27 months

Every imaginable form of 2- and 4-wheeled transportation departs from Half Mile in Limbe for Tiko, Douala, Buea and beyond. The vast majority are crumpled Toyota Corolla taxis painted New York City yellow and emblazoned with cursive script slogans proclaiming “God is Great”, “Big Boy”, “The Young Will Grow” and so on. Most look as though they’ve been involved in multiple rollover accidents and pieced back together with spare parts. Others are so-called “clando” taxis; unlicensed, uninsured private cars converted to commercial use. Seatbelts are rare amenities. On more than one occasion I’ve ridden in a such a vehicle with a windshield shattered in a concave bulge the size and shape of a human skull in front of the passenger seat. Once when I inquired of the driver what had happened he responded with a broad grin and a violent thrusting motion of his hand to indicate his fare’s failed attempt to exit the cab without paying his 150 francs.

Tonight I stroll past the tail end of the row and receive the usual calls; “white man—Douala!”, “white man—Mutengene!” Every so often I hear “le blanc!” which never fails to take me back to pre-service training in Francophone territory. Along the way to the head of the line I stop and get a soft serve ice cream for 100 francs. There is a hawker calling for Buea but I pass his empty car in search of one with at least two or three people idling inside. With a rehearsed line or two of Pidgin I confirm I’m not charged a white man price, negotiate the additional travel to my junction and settle into the relative safety of the back seat. In Africa air bags on public transport are unheard of; here I rely instead on meat bags.

With any luck we’re not left waiting more than twenty minutes or so before the car is filled four to the back and three (or more) to the front. The record capacity I’ve witnessed for a mid-sized import in Cameroon now stands at eleven souls: eight inside, two riding side-saddle in an open trunk and one belly-down on the roof hanging on by the window sills, plus cargo. C’est Cameroon. It would be nigh impossible for the average American frame to fill a taxi thusly. Thankfully, the typical Cameroonian is slim enough to make four people crammed into a back seat tolerable for up to an hour of travel. Once I was unfortunate to share the back seat with three surprisingly large locals who left me hobbling on the roadside like a cripple with a thoroughly asleep right leg.

With a sputtering groan, clunk and clatter the taxi—overloaded not only with human but animal and vegetable cargo on this night—pulls away from the curb and makes its way with supreme effort uphill and out of Limbe. In a few minutes I am almost dozing, nestled comfortably between my fellow passengers, when the car abruptly decelerates. Ahead is a group of men in olive drab fatigues and black berets shouldering well-worn Kalashnikov and FAL rifles. The man nearest the road wields a flashlight and a sinister-looking spiked steel device designed to destroy the tires of vehicles that fail to stop for inspection. Control. The driver pulls over, passengers mutter low complaints and all wait for the inevitable demand for identification. Carte de sejours are produced and passed through half-opened windows to the men with assault rifles, the driver produces a “fee” of 500 francs and after a ten minute delay we continue on our way.

I wake up still in the taxi someplace vaguely familiar but not yet recognizable. We’re past Mile 17 but before GCE Board Junction, which is all that matters. A few minutes and 800 francs later I’m dropped at my darkened street and begin my solitary stroll toward home. On this uncharacteristically clear night, wisps of cloud sail overhead across a field of stars. The stars tonight are unusually close and bold, with an icy glitter in their light—glints of emerald, blue and gold. A yellow planet rises above the horizon to the south, brightest object in the sky. Venus. To the north the imposing dark mass of Mt. Cameroon rises skyward, eclipsing all. I pass by my friend Valentine’s barber shop where a scruffy white dog sleeps under the fluorescent light. Cresting a short hill, the road dips into the heart of Sandpit. Ahead on the left is my tailor’s tiny shop built from a shipping container and next to it the place where I buy my MTN phone cards. A scrawny cat crosses my path. I turn to the right. Home.