Do they know it's Christmas?

In 1984 when a certain Scot called Midge Ure and an uncertain Dubliner called Sir Bob Geldof, penned the lyrics to the song, “Do they know it’s Christmas?” I’m sure they couldn’t have imagined they were writing what would become an all time Christmas classic and, indeed, one of the largest selling singles in UK chart history.

Perhaps, as the song celebrates its 25th anniversary, it’s worth asking is the title as pertinent now as it was then? - do the people in Africa actually know it’s Christmas? From where I’m sitting (in shorts and a t-shirt) the answer is that ‘it’s Christmas Bob, but not as we know it!’

Despite all the climatic changes in the last quarter of a century, there will not be any snow in Africa again this Christmas. Nor will there be any Budweiser Clydesdales horsing around in the snow, turkey and stuffing sandwiches or wren boys; let alone mince pies, sleigh bells or Chris Rea stuck in traffic with a Christmas tree sticking out of his boot.

Speaking of trees, I’ve seen four (all artificial) since the start of December and three of those were on sale outside the Chinese shop in Maroua where you can also buy plastic flowers and other useless knick-knacks. In a continent where “nothing ever grows, no rain or rivers flow” I suppose it would be hard to find a tree at all, let alone a Christmas one with a fairy, lights and pine needles.

Still on the topic of trees, partridges in pear trees would also be hard to find. However, if you could settle for a bat in a mango tree, together with 10 leaping Lamidos and 8 maids who are good at mixing Nestle NIDO milk powder, then I think we’d have that base covered.

The Père Noël base is not however. The closest you’d get to a big fat jolly man in a red suit would be if you took a gendarme (generally the roundest people here as they spend their time sitting on the roadside collecting bribes), dressed him up in a bootlegged Liverpool tracksuit and sat him astride a horse and cart. You could then fill the cart with Nigerian sweets and bottles of Top Pamplemousse and send him to work in a grotto of dried grass positioned in the market between the butcher and the tomato woman. Ho-ho-ho!

In terms of Christmas shopping, lots of improvisation is required. If you replaced a tin of Afternoon Tea with packets of broken digestives from Nigeria (all the best sugary stuff comes from Nigeria), a Gillette Men’s Toiletry Gift Set with a bar of soap and the Guinness Book of Records 2010 with a thumbed copy of The Traveller’s Good Health Guide from the VSO resource centre, then you’d manage it.

Indiana Jones, Willie Wonka or Del Boy Trotter have all yet to make their mark on Cameroonian television. The best celebrity on offer is Chantelle Biya (President Paul’s wife) who, despite looking like Tina Turner in drag (google it if you don’t believe me), manages to get herself on the small screen a lot more often than Dr. Zhivago.

As Yagoua is a predominantly Muslim town, getting your hands on a miniature crib filled with plastic figurines would be a problem (you could try the Chinese shop in Maroua though). However, seeing as the country is full of donkeys, cattle, shepherds and mangers you’d have no problem creating your own live nativity.

As the sky is clear every night, following a star would be easier than using a Garmin sat nav and you’d only have to go to Chad to get yourself a few camels. A baby Jesus would be the biggest challenge as blond haired Caucasian infants are few and far between out here.

Back in 1984 Bono and his perm-haired cohorts sang of a world of “dread and fear”, of bitter tears and “clanging chimes of doom”. From where I’m sitting (still in my shorts and t-shirt) things aren’t that bad. People do know it’s Christmas and will celebrate it as best they can underneath the burning sun.

So “Here’s to you, raise a glass to everyone”. Joyeux Noël à tous,

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Brawling Workshops

Harborne Hall is a period house that is nestled in mature gardens 20 minutes from the centre of Birmingham. It is the centre of the VSO universe and to tread on its richly varnished foyer floorboards is an obligatory rite of passage for all volunteers. Put it this way, if all VSO volunteers were Muslim, Harborne Hall would be Mecca.

Before I set foot in Cameroon I underwent intensive training in HH on three separate occasions. I was trained, instructed and indoctrinate on such diverse topics as globalisation, HIV & AIDS awareness, the challenges facing a new volunteer and the practice of facilitation; to name just a few. As a graduation gift, each volunteer was given the volunteer’s bible – The Facilitator’s Guide to Participatory Approaches – which basically outlines what it takes to be a good facilitator and how you can involve the locals in the process.

