A final goodbye to Africa, where colors dance and sing

In Bamako, furniture is sold on the side of the road. An intriguing business model

After spending six weeks in three different countries, using a variety of means of transportation, and living incredible and unexpected experiences, it’s time to say goodbye to Africa. There are more stories to tell than time to tell them. I can only encourage you to travel to West Africa yourself, and experience the incredibly rich cultures and friendly people who live there for yourself. 

Airports are not always bustling hubs of activity. Bamako airport, Mali, 2pm

I traveled in some of the most run-down taxis you can imagine

This "sept places" seemed like a luxurious ride after the coach bus in Senegal 

Boats offer another view that shows off West Africa's bright and varied palette

Shoes are the ultimate means of transportation, and can be repaired for 80 cents

Thank you for having followed my adventures on this blog, which I wrote to reflect my personal impressions, not the research I was doing on US and French security cooperation policies in West Africa and the Sahel. I learned a lot, for my research but also far beyond my policy-oriented analysis.

Among the unexpected adventures: getting my head shaved, for $1.
This was an adventure for Dada (the hairdresser) as well, and attracted a crowd

Alioune, who is one of the least lyrical men I know, once said to me that in Africa, colors dance and sing. I can’t think of better words to summarize my feelings and my adventures.

The buses of Dakar sing brightly as they ferry passengers about the city 

Senegal's flowers retain their beauty despite an unrelenting sun. Dakar, Senegal

The view from the Defense Attache's balcony. French Embassy, Dakar, Senegal

Beaches are also used by struggling families, who live here. Dakar, Senegal

The island of Goree, whence slave ships would depart for America. That it is
also such a charming village creates a startling contrast. Goree, Dakar, Senegal

The island of Goree: sand, baobabs, bright colors, and kids playing soccer.
A snapshot of Senegal

People told me my trip would change me, but I didn’t realize how right they were. These six weeks were an extraordinary adventure, far more than I ever could have hoped for, and one that would not have been possible without the grant from Georgetown University’s Security Studies Program.

During this trip, I conducted research as a Georgetown grad student,
and worked alongside upOwa's inspiring team.
Two identities, a trove of unforgettable experiences, one extraordinary adventure

So long, Africa! Until next time

17 hours in one airport, six airports in 16 hours

My last days in Cameroon turned into a series of travel adventures that created the most surreal three days of my life. In a 72-hour span, I discovered rural hospitals in Cameroon, negotiated with the deputy director of an airline, spent 17 hours in one airport and the next 16 flying in and out of 6 countries, met with the chief of staff to the President of Mali, and did not sleep in a bed at all. Here is the tale of a series of cascading events I experienced, in two parts, retold as I lived it. 

Greetings from Douala airport again, where I spent over 17 hours. I thought my transit adventures had ended with my previous post which wrapped up a few hours ago; allow me to tell you how mistaken I was.

Bamako and the Niger river are "black with sun," to steal Albert Camus' expression from Noces

At 8am, I finally left Leo and his bar, and went to the check-in counter for my flights back to Bamako. Seeing no one at the counter, I asked an airport employee what time check in would start, and was simply, and mysteriously, directed to a back room and told to ask the airline directly.

“Your flight? Oh, it’s canceled. But there’s another one tomorrow,” an airline employee told me. In Africa, airlines have a small fleet, and run them on loops – they don’t do back and forth flights between two destinations, but will typically travel to five or six destinations on a loop. My plane was thus stuck in N’Djamena: it had been experiencing technical issues over the previous three days, which had finally deteriorated to the point the plane couldn’t take off that morning. Due to small fleets, and the age of certain planes, it’s not uncommon in Africa to hear someone on the loudspeaker announce a flight has been confirmed. Confirmations can be as noteworthy as cancellations.

Everything is shared in Africa, including electricity. Bamako, Mali

I then spent the next five and a half hours negotiating a way to leave that day that would get me to Bamako in time for an 11am meeting the following day with a senior Malian official – which their solution would not do.

