Post to Post

It's 4 am. Clothes are quickly thrown into a backpack without thought, a few odd items are picked from a medical kit, a handful of kuli kuli is safely wrapped up, and everything is finalized with the addition of one large water bottle and a roll of toilet paper. The other four make their own final inventories. The door is locked by 5, and we're on our way.
After many conversations with friends in my village I'd begun to learn more and more about Enyoh as well as the surrounding villages. During dry season I made a point to walk to each neighboring village, and was soon well known in Ashong, Enwen, Ewai, Bessom, Ambo, and Bessi Awum. After this I began to learn of villages a bit further off. One village, not far from my own, marks the beginning of the southwest region. I heard one new name after another. Ninaba, Njen, Banteng, Bamubu, Wabane, Bichati, Dschang. Wait, Dschang? This name was far from new, and it is definitely not considered a village. I had been here in February to visit a friend's post and watch the superbowl. I'd also met many students from the university of Dschang that are originally from Enyoh and who come back to the village regularly. To get from Enyoh to Dschang takes at least 6 hours assuming everything goes smoothly with the local transportation, which rarely happens. But now it suddenly sounded so close, just a few villages away. I studied my Cameroon travel map and decided that maybe it wasn't that far after all. One main reason it takes awhile to get places in Cameroon is because there are only a few paved roads, so getting to any destination usually involves taking a less than direct route. But if traveling in a more or less straight line, towns suddenly become much closer to one another.  A volunteer in a neighboring village discussed the possibility with his local friends as well and we agreed that walking to Dschang seemed very doable. We were given various time estimates, from two days to as low as a day, so we decided that we would go at some point. But with it already being May and rainy season upon us, waiting until November seemed like the most prudent option.
All that changed however because of a little thing called Independence Day. Another friend convinced us that we should plan a trip that would have us arriving in Dschang just in time for the July 4th celebrations with many other volunteers. Personally, I've always thought impulse decisions are the best kind of decisions, so heck, why not? I had already talked with a friend in Enyoh who told us he would show us the way. We met again a day before the trip and locked down the final details. The night before, everyone came to my house and excitedly discussed the plan for the trek. I then went to the guides house to give him one final reminder. One problem, he wasn't there. I called him and learned his mother had fallen ill and that he was with her at the hospital. I told the rest of the group the situation, and we decided we should still go for it. I had already trekked part of the route last autumn, and with last minute instructions from our guide, I felt confident that I could lead us to where we would need to spend the night.
So in the cold, dark morning, with headlamps and cell phone lights, we made our way. There was a low hanging  mist, and the rain from the night before had saturated the mud road. After a few false steps we had all sunk ankle deep in mud. We continued on, watching as the days first light cautiously exposed itself. About an hour after dawn we met people on the road and confirmed we were indeed taking the correct route. We ascended above the clouds and looked out across an eerie white expanse. The road ran along the edge of a cliff, but we couldn't see how far down it went due to the thick fog, and we were not too eager to find out. We started descending back down and passed at least a dozen waterfalls along the way. The further we went, the more surprised we were to see villages still lining the road. These people were a days trek from any substantial market, but they seemed to be getting along just fine. And not long ago this must have simply been the norm, before any paved roads were built. We crossed into the southwest region and celebrated, now anxiously awaiting the moment when we would cross into the West. We continued down, and down, and down, being greeted and welcomed the entire way.  Then we came to the gorge. This had been clearly visible from google maps and gave me somewhat of an idea of where we were. The gorge funneled water from all over the region into one sizeable river at its center. We saw a construction crew building a bridge, but unfortunately it was only in the beginning stages. Upstream from this, a few metal rebar lengths had been stretched across the river with some planks of wood thrown on top, also known as a 'flying bridge.' Crossing was easy enough, as long as you didn't think about one of the old wooden planks giving way and then splashing into the rushing current below. We then crossed a few streams, drenching everything up to our knees in the process. This was followed by a slope so steep and slick, that with every one step forward we would slide half a step back. We finally made it to the top, and the center of a village called Wabane. We stopped to buy bottles of water, asked for directions to Bichati, and were on our way. After leaving Wabane we seemed to leave civilization all together. We now had a much more meaningful idea of what people meant when they referred to 'the interior.' We were surrounded by dense forest and the road only seemed to get smaller and less travelled with every step. When we occasionally passed someone on the road we would ask how far Bichati was, and the only response we seemed to get was, "Too far." That wasn't encouraging, but we had no option but to press on. It seemed that the road was only uphill or downhill, and we couldn't decide what was worse, burning calves and quads, or knees threatening to give out. We'd stop and rest occasionally, but we needed to find signs of development before dark. Thankfully, at the crest of one hill, we saw the familiar glimmer of zinc roofs off in the distance. Knowing we couldn't be more than an hour away we made the final push and arrived in Bichati in the late afternoon. However, celebrations were cut short when we learned we were still no where near Dschang. We were tired, sore, and our feet were covered with blisters. We discussed other options, but quickly learned there weren't many. Motorcycles were not common here and it was doubtful that we would be able to find enough to transport all of us. So we all ate dinner, stretched our aching muscles and joints, and slept in the most impeccable accommodations Bichati had to offer.
