Train to Yaounde for Afrobasket Women's final!

Gare Bessengue, Douala. The nicest lawn in the city!

After hearing about the train as an option for travel to Yaounde, Cameroon's capital, Blair and I dropped by the quite beautiful train station. (As sensitive sites cannot be photographed the station images are from an online search.) In early October we elected to buy the “1^st Class Plus” tickets as it was only 9,000 CFA (about $16) for the 4 hour trip, and competitive with the posher bus companies (more on that later).

Douala's Gare Bessengue interior.

It was an overcast morning when we set off (around a half-hour late at 6:30AM), but the rain cleared up later on. We had a few stops to make way for other trains, but we generally move along rather steadily. The train was rather bumpy so my initial thought of writing letters had to be dropped.

Luckily we had onboard entertainment. This began with a cooking show where our chef fried and then pounded almonds. This eventually was turned into a paste which was smeared on people's arms to treat wounds.

Preparing almond lotion.

Next came Cami, (national rail company) Camrail's mascot, to tell us how to purchase tickets and other important tips. Most importantly, Cami proclaimed “Non, non, non! C'est dangereux!” - don't use the toilet when stopped in a station. More on this travel rule later.

"Non, non, non! C'est dangereux!"

Among other programming features were a promotional documentary on the train company's maintenance techniques, regional music videos and Cameroonian stand-up comics, and an informational interview on prostate cancer.

The surrounding countryside provided additional diversions, as we got enjoy the undulating hills as we went (Douala is very flat). We also enjoyed the perks of “1^st Class Plus,” which included complimentary drinks and pain au chocolat.

Hills!

Once we arrived in Yaounde we headed for the Palais du Sport to purchase tickets for the women's Afrobasket 2015 tournament – Cameroon had made the final and was playing Senegal that evening. Again we plumped for more expensive seats (or rather the right to push aside people in the closer sections in a bid to improve one's seats and view of the action), going with the 5,000 CFA ($9) option.

Yaounde's central mosque.

We then booked into a rather humble hotel and proceeded to explore this hilly city. We began with a walk around Bastos (a northern neighbourhood with a rather cheap hotel for us), where we dropped by the WWF office to get their phone number to inquire about possible trips to Cameroon's national parks in the East Region, before heading back to town to grab some food and check out some of the local architecture. A lot of the ministries and other government buildings are quite nice looking, but of course photos are interdit.

Play and win American citizenship!

Next we headed up to Mont Febe to visit a monastery with a collection of Cameroonian art. The art was quite good, but especially impressive was the guide- cum coffee-table book explaining the origins of all the various pieces. Afterwards we enjoyed nice views of the city below.

View of Yaounde from the Benedictine monastery. You can see hints of the German heritage below.

We were able to chase down a taxi outside Hotel Mont Febe and headed to the Palais du Sport. Angola (winners of the last two women's Afrobasket tournaments and longtime continental heavyweights on the men's side) was in the midst of a collapse against Nigeria. The departure of the disappointed Angolan fans and their brass band left a vacuum that we and others rushed to fill, and we were able to upgrade our seats for the final. It was Cameroon's first ever appearance in the gold medal game; the previous best results were a couple of bronze medals in the mid-80s. Senegal, by contrast, has only missed out on a medal in the biennial tournament twice since it began in the 1960s.

Senegalese fans, with talking drums, cheering on their team.

Given this pedigree, the Senegalese fans (there are large contingents of Senegalese, and thus good Yassa poulet, in both Douala and Yaounde) were confident, singing and drumming away with djembes, talking drums and empty water bottles. The Cameroonians were equally boisterous, and the Indomitable Lionesses were able to keep the game close in the first quarter.

Indomitable Lionesses' supporters, and one of several brass bands in attendance.

By the end of the first half, though, the Lionesses of Teranga were ahead by 9. After some legends of Afrobasket were feted at halftime Cameroon's ladies rallied in the third quarter but Senegal pulled away at the end and then rolled away with the game in the fourth quarter. It made for a relatively subdued end of the game, with the notable exception of the Senegalese partisans.

Afrobasket's MC/Ring Announcer.

