I’m
ridiculously behind in updating this, but I’ll try to get everyone caught up petit à petit. The first two weeks of March were spent
trying to be as productive as possible with my upcoming vacation looming.
I
worked with a volunteer in the neighboring village to help with some events leading
up to International Women’s Day (March 8th). There were diabetes/hypertension screenings,
soap-making and hand-washing presentations, a round table discussion on the
year’s theme (“Rural Women’s Role in Eradicating Poverty”), and a lecture on
female leadership. I enjoyed these more
than the actual day itself, as that followed the normal course of national fêtes and involved the requisite skits, songs,
and marches. There’s so much potential for
Women’s Day, but it unfortunately ends up being a day of big talk by big men and
a lot of drinking.
Per
the request of my village chief, I used the monthly Vaccination Day as a time
to talk about the importance of oral hygiene.
I had hoped to feel a little like Oprah at the end (“You get a toothbrush! You get a toothbrush!! EVERYONE gets a toothbrush!!!”), but somehow
20 cent gifts don’t quite have the same draw.
I did have an incredulous moment that day though, when a petite teenage
mother plopped her 6-month baby on the scale and he weighed in at a whopping
11.5kg! What can I say? We grow ‘em big here in Bamileke country…
Food-wise,
I had very little time or motivation to cook but found a few good
alternatives. In fact, I might have gone
on a caramel corn binge as there were several nights where I considered that an
acceptable dinner. You can get carried
away when you realize you can take a few routine things in your kitchen and
turn them into a new dish/snack. There’s
also a woman in nearby Batie who makes delicious braised mushroom kebabs (brochettes de champignons). Yup, this former mushroom-hater might just be
a convert. A few of us also did fondue
one night thanks to a package from America.
Who knew dipping bread in melted cheese could be soooo good?
There’s
no good way to segue from cheese to my next tale, but I’ve put off sharing it
with many back home for long enough so here goes:
I
promise to share my wonderful vacation
experience in the next post, but getting there ended up being an incredible
ordeal. In order to make my afternoon
flight out of Douala on the 15th, I planned on spending the night before
at the Peace Corps office in Bafoussam and leaving early the next morning. However, as I talked with more people about
this plan, I was advised that it would be cutting time short and I risked not
catching my flight. Thus, I decided at
the last-minute to take the night bus from Bafoussam to Douala. (A move I thought at the time was only “discouraged”
by Peace Corps...) I arrived at the bus
agency at 9:30pm to confirm the details and again at 11:15 to board. I was told that the bus would leave at
midnight whether or not it was full. We
loaded the bus and I rested for a bit before another vehicle stopped around midnight/12:30am
and we boarded it. I had a seat in the
very back of the large bus, second in from the rear right window.
I was
in and out of sleep as we set off and I awoke approximately an hour later to
the bus stopped, very forceful pounding on the windows, and loud yelling. Buses stop all the time so I wasn’t too
concerned but people began quickly exiting the bus and there was a lot of
confusion (compounded by the fact that I was groggy). Like those around me, I crouched down low as
everyone tried to file out, but I still didn’t understand what was going on amid
the chaos. As one of the last
passengers, I eventually reached the door and the gun-wielding man up front
suddenly saw me, exclaiming “Oh, la
blanche!” He demanded money to which
I responded, “What money?” It’s become
almost second nature to play the “I’m-a-volunteer-I-don’t-have-money” card so
it tumbled out before I could even consider the absurdity of the excuse when faced
by robbers.
As I was
pushed down the steps out the door, the seriousness of what was happening
became apparent. I could make out in the
dark that everyone was laying face down on the ground. I was encouraged to move faster by those
behind me but this meant stepping on/over people. Another aggressor to the right also noticed
me, saying “Oh, la blanche!” He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me to him
but I (fortunately) fell down to my left.
This gave me the opportunity to crawl toward an open space of grass in
the ditch. In retrospect, that
accidental slip probably saved me dearly.
I
could hear the men yelling and demanding money and phones, threatening that if
they found anyone who hid either from them, they would shoot. Although not trying to be intentionally stubborn,
I lay on top of my bag, not realizing that people were actually complying with
the bandits’ demands. I stayed frozen
with my head against the gravel road.
From this angle, I could see that another smaller bus/van was in front
of ours with the same scene played out.
