"Chauffeur, arrête! Arrête" -- Transportation in Cameroon

Transportation in Cameroon is far from what we are used to back in America.   It's one of those things that I've just become so used to that everything seems normal.  Or if not normal, at least nothing phases me anymore.  Nevertheless, every trip I take, I find myself in situations that most Americans would find absolutely absurd.  Transportation in Cameroon can be bumpy, sweaty, cramped, seemingly endless, or a game of bumper cars.  Above all, transportation in Cameroon is always full of surprises, and once you no longer have to hold your breath or close your eyes, a trip will almost always provide you with a decent story or a couple of laughs. 

While living in the North, my main method of transportation was to take motorcycle taxis, or "motos".  This was the most common form of daily public transportation -- you just flag down a moto taxi driver, tell him your destination, and then hop on the back.  It's not uncommon to see four people squished together on a moto, or even a few goats, furniture, maybe another moto -- pretty much anything.  Passing other vehicles occurs frequently and driving on the "correct" side of the road is not enforced, so consequently at the beginning there were some rides where I would just close my eyes.  The nervousness wore off eventually, and I knew I had officially gotten comfortable with Cameroonian transportation when I no longer had to hold on to the back handle on a moto. Moto rides quickly shifted from terrifying to exhilarating to a breath of fresh air: pure contentment.

But motos definitely aren't the only form of transportation, and they are not nearly as common in the Grand South.  This past weekend, I went on a mini beach vacation in Limbe to celebrate being in Cameroon for an entire year.  Let me tell you a few transportation anecdotes from this 3-day trip. 

1.  The first leg of my journey was a 50(ish) kilometer bus ride from Akono to Yaounde.  I easily found a car (about the size of a 16 passenger van, but with benches instead of seats) that was ready to depart, and took the last available window seat at the back of the vehicle.  The ride was pretty smooth and surprisingly the driver did not pack us in like sardines, as is the typical manner.  About 15km before reaching Yaounde, the man on sitting next to me started screaming, "Chauffeur, arrête! Arrête!" ("Driver, stop!  Stop!")  It took about thirty seconds before the driver noticed the thick black smoke and pulled over.  "L'eau!  L'eau!  Donne moi l'eau!"  ("Water!  Water!  Give me water!").  Someone passed him a 1.5L bottle of water, which he used to extinguish the small fire that had ignited.  We waited outside the car for maybe two minutes, and once the smoke lessened, everyone deemed it safe to continue.  After all, the fire wasn't too close to the gas tank.  The van probably wasn't going to explode.

2.  Upon arrival in Yaounde, I had to switch from the van and find a taxi to take me to the Peace Corps office.  I flagged a driver down almost immediately, and we spent the next twenty minutes weaving in and out of traffic, driving on the wrong side of the road to escape traffic jams, and essentially playing either a game of chicken or bumper cars.  All the while he swerved frequently to the sidewalk to pick up other customers going in the same direction, as is custom practice for taxis in Cameroon.

3.  The next day, I took a bus from Yaounde to Douala.  This was a coach bus, fairly comfortable if you don't mind having your legs locked in one position for several hours (which oddly enough doesn't bother me) and if you don't mind windows that can't open.  I could have taken a bus directly to Limbe, but it would have left at least two hours later. So instead, I made a new friend at the bus station, Evans, who promised to help me get situated in Douala and see that I safely found a car to Limbe.  Once in Douala, Evans said that since he was traveling in the same direction as Limbe, we could go together after he had finished his errand.  He had been a decent travel buddy up until this point, engaging in many conversations about development, agriculture, national security, motivation of Cameroonian youth, and his job as a police officer, so I figured, why not?!  Turns out his errand was to sign and submit a document at the Danish embassy to prove that his sister (currently in Denmark) was not married and therefore could marry a Danish man and not be repatriated.  This meant driving around from consulate to consulate and embassy to embassy, trying to locate some Danish soil.  The first place we stopped was the consulate for the C.A.R. (in order to get directions to the correct location).  Evans had gone inside, and the driver had briefly walked away to stretch his legs, leaving me alone in the unlocked taxi.  Soon enough, a pants-less infant climbed into the driver's seat and started playing with all of the buttons.  Just another day in the 'roon.  Eventually we learned that there was no Danish Embassy, and settled to let the Norwegians figure it out -- close enough, I guess.  Three sweaty hours later, Evans and I were finally on the road to Limbe.

4.  One day in Limbe, a group of us decided to go down town for dinner.  The eight of us were standing by the side of the road, waiting for a taxi, into which we were fully prepared to squish the entire group.  Anything is possible when it comes to fitting more people in (or on) vehicles.  After waiting maybe only five minutes without a vehicle passing, a gigantic bus pulled into sight.  A nice, spacious, clean bus with leather (most likely pleather?) seats, which took us directly to where we were going.  It was magical.  I napped the entire ride.

5.  That same night, it started pouring rain as we were hoping to head home.  We had split up throughout the course of the night, and thus I was in the last group to head home.  Our group of five only had to wait a few minutes in the torrential downpour before a taxi picked us up, three in the back, while I shared the passenger seat with another PCV.  The entire drive home, despite the windshield wipers, we could not see the outlines of anything outside the window, and could only know our proximity to other vehicles (or which side of the street we were on, for that matter) based on the shine of red or white lights.  In the meantime, the passenger seat window would not roll up.  After 10 minutes of being rained on, the driver handed us a towel, which my friend and I held up as a makeshift curtain to shield us from the rain for the remaining half hour of the ride.  

None of these incidences struck me as abnormal (aside from the unexpected glorious bus), and it was only upon further reflection that I realized: much of this would be completely acceptable in the U.S.  Yet somehow, stories like these have become my normal; they have become my everyday life.  And while some may be bothered by a 40-minute rain soaked taxi ride or maybe they'd be concerned about a small car fire, to me, transportation in Cameroon remains nothing more than an amusing adventure, never failing to provide new friends and an abundance of stories to chuckle about at the end of the day.