Joe's Gap Year in Cameroon

Back in Kumba, I found myself taking a few pictures for Harry's mum (who is still, 3 weeks later, in Nigeria after the death of her sister) at the wedding of one of the people who used to live at Diligent Home, Valery, a francophone man who, gratefully, only speaks to me in French since I told him I was doing it next year at university and in search of practise. A brief trip to the internet place thereafter reminded me that that day was the start of the European Football Championships, although I haven't actually seen any football since we don't have television in the house, and allowed me to (electronically) catch up with people after a few days away. That did however give me a real craving to play some football. Funnily enough though, the reason that I had left the internet place earlier than usual was that Elad had come round the corner from finishing an evening class at school to tell me of the group of white people playing football on the field opposite his school campus. We got to the field just as they finished their match, and I was able to have the bizarre experience of a group conversation with only white people, but in the middle of Kumba – not bizarre to them obviously. As it turned out, these were the same group of white people who are staying in a hotel called Mbwencha (silent M) just round the corner from Harry's house. From what I could gather/remember now, a couple of them are working as interns but generally it sounds like they are NGO type people, doing voluntary work like myself. It was funny for me to think of them being here until the end of August when I had just two weeks left, as it was for them to think vice versa. It was energising to be standing there talking to them, on a day that I had not been feeling in the best of moods for whatever reasons, and I was pleased to get a phone number and an agreement to organise another match before I left. My luck continued in the right direction on my arrival at home, where I found Lionel and Fulbeert and some local friends playing football out the front of the house, meaning I was able to join in and fulfill my football craving even if just for 20 minutes or so before it got too dark. It also, however, led to me realising how unfit I was after 7 weeks without the daily cycling, and regular football/hockey that life in Cambridge has to offer.

The Sunday, following Saturday in its wonderfully reliable way, took me back out of Kumba, and into the bush near Malende, a village outside Kumba to the south. Harry and I went with his friend John, who is a prospective mayor for Kumba's District III Council (that which controls the southern area of Kumba in which Harry's house resides, including Malende), to visit his family's farmland, including their rubber and cocoa plantations. Yet another excursion from Kumba, visiting his farmland in the bush outside Malende was as much fun as it was good exercise, walking along what was barely a path through undulating undergrowth. Invigorated by the exercise and the fresh air, we completed our circle, returning to the car with a few treats from the bush including some cocoa pods, bitter cola fruits, and ndjama jama leaves (a bit similar to eating spinach). Before heading home though, we drove on through Malende to the CDC (Cameroon Development Comission, I think) rubber plantation, and visited the rubber processing plant, which, unmysteriously, processes the locally produced rubber. Although it was a Sunday, and the plant had closed early, we still got to look around and follow the various stages of the processes used to go from the two substances local farmers produce (solidified and liquid rubber tree sap), to the final product that is shipped off to Europe. I won't go into detail since this entry is already ridiculously long, but if you care, you can ask me. It was very interesting for me to see first hand though; I've always liked the idea of knowing what goes into making things, and it was quite amusing standing, at one point, on a mountain of rubber, realising that what went into making the soles of my shoes was exactly that that those same soles were standing on top of. Noticing a couple of older looking buildings in the area, Harry then told me that it was actually that site, next to the rubber plant, that used to be Kumba's administrative headquarters, and the original site of the town, now some few miles outside the town itself.

Since then the week so far has been pretty uneventful, but this has fortunately given me the time to be relaxing as perhaps I should be, with more time to sit on the veranda reading and playing guitar, as well as enough time to write this offensively long blog entry (apart from Wednesday, when we had no electricity for the whole day, which restricted me to the former two activities). I hope you managed to get through it – it probably required as much effort to read it as it has to write it!

Tomorrow, Thursday, is DBS's own end of term and their school feast day celebration, which should be as entertaining as it has the potential to be chaotic, what with a few hundred very small excited children to organise. I went to watch a bit of the preparations today, and didn't envy the teachers in charge of them. I guess I'll have to wait and see how they all manage tomorrow!

As I close in on just 10 days left, I realise that my next post may well be my last from Cameroon, before I make the long, sad and happy journey home to Cambridge on the 22nd June. Whether in my next post, or back in England, until the next time.

Thursday the 29th day of the month of May didst cometh, and oh! how the students of DBA didst rejoice. Well, sort of. After the end of term exams the previous Friday, the whole week had had a very relaxed feeling about it since there didn't seem to be much for anyone to do; students were finishing at around 10am each day because there weren't any lessons, because the teachers wanted to use their time during the week to organise the students' marks, because their Friday was to be spent organising all students into their classes for next academic year in a meeting that would last all day. For that reason the last day didn't feel that special; it was just as informal as the whole week had been. As a student at secondary school it's an attitude I would have undoubtedly applauded in my teachers. Students would have rejoiced. This week just gone has been a week off school for the pupils at DBS for the same reasons; the teachers have things to sort out and the pupils' lessons for the year are finished. I'm sure most of you are following a perfectly logical thought process and, like myself, wondering why they didn't just set the end of term to an earlier date. The most simple answer? Cameroon.

I didn't actually really see much of the last day at DBA until the very end. I'd spent the morning running around trying to find a printer that worked in order to print out the computer exams for DBS's end of term exams, as well as some other stuff I can't remember now since I was in such a stress that morning. It was one of those hot days that really could have done with a cool breeze, but the weatherman didn't feel like obliging. The stress inducing part was that instead of sitting as still as possible and not doing much in an attempt to keep cool, I was having to walk back and forth between DiBCIT and the DBA campus on my various errands.

Thankfully, amongst other things, the computer exams got printed and handed to Mr Christopher to be photocopied, and I managed to get the 16+ Club to get a room and some food organised for their end of year party – one of the difficulties a lot of people in Cameroon have is to take the initiative to do things. Those students lack the confidence to organise things like that for themselves, but that is what the club is all about, building their confidence in self-expression and organisation. The party itself was good fun. The nine members and I (Harry was working in Buea so wasn't able to be there) had the Form 1A classroom to ourselves, plus one man selling fish rolls and another selling frozen yaourt. Basically it was an eating session, but that is exactly what the students wanted – treats! As well as eating, the students were also spending their time playing with my camera since I had let them loose with it. As a result, I have quite a lot of rather amusing pictures of them messing around and enjoying themselves – probably a rather suitable memento of my 5 months with them, a nice group of funny, lively and bright kids. Once they had eaten plenty, I paid for the food (6100F - £7.63 – not bad for a party of ten people stuffing themselves) and we made our way outside, taking a few group photos in the school yard before making our way home (me taking the now photocopied computer exams in my bag to drop off at DBS once I arrived home). It wasn't quite the end of things for me since I was going to be at DiBCIT working the next day, but it felt like it. As it turned out the last day at DiBCIT was just the last morning at DiBCIT, finishing in typical Kumba style – we had a power cut at around 11am. Once it had past 12 and I realised there was no work I could do, we closed up for the last time.

After 16 weeks of work in Kumba, and with June beckoning, my own holidays were about to begin, a kind of extended send-off from Cameroon as Harry put it. It was kicked off nicely by the DBA end of year staff party on the Saturday night, which was held at Auntie Sue's “Hot Spot” bar in Fiango. We arrived an hour and a half late, except on Cameroon time this turned out to be early. The event was supposed to start at 7:30pm but instead in typical style, things kicked off at around 10pm – Madame Fortabe arrived past 10 and she was one of the MCs. I was annoyed that I'd missed my chance to get a group photo of all the DBA staff before the end of term, but at least that evening I was able to get plenty of photos of the staff for my electronic scrapbook (computer). I find the formalities of gatherings like this in Cameroon rather amusing. They aren't necessarily so different from those at similar events I've attended in England, it's more that such protocol seems totally out of place in a place where turning up over an hour late is normal. I know some of you who know me will be reading this and thinking that Cameroon sounds like the perfect place to accomodate me if arriving so late is so widely accepted, but even by my standards it's strange. At least the Cameroonians – like myself, despite what some of you may think – still understand the meaning of late. At least it hasn't been lost from the vocabulary – like it seemed in Morocco (if you remember back to my third post). Anyway, after the speeches and jokes we had some food, and, having had plenty of sweet soft drinks (my favourite - “Pamplemousse”) I had plenty of energy for dancing, at which, I'm grateful to have been told by my colleagues, I'm not actually horrendous. Just after 1am, having had a good first hour of June, I left in the car with Harry. We pelted it home – driving home across town is not considered safe at that time of the day – and dashed into the house as quick as possible in case there were any unsavoury types hanging around in the darkness, and finally got to sleep.