I brought the guide to Cameroon and I’ve put it to good use in the few workshops that I’ve delivered since I arrived. Now before I go on, a word about workshops. I’m sure you’re secretly wondering ‘what the hell is a bloody workshop?’, but would never admit it. I know I hadn’t a clue what a workshop was before I was VSO-tised either.

My Pocket Collins Dictionary, which I bought in Seamus Duffy’s Bookshop in Westport, for €5.99 (it’s still got the sticker on the back to prove it), defines a workshop as “n. a place where things are made”. I bet you’re picturing a bench, some spanners, an angle-grinder, welding rods, grease and overalls – now that’s a workshop. Well, a VSO workshop is slightly different however.

(facilitate, vb. – make easy) A workshop in VSO parlance consists of permanent markers, an overhead projector (if there is electricity!), people, flip chart paper, flash cards, practical activities, masking tape, scissors and warm-up games or energisers as they’re known. We, as volunteers, are designed to facilitate these workshops – that is, don’t tell anyone the answer; let them discover it for themselves. At last Wednesday’s workshop on motivation, myself and Lizzie had all of the above; and more.

(thick, adj. – fat, dense, crowded, vicious, stupid) The workshop, which was for the teachers from two of the schools where I work, had started really well. Group 1 had just finished presenting their ideas drawn on a sheet of flip-chart paper. As group two were putting the finishing touches to their presentation, a young eager member of group 3 jumped in and went to put their page on the board. The tallest and thickest member of Group 2, let’s call him Bernard, took exception to the audacity of the queue jumper and words were said.

Fair enough I thought, though to take offence in a country where the general rule is that queues are there to be jumped was bizarre. Group 2 then took up their rightful position and the moment had passed; or so I thought. All of my HH training hadn’t prepared me for what happened next.

(brawl, n. /vb. noisy fight) Five minutes later, Group 2 had just finished to a warm round of applause and the queue jumper was back getting his presentation ready. Next thing Bernard got up, more words were exchanged and quicker that you can spell facilitation, a gentle push was followed by a shove then a slap, a grab and a wrestle.

I attempted to intervene in what had become, in a matter of seconds, a full scale brawl with kicks, head butts and flying sandals. On they fought, and I couldn’t help thinking how great this was – I mean a part of me was thinking “Christ, this is the best workshop ever; it’s going to make for one hell of a story back home!”

However my VSO training kicked in and I though it better to follow the VSO humanitarian slogan of ‘Sharing Skills, Changing Lives’ rather than one of ‘Cracking Skulls, Taking Lives’. So in I jumped again to try and separate them. In my attempt I was all at once a fusion of a Copper Face Jack’s bouncer, a referee at a Bernard Dunne fight and the guy at the saloon in a John Wayne western who is always shouting “Hey you guys, break it up!”

Eventually, with help from four other teachers, the pair were separated and given time to cool down. As there was no bloodshed, the incident was deemed to be nothing more than “handbags” and everyone was happy to crack on as if nothing had happened. So we made a move to crack on, not thinking I’d see Bernard again who was by now outside under a tree considering a career move.

Before I could restart things however, Bernard’s principal was at the door calling him over, “Monsieur Sansana, on va recommencer!”
“Is this guy seriously coming back?” I wondered.

(amnesty n. general pardon) Sure enough, Bernard arrived over but not before I had a word with him. Whenever I’ve to deal with the aftermath of a fight at home between two students, I can always use the threat of calling the scrappers’ parents, a suspension or 20 lashes of the cane (hmm! perhaps I’ve been in Cameroon too long?). Dealing with teachers a different strategy is required.

Lack of professionalism, keeping the cool and don’t you dare try that again in my workshop formed the gist of my admonition. An apology to all was followed by a shaking of hands between the aggressors and all was, well, hunky dory in the world again.

(adapt vb. alter for new use, modify, change) On entering the foyer in Harborne Hall, there is a big eye catching poster designed to attract potential volunteers which reads ‘VSO is adaptable, are you?’ For my next workshop next week, together with the usual paraphernalia of flash cards, markers and sticky tape I’ll be bringing gum shields, ice packs and plenty of plasters.

And the topic of the next workshop? Conflict resolution obviously.

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Break time!

Sitting on the porch of the principal’s office last week during the break I couldn’t help but notice the aspects of school life that have, over time, become the ordinary, the everyday, dare I say, the mundane.

Three girls were playing with a rolled up rag ball. One of them was attempting to place a pile of their sandals and flips flops in order while the other two, at either end of the “court”, were throwing the ball to knock out the girl in the middle. The agility of the girl in the middle was amazing: she was dodging the ball while at the same time placing the sandals in a neat row. As soon as they hit her she was out and the whole thing started all over again.

