Our arrival into Cameroon’s biggest city Douala, on a Saturday evening after that frantically missed connection and changed itinerary out of Brussels, made for a thrilling and unforgettable entrance into Africa. Volunteers are discouraged from going to this city because of the crime - I’ve since heard about how market thieves get brutally beaten to death by the surrounding crowd after they snatch - apparently no worse a fate however than being sentenced to a Cameroonian prison. The humidity felt as if we’d walked into a bathroom after someone’s stolen the whole household’s hot water for their shower. Having had no way to call ahead and find out next steps, we wondered if we would need to continue managing group logistics and get ourselves across the country.
Immediately we learned the answer….ladies and gentleman, we weren’t in Brussels anymore. We were met by Peace Corps’ assistant director right off the breezeway (how had she gotten access back there?!), and then quickly led to the baggage claim by national police, skirting entirely the immigration station we’d fretted about having our yellow fever vaccination cards in order for. The baggage claim area was mobbed with police supervising our relieved reunion with our backpacks and duffels – by this point shirts were soaked through with the sweat of nerves and heat both. We got individually escorted outside, with severe instructions to hold tight to luggage, keep eyes down, wear backpacks on our fronts, and get into vehicles directly as instructed.
Many onlookers were gathered and watching intently (though I more wide-eyed than they), and the air was full of intimidation. I was near simultaneous hyperventilation and tears at the descending reality that we were here. We got led to buses, our massive bags hurled seemingly effortlessly on top, and squished in six to a row – just like that, the notion of sticking only as many people in a vehicle as there are seats was tossed aside like a dirty napkin.
The drive to the hotel was gloriously chaotic and I could not tear my virgin eyes away from the urban jungle coming at us from all sides. The streets were the most hectic, mesmerizing, noisy, confusing, hysterical, and topsy turvy scene I’ve ever been thrown into. Moto bikes had SUV loads worth of everything imaginable strapped on their backs, people carried half their weight in fruit, newspapers, clothing, shoes, and all other wares on their head , and all the activity of a Saturday night was taking place out by, if not in the middle of, the street. Without a single stoplight, stop sign, or driver guidance of any sort, it was a free-for-all traffic frenzy we were swooping through the middle of. Buildings and cars and people were condensed and jumbled together, piles of garbage and all sorts of refuse lined the streets, markets selling vegetables, shoes and hair accessories alike were taking place right on muddy sunken roadsides and without any tables, many wooden stands for selling phone credit, bike parts and Coca Cola were both up and running and/or in total disarray.
The classic image is of Africans carrying well water on their heads, but that’s just the start. In fact they carry everything that way with ease, and its mesmerizing to watch. When I eventually arrived at my village home and was greeted by a bevy of children (if you think I’d been waiting years for this moment, you are right, and it was magical) I could not figure out where my luggage was or who had it. Was it on the roof, on the accompanying truck? – everyone was fussing and shouting! After a flustered moment I saw out of the corner of my eye that a ten-year old boy already had the 50-pound pack balanced on his head and was striding toward my new room, no matter that the rolling duffle would have slid smoothly up the packed dirt driveway. Those wheels were suddenly irrelevant.
When we made it through the downtown scene of yelling, honking and oogling in awe, there were lots of frighteningly armed guards all around our hotel, and more onlookers, especially young people. We were crowded and sweaty, but after hoisting all our bags up several flights, we enjoyed a delicious buffet in a beautiful tropical courtyard. And yet, though we were being treated to the city’s finest for our first night (they ease you in slowly), no sooner had I taken my first forkful of plantains and fish than the power went out. I grinned…how was I nervous that maybe I wouldn't really see Africa? I could have gone home already happy right then and there.
