Foumban, Cameroon

We were so relieved to have made it through the vast trackless wasteland that we decided to treat ourselves to four days in Foumban. Scenically, this town is one of the more beautiful that I have visited on this trip. It is nestled in a mountainous region, in between peaks and valleys of green rolling hills. Surprisingly, there are pine trees. In fact, entire pine forests, which I could not have predicted for this part of Africa. Pine forests have always calmed me because they remind me of Finland. They also seemed appropriate for the approaching Christmas season.

We spent four days here not just for the beauty but also because we made friends with some young AIDS peer educators. Thierry and Sabine informed us that an important festival was going to take place the day that we had planned to leave and that we should stick around for it. They were responsible for entertaining the crowd with a skit about HIV/AIDS. During a night of drinking together, it occurred to me that it would be great if we could prepare a brief skit about sex tourism and its dangers for the festival the next day. Every one seemed very enthusiastic, so I grabbed a notebook and worked with Thierry and Sabine to create the scenes.

We decided that Nate and Sean should play white tourists who come to Africa and become sexually involved with young girls. In tourist areas such as Foumban, this type of incidence is typical. It is not uncommon to see aged white men with young African girls, out for a night of fun. But while this might shock some of you, I should explain that a large age difference in African relationships is very common, so this is not actually the issue. The point we wanted to drive home with the skit was that tourists often produce false hopes in the young girls who they become involved with. We planned three scenes. In the first, Nate would promise Sabine a passport to America, a way to travel outside of her country to achieve the American dream. She would fall in love and believe his promises. After she is inevitably left behind and forgotten by Nate, she loses her self confidence. Next, Sean would arrive and shamefully exploit her. She would accept his demands for sex because of a hope to make enough money for a plane ticket to America. Eventually, Sabine would contract HIV through her reckless behavior and her inability to demand protection during sex. Thierry and I would play a interracial couple who had decided to get married. But I would explain that I had insisted on protection during premarital sex and an HIV test before marriage.

While it was already really fun to create this little skit, it was more fun to actually perform it in front of royal dignitaries and townspeople the next day. The townsquare was filled with people, all in a festive mood because the festival marked the triumphant return of the town's football team from a national championship. The sultan of Foumban, the traditional leader of one of Cameroon's largest tribes, had organized the party in order to crown the football players as warriors. The sultan had also agreed that it was important to discuss AIDS at such a large gathering. As we performed the skit, many people cheered and expressed lots of surprise and emotion. Later that night, I was approached by several people who told us how impressed they were about the subject matter. One man who worked with the sultan's health department, told me that although the sultan had not yet arrived to the festival when we performed, he had heard about the skit and remarked that he thought it was impressive. The man also said that the skit marked the first time that anyone had broached the subject of the problems associated with sex tourism in their community.

He also expressed surprise that white people would be willing to show ourselves in such a negative light. I explained that we were humbled by our experiences in Africa and motivated to share our impressions and experiences. The truth is, some exchanges with people, especially those of a romantic nature are colored by distorted perceptions. I am often approached with marriage proposals and questions about how to get married to a white lady. Although I can't speak for the boys, I can see that they too, are frustrated by false hopes from the ladies that they wish to become involved with. I explained these points to the health minister with the hope that the sultan would also hear them. I think that he was impressed by the fact that we willing to get up in front of his entire community and openly demonstrate why some exchanges between Africans and foreigners should be recognized as damaging and dangerous. I think we created quite an impression and encouraged a lot of dialogue through our stunt, so I am happy that we stayed in Foumban the extra days. Read more about the experience in Sean's future article about the youth group we worked with during the skit.
* posted by Tuuli at 3:50 AM  —  3 comments

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.
* posted by Tuuli at 3:40 AM  —  0 comments

Maiduguri, Nigeria

I sometimes think that this trip is making me forget that I am a woman. For example, our favorite pastime among the team is nightly games of poker. Sometimes, I go weeks without washing my clothes, other times I have forgotten to brush my hair and it looks like a rat's nest. I do not generally fuss over my appearance and I am not uncomfortable with dirt. This is already a part of my personality. But sometimes, when I have the opportunity to interact with women, I begin to realize how much this trip has constrained my feminine side. When I meet women in bush taxis, on the street and in the markets, I realize that many spend a lot of time and energy looking glamorous and well-kept. Sometimes, I have a moment of embarrassment when I realize that I am walking around in stained clothes.

It is when I compare myself to the African woman that I begin to question whether I am neglecting my feminine side. But this comparison is a catch 22... the conception of femininity in African and western cultures is so different. But yet, I think about it often: where do I fall in this equation? I am a woman in Africa drinking beer, wearing pants, traveling with two men, maybe even (gasp!) unbathed for several days? For most people we encounter, the color of my skin excuses most of the differences in appearance and behavior. That I am female is only a minor detail in the greater differences in cultural standards of dress, propriety and appearance. But to tell you the truth, I am beginning to wonder whether this is what is best.

Today, I realized something. While this trip has made me tougher (camping and staying in hotels that charge by the hour) and I certainly feel the daily influence of my travel companions (I love them, but they don't like to talk about periods and pedicures), I also realized that I have been missing entire parts of myself.

I noticed this as I had my hair braided by Jamima, a woman that we have met here in Maiduguri. Jamima is a journalist who is doing a feature on our trip on a Nigerian television broadcast channel. After spending a few nights with us, she decided that we were much too interesting to keep a secret from the Nigerian public. She is doing a feature on our project for a Sunday magazine news program. Jamima is outspoken, thoughtful, observant and intelligent. She also noticed that I was in need of a little attention, so she suggested that she take me to have henna painted on my hands and feet.