A house may be unfinished, but it
already has cable to watch soccer

A man walking his goat.
Saint Louis, Senegal

After spending 2 and a half hours exploring various flight plans, including flying through Johannesburg, Brazzaville, Abidjan, Casablanca, Abidjan, N’Djamena, and KENYA CAPITAL. Working with an airline agent who I got to know rather well, Abdoul, we finally found an option that worked: Douala (Cameroon) to Lagos (Nigeria) via Cotonou (Benin), then Lagos (Nigeria) to Dakar (Senegal) via Accra (Ghana). I would arrive in Dakar at 1am and finally board a flight at 6am from Dakar (Senegal) to Bamako (Mali).

Just when I think we’d solved the issue, Abdoul casually mentioned that this new itinerary would cost me about $1,000. That set off another round of negotiations and discussions with Abdoul which lasted for three hours, and ended with me on the phone with the deputy director general of the airline, informing him he had 5 minutes to approve the purchase of these tickets by his company before check in closed and I missed my flight, and thus my meetings.

"Stop violence against women and girls to live in a peaceful world" A no doubt highly effective UNICEF campaign, and money well spent. I can't help but wonder if their goal is to show the large international aid community in Bamako that UNICEF is there, since this sign will clearly have no impact whatsoever on any situation

Throughout my discussions with Abdoul, the country representative, the financial director, and finally the deputy director general, I kept stressing the senior positions of the people I was meeting with in Dakar and Mali. I informed the airline that if I missed the meetings and disrupted the officials’ schedules I’d have to let them know it was because of the airline. I also mentioned I had seen a Cameroonian minister the previous day, which wasn’t completely untrue: he had attended a reception I was also at, as the guest of honor. We hadn’t exchanged a word, but the airline didn’t need to know that. I somehow managed to remain calm – firm, but calm, and focused on getting the issue solved.

I finally secured my tickets at 2pm, paid in full by the airline, including tickets on companies that weren’t partners of theirs, just as the plane was scheduled to begin boarding. I rushed through the airport, all the while wondering how I’d manage in Lagos since I didn’t have a visa. This normally wouldn’t be an issue for a mere transit, but the airline hadn’t managed to check my backpack all the way to Dakar, meaning I’d have to exit the transit area to retrieve it, and check it again for the second portion of my trip.

Saint Louis, the former capital of the French West African empire, is today a struggling fishing village and colonial vestige

It turned out I didn’t need to rush: the plane hadn’t even landed yet. I asked an airport employee how late the flight typically was, and she merely answered “It’s Nigerian,” with a telling shrug. Having not eaten since arriving at the airport at midnight, and nothing the previous day outside of some light cocktail snacks at the reception, I wolfed down the can of ravioli I always carry in case of emergency. I then lied down on a row of chairs to catch a few minutes of sleep.

My Arik Air plane eventually arrived over two hours late, a fact some people seemed to expect since they showed up for the flight over 90 minutes after it was scheduled to leave.

After over 17 hours in Douala airport, which I’d gotten to know intimately (including going back and forth through secure areas, and visiting the police station twice during the night, mainly because I could), the plane finally departed. I now know better than to end this post here: I haven’t arrived yet.

Mosque in Saint Louis, Dakar. Claimed as the only mosque in the world with a clock on the minaret

We took off three hours later than the scheduled time – reducing my transit window at Lagos airport from three hours to zero minutes. I immediately informed a flight attendant upon boarding of my situation, and requested she call ahead to hold my second flight, which was also with Arik Air.

America is everywhere
Bamako, Mali

I also told her upon boarding that my baggage had only been checked through Lagos, not through Dakar, and that I would need it to be check through Dakar. While waiting on the tarmac (for a VIP who arrived directly at the plane, driven by his chauffeur), we went into the luggage compartment, and with a mere pen she wrote “Dakar” on my backpack’s airline label. To say I was reassured would be a severe exaggeration.

When I arrived in Lagos, after Benin, I immediately got off the plane to find a woman waiting with my boarding pass. She asked me to follow her, but I responded I would not do so until I saw someone get my bag and follow us. Given the tight connection, and everything I’d been through, I didn’t want to take any chances – after all, the Cameroonian curse seemed to be following me!

An employee arrived, to retrieve my bag. I indicated it was a green backpack, and hence easy to spot, but from the plane the stewardess shouted “It has Dakar written on the label!” He proceeded to check every bag, red suitcases, black duffel bags, and boxes, despite my repeated indications, until he found my green backpack, checked the label, and triumphantly shouted “Dakar!”

