“There is no fear in love, but perfect love
drives out fear.” 1 John 4:18
I’m still working on the ‘perfect love’
part…
Do you pray for ‘journey mercies’ before
going on a long trip? Perhaps you ask the Lord to grant you “safe travels” when
you embark upon your 2000-mile road trip across the United States for the
family summer holiday? Living in Cameroon has brought new meaning to these types
of prayers. One breathes a heartfelt thanks to God upon arriving back home -- alive
and in one piece. When I request prayers for a safe journey at staff worship in
the morning, I mean it. “Travel Safe” is not just a superficial formality.
“Why is my stomach in knots, you’re the one
driving?” I remark to Bill, my husband, when we arrive at the hotel. He’s been
the one dealing with the intricacies of manoeuvring a large, Nissan Terano
through the crowded streets of Yaounde and onward to Douala for the last six
hours. I’ve just been a non-participant passenger – watching the scenes flash
by through our cracked windshield. So why do I feel like I’ve just been through
a war zone, running for my life, dodging bullets of humans, motorcycles, and
swerving vehicles?
We descended the mountain of Cameroon a few
days ago, headed to Yaounde, the capitol of the country located in the Western
region. Our vehicle had two new front tires and a ‘clean bill of health’ from
the mechanic who’d serviced the SUV a few days ago. Other than the need to
release a bit of air from the tyres that were inflated to 50 psi instead of the
recommended 30 psi, everything seemed to be in working order. Only the familiar
clanks and whines remained.
But, now on the open road, picking up
speed, the poor vehicle began to shake. “The balance must be off on it,” my
husband lamented as his hands took on a peculiar tremor. Ashia! “Maybe the
mechanic balanced it with the tires at the wrong PSI and now with the proper
inflation it’s destroyed the balance.” The quiver was noticeable but
manageable, maximising at 90 kmh. We kept on.
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| Carcass of Former Minivan |
As we neared Bonaberi, a suburb of Douala,
our accountant in the front seat called out, “look, there it is.” A crumpled,
shattered carcass of a minivan lay sadly off to our right. Yesterday, 17
inhabitants of Buea boarded this particular bus early in the morning intending
to conduct their business in the big city of Douala. A very large lorry,
overtaking another tractor-trailer truck, rammed head-on to the minivan. There
was no contest. Small van lost. Hardly anything remained of the vehicle. All 17
people died. Now the twisted, splintered metal casing with bits of cushion stuffing
and shards of clothing are all that remain as a memorial to those that perished
yesterday.
Onward we continue with a sad nod to the wreckage.
Douala traffic is congested as usual, but Bill manages to navigate the organic
lanes of flowing cars, motorcycles, and pedestrians without too much angst.
He’s had practise. We are only stopped once by a gendarme who, after a few
minutes inspection of all the vehicle’s stickers, registration papers, and our
own licenses and ID cards, waves us on. I’m relieved. They’re not always as
amiable.
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| Taxi loaded with plastic jugs. View through our windshield. |
Finally, we are through Douala on the open
road from to Yaounde. I try to settle into reading. I ignore all the little
triangular posts that proclaim ’10 mort ici’ or ‘7 ici mort. A little white,
man symbolises the dead on each of these signs. We pass other silent testaments
to vehicle accidents. Crispy metal shards, iron bars twisted into grim skeletons,
the remains of recent automobiles. I can’t help notice the front of a large
lorry askew in the grass next to the road. It’s just the front part – it
reminds me of the head of a decapitated insect.
“Something just fell down by my feet, can
you see what is it?” The clutch had begun making a strange noise some
kilometres ago but otherwise the gears were apparently working.
I reach under the dashboard, avoiding the
large shoes of my husband as they hovered over the pedals, and search along the
dusty rubber mat. “It’s a bolt.” I hold up the sturdy brass bolt for Bill to
see. To put things mildly, he’s not amused. I’ll refrain from including his
real response.
“I think it goes here,” I say as I crane my
neck and look under the dash at the pedals. Bill has pulled the vehicle over so
we can see if the bolt can be replaced. I yank on the pedals a bit. “I don’t
think they’re going to fall off at least,” I proclaim. I try to screw the bolt
back into a small opening I spy above me. I have no idea if it’s in the proper
place though.
~0~
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| Yaounde Traffic at the Roundabout |
Yaounde, at last. It’s dark. It’s raining.
We’ve been driving 6+ hours. I am impressed as Bill pushes forward in a sea of
honking taxis, motorcycles weaving on all sides of us, and pedestrians taking
up any tiny remaining free space. Somehow he switches lanes (oh wait, what lanes?!)
as we thread our way through the round-about and onward to our destination. I
am extremely thankful when our friend comes in her car to lead us the rest of
the way to her house.
