The bush taxi bus that takes us between Bafoussam and Mayo Darle is run by an agency called Alliance. We were told to use caution around the perimeters of any agence, because that is where men like to lurk, ready to pull you into their own – fake – “taxis” and subsequently steal all your stuff or at least pickpocket you. The agence, however, is like base in a game of tag. They’re liable – sort of – they’re official, and you can walk away from your luggage as it waits next to the van to be loaded without worry, as long as you keep your most valuable valuables on you.
So in the hours we waited for the bush taxi to depart, Dada-Nomi and I cautiously, probingly, explored the perimeter of Alliance’s lot and eventually made it to a fruit stand where I was given absolutely non of the most delicious looking pineapple I’d ever seen.. I watched the man peel it, cut three big juicy long slices, package them in a small clear plastic bag, and sell them to Dada Nomi for 100cfa – about 20 cents. We encountered no ruffians or pickpockets.
The bush taxi is like an extremely large van, with cushioned metal benches, designed to hold probably 18 passengers. One of the seats in each row has a small, foldable back so people can climb through to the rows behind, though this seat is in a different position in each row. After 25 people had piled in, we took off.
I started feeling woozy after about five minutes on the road. I started drooling after about 10. Foaming after about 15. And puking at 20. Dada-nomi’s scarf, my drool rag, was the first thing to go.. soaked through and useless after about an hour.. followed by five plastic puke bags, three Peace Corps Newsletters, Dada-Nomi’s body and clothes, and an entire small packet of tissues. I was really annoyed too because every time I tried to get comfortable by resting my head on the person next to me, Dada-Nomi would block my way. It got worse after the first hour, when we started bumping around, driving slow, skirting road-wide pot-holes, bouncing to and fro. The road was no longer paved. After about two-thirds of the way through the trip – ie, six and a half hours in – I sort of just emptied out and gave in. I thought if I just sort of passed out, I’d wake up and it’d be over. The man next to us was insisting that he wanted to go to America. When Dada-Nomi was trying to shove water down my throat.. trying to pry open my unwilling jaw, soaking herself and me. She lifted my paw; I let it fall. I was miserable.. couldn’t she tell?? She lifted my tail; I let it fall. Then, interrupting the man, she panicked to no one in particular, “I think my dog is dead. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” I was not dead.
Well we finally arrived in Mayo Darle around 11:30 pm. The town was sleeping. Sandrine helped us get all the bags on motos, and we ourselves moto-ed to Aislynn’s house, our postmate, who was not home. I was feeling immediately better, though Dada-Nomi still seemed damp and anxious. Kaitlyn, a volunteer from Banyo, came out from the house with a lantern. We paid the moto-boys, were ushered inside and I, went promptly to sleep. We had finally arrived in our new home.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Moving to Post
Nomi and I first met in the market place, marché B in a big city called Bafoussam. I was en route from training and was travelling with literally all my stuff. All the trainees were moving to their posts I spent the weekend with friends. Natalie is a tall blonde girl from Austin, Texas who used to model and spent a year waitressing in Vegas. Eric is a tall moppy-haired boy who said that until coming to Cameroon for whom it would have been strange to be called white-man before coming to Cameroon, but here it feels totally normal. And Dan, a calm-spirited gentle boy who plays and loves screaming-rock music and has a pirate tattooed on his chest, a birthday on his lip, h-e-a-d-b-a-n-g on his toes. But anyway, back to the market.
I was there with Natalie and Eric, having just left Dan’s post in Dshang (pronounced Chang). Feeling apprehensive about the imminent isolation of Mayo Darle, I decided to get a puppy.
This is his story.
NOMI :
The man who had been carting me around for a while, he called me Bobby – stress on the second syllable. He crushed me into a wicker basket and tied me in. I was a small puppy, maybe three months. I smelled something a bit different when Dada Nomi, Natalie and Eric came into the market. They’re scents slowly but steadily got stronger, as I imagine they trekked conspicuously through the market, asking someone every five stands, and being directed somewhere at almost every stand, until they made it past the humungous dirt pit and herbal/spiritual remedies, and arrived in the animal section. What does a little puppy know of goats, ducks, rabbits, cats, chickens and the occasional monkey? They were all my market neighbors.
The big man untied me and jumped back. I sprung out of the basket and ran as fast as I could for about ten seconds, then as fast as I could back. People were calling me Bobby. Then the man scooped me up. He held me still while he negotiated with the girl. In the end, I was worth 8000 cfa (about 15 dollars), with a slightly bigger wicker panier for me to be carried in. This was 10,000 down from the man’s original price of 18,000cfa.
So I left the market in my new basket, and at this point I was feeling weird. We walked down the road, me floating along next to these foreign smelling people, in a basket, with two kittens, Bam and MoonTiger, who were travelling with Eric and Natalie. Only the kittens and I seemed to know that Bam and Moontiger did not have long to live. Their litter was born ill. (Later we wondered if the humans had known there wasn’t much time, because they provided such wonderful meals and attention!)
I threw up along the side of the road. I also threw up in the taxi cab. It was unfortunate because I had eaten almost the whole skeleton of a small chicken that day at the market. Also because Natalie was not so nice to me after that since most of it landed on her long fuscia skirt.
We slept that night in the case (caz), a peace corps apartment/office on the third floor of probably the only 5 story building in sight, dirt and caramel brown, in contrast with the crumbly red mud of the streets, with a special code lock to get in, and fast internet.
As a small puppy, I mostly just liked to run around wildly and bite on anything, just to play. And of course eat. I peed and pooed anywhere. I didn’t care. That day I was forced to have a bucket bath. Nicely, they heated some water on the stove, like they do for their own, because it’s chilly here during rainy season.