The Senegalese team was much better (and significantly taller across the roster), but hopefully the Cameroonians will address their game plan before the Olympic qualifying playoff. They frequently had two ladies trying to post up and they ended up cramping each other's space so many possessions devolved into long jump shots as the shot clock was running down. The Senegalese Lionesses, by contrast, passed the ball around quite a lot, and occasionally deployed a 2 to 3 person press which completely flummoxed Cameroon's guards when they crossed halfcourt.

Former stars of Afrobasket Women were honoured at halftime.

Indomitable Lion outside le Palais du Sport.

We headed back to Bastos area to perch above the roundabout in the bar Partenaire. We then got some smoked fish and batons (long boiled manioc/cassava noodles) from a vendor on the roundabout.

View of Rondpoint Nlongkak, Bastos, Yaounde.

Then it was off to bed, where we watched a dubbed Melissa McCarthy running around in Spy, which we greatly enjoyed when we saw it in the U.S. Much of the physical comedy translated, but the French was too fast even for Blair. The picture quality was terrible, but Blair stuck with it then we had a fitful night's sleep as the fan wasn't strong enough to blow away all the mosquitoes or drown out the noise outside.

Blair watched "Spy" for far too long given the reception quality and the fast dubbed dialogue.

For breakfast we enjoyed egg sandwiches cooked by a Fulani gentleman. Due to the mutual intelligibility of many words across the various strands of Fulanis from The Gambia east through northern Cameroon, we were able to tell him it was “sweet” (tasty). We then walked around downtown a bit more before taking one of the posh buses back. It too featured interesting content, including a video where a corrugated tin door got most of the screen time, a Cameroonian comedian going back to school (consisting mainly of him screaming at teachers in a high-pitched voice), and City of Blood, which had darker themes (and a man who could punch the air near a cup or bowl and send it flying). Instead of Cami, we had a bus attendant who had to repeat her request that the onboard toilet be used only for urinating after a couple of passengers flouted that rule.

Passing the hills around Yaounde on the bus home.

Hydroelectric plant on the Sanaga River near Edea.

The trip back went quite smoothly and we got home to Douala early enough to take a couple of beers at our favourite secluded spot down on the water, Marina 2000. It was a little more crowded on a Sunday, with a number of our students and their families, owing to the fact that there's not many places for kids to romp around freely in Douala. We enjoyed the twin visual treats of the sunset and of the salvagers cutting off a few more pieces of metal from the old shipping vessel Arctic Voyager (which is clearly lost).

Sunset in Youpwe, Douala.

Welders salvaging portions of the Arctic Voyager.

Edea and Lac Ossa

Our dirt road from Edea didn't make it to Google Maps.

For our first weekend in Cameroon, we decided to go on a day trip outside Douala. After a shared taxi to Terminus, we promptly joined a station wagon travelling the 50kms to Edea. With traffic getting in and out of the city, it took us about 2 ½ hours to reach Edea.

Once there we admired a couple of small hydroelectric plants on the Sanaga / Bras Mort river, as well as a hundred year old bridge built by the Germans. Photos were “interdit” but after chatting with Blaise (no relation to Campaore!), the soldier on the town side of the bridge, we were permitted to take a few pictures.

After reading a sign commemorating German-Cameroonian relations (put up for the 100^th anniversary of the bridge) and checking out a statue of a former chief, we started heading north out of town as our guidebook described Lac Ossa as being near Edea. Further inquiries revealed that it was in fact 20 kilometers off the main road so we headed back to town to negotiate transport.

As we asked around at the car park, we learned that the deleterious state of the road made for limited options for traversing the route to Lac Ossa. (Blair was asked for her phone number during one of these exchanges.) So we ended up renting Raymond and his moto-taxi's services, and began our journey after some negotiation (it turned out neither Raymond, being new to the area, nor we were quite aware how long the trip would be).

We set off but were quickly met with rains (it is the rainy season) so we occasionally stopped until the rain stopped and the dirt track would be easier to maneuver on. We passed a few outfits that were dredging sand from the river (some Chinese, some Cameroonian), and were soon on a large concession owned by SAFACAM. SAFACAM is a French agricultural company that received its mandate before the end of colonialism. We passed many acres of palm oil, banana and rubber tree plantations. The latter reminded me of my travels through Firestone's land in Liberia in 2007. Firestone ran its own checkpoints within its vast concession; it was akin to a separate country.

