June 30, 2006

We’re back, rested and ready. Tanned is another matter. Freckled is more accurate.

To sum up, we had exactly an almost perfect trip to France. We celebrated Rebecca’s 30th birthday (June 22) in grand style. We took long walks in the startling Breton countryside and we slept in. I got to see a bit of Paris, which has made me want to see more, and we got a lot of shopping done: nerdy stuff like computer backpacks and a mouse. Bec and I celebrated our second anniversary. We stayed away from e-mail, mostly. We ate well and had wonderful company for most of the trip.

The flight to Paris is easy and relatively short, only about six hours. It’s also at the perfect time, around 11 p.m., so even someone like me who can’t sleep on planes is so exhausted that the magic happens. Airplane seats were clearly not designed for me. I’m too tall to keep my head on the lower part of the seatback without putting my knees over my head and I’m too short to put my head where it’s supposed to go on the head support of the upper part of the seat. So I’m stuck with my chin in my chest with my Adam’s apple jutting into my jaw. Thus, I cannot sleep on planes when it’s not proper sleeping time. But from midnight to 6 a.m., no problem.

We flew out of Douala, Cameroon’s economic capital and three hours away by bus. We watched “A Few Good Men” in French, and discovered that “You can’t handle the truth” and “You want me on that wall. You need me on that wall” really don’t work in French. It’s too much of a sissy-sounding language.

Air France security left a little to be desired, although it was a bank error in our favor. At the Swiss Air gate across the way, security agents went through every bag. At Air France, we got our metal table knife with the nice serrated edges through the metal detector. We needed it to cut the cheese (heh heh) we brought for a snack.

But Air France had personal video screens, which are the ultimate mark of a quality airline. I’ve still never been on an American airline that had them. They had movies that I wanted to see like “Match Point”, but really all I wanted to do was sleep.

We met up with Bec’s parents, Jude and Steve, at a hotel outside of. Once we got all the luggage out of the car in Pordic, where we were staying, it was incredibly comfortable. Even with all of the bags, it was pleasant. We just looked like the Joad family escaping the Dust Bowl. Steve pointed out that the Joads didn’t drive a zippy black Peugeot. I was assuaged.

Our first stop – and I promise not to go through all of them – was Monet’s house. We saw the water lilies – yes, those water lilies because we toured his garden.

I made a startling discovery at the Monet house. French people are funny. First of all, they speak French, which sounds girly coming out of a man’s mouth. Second, try saying “French people” without smiling. Start any sentence with “French people” and it has a better than average chance of being funny. French people drive cars. Funny. French people often have gastro-intestinal disorders. Again, funny. I can’t explain why, but I also can’t explain why French people like accordions, mimes and Jerry Lewis. See, that’s funny too.

I asked Jude if this was a problem. “Not if you don’t laugh at them every time they talk,” she said patiently, although I think I may have detected a hint of disappointment in her eyes. Was that with me, or with Rebecca?

After the house, it was off to Brittany, a brisk four-hour drive. Steve did all of it. He was the hero driver of the week.

The chateau was beautiful: pink exterior walls, old parquet floors and statues on the roof. The grounds themselves were spectacularly green with a path out to the coast. We took advantage of that several times. The rooms were decorated with ancient Egyptian and European medieval art. The house even came complete with two cats and a small horse – er, St. Bernard. But I swear I could’ve ridden Max. Two horses and a donkey lived across the road, and the donkey and I didn’t get along. Every time it saw me it howled. The first time that happened I was opening the gate at night, and I had no idea what was going on. I was looking around for a while, fearing that it was the world’s largest bat or rat. Nope, it was just an angry donkey.

Speaking of night, since Bec and I have spent the last year or so close to the Equator, night has set in between six and seven every night and it’s been consistently very warm to very hot. It was still light out at 11 p.m. in Brittany, and a little chilly. Bec liked the extra light. I enjoyed the slight bite in the air.

We spent the five days exploring quaint coastal towns and medieval cities, eating our way through each one. It was a lovely, relaxing time.

Bec and I went to Paris on Monday, and Rebecca gave me a pretty good walking tour for someone who hadn’t been there for 10 years. We watched the France-Spain World Cup match in a bar on the border of the French and Spanish fans. We got all the stuff we needed. I saw the goddamn Eiffel Tower, which was surprisingly hard to find, the Arc de Triomphe, the Tuilleries gardens and the outside of the Louvre and Notre Dame. Not bad for a day and a half.

