You start out cheerful, going over the different things you
could do in your head. Music is put on, people sing along. You watch the
scenery with knowing eyes, recognizing this and that as you leave Bamenda, the
familiar place of your childhood. The scenery is interesting, but, culture
shock being done with, you believe, it soon blends into monotony, the same as
if it were the dull, uninteresting span of the prairies outside your window.
Eventually the music stops as well – people worn out from the last two long weeks of work and fun start to nod and try to find the least hard and bumpy pillow. You look at the car door as a possibility – nope, been warned against that one and have seen it play its tricks on these atrociously bumpy roads. Well, you think, let's try cushioning the head with a hand. Carefully you attempt this feat, while the bumpy roads cause your hand to be tenderized by continuous hard knocks from your head.
After attempting this for a while, your neck starts to get cramped by the simple fact that your arm/hand is shorter than comfortable for your head to lean on. Therefore, you sit up, unsure of other methods you can use. Looking behind, you realize there are no headrests, and your head bumping against the hard glass window behind you might not be conducive to your health if you hit a few good potholes or bumps. Glancing over the people seated next to you, you see an ingenious idea employed – the use of a backpack seated on your lap as a softer cushion to lay on, instead of having to fold yourself in half like a pretzel to gain the same effect otherwise. Taking up your newly bought computer backpack, with its padded backside, you lay your head down at last. And there you sit for forty-five minutes, your head jolting up and down on this backpack at every bump. Besides your brain being jiggled about some, at least this option does not contain any large chance of brain injury. Eventually, you drift slowly in and out of the blissful sleep realm, coming back to the reality of the Toyota loudly rumbling along, with its classic changes of tones as the gears are changed.
After a while, the car is stopped at a gas station for a restroom and snack break. Most of you stay in the car, but a few get out, and come back with a prized possession – pretzels. Continuing on, you pass another payage (or toll station), where people crowd around with eager faces, attempting to get you to buy their wares of groundnuts, passion fruit, bananas and other simple and relatively inexpensive treats. Boiled groundnuts and some passion fruit are bought through the window as you slowly move along, crawling forward to the payage woman.
Gaining speed after the payage is past, the goods are handed around. Bananas are eaten, the peels thrown out the window, swept away from your hand to the side of the road into the foliage. Groundnuts are greatly enjoyed, and the peelings thrown out the window with the rest to decompose. As everyone eats, the same scenery flashes by the window, of banana trees, palm trees, trees and grass, all different shades of lush green with intermittent bursts of coloured flowers. At certain times, you also see collections of mud brick or wood plank houses, roofed with tin falling apart at the seams.
When everyone needs a bathroom break and is hungry, you stop at the small market by the side of the road where fruit and cooked plums, plantains, and meat are available. The man selling meat slices off meat as you step closer, asking you to try it in order that you might buy his own wares, as there are plenty of others selling the same things. Making your way further into the clutter of stalls, you will find women selling cooked plums and plantains. When you purchase them, the seller will bundle them up for you off their makeshift grills old newspaper. The meat man does the same, cutting it on what looks like a piece of old cardboard on top of a piece off wood, although it has all over time come to look the same, and depositing the pieces of meat in a pocket of newspaper. Then he will ask you whether you want what looks like Soya sauce in a bottle, and will then deposit a mound of spice on the meat if you ask. Once everyone has what they want, everyone will bundle into the car again, and you will eat out of your small bundles, your lunch costing only 600 francs, the equivalent of about $1.20. The driver of the vehicle, while you are eating your lunch, will not hesitate to swerve suddenly if needed to avoid a large pothole, because the alternative is worse, and everyone knows it.
Driving on these roads usually consist of staying in your lane (except if it would be more beneficial to swerve into, or even stay in the other lane for a while), slowing down quite often for speed bumps, to the point of almost crawling forward in order not to jar everyone from their seats, and avoiding potholes, which abound on certain portions of the road.
Such are some observations of the intricate and delightful sides of travelling in Cameroon. Bon voyage!
Eventually the music stops as well – people worn out from the last two long weeks of work and fun start to nod and try to find the least hard and bumpy pillow. You look at the car door as a possibility – nope, been warned against that one and have seen it play its tricks on these atrociously bumpy roads. Well, you think, let's try cushioning the head with a hand. Carefully you attempt this feat, while the bumpy roads cause your hand to be tenderized by continuous hard knocks from your head.
After attempting this for a while, your neck starts to get cramped by the simple fact that your arm/hand is shorter than comfortable for your head to lean on. Therefore, you sit up, unsure of other methods you can use. Looking behind, you realize there are no headrests, and your head bumping against the hard glass window behind you might not be conducive to your health if you hit a few good potholes or bumps. Glancing over the people seated next to you, you see an ingenious idea employed – the use of a backpack seated on your lap as a softer cushion to lay on, instead of having to fold yourself in half like a pretzel to gain the same effect otherwise. Taking up your newly bought computer backpack, with its padded backside, you lay your head down at last. And there you sit for forty-five minutes, your head jolting up and down on this backpack at every bump. Besides your brain being jiggled about some, at least this option does not contain any large chance of brain injury. Eventually, you drift slowly in and out of the blissful sleep realm, coming back to the reality of the Toyota loudly rumbling along, with its classic changes of tones as the gears are changed.
After a while, the car is stopped at a gas station for a restroom and snack break. Most of you stay in the car, but a few get out, and come back with a prized possession – pretzels. Continuing on, you pass another payage (or toll station), where people crowd around with eager faces, attempting to get you to buy their wares of groundnuts, passion fruit, bananas and other simple and relatively inexpensive treats. Boiled groundnuts and some passion fruit are bought through the window as you slowly move along, crawling forward to the payage woman.
Gaining speed after the payage is past, the goods are handed around. Bananas are eaten, the peels thrown out the window, swept away from your hand to the side of the road into the foliage. Groundnuts are greatly enjoyed, and the peelings thrown out the window with the rest to decompose. As everyone eats, the same scenery flashes by the window, of banana trees, palm trees, trees and grass, all different shades of lush green with intermittent bursts of coloured flowers. At certain times, you also see collections of mud brick or wood plank houses, roofed with tin falling apart at the seams.
When everyone needs a bathroom break and is hungry, you stop at the small market by the side of the road where fruit and cooked plums, plantains, and meat are available. The man selling meat slices off meat as you step closer, asking you to try it in order that you might buy his own wares, as there are plenty of others selling the same things. Making your way further into the clutter of stalls, you will find women selling cooked plums and plantains. When you purchase them, the seller will bundle them up for you off their makeshift grills old newspaper. The meat man does the same, cutting it on what looks like a piece of old cardboard on top of a piece off wood, although it has all over time come to look the same, and depositing the pieces of meat in a pocket of newspaper. Then he will ask you whether you want what looks like Soya sauce in a bottle, and will then deposit a mound of spice on the meat if you ask. Once everyone has what they want, everyone will bundle into the car again, and you will eat out of your small bundles, your lunch costing only 600 francs, the equivalent of about $1.20. The driver of the vehicle, while you are eating your lunch, will not hesitate to swerve suddenly if needed to avoid a large pothole, because the alternative is worse, and everyone knows it.
Driving on these roads usually consist of staying in your lane (except if it would be more beneficial to swerve into, or even stay in the other lane for a while), slowing down quite often for speed bumps, to the point of almost crawling forward in order not to jar everyone from their seats, and avoiding potholes, which abound on certain portions of the road.
Such are some observations of the intricate and delightful sides of travelling in Cameroon. Bon voyage!
