Held Hostage and Interlude in Douala

With a lull in my schedule the day before I had plans to spend the weekend in Douala with members of my church, I made my way to Down Beach, the area of Limbe town that stretches along the shoreline. From a distance, I could see the clustered wooden fishing boats in the sand, set against a backdrop of greenery and wisps of swirling smoke coming from the long, squat houses behind. Immediately, my mind conjured so many canoes on the pebbled shores of Haida Gwaii, set within an ancient scene of longhouses and north coast wilderness. For just a moment, I felt a pang of longing for home. Not for the first time, I felt the kindred nature of the culture and traditions of Canada’s First Peoples with the indigenous populations here. When children and others ask me whether “you people” have dialects and traditional dances, food or clothing, the first thing that always comes to mind are the rich traditions of the Aboriginal nations I grew up beside. I know “my people”—the Norwegian, the Scottish, etc. have their own deeply rooted traditions, but it seems that many of us in North America of European ancestry are too far removed from it to be deeply connected to these traditions. Industrialization, modernity, consumption and celebrity—these are the factors that make up the bulk of our “culture” today; the same culture we are exporting wholesale to anyone who will have it.

From a distance, this sight reminded me of old images I'd seen of Haida Gwaii.

I had been looking forward to going to the beach and putting my feet in the ocean, but as I arrived I was greeted with a wafting putrid smell and the sight of plastic bottles and other garbage strewn everywhere. In a way, it seems almost symbolic—the legacy, the mess left behind by colonialism. It doesn’t negate the natural beauty of this place, striking and resilient. But it is sad to see the distracting detritus that mars the surface, and hints at more insidious environmental damage, otherwise invisible to the naked eye.

It's just a shame that the beach is a dumping ground.

Before I could head to Douala on Saturday I had to return to Buea to deliver the disposable cameras my participants had used to be developed. Given my fruitless Google searches (most businesses don’t have active websites and there are no yellow pages to speak of), my host had connected me with someone—a friend, he said—who had in turn agreed to connect me with someone who had the equipment necessary to develop the photos. Suhfai, as he calls himself, is an actor and singer who fancies himself pretty famous in Cameroon. Famous or not, I certainly wasn’t a fan after essentially being held hostage for more than 6 hours.

He delivered on his end of the bargain, taking me to a photography studio as soon as I arrived in Buea. There, I delivered the cameras, arranged the terms and, having completed my errand, was ready to leave within half an hour of arriving. But Suhfai had other plans. He wanted to go get something to eat. Fine, I thought. I could do with some food. While we were eating, he detailed his proposed agenda for the day, vaguely referencing this friend’s house, that other place. I protested, saying I really needed to get to Douala, but he ignored me. I could feel my blood boiling, angry at him for imposing his will on me, but also feeling a sense of obligation to him, born by his helping to connect me to the developer, not to mention his insistence that he bring the photos to me in Limbe rather than me coming back to pick them up myself, and not a little bit of fear, given as I hardly know him or how he might react if I straight up refused to bend to his will. I followed him with a chip on my shoulder as he took me to a friend’s house, where he made me watch one of his movies. A cheery tale of a young girl in a village who had her chest rolled with hot bamboo in an attempt to stop her developing too early, became a victim of female genital circumcision, was then sold by her father to a much older man in marriage to answer a debt, and then died in child birth. I managed to convince him not to put on a second movie, and then he took me across town to a bar, where a group of men sat in plastic chairs, speaking in pidgin and dialect… and continued to do so for three hours, while I repeatedly told Suhfai I would like to leave. Suhfai had taken up court at the head of the circle, clearly feeling his own importance, and my discomfort and fear was gradually replaced entirely by frustration. Seeing that I was not impressed, Suhfai began to tell me (warn me?) that he is “more than a Shaman” and that if someone offends him, he can send them bad, terrorizing dreams. Otherwise, he largely ignored me—talking to me only to insist that I choose a weekend to come back to Buea to spend with him (doing what, I have no idea). He specified that I must come on a Friday evening and keep my schedule clear until Sunday evening. It was like he wouldn’t let me leave until I had committed to coming back. Finally, he let me go with the promise that I would look at my schedule.

Go ahead, enlarge this picture. What do my eyes tell you about how I really feel in this moment?

When I got to the park, I was the first person on the van to Douala, so it meant having to wait until enough passengers came along to fill the vehicle, another delay. I knew that the terminus was in Bonaberri, in an area that people had repeatedly warned me was “rough”. All I could do was hope that I would arrive before dark and that my host and I wouldn’t have any trouble finding each other. After an uneventful but cramped ride, I found myself in Bonaberri, attracting a great deal of attention by virtue of my skin colour. One man worriedly told me that I should put my purse inside my backback, which of course was supremely reassuring. 

Funnily enough, after picking me up, my host—the local branch president—told me that when we had spoken on the phone, he thought that I was black. That’s a new one! It reminded me of my experience last winter in Ottawa, when the man I was walking behind turned and I was surprised to find that he was black. For no reason in particular… just, with it being winter, there was no exposed skin, so I didn’t have any cues beforehand. Talking with a friend here, she told me that unless otherwise expressly stated, she assumes that all characters in a book are black. It shocked me a little to realize that my default assumption is white, unless otherwise stated. It just goes to show that even if we’d like to think we’re not racist, we DO usually have ethnocentric frames of reference that “colour” the world we live in.

Mmm... street meat and fixings.

Back at the house, the electricity was out so we were in for a long, hot night without a fan, but the company was more than worth any discomfort. I immediately bonded with Victor and Edvige; Happy and generous, the parents of four are shining examples of Christ-like love. Victor took quickly to calling me his daughter, and I easily saw him—so like my own hardworking and devoted dad—as a father figure. I had a harder time thinking of Edvige as a mom, simply because she looks young enough to be my sister, but I connected implicitly with her radiant spirit. So far and so long removed from my own family, it was an unspeakable blessing to feel as though I was in the company of loved ones. For the first time since arriving, I felt truly at home in Cameroon.

Put shreddies in a blender with a little milk and a touch of brown sugar.
Drink it and you will have an idea what this tastes like.

I was asked to bear my testimony in church, and it was the first time I’d ever done it in French. This was more than a little intimidating, but it was a beautiful opportunity for me to reflect on what I know and hold to be true at my very core. When I left church, my spiritual tank was full to overflowing; gratefully, I had received the refueling I had so badly needed and I felt re-energized and reinvigorated to face my last couple of weeks in the field.

Traffic was pretty intense on the way back from Douala.