After a summer spent in Africa, there are many things there I cannot explain. This is one of them

I phoned Alioune, with whom I’d been staying in Dakar, to let him know I’d be by that night at around 1am. Due to additional delays, I arrived at 2am, and greeted him warmly. After all my travels, Dakar felt familiar, like home. Alioune noticed my shaved head and my beard and asked jokingly if I’d become a jihadist while in Mali. He then told me we would talk at breakfast, but I explained I’d be leaving at 4am for my 6am flight to Bamako, yet would be back later that afternoon, in time for dinner. He looked at me with bewilderment and went to bed, shaking his head.

I showered, for the first time in three days, and experienced pure and utter bliss while pouring water onto myself (there was no running water). I avoided touching my bed, since I hadn’t slept in one in three days and feared it would lull me to sleep. At 4am, I went back to the airport, and felt overjoyed to be traveling with just my passport, a notebook and some cash, without any bags. I boarded my flight, the sixth time I’d done so in the last sixteen hours, and drank an unknown amount of coffee. After all, I was about to meet with the Chief of Staff to the President of Mali! This was it, the reason I’d be fighting so hard, always pushing, always moving ahead, for over 32 hours.

A bank in Bamako advertises: "We don't led to the rich." A succinct populist message, and interesting ad campaign

After a great meeting, it was time to go back to Senegal. The Chief of Staff lent me his chauffeur, since no taxis were allowed within the presidential enclave. I appreciated the gesture, especially since I arrived at the airport at 2pm for a flight leaving at 230, which I made. Once home in Dakar, I sake into the bed, and tried to realize everything I’d been through, not just over the past three days but during the last six weeks in Africa. I felt a mix of relief that my travel ordeals were over, and sadness that my African adventure was coming to a close. The next day, I would get on a plane yet again, but this time it would be to leave Africa and depart for Paris. 

The sun sets over Benin, as it does over my trip, a gorgeous adventure until the end

"The bus is cursed! The bus is cursed"

My last days in Cameroon turned into a series of travel adventures that created the most surreal three days of my life. In a 72-hour span, I discovered rural hospitals in Cameroon, negotiated with the deputy director of an airline, spent 17 hours in one airport and the next 16 flying in and out of 6 countries, met with the chief of staff to the President of Mali, and did not sleep in a bed at all. Here is the tale of a series of cascading events I experienced, in two parts, retold as I lived it. 

It started when I took a night bus from Bafoussam to Yaoundé, along with two members of the upOwa team, to go to a reception to which we’d been invited. I’d taken night buses before, so I thought I was ready and knew what to expect. This trip proved me wrong. What followed were perhaps the most surreal 33 hours I’ve experienced, as I went from Bafoussam to Yaoundé, from Yaoundé to Douala, and finally from Douala back to Bamako.

The rolling green hills of Cameroon, an unforgettable sight, especially after the arid Sahelian semi-desert

Sun, 11pm: We say goodbye to Kilien, and board our bus. The driver gets off to go smoke, so we get off as well, having safely claimed seats, and resume talking with Kilien for a bit longer. 

Mon, 1230am: The bus leaves, only 90 minutes after its scheduled departure time – practically early, by African standards. (I say African, and not Cameroonian, not to over-generalize but to mimic the language used by Cameroonians, and for that matter people in Senegal and Mali as well, any time something goes wrong, or right: “C’est l’Afrique !” they’d say, with a laugh.)

Mon, 1240am: I quickly notice that the windows slide open every time the driver accelerates. Regardless, I settle into my seat to try to get some rest on the five-hour bus ride, with the ease of someone accustomed to such sleeping arrangements.

Apparently President Obama's plane is now a bar in Bafoussam, Cameroon. Evidence of American soft power 

Mon, approx. 1am: I awake to some rain on my face, and realize I’m pretty soaked. Looking around, and looking up, I ascertain this isn’t merely due to the windows sliding open: the bus’ non-functioning ventilation system is letting the rain in. We’re in the middle of Cameroon’s rainy season, which is no joke in Central Africa, and the downpour quickly turns torrential.  My seat only suffers from a drizzle, but the woman opposite me sits under a steady downpour almost as strong as the torrential rains pouring down outside.

