Cameroon with Egbert

by Dervla Murphy

  Pausing in the village of Ma for elevenses (cokes and avocados), we learned that this was not the Kumbo-Ntem cut-short; to get to Ntem from Ma we would have to go via Ndu. An endearing but gloomy twenty-five-year-old guided us onto the appropriate (we hoped) bush-path. He was gloomy because his family had been unable to afford his secondary school fees and were now unable to afford his brideprice.

  Shaded by mango and kolanut trees, this cut-short meandered for two hours past a string of large compounds – as many thatched as tin roofed and each surrounded by crop-crowded fields. Back on the motor-track, we passed the raised barrier of an unmanned check-post and entered one of Cameroon’s few tea-plantations. Miles of rolling hills were tidily covered with well tended bushes, and the plantation headquarters – substantial colonial buildings surrounded by shiny trucks – looked as incongruous as the crop itself.

  Outside a long row of drearily uniform workers’ shacks a grinning young man shouted an invitation to drink maize-beer. Guiltily we tethered poor Egbert on bare ground before being led into a dark, crowded room, unfurnished save for a few home-made chairs and stools. A young woman with baby on back sat beside a giant cauldron in the centre of the floor, busily filling glasses with a gourd and skilfully filtering the beer through her fingers. Our exclamations of appreciation caused immoderate laughter and indeed this was an excellent brew: thickish and whitish, refreshing and sustaining, its flavour not unlike Ethiopian talla. Nobody spoke much English but we enjoyed the convivial atmosphere, with toddlers wandering around shoving their fists into glasses and babies beaming at us from maternal backs and a group of teenage girls giggling at us from one corner. The most giggly wore a T-shirt inscribed: I’M NOT GETTING OLDER, I’M GETTING BETTER. From all sides people urged us to have refills but as this rest-stop wasn’t nourishing Egbert we left after a second round.

  At the door, our ‘host’ stretched out his hand for payment. I didn’t object but was momentarily thrown, having assumed we were his guests. As he didn’t specify an amount, I gave him 200 CFA (about 44p). Later experiences taught us that resident Whites tend to create an understandable ‘soak-the-rich’ mentality among many of the locals.

  We had been ill-advised to take a cut-short through the tea. At first all went well; then the bushes became so high and the path so narrow that the load was caught repeatedly and a lesser horse than Egbert would have rebelled. After a nerve-wracking half-hour we found our-selves on what could have been either a rudimentary motor-track or a wide bush-path. We realised it was the former when an open truck, with PRESBYTERIAN MISSION inscribed in multicoloured lettering on both sides, came swaying down the steep hill behind us. It contained uproarious dozens of young people standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Many were waving bottles of palm wine; all were so loudly singing, or chanting, or cheering that they remained within earshot for fifteen minutes while the truck laboriously chugged up the opposite hill. American Presbyterian missionaries arrived in Cameroon in 1879 but we were glad to note that their converts’ natural proclivities have survived.

  Soon after, my compass in human form began to suspect that this was not the Ndu track. When we checked with a man carrying a machete on his head he said that the track went to Sabongari and he seemed genuinely distressed to have to break this bad news. We begged him not to worry. Sabongari is north of Ntem so we were moving in the right direction by another route – and a very beautiful one, as the track switchbacked through low, round, cultivated hills with glossy palm and banana groves filling the shallow valleys between.

  When the sun came out for the first time, soon after 4 p.m., we were again climbing high, into Fulani country. Many horses grazed on wide smooth pastures and in two hours we passed only one compound. Outside it sat a big group of palavering men; they were too far away to greet us but we were conscious of their stares. This was an exhilarating last lap. Behind us to the south stood piles of static white clouds – looking solid, like alabaster sculptures – but overhead the sky was intensely blue. The sun shone golden on the grassland; ahead were towering rough escarpments, glowing red; below them rose a strange grey rock mountain, perfectly oval, standing alone.