The rubber plantation (with umbrella). These trees hadn't been tapped yet.

After several rain stops, and one for repairs in SAFACAM's workers' village of Dizangue (the company provides housing and other facilities so that they can keep their workforce near their workplaces), we completed our 20 kms journey after about two hours when we arrived at “Club Ossa.” A large veranda looking out on the lake, Club Ossa's didn't see much business (although perhaps it is tied to the payday of SAFACAM's workers, many of whom live in modest company housing with their families). We proceeded down the hill to the lake, where we admired the shore and sought shelter from the rain once more.

A fisherman's pirogue and Lac Ossa.

We came back uphill and enjoyed a beer (the waiter was not keen on Raymond's selection of Isenbeck) and a nap at Club Ossa while we waited for a heavier rainstorm to subside. We got to learn a bit more about Raymond, who is new to the moto-taxi business in Edea. In October he expects to return to his cocoa farm in Kumba, and apparently also has a cafe in Buea. Raymond also made a trip to Sokoto, Nigeria a couple of years ago – a two day car journey from Cameroon.

View of Lac Ossa from Club Ossa.

We then headed back down the hill. Once we got to the end of the dirt road, we were met by several entrepreneurial young men who washed down our vehicle and shoes for a nominal fee (and one request for a kiss – these men in Edea are fast!). Once back in town we said our goodbyes to Raymond (who we've since gotten together with in Douala a couple of times) and hopped on a minibus back to Douala.

Raymond and Blair wait out the rain at Club Ossa.

We read, and also talked with people in Edea, about the Douala-Edea Reserve. This would also be an unpaved excursion to explore a forested area – a trip we'll save for the dry season!

Motorcycle and "bumster" lizard.

Lac Ossa.

Nous sommes arrives!

We are now ensconced in Douala, gradually getting settled in before starting staff meetings on the 17^th (school begins on August 24).

As a city that has a larger population of the entire African country I last lived in (The Gambia), Douala is a busy place. We are in a relatively less crowded neighbourhood, although it still pretty built up. Travel within the city is quite easy (we missed some rains that flooded parts of Douala earlier in the rainy season), and within walking distance we have discovered preferred vendors of fruit and veg, hardware, and liquor bottles of nuts.

While French is the official language of most of Cameroon, there are large numbers of English speakers (many from the Anglophone, formerly British-administered west) and many people are bilingual. We are still getting plenty of French practice, though. While Douala was originally settled by the Douala people (fancy that!), urbanization and migration – and Cameroon's cosmopolitan population with nearly 300 different languages – mean that there is no local/indigenous lingua franca. So people in the largest cities tend to speak French or English with one another.

Germany controlled the colony of Cameroon until World War I and the Treaty of Versailles when it was split between Britain and France. Approaching independence, British Northern Cameroon opted to join Nigeria while British Southern Cameroon merged with French Cameroon. This was meant to be a federation but over time the French portion of Cameroon (the seat of national government) has centralized authority, thereby marginalizing Anglophone Cameroon. Many of the school's staff are of Anglophone extraction so I will solicit their thoughts on the arrangement.

Proof that we are “being treated like kings” (with a nod to my friend Alicia):

 We procured a Louis Vitton
individually-crafted wooden ironing board.

Further innovations: Flip-up umbrellas on moto-taxis for when it rains (which is often).

Ollie's Odyssey Begins

As you can see from these pictures, Ollie was not particularly enthused about her impending move. She also experienced several courses of rabies shots, a microchip implant, and USDA-notarized paperwork. Despite our only having a three hour layover in Brussels, she had to meet onerous EU standards (Cameroon's were not as strict – really just the rabies shot and confirmation).

On the road, though, she remained quiet, if not still, when confined to her soft bag (with “privacy flaps”...). Life outside the bag was more stressful, including when I had to carry her through the metal detector and was also selected for TSA extra screening. Once I walked through the metal detector, an agent called out “I need a hands check” (to inspect my hands for chemicals) so I waited with Ollie writhing in my arms as the agent became increasingly curt (“I need hands!” “Hands!”).