At the same time 3 younger kids were licking home-made Mr. Freeze’s and the principal was giving out that they shouldn’t be eating them during the cold weather (35°+C) as they would be complaining of a headache later on.

Yet another group of kids we patiently crowded around the single tap that’s located in the yard. This single tap serves 725 students and 10 teachers and it is locked more often than not. When it is locked there is a slight drip and between breaks you’ll often see students licking the drops. Why does the tap need a lock? Well everybody in Cameroon pays for water from the mains and if the tap was left unlocked it would cost the school a fortune as all the locals would come to fill their buckets for free every evening.

The teachers were sitting beside me on the porch watching the kids – no cup of coffee, no biscuits, no lunch of any sort. Tell that to the ASTI or the TUI. The capacity of these people to go hours without food never ceases to stagger me.

At the end of the break one of the teachers called the nearest student within earshot and told him to go and ring the bell. The bell? When you think of a bell you might picture a red button, or a hand held “Hear ye! Hear ye!” bell a town crier would use or maybe even a Swiss cowbell they use in, well, Switzerland. The answer is none of the above; the bell consisted of an upturned lorry rim which the student hit with a stone.

Not ordinary, not mundane…just everyday!

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22 quick reminders that I'm back...

Almost a month back in Cameroon and it’s easy to recognise you’re back when:

1. As you’re leaving for work one morning and the temperature is already over 32°, one of your neighbours kids who is about 4 years old comes up to you and starts licking the cold condensation on the outside of your water bottle which you’ve just been taken out of the fridge and put on your bicycle carrier.
2. All your fresh guavas must be washed in bleach before eating them.
3. The Muslim call to prayer wakes you at half four in the morning; and again at half five.
4. You go to the local print shop and starting chatting to the guy there who says he hasn’t seen you in a while and the rest of it. Then you explain that you’ve been back in Ireland for the past few months and ask him how he’s been. He replies that he’s good and he’s just had two children. You congratulate him and ask how the twins are keeping. He replies that they’re not twins as he has two wives.
5. The students at primary school are still sitting on the floor.
6. There’s no mention of An Bord SNIP Nua or NAMA…it ceases to matter!
7. You have to filter 8 litres of water a day just to avoid your body shrivelling up like a prune in 43° heat.
8. There are no Christmas ads on TV.
9. Beans and beignets from the street are one of your 5 a day.
10. After spending one hour trying to get your front door lock open, you go looking for some oil from the local shopkeeper, Bashyru. He gives you some petrol in a vegetable oil bottle with which to dose the lock, but to no avail. You return to the shop where Bashyru then takes a needle and syringe from behind the fresh bread and hands it another guy sitting outside who comes back to help you. On the way back to the house he says that with the change in weather (the nights have started to be a lot cooler) everybody is getting sick; even the locks are sick. He then proceeds to inject the lock with petrol and 5 minutes later you’re back inside your house.
11. You pass a Sunday morning at the Chadian border happily watching the car ferry.
12. People aren’t talking about X-factor or The Apprentice and the only time the words “reality” and “TV” are found in the same sentence is when you say “The reality is I don’t have a TV!”
13. The Larium dreams return.
14. « On est ensemble » means “Yes that’s a great idea provided you do all the work!”
15. You pay 200f entry into a night club at 4 o’clock in the afternoon to watch the Cameroon v. Morocco World Cup qualifier on a big screen with 200 other locals and lose 2kgs in sweat alone just waiting for the match to come on. In the end, due to technical difficulties, the match is not shown at all and you leave a shrivelled prune.
16. You get back to find that one of your colleagues has died.
17. Helping a school to buy second-hand school books on the black-market for their teachers makes them extraordinarily happy.
18. Your scheduled Mothers’ Association meeting at 8am on a Saturday starts at 10.20am.
20. You shake, on average, at least 60 hands a day.
21. « J’arrive » means I’ll get there when it suits me and no sooner!
22. You have time to write stupid blog entries!

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Dopplegangers in Yagoua

« Lloris !, bonne arrivée, c’est comment ? » came the shout on my first day back in Yagoua from a gang of young lads who hang out on the same corner all day every day.

“Why are they still calling me Lloris? I have to get a look at this guy” I resolved as I wandered back from the market after stocking up on onions, tomatoes and le vache qui rit – how I missed that processed, tin foiled, triangulated cheese while I was back in cheddar country.