  Descending towards that solitary bare rock, we met an ancient Fulani who remains vivid in my memory. Many Fulanis are handsome but there was a serenity within this man, shining out, that gave his lean, worn face an extraordinary beauty. He shook my hand firmly and rhythmically recited the traditional Fulani greetings, his voice gentle. Mysteriously, one felt blessed by this encounter.

  As we watched him going on his way, tall and thin, still carrying himself proudly, Rachel said, ‘What a noble face! D’you think he’s as wise as he looks?’ She noted then that he wasn’t in fact very tall. An illusion of height is often created by the Fulanis’ flowing robes and slender build, so unlike the compact muscularity of most Cameroonians.

  Nthambaw lies at the base of the oval mountain. A bustling, friendly, happy village, its fifty-fifty Christian-Muslim population live in the sort of harmony that makes Irish people feel inferior. As in many such villages, most buildings look alike. Church, mosque, school, health centre, police post, off-licence – all are tin-roofed mud huts with no external indication of their function. And, whatever that function may be, furniture is minimal and usually crudely knocked together from rough-hewn wood – which seems sad, in an area once renowned for the artistry of its wood-carvers.

  The sun was still warm when we arrived at 6 p.m., having covered some twenty-two miles. (We calculated our daily distances on the basis of two-and-a-half miles per hour, a conservative estimate as we realised later when timing ourselves on a stretch of motor-road with colonial kilometre stones.) In the long main street a crowd of wildly excited children provided a spontaneous guard-of-honour as we peered into four minute shops in quest of non-existent food. Then two young men beckoned from a maize-beer shebeen. Both were Old Augustinians who spoke fluent English and said of course we could camp on the village green, which was just that: a large grassy triangle in the middle of the street with a towering tree at its apex. But first we must have some beer – lots of beer! We promptly did so, then offered payment only to have it indignantly refused.

  In the course of conversation it emerged that Nthambaw is the centre of a chiefdom. We had been told that where chiefs dwell it is good manners to seek their consent before spending a night in a village – an afterglow of Mungo Park’s day, when strangers had to obtain a chief’s permission (a visa equivalent) to travel through his territory. So we asked the way to the palace, as chiefs’ compounds, however unpretentious, are always known. Manga and Semmi seemed to think we were being over-punctilious but amiably escorted us down a mile-long track in the fading light, through the Chiefs well shaded coffee plantation.

  In the modern secular Republic of Cameroon chiefs no longer wield any political power qua chiefs, though some hold government posts and live in Bamenda or Yaounde. Yet most villagers (especially Anglophones) remain in awe of their chief. His quasi-religious, emotional/ psychological significance is still considerable, though he may be a Muslim with Christian ‘subjects’ – as in Nthambaw. This significance of course predates the arrival of both Islam and Christianity and has to do with the hereditary magical powers of pagan chiefs – so often derided by Whites as ‘savage superstitions’, though they were no more, ‘superstitious’ than the beliefs held by millions of European Christians.

  The isolated palace, semi-encircled by tall trees and gloomy in the dusk, was strangely silent. Outside its high mud walls our companions’ unease became palpable. Semmi remained with Egbert while Manga led us through a maze of narrow passages between huts rather bigger than average and under archways so low that even I had to duck. It felt odd to be in such a quiet, apparently childless compound. Only one person was visible, an elderly woman (the senior wife) squatting outside the kitchen-hut preparing green leaves for jammu-jammu. Manga mumbled an inquiry, then moved across to another doorway. Here he bent almost double and spoke to t
he Chief within through cupped hands, in a low voice, never raising his eyes to the chiefly face. This approach astonished us at the time, though we were soon to become accustomed to it. A not very imposing figure then emerged, aged perhaps forty-five with a hooked nose but very dark skin. He wore a round white cap, a sleeveless embroidered knee-length white tunic and jeans so much too long that they must have been second-hand. His manner conveyed neither warmth nor hostility; plainly such unexpected guests left him at a loss. Manga interpreted in the local language and when I formally sought permission to camp the Chief grunted non-commitedly, then went out to view our equipage.

