The Time I Went To Cameroon
The land of cheap beers and spaghetti omelettes
Every other year, Albion College sends a group of freshmen to Cameroon, a small country on the West Coast of Africa. I had to meddle my way in, being neither a freshman nor a student in the “Africa: Myth and Reality” class. I sat-in during classes and showed up at the professor’s office until he was finally annoyed enough to let me go.
Thank God for my persistence.
Needless to say, the trip was mind-blowing. Complete culture shocks usually are. I’m not here to write about sappy, life-changing, instances of morality. Save those for the travel blogs. Not once did I see myself through the eyes of a lion cub, never did I listen to the sounds of the jungle and cry, nor did I save a hungry child from death. Sorry.
My trip was much more understated. It’s been over two years since I stepped onto Cameroonian soil. These are the moments that stick out:
A woman grabbed my friend and started kissing her face. This was the first thing that happened when we stepped outside of the airport and it truly set the stage for the rest of the trip.
I tried not to laugh as my friend stood there, frozen as the large woman practically suffocated her. This went on for about a minute before my professor showed up and introduced her as his sister-in-law.
I was asked if I was a heathen. The only response I could think of was “oui.” They didn’t talk to me anymore after that.
A giant rat ran across my feet. The biggest animal I saw in Africa was a rat. We were eating outside when I felt it — thirty pounds of nasty rodent running across my toes. I wish I could say that I remained calm. I screamed, which made everyone else scream, which made my professor mad. We finished our meal squatting on our chairs.
I got drunk and so did my French skills. In Cameroon, forty-ounce beers cost about fifty cents and they taste better than water. I took advantage of this. It was all fun until I had to ask the hotel lady how to use the strange foreign toilet in broken French. She was not pleased. On the plus side, happily drinking warm beer is now within my skill set.
People got the shits. I blame the spaghetti omelettes, which we scarfed down every day for breakfast while staying in the village. Communication with the cook was difficult to impossible so you pretty much had to eat what he gave you. Whether you said “no spice” or “light my mouth on fire,” he’d nod and then give you whatever the fuck he felt like. I’m sure that he laughed as we waddled back to our rooms, cheeks clenched.
A child gave me the finger. I sat on a ledge for a smoke break during our visit to the school, not realizing that I was in plain sight of a class of young children. I heard giggling and whipped my head around to find three kids standing at the doorway. One gave me the finger, I returned the favor, we all laughed and they ran away. I’m a bad role model.
