Breaking Ground Football

I think I have transformed into an ear. I know more gossip about my friends, family, and total strangers in this town than I could ever have imagined. As an “outsider” people confide in me and trust me without a second thought. I will hear the story first in Fulfulde, then in French. With each language I learn something knew. I listen as well as I can and rarely give personal advice. My head spins with cultural and social differences, sometimes in shock and in other instances with amusement.

The soccer program is rapidly growing. News has spread around town that the program is legitimate. The season is to start in two weeks and I have already witnessed two teams with no less than 25 players (both Christian and Muslim!). Each practice I attend, more girls show up excited to play. I spent last Friday walking from home to home with one coach to meet the mother, father, or husband of his players. I learned that because I am an “outsider,” an innate trust exists; I can gain the confidence of family members to let their daughters play. When I explained who I am and the nature of the program, I rapidly gained their confidence and approval.


In each home I faced obstacles such as language barriers, cultural issues, and health and transportation questions. At the end of the long hot day, the biggest parental concern was that their daughters use soccer as an excuse to run around town. The players come home two hours after practice has ended, often after dark. I explained to the husband of one fifteen-year-old player that his wife’s responsibility is to return home immediately. I believe he as a legitimate complaint. The coach made it clear that practice is done at 5:30 giving her 30-minutes to walk home. As the girl begged her family to play, we explained to her that she has been given an opportunity and if she does not follow the rules, we will not come to her house and fight for her again. Her husband said she could play and the coach said that if there is a problem, he will pay for her moto ride (25 cents) home.

One problem that I am facing has to do with compensation for the coaches. I am thrilled that three out of six I have worked with thus far are extremely passionate and dedicated. This is great. Where’s the problem you ask? My coaches, as a rule, are volunteers. The problem I am facing is that they take the necessary time to go house to house, they sometimes pay for their players’ transportation fees, and they bring water to games. They are motivated for social change, but I do not think they should lose money and have to literally pay for that social change. Most of them are Physical Education teachers and do not have any money to spare. They have not asked me for money directly, but have explained that it is difficult because they feel a responsibility for their players and the future of the program.

Yesterday my team, AVENIR, scrimmaged against VINA. It took place on a Saturday afternoon at 4pm in the largest soccer facility in town. We had a referee, everyone had a green shirt to wear (they were turned in after the game) and the game started on time. There were no less than 150 people who watched the game and cheered. Groupies learned players’ names and circled around our huddle at half time. Fans shook my hand and told me I played well. Girls’ soccer? Hell yeah it exists. What caught me by surprise was how well the game was organized. Now I know for a fact that the coaches are working hard to prove that we should develop this program.


I was told that starting a program that promotes girls soccer would be extremely difficult, but I had nothing to do with organizing the first scrimmage. The infrastructure and players exist without me. What’s lacking is organization and finance. At the next coaches’ meeting, rosters will be submitted. I am planning to have the coaches write down where they see Breaking Ground Football headed in the next 5 years. What are their short-term and long-term goals? I fault myself as underestimating the level of play and dedication that is already established.

Just to inform you, my team won Saturday 2-0. Not one player wore shin guards and some girls wore “jelly shoes” as they do not own tennis shoes. Their foot skills and passing skills constantly impress me. The team spirit is unparalleled. I actually feel awkward because I’ve never been on a team where everyone dives on each other when a goal is scored. We dominated the entire game, which included a rainstorm. I am trying to limit my playing, as I fear that other coaches will complain that my involvement could lead to corruption. So far, everyone sees it as leading by example for which I am grateful. I played stopper the entire game and am learning how to yell rather quickly in French. I have also learned that if I do not lay my legs flat during half time, you get yelled at and that because I am not use to the terrain (imagine hard dirt covered with sand as your “field”) I have to play two touches. If I try to take on a player the ball always rolls more quickly than I anticipate and I lose control. I am greatly looking forward to the next coaches meeting. I am insanely proud of the girls I have played with thus far.