After a few minutes someone came to check my hands (as I swapped Ollie between arms) then we proceeded to collecting my carry-on. After conducting a chemical(?) check of the bag, Ollie was allowed to return to her sanctuary. This was followed by searches of my carry-on bags, a body pat-down, and the brief sequestration of my shoes for further scanning.

At this point the hardest (or most entertaining, from Blair's onlooker perspective) portion of the trip was over. Before landing in Brussels we noticed on a stub with our boarding passes that ALL flights to African countries depart from something called “Terminal T.” No, Brussels Airport isn't that large, these were just leftover gates from Terminal A that were redubbed Terminal T gates and partitioned away from the rest of Terminal A...

Terminal A: Shengen destinations

Terminal B: International (non-Shengen) destinations

and then there was Terminal T: Africa.

Guess which terminal has one cafe and one duty-free shop...

I carried Ollie through one more metal detector and asked whether we needed to present her paperwork anywhere. Nobody seemed terribly concerned so we proceeded to our gate.

This we discovered after sitting in a waiting area with the other passengers travelling to various African countries (along with flights to Washington, DC, and New York City) and taking a shuttle bus to the T portion of Terminal A.

Onwards to Douala. Ollie would occasionally push around in an attempt to escape (reminiscent of the “breakout” scene in Alien – the bag, after all, was not much larger than she was), but remained quiet so the passenger seated above her was none the wiser. Good thing too as one of United/Brussels Airlines requirements was that your pet “may not annoy other passengers.”

Upon entering Douala, officials were similarly uninterested in Ollie's arrival (the school thought there'd be a vet on hand to inspect her and her paperwork). Nobody even bothered to stop us at Customs and we were on our way to Ollie's new home!

Ollie scouting out new spots to sleep in Douala.

ECD

Visiting a sleepy nook renowned for Sri Lankan fare, only to find it closed. Walk in vain for twenty minutes in search of another SR restaurant. Decamp to dumpy seafood bar (replete with clashing bouts from fervent singers-along to Brian Adams and heavy metal), only to retreat in the face of overpriced seafood for such a humble establishment. Consider an Italian restaurant with beer and pizza before my friend declares that Domino's is what he's after. 10 minute wait, no seats – a beer for the ferry? To the bodega, then across the street to wait for the pizza to be warmed over.

Accosted from another bench by a man ominously wonders, among other things, “Who said, 'Houston, we have a problem?'” He refused the answer of Tom Hanks. A trio of pollis arrive, muttering about open containers and quotas. They proceed to bash their borough, while echoing the siren song that calls them to Florida and strip mall/divided highway heaven. Forty-five minutes later, two pink slips (which Romney feared) each, although mine is gone before we return to the terminal with our pizza.

Three months hence, a return to the once bucolic isle. Name is posted, written incorrectly. Sit in a room with a dozen other men; a couple have female support, otherwise no women in evidence. An encapsulation of the statistic that women outlive men? The sentries laugh amongst themselves while discussing football. Muttering from my neighbours about quotas - “bullshit, man.”

What's your last name? What? Wrong first name – no that's okay. And you? You're not on here. Open container. Go downstairs [to the clerk]. Back later: he doesn't have my name. Then you can go.

Some thirty minutes later a woman arrives laughing, positively giddy. Joins the sentries' conversation, adding details of her impending trip (Spain, and a Meditteranean isle? Not Mallorca or Minorca...). Another few minutes later the pageantry begins. Will the giddiness hold?

First, a late 20s young man in a shiny grey suit jacket. Using a student subway card he found. Did he know it wasn't his to use? Well, he rides the subway a lot, sheepishly...ECD.

Next, reckless driving/blowing a red light. Well, I was down by ___, you know it? Okay, and I turned in the wrong place and had to come out. I'm sorry if I'm nervous. There wasn't no red light there because the traffic would have been impossible to turn into. I realise I made a mistake. It's hard to get out of there – you know that street? He said I didn't signal my turn but you know that street? – there's four lanes on each side. But I didn't go through a red light. Maybe when I turned I went across. See I'm a steelworker. I usually look for cranes. He told me that I didn't have my license so he had to write that I went through a red light. Mild confusion followed by an ECD.