I had been hearing “Lloris” for months from these lads before I copped they were talking to me. Now you have to appreciate that being the only male “Nassara” in town I wasn’t used to being called anything other than Nassara or le Blanc. Anyhow, these guys are football mad and I’ll stop the odd time to catch up on European results while they use the chat as an opportunity to remind me of Liverpool’s woes. When I finally copped it was me they were talking to and quizzed them as to why they were calling me Lloris, I was told it was because I resembled the Lyon goalkeeper. Fair enough I thought, and didn’t think much more of it. Not, at least, until last Saturday night when I was watching the Ireland v France World Cup playoff match.

What’s this about the internet and live football in Yagoua?’ I suppose you’re wondering. Had I not led you to believe that life was tough out here? Well it is in no small measure that thanks to France’s imperialistic tendencies in the late 19th century the match was broadcast live throughout Cameroon on TV5 Monde. I wouldn’t have had a chance of seeing it if we’d drawn, say, Russia in the playoffs or if, indeed, the French stayed away from the “Scramble for Africa”.

The match was shown in a local’s backyard under the stars and there was a pretty sizeable crowd in to gloat at the hoped-for misfortune of the French. Cameroon had, earlier that day, secured their place in South Africa so the locals were waiting for a French slip-up. The 100f admission secured a seat on a bench not far from the bed sheet that hung on a wall at one end of the yard and, apart from the odd cricket landing on the screen, the reception was perfect. All that was missing was a bit of Bill, Johnny and Eamon but despite the lack of analysis I felt right at home.

In fact I must have thought I was at home judging by the amount of expletives I was hurling towards the screen throughout the first half. Though, in hindsight, it mustn’t have been too bad as it didn’t seem to disturb the guys that were sleeping on the mats in front of me. After the first 20 minutes of the game I suddenly began to notice Hugo Lloris’ name mentioned in the commentary and realised that this guy not only kept nets for Lyon but for France too. I had to get a good look at my döppelganger and see if there were any similarities.

It wasn’t until near the end of the first half that he appeared (shows the number of chances that we created) and, alas and alack, he’s white, has dark hair aaaaaand that’s about it! In fact there are more differences than similarities: he’s a lot better in goal than I am, judging by the save he pulled off to deny Glen Whelan a late equaliser; he probably speaks better French than I do and he’s more confident of seeing (and even playing with) his country in next year’s World Cup than I am right now – though I’d settle for seeing, after 100+ caps I think Shay Given’s place is unassailable.

So I’ve my 100 francs set aside for tomorrow night’s second leg and am hoping that the electricity won’t cut out so I can watch the match in hope of a miracle. At John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961 (it’s great having google here in Yags!!!) he famously spoke the immortal words “ask not what you’re country can do for you but what you can do for your country”. Now if Hugo Lloris decides to flap a couple of balls tomorrow night which will gift Kevin Doyle a goal or two then I will quite happily take all the ridicule that will undoubtedly come my way from the lads on the street on Thursday.

Allez les verts!

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Lá Fhéile Pádraig…Cameroonian style!

“No electricity! What do you mean they’re cutting the electricity tomorrow? Well b@ll*x anyway; I still haven’t printed out the questions or answer sheets for the Paddy’s Day pub quiz tomorrow night!”

So it was with a mad rush that I jumped on the next passing moto last Friday night and hightailed it to the VSO office in an attempt to save the inaugural Soirée St. Patrick. I mightened have been so bothered only our plans would be plastered all over an Irish national newspaper on the following Tuesday.

On arriving at the office the side gate was locked so I hopped the wall and was greeted by two security guards who were none too pleased seeing as it was after 10pm. I explained my case and said that the work I’d to do was of the upmost national importance (ok, I didn’t use the word ‘upmost’ as I don’t know what it is in French, so I probably said « très »). They assented begrudgingly and after having a fight with the printer I successfully got the necessary “Top Secret” paperwork printed.

Having just read over this paragraph, this blog entry is beginning to sound like the opening chapter of a Tom Clancy novel…it wasn’t as frenetic as that…it was more John Grisham I think.

‘So what was so “Top Secret”?’ I hear you yawn. Well some of the questions posed were along the lines of: What is the longest river in Ireland?; St Patrick is said to have banished what from the shores of Ireland?; The Irish author Jonathan Swift wrote what literary classic?; The Irish Famine in 1845 was caused by the failure of what crop?