A second stage of my send off came on the Monday morning, when us DiBCIT staff held our own little end of year gathering in the small hall at DiBCIT, sitting with food and drinks and watching Harry's film of the previous year's DiBCIT computer seminar week, using his projector.

I had got up early that morning to make my salad, and had enthusiastically crafted it to represent an England flag with tomatoes for the cross on a lettuce and cabbage background. It went down well, and it made the muddy market shopping trip on Saturday worth it. It had rained all morning on the Saturday, and because Kumba is so dusty, it makes the mud very thick and gloopy – not ideal for the well-trodden ground within the market. Think Glastonbury with food stalls. I just wish the producers of supermarket sweep could have come up with that idea, it would have made brilliant television. Anyway, with the help of Elad from Diligent Home who needed to do shopping for their house, I bargained my way to the bottom of the shopping list whilst trying not to sink to the bottom of the mud pools. My haggling was actually very successful, and in spite of the market people's every effort to overcharge me, I ended up 50 francs under budget and with enough food items to make a nice large salad. So, come Monday, my “England” salad was enjoyed along with the ndole and plantains, and the fufu and eru, and I had enjoyed my send-off from DiBCIT.

After spending the Tuesday editing video footage from DBA's 13th May school feast day with Paul – the leader of the 16+ Club – Wednesday brought with it my mini-holiday in Limbe, which, having returned home yesterday, I can say was fantastic.

Harry and I left Kumba from “park” - the bus depot where all the different transport companies run from – once our bus mini-bus had filled up, on our way to Buea. Before I go on, it's worth mentioning the bus park as a pretty mad place, but endearing to me since I enjoy Cameroon's slightly chaotic side. As each person wishing to travel that day enters the park in their taxi or on their okada, they are immediately surrounded by bus boys, who, it would seem, wouldn't stop short of physically pushing their prospective customer towards their own bus. Harry and I, waiting for our own bus to fill up (as you will have gathered they do not run by the clock but by passengers – if it took 5 hours for your bus to fill up, that is how long you would have to wait) looked on in amusement and sympathy as a woman and her okada driver were surrounded by about 7 boys, two of which actually grabbed the motorbike's handlebars and applied it's brakes themselves in an effort to direct her to the “right” place. They proceeded to begin removing her bag from the back of the bike in an effort to carry it away to their own bus. When you combine that with the shouting and gesturing going on, it might look to an outsider that there was a fight going on, but it's all normal procedure. As for the woman, she got her bag and chose her own bus!

Fortunately, Harry and I had the two front seats in our bus – rather than being crammed onto one of the back benches, designed for three people but always with four sitting across them – so the journey was relatively comfortable, despite the rain's best efforts. About 20 minutes into our journey, it started raining, outside of the bus – and inside. The sealing around the roof was clearly as old and run-down as the rest of the mini-bus, and so there was a steady stream of drips falling from the top of the windscreen onto our legs. In that situation, it would have been lucky to open an umbrella inside. Still, Harry and I were better off than most in the bus, with our bags and their waterproof covers sitting on our knees to avert the flow elsewhere. As I looked around at the villages we were passing, I was grateful I was in a bus, even if it was one that leaked. Obviously they are all used to the rain, going about their normal business, but in the face of the rapidly developing streams and ponds enveloping their houses – inches away from flooding – and hiding paths under water I know where I would have rather been. I do enjoy the rain here though. Aside from making it much cooler, a welcome respite, it also brings out all of the landscapes colours. The grey gravel on the road surface turned black, and contrasted with the cream-coloured water streaming onto the road from the banks of earth either side, forming puddle after puddle in the dimpled road surface. The reddy brown earth walls exposed where the road had been cut through the terrain, lining either side of the road, turned to a bright terracotta, whilst the infinite shades of green from the surrounding vegetation and rainforest became all the more, well, green. The rain eventually subsided somewhere along the road, and we made it to Buea by 12:30pm – it was raining there though.

Whilst Harry was giving his lecture at the university, I found a seat in the university library and shut out the drone of the rain on the zinc roofing with my headphones whilst I, suitably for the environment, did some reading and writing. The University of Buea – known here simply as UB – is a large campus university and as such feels different due to a sense of separation from the outside. Whilst Kumba has many bad roads within the centre of the town, UB has decent tarmac all round the campus, and the buildings are larger and more substantial – there was a sense of structure and organisation that you don't really get elsewhere. It was a bit strange being there in the university environment having had a year off academic work, but maybe it was just strange because it reminded me of something my mind links to England.

With Harry done for the day, we left Buea in a bus for Limbe at around half past three. The journey took a lot less time than I had anticipated, and it was quite a pleasant journey because a load of people on the bus were only going as far as Tiko, half the distance to Limbe. Suddenly, much to my suprise, and a first in my history of travelling with Cameroonian public transport, I had more than enough space. I could spread my legs, I wasn't squashed up to the person next to me or into the back of the seat in front, I wasn't too hot, I wasn't nursing an aching lower back, I wasn't breathing in stuffy air with essence of person or engine, and I wasn't caring when the journey ended, because I was comfortable. My joy at the comfort and the fresh air flowing around the under-populated minibus only lasted about 25 minutes or so, but I was enjoying the ride and the scenery as we began our descent towards Limbe. It should be noted that I don't mean that metaphorically, just that Buea and its surroundings are kind of on a vast plateau below Mount Cameroon, which is kind of still part of Mount Cameroon, the giant that it is. Limbe is similarly adjacent to the mountain, but based on the coast, so it doesn't spread to such heights. It seemed that my bus journey was perhaps a rather fitting introduction to Limbe, because the place immediately seemed more chilled than Kumba, probably because it literally was. Minus the dust/mud of Kumba, plus the fresh sea breeze and greenery of Limbe, equals a good first impression.

We took a taxi from the bus park at Mile Four to Busumbu junction at Mile Two (with a similar theme to the roads in Buea, where Mile Seventeen finds you the bus park, the names given for areas of the town in and around Limbe must have been thought up by someone with either a lazy attitude towards creativity or with a preference towards beige efficiency) where we made the short walk up the track towards Harry's modest, still-underconstruction, Limbe home. Set in a fairly (for now) undeveloped area, the house is situated on a gentle hillside overlooking Limbe, with a view to the Atlantic from the front and a view to Mount Cameroon at the back. In every other direction, Limbe's impressive palm vistas and forest greenery. That day, because it was clearer, I also immediately noticed Bioko Island, just over 30 miles away (I think) and part of Equatorial Guinea, which is essentially another volcano, rising out of the sea to a height of over 3,000 metres – quite easy to notice then if the visibility allows you! We recharged with a bit of food on arrival, including some lovely boiled fresh corn that Ignatius had collected that morning from their farm.

You'll have to excuse me while I digress for a while (or I suppose you could just skip to the next paragraph and I wouldn't be able to stop you)... I will miss Cameroonian corn (wait, don't skip it yet, at least hear me out). It is now the season and so it is everywhere, and dirt cheap – 5 pence buys you one roast cob almost anywhere you look on the road side at the moment, and it tastes brilliant. It isn't actually really that sweet like our own corn, but it has a really natural taste, what I imagine corn should taste like. If Plato's realm of the Forms exists, then the Form of Corn would taste like that. That's probably a better description than I could muster with flavour-related adjectives anyway. What I like most though, is the texture. Corn here is very slightly chewy, and has a brilliant bite to it. If you ask for a “strong” cob to be roasted for you, the result is a bit like popcorn un-popped, but chewy instead of tooth-breakingly solid. Boiled, it is just simply better than the soft sweet stuff we have, and why I don't think making “Cornchaff” (one of my favourite Cameroonian dishes) would produce anywhere near the same results back home. You need the chewier texture. Having realised that I've bored you with a paragraph devoted solely to corn, and also that the reason I've written it is mainly because I currently have a craving for some roast corn, I better get back onto Limbe...