The case reeked because they had run out of water a long time ago. When the trainees arrived they didn’t really understand or believe the sign on the bathroom door that said “Plz do not poo when there is no water!!” I discovered that the left bathroom – the one where the light works if you release the switch very gently – was much more fragrant that the right. This night, the people tried calling me Duke Jason.
The next day was the worst day of my life. We woke up around 5 am to be at Alliance, the bush taxi agence, by 5:30. After getting crushed into that box, I was promptly released. The people had found the building’s front door locked, with no accessible key, and failed to escape. But from that moment on, the stress built. Dada Nomi and I missed our ride. Bam and MoonTiger disappeared. The people searched frantically, they kept shouting at me, “Dog, find cats!” but I don’t know what that meant.
They looked everywhere in that little apartment, for about two hours – with a break for breakfast at the bakery that smells amazing but always tastes bad. Then they looked again, in a place they had each looked once. Bam and MoonTiger were finally discovered tucked deep between the bottom of the mattress and black fabric lining the underside of the bedframe.
Dada Nomi and I got to the agence around 8am, and waited for the car to fill. It left around 2pm. During the time waiting, I got to eat scraps of bone and dead meat things off the ground. I met a woman named Sandrine who held me outside of the 50cfa squat latrines. I’m still not sure what they do exactly with the tie-die plastic teapots they take in with them. I saw a man with a small face growing out of his face. Sandrine had a baby with warts all over her feet tied on her back. She said it was because she made the baby wear socks in hot Douala.
Here at the agence, people tried calling me James. I slept for a while, and woke up just in time to be smushed into the front seat beside four men, on Dada Nomi’s lap, and prepared myself for the longest journey of my puppy life.
I was there with Natalie and Eric, having just left Dan’s post in Dshang (pronounced Chang). Feeling apprehensive about the imminent isolation of Mayo Darle, I decided to get a puppy.
This is his story.
NOMI :
The man who had been carting me around for a while, he called me Bobby – stress on the second syllable. He crushed me into a wicker basket and tied me in. I was a small puppy, maybe three months. I smelled something a bit different when Dada Nomi, Natalie and Eric came into the market. They’re scents slowly but steadily got stronger, as I imagine they trekked conspicuously through the market, asking someone every five stands, and being directed somewhere at almost every stand, until they made it past the humungous dirt pit and herbal/spiritual remedies, and arrived in the animal section. What does a little puppy know of goats, ducks, rabbits, cats, chickens and the occasional monkey? They were all my market neighbors.
The big man untied me and jumped back. I sprung out of the basket and ran as fast as I could for about ten seconds, then as fast as I could back. People were calling me Bobby. Then the man scooped me up. He held me still while he negotiated with the girl. In the end, I was worth 8000 cfa (about 15 dollars), with a slightly bigger wicker panier for me to be carried in. This was 10,000 down from the man’s original price of 18,000cfa.
So I left the market in my new basket, and at this point I was feeling weird. We walked down the road, me floating along next to these foreign smelling people, in a basket, with two kittens, Bam and MoonTiger, who were travelling with Eric and Natalie. Only the kittens and I seemed to know that Bam and Moontiger did not have long to live. Their litter was born ill. (Later we wondered if the humans had known there wasn’t much time, because they provided such wonderful meals and attention!)
I threw up along the side of the road. I also threw up in the taxi cab. It was unfortunate because I had eaten almost the whole skeleton of a small chicken that day at the market. Also because Natalie was not so nice to me after that since most of it landed on her long fuscia skirt.
We slept that night in the case (caz), a peace corps apartment/office on the third floor of probably the only 5 story building in sight, dirt and caramel brown, in contrast with the crumbly red mud of the streets, with a special code lock to get in, and fast internet.
As a small puppy, I mostly just liked to run around wildly and bite on anything, just to play. And of course eat. I peed and pooed anywhere. I didn’t care. That day I was forced to have a bucket bath. Nicely, they heated some water on the stove, like they do for their own, because it’s chilly here during rainy season.
The case reeked because they had run out of water a long time ago. When the trainees arrived they didn’t really understand or believe the sign on the bathroom door that said “Plz do not poo when there is no water!!” I discovered that the left bathroom – the one where the light works if you release the switch very gently – was much more fragrant that the right. This night, the people tried calling me Duke Jason.
The next day was the worst day of my life. We woke up around 5 am to be at Alliance, the bush taxi agence, by 5:30. After getting crushed into that box, I was promptly released. The people had found the building’s front door locked, with no accessible key, and failed to escape. But from that moment on, the stress built. Dada Nomi and I missed our ride. Bam and MoonTiger disappeared. The people searched frantically, they kept shouting at me, “Dog, find cats!” but I don’t know what that meant.
They looked everywhere in that little apartment, for about two hours – with a break for breakfast at the bakery that smells amazing but always tastes bad. Then they looked again, in a place they had each looked once. Bam and MoonTiger were finally discovered tucked deep between the bottom of the mattress and black fabric lining the underside of the bedframe.
Dada Nomi and I got to the agence around 8am, and waited for the car to fill. It left around 2pm. During the time waiting, I got to eat scraps of bone and dead meat things off the ground. I met a woman named Sandrine who held me outside of the 50cfa squat latrines. I’m still not sure what they do exactly with the tie-die plastic teapots they take in with them. I saw a man with a small face growing out of his face. Sandrine had a baby with warts all over her feet tied on her back. She said it was because she made the baby wear socks in hot Douala.
Here at the agence, people tried calling me James. I slept for a while, and woke up just in time to be smushed into the front seat beside four men, on Dada Nomi’s lap, and prepared myself for the longest journey of my puppy life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)