  Semmi too bent low and greeted him through cupped hands. At the sight of Egbert he became suddenly animated and Manga translated, ‘He says you have a very good horse! From where did you get him? How much did you pay?’

  Having been told, the Chief exclaimed, ‘Wah!’ Next he expressed a wish to be photographed and adopted a rigid military pose. Feeling rather duplicitous, I took several shots in the gloaming with our salted camera. He then said something to Manga, nodded curtly to us and departed.

  Manga grinned triumphantly. ‘You may camp! If he’d known you’re both women he’d have kept you in his guest hut!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’ I asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t have believed me!’ chuckled Manga. ‘He’d have said I was playing tricks and got angry. I didn’t believe you at first!’

  It was dark as we walked through the village centre. From a Christian off-licence came taped disco music. From the mosque came devout chanting and through the open door we glimpsed by golden lamp-light scenes of kneeling men touching their foreheads to the ground.

  Our setting up camp was impeded by many small boys eager to help. I tried to be patient but in the end had to ask them to desist. Getting a tent up at night is tricky enough without a dozen inexpert little hands tugging at guy-ropes and putting pegs in the wrong places. Several precious objects went astray in the dark but were later found and returned by helpful youths.

  Then it was supper-time: bananas only, since no bread had been available in any village en route. But beer is almost always available in Cameroon, whatever the ‘infrastructure’ problems, so Rachel went to fetch some, accompanied by Semmi, to guarantee the bottles’ return. Otherwise she would not have been allowed to take them off the premises.

  This ‘bottle discipline’ fascinated us, in a country not notable for its organisational abilities. Under no circumstances is it possible for anyone anywhere to buy a bottle of beer, coke or Top; one can only buy the contents. The deposit system is unknown but it seems the entire population has been so dragooned that every empty bottle is returned to source. Perhaps the manufacturers have a purely economic motive for this regimentation, or perhaps they responsibly take into account the perils of broken glass in a country where most of the rural population go barefooted. Cameroonian soles are leathery, but not glass-proof. Remarkably, we never saw a single splinter of glass on the ground.

  Virtually every Nthambaw male must have been present by this stage, sitting in rows on the grass all around our tent as though at an open-air theatre – which I suppose is what we were, from their point of view. When I asked Semmi why no women were present he replied, ‘Here our Christian women keep quiet. The Muslim ways are stronger.’

  Three more Old Augustinians now joined us and though the moon had risen – wondrously silvering the nearby oval mountain – we found ourselves repeatedly confusing the five young English speakers’ identities. None would share our beer so we soon became even more confused and rather loquacious, giving longer than necessary answers to their many questions about European habits and customs.

  Manga, aged twenty-one, was another thwarted student, the youngest of a Christian family’s thirty-four children. (Polygamy is now tacitly accepted by many Black churches as an ineradicable part of the African way of life.) His mother, only sixteen years his senior, had been his recently deceased father’s third wife. As the three widows were ‘good friends’ their compound was ‘peaceful’. But so many children had meant less education for the latest arrivals. Having got ‘five nice O Levels’ (I didn’t ask how nice), Manga had had to leave St Augustine’s. But he still hoped … His eldest brother, aged forty-nine, was an economist, married to an ex-Peace Corps teacher, and had been lecturing in an American university for the past eleven years. Being now head of the family, ‘he must return soon to live in this village and he will have saved many dollars. I am waiting for him, he will see I need more education. And our President Paul Biya tells us: “It is never too late to learn!” He is a good President, he believes in education.’

  I tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine an academic economist with an American wife readjusting to Nthambaw. Even allowing for the Cameroonians’ passionate attachment to family, village and land, it seemed improbable that he would settle in his birthplace, or anywhere near it. And Manga’s yearning for more education would be only one of many demands made on his savings. In Cameroon, as elsewhere in Black Africa, financial prosperity often means a much more stressful life than if one had remained unambitiously in the bush. High salaries and ‘status’ don’t always compensate for the worries and conflicts entailed in having numerous dependants desperately competing for assistance.