Open container. Through intermediary: we were walking home. But you had one? We were just walking home. But you can't carry one...ECD.

Excessive noise. What were you doing? I came to pick up my friend. He told me to pull around in front of him but then he told me to pull over. He told me he was giving me a ticket because he didn't like the song. I don't think I would have liked the song either – what was the song? I don't remember. ECD.

Off-street cycling. You can only walk there. The road was narrow and busy. Then you get off and walk. ECD. Imagined vocation – fast food delivery.

Invalid license. My license was valid – it was a mistake. Do you have it with you? No. Bring it back – see you in November. Vindication pending.

A barrister, no defendant. Can we reschedule? How about October 2? No, [mean] judge So-and-So will be there. How about the 4th? - I'll be back. See you then.

Open container, ignoring signs. A dual performance, the first that morning. Did you drink in the park? 1 – Yes. 2 - ...Yes. You agree with that answer? It's honesty day today! This is a misdemeanor you know? They all close at night. Even if you don't see a sign just don't go in. ECD. A performance stymied, a platform wasted. Justice served, yet denied.

An old cliché, returning to the scene albeit with tea/coffee. A neighbour's Cobra fell to the ground, frothing, its spilling contents met with profanity. Did he read the sign? It's the end of the month – quotas are coming due...Another asked if we were related – perhaps owing to glasses and dress shirts and trousers (the latter two being abjectly absent in the park).

Three months later, Sri Lankan was served.

Operation Santa 2011

After polling several veterans of this field trip, I was apprehensive about taking my students to Operation Santa. This is what it reportedly entailed:

Four thousand students with special needs are seated at tables in a large square surrounded by parade fencing, in the middle of an aircraft hangar at JFK airport. After an hour or so, the hangar doors open and Santa taxis in on a jumbo jet. Then Santa boards a train/float and rides around the perimeter of the square as students variously try to get closer looks or try to avoid the noise around them.



The best thing my colleagues could say about Operation Santa was that it was a “rite of passage.” So I was naturally concerned it could have been a difficult trip for my students, given the close quarters, noise level, cool temperatures, and limited movement available.

However, I was pleasantly surprised by the trip. Organized by the Community Mayors (who also hold an excellent annual trip to the USS Intrepid Museum), there were numerous characters (including the Pink Panther) walking around to keep most of the students' attention while we waited for other schools to file in and for Santa to arrive. In addition, the square enclosure had been divided into four smaller squares, allowing for closer views of the anthropomorphic teapots, high school bands and Santa's train, as well as lessening crowding and providing easier exit points for accessing the Port-A-Potties. A pair of noise-dulling headphones I brought along for one student were also a great help.



In all, two of my three charges enjoyed the trip (a fourth would have found it too noisy and constricting), and I had a fairly good time myself. While a visit to El Museo Del Barrio and the aforementioned Intrepid Museum trip were superior, Operation Santa exceeded understandably low initial expectations.

Speech Therapist Science Theater 3000

During the lull between Parent-Teacher Conference sessions, a colleague and I decided to watch X-Men: First Class while laminating worksheets and communication symbols/PECS. Our speech therapist joined us sporadically, variously interrupted by phone calls, errands, and lunch.



Given her pedigree, perhaps it was only natural to report observations on similarities between First Class and other movies, and to compare and contrast them. After all, she spends time helping our students do this.

The first film that merited comparison to X-Men: First Class was Pirates of the Caribbean: "Doesn't that guy [Johnny Depp] have superpowers?"



Next came Avatar since one, and later two, characters in First Class are blue.



Finally, there was Star Wars, since Beast resembled "What's his name? Chihuahua?"



Our SLT's contributions made for an enjoyable viewing, even though I was occasionally distracted by cutting and attaching velcro. It was a nice chance to bond without talking about students.

Chebo Ceesay

Today I learned that Chebo Ceesay, my host father in Njau, The Gambia, passed away yesterday, October 28, 2011.

Chebo was a kind and thoughtful man, and an independent thinker. He travelled for work as a younger man, spending time in Mauritania, Cote d'Ivoire, and on a Spanish merchant ship that plied the west African coast. He even lived in the Bronx for a spell.