July 3rd, 5am, we were on the road again. Within 200 yards of walking we crossed a stream which left all of our shoes soaked. After an hour we came to a fork in the road, and took our best guess, right. We crossed two large rivers, one with a well built bridge, another with two slippery logs stretched across. Then we came to a river that looked too deep and definitely to wide to cross. We began second guessing our decision at the earlier fork in the road. Luckily it was light at this point and we quickly saw someone coming our way and asked directions. He said, "Follow me," and walked straight into the river. He went winding through it, making sure to stay on the shallowest sections which were only waist deep. After about 75 yards and a few swift currents we reached the other side. He told us there was another way to go, but it sounded like we may have potentially taken a short cut, and since the river was still passable it may have been the best choice. Although, the other way likely had a bridge, and may have been just as quick. But as our companions forded the river we decided we shouldn't let the rest of the group know we might have made an error, thinking it would be bad for morale. We continued on level ground for a few more hours but saw mountainous peaks looming ominously in the distance. We began the ascent up a few steep hills and continued asking directions along the way. Most people said we wouldn't be able to make it to our next destination, Alou. Then after a quick discussion the villagers consensus was that our only chance would be to take a 'cut short' through thick, seldom travelled bush. We decided to take their advice, and after another 30 minutes of walking we saw what appeared to be the narrow path into the forest they had suggested. Not long after entering we remembered the signs stating that poaching gorillas was illegal. We continued, keeping our voices much lower, not wanting to disturb the forest's inhabitants. After crossing a few more streams we arrived at another fork. One path looked wider so we considered taking it. But on the narrower path we saw a fresh footprint and decided it would be best to go that way. We were hoping we would be able to find the owner of the footprint and ask for directions. Not long after, in the midst of this forest we found a mud hut with a grass roof. A man came out and led us to the road that would take us to the village we would need to stay in. We then began the climb. Every time we thought we'd reached the peak, we'd see another even further off in the distance. At times all hope seemed lost, no villages or people had been seen for hours. Then a drizzling mist lowered unto us. We realized we were clearly at a much higher altitude, as a deep chill began to set in. Then we heard the thunder cracks. We suddenly starting climbing like our lives depended on it. We'd been lucky that we'd had no rain the first day, but were in no mood to press our luck. If it started storming we'd have no option but to set up tents and camp on the cold mountainside. After what seemed longer than an eternity, we finally reach the top, the village, and a bar. We could barely believe we had made it, and named the climb we had just finished the stairway to heaven. We then met a local missionary, father Anthony from Italy. He led us to his catholic mission and invited us to stay in the compound. We graciously accepted and quickly fell asleep, tucked under thick wool blankets.
July 4th, Independence Day, 4am. Everything hurts. But at this point pain is meaningless, just some strange signal sent to the brain in an attempt to communicate something. We marched on, and being back on a main road now felt like being on a six lane highway. Shortly after dawn we came across an old pa and asked for directions. He told us that if we followed the main road we would arrive in Dschang and pointed for us to continue across a small stream 20 years ahead. He then wished us safe travels and went into the bush to tap palm wine. Immediately after crossing the steam we saw another old pa who greeted us, "Bonjour!" We then turned and saw a small signboard written in French. We had finally entered the West! Thinking back to trekking through the Northwest now seemed like a lifetime ago. We rallied for the final push and were encouraged to see much more modern towns after every kilometer. And not long after midday, we all arrived in Dschang and had a celebratory beer. We then made our way to the July 4th celebration and came in like conquering heroes. We could barely believe what we had accomplished, making it all the way from my post in Enyoh to my friend's post in Dschang, over 30 hours and more than 50 miles of walking. Fueled with adrenaline from success we happily told the story of our three day trek to friends of ours who didn't seem to think what we had done was possible. And although it was a quite strenuous journey, the more we thought about it, we realized that, with enough willpower, there are actually very few things which are truly impossible.

Wild Wild East

With my final report card filled out, the school year was officially over, and summer break had begun. I quickly packed up my things, traveled to Yaoundé and bought one ticket for the night train to Adamawa. As soon as I got on I was startled to see how modern everything was. It suddenly seemed as if I was riding along the Eurorail through the French countryside. The next morning I awoke in my plush compartment and made my way to the dining car for breakfast. When we pulled into Ngaoundaré I was nervous to get off. The modern amenities on the train had almost made me forget that I was in Africa. But this place was like nothing I had experienced yet in Cameroon. I quickly forgot that I was white due to the absence of people shouting, "Le Blanc!" at me. The three northern regions of Cameroon, (Adamawa, North, Extreme North), have the highest population of Muslims and the culture is vastly different, everything seemed oddly calm. The people are very respectful to each other and even more so towards foreigners. I also enjoyed the food immensely. There are many Fulani here who are most known for owning and herding large numbers of cattle. In my village I usually eat cow skin, and cow foot on the lucky days. But here we were having steak dinners every evening. The land itself reminded me somewhat of the Midwest, due to how flat it was. The views stretched for miles in all directions, and the stormy skies often looked as if they were ready to drop a funnel down at any moment. As my stay here was coming to an end my friend and I discussed what our plans were for the East region. He suggested we visit Lobeke, a jungle reserve deep in the Congo basin. We had initially decided to wait for a time when another friend of ours would be able to come along, but impulse decisions are difficult to say no to.
