Bushwhacked in a bush taxi

I’ve been meaning for awhile to write a post (or few) about travel in Cameroon. Had I been on the ball earlier, this entry would have a different tone. It would have been filled with tales of adventure told from a wryly humorous point of view. But this is today. Today, I have traveled enough miles through enough days over enough dirt and been stuck in enough mud to sum up my feelings about travel in Cameroon in one simple sentence: Please, if it’s not absolutely necessary, please, don’t make me do it.

There are several ways to get around this country. You can hop on a moto (you know, as in “motorcycle”) in most towns to go short distances, and usually you won’t pay more than 200 francs (about 40 cents). These things aren’t hogs a la Hell’s Angels, but neither are they putt-puttering Vespas. They’re in the middling range, size-wise, and they’re the most common mode of transport in Bertoua the regional capital of the East, where I live.

I should have mentioned that, of course, you can also walk. That’s not practical in Bertoua, but the town where I live is small enough that mostly I avoid “moto taxis,” unless I’m out after 9:00 or so at night (which almost never happens). If you’re by yourself, your moto driver will carry you alone to your destination. But never fear if you also have a large wheeled suitcase, a full backpack, and a market bag the size of, well, me. Your taxi man will kindly strap your suitcase in back, put your market bag in his lap, and let you climb on behind him with your backpack balanced on your knee. And never mind if you’re with friends. I’ve seen a moto heaving along with four adults lined up on back, no problem. The most I’ve seen, I think, is six: a couple adults and four kids. But that’s nothing. You could add a baby or two to that load, easy. (Peace Corps disclaimer: I myself have never ridden a moto with more than two passengers (three people, total). I will say nothing of cargo.)

In big cities such as Yaounde (the national capital) or Douala (the main Atlantic port), you’d probably take a regular taxi. These are five-seater hatchbacks that (legally) carry five passengers. That’s right, that’s six people in five seats: three in back, one in the driver’s seat, one sort of hovering over the gear shift, and one by the window. (So, how many Peace Corps volunteers can fit in a Cameroonian taxi? I leave the punch line to that joke to your imagination.) Mind you, six is just the usual number for short jaunts about town.

There are also bush taxis. These are the same little cars, but they are for long treks between villages – trips through the bush, as it were. Somehow, “bush taxis” have infinitely greater capacity than “taxis” (and their drivers have mad skills any city-slicker taxi man could never hope to possess). In a bush taxi, the acceptable number of people is seven: four in back, three in front. But the usual number is eight, the last person riding “petit chauffeur,” sharing the driver’s seat. (For the record, babies and small children don’t count as passengers. They ride for free on laps or between knees. They are not included in this figure of eight.)

The difference between the “acceptable number” and the “usual number” is that the petit chauffeur has to get out before a gendarme checkpoint and walk well past it before getting back in the bush taxi. The driver and six passengers will not be stopped and questioned by the checkpoint guards (at least not about the issue of carrying capacity), but the driver and seven passengers most certainly would be. Nobody’s fooling anybody in these situations. The eighth person (who, actually, is often the driver’s helper) sometimes hops out of the car just 10 or 20 yards away from, and in plain sight of, the gendarme stop. The point seems to be just that he isn’t in the car when it pulls up to the gate. (Gendarmes (literally “armed people”), I believe, make up an arm (ha!) of the military who help with law enforcement – specifically with regard to travel and border crossings. In the US, we might call them border police?)

With eight people in a five-seater vehicle, you’d think we’ve maxed out our capacity by now. Au contraire. Don’t forget the hatchback or trunk (which you get depends on the car). This space is handy for many things. Sometimes, an extra couple of passengers can cozy up back there, their feet dangling out from under the partially closed trunk lid. Generally, however, the way back is needed for cargo. Most of the time the duffel and market bags, the goats and chickens, the regimes of plantains, and 50-pound sacks of corn or hot peppers are stuffed in and strapped down under a half-open hatch. Finally, that’s it, right? Nope. There’s still plenty of room on top of that half-open lid, between it and the back window, behind which sit the back four passengers. Six or eight more sacks or a sheep or two can be secured there. And all of it, excluding the animals, is courteously protected from the elements by a plastic tarp. Sometimes the driver even finds room for a string of freshly caught fish he buys along the way. Ashia to my friends whose bags then reeked of said fish at the end of that journey. (“Ashia” or “assia” is a Cameroonian term expressing sympathy. It’s kind of like “Sorry, man” or “Aw, gee, that sucks,” only it carries a much more heartfelt “I feel ya” vibe than any English equivalent.)