Organizing the business course is taking longer that I hoped. Women do not yet understand the concept of what I am trying to teach and are uncomfortable with that fact. Imagine that you have never gone to school and someone is saying, come learn how to start a business or improve the one you have already. Learn to write down your expenses and advertise. It will happen, but I need to keep putting my ear to work and listen to the women’s concerns.

La Fête de Ramadan

As a student here in 2004, I rarely told Cameroonians if something upset me. I felt extremely conscious about accepting their culture and respecting it for what it is. Now that I am back for work, my cultural sensitivity can be better defined as cultural realism. For example, the other day I sat outside separating leaves to make a sauce when two cow legs (from the knee down) were dropped off. Quite obviously they were freshly cut. That night the skin was roasted off and the bones were chopped with an axe, then put in water and boiled with tomatoes and onions. This meal is expensive as one cow leg/hoof is $5. You eat it with bread and pull out the meat from the bone. I think it is great that they use all parts of the cow. In 2004 I would have eaten this for dinner and said thank you. This time around, before it was prepared, I made the announcement that cow hoof really isn’t my thing. Just as they are hesitant to eat macaroni and cheese, I am uncomfortable with cow hoof. I don’t feel by any means that I am being rude or degrading their culture, I am just defining my role and what I am comfortable with. Living here is different than traveling and if I’m not direct and honest the first time I am uncomfortable with something, I better be prepared to see it again.


Ramadan ended Friday the 12th. I didn’t realize that it ends when the Lamido decides it is over. The Lamido is the Fulani ruler. The Fulani people select him, but usually the position is passed down through family. He is wealthy, has many wives, and can be a liaison between the people and the government. This year the Lamido decided that Ramadan ended on Friday, when everyone had expected it to end Saturday. School kids cheered as last week was an exam week and school was cancelled (their version of a snow day) and Mariamou panicked, as she still had not made her clothes or prepared all her food for the party. I found myself cutting carrots and stringing green beans at midnight.




Friday morning came and suddenly the town was beautiful. Cameroonians, regardless of which ethnic group, are beautiful people. Everyone in town wore knew clothes and jewelry; joy was all around. That night I was late coming home and I noticed a strange feeling in the house. I wasn’t sure if I had done something wrong, so I ate my dinner and went to my room. A couple minutes later I heard screams and my door flew open. We were going to the cinema. We joined well over 350 people in a huge auditorium supposedly built by a French person years ago. Since Mariamou dressed me, I was in a green outfit with huge shoulder puffs and a head tie. This was Mariamou’s second time to go to the movies (last time she was 15) and she was beyond excited. She repeatedly told me how lucky she is to have such a nice husband, and I agreed.


After searching for seats and fighting the crowd, we decided to head to the balcony. The show started with a famous Fulani singer, followed by a comedian, and then again the singer with backup dancers. This was a cultural experience to say the least. Everything was in Fulfulde including the movie, which included the word Action in English before each scene. The words were muffled, but the script was not difficult to follow. The wife was cheating on her husband. He hit her and cried. She ran away and was alone for the rest of her life. I was not surprised in the least that the plot consisted of a woman that did something wrong. This seems to be a common theme in Fulani movies. The program ended after midnight and I was exhausted.



Saturday consisted of visitors and more parties. I went to the festival at the Lamido’s house where I was warmly welcomed because I had a camera. Imagine hundreds of people watching a parade. I was constantly pushed into the center, where horses were galloping at full speed, to take pictures. When the horses came too close, someone would grab me and pull me back, and once the horses passed I was pushed back into the center and everyone would yell, Film Film Film! It was an awesome ceremony. Men wore traditional costumes and played traditional horns and drums. The Lamido rode a white horse and carried an umbrella; he was fanned with palm leaves to stay cool in the heat. The women in his family wore matching clothes and yelled together (like Americans do as children playing cowboys and Indians). I was told that there is a party in December where everyone kills goats. My house alone kills and eats two goats.