So, without having anything packed for this excursion, I agreed  that we should go. Unfortunately there is no train going into the East so we took the usual bus transportation. At this point we were the closest I'd been to the Central African Republic, which is in the midst of civil war. Traveling down this road had a sobering effect on me. We passed multiple large UN refugee camps, housing thousands who are trying to escape the violence next door. We eventually made it into Bertoua, the capital of the East, and were once again in an entirely different world. Everyone and everything seemed to be moving a mile a minute. People were shouting at us from all directions, and in general, chaos ruled the scene. We quickly left Bertoua and made our way to Batouri, to stay at a friend's post. We spent one day visiting a goldmine which was an interesting experience. We then went back to my friend's house and discussed our plans for Lobeke,  also reviewing how to get there. He graciously offered us a few packs of beef jerky which we quickly accepted. We packed light for the trip, which was easy for me, as I didn't know we were doing this trip until I reached Adamawa. But being slightly unprepared at least meant my bag was light.
Early the next morning we went to the bus station and saw our newest means of transportation, prison bus. Five rows of seats, with two seats on each side and a flip down seat which occupies the aisle. To say we were packed in tighter than sardines would be an understatement. Within five minutes of the bus rocking back and forth all the passengers knew each other intimately. Luckily, this bus trip was only for eight hours, and there were some beautiful views along the way. This ride made me feel like I was truly in Africa. The trees were the tallest I'd seen in Cameroon. And with every mile we seemed to go back another ten years in development. Mud brick houses were a thing no longer seen, instead, sticks were staked into the ground to create walls with mud, grass, and leaves used to fill in the cracks. The stares we received from people lasted much longer, often never ending, while their eyes and mouths were opened equally as wide. The gendarmes were just as curious, interrogating us heavily at each check point. We miraculously made it to Yokaduma, and after spending the night there, we boarded another eight hour prison bus. Now the houses we passed were made from sticks bent into the shape of an igloo covered with large banana leaves. We had entered Baka territory. The people here are pygmies who are nomadic and live in the forest, so they don't have much use for overly complicated housing structures. Just as twilight set in we reached Mambele, now only twenty miles from the Congo, and watched the day fade away in a fiery red sky. The next morning we drove into the reserve and after 45 minutes we were dropped off and were in the middle of Lobeke with our eco guard Tito and our guide Petite Jean.
After one hour of trekking through dense jungle we heard a loud, low hooting. Petite Jean motioned for us to stop, began sniffing, and whispered, "Gorille." After the gorilla seemed to have left we were told that if a gorilla charged we needed to huddle together in order to look like one large animal. There were also some throat noises we were shown which would help to calm down a gorilla. But if we peed our pants it would apparently maul is. Great, and I'd just finished my 1.5 litre water bottle. We made it to an observation tower and had a great view of a savanna surrounded by forest. We then set up camp for the night. Tito began telling us of past experiences in the park as he was burning our used sardine cans which would attract panthers if left with fishy remains. As he was speaking in French I thought I heard him say he'd shot someone in the forest a few years back. And then he pulled out a revolver. Indeed, apparently a poacher was hunting elephants and then began firing at Tito with an AK-47, so he returned fire and killed him. Well at least we now knew our eco guard was a good shot in case an animal charged us. Although if an elephant came at us, the only thing that would be able to bring it down is an AK. As night set in the forest came alive, and for some strange reason we decided this would be the perfect time to go looking for animals. We walked nervously for thirty minutes breathing heavily, and then Petite Jean told us we needed to turn back. He had caught the scent of an elephant and didn't want to get too close. We then made it back to the camp site, crawled into our tent and were lulled to sleep by the sounds of the rainforest.
The next day we trekked further to another viewing tower finding evidence of gorillas all along the way. We spent the entire afternoon sitting, watching a herd of grazing buffalo. Then as sunset came flocks of birds put on a show, flying from tree to tree until dark. The next day we woke up to heavy rain which fortunately stopped by late morning. But as we began our walk back we found that the entire forest was flooded. We slowly, wetly, plodded along. At one stretch we had to put anything we wanted to keep dry high in our packs and then proceeded to walk over 200 yards through waist deep water. We then had to cross a portion where a river was. We had to feel for a stick well below the surface and hope the rushing current wouldn't pull us away. Thankfully, we made it out alive. Arriving back in Mambele felt like returning to the first world. And although I quickly fell sick with a case of amoebic dysentery due to foolishly drinking river water, I knew it would have been much worse had it happened while we were still inside Lobeke.