His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI,

a.k.a. (or formerly k.a.) Joseph Alois Ratzinger

It would be a party so big that it brought together every high-level official of the country: the President and all the ministers -- party people who spend the better part of a year living the African dream in Europe and the Middle East. By attending this one, they surely thought they would be doing something more meaningful and constructive than going to the ones they host for themselves.

J.A.R., the party.. and its by-product
It's been 14 years since the last time a Pope came to Cameroon. Pope John Paul II was here in 1985 and 1995, and can be found on wall paintings at schools that he visited. Now it was time for the new airport and again for the country and its people to be blessed, and to hold a Mass for tens of thousands, and many more who would follow it on national television. Kamerun im Papstfieber! People here had waited an unusually long time for a spiritual experience of this calibre, hence the extra high level of excitement given the latest Benedict's visit. Hundreds of thousands dressed up festively and waited for hours at the airport, in the city and along the street that connects the two so they could welcome the Pope. This was to be a joy for non-Catholics, too: 3 more days off work for everyone and a big clean-up campaign prior to his arrival resulting in cleaner roads, the installation of a few more traffic lights and road signs, repainted walls and buildings, and generally, the removal of unsightly things. What's there not to like?

For starters, some of my colleague's Muslim friends, who live near the stadium where the big Mass would be held, were forced out of their homes for 4 days.. because of their faith? No one knows. No compensation, apology, or explanation necessary, of course. As part of the clean-up campaign, countless stands have had to make way permanently. Unsightly things. These are ubiquitous little stands on the streets and in markets that sell snacks, clothing, DVD players, tableware, medicine, the lot; if anything, they are what makes Yaounde a bustling city. (There aren't all that many shops here.) Policemen and anti-riot vehicles came unannounced to drive them away in some areas, most of which the Pope didn't plan to visit, I'm sure. It's very nice to have more space for pedestrians and to be able to see these shops that were previously hidden from sight, but the ill-advised handling of the situation has suddenly left a pretty large group of young people pretty angry, with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. I, as a foreigner and being new and all, think that's alarming. Also, the majority of them are Muslims from the North, and 'tribal tensions' as a phrase alone already sounds scary.

But who would have thought that, of all things, the visit of a Pope would be detrimental to business? For two weeks, government departments had put aside daily work, pointing towards the imminent arrival of the Pope, as if these officials' time was dedicated to the preparation for it. Payments by the Ministry of Finance were also suspended/delayed by several weeks. Contractual obligation? Sure, yes. Then, if you must and if you are crazy enough, go ahead and find a lawyer -- and know that doing so is asking for trouble. Blocked roads, lazier-than-usual government workers, payment issues, no fun.

Rumor had it that the ministry was out of money, spending all that was available on the clean-up campaign and other preparations. It's also rumored that an undisclosed amount would be -what's the right word here- donated(?) to the Vatican. One day, two trucks were seen leaving the ministry filled with notes. What they were for, insider gossip provided no clues. Meanwhile, I personally see this event as a good opportunity for some of the big players to 'enhance their income'. Now, blaming everything on the Pope would clearly be irrational, but there's a correlation there -- one which reveals an inconvenient truth: that money is always an issue.

J.A.R. and Africa
The Pope was expected to press the President to curb corruption. He didn't do this very openly, because, apart from being the right thing to do, that would have been too ridiculous. The Vatican demanding more transparency? Behind closed doors, that is mere hypocrisy; in public, a confrontation would be an outright joke. Of course, the people in question wouldn't get the joke. They couldn't imagine life without corruption, either. Besides, they're not compelled to listen. How many politicians who are very public about their faith do not just take the elements that they like (votes; 'moral' high ground) and leave the ones that they don't like (inconsistency with their agendas)?

The HIV/AIDS issue was addressed by condemning condom use. Not helpful at all. But it's a relief to read that, even within the Roman Catholic Church, many do not agree with him on this one. The glory days are over, persuasion is more difficult than force. Maybe it needs repackaging. Maybe it can learn something from American Evangelicals! Oh God, what am I saying.

In vying for new members and their sanity, the Catholic Church faces tough competition from other churches and religions, and that something which many Chinese will jokingly say they worship: Money. However, membership is growing rapidly here in Africa, faster than anywhere else. To be fair, it is hard to compete with that, given Africa's population explosion; but above all, the Pope came to embrace his fellow Catholics and Africa as a whole, and possibly help to make it more popular. I remember how unspectacular it was to me even when he first returned to Germany as the new Pope in 2005. Tropical Papstfieber, in contrast: much more intense and widespread, and more interesting to observe. It looked like very effective PR, PR that came at a price and I had to pay for, as well.



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If you are offended in any way by my writing, for example, because religion is a sensitive subject.. or because you are the President of Cameroon, I apologize. Let me know, so that we can reconcile.

Me & The Nun

Evil Customs, Part 2.

In light (hint) of an upcoming event that has already been affecting everyone but won't be honored with an entry until next week, an episode that bears with it a dose of mixed emotions, which has made it difficult to write about. Earlier, I deemed Customs here in Cameroon evil; but perhaps that wasn't entirely correct. Perhaps they are more pitiful than anything else because their shortcomings, too, may just be the reflection of the state that this country is in.