Sunday, the family dressed up and visited friends, giving them small cakes. I biked to Crater Lake. A 40-minute bike ride along dirt roads, made a great day trip for a picnic. When Marimou returned home, Ishmaila told us we were going to a restaurant (the 3rd time in Mariamou’s life)! Mariamou and I arrived first and waited for the others. The waitress handed us menus and I began to read. In less expensive restaurants the menu is told to you as typically restaurants have about 4 meals which change daily. Mariamou giggled and asked, what will you eat? I said, give me a minute to read the menu, how do you already know what you’ll have? She looked at me and giggled even louder and said well there’s a picture of a chicken, eggs, and a drink. The chicken looks the best to me. I forgot that she does not read. We laughed really hard as I proceeded to read her the menu. We both chose chicken and fries.

Mailing address, soccer, and life in N'gaoundéré.

Since 2004, N’Gaoundéré has grown immensely. There are now 3-story buildings, and the urban sprawl is shocking. A couple days ago I was walking down a main street (no one knows the name of the street) when I saw a white-man store. This is what expats call a store that has mostly set prices, chocolate, sometimes refrigerated goods and cookware. I browsed the store to see what it has to offer. Last week I searched everywhere in the market for cotton balls and could not find any. I finally saw something that looked like big cotton squares and thought, well that will work. What I realized in the white-man store is that I have been ripping up Cameroonian maxi-pads and using them as cotton balls for my face. It’s really the same product and not that strange, but I couldn’t help but freeze in the store and burst into laughter.

Last time I wrote about Mariamou and her sewing machine. At that moment I did not realize that she actually has a sewing business. Because this weekend is the fete de Ramadan, everyone (including me) is having clothes made. She has made no less that 15 outfits for this party. Women drop off fabric for her as if her days last much longer than 24 hours. She has given up on sleeping. She wakes at 3am to prepare a meal for at least 11 people to be eaten at 4am before the sunrise. She goes back to sleep at 4:30 to wake up at 6 to get the children ready for school. When they leave (around 7) she begins to sew. She sews and cuts fabric until 1pm when school ends and she prepares lunch for the kids. She continues to sew until 4 or 5 when she starts to prepare dinner (she’ll have prepared sauces that simmer all day). We eat dinner when the sunsets around 6:15. Then we hang out until 8, when typically she’ll say I shouldn’t work tonight, but will pull out her machine and work until midnight. She has 4 outfits left to make before Friday and the homestretch is looking good.

What surprised me is the cost of labor and supplies verses monetary profit. She makes quality clothes with buttons, choice thread and backing. She purchases the extra products herself. Prices vary according to the complication of the outfit; however, a typical charge is 2,000 FCFA ($4). When she is finished, after the supplies costs, she makes about 700 FCFA profit ($1.40).

What I have come to realize is that saving money in Cameroon is extremely difficult. Imagine if everyone in the US either had a minimum wage job, or no job at all, and the price of goods remained what it is today. Trying to save money would be extremely difficult. With your earnings you support yourself and your immediate family, as well as your extended family. By the time you have fed, clothed, and housed everyone, you may have extra money for health and school fees. What’s difficult about Cameroon is that goods are not cheap in accordance to how people are paid. For example, let’s say Mariamou makes $1.50 from each dress she makes. If she makes 10 dresses a week, she’ll make $15. Below I have written out expenses for one day at the market to feed her family and extended family that eat here daily.