That evening me and Harry had a brief stroll around the centre of Limbe, including a failed stop at the internet place due to the electricity supply being decidedly weird, we headed down to Down Beach. I'm not repeating myself, that is actually what the place is called (e.g. “I'm bored, let's go down Down Beach”). The “usual” thing to do down at Down Beach is to choose which roast fish you want, choose which drink you want, and choose which table on the beach you want. Harry and I settled for the latter two, since, being a Wednesday and the place therefore not teeming with hungry custodians, there didn't seem to be much fresh fish about; the best guarantee of good eating there is to choose which fish you want to eat whilst it is still flapping around a bit, having been brought in by one of the tens of small canoe-like fishing boats lined up along the beach earlier that day. We sat at our table, drinks in hand, relaxing to the sound of the sea gently lapping the dark black-brown volcanic sand (once the street vendors had finished approaching us with their propositions of pirate DVDs and bracelets and such), before heading homewards and bedwards. The following day I was going to see even more of Limbe, in a day that I had decided would be, for once, a tourist's approach to Cameroon. It was promising anyway, since my first taste of Limbe had been a good one.

After a relaxed start on the Thursday, the first place I headed to – with Ignatius and Daniel (who are staying in the house), since Harry was working in Buea – was the port, to get information on boats to Nigeria for Harry's sister Leonie. From there we strolled along the roadside around the corner until we got to (as my guide book tells me) what is one of fewer than twenty primate sanctuaries in the world, the Limbe Wildlife Centre – stop number one for Joe's day as a tourist in Limbe. It cost Ignatius and Daniel 300 francs each to enter as locals, whilst my entry fee was 3000 francs. It may sound a bit disciminatory but I don't have a problem with it at all, in fact, it's necessary. Places like that need to maintain a decent income to keep running, but it would be unrealistic to expect locals to be able to afford a standard entry fee and unfair to make it inaccessible with one. Meanwhile, tourists can easily afford it so what seems an inbalance is really closer to the opposite. The only place where you can find anything like that in Kumba is the Barombi Mbo crater lake (100frs locals/1000frs tourists) because there isn't really much else to attract any typical tourists (although people braving Africa as opposed to Lanzarote probably fall a long distance from any stereotypes) or that at least has been exploited to do so. Limbe on the other hand, does. In recent history, Limbe has lost its former importance as an economic centre and port as part of the old British colony, and has now become a bit of a resort (though not in a tacky Scarborough/South End kind of way – thankfully), popular with weekend holidaymakers and expatriates from Douala, though because it's the rainy season at the moment, I think it was less busy than it can be – which of course was good for me.

The zoo/sanctuary was brilliant, despite its small size. To me at least, primates are by far the most entertaining things at any zoo, and here they were in their droves. Chimpanzees, gorillas, baboons, drills, mandrills, guenon, and numerous other monkey-related animals were all there to see, and, although obviously not out in the wild, it was nice to see them at least in their native surroundings rather than cold british drizzle like last time I visited a zoo back home. The sanctuary also houses a large number of apes – many being orphans of apes killed for bushmeat (sometimes legally, sometimes illegally; people in the bush need to eat, but excessive hunting for trade is, well, excessive, and so necessarily illegal) – which are particularly fascinating because of their such visible closeness to humans. Watching them sitting together, so clearly in a close-knit social group, gives them an appearance of such intelligence it makes you wonder why on earth they are deciding to remain silent instead of sparking up a conversation, perhaps, say, about the funny looking humans standing on the other side of the fence staring gormlessly at them. Funnily enough I saw just as many white people working there as locals, including an English woman and younger guy who were looking after a very cute baby chimpanzee complete with nappy. I later realised that the wildlife centre there is partnered with loads of organisations worldwide including Chester Zoo, and, amusingly, Del Monte (what with the local plantations I imagine they get all the bananas they could wish for!).

Stop two of Joe's day as a fully-fledged tourist was at Limbe's botanical gardens, a 5 minute walk around the corner from the zoo. Again there was the local/tourist price difference, but this time it was funnier because I cost 1000 francs whilst my camera cost 2000 francs. Anyway, I got a fair few photos so I hope I made it worth it. The garden itself is huge, and is a lovely place for a peaceful stroll, which is exactly what we did. It was nice to be out and about somewhere green, clean, peaceful and fresh. I think what made it feel even bigger was the fact that it was so deserted, but then again it was a Thursday lunchtime. Out of curiosity we went into the area signposted as the “Jungle Village” which was mentioned in my guidebook, but the place looked rather delapidated and there was no real sign it was still in use since it was perhaps a bit overgrown, but then I suppose that just makes it all the more botanical doesn't it. We also saw a small memorial to 18 soldiers killed in and around the area in the first and second world wars, and it struck me just how far away they were from home, and how there will surely be relatives of those soldiers who have never been able to visit those places, nor to see that particular memorial. The world is a very very big place but it seems all the important things are very small. It is finding and accessing and appreciating them that is sometimes made difficult by the vast arena they are in.

We continued our strolling after leaving the botanical gardens, and walked further round the corner towards Down Beach so that I could see it in the day and take a look around. As is the norm with daytime, I could thankfully see a lot more of the place, including the colour of the sand, and the daytime activities of all the fishing boats lined up along the beach. The sand being that dark colour is very strange – at least my experiences of beaches is that if it is not yellowy sand then it is going to be grey pebbles. An exception to the rule, something else caught my eye one the beach. There were holes everywhere, and I suddenly noticed a universal scurrying movement going on. The beaches primary residents, and owners of the scurrying movements, were hundreds of small blue crabs, each with one claw massively bigger than the other - I'm sure David Attenborough covered them in The Blue Planet or something similar. Unlike their cousins on the BBC, these seemed more camera shy, popping out only briefly if there were people around; the beach looked like nature's version of whack the mole or whatever that game is called. Joining the crabs in their beachdom were some brave swimmers who were swimming around near the old decaying skeleton of what used to be a pier, presumeably hailing from Limbes heritage as a port town. I say brave just because the water didn't look particularly clean. Having heard of the promise for nicer beaches elsewhere further along the coast away from Limbe (apparently some beache(s) in the area were used during the filming of Chocolat), that is where I decided we should head (seeing as I was paying), so we jumped in a taxi heading towards mile 11 and Idenao for Seme Beach. During the taxi ride we passed Bankingili, where the 1999 lava flow from Mount Cameroon flowed onto and blocked the original path of the main road there, forcing the construction of the small loop of road that we took to go round the end of it. I'd been told about the lava flow, and the image I had in my head was of some outcrop of rocks maybe 5 or 6 feet high protruding across the road. I hadn't expected it to be the size of a (british two-storey) house.

In recent years Seme Beach has become a private beach, which, if you're not staying in the Seme New Beach Resort Hotel, now costs 1500 francs to get to, although the thoughtful people at the hotel include a “free” soft drink for your troubles. The hotel complex, which is big by any standards, spreads out from the entrance by the main road down towards the sea, including several rows of small chalet rooms, a nightclub, and a shop, before you get down to the bar/restaurant and tennis courts. Beyond that is the freshwater rock pool, a grassy area with a sand volley ball court, benches and changing rooms, before you get to the beach itself. Being there was a huge contrast with the Cameroon I know from my experience of daily life in Kumba and its dust, potholes, and poverty. The buildings were substantial, the place clean, and there were good facilities. The atmosphere created by all this made it even more noticeable how pretty much all of the people there were not “normal” Cameroonians. This was obvious in the case of all the white people there (pretty self-explanatory) but I just got the sense that everybody else – particularly considering it was a Thursday afternoon – was either a rich Cameroonian (and therefore in a sense detatched from the vast majority) or what people here call “bushfallers” – that is, Cameroonians who have moved to live and work abroad, and have since in a way lost their sense of home, who are back in the country; they have fallen back into the bush. The obvious irony is that in that place I fitted the bill perfectly, doing my own bit of tourism, but at least I have had a real experience of Cameroon, and realise the difference.