All very 3rd class stuff I admit but you have to remember who we were dealing with – a bunch of Canadian, French and English volunteers with a smattering of locals whose knowledge of Ireland is haphazard to say the least. Some Cameroonians think that Ireland is somewhere in North America yet others do remember Mattie Holland’s equaliser for Ireland in the 2002 World Cup match.

Apart from a couple of rounds of Irish questions there were also a few with a Cameroonian twist and, of course, the obligatory picture round. Rather than spend hours on the web searching for pictures of Brian Cowen, Brian O’Driscoll and Brian Bóru, I spent hours doctoring pictures of the other vols instead which was a big hit. The winning team were a bunch of vols who knew their local knowledge. Thankfully the usual pub quiz sharks from Ballaghaderreen never showed up so the round of drinks for the winners stayed locally.

To cap the night off there was a bit of brawl among the locals and we had a sing-song that didn’t last very long. Despite the best efforts of Lizzie on the guitar there wasn’t a sinner who could sing a decent Irish song even when the words of Fiddler’s Green were put in front of them. Mea Culpa. Always had a sneaky suspicion that my talents lay elsewhere…it’s no longer a suspicion.

So where do we take our St. Patrick’s Day celebrations from here? Well we’ve a year to give Kiltimagh and Boston a run for their money. The Cameroonians love a good parade so if I can convince the army to show up, throw in a few dodgy West African Presidents dressed in green and call the whole thing “Operation Pádraig - highly classified”; then I think we’d have the makings of a real Tom Clancy style St. Patrick’s Day.

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“Waiter, there’s no fly in my soup!”

The menu board on the wall of the Super Restaurant in Yagoua lists at least 25 different dishes. A great variety you may think but a closer inspection reveals there are actually a limited number of dishes available; the variety is all in the combinations. For instance, according to the menu, you can order beef and rice, beef and chips, beef and bread, beef and macaroni, beef and plantains – plantains being long green bananas that are delicious when fried. Apart from beef there is also (again, according to the menu) chicken, liver and kidneys with the same side combinations.

“Right,” I thought to myself last week as the boo-boo clad waiter approached, “what do I feel like?”
“Monsieur?”
“Je vais prendre poulet plantains, s’il vous plait!”
“Il n’y en a pas!”
“D’accord, poulet riz?”
“Il n’y en a pas!”
“Ahh! Foie pommes?”

And again, with his inscrutable face which suggested that he could keep this up all day, he answered “Il n’y en a pas!” Time to change tactic, I reckoned. “Alors, qu’est ce que vous’avez?” And so the secret to ordering in the Super Restaurant was discovered. Basically, you need to ignore the menu and just ask what they have. Last time out, it was beef and chips, beef and bread or an omelette, and that was it. Whoever neatly hand-painted the extensive menu on the huge blackboard was wasting their time.

The food here is pretty good and most of the time I’ll rustle up some concoction or other at home. There are only two restaurants and a plethora of chop houses in Yags. With the narrow variety available on the menus and the need to monitor the amount of barbecued beef I eat, I’m not left with much option but to cook. So what keeps me going? Well, it all depends on the season and what you can get at the market. Mostly you can get onions, tomatoes, chillis, rice, spuds (yes, real spuds), lots of different herbs and spices, kidney beans, carrots, cucumbers, lettuce, and different fruit depending on the season – oranges have just been replaced by mangos as the fruit of choice.

As the Grahame Cleary Cookbook could be written on the back of any parish newsletter, my culinary skills extend to about 4 different dishes. Stews, curries (same dish just different types of spices), stir fries, pasta, salads and pancakes are pretty much the staple. Cooking is done on my luxurious gas cooker though there are times when I crave lasagne and hanker after an oven. There are other vols who use what’s called a dutch oven; which involves putting sand in the bottom of a large saucepan together with empty tin cans though I haven’t gotten around to trying that yet.

I have ventured to add meat occasionally to the stews and curries but it took me four months before I took a trip to the butchers. The butchers here are not like any butchers you get at home. No aprons, no little sinks with notices warning “This sink is for washing hands only!” and no cold storage. The Yagoua victuallers hang out in the market with nothing more than a butcher’s block, a couple of knives, half a (dead) cow and half a (live) hundred flies. Something to bear in mind the next time you’re taking that cellophane wrapped t-bone steak from the freezer in Super-Valu.