We flew back to Douala on Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, the movies on the flight where I wanted to stay awake stunk. (One of them was “Firewall”. Where have you gone, Han Solo?) The flight was uneventful, although they held the plane to wait for late passengers. They did this when we flew to France as well. Why? If the ticket says 10:20 a.m., be there on time. Africa time means that people will be late for whatever appointment. It drives me absolutely bananas, but I figure that when I’m a visitor to a continent, I should be patient with local customs. I think that should stop at air travel.

Arriving in Paris and arriving in Douala are like landing on different planets. For that matter, landing in Kigali is like landing on a different planet than landing in Douala. First of all, the heat and humidity cover you, and then bash you over the head, as soon as you get off the air-conditioned plane. “My armpits (or, if you prefer, substitute what I really said) are sweating already,” I said to Rebecca after a few steps.

After the long line at passport control, where a short book is pored over like “War and Peace”, it’s off to the baggage claim area. I think I underestimated the Cameroonian capacity for violence until I tried to retrieve our two suitcases from the baggage claim conveyor belt. I don’t anymore.

Notice that I didn’t call it a carousel. It’s not. Instead, it is a single, short belt that culminates in a dead end. The belt can’t be more than five meters, or about 15 feet, long. A few baggage handlers throw unfortunate, unclaimed luggage off to the side, potentially breaking everything inside. Because of that, people cram each other up against the belt, and then attack each other to get at their stuff. I watched as priests and old ladies were shoved out of the way. Suitcases became weapons and elbows were out and pointy. At one point, I was pushed against the belt in such a way that my knees were bent in the wrong direction with my upper body going the other way. I was Gumby, dammit.

Rebecca was trying to get out of the area alive with one of our bags, but she was blocked in on all sides and being pushed back. In the midst of the madness – and you’ll start to see why so far we like it here – a middle-aged woman looked at Bec and sweetly said, “You must be very hot. But welcome to Cameroon.”

That seems like a good place to end this endless posting. This weekend, we go to the Canada Day celebration, where I will find out whether I should bring my rollerblades and hockey stick back to Yaoundé later this year. And then we’ve got the Fourth of July on Tuesday. Even better news, my temporary press pass is ready. Just have to get it on Monday morning. I’m in business, baby.

Happy birthday, Dad. Everyone wish him one, too. And happy Fourth of July.

June 20, 2006

Last week, I went to an anti-child labor and anti-child trafficking celebration at the American Embassy in Yaoundé.

While overall it was a fun event, and important, there are a few nagging thoughts that have stayed with me for about a week.

First of all, it was a fashion show of work done by kids rescued from child labor. Not only did the kids design the clothes, they made them. The workmanship and the designs were actually quite good, if a bit repetitive. Lots of bright West African patterns in traditional flared skirts and buboes – a sort of one-piece outfit – for the girls. The guys wore the male version of buboes, as well as Western-style shirts in the West African fabrics. Blues, oranges and yellows were the dominant colors.

I know that the event was meant to celebrate the potential of these kids, and they’re all going to school now. In fact, in many ways, I don’t find some forms of child labor so bad. For example, there’s a little restaurant Bec and I like to go to for omelets on weekends. A family runs it, and all the kids take part in making the business run. I think that’s positive and a far cry from the child labor activists campaign against.

But really, if you’re rallying against child labor and trafficking, is making them put together clothes the best way to make your point.

On a similar note, these were all children rescued from child traffickers and slave-labor conditions. They were also the models for most of the clothes on display. So it was a little jarring when the host of the event kept repeating, “Everything you see on this stage is for sale.”

Finally, can Mississippi please remove the Confederate flag from its state banner? It’s embarrassing, especially in this part of the world. The 50 state flags from the 50 states are up in every embassy. It’s an introduction. This is who we are. And then, in among the state crests and flags that feel the need to take the mystery out of what they represent – I’m looking at you Montana and Wisconsin – there are the Stars and Bars up in the corner of the Mississippi flag.

Think about it. Cameroon is one of the regions from where the slaves came. So when taking around dignitaries or visiting students, American diplomats have to show off the Confederate flag. All because Mississippi has to be difficult about it. I’m sure it makes life uncomfortable for the embassy staff every once in a while. “Oh yes, this symbol. Um, well, it’s from the time when we fought over slavery. No, the people who fought under that were for slavery. And yes, the Ku Klux Klan has taken it as one of their symbols. But you see, it’s a heritage thing.”

The embassy in Yaoundé has the state flags off the main corridor. You really have to go out of your way to find them. I wonder if that was on purpose? You don’t have to go out of your way to find the Rosa Parks posters.

