A Journey to Yaounde (2): A Tour of the City

Yaounde, Cameroon (from flickr)

Louis Egbe Mbua

The problem was to navigate through the windingly dangerous Douala-Yaoundé Highway as was observed by the manoeuvres of the driver. We arrived at Edea at about an hour’s time after leaving the Douala—and thank goodness without any incident. The African forest stood majestically in our view even just after Douala City was left behind. The share greenery that contoured the equatorial scenery was breath taking: hardwoods, shrubs and possibly other important medicinal plants could all be seen and observed as we turned and swerved.

What struck me most was the narrowness of the road. Why is this road so narrow? I tasked my conscience. At least the roads through Likomba are like Boulevards: broad to the equivalent of three cars. Is the present road up to international standards then? When we arrived at Edea, the driver stopped the vehicle for refreshments. As soon as the bus driver gently applied the brake, a great number of Cameroonians jumped into the bus. What are they looking for? I thought. It was only minutes before I realised their seeming predicament.

There were young people from the aged between 7 and 55 bringing all kinds of foods into the bus: Matumba! Matumba! They shouted. This was extremely surprising as we had just passed the Aluminium smelting plant, Allucam, located at Edea; and where enormous hydroelectric power is harnessed from the mighty Sanaga River. Why then is it that these inhabitants have no jobs, apparently, but sell food stuff along the roads. Are these profitable businesses as to provide a man with a decent living or do they subsidise this occupation with other professional undertakings? I continued to wonder along the journey.

This company, Allucam and the hydroelectric Dam, have been operational in Cameroon for as long as one could remember. What then are the knock on effects of the local population and the infrastructure in the enduring years? As far as I could see on the peripheries of the main road, there were no visible sign of infrastructure. The most significant sign of discernible land mark was the classical German Bridge that spanned the River Sanaga. On its side, appears to be another Bridge of little aesthetic merit --- probably built after independence of the Republic of Cameroon in 1960. Thus is this lack of human advancement and infrastructural presence may be due to lack of investment in genuine job-creation and by extension, in people. What was done about 30 years ago has never been altered. In any case the driver continued in his winding journey through the thick equatorial forests of Cameroon. Having fallen asleep I was awakened by another stop in Bimnyobel, an hour’s drive from Yaoundé with the same routine of food selling.

Arriving safely in Yaoundé was such a relief. The characteristic red earth was visible everywhere. But what struck me was that Yaoundé had hardly changed in three decades. One could recognise all the old buildings on the road side. We navigated until we reached the Park in heartland Yaoundé. Having taken a rest, I decided to take a tour round the City. Where is Score, Le Supermarche? I asked the taxi driver. Oh! It is no longer situated in its position. You can see that it has been replaced by a casino. We drove passed Intelcam, the Cameroon’s equivalence of British Telecommunication. The same building stood there; the only improvement was that a 7-8 storey building had been erected behind the old 4-5 storey building. Not much change then? I said. The taxi driver laughed; and said No. I asked no further questions. On the other hand, I observed the City was cleaner and much more organised than hitherto.

We went passed through Cite Verte, a modern estate of block of flats built by the Cameroon government about 35 years ago to house the population of Yaoundé at subsidised rents. This was a shocker as the very modern and well kept flats have deteriorated so much so that it was difficult to recognise these buildings. Who are these people staying here? Well, it appears most people living here are Nordiste, was the taxi man’s unflinching response. Why is that? Well, the government has a policy of some kind of ownership of the occupant having stayed in any of the flats for a certain amount of years, was the answer. Most that were offered the flats were from North Cameroon since it was means tested; and they qualified, he continued. That is a reasonable policy but I have a problem, I said. The people may own the flat but it is the government’s responsibility to maintain the entire estate block by block as the must still holds the ground leasehold as landlords. The taxi man merely shrugged.

It was time for lunch after the extensive tour. Where can one buy lunch here? There is a place near Ngoa-Kelle; near Carrefour Emia, I was informed. Good, I thought. This will provide me with an opportunity of seeing my old hide outs near the University of Yaoundé. We took another taxi and arrived at our destination after passing by Pharmacie de Carrefour still located in the same spot. What, exactly, is the name of this place, I demanded of my niece. It is called Weya: it is owned by an Anglophone from Bamenda. All civil servants in the Ministries come here to eat their lunch. It is very popular; and the food is very good, she replied. I acquiesced at this acute assessment of a connoisseur and fashionista graduate de La Universite de Yaoundé.

On entering the main path to the restaurant we met two immaculately dressed (Cameroonians like nice clothes; and uniforms) who were almost certainly student officers – who politely extended their Bonjours, and which we returned with genuine polity. When we got into the eatery, it was about 2.00 pm; and the entire joint was jam-packed with suited men and dressed women having their exquisite dishes of their choice. A waiter ushered us onto a convenient seat. Now: the moment of truth.

Having settled down in the well organised and neat seat layout, I asked the lone waitress: “Can we have the menu, please?” The waitress looked astonished. Her face changed from delightful to what may be described as scornful. I wondered whether I had breached a basic etiquette. As I was about to repeat myself, my niece whispered, “There are no menus here, for this is not London; just announce your choice of food and it will be delivered to you in precinct platter.” I really was not convinced by this proposed arrangement but I remembered that I was in Africa, so I changed my question: “What exactly do you have then”, I demanded the waitress. She never bothered to respond.

As one was famished, I looked around to observe what the taste of the diners where. My niece ordered her own lunch. I now realise that if I do not act swiftly, I will not have any food. So, having made a mental note on this epicurean experiment I decided to try again – but this time from the waiter: “Can I have eru?” Well, there is none left, was his reply. Fine: please, give me equacoco bible. The diners next to me all turned and looked at me with amusing amazement possibly feeling that I must have arrived but that same day -- they were right . My niece, not knowing what to make of this decided to intervene to help me out me with a verbal menu: Achu, rice and stew, kati kati, ripe plantain and roast fish, fried chicken. I ordered Achu and Chicken. Before long, we were politely joined by two other Cameroonians – one Francophone and an Anglophone. Having had a good conversation about life in Cameroon, shared a few bottles of Cameroon beer and excellent African lunch, we returned to our various sojourns where I contemplated my perilously frightening return journey through the Yaoundé-Douala Highway. Will I arrive intact? I murmured to myself.