Day 13: "You'll need your rest for the climb...er, ride." (Buea)

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Day 13: "You'll need your rest for the climb...er, ride." (Buea)

Written by Eric Mathurin

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

Dirt? What dirt?

I woke up really early in the night, so as a result we were the first to be ready in the morning. We had omelets (with spaghetti in it—surprisingly good and great for carb energy) with Nescafé for breakfast. Afterwards, Julius and I walked into the market and picked up a 20" BMX tire for my bike. It was 3000 CFA, or about $6; a worthwhile investment. We replaced it across the street at the gas station and before long my Dahon was pimped up with a studded, yellow-walled tire. In fact, it may even be better suited for the dirt roads.

We left town and soon hit said dirt road. Or, rather, mud road. It was like yesterday, except it was drizzling as we fought our bikes through the washouts. The second or third one delayed me as I spent a few minutes pushing out the caked mud and grass that gummed up my brakes and tires to the point where the wheels wouldn't roll.

Drying cacao beans over fires.

Along with the mud we encountered a black ooze — likely volcanic ash since we're near Mount Doom, er, Mount Cameroon (an active volcano and West Africa's highest mountain) — that was like fly-paper to our wheels. It was a terrible fight even on flat ground to get through the sticky stuff. The road pretty much alternated between gluey mud, washouts, and broken pavement. (Apparently 20 years ago the road was paved. You wouldn't know it.) Before long my shoes were again encased in mud. Cameroonians would often drive by, sometimes standing in the back of trucks, and ask us how we were enjoying their roads. I guess you have to have a sense of humour about it.

Julius and Yau attending to David's flat tire.

Then the rain started in earnest. After cycling in a downpour for a while we met up with Il who had taken refuge under a village porch where she was occupying and amusing them. As we cooled our heels and waited for the rain to let up the very friendly villagers took us out back where they were drying cacao beans on top of huge, flat, concrete ovens stoked with wood fires underneath. Before we left they had someone take photos of us—but mostly Il, and a bit of Gill—they're the real celebrities. (People think Il is Chinese, and Gill often gets mistaken for being Chinese or Japanese. Men hit on them and women are shocked and impressed to see young women cycling in their country.)

David says:
More typically cocoa is dried in the open by the sun. Because of the amount of fire wood consumed it would seem like sun dried cocoa would be more environmental friendly, but if you live in the Mt. Cameroon convergence zone and you want to sell your crop it might be the best alternative. Clearly they were more clued into the weather patterns than we were. After the cocoa beans are properly dried, they are packed and ready for market.

A case for fenders.

The going was tough and I was in a bad psychological place. That is: grumpy. I pretty much decided not to answer any calls of, "White man! White man!" that people today seemed especially wanting to chant at us. Even David seemed peeved and muttered, "That's not a proper greeting." As one point I rode by a man who shouted, "White man!" at me. I turned and called back, "Black man!" He actually seemed to think the exchange was hilarious and broke into uproarious laughter. I guess no offense was really intended. (Sometimes they jokingly call out, "Black man!" to Julius. Or their waves falter completely when they see one of their own on such a strange journey.)

Relaxing before the ascent up Mount Doom.

As we were passing through another village I convinced David to stop for lunch—I was so hungry. We were directed behind the quiet main road where we were surprised to find the paths teeming with people, shops and a busy market. I couldn't help but think that if we'd been driving we'd be oblivious of so many things that go on here unseen. In any case; we had great rice with hot sauce and ndolé there.

The road eventually improved slightly but we were definitely struggling uphill—even the sight of Mount Doom looming (as all proper volcanoes should do) in the distance barely eased my spirits.

Then David blew out his tire. Peversely, that raised my spirits. (As witnessing someone else suffer so often does.) So Julius replaced his torn tire with my old, patched one. (See? Good investment that BMX tire was.) Then later down the road he went flat again—the same mistake was repeated: David had also taken my too-small tube along with the tire. Sucker.

Yo. Wazzup?

As we progressively climbed and climbed all while covered in mud (my bike gears griding badly, brakes barely working) we eventually stopped for a badly needed break for soft drinks and rest just outside of Buea. The good news was that the road soon became a proper highway. I missed hearing the bad news of what was coming, which Gill related to me only later that day: David had commented, "You'll need this break to rest for the climb—er, ride—later." But maybe it's for the best that I didn't hear that.

As were entered the outskirts of Buea (a very pretty town—originally a German colony... colonists habitually colonize the places with the best climate, it seems) we began the grueling climb that I had been unaware lurked ahead since I missed David's sly mention of it. It was so long that we had to stop several times and even walk the bikes for a while. David conveniently never let us catch up to him, no doubt as he correctly assumed we would beat him to death with rubber bicycle tubes. As we climbed seemingly half-way up the 14,000 foot height of Mount Doom (the peak shrouded in clouds) to the old part of town, stinging, salty sweat ran into my eyes and the glaring sun blinded me. Looking back, we could see the ocean and Douala stretching out in the distance. Egad, Douala.

When we finally arrived at the hotel I was so tired and beat I could hardly stand. And yet I was so grateful to have finally arrived I was actually jovial.

We took turns bathing (in cold water, of course) and scraping the layers of mud off ourselves. We then went to the bar to relax when we discovered that Julius and Yau had been cleaning or bikes. I couldn't believe it. It was the last thing in the world I would have done myself, and I know that Yau found the day exhausting himself. I drank a beer in thanks.

When we were all together we walked a good 2 km into town (eschewing the hotel restaurant, which was of course empty and a bit pricey) until we came across a bustling street. We found a vendor grilling fish in the open air and ordered six plates and ate them with our fingers in the dark.

By that point we were so tired all six of us squeezed into a taxi along with the driver for a ride back to the hotel and for a well-needed sleep.

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