Mon, approx. 105am: People began moving about to get away from the worst-affected seats, seating three at a time on two seats if necessary, and grabbing bags that had been on the floor but are now being sitting in almost a half inch of muddy water.

Once this grand reshuffling is complete, we attempt to settle in once again to resume sleeping. I doze on and off, sporadically, but still happy I’m able to get some rest.

Entrance of a chieftancy in Cameroon. It is ruled by a tier-one chief, since the roofs are not aligned two by two but in a row

Mon, approx. 2am: We stop in seemingly the middle of nowhere, to let an elderly couple, both on crutches, get off the bus. It’s pitch black in the middle of the countryside, and the torrential downpour that constrains visibility beyond a few feet reinforces the utter sense of isolation as the couple walks off into the night.

Mon, approx. 205am: We hit something, and feel a bump as the bus goes over something. As a horrible scream fills the air, the driver backs up to take a look, unsure what had happened. Chaos reigns.

We have just hit and driven over the woman on crutches – twice, since the driver backed up.

The thick smell of blood quickly fills the air, despite the rain, as it becomes clear the woman is badly injured. (The cries were the husband’s, the wife has quickly passed out from the pain.) During a heated debate, some passengers argue for continuing our journey, saying there is nothing we could do for her. Others respond that the law dictates we bring her to the hospital. At no point does the debate hinge on morals, or concepts of right and wrong. Fortunately, while this debate continues, other passengers jump out of windows to provide assistance. They carry the woman’s body back onto the bus, and lay her down on the floor. The driver resumes driving – to Yaoundé? to a hospital? It’s unclear.

The rural property of a former Minister for economic affairs. He built such a large house in his home village because it's expected as a sign of success. While minister, he would host feasts regularly to feed the inhabitants, and confirm his status

Mon, approx. 215am: After what feels like an eternity, we arrive at a hospital. Fortunately, the accident occurred on the outskirts of a town, whose name is forever seared into my brain: Bafia. The bus driver wastes 5 minutes trying to pull into the front of the hospital, despite it being painfully obvious the bus can’t make it through the driveway. He finally assents to our calls to stop, and leaves the bus blocking the road – and at real risk of being hit should anyone come down this road.

After we carry the woman into the hospital, we wait. I ask what is going on, and am told that the guard has gone off to call the doctor. As my confusion is obvious, another person explains that since little goes on in the hospital the doctor prefers to spend nights with his family. I begin to lose sense of time at this moment, as we continue to wait.

The bus takes off, with some passengers still on board. This only reinforces my sense of confusion. I assume he’s gone to turn around the bus and pull up alongside the road rather than block both lanes.

An unscripted photo I took of a mayor in rural Cameroon surveying the villages he led

After what seems like an eternity, the doctor arrives in his car. He has limited medical supplies to help the woman, whose stomach has been torn open and whose left arm is dangling, barely attached to her body.

Meanwhile, the husband, who’s beside himself with grief and rage, takes off – on foot. I spot him leaving and call out to him, “Papa, tu vas où comme ça ?” (papa, where are you going like that? – In Cameroon, it’s customary to call men papa and women mama). Since he’s ignoring me, I get a Cameroonian passenger to repeat the question. The husband answers he’s gone to find the gendarme, or national police, to report the driver. He confirms he has no idea where the gendarme station is, but cannot wait idly and races off, moving faster than I’ve ever seen anyone move on crutches – hurtling his crutches forward, and leaping with his body to catch up to them, in an elongated, exhausting, but effective movement. This is the last time I see the husband.

As there is nothing more we can do, I climb back on the bus to try to get some more rest.

The view that prompted the mayor to such sentiments.
The valleys are dotted with houses and small villages that comprise his mayoralty

Mon, approx. 445am: I awake, and learn we’ve been in the hospital for almost three hours. The gendarme have been called, and ordered the bus immobilized until the investigation is complete. By law, the driver is supposed to call his company, inform them of the accident, have them send a replacement bus, and be suspended. He refuses to do so, explaining that this way, his bosses won’t learn he ran over a passenger for a week or ten days, during which time he can continue to work and earn money.

Hiking in Dchang. These wild cows will follow as you walk by, for about ten (nerve-wracking) seconds

Mon, approx. 5am: Another bus arrives. Anticipating the driver might react like he had, a passenger had taken off on foot. After walking 2 kilometers under the pouring rain, he finds a motorcycle taxi which takes him to the nearest bus station. There, he convinces a bus driver to come pick us up.