The beach itself was well worth the entry cost and the taxi ride along the coast. The first thing you notice (apart from the sea, which warned me of its presence with the gentle and metronomic sound of it falling against the beach) is the colour of the sand, a soft dark black/brown, but even more so than that of Down Beach. The amazing thing about the sand at Seme Beach was how fine it was. It is without a shadow of a doubt the finest sand I have ever had the pleasure to put my bare feet down onto. Perhaps the tide there only brings a small change to the water level, because none of the sand on the beach was dry and loose; the beach at 1:30pm was only 20 metres or so wide before you were paddling, and so it was all damp. Rather than making the beach unpleasant, it instead have the sand an even smoother and darker look, so much so that in some damper places the reflection of light combined with the deep colour made it look like there had been an oil slick. Thankfully I didn't end up with greasy legs, although the fine grains of sand were a tad difficult to wash off my legs and feet. Being on the beach that afternoon, almost alone, with the fresh air and the sound of the small waves breaking and sending out long, thin sheets of cool water that washed over my feet, I felt totally relaxed. It summed up an enjoyable day that allowed me to feel like I really was on holiday. Until we left at around 4:00pm, I spent my time enjoying that feeling whilst strolling around on the soft sand and browsing the variety of volcanic stones that the beach had to offer, some dark, some light, some large, some small, some with hundreds of small bubles in, some with a few larger ones, and even some encrusted with small crystals. It was literally a nice and refreshing experience.

Once we arrived home, we had our late lunch of cornchaff – like I mentioned before my favourite dish, comprised of beans and corn in a savoury tomato, palm oil and crayfish sauce, with or without roast fish – to the satisfaction of our stomachs, before I finished off my relaxing day by relaxing outside on the veranda, whilst playing my guitar until it got dark and the stars came out to shine in the endless night sky. Until I left the next morning in the front of a mini-bus (that much to my pleasant surprise and good fortune had nice padded seats in the front) going directly to Kumba
(Harry took his own to Buea for work), Limbe left-off where it had begun with my good first impressions, leaving with me a lasting impression of a pleasant and enjoyable place to have visited.

I had a feeling that May would whizz past. It seems like no time at all since I last wrote here but the date tells me it's been 10 days since. That's one sixth of my time here since April going without me realising it. Still, it's not been a case of wasting the days away as they get fewer and fewer, more that I've had lots to keep me occupied – time flies when you're having fun.

The fun for this installment began with National Day, although it actually began before National Day itself, because Cameroon has a fantastic law when it comes to national holidays. Any day between two national holidays becomes a national holiday itself, so, since the weekends are considered holidays, and National Day was on a Tuesday, it meant we had yet another four day weekend just like we'd had for Labour Day. Shame we Brits can't do the same since all our holidays get forced to bank holiday Monday's; whoever decided that were spoil-sports.

In contrast to the only stressful point on that weekend, the Sunday afternoon spent watching Cambridge Utd (yes they have Setanta on cable here – although I was to wish they didn't as the match progressed) slowly lose the play-off final to Exeter at Wembley, the Monday was nice and relaxing, and I managed to get into town with Harry in the evening to get some supplies since he had some rare time to drive us around for a bit. Having got a huge bag-full of bread from Stella's brother who was staying that weekend, having come from Yaounde for a wedding in Kumba (it's customary to bring something from your travels to those you are visiting, especially if you are staying there. Having said that, I realised this is probably the case in most places, but at least there is a difference in what is valued; would you take bread for those you are visiting in the UK?), I decided it best to stock up on some tinned sardines and also got some of Wal Mart's own peanut butter to make the most of the bread. You'll be equally un-interested to know that I also bought some washing powder so I could hand-wash my clothes without having to hassle Stella for some – I won't ever complain about having to wash clothes (using a washing machine at home) ever again, neither should you! Our domestic technologies are really taken for granted; what is 15 minutes work either side of a washing machine compared to a good hour or so of hand-washing until your knuckles are sore? If everybody here had that luxury I'm not sure whether they'd know what to do with the extra time.

Anyway, I couldn't be bothered to do any clothes washing as of yet, and the next day I was a bit too busy. Thinking that Harry and I would be heading for the grandstand, I got up early and got ready at a relaxed pace, showering, ironing my shirt, polishing my shoes, and getting suited up; the grandstand has a dress code since that's where all the dignitaries and officials go – the SDO (Senior Divisional Officer) sits down at the front on his own big chair, so it's all quite formal. As it turned out, Harry was busying himself with getting us a car load of fruit and other stuff from Fiango's Tuesday morning market – no complaints there – and had a couple of other things to sort out before he left the following day for his usual three days in Buea as lecturer at the University. So, after a good breakfast of bread, avocados and peanut butter (trust me, it's a brilliant combination – probably makes a difference having Cameroonian avocados because they actually taste of something rather than their bland mushy imported British counterparts that I never previously ate unless they were with something that masked them) I left with Esther, an ex-student of Stella's who was going to march, in a taxi bound for the grandstand, with Esther's Cameroonian flag sticking out of the taxi window. When I arrived I bumped into Elad from Diligent Home so in the end I wasn't having to negotiate crowds by myself. We then in turn bumped into Auntie Sue (Harry's sister, DBE Manager) and so the three of us squeezed through to the front of the gathering crowd. I could have been disappointed not to have made it in time to find a seat on the grandstand, but at least I was in the shade under one of the trees next to it, and I had a fairly good viewpoint to let my camera loose from. I was grateful for the shade because it was a seriously hot day and I was in my suit, but being cramped amongst the crowd was a bit heated in more ways than one since gendarmes were pushing us back to make space for the marching bands using the threat of their belts. I was even more grateful therefore, when a couple of people told me that I should simply move out and away from the crowd there to go and stand in the space in front of it and over by the roadside. I guessed this was because I was a) dressed in a suit, b) had a camera and c) am white, and so, despite the racial connotations, I was pleased just to have some breathing space and the perfect spot to take pictures of those marching.

Being at the roadside meant I could now see all the way down to the end of the road to where all those to march were gathering (the area of main road I mentioned in my Labour Day post was called the “field” because the marching used to be done at the town green which really was a field). None of the road was visible however, since flowing over the top of it was a sea of thousands, stretching right back to the junction at the far end and round the corners beyond. The day's proceedings had begun with the arrival of the SDO to kick things off before some people were lined up and given medals for various things, each receiving a ripple of applause from the crowd and what I suppose was a congratulatory noise from the military regiments lined up along the road behind them. Indeed the theme for the day (I think Cameroonians like to have a theme for every national holiday) was, as indicated by the banner along the top of the grandstand: “The Arm Forces and the Nation Together for the Consolidation of Peace & Development”. Whilst wondering why they needed to be carrying guns if their upper limbs were supposed to be so powerful, I watched the military and police groups beginning the march past proceedings, showing those to follow how it was done. A couple of overly enthusiastic military marchers going gung-ho kicked off the jovial marching atmosphere and, laughing rather than trying to bear the heat, I began to get into the atmosphere.

As the school sections came through I had moved to my new cooler and more spacious spot at the roadside and so got a good load of pictures of both DBS and then DBA as the schools marched past in ascending order, much the same as on Youth Day way back in February. I was laughing again when the children at the back of the DBS group all noticed me and started greeting me with their ou usual “Uncle Joe!” whilst still marching before they exited the marching area 5 metres later. The schools and their uniforms of varying colours all eventually passed, making way for increasingly more colourful outfits as they were followed by local youth organisations, political parties, and finally the cultural groups.

If you were aware of Cameroonian politics but unaware of where you were (which would be quite a bizarre and worrying thing to be honest) you could have guessed it was the South West Province by the huge support for the main opposition party, the SDF (Social Democratic Front). Whilst Paul Biya's ruling RDPC (Rassemblement Democratique du Peuple Camerounais) had a good number of marchers, the SDF outnumbered them massively, to the applause of Kumba's residents. This would only be the case in the old British provinces though apparently, bitter of Paul Biya's largely Francophone government which could only in recent years be considered anything near democratic. Although I'm sure their policies aren't too close to re-separation from the French provinces, I found it slightly ironic that the SDF, with it's support base in the old British colony, was marching on a day which celebrates the day in 1972 that Cameroon changed from a federal republic to a unitary state, a move that removed so much power from that old British colony. Still, on a day like National Day, national pride overrides any other issues that may be present.

The last and most vibrant of the marching sections was that of the cultural groups, the diversity of their brightly coloured and varyingly styled dresses reflecting Cameroon's hugely diverse culture. In a country with over 300 different traditional dialects, some of that variety was demonstrated after the marching finished, as the cultural groups also began to show off their varying traditional dances and music. The march past having finished, the cultural groups began to line up along the marching area in preparation for their inspection by the SDO. Another photographer came up to me and kindly informed me that since the marching was over, we could go up close to get photos of all the different groups, an opportunity I was grateful for, despite the efforts of my camera's zoom lens. After I'd taken some photos of all the groups, it was the SDOs turn to come up with all his dignitaries, walking along the line of groups on their way to their cars and their exit. The group of smart uniformed and serious looking men made their way up the road slowly, the SDO stopping to give donations to each group, who each added even more enthusiasm to their performances as he got nearer.

