By Lyombe Eko - Iowa City, Iowa, USA
I have crossed many African rivers–both literal and figurative–but none of my many experiences prepared me to cross the Mungo river on a dugout canoe without a life-vest. It was with a heavy heart and a rather disorganized frame of mind that I arrived Douala on the evening of July 29th. It was about 5:30 pm. I set my sights for Buea, hoping to get there in time to take part in funeral services for my mother, who had travelled to the land of the ancestors a few days earlier.
A taxi driver at the Douala airport informed me that because of repair work on the Wouri bridge, taxis were not allowed to cross to Bonaberi. He offered to take me to the Mungo river crossing in his private car–at a hefty fee (about $30). Since it was getting late, I did not have much of a choice. I hopped into his taxi and we changed cars infront of the airport. We got to the Mungo river at about 6:45 pm. The skeleton of the collapsed Mungo bridge rose into view like a rotting elephant carcass as we approached the river.
The road ended abruptly at the swift, swollen river's edge. To the left or us, a clearing had been made in the forest and an improvised canoe landing had sprouted. The setting sun cast its yellowish glow on a scene of utter chaos: the loud noises of car and truck engines mingled with makossa music and shrill laughter from the bars that lined both sides of the road jarred on my nerves. The hustle and bustle of traders moving their wares, hawkers trying to make a last sale, taxi and lorry turn boys trying to convince passengers to board their vehicles, porters carting huge bales of goods, and canoe crews trying to convince passengers to board their vessels, was a scene that was a cross between the Bamenda motor park on Nkwen market day, Victoria beach before the departure of a boat for Nigeria, and the Douala train station on a busy day. It was chaos upon chaos!
As the shadows lengthened in the dusk, my driver negotiated with two porters, boys no more than 15 years-old, to carry my suit cases to the edge of the river and onto a canoe. My suitcases, with their American Airlines and Swiss baggage tags, looked terribly out of place in the wet, swaying dugout canoe with its bags of crayfish, corn, plums, vegetables and sugarcane. My heart sank when I realized there was no life-vest in sight.
"Welcome back home," I wispered to myself as I boarded the leaky canoe, fearing that my suitcases would get wet before we made the crossing. I paid my 200 Francs CFA like everyone else. The young man incharge dutifully scooped a few bucketfulls of water and tossed them into the swollen river. He then proceeded to announce that the crossing fee had been increased from 200 Francs to 500 Francs CFA. He
jerked his head backwards. It was then that I noticed the uniformed military officers. They were on both sides of the river. I was told they were from the Cameroon merchant marine and the army. The soldiers had come to the canoe landing and were holding on to the canoes, seemingly restraining them from crossing the river. Someone on board told me the crossing clossed at 6 pm. However, the military men let the canoe crews to continue ferrying people across–for a fee.
After a short delay, our canoe was on its way. Two young men, one on each end of the canoe, eased us out of the landing and into the middle of the swift current, the canoe swaying from side to side. When we got to the middle of the river, they stopped the vessel and asked every one to pay up. They explained that they had to "settle" the army men on both sides of the river. The military men wanted 1000 Francs from each canoe. We the passengers were to pay that fee. Two youngmen refused to pay and shouted something to the effect that it was theft. The canoe boys refused to budge, stating that they had no money to pay the army men. A cloud of mosquitoes rose from the river and set upon like hyenas on carrion. We started slapping ourselves furiously. In the meantime, the canoe started drifting slowly down stream in the swift current. I was so terrified I offered to pay for the two young men and anyone wlse who refused to part with 300 Francs each. I was not going to drown for 600 Francs (just over 1 U.S. dollar).
The canoe owners accepted my offer. As soon as I had paid, they slowly eased the vessel toward the far shore, rowing against the tide. In the gathering dusk, we could see people waiting for us on the far shore. Just then, we heard shouts and the quick sounds of paddles in the water. I looked up and saw two bare-footed, uniformed soldiers paddling a dugout canoe and moving furiously towards us. Theywere going to hit us broadside in the middle of the river! Our own canoe crew paddled furiously towards shore. The canoe with the military men missed us by inches. Just then, one of our canoe crew members dived into the river and disappeared into the forest, leaving us drifting. The military men screamed at him in French, saying something to the effect that he almost caused the canoe to capsize. Very reassuring!
We all screamed in desperation at the second young man who was now near the shore, and begged him not to leave us there in the river. He gave a few more strokes of his rusty shovel, eased us on to the bamk and then vanished. The canoe swayed from side to side as we the panicked passengers stood up and tried to leave. Mercifully, the porters on the other side, who saw in our cargo an opportunity for business, steadied the canoe and helped us out. When we disembarked on the muddy shore, darkness had fallen. We learned that the military men had chased our canoe crew in the river because they had failed or refused to pay the mandato ry 1000 Francs that is their due! We almost lost our lives for 1000 Francs CFA ($2 dollars).
When I got home that night, I thanked my God that it was not my day! On the radio, the governor announced that the government would provide enough boats for everybody to cross the river free of any charge. I was to cross the Mungo three more times to do business in Douala. I was glad my return trip was going to be lesshazardous.
The reality was different. On my way to Douala the next week, only one military boat was in sight. A police boat was on the other side of the collapsed bridge. We were told that we had to "motivate" the military crew to take us across. Additionally, the military said their boats did not have fuel. The dugout canoes turned out to be quicker.
On 12th of August, I made my last trip across the Mungo, on my way to the airport. When I arrived the river's edge, the lone military boat was anchored under a tree and someone was fast asleeping on a bed made of the vessel's life jackets. A soldier told us they had to fuel the boat. After waiting for an hour, and seeing no attempt to fuel the boat, a young lady explained to me that the boat was not working because the canoe owners had given the military officers "something." The tired, hardworking, soldiers were slacking their thirst in the nearby bars. She said that if we continued to wait, we would wait till the grass grew around our feet. That was enough for me. Since I had a flight to catch that evening, I paid the 200 Francs fee and huddled into a dugout canoe with a mixture of people: traders, two students coming to the United States, four tourists from the Netherlands and a host of others. This last trip was more reassuring. The canoe crew insisted that we put on the orange life jackets provided by the Cameroon Merchant Marine. The trip was uneventful. As I left, I saw the floating barge that is to serve as the temporary bridge across the Mungo. It was a welcome sight! Who said our tax money is not at work in Cameroon?
Originally published on CAMNETWORK, the Cameroon online discussion forum
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