Installing a solar system in Njimom city hall
Improvised ladder in the mayor's office

The 2^nd bus can only hold 20 people though, and there are over 40 passengers on the first bus. I ask another passenger how this is going to work, and he says, “you’ll see, it’s going to work itself out.”

The driver of the 2^nd bus informs us we will have to pay 1,500 F (approx. $2.50) per passenger to get to Yaoundé. Passengers demand the driver of the first bus cover the cost of the tickets, which he refuses to do, saying he will soon be out of a job and will therefore keep all of his money.

At this moment, to add to the chaos, the doctor sends word that he’s stabilized the woman as best he can, and is requisitioning the first bus as an ambulance to go to Yaoundé, since he doesn’t want to get blood all over his car. This means we must all get off the first bus. Have of us decide to get on the 2^nd bus and pay the fee, while the others either can’t, having no cash on them, or refuse to on principle.

A market in Kouptamom

530am: We finally leave the hospital, 25 of us squeezed into the bus, at around the time we were scheduled to arrive in Yaoundé. I have my backpack on my right knee, my other bag on my shoulder, and a fellow passenger basically on my left knee. As we depart, the other passengers are yelling at the driver he must figure out a way to get them to Yaoundé, while the doctor is screaming the bus must depart immediately.

545am: After adjusting as best we can to our new, cramped, space, some passengers doze off. Others, including myself, exchange comments about what we just experienced. Cameroonians are amused to hear how a Westerner views the scene, and attempt to help me make sense of it. One of them keeps exclaiming, “The bus is cursed! The bus is cursed!” He says so half-jokingly at first, but then the conversation turns serious. He and other passengers quickly agree the bus was cursed: the bus was leaking water, and no person would normally cross the road in front of the bus. I ask if this means that the woman is cursed. The answer is no: the bus is cursed, and its curse has now affected all the passengers. They begin exchanging advice about people to go to in Yaoundé to get a combination of cleansing protective spells cast on them, to ward off the curse of the bus.

The Sultan of Noun, a small district, is building a museum about his family. The entrances will be two snake heads, with a spider on top of the building, since his family emblem is a double-headed snake mounted by a spider

10am: We finally arrive in Yaoundé. The bus decides to stop at the first bus stop he encounters, rather than fight through traffic to drop us off at the planned final station, where a friend of a friend has been waiting for us since 5am. Two taxis later, we arrive at the bus station, meet up with our contact, and head to his place to drop off our bags for the day.

1030am: Since we’re already running late, we decide not to take showers but take sink-showers instead, and put on our dresses and suits to head over the reception.

11am: We arrive at the reception, an hour late. We’re the first ones there, the organizers are still setting up. We spend the next 6 hours trying not to fall asleep as we sit under the glaring sun and wait for the actual reception to begin, which it does around 3pm. I manage to secure food and water for myself and the rest of the upOwa team. When the French ambassador does arrive, she ignores us completely despite several attempts to talk to her.

Traditional dances performed by a young troop during the event in Yaounde

6pm: We leave the reception, having at least managed to get some food, and decide to go out for drinks before getting back on night buses – me, to Douala, whence my flight to Bamako is leaving the following morning, the others, back to Bafoussam along the same route, and with the same bus company since they purchased round trip tickets.

7pm: We head back to our contact’s home, and I once again swing the backpack onto my shoulders. Before going out for drinks, I decide to purchase my bus ticket. It turns out buses going to Douala leave from the opposite side of town so we all head over.

8pm: Arriving at my bus station, I learn the last bus leaves at 830pm. No time for drinks, only hasty goodbyes. I'm sad to leave my friends in such a precipitated manner, without even getting a drink. 

As I wait for my bus, I do the math and realize I’ll arrive in Douala at around midnight. Meaning I’ll have to spend the whole night at the airport. Since I’m unsure of its safety, I make friends with a few people on the bus and get their contact info, in case I need to find another place to stay.