Bush taxis aren’t meant for pavement or even level dirt roads. They go only where most other public transportation cannot or would not dare set out. Depending on the season, you’re in for hours of inhaling either dust or the fumes of exhaust and a burning clutch. Also depending on the season, you will either sweat, stink, and get stuck to thighs or in the armpits of your neighbor passengers or trek an unknown number of kilometers, barefoot, through calf-deep mud, while your driver, the petit chauffeur, and kindly village boys try to heave the car out of the latest impassable pit. No matter the season, you will always be uncomfortable, dirty, sore, utterly exhausted, and perhaps at least mildly irritable when what was supposed to be your four-hour journey drags into a 12-hour haul.

Some words of advice for white people (in Cameroon, just about everyone who’s not African is “white” or at least “mixed” (even black Westerners): If you have to ride in a bush taxi, don’t share the front seat unless you’re with a Cameroonian (or other host-country) stranger or a very good friend. With a stranger, you both know you have to get cozy with another stranger, and neither of you minds adjusting yourself however you need to, as often as you need to during the course of the trip. You both know what traveling is like in-country, and if you annoy each other, no biggie; you’ll hopefully never see each other again. With a very good friend, you can lean on each other, switch whose shoulder is on top of whose, frequently (and without ire) switch who must sit against the gear shift, sweat, sleep, drool, or cough on each other.

Avoid sharing the front seat with another Westerner you don’t know very well. This can result in each party vainly trying not to invade the space of the other, which makes both that much more uncomfortable, physically and psychologically. It can mean you won’t ask to switch places, even though you’ve been sitting on the gear shift for more than six hours now, and you’re starting to resent that your fellow Westerner hasn’t even offered to trade. And at road’s end, it can leave both people more bruised and battered than was really necessary for either.

If you’re little and you’re made to ride petit chauffeur, don’t fight it. And don’t feel bad for falling asleep on the driver’s shoulder. You should be grateful that the bumps and impassable pits were few enough that you could get any sleep at all. But also, never volunteer to be petit chauffeur. Why cause yourself undue pain? If the driver’s helper (thankfully) is riding on the roof of the car, don’t be mad when he has to come in, soaking, when it starts to rain or that he’s too big to ride next to the driver and must straddle the gear shift, getting you wet and sludge-y, too. Be happy that he tests out the depth of those mud pits before the driver tries to negotiate them himself and that he, not you, is one of the ones pushing the car out of that silt-filled pool.

And when you stop before that giant truckload of army guys because it’s only prudent to show your deference and pay your respects to them before moving on; and when you wonder why those soldiers are there and what they’re doing and who is that non-uniformed woman with them, anyway?; and when they catcall you and ask you to come out of the car to shake their hands, try to remember you’re acquiring a story to tell back home and that you’re privileged to be inching along in the heart of a dense, lush, gorgeous rainforest, bursting with the gurgling, rushing sounds of water and the hum of abundant life – a childhood dream come true.

And finally, when you see another Westerner in another vehicle on the road, always try to stop and talk with him. It’s always nice to see a “familiar” face and find out why he’s trekking through this far corner of the globe – maybe it’s because his wife is from one of these jungle villages, and they’re coming back to visit her kith and kin. And maybe one day, that will be you doing the same.

A bush taxi is probably the mode of transport I dread most in Cameroon. But as I write this, I also realize that it’s what you take when you want to get somewhere remote, somewhere in the lesser developed wilds of a developing country. It’s what will take you on the greatest adventures – through oil palm plantations to the edge of the rainforest where you plan to hike the next day; through the rainforest to the construction marvel of an actual city with paved streets; through emerald-studded mountains to the birth village of your husband-to-be.

I will never jump in a bush taxi just for kicks. But if, at the end of that road less-traveled, adventure awaits, then I will suffer those grueling, dirty hours in the name of discovery. And I’ll try to remember that the journey is as much of an adventure all by itself.