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”