Scratching the Surface

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		a		Cameroon is a country of two halves, or rather several two halves, of one whole. We became aware of the first national divide when stopped at a police block south of the capital, Yaounde. The policeman enquired about our nationality (in French) and when he reveived his answer in English, he beamed and proudly declared himself Anglophone. He shook our hands and insisted that we were his grandparents. This both pricked at our colonial guilt and cheered us to hear such wanton Francophobia. After a few more days, and a few more encounters like this, we came to realise that the Anglophone/Francophone divide is serious and deeply felt, with the Anglophones resenting their obvious minority status in a supposedly bilingual and bicultural country. In Yaounde a hazy dust storm blowing down from the Sahara, otherwise known as the seasonal Harmattan, covered the city and we missed out on the famous views. However we were happy to be back in civilisation, enjoying the patisseries, museums and bars. We also met other overlanders heading south and finally had a chance to reflect on what a great achievement it was to make it through the Angola/Congo-basin corridor. Meanwhile, the African Cup of Nations began in nearby Ghana and we soon discovered another two halves to Cameroon: the half of the country who just supports the national team, the ‘Indomitable Lions’, and the half who rioted through the streets of Douala, Cameroon’s business capital and second city, demanding the President’s head after the team’s disastrous first game against Egypt (an astonishing display of lazy defending, ball chasing and toothless attacking that was no match for the Egyptian machine). The police came out to meet the rioters and the whole mess left dozens wounded and a couple dead. Fortunately we were in Limbe at the time of the riot, lording it in the marvellously located Fini hotel for the Bee’s birthday. We enjoyed the air-conditioned room with a balcony overlooking the brown volcanic sand of the private beach and enjoyed the privacy you can only get in a proper hotel. But since we are true ‘overlanders’ now and hotels are rare, we still felt the need to type up trip reports and hung our laundry on the balcony to dry. Class! And with our batteries recharged we decided to climb Mount Cameroon. After so many less than perfect experiences with hikes/climbs/guides and porters this was fantastic from start to finish. We took two porters and one guide and walked with an ex-pat Frenchman called Elric. The active volcano is actually a plateau of peaks with several old lava flows and our three days walking took us straight up through the savannah, along the windswept top fields of volcanic ash and down through the forests to the villages below. A great walk/climb and everyone got on famously. Our night-time fireside conversations extended beyond the usual football related pleasantries and the ‘I want to go to England one day’ non-starter to Cameroon and French politics. Next, we took the roads north to a beautiful highland area called the ‘Grassfields’ and explore the palaces and museums of its ancient and brutal kingdoms. After visiting so many places in Africa where the old monarchies have been wiped out, it was interesting to visit an area where the current chiefs, or ‘Fons’, are still so powerful. At one village, we decided to camp for the night in an unoccupied patch of ground overlooking a valley. We found a man of local stature and asked his permission to camp, who seemed very pleased and was at pains to assure us of our safety during the night. In the morning, two other men came to greet us and have a poke about. We gave them each a cup of tea and made small talk about the mountain and the village until one told us that he had to go to work and left. The other man stayed and, as the conversation dried up, we packed the car. After another ten minutes of nervous silences, the man finally asked me, very formally, if he had my permission to leave. We couldn’t help laughing at this but quickly answered ‘yes’ when it was obvious from his expression that he was serious. As we left the southern half of the country we realised that Cameroon was also one-half rich and one-half poor. The modernity and infrastructure of the southwest gave way to unfinished major roads, erratic power supply and rural poverty. And in the Nord Extreme, yet another divide splits the Cameroons, one of faith. But unlike Nigeria, which has full-blown Sharia law in some of its cities, N’goundere has a calm co-existence of Christianity and Islam. One example was the semi-final of the African Cup of Nations against the hosts, Ghana. We went to the liveliest bar we could find and found ourselves amongst the drinking Christians, who assumed where our loyalties lay and were friendly to the end, turning to ask us if we too had seen that terrible cross/shot/defending. The Muslims sat at the back dranking coca-cola but, when Cameroon scored the final goal and the bar went crazy, they were the first to jump up and hug us and everyone else, arms in the air, skull caps twirling around the ends of their fingers. Further to the north, we visited beautiful Roumsiki. We walked through the mountains and swam in the cliff-side pool at the Campement de Roumsiki. There we met Dean Fiore, a crazy Australian cycling his way through Africa. We had met some cyclists before and there is something about using this mode of transport in this continent that, shall we say, elaborates the psyche. He does the usual thing of sleeping in villages every other day, cycling through tropical downpours, cycling when he has diarrhoea and living off roasted offal and the kindness of others. Fortunately Dean is still Australian and as soon as he gets off his bike he is smoking and drinking, teasing the Poms and telling great stories (including the one about travelling from Somaliland into Puntland when his bus was held up by armed bandits and one of the local women pulled her Bhurka over him so they wouldn’t see he was a tourist). Cameroon lost the final to Egypt but I didn’t check to see if the President was decapitated as we had closer, more relevant unrest to worry about. Chad’s capital, N’djamena is only a few kilometres north of Roumsiki and in the previous week a collection of Chadian opposition parties and rebel groups had attacked the city. The ensuing conflict killed dozens of people and caused thousands more to flee westward over the northern tip of Cameroon and into Nigeria. Our intended border crossing at Banki was now swarming with refugees and UN officials. We would have to take a more southerly crossing and head into the centre of Nigeria. Photos View from the Fini Hotel room View inside the Fini hotel room At the top of the mountain Half way down the mountain Campement de Roumsiki A wild 'Dean' of Melbourne terrorises the Cameroon highlands
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