the road as its path and hollowed out the route about a foot deep leaving motos to pass on a narrow strip inches away from the shelf of the once high road. All in all it was a slow trip, but an amazing trip. It reminds one of the power of nature and water and how no matter what man constructs it only takes God a little to put it right again.

That’s it for now. I should have more time to write next month and then pictures will be available in October. I’m excited about home and have already made a list of people I want to see, places to go and things I want to eat. Sadly the list of things I want to eat is the longest, but when your market in village only offers onions, corn and manioc you tend to daydream about food more often than you should.