What finally persuaded me to take the dead bull by the horns was that after a few months eating meat in restaurants and chop houses I had no ill effects; when I wondered where this meat came from I had only one logical answer…the meat market. Having gone there regularly now, I have developed a tactic whereby I’ll pass through the row of butchers and select one where there is a reasonably big slab of meat and a reasonably small number of flies. I’ll order my 500 frs worth of meat and then I’ll watch the butcher closely to check that the meat he puts on the battered scales is in fact meat. I’m not that knowledgeable about the different sides of beef you can get but I can tell the difference between meat, gristle and offal and it pays to check. Nothing is wasted and even Pedigree Chum would have trouble finding leftovers to include in their cans of dog food; incidentally, I’ve never seen hungrier dogs in my life.

So having honed my meat buying skills I now see nothing out of the ordinary in a butcher chopping up slabs of beef on the side of a log of timber with nothing but an axe. It’s what people do, it’s how they live and it doesn’t seem to do them (or me – touche le bois!) a bit of harm…provided the meat is cooked thoroughly – (just doing my bit for the Food Safety Authority in case they’re reading).

So, word is out – I’m not going hungry in Africa and I don’t think you would either. If you do happen to find yourself in Yagoua any time soon and are looking for somewhere to eat then you could do worse than calling into the Super Restaurant. It does a good beef and chips (when it’s on the menu) and thus far I’ve yet to find a fly in my soup!
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The Trans-Cameroonian Railway

One of the perks of taking a year out in Africa is that you rely completely on public transport to get around. It’s mad but I haven’t driven a car in over 4 and a half months if you exclude the day we went to visit the Crab Doctor and I had to jump start Bashyr’s car. Public transport here consists of an assortment of trains, buses, minibuses, taxis, bush taxis and mototaxis. Ok, for those of you who wish to split hairs, taxis don’t strictly fall under the definition of public transport but if you can have 5 people (excluding the driver) squashed together in a shared yellow Toyota taxi, then that’s public enough for me.

Over the Christmas holidays I took myself off to Ghana but before I had the pleasure of buckling up with Virgin Nigeria I first had to find my way down to Doala. The journey down south involved a 10 hour bus trip with Danay Express (my local bus company which will get a whole blog of its own at some stage!) to N’Gaoundère where I had to catch the train to Yaoundé and then another 4 hour bus trip to Doala.

The train, I’ve read, is called the Trans-Cameroonian Railway but for a country that is twice the size of the UK the journey is only 600km; for those of you imperialists that’s 373 miles. The thing is, the journey took 15 hours…THAT’S 25 MILES AN HOUR! I’d nearly cycle quicker.

Still, what it lacks in speed, it makes up for in character…I was just about to write comfort there for a second but just checked myself on time! It’s a night train which leaves just after 6pm and there’s an option of 3 types of ticket – a 1st class couchette, a 1st class seat or a 2nd class hard, timber, arse-numbing bench. I opted for the a seat in 1st class as after a trip in a sleeper carriage last year in Vietnam with two scans, I wasn’t prepared to be cooped up in a cabin for15 hours; nor was I too happy about squeezing onto a bench with mother’s, babies, soldiers and happy go lucky “voleurs” who would see me, or more importantly my bags, as an early Christmas present.

The journey to be fair, both ways, was comfortable enough and the food tasty too. The train stops frequently for whatever sort of delay – the Cameroonian equivalent of Iarnrod Eireann’s “leaves on the track” I suppose. It also stops at various stations along the way where it is an experience to see everything from bananas, water, mandarins and batons (which are sticks of manioc wrapped in banana leaves) being bought and sold through the windows of the carriages. Seeing so many women and children out (for them) in the cold at 4am making hard sales just shows how much these people depend on the train, which passes once a day in each direction, to make a living…that’s their job!

Apart from all the stops, my fellow traveller’s also ensured that the time was never long. The Cameroonians are great talkers and love nothing more than a good heated discussion at all hours of the night. Topics rarely included the weather, never politics but instead focussed on things like fidelity, love and God. I pretended to sleep.

Sleep though came easier than expected. However, it was hard to close my eyes at times when there was a soldier standing not 10 feet away with his machine gun slung around his neck with only a piece of old rope keeping it in place.

On arriving in Yaoundé, a battalion of soldiers couldn’t have stopped the hordes of porters who climbed aboard as the train pulled into the station. These guys were amazing to watch – they were carrying two suitcases at a time on their heads while carrying another bag in one hand. They made a mockery of the suitcases with wheels and the ergonomically designed rucksacks. Incidentally, I carried my own rucksack…at least as far as the nearest battered, yellow taxi!

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