A Visit to Southern Cameroons

River Mungo: International Boundary between the two Cameroons (http://www.postnewsline.com/)

Louis Egbe Mbua

It is unclear how a people so subjected to the vestiges of totalitarian colonial relics manage to rise up to the challenge so as to compete in a world of discrimination and authoritarian socio-political dogma. The matter is sometimes so worrying that many throw their hats into the fighting ring; throw their hands in the air and surrender. Others so oppressed, make a decision to join the oppressor; not out of malice but out of desperation.

There seems to be a kind of schadenfreude psychological factor to this effect. This, the writer does not believe, is down to the Stockholm syndrome, whereby the captured unwittingly falls in love with the kidnapper. More to it, one believes, is a search for the meaning of all the oppression and why it occurs in the first place; and an identity finder on a second count. Perhaps, one may suppose, that the victims are in want of recognition as an equal to the coloniser; so decide to join the colonist to further oppress their own people in search of equality -- if not superiority in relation to the colonised. In due course, one can infer, the pretender and the oppressor reach an uneasy agreement, fuse their incompatible and dissonant aims, objectives and wants; and then subject the entire population to poverty, want, disease, hunger and destitution to realise these wants.

On the other hand, there are a few good men on both sides of the Treaty of Doom, a pact with the adversary of the people, who have taken upon themselves to do what is right and just so that advancement of all the people is realised. This brings us to the question: can a few good men deliver the people from bondage or does it have to include the entire oppressed to provide the final hammer blow to unbar the wheels of the vehicle to certain oblivion? This is the Cameroon Anglophone story in particular and the Cameroon problem in general from a practical and realistic eye witness account.

I had just spent three to four days in Douala, Cameroon’s economic capital. What was observed was not very encouraging although there are huge potential for the City. Now, I have to go to the other side of Cameroon – Anglophone Cameroon or Southern Cameroons the other part of the former UN Trust Territories that constitute contemporary Cameroon. Jumped into the car and off we went. Having traversed the maelstrom of cars, chaotic maze of motorcycles complete with pedestrian traders trying to earn a living: selling everything imaginable, crossed the one mile long Bonaberi bridge that spans the Wouri estuary, we arrived at the road leading to Anglophone Cameroon. This is the only road that leads to the South-West Province in Cameroon, my brother remarked. It is so narrow and in disrepair, he added. Why is that, I asked. Well, it seems it is political, he answered. How is that? I questioned. I never received an answer so I was forced to think on my feet. The most likely reason is, I thought, the Cameroon government, dominated by Francophone elite, do not consider that part of Cameroon as worthy of development as long as they can wrestle resources from the area at the minimum cost. On the other hand, evidence in Douala suggests that they hardly employ these vast resources to develop their own area. So, one must conclude that the country is run by an incompetent junta?

On this small patch of road could be seen huge vehicles travelling from both directions transporting all kinds of goods and commodities from Anglophone Cameroon to Francophone Cameroon and vice versa. There were oil tankers, Lorries transporting agricultural products, machines and passenger vehicles together with private cars. Every single vehicle: competing for space on this narrow and dilapidated stretch of road in Bonaberi. On both sides of the road are dilapidated buildings and depravation of all kinds with poverty steering us in the face. Who are these people living here? Well, most people who live here are Anglophones was the answer. Since this is close to Anglophone Cameroon, they have settled here. Further down, are industries and factories – some, such as Canada Company of Cameroon -- that processes hardwood for foreign export one must suppose -- are foreign-owned. This stretch of road continues until we arrive at the Bekoko junction; where the road splits to Bafoussam in La Republique du Cameroun and to Tiko, the first major town in Anglophone Cameroon. We are now on the Tiko-Douala road and to give credit where it is due, the road is excellently maintained. We now approach the Mungo Bridge, that spans the Mungo River for about 100 m; and which is the internationally recognised boundary between the two Cameroons. Now, this bridge had collapsed about three years ago (some claim it was bombed by an angry Anglophone Cameroonian who detested the vast exploitation and subjugation of Southern Cameroons) thus causing economic chaos in Cameroon. The old bridge was a design and an architectural classic with tall bars on both sides and a network of steel that connected the steel sides forming an architectural roof: symbolising the Cameroon Federation that began in 1961; and which is now illegally dissolved by short-sighted politicians. To show more contempt for the original Federation, the new Bridge that has been put up has no architectural merit. A trainee architect or civil engineer might have come up with a better and much more aesthetic and symbolic design. Again, to place credit in its right doors, the Bridge has been reconstructed.

We crossed the bridge, met a toll gate where a CFA 500 frs levy is charged for all vehicles going to Tiko. What happens to this fund, nobody can tell as even the small office that serves to administer this charge is extremely wretched. Can’t the Tiko Council or whoever is in charge, improve this office to make it more presentable? What about installing a computerised electronic system of ticketing? So, there we go, money paid and nothing done. At least the office is manned and all drivers act as good citizens, paying up their levy. A few miles down the line in Anglophone Cameroon are Police men in patrol, stopping all vehicles. I didn’t see this in the Francophone part of the road before the Mungo Bridge. So why are these Policemen here? To make sure that people do not bring in dangerous goods to Anglophone Cameroon from Douala was the answer. What about people living Anglophone Cameroon to Douala at the other end? Again, no answer was forth coming. Anyway we went through the motion of checking the books. Everybody was asked to produce their National Identity card. I do not have one, I said. I do not live in Cameroon. Where then do you live? The Officier de Police demanded looking at me with obvious suspicion. Well, I live in London. Okay, where is your passport? Again, I put it that, it was in my suitcase at the back of the car while behaving as nothing was happening. Now, said the Police Officer, are you saying you have no document to identify yourself? I have my bank cards, if you would want to take a look. The Policeman was surprised. What are bank cards? We do not use these things here. Please, produce an ID. You must identify yourself, his voice turning into a mild growl. I had my dark glasses (short-sighted) on. So, the Officier watched me carefully and closely with utmost suspicion. Perhaps, he thought I was a terrorist from Bakassi who had arrived to bomb parts of the Cameroon infrastructure – a few months back Commandos had arrived Victoria on flying boats from Nigeria, took over the City and stole half a million dollars in a daring raid and then vanished into the Atlantic.

On the other hand, I came through Douala; and only the most daring terrorist will attempt to enter Southern Cameroons from Francophone Douala. So, to create a bit of confusion, I decided to take off my glasses and demanded the Officier to produce his own ID. Please, produce your own ID. My junior brother who was at the driving seat was shocked. They looked at themselves, and then at looked at me in consternation. I pretended not to notice. Attend, je me reviens, the Officier uttered. Monsieur Le Commissaire lui-meme was brought to the spot. I could see his four gold stars on his epaulet indicating his high rank. Monsieur, Les pieces, s'il vous plait! He said. As I did not desire a scene, I produced my old British driving licence. He took it, inspected it and gave it back to me without uttering a word; and then waved his hand indicating that we may go. I took my old Licence, put it back in my wallet and we resumed our journey to Tiko. The CDC plantations of rubber, bananas and palms are still there in their hectares upon hectares, rows upon rows. Although one could detect a sense of small neglect, the plantations appeared well-kept; and hopefully there would be a trickle-down of benefits to the ordinary man and worker, so I supposed. We drove past a few new houses and I heard a person saying while pointing to an edifice of a building “That is 3813”; and immediately arrived the Likomba round-about where we stopped for some refreshment. At least one was a little bit encouraged that certain aspects of Cameroon were kept in order and maintained. Why this is the case; and why it occurred in the Southern Cameroons will be the subject of the next article on this matter.