Kilien driving the upOwa car in Dchang, after a fun hike and some light rain

The bus line between Cameroon’s two main cities is far more orderly than any I’ve taken: tickets are numbered, and you get on when your number is called. Since I purchased my ticket late, my number is 68 out of 71, which will mean a middle seat if I’m lucky, the floor if I’m not. A woman I befriended kindly offers to save me an aisle seat (she has number 20). This way, I’m able to get some much-needed rest on the bus, despite the loud music blaring for some reason, and the enthusiastic riffings of the copilot sadly in possession of a microphone. I manage to snag three hours of sleep on the four-hour ride (a record ratio since I’ve arrived in Africa), before spending 9 hours at the airport in Douala.  

Cameroonian cities often  featured gorgeous murals

Tues, around 1230am: I arrive in Douala. This is my third city in as many days, and my third night bus in two nights. After negotiating a rate with a taxi driver, I head for the airport. Upon arriving I tell him to wait 5 minutes, in case I should want to stay elsewhere, depending on conditions inside the airport.

Inside, I discover the airport bar is open 24/7, and that the night barman, Leo, dreams of going to America one day. We establish an easy and casual friendship, and he agrees to watch over my bags. After Leo turns on the giant fan, and I plug in my phone in the backroom of the bar, I sink into a seat at a table that will become my living quarters for the next 8 hours.

A summary of Cameroon: green hills, and kids playing soccer

Tues, around 130am: When I go to check on my phone, after spending some time processing what I’ve been through and jotting down some impressions, no fewer than six rats retreat into the walls of the tiny backroom where dirty dishes are stacked on the floor and in the sink. One rat even scurries into an empty can on the floor, as if he’s only going through the motions of hiding for appearances sake, but without being truly afraid of a human intruder in his domain. I’m once again relieved to know I have two cans of ravioli in my backpack in case of emergency, since eating food from the bar is now out of the question.

Douala airport, 5am: this is the cleaning crew. Right behind me is Leo's bar aka my bed for the night, and behind the wall an armed guard sleeps, with his loaded rifle leaning on the wall next to him.. 

Tues, around 5am: Glad my travel ordeals are over, I spend the rest of the night sleeping and wandering through the airport to pass the time. Everyone is asleep – Leo, the airport cleaning crew, and even the armed guard whose rifle leans on the wall about a foot from his chair. I’m able to access any part of the airport, secure or otherwise, since nothing is locked and no one is awake. I return to my table at the bar, and try to get a few more hours of sleep before boarding my first flight at 8am.

Goodbye, Cameroon! 

Eating viper domba (2 of 2)

The following night, we went out for dinner with a local contact who wanted to learn more about upOwa. We had one of the most memorable meals of my life: viper domba.

Bafoussam! Its colors, its sounds, its smells (including pollution) fill the air

Viper in Cameroon is a dish used traditionally in initiatic ceremonies for men. Women were not allowed to eat, touch, or cook viper. Things have changed a little today, but I did not take any pictures out of respect. Interspersed throughout this piece are photos of Bafoussam instead. 

upOwa requires hard physical work...

You might be wondering how the viper goes from life in the forest to your dish. I certainly was. Our contact, Alain, had called up a hunter he knows in Southern Cameroon two days earlier. The hunter went out, laid a trap, and caught a viper, which he then half-killed. Alain then sent a driver to pick him up with an ice cooler, and the driver took hunter and viper up to Bafoussam, where the hunter hand-delivered to viper to Alain after driving over 10 hours.

So it's important to start with a light but hearty breakfast

Whatsapp and Canadian
driving school -- in Douala

In Bafoussam, Alain knew the one restaurant that knows how to prepare viper properly. It takes not only skill, but specific knowledge: a proper domba, the name of the dish, requires traditional herbs from the forest, that aren’t sold in cities. A restaurant needs to have personal connections to someone in a forest village who’ll know the proper herbs (we weren’t allowed to learn the dish’s ingredients) and will gather them for the dish. They have to be fresh, so restaurants can’t even stock these herbs.

Preparing the viper apparently goes beyond cooking the food: in Cameroon, every part of the viper that isn’t eaten is extracted and preserved for medicinal value. Alain swore that rubbing viper oil over his leg healed a bone fracture a year ago.

Bafoussam and its colorful chaos

Alain told us all this as we waited for the dish to be served. My excitement and hunger only grew with each new detail. When the cook brought out the dish, wrapped in special leaves, conversation quickly turned to how to unwrap and eat the snake. We undid the leaves, and uncovered braised snake, carefully cut into serving-size pieces.