This will be my last posting before our much-needed vacation. A week of French people, French food and probably shopping for Third World-made American products. Five nights in a chateau as well. Bec keeps walking around her office saying, “I’m the queen of the castle.” I guess that makes me the court jester. Talk to everyone at the end of the month.

June 13, 2006

Yesterday was the first that I’ve taken some hits since we’ve been here. First off, I made the horrifying discovery that the cash machines here (yup, they’ve got ‘em) only take Visa. Well, our bank only has MasterCard. So we’ll have to figure out a way to get our cash.

Then, there was a taxi strike. The drivers wanted help with rising fuel costs. Despite Cameroon being a major world oil producer, there are few if any refineries here, so the gasoline is actually imported. One of Africa’s biggest problems is that the continent, for the most part, does not transform it’s primary commodities – the cotton gets shipped out as cotton not shirts, the cocoa gets shipped out as cocoa not chocolate, the coffee isn’t ground here – and the transformation is what creates jobs and generates cash. The gasoline costs in Cameroon are a case in point. Maybe Bill Frist can send his $100 to ease the gas price crisis to every Cameroonian household rather than every American household. They’d certainly appreciate it (and yes, I do think direct aid like that is bad. But Bill Frist is a spectacularly silly man and deserves to be made fun of. He’s begging for it).

And then I tried to download Skype so that I can start calling you people cheap. But I couldn’t get the Internet connection to last long enough to download the bloody program. So now I’m trying again but I have no hope. I’m also not sure if I can plug the necessary headsets into my computer. So let’s hope. Does anybody who has a Mac have any thoughts on this? There’s a reward of a Cameroonian gorilla in it for anyone who has the correct answer. Don’t believe me that I can get you a gorilla? To paraphrase Walter from The Big Lebowski, you want a gorilla? I’ll get you a gorilla. With nail polish. I can have it for you by this afternoon. It’s Cameroon. All it takes is a dollar and a dream.

So, all of those three things occurred yesterday, and I’m still enjoying Yaoundé. For some reason, it’s easier to accept the sort of developing world challenges here than they were in Kigali. A lot of it is me. I’m more hopeful about the work I’m going to have here. I say going to because the assignments aren’t yet assigned. But I know at least one editor is “keen” to develop an idea here. He’s English. They say funny things like they’re keen on things.

Part of it is that I made my cash machine discovery because I needed to start paying for our plane tickets for our vacation. Originally we were supposed to be going to Croatia for Rebecca’s 30th birthday. But then the move and other things came in, so we couldn’t take that trip. So then we said Italy. But that didn’t really work out. So now, finally, it’s France, or as my mom said, “You’re going to the land of the frogs?” We’re going to meet Bec’s mom and dad in Paris and then drive to Brittany. The Stiches have booked us a room in a chateau near the sea for Bec’s birthday. We leave on June 20, which I guess is a week from today. Nope, I’m not guessing. It is. (Don’t worry, we’ll be able to pay for the tickets and we’re going.)

But I think a big part of why the challenges are challenges more than annoyances is that I’m giving myself a chance to enjoy Cameroon. I’ve noticed people smile here more. But I’m not blind to the nastiness that happens here. I’m starting up a big story on human trafficking now that I see as a really long magazine piece. Anyone know any editors who may be interested? If I get the assignment, then you, too, could be in for a gorilla, or even a giraffe. I’ll just have to fold it to fit into my big suitcase. You may have to iron it. But I’m not stared at. People aren’t constantly calling out, muzungu! Occasionally I get called le Blanc, but that’s what I am. And it’s not in the same league as Rwanda.

So, I’m still smiling. And since this is my blog, I can show you something else that’s keeping the smile on my face. Anyone remember what happened 12 years ago tomorrow? Time’s up.

This: http://www.csh.rit.edu/~kenny/rangers/media/images/cup1.jpg

And this: http://prosportsmemorabilia.com/Images/Product/33-31/33-31533-P.jpg

And this: http://sportsmed.starwave.com/media/nhl/2001/1010/photo/a_messier_i.jpg

And this: http://www.newsday.com/media/photo/2003-09/9603029.jpg

I love having the Internet at home.

June 6, 2006

We’ve moved from the “Land of a Thousand Hills” to the city of seven. Yaoundé is situated among seven hills that, much like the hills in Rwanda, are somewhere between the cul-de-sac that I grew up on and Mt. Everest. These are not hills. But they’re not mountains either. So we’ll just call them hills, because that’s what the people here say they are.*

In many ways, Yaoundé, a city of around 2 million, reminds me of Los Angeles. First, there are the green hills surrounding the city. The hills are spread out over a large geographical area. Every once in a while, I expect to look up and see the Hollywood sign.

