Friday, December 23, 2005
Trip through the vast trackless wasteland, Northern Cameroon
We ended up spending five days in NGoundere, the capital of the northern region of Cameroon preparing for one of the hardest roads of the trip. NGoundere itself was pleasant and subtly different from the primarily Moslem areas where we had spent the past two months. While Cameroon is integrated and you can find many Christians in the northern regions, the city of NGoundere was the first town where the influence of Christianity began to feel conspicuous. We were staying nearby the town's cathedral. The main street was lined with bars and drinking seemed a nightly ritual for the town's inhabitants.
The streets were wide and equipped with a drainage system that actually seemed to work. Overall, the city reminded all of us of Aspen or some other peaceful mountain town. We felt very comfortable until the hotel manager told us that it was very unsafe for us to be walking around the streets. He explained that although things had been calm lately, muggings were a common occurrence. This surprised the hell out of us but we decided to heed his advice and take motorcycle taxis around town instead of walking.
We spent five days in this city mostly because we were afraid to leave. The two routes which we could choose from to get to the south were described as bandit-ridden tracts of wasteland. Each had its own dangers. We had read about their difficulties and been warned verbally about both. So we waffled and waited, trying to determine as much about the situation as possible prior to departure. Neither option seemed reasonable, so day after day, we played poker and tried to assess which road seemed like more of a gamble.
Eventually we decided upon the more difficult, relatively safer road towards Douala. We left early in the morning with our valuables stashed in various places in the car and on our bodies. We took every precaution we could think of, creating goodie bags for potential thieves with items that did not mean much to us while completely hiding our real credit cards and other valuables. Our nerves were shot. The road proved difficult but hardly unsafe. We spent two full days driving for eight or nine hours a day. We averaged about 25 miles an hour.
The road was difficult to drive. But we did not expect it to be filthy. Because of the dirt road and the endless potholes that stirred the dust off the road, the inside of the Stingray was enveloped in a constant cloud of filth. It became worse and worse as we went along. The backseat where I spent almost an entire day, was the worst hit with dust. This is because the body of the car is old and cracked and allows dust to enter from between the seats. At times it was hard to breathe. I tied a headwrap to protect my hair and another scarf to protect my face but still the dust penetrated into each and every crevice of my body. My eyes burned and I started to feel ill from the amount of dust that I breathed and swallowed. When we stopped for a brief brake, we all laughed at each others faces which were caked with dust. Seans stubbly cheeks were especially funny because the dust had caught the shape of polka dots. We renamed the car Pigpen because of the dust that constantly streamed out of the windows.
Despite these conditions, the road itself was not as uninhabited and inhospitable as we had expected. It certainly was not a vast trackless wasteland. Villages lined the road and there were large towns every hundred kilometers where we stopped for meals and gas. Mostly, this area was full of herders with small plots reserved for sustenance farming. The people were friendly and not intimidating as we had feared. The first night, we camped in a Fula village where Sean negotiated us a spot under the chief's mango tree.
As we finally pulled into Foumban which marked the end of the journey through the trackless wasteland, we were all relieved. We pulled into the parking lot of the hotel we had picked and got out of the car. The first thing I did was to whack my clothing, generating a cloud of dust. I wiped my face with my headwrap so that I could present myself to the hotel management. I was being watched. A group of people were laughing at my foul appearance and my futile attempts to look presentable. The car itself was half the joke. As I slammed the car door shut, a huge cloud of dust escaped. We were all very relieved to have made it. But the car took the biggest beating.
We ended up spending five days in NGoundere, the capital of the northern region of Cameroon preparing for one of the hardest roads of the trip. NGoundere itself was pleasant and subtly different from the primarily Moslem areas where we had spent the past two months. While Cameroon is integrated and you can find many Christians in the northern regions, the city of NGoundere was the first town where the influence of Christianity began to feel conspicuous. We were staying nearby the town's cathedral. The main street was lined with bars and drinking seemed a nightly ritual for the town's inhabitants.
The streets were wide and equipped with a drainage system that actually seemed to work. Overall, the city reminded all of us of Aspen or some other peaceful mountain town. We felt very comfortable until the hotel manager told us that it was very unsafe for us to be walking around the streets. He explained that although things had been calm lately, muggings were a common occurrence. This surprised the hell out of us but we decided to heed his advice and take motorcycle taxis around town instead of walking.
We spent five days in this city mostly because we were afraid to leave. The two routes which we could choose from to get to the south were described as bandit-ridden tracts of wasteland. Each had its own dangers. We had read about their difficulties and been warned verbally about both. So we waffled and waited, trying to determine as much about the situation as possible prior to departure. Neither option seemed reasonable, so day after day, we played poker and tried to assess which road seemed like more of a gamble.
Eventually we decided upon the more difficult, relatively safer road towards Douala. We left early in the morning with our valuables stashed in various places in the car and on our bodies. We took every precaution we could think of, creating goodie bags for potential thieves with items that did not mean much to us while completely hiding our real credit cards and other valuables. Our nerves were shot. The road proved difficult but hardly unsafe. We spent two full days driving for eight or nine hours a day. We averaged about 25 miles an hour.
The road was difficult to drive. But we did not expect it to be filthy. Because of the dirt road and the endless potholes that stirred the dust off the road, the inside of the Stingray was enveloped in a constant cloud of filth. It became worse and worse as we went along. The backseat where I spent almost an entire day, was the worst hit with dust. This is because the body of the car is old and cracked and allows dust to enter from between the seats. At times it was hard to breathe. I tied a headwrap to protect my hair and another scarf to protect my face but still the dust penetrated into each and every crevice of my body. My eyes burned and I started to feel ill from the amount of dust that I breathed and swallowed. When we stopped for a brief brake, we all laughed at each others faces which were caked with dust. Seans stubbly cheeks were especially funny because the dust had caught the shape of polka dots. We renamed the car Pigpen because of the dust that constantly streamed out of the windows.
Despite these conditions, the road itself was not as uninhabited and inhospitable as we had expected. It certainly was not a vast trackless wasteland. Villages lined the road and there were large towns every hundred kilometers where we stopped for meals and gas. Mostly, this area was full of herders with small plots reserved for sustenance farming. The people were friendly and not intimidating as we had feared. The first night, we camped in a Fula village where Sean negotiated us a spot under the chief's mango tree.
As we finally pulled into Foumban which marked the end of the journey through the trackless wasteland, we were all relieved. We pulled into the parking lot of the hotel we had picked and got out of the car. The first thing I did was to whack my clothing, generating a cloud of dust. I wiped my face with my headwrap so that I could present myself to the hotel management. I was being watched. A group of people were laughing at my foul appearance and my futile attempts to look presentable. The car itself was half the joke. As I slammed the car door shut, a huge cloud of dust escaped. We were all very relieved to have made it. But the car took the biggest beating.
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