1-kilo meat- 1500 FCFA ($3)
Oil- 500 FCFA ($1)
Maggi spice cubes – 100 FCFA ($0.20)
Onion- 100 FCFA ($0.20)
6 Tomatoes- 200 FCFA ($0.40)
Garlic- 100 FCFA ($0.20)
Beans/legumes- 300 FCFA ($0.60)
5 kilos Cous Cous/manioc mix- 600 FCFA ($1.20)
Plantains- 1000 FCFA ($2) (not at every meal, x2 a week)
Bread- 500 FCFA ($1)
2 packages of Spaghetti- 500 FCFA ($2)
(I have left out sugar, tea, and chocolate which are luxury goods we have a couple days a week)

Total- 5400 FCFA ($10.80)

Keep in mind that is one full day of food for 10-15 people and includes meat and plantains. On Mariamou’s salary alone, it would be impossible for a family of this size to survive. She would most likely only pay for her children. What I want you to understand is the discrepancy between the money made and the cost of goods here. Internet is $1 an hour, 1 liter of petrol is $1.30, and rent for a secure two-bedroom home with a living room, pseudo kitchen, and bathroom is $60 a month (that does not include the water or electric bill). Finding and keeping a decent paying job is rare. Having a government job often comes with a secured salary because of corruption, whether you are qualified or not. (This does not include educational jobs, as teachers are often not paid.)

The idea of taking the next step and starting a bank account or taking out a loan is scary for a woman like Mariamou. Would you trust someone with your money if you couldn’t read? Furthermore, the written language isn’t your native patois? What if she doesn’t have any business next week? Or if one of her kids is sick and needs medical attention? That’s just an example of the cycle of poverty in Cameroon.

Fortunately for the extended family, Mariamou and Ishmaila both earn income. Last week, however, when the motor to Mariamou’s sewing machine broke at 8pm and she asked me for a $10 loan because they didn’t have it that night, I was happy to have a role in the family income structure. I don’t pay room and board because I’m considered family, but I can help with sewing emergencies. After a night mission to find an open boutique, I told her the motor was a gift, not a loan, and the adventure alone was worth the motor’s price to me.

On a different note, I have a Post Office Box! If you want to send something to me, please send it to:

Sarah Oxford
BP 657 N’Gaoundéré
Cameroon, Africa

(Please note that mail delivery is unreliable. Your letter or package may take several weeks, a month, several months or longer to arrive, and it may not arrive at all. Please take this into consideration when sending anything of value.)

Obtaining this P.O. box took four hours, visits to three different government buildings, and five trips between the three buildings, but I successfully have a box for as long as I want it (as long as I pay $20 a year). I filled out many forms and on each crossed out the M. for Monsieur and wrote in Mademoiselle.

When I do professional business oriented activities I can’t help but imagine that I’m a female revolutionary paving the way. That’s at least what I try to imagine when I want to scream at someone, but know the yelling won’t aide my situation.

I have started the process of creating a girls’ soccer club. I arranged a meeting with the delegate of sports hoping to discuss the best way to forge the way. I arrived at his office at 8:30 yesterday morning and waited for 30 minutes. He arrived at 9 and led me into his huge office with couches and a table. I had underestimated the level of his position (I forget when your American your often automatically directed to the most important person) and his interest in my program. Within ten minutes of the meeting starting, I was sitting with 10 men. The delegate of youth, head of basketball and team sports, head of Pedagogical studies, head of Physical Education, and the list goes on. I explained that I work for an NGO and have a background in soccer. I am here to teach business practices to women with the goal of raising their standard of living. I told them that I believe sports are an integral part of leadership and teamwork practices, plus they are fun. I want a girls soccer program. I said it …pause… pause… They were thrilled.

For over three hours we discussed how to organize the program. Today I am to write out the rules of the program. What amuses me is that I sat with 10 men all paid by the government and they all stated over and over again, we will not call it a league because then the government will ask for money. What I stated was that I am not paying anyone, but for the test program (over the next two months) I will divide the soccer balls I brought and if the program is successful I will return in January with uniforms. There is a radio announcement being made for a coaches meeting for next Monday at 10am. I am observing a team practice at 3:30pm that afternoon. We know there are 8 groups that meet and play with each other (10-20) girls. I am hoping to have 4-6 coaches dedicated to the trial program. Their teams practice once a week, and then I organize the Saturday matches between the teams. I’m the official organizer and the coaches are volunteers. We decided that the girls who play will be between 12-18. At first I wanted to do Saturday clinics with younger girls, but I realized that younger girls are not afraid to play. They play at school. The older girls have nowhere to play. Plus, if the younger girls see the older girls playing it will make them excited to play when they get older. I am hopeful and determined to make this work. Over and over again, the men said, this is hard in N’Gaoundéré. I asked—If we don’t try, what would happen?

