Yaounde, Cameroon

After about sixteen years away from Cameroon, I am finally back to the country that was my first home. The only problem that I have had since my arrival last Monday is that each day I have so many stories worth recording and not enough time to write them down. These stories all center around interactions with people. Everyone I have met has been gracious, welcoming, and lively. Everywhere I have gone I have felt at home somehow; surrounded by sights, sounds, smells and tastes that feel new and familiar at the same time.

My first encounter with Cameroonian hospitality happened before I even set foot on African soil. Waiting at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, I met a woman who was dropping off her uncle to fly home to Yaounde. The pair took me under their wing, checking me in and buying me breakfast. The uncle, who turned out to be a prominent judge in Yaounde, became my travel companion for the day. At the airport in Cameroon, he introduced me to his family, and we parted with the promise that we would see each other again soon. The next day, as I was walking down the dusty city streets, I heard someone call my name. I turned my head to the road and there was Saker, my first friend in Yaounde, waving energetically from a passing car.

Over the next few days, I learned that this kind of friendliness is far from unusual in Cameroon. Everywhere I go, I am greeted with friendly "bonjour"s and offers to help me navigate the multi-colored labyrinth that is the capital city. Yesterday, I attended an artisan's fair, filled with merchants from across the nation, as well as throughout the continent. A young woman, dressed beautifully in a patterned green dress, approached my friend and me, requesting that we follow her to her stand. I explained to her that I did not have money with me to buy anything and she responded and she simply wanted us to "discover" her art. At her stand, she showed beautiful wood pieces and taught me to play an African game that seemed to be a confusing version of Mancala. We chatted, took pictures together, and exchanged contact information so that she could invite me to a traditional festival in her village. When I left, she gave me a beautiful Cameroonian mask as a present; a "souvenir" of the fair.

This morning was another fantastic experience. My "grandmother", the 74 year old woman that I live with, took me to the market to buy fresh fish and fruit. In addition to being the site of my first marriage proposal, the market was a wild adventure. Everywhere I looked, I saw young boys pushing wheelbarrows filled with every type of fruit imaginable, women arguing over prices, and men holding live chickens upside down by their legs, two in each hand. Our first stop was at a "poissonerie", where we examined numerous varieties of dead fish, and watched as workers cleaned and chopped the ones that we selected, sending scales flying in every direction. After this, we strolled hand in hand past countless stalls, stopping occasionally to buy produce for the rest of the week. When we finally left, loaded with heavy bags, music erupted around us. There, with the sun shining down on my face, I felt so happy and so at home that I felt as if I could cry. It was that moment that I truly believed what so many people have told me; that I am back to my roots.