Bafoussam

So we actually started this road trip to head to Ndop, but after such an eventful day with just trying to travel there, we decide to cut it short.

We get out at the Gare in Bafoussam and walk over to Credit Lyonnais. I need to exchange some money, and Akilah needs to withdraw some. She’s hoping there was not a mass of people out of the door as it was last time she went. Its about a block and a half away and we notice a crowd, but she says its nothing compared to what she went through previously; a three hour wait. After about five minutes of assessing that we really can wait to do the money thing, we opt to head for the cyber café.

The taxi dropped us off at the corner near the cyber café. As we entered we exchanged greetings with the worker Akilah knew. He directed us to two computers that would access the internet; but of course he waited until we were seated before informing us that there was not yet a connection.

Now you have to realize that I’m the type of person that drools at the thought of having something technology oriented at my fingertips. So at this moment I’m really disappointed, because I went from, finally, maybe I can transfer my email to a disk (I had like six floppies with me) and take transfer to my laptop. But alas, that was not to be.

Realizing twenty minutes and no connection later, we just wasted 600 CFAs – the 300 to get there and the 300 to return – we decide to head to an agency to catch a ride to Bamenda. We first went past Savannah, there were no people, and so we continued. Went past Jeannot, still no people, so we moved on. Finally, we walk past the third (and final) Mazi Express, and seemed as if everyone knew this was the company to ride with.

We stand in a short line to pay, and find out the bus that’s filling is to capacity and we have to take the next. Not to worry though, as the next one was already there (unlike the day we sat at Binam in Douala for what seemed like an eternity with bags). The cost was 700 CFAs each; we pay and immediately go to claim our seats.

Since we were the third and fourth ones to purchase tickets for this bus, we immediately went to pick seats. Mind you I thought I picked the ideal seats – the ones right behind the driver. So on a row originally made for three there were four of us. (SIDEBAR: on bush taxis or buses of this nature usually they’ve already welded a make shift seat on to the end so that every conceivable space is used for a paying customer.) I figured with my bag under my leg, my book bag in my lap, this ride should be a piece of cake.

Before I go on to the events of the trip I’ll tell about the seat. You see, my feet were perched up on sort of a platform (I’m assuming the motor was under there, because it was hot) right under the driver’s seat. This meant my knees were almost parallel to my nose (you remember I’m six feet four inches right?), and as the trip went on I began to feel a lil’ pain in my…uhm…well…derrière. And the closer we got to Bamenda, the worse it felt.

How about the trip. As the crew was loading luggage onto the top bus, we notice there’s a chicken sticking his head out of a bag. She slowly maneuvers the bag so that she can step out. As occurs, there are two gentlemen asking everyone in the area if it was their “fowl” and no one responded. So after fifteen minutes or so of wandering, the chicken finally disappears. Almost ten minutes after that a woman comes over looking for her “fowl” and she was kind of stressed about it. . .I felt for her, but being a vegetarian, I kind of sided with the chicken and her great escape. (SIDEBAR: people, if you go to market and pay the money for a live chicken, why would you leave it in a bag, unattended mind you, on the side of the bus?)

We finally leave out of the gare and not more than a quarter of a mile we’re stopped, by guess who? The Gendarme. The driver (as well as passengers) are like “Dude, we just pulled out of the station!” While we were waiting, we noticed across the road, the bus that’d left at least twenty to thirty minutes prior to us, passengers were standing outside of the bus, and as they saw us pull away, were very “not” happy about what had just occurred. My view, take it up with the Gendarme.

The stop was very uneventful, but not more than five miles later we were stopped again. This time the driver was really upset, don’t know what was exactly said, but from the motioning, I could tell he was letting him know his displeasure at being stopped after just stopping less than five minutes earlier.

Continuing on we passed what has to be some of the most beautiful scenery in this part of Cameroon. Me, I’m sitting there treasuring the entire moment like, “wow! Look at how beautiful it is here.”

Now I think we were stopped more on this entire trip to Bamenda more than Akilah has been stopped her entire stay thus far (and she’s been in Cameroon since June). We figured this must be the best season for giving.

We end up getting stopped one final time, this time one of the Gendarme takes the passenger manifest and decides he would call off random names, so I thought. He called Anthony. Everyone just sat. He called again. No one moved. Then finally Akilah comments that he may be calling me (as this is my middle name), so I ask – in english of course – if he’s asking for me. He asks again, “Where is Anthony?” I say “here,” and he comes to the front to ask for my documents (oh, don’t know if I mentioned documents here mean passport or identity card).

He reviews my passport and hands it back, then calls for Akilah. Reviews her’s and hands it back. I believe he called for one other person. Once that was done he handed the driver back the manifest and went to the side of the road again. So we’re sitting there (Akilah and I) trying to figure out, why just the two Americans on the bus? Was there something notated beside our names to indicate we were not Cameroonian? Hmmmm.

Arriving in Bamenda just before daybreak was beautiful. There were hills and hills and hills. Bamenda is a city in a valley. As we were slowly heading down the hill, I noticed that Bamenda kind of resembles a metropolitan city in the states. But most of all, I though I saw sidewalks; and as we got closer I said to Akilah that I did see sidewalks. She let me know that Bamenda is one of the few places in Cameroon that has them.

That’s hot. Not too many red dirt roadways. . .but if you know Cameroon, or dust in Africa, that doesn’t matter. Especially during the dry season. Oh well.