[The School of Thought] The Grand Pecking Order
Adam
As I flew the final leg of my two days worth of flights to arrive in Douala I met a Swiss girl who had previously lived in Cameroon and was willing to give me a few pointers on changing money, etc. She suggested I check in to the same hotel and introduced me to her friend who had picked her up. As I caught my first glimpses of Cameroon through the windows of the taxi—work crews exercising along the road in the day’s first light--I was invited to this man, Julio’s house to meet his family. Their home was just around the corner from the hotel, a humble one-story cement structure. As we arrived, Mama jumped up from the ground where she had been hunched over a bowl, squeezing the moisture out of a white putty I later learned was starch for pressing clothes. The family was ecstatic to see their friend Jessica and were very welcoming to me, offering a local juice drink and snacks right away. I struggled to resurrect the decrepit French that has rotted away in my brain for the past 15 years, and got my first tastes of the amazingly fast transitions between comprehension and seemingly gibberish as the family traversed English, French, their local dialect, and pidgin.
After a lunch of omelettes and baguettes with tea, Julio, Jessica and I left to get cash and get my bearings. Stopping by the hotel on the way, I discovered that the crooks working the baggage at Royal Air Maroc had lightened my backpack of my small digital camera, my Chinese cell phone, and 3 Clif bars. Not the best way to start a trip, and I had really been looking forward to getting audio and video on this trip. Getting over it; I was taken on as the adopted tag-along and invited back to join the family for beers, and I had heard that Mama was particularly fond of Amstel.
When we arrived at the house, Mama has changed out of her loose, bright green dress and into a black, better-fitting one. She'd put on a wig and lipstick and was clearly ready for a night on the town.
So we walked to the bar about 10 feet from their front door, down the same alley, and took a seat at a table made from a giant wire spool, under a thatched roof, lit by one green light, with dusty football posters and Guiness ads donning the walls. A barrage of Makossa and Seka Seka music surrounded my jet-lagged and drunken head. Mama and I tipped back Amstels as she explained to ,e that Amstel stands for “Aimes moi se tu es libre”. Love me if you are free. Occasionally, the joyous Cameroonian music would overtake Mama and she would stand, clapping the first three beats of a measure and leading the rest of the gathering family in loud “eh-eh-eh”s on the polyrhythm. Just like that, I had arrived in Cameroon.
Having been taken under the family's wing, I was in their care for my first couple days, and also when I arrived in my second town, Limbe, as they had phoned ahead for their friend Guy's friend Babi to meet me there. Babi took me to the nicest hotel in the town, implying it was the only suitable option for a foreigner, and took me around to the beach for fresh braised fish eaten by hand with the black sand between our toes.
I was actually a bit relieved to have a couple hours alone the following morning, so I decided to walk north from my hotel to shoot some photos.
About 30 minutes away and only about 3 photos in, I was called over to someone's front stoop.
After an initial first few questions about my origin and reason for visiting Cameroon, things went awry.
“So you is just walking around snaffing (photos) in dis town?”
“Yeah, more or less;”
“You can not jus do dis. The chief may get very angry.”
I:d heard about chiefs. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to find one yet.
“Oh, then let me meet him!”
“Our chief is dead, and we not appoint a new one, but you meet chairman!”
Mobile phones were punched, loud talking in another language.
“OK go dis way.”
We crossed the street and on the wooden front porch of another small home, I was directed to sit down, across from an older man with yellowed eyes and a plaid shirt sitting on a wooden chair;
“Dis de chair man.”
I removed my sunglasses and greeted him with deference. I was excited at the opportunity to forge a bond with a person of stature.
“So ah hear you snaffing in (the name of his town). Dis is not OK. You cannot jus do dis. You then send photos of naked children to your home and they think we are poor and naked!”
I assured him that was not my goal; that I am so much of a shutterbug that I end up covering all aspects of a place I visit; that I have no interest in making a place appear poorer than it is. After a fair amount of discussion about the relative wealth Americans compared to Cameroonians, the chairman laid down the law. He told me that my appearing in his village and “snaffing” was a crime in his eyes, that I could make money from my photos and that he needed to be compensated. He asked for CFA50000, USD100.
“Your choice; I will hold you here until you pay.”
I protested, I negotiated, but I really had no leg to stand on; I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to properly deal with a chairman. In the end I handed over the equivalent of USD50, was treated to a nice cold Coke by his cohorts, and was invited to take all the photos I wanted. I wanted none. And I had to meet Babi in mere minutes.
When we met, he was distraught, and as we talked with more people, it was estimated that the chair man was probably nothing more than a man on a chair. I'd been fleeced. With that story and the camera story plying the ,mobile phone lines, friends and relatives of the people I met in Douala have accompanied me at every turn since; striving to ensure that I get a safe and positive impression of their country. They are doing a great job. So, counter to my past travel habits, I've been traveling in a pair or group the entire time and will do so for the duration of Cameroon. I've learned a few things about dealing with chiefs and men who sit on chairs, which I hope to not need in the next countries. In a moment, I'll be taken to a place where passenger cars are loaded up with unimaginable amounts of cargo to be driven to Nigeria. That’s right up my alley and I can’t wait!
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Posted By Adam to The School of Thought at 2/15/2008 06:31:00 AM