I could always rely on Chebo for useful advice, and contrarian perspectives on Gambian and international politics. I enjoy chatting with and listening to him as we took in BBC World Service reports.

One of my favourite memories was sitting under the mango tree by Chebo's radio listening to the penalty shootout between Cote d'Ivoire and Cameroon in the 2006 Africa Cup of Nations quarterfinals. After the first five players from each team made all of their penalty shots, it was time for sudden death. We listened incredulously as the commentators announced an amazing 11 shots made by each side, until Samuel Eto'o missed the 12th shot for Cameroon, leaving Didier Drogba to finally win the match.



Chebo always had humourous stories to share. These included Chebo's getting lost on his way home during his first night in New York, when he wandered around the Bronx for eight hours. Another favourite was about the time his Njau neighbour (and Bronx hot-bed mate) Ebou Secka got food poisoning from monitor lizard meat and Chebo could hear him groaning through the night from his compound across the way.

Perhaps the best story ended with Chebo urging me to ask the Alkalo (chief) of the Sey Kunda section of Njau "Ana sa beneen dalla?" ("Where is your other shoe?"), a cheeky reminder of the Alkalo's youthful indiscretions.



Chebo was a good husband to his wife Maram, and a good father to Omar Dye and Alhagie Sait. I wish them all well and they have my sympathies.

The Seder

In advance of our stay in Bogotá, Becky looked into possible Passover Seders she could attend there. With some general directions, we set off on the Transmilenio to points north.

We got off at Calle 100 – well, Amy and I did. Becky didn't get out in time and continued to Calle 127. We decided to wait until Becky returned, presumably by the same bus line. Eventually a young man came up to me and asked “Are you Chris?” and pointed towards the exit. There we found Becky buying a bus ticket to enter, despairing of the effectiveness of yelling “Chris!” repeatedly. Becky reportedly managed her quick return to us by boarding a taxi and yelling “Calle 100! Mis amigos!” between bouts of laughter.

With this hiccup behind us, we proceeded along Calle 94 to the site of the “Israeli backpacker” Seder, which should've been a less formal affair than the one hosted by the Jewish community in Bogotá Having wandered past the pedestrian overpass, we scampered across one intersection and were promptly soaked by cars driving through the numerous puddles/ponds.



At this point we realised that we had passed the block the address suggested, although it soon emerged that the address was, in fact, incomplete (i.e. with block and street number, but no building number). At a hotel I began asking about a “sinagoga” nearby. Rather than being ushered back where we came from (perhaps on the other side of Calle 94?), a kindly, portly, moustachioed middle-aged man suggested that we continue along Calle 94 for several blocks. I was a bit dubious as this contradicted the partial address we had, but we set off nonetheless.

After several minutes' trudging, we decided that we should head back to the side of the block we missed on the walk over. Our friend from the hotel caught up with us though, and pressed on with us. I tried to ask him if there wasn't a synagogue behind us (“sinagoga” being the only known Spanish word that even approximated what we were looking for), but he said, “No, that's a hotel.” I attempted this line of inquiry a few more times, but had no way of fully explaining that I knew we'd met him outside a hotel, but was wondering if there wasn't anything further back.



Five minutes later he pointed to the left and said, “Es casi una sinagoga.” - That's almost a synagogue. He was pointing to the rather garish Farhaad Rugs: Persian Carpets emporium across the calle.



I felt compelled to ask, “But it's not...?” To which he declaratively stated “No!”

We went on a couple of more blocks before our friend said that it was just a bit further ahead on the left. He tacked right to catch a bus home.



We remained doubtful, but shortly afterwards we saw a brightly lit building with well-dressed people greeting each other and heading outside. The building was called “Lubavitch,” which turned out to be the synagogue for the resident Jewish community, earlier deemed by Becky as too posh for the likes of us in our (sodden) backpacker getup.



At first Becky protested that she couldn't enter in her current state (under-dressed and over-soiled), but Amy and I insisted that they go in after all the effort we made in finding the place. So Becky and Amy headed in while I searched for an affordable place to drink in the zona roja, finally settling on a quiet bar nestled amongst car dealerships (but still quite expensive).