Looking through my finances the other day I realized I had not drank a beer in 18 days. Honestly, in this world, I don’t think that’s healthy☺. Today, maybe after I tone my face using a maxi-pad I will go back into the world of men and drink a beer.

Home.

You know that feeling when you have a new boyfriend/girlfriend and you walk into their room and your picture is displayed on the wall or corkboard visibly for all to see? Suddenly you realize that the relationship is going somewhere. They want to be reminded of you when you are not around. You are done wondering how they feel about you. Usually this makes you really happy and boosts your confidence.

I did not tell Mariamou that I was in town, just that I was “coming.” With Cameroonian transportation, this could mean today or in two weeks. I decided I would surprise her. I knocked on the door and walked into the entryway of the house. I heard the 2 year old, Souriya, yell, “mama, there is a white person here.” Arms flew and I was tackled. Tears ran and screams of happiness echoed. For the next two hours I was reintroduced to the quartier as her best friend. I had forgotten how many people I actually knew and loved. Ishmaila, her husband, has 29 siblings (His father has 4 wives). Family members in town came to visit one after the other with their children and friends. Kids that I once played with have transformed into teenagers, babies into children. Over the past 3 years things have changed, but I have not been forgotten.


I walked into the living room to see six pictures framed on the wall. My picture is the largest one in the center. My confidence automatically boosted and I realized that they missed me as much as I missed them. The relationship is mutual and I am done wondering.

For the next three days I stuck by Mariamou’s side. She rarely leaves the house. In this culture, when you are married you clean, cook, and take care of the children. You only leave the house when your husband gives you permission (small trips around the quartier are OK). The strange thing is that I can sit and stare at the wall and things actually happen. Gossip flies, people visit, clothes are made, and I learn. It’s rarely boring, as you would expect.

My second day here Mariamou asked me if I wanted to go to a meeting with her. I agreed and walked into a living room where about 20 women sat. Only two spoke French and they all stared at me. Over the next hour I learned that these women have formed a tantine. Every Saturday morning 24 women meet and give one dollar (500 FCFA). One member leaves with $25 that she can use however she pleases. The order for taking the money rotates. They also give roughly 40 cents (200CFA) to be put into a bank account that will not be accessed for one year. If someone is sick, they give another dollar for hospital expenses. I was thrilled to say the least. Not only are they starting businesses and money saving practices, but also they invited me to be a part of it and are interested in my ideas! I am officially the 25th and final member of the Circle of Muslim Women- Quartier Tongo-Pastoral Tantine (They do not care that I’m not Muslim and are really proud to have a white member).

Over the past three years I have sent Mariamou a small amount of money for Christmas. I told her it was none of my business what she did with the money, but of course I was extremely curious. Time and time again she impresses me. It amazes me how different we are and yet how well we get along. She is 25, I am 24. She has 3 children and has been married since she was 15. I am in and out of relationships all the time. She prepares every meal for 15 people. I barely cook for myself. She cannot read nor write. I read a book a week for pleasure and am always studying something on the side. Neither one of us really speak French well. Her first language is Fulfulde, mine English. She does not play sports. I spend a lot of my free time doing athletic activities. Yet somehow when we are together we have some of the most engaging and interesting conversations that I have ever had. Our cultural exchange and mutual respect to learn from each other is inexplicable. She’s brilliant. She can watch someone cook a complex dish of food and go home and make the dish. She will improve its taste without ever writing anything down. She’ll make it for at least 15 people. What I learned is that with the money I sent she bought a sewing machine. She loves couture and clothing. She told me that she wanted to learn to sew long ago, but I put it off as a pipe dream. Now she has an electric Singer. A young, unmarried seamstress comes into her home a couple days a week to make clothes. The seamstress sells the clothes she makes and teaches Mariamou how to sew. Mariamou doesn’t just sew simple things; she makes complex shirts and dresses. She now makes all of her children’s clothes and probably will make mine, too.