Once those officials had left, the proceedings were officially over, so I headed back towards to market to catch a taxi to Diligent Home with Fulbeert, who had been marching with DBS and who'd found me (not hard to spot I don't think – even if there were another few white people around on the day). Grabbing some frozen yaourt on the way, and obliging to take a photograph in response to the demands from the DBA and DBS students who we bumped into on the way, we caught a taxi and I was at last able to sit down at Diligent Home, much to my relief, the relaxation helped all the more with some freshly picked coconut, before having some gari and groundnut soup, going to the internet place, and heading home.

The rest of the week was pretty routine, us at DiBCIT finishing off typing up the DBS third term exams before printing copies to take for proof-reading on the Thursday. Still without a machine with Microsoft Publisher or any other publishing software due to typical technical issues (nothing seems to last very long without need for maitenance here) our publication work was impossible, so I instead spent some time sorting through other things like my photos. The problem is that it is the end of the last term which means any sense of urgency gets thrown out of the window, but at least I've been enjoying the relaxed atmosphere as we near the end of things.

The atmosphere at the weekend was similarly positive because the Sunday was Harry's (I'm sure he'll forgive me for publicising this) 40th birthday. And so, after a Saturday spent relaxing, guitaring, reading and cleaning clothes (not in that order) the Sunday brought with it Harry's party in the evening. Whilst Harry was out organising things, Stella and I were organising the house, so I went and got a load of tables from the neighbouring DBS campus with the help of Cyrile, before having a needed shower (being sweaty and covered in dust) and setting up the music system in the garage for the evening's entertainment. People began arriving from 4pm, and I was fulfilling my role as the camera man for the evening, with Harry's video camera in my right hand, my own camera in my left. It was a really nice relaxing and cool (notice how cool rather than warm is thought of as nice) evening with everybody sitting out on Harry's huge veranda enjoying food, drink, music and speeches. My appetite and I enjoyed the roast fish, chicken, pasta, dodo (fried ripe plantains) and fruit salad along with everybody else between my responsibilities as camera man. Much to eveybody's amusement I spent some parts of the time doing this with Harry's niece (Auntie Sue's 2 year old daughter) Zeli attatched to my leg, wanting me to lift her up on my foot – she is hilarious, very sweet, and very energetic! Harry tells me she was walking at the age of 7 months, and now seems to prefer running anywhere rather than walking – Cameroon's own Forest Gump in the making (though she seems much more intelligent!).

After finishing around 11pm, it felt like the next day would be another national holiday, but unfortunately it wasn't, and I had to wake up at my usual 6am. Despite that I was full of energy after one too many lemonades (I'm sure the concentration of the soft-drink syrups that get imported here is much stronger than the stuff at home – Fanta dies your tongue orange) so did some cleaning up to avoid the kitchen being overrun by hungry ants during the night, before finally getting to bed after midnight. Somehow I wasn't too tired the next day, in which we were able to finish off left-overs, much to my enjoyment – we had a big mixing bowl full of fruit salad left; I reckon mangoes, pineapples, papayas and watermelon is a much better combination than that of home with watery apples and grapes and soggy bananas, shame it'd cost so much in England!

Even though I got more sleep last night, I am weirdly feeling more tired today, and as term comes to and end and we have less and less to do, I've spent the morning adding to my blog with this. It feels strange to be somehow attached to the academic year once again but without the pressure of examinations. It's quite nostalgic really too, to think that I had just finished my time at 6th Form College this time last year, a time that doesn't seem too long ago yet seems so distant and detatched from where I am this time, this year. Although DBS continues until the 14th June, DBA and DiBCIT close at the end of this week, and because I have been working more closely with those latter two, it is really feeling like the end of an era here, my last week of work for my gap year in Cameroon. I know that following this weekend I still have another three weeks to go, but because it's holiday time it feels like nothing, partly due to the inevitability that the time will seemingly whizz by as it usually does during holidays. This has been the norm for me since way back in January, and coming to the end of it does seem to bring a hint of mellowness – I'm sure it's not just the fact that it's an overcast cool day (weather England would be proud of) that's making me feel that way. I have really enjoyed my time here working with these brilliant and interesting people, and as much as I am obviously looking forward to seeing loved ones back home come June 22nd (I realise in my last post I got the date wrong – only realised I was here for 2 extra days when I looked at my tickets again last week!) I will miss this experience and those who made it so special for me. Despite the extra three weeks, this still feels like the end to something that has had a big impact on me and that I have been so lucky to do. I can't imagine what I would have done with the past 4 months had I not said yes to Harry's invitation last summer, let alone not having met him.

Anyway, I can save the finalities, conclusions and goodbye spiel for my last post. For now, I can look ahead with anticipation at three weeks of increased freedom and time to enjoy this vibrant and interesting country before I do finally leave it. With possibilities of visiting Limbe on the coast and walking up to the grasslands of Mount Cameroon (the whole thing would take a couple of days, proper planning and actual trakking equipment!) floating around the ether, I have a lot to look forward to.

For now though, I have devastatingly important things to do; in yesterday's final DiBCIT meeting we decided that I would be preparing the salad for 6 for our end of year gathering on Monday 2nd (10:00am if you're interested) June. You can tell things are winding down when I'm thinking about that!

A bientôt x.

Hello once again to you all. As I write now, I find that time has been moving rather quickly for me, since Monday 19th May marks the halfway point of my second installment in Cameroon before I return for good on June 20th. It really doesn't seem that long at all since the 17th April, nor since that first week, which unlike those that followed it, seemed to go so slowly. I've come to the conclusion that the reason for all the inaccuracies surrounding my perception of time here are due to a combination of how the mind works and also the amount of different things that have been keeping me occupied.

As much as the majority of people are sure that at times Time seems to travel faster or slower, scientists will assure you that this isn't the case and I've decided that the many thousands of them, their decades of research, and their library-fulls of accepted literature are probably closer to the target than my mental perception of it. Whilst in fact my past and future time in Cameroon (this 2nd time of being here) is pretty much equal, it will never seem that way. I can't remember all of the things that have happened since April 17th and so the time period becomes condensed down into my memory, making it appear much quicker. Conversly, the future comes hand in hand with uncertainty, giving way to infinite possibility, the imagination of which cannot be placed meta-physically within the constraints of mental perception, and so always appears huge beyond imagination, literally. That combined with the amount of different things happening makes it seem like I have ages to go before I return. The non-philosophical jibber-jabber version? I've been well occupied!

May seems to me to be a bit of a party month. We've had Labour Day on the 1st, and on Tuesday 13th, it was a DBA specific celebration, since they held their Feast Day.

Before I jump to the 13th I should probably keep things chronological at least for the sake of you imagining what I've been doing.

The previous Tuesday, Harry's friend's arrived from America (one from Maryland and the other from DC I think) to be here for the funeral of their father, who died in Buea. I got to grips with my new temporary room fairly easily, although I was frustrated I no longer had shelves to keep my clothes on, so was living out of my bags. At least I had a bigger bed, complete with the mosquito net I managed to put up. I say managed, because apart from the two short loose pieces from the net in my own room, we didn't have any string. I'd pinched two loose fabric ties that had come off the cushions for Harry's basket chairs, and then had tied each of the four ties on each corner of my net to four coat hangers, which I then hooked onto the nails I'd put in the ceiling earlier. I was pleased with my improvisation anyway.

Like I wrote at the end of the last post, it was interesting having people there who were a sort of link back to my own culture, and so the conversation moved to discussing planes and travelling and funny things about Cameroon with them (they've both been living outside of Cameroon for more than 10 years), probably to satisfy subscious cries for home. Whilst the week was stressful for them, having to organise things like which cow to buy to be slaughtered to be eaten, and, as I understand it, having to endure problems with their extended family, the week continued fairly routinely for me, working, reading, guitaring, excersising, etc, until the Saturday morning.

