"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!