Her husband Ishmaila is a winner as well. Literally. He seams to win everything. He is a great bike rider and when he was younger he entered a bike race and won $50. One of the richest men in Cameroon said he liked how hard working he is and doubled his winnings. With $100 he moved from his village to N’Gaoundéré where he opened a small shop selling powdered milk, sugar, flour, and other items for cooking. Over time his boutique has grown and he has made enough money to support his family and Mariamou. He now has purchased his home, two televisions, a Toyota, and can pay for medical expenses. A couple weeks ago he entered a question and answer contest with Nido (the company that makes powdered milk). He won a refrigerator! Mariamou now has a refrigerator that sits in the living room next to the TV. She buys powdered juice mix, mixes it with water and sells it both as juice and popsicles to children in the quartier. Sometimes she’ll make up to 5 dollars a day! Her goal is to save enough with the juice business to buy another sewing machine and run a tailor shop. She told me that if her husband were to die, she would be left with little money. She wants to buy a small room and lease it out. If something happens she will have a place to live (the current house goes to her children). She also said that they have an agreement that they will have a monogamous relationship, but if he does change his mind (polygamy is accepted here, and often encouraged for wealthy men and chiefs) she will leave and live in her room. Again, she is brilliant.

My life outside my home is developing as well. Taguem and I are researching the classes I will teach at the Research Center. I will have two business classes, one for illiterate women and one for literate women. In addition, I will teach two English classes, one for beginners and one for advanced learners. There will be a 25-person cap on all classes. I have purchased a printer (to print out homework- over time this will save money) and two chalk boards. One is for classes at the Research Center and the other for classes in my Quartier. Things are progressing, but nothing will start until after Ramadan. I am going through the process of opening a bank account and a post office box.


I am starting to work out at 5 o’clock every evening. Abdu, one of Mariamou’s children, is now 8 and his cousin, Bopo, is 12. They come with me to the track to run and pass the soccer ball. I love that they come with me. Walking around a Muslim town in shorts and a t-shirt can be tough, but with the two boys I am protected from slurs and men hitting on me. They are being labeled my two husbands. I could not be happier that they run with me. When we come home we do pushups and sit-ups together. Then we shower and eat dinner, followed by homework time then some TV (usually the O.C.. or Super Man).

As you can read, my life is good. If anything gets me down, all I have to do is walk home to know that I am loved. Although I do not have a boyfriend right now, I have a Cameroonian family, and for now, that is what I need.

The road north

Dr. Taguem Fah is a professor and just returned to Cameroon after spending a year at Northwestern University in Chicago as a Fulbright scholar. He established the N’Gaoundéré Research Center. I will teach classes at his center; Associate Director Brendan Schwartz (our next GC in N’Gaoundéré) will work there daily.

Together, Taguem and I drove north from Yaoundé via the East Province (click for a map). We left Yaoundé early last Wednesday morning to hit the dirt road into the east. The east is financially poor, but mineral-rich. The green is outstanding and the waterways are beautiful. We drove for nearly two hours without seeing one person. The next couple hours we sporadically viewed cattle in small herds led by one or two men with sticks. The road divided villages where people sat outside their homes and waved as we passed.


Homes in the East are constructed with sticks in a grid-like fashion with red clay-dirt solidifying the walls. Occasionally there is a white mortar finish. The houses are square (that surprised me) with palm thatched roofs and dirt floors. Some have doors. Every third village or town has a decent looking school. Many schools looked devastatingly horrible.