I got up bright and early to meet Harry and the members of the 16+ Club (I'm sure I've explained the club before, see previous posts if you don't know what I mean) at DiBCIT at 8am, who were nicely dressed up in their newly donated club t-shirts. CATS Cambridge sent me along with a load of t-shirts from their Secret Garden exhibitions from last summer, and so since there were the perfect amount of them to match the club members, I'd decided to give the club a uniform of “Secretly Acting” t-shirts, much to their amusement. So a big thanks to John Blackman at CATS – they are enjoying them! Anyway, we were gathering at DiBCIT because that Saturday morning we went to visit the Hope Clinic, a hospital in the Kosala area of Kumba, set up by a friend of Harry's from school, Dr Jerry. The clinic is partenered with Parma, Italy, since that is where Dr Jerry studied. Since studying and working in Italy, he amazingly gave up his successful job there to set up what we learnt was a brilliant clinic in a place that really needs it. At the end of the little field trip we had, I realised what an impressive project it was; he is still expanding the facilities, having opened the clinic in 1992. Something like that takes a lot of courage, patience, and correct management to succeed, so I have a lot of respect for Dr Jerry.

We were given a guided tour of the facilities, and the students left with a good amount of extra knowledge thanks to the truly helpful staff who were able to answer all of the questions the kids and Harry and I had. Pauline had her blood pressure taken, and we were all allowed to take a look at some white blood cells under a 100x microscope in the laboratory, which brought me a massive amount of nostalgia harking from my GCSE science classes all that time ago. What was the most interesting for all though, was when Dr Jerry demonstrated to us the echography machine – or ultrasound – using Brenda as an example. The students and I watched with fascination as we were shown live images of all her organs, and Dr Jerry even labelled and printed out a load of pictures for Brenda to take home with her. Another thing that made the trip funny for me was that for this month, the hope clinic has a surgeon from Italy (Parma I assume) working with them, who kept popping up in all sorts of places around the clinic. It was amusing bumping into him all the time mainly because he was a funny person; having been a surgeon for over 40 years the man isn't young but being Italian he was typically energetic, funny and jolly, making us all laugh. I then realised this was my first interaction with another white person in Kumba, much to Harry's amusement. We returned to DiBCIT with some yaourt and some various doughnut-esque “gateaux” things, before the kids and I had a computer session, whilst Harry left to attend his friends' father's burial. I went home knackered after a long hot day.

Later on that Saturday evening though, I did get to benefit from the food that Harry brought back from the funeral; he had a good bag of roast chicken and fish, which is too expensive to eat regularly. This is tough for someone like me who enjoys eating meat. It was a good weekend for it though, since that Sunday was Pentecost Sunday, and Harry had some family and friends over at the house in the evening, who brought more food, including more roast chicken – joy!

The food must have been good, because I was already pretty full by the time I got there at 6:30pm. That was because I had spent the afternoon with Elad, who had invited me to join him for his family meeting in the village of Barombi, just outside Kumba. After taking an okada (motorbike taxi) there, we walked along a couple of roads (what we would call tracks) and a couple of tracks (what we would call paths) before arriving at the chosen meeting place for that week, a wooden house typical to this timber-rich area of the South West Province – especially with a timber factory in Kumba itself. I was welcomed in and sat down next to Elad who was taking minutes. Yes, taking minutes. It was a family meeting, but not like what we might consider as one; here, the family meeting format is given just the same structure as you might find in the workplace. I realised this was probably best in order to maintain some sort of order. For those of you who don't like being talked over, don't get into a Cameroonian (or generally African) discussion. If you came across one, you'd think it was a fully heated argument just like I did with my first experiences of them. Anyway, whilst they discussed family issues and finances etc, I was sitting pretty with a plateful of Mangoes to keep me busy. As I sat and listened (and ate) I began to realise the importance of these meetings for these people. Since families are larger and closer-knit, and also since communication is more difficult what with distances and cost to worry about, these regular meetings offer a simple and organised platform to discuss things that need to be discussed in order for the family members to be able to support one another. Family support is after all one of the best and most important things that people here have going for them. Before grabbing some photos with family members (for their benefit as much as mine) and departing, they treated me to some fufu and groundnut soup with fish and some Top Ananas. I just asked for an explanation of how fufu is made and it sounds pretty longwinded, but it tastes good! Fufu is made from casava, which is grown and used for all sorts of foods here thanks to it's versatility and low cost. The casava is apparently peeled, soaked for two days in water, ground up, and then pushed through a seive to remove the pulp, leaving you with the more fibrous remains, which are then dried in a bag. The dried stuff is then cooked with hot water to give you a starchy gloop that looks like but is more tough than mashed potato. You then use the fufu to eat whatever is with it, using just your one right hand for hygeine and drinking reasons (wouldn't want to get food all over your drink). Told you it was a hefty process. Groundnuts are peanuts, so the roast fish and groundnut soup bit is thankfully more self-explanatory! It was damn tasty. And so, full of good food and mangoes, I returned home from Barombi in a taxi, but not before getting a picture of myself in front of the “Welcome to Kumba” sign (see Facebook) – had to get some proof I was here didn't I?

Tuesday came, and brought DBA Feast Day with it. The Feast Day is basically a day to celebrate the school, and mainly the students. With activities and performances, as well as prize givings to all the best students in each class and for each subject, the proceedings lasted all day, meaning I got there at 8:30am but – although the program was supposed to finish at 2:30pm - didn't leave until 6pm, this is Cameroon after all. Harry and I went armed with cameras of both the picture and video taking varieties, though it was me who did most of the camera work, meaning I spent a lot of the day filming, taking pictures, and getting sunburnt because I'd stupidly forgotten to put any sunblock on, leaving me now with impressive/embarrassing tan-lines on my arms (whichever way you choose to look at it). Despite the heat (it only just rained for the first time since saturday last night, which is a long time considering it's the rainy season) the students and guests and I enjoyed the day, most, apart from some unlucky students, sitting under the cover of one of the three marquees put up in the main school yard. Because it was a long day, guests were coming and going from the guest and teacher's marquee where I was sitting, and I was surprised when I looked up from the video camera eye-piece to find two white-people sitting one person to the left of me. I was to busy to ask where they were from unfortunately, but they looked like they were managing to endure the heat in the same way I was – red-faced but trying to move as little as possible in the shade, although I was red-faced but had to keep moving around, taking pictures, swapping batteries and film and the like. It eventually got to the prize-giving at around 2:30pm (the time, if you remember, that the day was supposed to finish) after some dancing – modern and traditional – some debating, a fashion parade, and a short play on corruption which was actually pretty funny, mainly thanks to two students who played two drunken old men brilliantly well, complete with bottles of palm wine in their hands. The prize giving took a long time, going through each subject and for each class, but at least it was made more interesting for me since I was called upon to make a short speech on stage. That was because I was donating two gifts to the school. The first was a proper football from myself, which went down very well – this being a football loving nation – and the second, more important gift, was a donation of pens to all this years examination students. This was thanks once again to John Blackman and CATS Cambridge who kindly gave them all to me to bring with me – so thanks again CATS, they will make a big difference. Not only does it ensure all the students have a pen to write with, but that kind of thing can give them a big confidence boost before they go through the typically stressful and difficult process of writing their O-levels (yes they are GCE O-levels here, not GCSEs) and BPC (for the francophone students) exams. After I did my Bridging the Gap specific bit on stage, I sat back and watched as students took their prizes, including members of the 16+ club who all grabbed a load of prizes for best-this and best-that each, much to mine and Harry's enjoyment. One of them, Franklin, took almost all of the prizes for 5eme (well, it's not possible to get 1st, 2nd and 3rd best student is it?). On a slightly different note, one of the best things for me that happened that day was the text message I got from Sarah during the prize-giving ceremony to tell me she had managed to get us tickets for this year's Leeds Festival; all that patience in waiting for more tickets to be put up on the website obviously paid off at last – I can't wait!

Anyway, since the Tuesday, my sunburnt arms have calmed down, and things at DBA have gone from the fun to the serious, as the third (and final) term examinations begin for all but the GCE and BPC students. These exams have more weight because they also double as progression exams to continue up the academic ladder, and into the form above. At DiBCIT we have also been typing the third term exams for DBS, struggling on despite having more problems with the old computers – at least it's the end of the year! That's another thing Harry and I hope Bridging the Gap can help support the schools with. (Let me take the opportunity once again to plug the fund-raising website: www.justgiving.org/joemctaggart – and also to say thank you again to those of you who have donated.)