We drove her car to the Shehu's (sultan's) neighborhood, essentially the oldest part of the town. Here, the streets are reminiscent of towns in the northern Sahel. There are mazes of dirt paths and mud brick walls, children outnumber the adults, and the peppery smells of the day's cooking linger in the narrow paths. The many children that were playing in the alleys we walked through decided to follow the strange visitors, keeping an awe-struck distance. We arrived at the henna artist's house, walking into a carpeted room with a television blaring Arab music videos. After exchanging greetings, the three women sitting in the room began to mix the henna, while talking excitedly about the latest news. Meanwhile, Jamima thoughtfully stroked my hair and told me to sit down on the floor in front of her. And she began to braid my hair.

To tell you the truth, at first I was distraught. During my time in Africa, I have seen many white women plait their hair in the African style and look positively ridiculous. Others visit Africa to learn traditional dancing as a form of exercise, shocking villagers that happen to pass by to see their gyrations. Others wear traditional cloth at cultural festivals only to stick out like sore thumbs. Worse still, there is the 50 year old wrinkly woman on the beach with their young African buck of a boyfriend.

I have always been careful to distinguish myself from these groups of tourists. I have always insisted that my wish is not to become African. But even while all these images and protestations rushed through my head, Jamima's hand just relaxed me. I realized that it felt really good to have a woman touching my head. The henna painter grabbed my foot and began drawing designs with incredible artistry and skill. My white skin provided an intense contrast to the black henna paint.

The attention was a little disconcerting. Since we started the trip, I don't recall one instance when I was pampered so thoroughly. Actually, the last time when someone paid any attention to my body was when the guys nursed me with back massages in Dogon Country, when I thought that my kidneys were going to fail me.

As I sat on the floor, absorbing all of the attention, becoming mesmerized by the swirls of the paint brush and the gentle tug and pull of Jamima's hand on my hair and scalp, I felt a sudden urge to sob. I had lost and regained female intimacy. I felt humbled by the opportunity to be where I was sitting.

There are many linguistic and cultural barriers to interacting with women in their homes. In Maiduguri, we are in the heart of an area ruled by sharia law, a place where women were supposedly locked up in their houses. A few years ago, the international news media even highlighted a story about the stoning trial of an adultress in Northern Nigeria. As I sat there, it seemed incongruous to my understanding about this region that this is where I would have the experience of being so intimately connected with women.

In fact, most everything about my understanding of Nigeria has changed. Before we arrived, we were concerned about the safety of our vehicle, we worried about people trying to steal our things, we strategized on how to work our way through the infamous police check points where we were sure we would have to pay bribes. But after spending almost three weeks in Nigeria, nobody has stolen anything from us, I have never had a concern about walking around the streets at night and the biggest bribe we paid was three bags of water to a police officer who bemoaned that his team does not have a well by his checkpoint. The man was thirsty, so we offered him some water.

A big part of why we have had such a wonderful time in Nigeria is because 1) it is not as unsafe and unstable as the international news media makes it seem, and 2) the people we have met have always generously welcomed us. Police officers, military men, airforce commanders, and now these two women focusing all their attention on me, had all bent over backwards to make three scraggly tourists feel at home in their country.

Cynics will say that the people we have met treated us with kindness because they had a lot at stake for bringing forth a positive image of Nigeria to the world. But the warmth of the receptions was unmistakable. The honesty of their intentions was demonstrated by the fact that most of them, from senior officers in the military to people on the street, were not afraid to open up to us and speak to us candidly about the corruption that is present in their society. For example, they admitted that the reforms that the country must implement to succeed are currently failing. They prayed for a change. But nevertheless, they also had immense hope and an overwhelming pride in their country.

The most disappointing admission about the state of corruption came from Miss (emphasis on the miss, please; she is unmarried and proud to be so) Tina, who worked within the field of HIV/AIDS in Borno State. She is another example of a remarkable woman that I encountered in an area where I thought women had no place in politics. She reported to us that the state government continues to squander entire yearly allocations of AIDS program money; this is money that is supposed to be used for education and treatment of the disease. But Tina talked so passionately about her work and grabbed my hand with a remarkable and captivating energy, that I saw that the financial stranglehold the government was placing on her work meant very little to her. Yes, she admitted that it was extremely hard to do her work. Yes, at times she was discouraged and wanted to scream. But her character insisted that she was not helpless. She told us about the eight children in her house, and how only one of them was hers. I understood that she and other Nigerians have the capability to be happy and fulfilled in the most remarkable conditions, as long as they have a passion and a strong drive. A recent poll showed that Nigerians were the happiest people on earth.

Needless to say, Jamima's experiment with hair, henna and cultural understanding was a success. As I walked out of the Shehu's neighborhood once again I felt renewed, feminine and happy. I felt renewed from all the female energy I had just soaked in. In fact, I felt like hugging her for seeing so clearly what I needed. But more importantly, this experience made me realize the extent of my admiration for Nigerians. Many people have gone out of their way to welcome us (Jamima had to ask her boss directly for permission to take me for my beauty treatment). And in the end, it was I who was close-minded: I almost let my prejudice about Nigeria prevent me from visiting the country altogether. I feel lucky for these interactions, as I now leave Nigeria with a more complete understanding of the troubles that the nation is facing, but also a hope in how generosity and warmth of Nigerians can begin to overcome these troubles.
* posted by Tuuli at 11:32 AM  —  3 comments