The Only Way to Travel

In Cameroon the most important part of the car is by far the horn.  Honking is used to signal passing, to inquire about potential fares, to announce your arrival, to warn off pedestrians (who definitely do not have the right-of-way), to say hello to someone you know, or just generally to add some noise to the already teaming atmosphere.  Other than that, all other parts seem to be optional.  Most taxis look like one big pothole will be the end of them, but having personally acquired the bruises from multiple of those potholes, I can attest to the taxis’ hardiness.  (Luckily I can’t attest to the effectiveness of the fire extinguishers all the cabs have affixed in the front.)  For all I can tell, as with the pirate code, traffic rules are more guidelines than actual rules.  The center line is likely painted simply for decoration and stop lights are possibly-slow-down-or-maybe-just-lay-on-your-horn lights.  Cars travel four abreast on roads with two lanes all the while bikes and motorcycles and pedestrians weave dangerously in between.  After one night out at dinner in Yaoundé, we piled seven adults into the cab Chris ominously said, “You think this is full, wait til you see the taxis in Tibati!”  Comforting thought.

But, as it turns out, the journey to Tibati was a lot more uncomfortable than actually getting around once we arrived.  We set out on a train that left Yaoundé at 6:00 in the evening and traveled through the night.  Through the persuasive finagling of Jean-Bernard, we managed to snag a sleeper car, which made the journey much more bearable.  But by bearable, I mean that at least I was lying down for the 11 hours of being wide awake in a stuffy room listening the slightly ominous creaking of the bed directly above mine instead of the alternative of doing much of the same while sitting.  But the journey passed relatively incident-free other than someone rattling the door to our room in the middle of the night and the concerned attendants who kept having us shut the window—I’m still not sure if they were concerned with someone climbing in or someone grabbing through the open window (I’m inclined to go with the latter since Justin had his glasses stolen off his face through a window in Cameroon years before).  

As soon as we arrived in the train station, the five of us piled onto a 15 passenger van.  Along with 20 other people.  And then, right when I thought that we were going to head out, 10 more people jumped on.  Thus began the most uncomfortable three hours of my life.  Needless to say, speeding down a partially paved road at 60 mph was not kind on my already bursting bladder.  My feet and legs were asleep within minutes due to the precarious piling of both my carry-ons atop my lap. I tried to close my eyes and meditate, but I can safely guarantee that I never reached Nirvana on that ride. 

The whole ordeal made me slightly frightened for traveling around Tibati itself, but I need not have worried.  Though there are a few taxis and buses around, the main mode of travel is neither.  Here we use motor bikes.  And it is fabulous.

Stay tuned; next up:  “The Shrike:  Honey Badger of the Air”

Cameroon Calling

I have resigned myself to the fact that I will probably never get to shower for the next three months.  We are currently staying at the UCLA Research Training Center in the capital—what probably will be the nicest place that we stay—and yet the shower here runs for five seconds and then shuts off for thirty minutes.  This is not conducive to washing anything, let alone long hair.  The rest of the field team, all guys, helpfully suggested that I shave my head.  Or get dreads.  If that’s what it takes to be a field biologist then I am definitely not the woman for the job.  I have to draw the line somewhere.  So fingers crossed that the shower situation improves once we get to Tibati.

Other than that, Cameroon has been great.  We arrived at the airport late Saturday night and were kindly picked up by our Cameroonian field assistant, Jean Bernard, and two taxis.  It took quite a while to get out of the parking lot onto the roads as the entire lot funneled into one exit, so there was a lot of time to get to smell the African air.  As soon as I stepped out of the airport, I was transported back four years ago to getting off the plane in an airport in South Africa.  Africa definitely has a smell.  It’s hard to describe, but it’s a mix of sweat, dirt, spices, and something floral. 

We spent Sunday catching up on sleep—I like to think that I made up for the lack of sleep on Friday night by sleeping double on Saturday—and generally relaxing and hanging out.  I taught two of the others on our research team how to play cribbage and then proceeded to skunk them both, which may not have been the best introduction….

In the evening we had dinner at Jean-Bernard’s house with his lovely wife and two kids.  Dinner consisted of baton (cassava), chips, plantains, and full mackerels (eyes included, which I did not eat despite assurances that the head was the best part)—all quite tasty.  After that it was back to the center in a taxi piled high with the four of us, Jean-Bernard, and his two kids who wanted to accompany us back!  Chris informed us that in Tibati, taxis would have at least two more people in them than that.  Something to look forward to I suppose.  

Jungle Pants Take Manhattan

This is it.  T-minus 8 hours until takeoff.  At this point, all the things I wanted or have forgotten to do before leaving have been rendered obsolete by lack of time.  I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

 

We are flying out of JFK, so yesterday I got a chance to explore, albeit briefly, The City.  As we rode the ferry from Staten Island, where we are staying, over to Manhattan one of my friends texted me jokingly that he heard that NY is just like Montana.  If you replace all the mountains with buildings and all the cows with people, I suppose this is true.  Generally cities are not where I feel the most at home, but I felt even more out of place because, of course, all I had to wear were jungle clothes, which don’t blend in well in one of the most fashionable cities in the U.S. 

(I guess I should be grateful that at least my jungle pants don’t look like this guy’s however.)

I suppose it’s rather an interesting juxtaposition to get to see Ellis Island one day and then leave the US for nearly four months the next.  I’m not sure if any of my relatives came through Ellis Island on their way into this country, but a lot of people did, so it was fitting to have one of my last views of the U.S. for nearly the rest of 2013 be what the first view was for many others.  So long good ole U. S. of A.—I’ll be back.