Carry on Cameroon

The army commander stepped into the road and flagged down our taxi. Tall and barrel-chested, he peered at us suspiciously, the gun at his waist clanking against the car. There were already four of us squeezed in the back so he flung the passenger door open and sat down — on top of the slim, elegantly dressed woman in the seat.

The small Toyota sank on its suspension, creaking pitifully. The driver persuaded the car to move but it threatened to turn up its wheels and die at every pothole.

Suddenly the commander told the driver to stop and ordered him out of his seat and into the boot and wedged himself behind the wheel. We took off at speed, our army chauffeur grinning. Disconcertingly, every time I looked into the rear-view mirror one of his eyes was staring at me, the other at the road. We slowed at army checkpoints, but only enough for the commander to shout a joke at the bored squaddies.

I think the Forest Whitaker/Idi Amin looky-likey was as surprised by our encounter as I was. Cameroon, tucked below Nigeria in west Africa, gets almost no Western tourists. But a quick look at the only guidebook available had promised beautiful beaches, gorgeous landscapes and friendly people.

My friend Nick and I flew into the city of Douala. The only hotels in town seemed to be either fleapits or international business-style hotels. Neither appealed so we had booked ourselves into the German Seamen’s Mission, as you would.

I scanned the lobby and bar for melancholic German sailors, stranded in Africa and drowning their sorrows. No luck, not an anchor tattoo in sight. A few young black couples sipped Fantas and a group of middle-aged white men glugged beers and sweated into their linen suits. A woman lounged in the pool, wearing a vast pair of knickers underneath her bikini.

We left Douala the next day and headed north with guide Benjamin and driver Solomon, passing through rubber and palm tree plantations. Benjamin tried to explain the intricacies of Cameroon’s politics and the tribal system while I tried to ignore the carnage on the roads. Barely a few kilometers would pass without our seeing another wreck. One overturned truck was still smoking, its stunned driver and passers-by pulling clear what survived of its cargo of melons.

We came to Bandjoun, the biggest of the Bamileke tribal chiefdoms. Despite Benjamin’s best efforts, I was struggling to get my head round Cameroon’s ethnic make-up. There are more than 275 distinct groups, from the “pygmies” of the southern forests to the Muslim sultanates of the north. Then you have to factor in the colonial impact. First came the Portuguese, then the Germans who were kicked out by France and Britain after World War I. The French and British carved the country in two and full independence and reunification did not come until 1972. Even now, there are distinct Francophone and Anglophone areas.

But the tribal system still underpins Cameroonian society and the Bamileke hold much of the power. That power was clear to see at Bandjoun. The palace compound was vast, a wide road leading us through a tall gateway and down to the chief’s reception hall — a giant building, with a thatched witch’s hat of a roof.

The hall was being rebuilt — the previous building had burnt down in suspicious circumstances after a new, and unpopular, chief took the throne. Totem pole-like columns circling the building were carved with monkeys, forest spirits, tribal figures, missionaries and, er, Samuel Eto’o and other members of the Barcelona football team. The striker is a hero in his football-mad home country.