The rest of the week until today, Friday, was pretty uneventful apart from the fact that yesterday, I got another chance to practice my French by giving a presentation on England to Mr Kuetche's private students at DBA (Mr Kuetche is the vice-dean of studies and head of the francophone section of DBA). They being older students studying for their BPC (students studying for GCSE equivalent exams in their late teens is normal here) they were helpfully interested, and asked plenty of questions, which I managed to answer all of, except that I don't know our motto, only from that it's in Latin. I had a good French workout and thanked Mr Kuetche as much as he thanked me for it, and was pleased to hear from him that he reckons my French has improved a lot since I first gave presentations on England to DBA students all the way back in February. Yesterday, it finally rained and so thankfully today it's cooler, though I only just managed to get home without getting soaked; I had to run from my taxi to under the cover of the DBS roofs before passing through the campus, walking along the edges of all the buildings to stay as dry as possible, and legging it across Harry's front yard and to the house. The noise of the rain on the roof all evening and the fact that our electricity kept getting taken by the electricity company – Sonel – meant that I got an early night, happy to be back in my room after having transferred my things back across the day before.

And here I am, with the weekend to look forward to, and National Day coming up next week Tuesday – not a bad start to the second half of my second installment of Cameroon!

Until next time. x

My three day week went pretty quickly, and suddenly National Labour Day was upon us. At DiBCIT we had managed to get a newsletter done and were left with one half-finished thanks to the half-week.
Thanks to completely forgetting about both Champions League Semi-final second leg matches the days seemed even less eventful, though they would have anyway with what was to follow at the end of the week. What was I doing instead? (Or as football loving friends of mine might have put it: “What the hell were you doing instead?!”) I spent one evening working, sorting photos and playing guitar, and the other watching You've Got Mail (let's just say it's one of those films you can watch lazily). At least the Tuesday was productive. I only realised I'd forgotten when I heard huge cheers coming from around the town. That didn't happen very much on the Tuesday though because Barcelona lost - everybody in Cameroon likes Samuel Eto'o, making Barcalona their local team.

Anyway, Labour Day.
Apparently it's international but I'd never heard of it in Britain because we put all of our British passion into it and extravagantly celebrate it with a Monday Bank Holiday, when many shops still stay open because companies need daily hits of profit to avoid withdrawal symptoms. Here, it is always on May 1st, and it is big (not being sarcastic any more). The Cameroonian explanation for why we take it diffently is that we don't labour. Which, having seen the work here, is probably a fair comment (those of you who do physically hard work still have it easier than people here – trust me).

Just like for the Youth Day, and the Women's Day, and (I'm just having a stab in the dark here) every other day to celebrate people here, part of the Labour Day Celebrations involve a marchpast. In Kumba this happens by the grandstand near the main market. I'd seen the Youth Day marching, having not been present for women's day, but this time, it would be totally different.

Thursday came, and in the morning we began work. Harry and I and whoever else was to turn up and lend a hand throughout the day began to turn the house around (I mean organise it, just in case you were wondering what it is about Cameroonian houses that lets you turn them) to prepare for the evening's party. From 3pm all the staff of Diligent Bilingual Establishments (DBE) would be turning up for the Labour Day activities (debating, discussing, speeches etc.) and then later for food, drinks and music. There was plenty to do. We got some work done, before Kinglsey came over and told me that we should go up to the field (their brilliant name for the tarmacced main road where all march pasts happen, which has no field or field-like places near it) together. It was at this point that I realised that I was invited to go and celebrate Labour Day with the rest of the staff.

Though it sounds ridiculous – and it does to me also I might add – at first I wasn't too keen on going to watch the march-past. My brain came up with a multitude of lame excuses; there's lots of work that needs doing in the house; it was really hot for youth day and will be today because you'll be in your suit; you'll need to have a shower and get changed before you go; it's a bit late now anyway – things like that. Then I realised I was being silly, and, much in the spirit of the Danny Wallace book I'd finished the night before - “Yes Man”, read it, it's brilliant – I got my act together and said yes to what was going to be a great and unique experience. I jumped in and out of the shower (washing in between of course, otherwise it wouldn't really have helped things) and got my suit on. Whilst quickly munching down a breakfast of bread and some gorgeous avocado, Kingsley took my shoes off me and gave them to his younger brother Cyrile to polish them (I didn't protest) before we took a motorbike to the “field”.

Arriving around 10:45am we bumped into a couple of other Diligent staff and began to wait for others to arrive. Eventually, around noon, we were ready to get going, having had someone finally turn up with a sign. The turnout was a bit poor but 20 or so of us was enough for good representation. Oh, and the bit that was different to the last time I'd been to a march-past? This time, I would get a much better view, because I was going to march!

As is normal, I'd already got plenty of white-man looks and comments (simply “white man!”) whilst standing around amongst the groups waiting to march, rather than being amongst the spectators as might have been at least slightly expected. For this reason, I couldn't help but let a grin creep across my face as we crossed the line to mark the beginning of the marching area. I'd seen it done before at the Youth Day and I'd like to think I did a good job – at least I have a good enough sense of rhythm and was able to keep in time with the marching bands, who were drumming away in their groups by the grandstand. Thankfully anyway, the Labour Day marching is much more relaxed than the Youth Day marching because it's not competed.
The comeradery clearly present amongst all of the groups there on the day, those in their matching uniforms; those with their banners and signs; some even with their vehicles, gave the day a great sense of enjoyment, and the enthusiasm was omnipresent. Being part of it was brilliant, and all of that atmosphere felt even more concentrated as we stepped out onto that arena in front of the crowds together in our group. I'm pretty sure I could hear a collective gasp from the crowd followed by an increased volume, which made me grin even more. Here I was, a white Englishman, all on my tod, marching amongst the crowds of Cameroonian workers on their National Labour Day. It was a truly unique experience. It is great when a chain of yeses can lead you to something like that – Yes to Cameroon during my gap year leading to yes I'll go and march – what on earth would I be doing now if I hadn't said those yeses? Yeses are much more fun.

Yes I wanted to go to the bar afterwards for drinks, and we duly did so, sitting around a table or two in a small slightly shack-like room which still had “Manchester United supporters” painted on the wall from the football matches that week (they clearly prefer that to chalk-boards). Everyone was in a great mood, drinking, chatting, joking and laughing. What I really like about Cameroon is the huge importance that is given to the social side of work, and the value given to the friendship of those who work around you. At least, I find it hard to imagine my old teachers ever having those kinds of get togethers and having collectively organised meetings for for purely social purposes where every member of staff is friends with every other. The Diligent staff members are a good bunch and on Labour Day I really felt even more a part of it all.

After a drink I disappeared back to the house because I'd also said yes to helpng Harry again once I'd finished marching, so we finished setting up the chairs from DiBCIT on the veranda and setting up the music system in the garage, before the staff began to turn up from 3pm onwards. Three quarters of an hour or so later, proceedings began. Traditionally on Labour Day, employees gather together with their employees to discuss things such as union matters, the values of the company and the workers, and other work issues or matters. But just as importantly, the day is spent appreciating the work done and those who work around you. Speeches were given, and there was also a traditional debate on a pre-chosen topic. I found this highly amusing because the subject was basically “Are male or female teachers better?” and not suprisingly ended up being a men versus women argument. I couldn't decide whether or not it was all a bit tongue-in-cheek stuff, since things here like that do strike me as a bit old fashioned on occasion (at least to the society I know), but it was all taken light-heartedly anyway and brought many good laughs from the audience listening to the arguments from either bench.

Debating made way for food and drinks, prepared in huge food flasks for the crowd of around 70. I enjoyed some good Jelof rice, Ndole and koki beans all with plantains and coco yams, along with everyone else as we sat out in the warm air on the veranda watching the sunset to the west. Mount Cameroon was looking impressive too on a particularly clear evening, with it's cap visibly covered in tightly clinging fog, making it look like a wispy snow-capped peak. Food and drinks made way for music, and, as resident DJ (or more accurately the only person other than Harry who really understands how to use his aplifier and mixer etc) I was giving everyone something to dance to. I wasn't choosing it though, since I haven't the faintest idea about Makossa music, which is the Cameroonian dance music – makossa in the dialect of Douala means something like “I like dancing”, after all. I even had a go myself – though dancing with me is I feel always more of an attempt than a success, so I say I like to try dancing. After everyone had left I admired the clearest starry sky I'd seen in a while before offing to bed. The next day was going to be a little different.