People
were shaking and praying; the men ordered crying babies to keep quiet. At times I struggle with my French comprehension,
but suddenly I had an acute ear for “I’m going to kill you.” A few on the ground yelled “Les hommes – cailloux,” which I believe
was meant to be a rallying cry to try to overpower the bandits. However, this angered them, and we heard
multiple gunshots fired. People were
absolutely terrified. Feeling like a
dream until this moment, the weight of the reality that I could be killed
started to sink in. Lying on the cold
wet grass, my bare legs and arms shook uncontrollably as my pupils constricted
despite the pitch black night surrounding us.
I clung to a stranger, a female passenger reciting scripture in English
and I joined in chanting along in my own broken attempt at prayer.
I
think at this point the men ordered that the luggage compartments be opened,
but someone tried to explain that the keys had been lost in the scuffle. More gunshots were heard. People were scrambling to move away from the
worst of it while remaining as close to the ground as possible. They ended up crawling over one another and I
was pushed even further into the asphalt.
A
final few gunshots sounded, and then I heard a vehicle peeling out. Not sure what to do, the crowd got up quickly
but cautiously. Papers, identity cards,
wallet contents, and pieces of broken phones were strewn about. We got back on the bus and surveyed the
damage. Almost everyone had been robbed
(money/phones/other personal effects) - even those that had quickly hid their
things on the bus in between seats, under cushions, and in overhead
compartments. It was a devastating loss
for many – men carrying wads of cash to do business transactions, a woman with
nearly $600 going to Douala to pay for her son’s surgery, etc.) Without insurance or even a good system for
reporting and receiving follow-up for crimes like this, innocent Cameroonians
are forced to walk away and call it a loss.
Miraculously, all my belongings (remember, I was about to leave the
country so had my passport, Visa card, and a few hundred US dollars) remained
on my person. In fact, my only consolation
in the incident is that as the criminals detailed the story amongst themselves
later, they likely realized that I - their most obvious target - was untouched.
As I
attempted to determine where we were exactly, I learned that we were just
outside of my post in the West. Knowing
this area well, I offered that I had phone numbers for the associated officials
(police, gendarmes, the Sous-Prefet, etc.), but was told that
they wouldn’t/couldn’t do anything at that hour.
There
was a lot of arguing about whether to continue or turn around. Meanwhile, everyone tried to recreate the
event, sharing their version of the story and piecing together the details.
From what we could gather, potentially 5 or 6 vehicles had been similarly attacked
and there were 4 or 5 wounded and possibly dead, who were gathered by one of
the vans and rushed to a nearby health care facility. Our bus started in the direction of Douala
but turned around due to people protesting.
Those few of us that still had cell phones offered them to others so
they could call friends and family and make arrangements for our return.
Back
in Bafoussam at the agency, those of us who wished to continue to Douala waited
until the others had gotten off. Various
people on the bus asked if anything had been taken or if I had been
injured. They were in disbelief that I
had not been robbed, but also expressed that they had feared for my life when I
had been singled out. I remained
essentially catatonic for the rest of the trip - stone-faced, silent, and in
disbelief over what had taken place. I
felt an unbelievable sense of relief that I had walked away relatively
unscathed, but also dealing with the accompanied “survivor guilt” of such a miraculous
intervention.
I got
to the Douala Airport in time for my flight, but my phone battery was dead at
this point and the electricity was out at the airport. Five minutes before boarding the plane, the
power returned and I was able to charge my phone enough to let a fellow
volunteer know that I was safe.
Superficial
scrapes covered my legs and I looked absolutely disheveled with matted hair, grimy
legs, and a dress smelling of road debris, dirt, sweat, and fear. Emotionally frazzled, I lost it at the curb
when a man demanded money. Through narrowed
eyes and a clenched jaw, I exclaimed that I was leaving Cameroon and considering
not coming back. I boarded the plane
wiry and hypersensitive, but by the time we had reached our cruising altitude,
exhaustion kicked in and I passed out.
As I
said, I’ve struggled with how to convey this incident to family and friends
back home. It was obviously scary at the
time, but I processed it and moved on quickly.
I didn’t want this to define me and/ or my Peace Corps experience, and I
also worried that it would paint a bad picture about what life is like for me
on a day-to-day basis here in Cameroon.
So as I said, I survived, am doing fine, and have the support and encouragement
of many on this continent and beyond which has helped.