We have a one day respite in Yaounde. We
are eternally grateful when our friend recommends her driver to help us with
our vehicle’s disintegration woes. A very enthusiastic, smiling Cameroonian
driver coordinates the repair of our Terano. Bolt replaced. Clutch adjusted.
Wheels re-balanced.
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| Hills of Yaounde |
Saturday afternoon we leave the U.S.
embassy hoping to get back to Buea that night. Though slow, the traffic is
moving and we manage to snake our way across the city in less than an
hour. We pass large lorries
carrying enormous logs. Some of the logs are so big the trailer can only
accommodate one log. We pass an overturned logging truck. Someone forgot to
balance that one. Ouch! The driver stands outside his cab, scratching his head
while a few colleagues collect around the fallen truck to figure out what to
do. I wonder how many times this happens to the drivers. I’d hate to be a truck
driver in Cameroon.
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| Logging Truck |
“Looks like it burned. How did it burn
though?” I am a bit puzzled. A large passenger bus is charred down to its metal
spars and sits along the edge of the road. But, unlike Hollywood would have you
believe, vehicles don’t typically explode into a consuming ball of fire upon
impact. I still don’t know how an entire bus was burnt to a crisp. It wasn’t
there a day ago though.
 |
| Tree fallen across the road |
As we continue to drive along the road, the
clouds get darker and darker. Ominous thunder rolls across the sky. The raindrops,
heavy and thick, soon follow. Suddenly, there is a large tree fallen across the
road. It is blocking all lanes of traffic. Since we are only the third car to
pull to a stop in front of the leafy roadblock I assume it occurred only a few
minutes ago. “Oh good, there’s a bus. Surely, they’ll have enough people to manoeuvre
enough of the tree to allow at least one lane to pass,” I comment. And sure
enough, in short order, several young men are hacking away at the branches with
their machetes and clearing enough of the branches for one lane. I make a
mental note to consider adding machete to our list of emergency supplies for
the SUV, next to the reflective triangle, wheel jack, and fire extinguisher.
 |
| Pathway made through leafy roadblock |
“If people would just think,” my husband
grumbles when we begin to inch forward toward the gap in the branches. Every
other car is making a dash for the same one-car opening. Someone rams into our
rear bumper. Another ‘not good’ moment. Eventually, we make it through. A
gendarme appears from nowhere and valiantly tries to direct the traffic;
holding off oncoming vehicles to allow a fair turn for the opposite side to
pass. I can appreciate the gesture. He stands in the rain with a towel over his
head blowing his whistle.
“There’s the lights of Douala. Can you
see?” My husband points out the distant horizon of dense, flickering lights
that make up the outskirts of the city. “I wonder how the traffic will be?”
The traffic is not good. Not one bit. We
cram and scrape and inch forward at an incredibly slow pace. The doors on the
taxis begin to fly open and passengers scramble out. They hop onto motorcycles
that can still thread their way through the maze of trucks and cars now at a
standstill. Pedestrians pass us by on all sides. “Might as well turn off the
care, save fuel,” I comment to Bill.
“I’m going to have a sore jaw tomorrow.”
Bill rubs the muscles of his lower jaw line, “been clenching my teeth too
long.”
I nod miserably. It’s been over an hour.
We’ve made little progress. The night is getting later and later. Soon it will
be too late to make the drive up the mountain. Lonely stretches of road where
vehicles don’t always have headlights (or any lights for that matter) are not
an attractive option. The noise outside as the engine becomes silent, is a
clamour of voices and motorcycles. Everyone is shouting directions or
complaining about another driver’s position. It’s a congested tangle of metal
and flesh. My stomach twists into a clenched fist and lurches anxiously every
time someone slaps a hand on our car as he or she passes in front – both on
foot and on motorcycle.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it home
tonight,” my husband states. It’s true. “We don’t even know what Bonaberi will
be like. At this rate it will be midnight before we make it home.”
I agree. He perseveres until we make it to
a hotel that we’re familiar with. I breathe a sigh as we finally pull into the
gated parking area of the hotel. I can only imagine Bill’s relief.
“We’ll try again first thing in the
morning.” Bill carries one bag. I carry the other overnight bag. We check into
the hotel.
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| On the road passing a local gas station |
In the morning I look out the hotel window.
Six o’clock in the morning. The traffic is moving. We head up the mountain and
finally pull through the front gates of our place. On the way up we even spy a
rainbow. The rainbow and its pot of gold didn’t end at the health centre – oh
well. I’m thankful for the chance
to be home and not in the car anymore.
“Thank you, God.” I breathe the words with
a very sincere gratefulness.
“Faith means living with uncertainty -
feeling your way through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in
the dark.” ~Dan Millman
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| Rainbow with Mt Cameroon faintly visible in the background |