Each hill has a different neighborhood, and each of those neighborhoods has a different feel and purpose. One is a government quarter, which is full of architecture that some call experimental, some call interesting and I, for the most part, call ugly. It’s all brown and in bizarre shapes with weird facings on the sides of the buildings. This link (http://crawfurd.dk/photos/cameroon.htm) will give you a good view of what I’m talking about.

My favorite building in the city is not yet finished. It probably will never be finished. It’s a standard tower-block skyscraper, probably about 20 or 30 stories tall. But through a combination of corruption and bad accounting, the firm building it ran out of money. So now there is a hulking shell sitting in the middle of the downtown area. There was no money for the wiring, so there are no lights and probably no plumbing. But that’s okay, because no one lives or works there. Its floors are built, but there are no windows and I’ve been told the walls aren’t there. At the top of the building there is uneven graffiti that I believe says, “Paul Biya Pour La Paix” (Paul Biya for peace). (See it here: http://www.pbase.com/richardmartin/cityshots. Look here http://site.voila.fr/cameroon-discovery/voyager/yaounde.html for more of central Yaoundé.)

Cameroon’s Big Paul took the presidency in a coup in 1986, and he is the ringleader of the corruption. His compound is huge, and the presidential mansion is visible from miles around. It’s good to be the president. The unfinished building, I think, may summarize the way the country is governed. Granted, I’ve only been here about a week, so I’m no expert (although tell me I’m not if I decide I am), but the building does seem rather poetic.

But not all of Yaoundé is like that. We live in a decidedly low-rise area called Bastos that is filled with NGOs, embassies and private homes. It’s very green and the main street up the hill is filled with shops, street food and little bars. It’s a pleasant place to walk, other than the occasional whiff of garbage and poop. I like to say that we live in the Santa Monica of Yaoundé, except for the lack of a pier.

Other neighborhoods are more working class and are usually organized around a major building or gathering spot, either a hospital or market or something. I say working class only because there’s not much of a better way to describe it. I’d say most people who live in those areas are either unemployed or work as street vendors or market workers, sort of the gray economy. I don’t remember the exact unemployment figures in Cameroon, but the five percent or so in the U.S. is nothing in comparison.

Another way that Yaoundé reminds me of Los Angeles is the lack of official public transport. There are no buses, not even the little mini-buses I used to take in Kigali. Instead, everyone takes taxis. There are thousands of little yellow cars that dart in and out of traffic throughout the city. When a person needs a ride, they just stand at the side of the road and the taxis pull up. A prospective passenger tells the driver where to go, and the driver can decide if he wants to take you or not (every driver I’ve seen so far has been a man). A passenger can also wave a driver past as well and wait for the next one.

Often there will be three or four other people in the taxi, and the driver just makes stops in order, like a bus. If a person is in a hurry, or just wants some alone time, he or she can wait for the next empty taxi and say “depot” after the destination to go non-stop. If someone wants to be a jerk, they can call “depot” on a full taxi. If the driver agrees, everyone else has to get out. See what I mean about being a jerk.

There’s a movie theater playing relatively recent American, British and French movies downtown, as well as smaller ones playing Cameroonian and African films around the city.

Shopping is easy. As a friend described it, you can sit out and get a beer at night, and the market will come to you. Bec bought a CD the other night (sorry Amanda, it’s a pirate) and I bought a cell phone charger last night – that actually works – from guys walking down the street. It’s almost like the African and Chinese street vendors in New York, except these guys are mobile and accepted by the authorities. There are also proper grocery stores, where yesterday we found one of the wildest things I’ve ever seen. It’s basically a ketchup packet with a double-shot of whiskey in it for 100 francs (about 20 cents).

And then there’s the Score, the French version of Wal-Mart (or Target, if we want to feel a bit better about ourselves). We went there on Sunday to get some towels, and were just floored by the amount of stuff that was available. It’s amazing how a little oil money can increase a city’s shopping opportunities. Once they figure out how to get that money to flow down to the people – ain’t that always the way – then we’ll have something here.

That’s all for now. Bec’s going on a nine-day trip up to Bamenda and the Northwest province tomorrow morning. So I’ll be on my own.

* Some of you who looked at this earlier might have noted this sentence at the beginning: So we’ll just call them hills, because that’s what the people here look like. I changed that because although people here are large, they are not mountainous, nor are they green and covered in vegetation. Sorry for the editing problem.