A Wum, potentially without a view

In my pockets: dust, dust, more dust, and the address of a police officer in Wum, Cameroon.

Yesterday was a long day. It started in Bamedna and carried on for 13 hours, folded like origami into vans, shared cars, on motorcycles and constantly, all the time, the red dust of the Cameroonian dry season spinning in and caking me, head to toe, so later Adamoua, my guide, says to me, "You are not a white man any more." The trees, villages, shrubs--everything on the side of the road: red. I've only seen it like this once before, on the road between Poipet and Siem Reap in Cambodia.

We're in northwest province and some places are well developed, but others are rural, back of beyond Africa, including the area neat Lake Nyos, where some 1,600 people died when the lake erupted in what is scientifically known as a limnic eruption and sounds to me like toxic death farts. Natural gas eruptions from the lake spread among local villagers who farmed the rich volcanic soil around the water; they smelled what was probably a terrible odor of methane, then died where they stood. This, too, is Africa.

It took us three hours to cover the 60 km between Bamenda and Wum, stuffed like a sardine in a hot, sweaty, and of course dusty shared van. By the time Adamoua and I arrived we were exhausted and in sour moods, which weren't helped when two men approached us, claimed to be police, and asked to see our identification.

Neither man was uniformed, neither flashed any kind of badge, and both looked pretty thuggish (which, in retrospect, they were). Adamoua did the sensible thing: he asked to see their identification. Foreigners are often robbed here by people claiming to be police, and these two looked ready to rob.

Unfortunately, they really were police, and none too happy to be asked to procure ID by a young Cameroonian on their home turf. They started yelling in French, then at two nearby lackeys.

"Take them to the commission office!"

So: a tense ten minute motorbike ride, being hustled into the office of "Monsieur Inspector," the hassle of dealing with corrupt police.

"Do we not look like officers to you, sir?" said one of them. He was wearing a Diadora jersey and Adidas track pants. His colleague had tucked an ill-fitting shirt into ill-fitting pants. Between the two of them, they could have been any male in sub-Saharan Africa.

The situation more thick and the room feeling hotter, more static charge in the air, me making up a story about being robbed in Douala by men claiming to be police, Adamoua having to humiliate himself and swear up and down that he loved the police of Cameroon, that they were the country's protectors, that he would never disrespect an officer, etc, ad nauseum.  I hated watching someone I respect debase himself to cops on a power trip. I hate that this is the way things are here, and in most of the world.

After a few minutes it became clear I didn't have much to worry about, that the cops were intent on intimidating Adamoua and taking whatever hurt pride they had out on him instead of me. After long, circular discussions in French, one of the cops turned to me.

"You can go. But your friend is going to stay three days in the cell for minimizing  police officers." [direct quote]

I protested, said Adamaou had been recommended to me by the American embassy and was a trusted friend of American visitors to Cameroon, that he had the full confidence of the American people, etc. The cop listened for a bit, then shook his head.

"He's doing three days in the cells."

I once read a line, "What does the universe require of me today?" I know it sounds corny, like something you'd read off a Hallmark card, but I do like the sentiment. At this point I did something that was probably silly, but for me, at the time, in line with said sentiment.

"Look, where he goes, I go." I said. "If he goes in, I'm coming with him."

This seemed to nonpluss the officer a bit. After more burbling in French we were let go, but not without having to leave some money for 'drinks' (as bribes go it was very low --about $3, compared to $40 I paid in Kenya to some traffic cops). Adamoua and I didn't talk about it until we reached a hotel, at which point he turned to me and smiled.

"It was going to be OK. They were just trying to intimidate a bigger bribe out of you."

Looking back from here I suppose I can see how this was the case, but at the time, in that hotbox little office and the loud voices, the statement taking and the knowledge we were far away from everything, everywhere, the situation hadn't seemed half as benign.

The irony of the entire incident: at the end of our little interrogation, the lead cop gave me his name, address and phone number -- to call, he said, if we ever ran into trouble.

Which, I suppose, we did.

Comments

[Branch]

Wow. Glad you didn't have to be in there for 3 days.