We crossed bridges and rivers where kids and moms alike bathed and washed their clothes. This is their water source. I saw a viper hanging dead on the side of the road next to a bunch of plantains. And wondered, what else is out there?

People walk everywhere. The elderly made it look more painful than I hope to ever imagine. People stared at me and, frankly, I stared back. All men had machetes. Both women and men had baskets woven from palm leaves that they wore like backpacks and stuffed with fruit, cloth, etc. Countless numbers of people carried water in buckets on their heads. Large and small tree branches were bundled and toted on heads as well. I can’t imagine the distance they are carried.

As we passed, I reflected on the culture of the East. I’ve been told that village Chiefs are not given power like in other regions. Instead, heads of families make all decisions. This makes community action difficult because each household works independently as opposed to being united by a chief-run community. Within their communities, there exists no infrastructure with which to work together. I began to list all the ways that I was trained as a leader, even in grade school: I led the class in clean up when I was 3, led the line at 5, chose teammates at 8, held school student government positions at 13, was a PEER mentor at 16, became a sports team captain at 17, mentored a child in college, and again sports. The list is endless. My parents, teachers, coaches, and friends have all been training me in leadership skills since I can remember. No one in the East, even if they have the innate skills, is given the chance to develop them as I was. What an amazing idea to have a leadership program. How can a society progress without those people who have the skills to work together, listen, debate, motivate, speak publicly, comprehend problems and seek the answer in a fair fashion. They understand how their community works, they have to initiate and lead development, but who can do it? Who can unite the masses? What a predicament.

The dirt piled along the side of the road coated my face like it does during the dry season. Each hour, three or more trucks passed carrying gravel for the road. Taguem told me the road is known as one of the worst roads in Cameroon, but that soon with the reconstruction it will be one of the best. Cement gutters were being put into place (this seems to be happening all over Cameroon). We slept in Bertoua at a Catholic mission, which is a huge training center for priests and nuns.


We awoke and continued to drive along the red dirt road, surrounded by green, with no secondary roads branching off. Taguem and I discussed the politics and social chasms of Cameroon; we shared ideas and time and time again frustrated each other with questions that we cannot answer. We came upon an accident. I could not figure out what had happened but a truck carrying furniture had lost most of its cargo. A 4-wheel drive car was turned around and another 18-wheeler carrying beer had lost half of its cargo. The area reeked of beer and the men cheered as we drove through. I believe they were all drunk. The road becomes worse here, with more potholes and bumps. We stopped and asked the police along the road if there were bandits ahead. They told us no problems had been reported and we should continue.

Two weeks ago, there was an uprising (very rare in Cameroon). The town had not received electrical power for four months, causing students to protest. Tear gas was used; two students were shot and killed. The power is now back on. Stories like this one are depressing because Cameroon is known for its peace-loving citizens. But everyone has a line. The second day we made it to Meiganga, a small Muslim town in the Adamaoua province.

The third day the road became horrible with potholes feet deep. Then, it began to rain. We feared the muddy roads becoming impassible. We came to a stopping point where suddenly there were lines of 18-wheeler trucks. Over thirty trucks easily blocked the road. Taguem took his Mercedes off road (no 4-wheel drive) and parked to investigate the situation. He reported that there was no road. I didn’t understand: how does a major road just end? People were all around. I got out of the car (trying to be inconspicuous and not cause a scene as “la blanche”). Literally, there was no road. It transformed into muddy wholes and ledges. A military car came with gun-carrying police. They tried to tow the trucks out of the mud and brought wooden planks to put down. It didn’t work. The chain snapped off every time. Three young men offered to help us. Taguem slowly drove through the mud. When we got stuck, the men pushed from all directions. Mud flew and people watched. Somehow, we got through and continued on our journey. We arrived in N’Gaoundéré that afternoon.