I got a haircut -- sneak
preview of a next post!

Viper is truly delicious, and full of meat. Its texture is a mix between fish and chicken. When served in a domba, it is braised with wild forest herbs without using any grease, including the snake’s own which is extracted and saved. We savored the extraordinary meal and the unique opportunity to share such a dish with a Cameroonian friend who’d gone to such lengths to offer us this experience. 

Eating viper and installing solar panels: my first days in Cameroon (1 of 2)

Last night, I ate viper domba. And let me just say, it was delicious, and an extraordinary experience. Let me backtrack first and catch you up a little: I’m now in Cameroon, where I arrived two days ago from Mali by taking two flights and a bus to reach Bafoussam, the largest city in Western Cameroon. Cameroon has by far the worst-maintained, bumpiest roads I’ve ever seen -- Mali’s roads are impeccable in comparison.

The road leading to upOwa's HQ is in far better
condition than the main roads of Bafoussam

Bafoussam is where upOwa is based. upOwa (www.upowa.org) is an award-winning social business started a year ago by Kilien de Renty and Caroline Frontigny, two French friends I met in Washington, DC, that installs small solar panels in houses of off-grid villages that have never had electricity before. On my first day in Bafoussam, we drove several hours into the countryside to reach the home of a small village chief, which upOwa was going to equip with a solar panel. After spending a month in the dusty and sandy Sahel region, the first thing that struck me was the incredible greenery of Cameroon, the gorgeous verdant valleys and lush countryside.

Along the way, we lost several hours when a police officer pulled us over at a control point, and proceeded to look for any excuse to bring us to the station. Since a local businessman had recently used his influence to attempt to undermine upOwa by bribing the police chief, the upOwa team failed to talk their way out of the situation. When we arrived at the police station, the deputy of another security force greeted us with a large smile. He was a friend of a client of upOwa’s, and therefore a friend of upOwa’s. He took over the process, since he was more senior than the cop who had detained us, and after talking for a little bit, he released us. At the police station, I noticed an electoral ad for a political party, inside the offices of a police officer, which suggested a lack of impartiality perhaps of the police. 

I traveled in the trunk of the car, with the solar panels, This was a pretext to pull us over and attempt to extort a bribe

(Corruption is generally speaking more prevalent in Cameroon than in Senegal or Mali. When I landed at the airport in Douala, and a friend of a friend, Romeo, picked me up, the parking lot agent refused to let us exit until he received a small bribe. Romeo explained he had only large bills, and would gladly pay a little extra if he could. The man didn’t demand a large bill of 10,000 FCFA, but wanted only a modest bribe because otherwise Cameroonians would revolt if forced to pay excessive fees. I finally dug up 500 FCFA (approximately 80 cents) in Western African currency, which he snatched out of my hand before lifting the barrier.)

To commemorate the occasion, the chief posed in his finest robe on his throne, which is
decorated with his family's symbols, under a leopard skin -- his spirit animal.

When we finally arrived at our destination, at the end of a bumpy dirt road, the village chief was busy receiving someone from his village who had gotten a fine from the police he felt was excessive, and was asking his chief to intercede on his behalf. Once their meeting concluded, the chief greeted us with a large smile, and introduced his main adviser and his entire family, including his wives and twelve young children. He was eager to benefit from upOwa’s services, and he offered to encourage others in his area to do the same. After going over pricing and number of light bulbs we could install, we began discussing the location of the lights with the chief, while the children and women watched us with evident fascination.

The children begged me to take their picture, and when I turned the lens to them, they spontaneously began doing this. 

Then we began the actual work of installing the solar panel, control box, and five light bulbs. These are modest generators, tailored to fit the most basic needs of families in Cameroon: they can power up to five light bulbs so families can work and study at night without breathing in fumes of kerosene lamps, and provide outlets to charge up cell phones without having to travel several hours to another village and pay large fees to do so. 

The village mosque is right next to the chief's house, as he is the religious and spiritual leader of the community as well. In Cameroon, spiritual and political leadership are closely intertwined.

The intrepid CEO of upOwa, Kilien de Renty, on the roof of the chief's house with a solar panel

After spending several weeks in meetings with government officials, it felt great to be doing manual work in the middle of nowhere.