  Of Manga’s other thirty-two siblings fifteen, mostly girls, were still on the land. Seventeen had jobs in Bamenda, Douala or Yaounde. ‘That is how I got to St Augustine’s and when I make money I will help nephews and nieces as well as my own children. It is harder for educated Christian families. We like girls to learn, Muslim families need only educate boys. And Fulanis in the bush don’t bother about education, they only go to Koranic schools.’

  We would have been surprised to find five Old Augustinians in remote Nthambaw had the nuns not told us that many poor families will bust themselves to provide what they consider ‘the best’ education, which in Anglophone Cameroon means GCE-based. Sadly, the expectation that city jobs will follow is not always (or even often) fulfilled in the way parents intended; ‘city jobs’ may involve no more than sweeping the gutters of Douala or Yaounde. When children get bad examination results, families are bewildered, hurt, angry and sometimes resentful; they have deprived themselves for years to pay fees, so why hasn’t the school delivered the goods for which they thought they were paying?

  In Bamenda we had met one nun, with half a lifetime’s experience of teaching in Africa, who commented, ‘There is a difference in what Black and White pupils can achieve at O and A Levels. But many of our kids are first-generation school-goers from illiterate homes. And you have to begin somewhere – their children will do better, and their grandchildren better still!’

  To me that prediction has a distinct flavour of self-deception. It is hard to see how British or French curricula could ever have any relevance for Cameroonian children. Why should studying Shakespeare and the history of the British empire (White version) be expected to improve their chances as citizens of an independent African republic? The Cameroonian answer is that examination results based on an indigenous curriculum would not impress potential Western employers or Western universities; and the unrealistic hope of many Black students is to get into a Western university, preferably American.

  When we said goodnight to our friends the village elders, who had been strolling around all evening in a protective spirit, at once dismissed the crowd and within moments even the most high-spirited youths were meekly moving towards home. Most of our possessions had to be left outside the tent but we felt no anxiety on that score in Nthambaw – or anywhere in rural Cameroon. Drifting off to sleep, I reflected on the benefits of a small, hierarchical, traditional community. I wouldn’t care to belong to one myself, but they do have their advantages.

  5

  On the Tenth Day …

  WE KNEW THE stage beyond Nthambaw would be rough. This was ‘the hot plain’ and our Old Augustinian friends, bred on the cool heights, were appalled at the idea of anybody – never mi
nd two Whites – crossing it on foot. But there was no cooler route to the Mbabo mountains.

  On the outskirts of Nthambaw a dramatic waterfall, hundreds of feet high, flashed whitely down the opposite mountain – a vivid illustration of the perversity of Africa’s terrain and climate. The region’s severe water-shortage had caused our friends to take much trouble, at dawn, in order to fill Egbert’s bucket. (He then refused to drink; we were discovering that he liked liquid refreshment only during the midday hours.)

  From Nthambaw a neglected colonial ‘motorable track’ – happily devoid of motors – descended through scrub-covered mountains uninhabited because of their steepness and aridity. Yet several migrating herds, lean but healthy, were gaining sustenance (‘grazing’ is not the word) on gradients more suited to goats. During the morning two black and gold snakes, scarcely a foot long, crossed the track; and we marvelled at the variety, brilliant colouring and enormous size of the local butterflies. By 11.30 a.m. we were almost down – and it felt like it. When a cut-short appeared we wandered across a gradual, thinly forested slope in search of lunch for Egbert and turned him loose where tall bunches of stiff, yellowish grass grew between the trees. By then we knew he didn’t want to leave us; he had been untethered all night on the village green.

  Our own banana supply had run out but we were too hot to be hungry. I sensibly ate salt with my water and when Rachel refused to follow suit we bickered peevishly on this issue. Then she discovered a jigger in her left big toe and I dug it out with a safety-pin. The usual tickling mega-ants and biting mini-flies tortured us. Meanwhile Egbert was being plagued by handsome birds with yellow beaks who alighted on him in twos and threes, parasite-hunting. But to our huge relief he approved of the apparently unappetising grass; for a few days nothing better was likely to come on his menu.