From preparing for a party the night before, Friday was spent preparing for the funeral of Mr Faustin, the DBS teacher who died on the 26th April, which was going to be held on the DBS campus. I was in charge of the music system and microphone etc. once again, though spent the first two hours of my shift waiting for electricity to return after it had been cut by the electricity company AES Sonel during the rain that afternoon. So typical it was then, that as Harry arrived with his generator which he had just taken to be fixed to be used, and began to set it up, the power came back on. Still, at least it stayed that way throughout the evening.

The evening was where it got more interesting for me. At 10pm, the coffin was put on top of a mini-bus to be taken to Mr Faustin's village, as is the order of things here. This I knew was going to happen, but what made the evening interesting for me was that I had that morning bought my own place on the other mini-bus which was to be taking DBS staff to the village as part of the coffin convoy. Mr Faustin's village, Bangoulam, is near a larger place called Banganté, which is situated in Cameroon's West Province. Funnily enough, from our South-West Province we drove East to get there.

Because road journeys in Cameroon take so long (due to the quality of the roads themselves) it is normal to drive over-night if you are travelling a distance of that size, and the aim is to arrive at your destination when it is light, since that is far safer. It was for that reason that, at between 3 and 4am, I was sitting outside a bar in Melun – a popular road stop for transport travelling between the South-West and the West/North-West Provinces – drinking a coke and eating some grilled meat from one of the many street vendors. I was told that many people in Melun are either nocturnal or don't sleep at all since they get more business at those ridiculous hours, since all transport on that route takes a break to ensure arriving at its destination during daylight hours. I had managed unfortunately to find myself once again above the back axle of my transport, so a combination of the road, the suspension, and the noise and vibrations of engine and exhaust felt through the very thin floor meant I didn't exactly get very much sleep. That I did get only got as far as of a dozing quality, so didn't realy even help.

We arrived at Bangoulam at 7:30am. As it had begun to get light, the landscape of the West Province had begun to make itself known to me. During the hour and a half in the bus since light, I had been looking at yet another new type of landscape unlike that of the South or North West Provinces. Cameroon really is, like “they” say, Africa in miniature. The rolling hills and mountains swelled and bumped against the horizon like the waves of the sea, but these were all of the deep green of forests and grasslands. Again, like when I visited the NW Province, it was clear that the vegetation and the climate was different, with eucalyptus forests sticking vertically upwards in tall, straight groups, enjoying the slightly cooler weather. Anywhere that wasn't green, I could see the deep terracotta browny reds of the earth. Especially in the villages, that mud is what is used for building materials, resulting in deep orangey red buildings contrasting with the surrounding greens. Indeed, these were the sorts of buildings that greeted us as we arrived at Mr Faustin's village.

It was a bit of an awkward morning in all honesty because it didn't seem like they were totally expecting us, the only evidence of preparation being a grave that had been dug, but seemed only 4 and a half feet deep and of a very dubious length for the coffin to fit into. We were all a bit surprised at the lack of organisation, thinking that they might even have us being the coffin down as opposed to being done by village males, as was normal. To pass time, I went for a stroll around the surroundings with Kingsley, Ivo, Ndo James and Mr Kuetche, getting plenty of photographs of myself and them with the landscape that we were all seeing for the first time.

On strolling back into the village we realised we were going to have to carry our own chairs to out the front of the village hall, and did so without too much complaint, before we were to have to play the waiting game. We sat patiently in the shade whilst finally some village people arrived to organise putting up a marquee to cover the main seating area and the tables where they were to lay the coffin. Having sat down at maybe around 08:30am, the local pastor didn't arrive until after 11am to begin the service, since he'd had another burial to attend that morning. By then our shade next to a village building had disappeared and so we had moved into the green-house like atmosphere under the cover of the marquee. It was so hot even Mr Faustil's body was sweating – thought I assume that was something to do with the embalming process. I should mention before I forget that the building we had sat next to in the shade just previously was one of great importance to the village. It is the tradition of the Bamileke people to remove the skull of a corpse after a couple of years' burial has allowed for enough decomposure, and place it with those of past villagers into a specially built building. We were sat next to it, and that was how I found out about the tradition, and why I spent time trying to think of other things than the hundreds of skulls less than a metre away on the other side of a mud-brick wall.

Once the service was over, instead of going to be present for the actual burial, we went and ate and drank the food that had been prepared for us before setting off on the journey home. We simpy did not have time to stay. That bus journey was even less comfortable than the outgoing one, probably because of the heat of the day, but I was grateful that I was able to see plenty of scenery this time around, and took plenty of photos out of the window of the bus. That continued until I realised my right arm that had been leaning out of the window was becoming sun-burnt, leaving me with the only option of having to be more selective with photographs and quickly opening and shutting the window in quick succession to be able to snap them. Can't complain, got some good ones!
On our way out of Banganté we stopped off at a food market, where I was stunned by the vast amounts of watermelons, avocados and tomatos on sale, amongst many other things. In a yessing mood, I bought a bag of watermelons to take home with me to Harry and Stella, and then got a mandatory photograph of one of the most over-loaded trucks I've ever seen. It was carrying hundreds of woven baskets (that I noticed were being used to holf tomatoes at the market) fitting together like paper cups, lying horizontally out of the back of the truck. Stuck and tied together like this, they dangled precariously close to the ground behind the truck, and stuck out about as far as the length of the tralier itself. Similarly, they were stacked twice as high as the original intended storage space, held in by long wooden poles that extended upwards from the sides of the trailer. It's so amusingly typically African, like the time I saw one motorbike rider giving another a lift on his bike because they others' bike had broken down. They were carrying the other bike on that bike, sideways and between the rider and passenger. Try doing that in England and see how far you get before getting stopped!

On our journey home we past through the top corner of the Littoral Province before heading west into the SW Province and onto Kumba. Driving through Tombel, we passed the massive Mount Kupe that is visible from Kumba, which, as I mentioned in a previous post, towers at over 2,000 metres. I was chuckling along with Ivo as I told him the tallest mountain in England was less than half that. We finally arrived back in Kumba, my back vibrated and pummelled by the upwards thrust of potholes into an achy pulp, at just after 8pm. After a drink at Auntie Sue's bar Hot Spot (Auntie Sue is Harry's sister if you hadn't got that from my ramblings yet) I jumped in the same bus as it was heading back to the DBS campus, and therefore to Harry's house which is adjacent to the campus. Luckily I didn't have to be crammed into the back corner this time.

I arrived back to the house just as Harry and Stella were off to the hospital and then to Harry's mum's house because his Auntie in Nigeria had died that day. Surprised at all the events, I just tried to wait up for my mum to ring me but think I must have dozed off before she rang at around 9pm, because I wasn't really making much sense, as I never do if I'm only half-awake. She sensibly let me get to bed and opted to call me a couple of days later. Feeling drowsy and amused/frustrated at my inability to have a conversation, I brushed my teeth, and slept for 13 hours until 11am on the Sunday, shockingly late for Cameroon. I think I'd finally managed to catch up on my sleep, and was grateful.

I awoke to an empty house and no food so set about reading to find out what was going on. Harry got home and told me that the night before he hadn't made it to his mum's because he had been at the hospital 'till 11pm. Stella had had an operation for some reason or another (I don't like to probe for answers in these situations since I don't see it as important that I know, only that the person is improving) and had been given medication and ordered to have bed-rest for 10 days. Harry made us some lunch before taking Stella some food and to collect her from the hospital, whilst I battled with a mountain of washing up. The rest of the afternoon I was stuck in the house because of rain, but I probably needed the rest.

This week Harry has friends arriving from America for their father's funeral in Buea, which will mean me moving out of my room into the spare room since my room is nicer, but as long as I have a mosquito net, I don't mind too much. It's always weird to have people arriving from elsewhere and going back home so soon whilst I'm here for much longer – almost as if they are a kind of link back to the reality of my own culture – but I'm starting to realise I haven't really got that much time left, which is good and bad for obvious reasons. I'm flying home next month after all, but it's more accurately 46 days and counting. Can't believe it's 107 days since I first arrived...