One time, we drove 4 hours to the port city of Douala in order to pay import duties for some goods. In cash, which translates into many thousands of notes that were counted by hand. Not Chinese, lightning-speed hands but keep-cool, African hands. All 4 of them. Yes, 2 cashiers at a major African port to deal with the consistently long line of people bringing them bags and bags of notes to count - so, standing in line and counting took another 3 hours.

In countries like these, for every thing that you want to do, the paperwork that's required is little short of madness. Annoyingly, as a tourist, you may need to get a permit to take photos of government buildings, but it is at Customs where they, most systematically and shamelessly, squeeze money out of you.

Naturally, the Customs official sitting at her own little desk in Yaounde's main post office would not let a golden opportunity slip away when one presented itself in the form of two foreigners -me and a French, elderly nun- who came to pick up packages that had been mailed to them. I myself was endlessly happy about receiving a birthday gift (food) from the modern world, and the nun was delighted to see the box of donated second-hand glasses that were for the needy (followers of The Church). The Customs official found it only appropriate to kill some of the joy by demanding a 100% import duty on these goods, the value of which -since there were no receipts- she would determine by her own estimation plus the mailing fees(!?). She would suspiciously write the sum on a small piece of paper and slide it over the table, looking away and repulsive and arrogant and unconcerned. What followed was some arguing and negotiating, in combination with acting.

Having to pay anything was outrageous but because I saw it coming, I wasn't half as shocked as the nun was furious (understandably) about this shameless woman unjustifiably demanding money for these old glasses that were for a charitable cause. Workers of the post office, too, felt that this was a disgrace and helped us complain to the director of the post office who had for some time been unhappy with the Customs official's presence and continuing exploitation of the power that comes with her position. The nun was the first to be invited into the director's office to make her complaint and coming out, she still had her don't-mess-with-me face on and formed a fist to signal to me that it's necessary to show them some fury and let it be known that such injustice is not okay!

In the end, it was all fruitless drama because we did not hear back from the director, which was to be expected; but I found comfort in a pack of Dutch liquorice and the fact that I am more susceptible to pleasant surprises than I am to nasty ones, which is proving to be invaluable here in Africa! A rogue like this Customs official is a sorry individual who already has enough to eat but nonetheless tries to steal a fish -- as opposed to the poor person who needs to be given a fish, or the diligent person who learns to fish. TIA. This is Africa. That said, the nun will get over it. She may already have given away the glasses to people in need. Besides, she must be happy now, considering the imminent arrival of someone very special: Her 大大老板*!



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*Big big boss (word-by-word translation)

Ruse Is Not A Tropical Disease

London. I figured after last time that I would never like this city much; but I would give it a second chance this time around. That was until I stepped out of the plane and entered Heathrow Airport. I do honestly hate that place, although as of this moment, I more passionately hate the Italian guy sitting next to me in this hip Brussels hostel's internet corner, for typing on his keyboard like it is an ancient typewriter, causing the whole table to vibrate strongly but irregularly, and overall turning his typing activity into a very noisy and annoying affair for others nearby. Anyhow.

I arrived at Holborn Station during rush hour, which I now know is a Don't Do, especially for beginners. In search of my hostel and road signs that would help me find it, all I saw were cranky, very serious people in a hurry -- people who were entirely focused on getting to their destination, probably their homes, as quickly as they could. In that sea of fast-moving bodies, I noticed the occasional still-standing tourist holding a map but who was equally disoriented, which I found was a funny sight, as I told myself that I was the guy from rural African who had never been to the Western big city, overwhelmed and lost and without a map even. There must be some good explanation for this in the study of psychology, the fact that the cranky-looking people running around made me feel I needed to start moving -and fast, too- even though I had no idea which direction to take. I walked back and forth in the surrounding area and did not get any smarter, so then I asked the first normal, idly-standing person for help and, of course, she had an iPhone and in no time, she pinpointed for me our location and my hostel on Google Maps. There are nice people in this city, after all. Then came a woman who asked help; she looked desperate but not so desperate as to look suspicious. She had asked 10 people already, was pregnant, [......], needed £4 for a ride home, and if I didn't believe her, I could even have her cellular phone [...] -- to which I said I was merely a backpacker, unsure of whether or not that was cold-blooded but recalling that the very first person I exchanged words with that day, in London, was a lady at a desk in Heathrow Airport trying to trick me into buying overpriced train tickets to get to the city.

But to sum it all up, the long weekend in London was pretty fantastic and with some surprises, as the positives, e.g.:

+ catching U2 perform, in a surprise gig, on the rooftop of the BBC
+ nostalgic bus rides
+ Picasso Illuminations at Trafalgar Square
+ great restaurants
+ meeting strangers
far outweighed the usual negatives, i.e.,:

- the sight of too many older women wearing skirts too short (not charming)

- too much binge drinking, too early in the day

- Heathrow Airport

- stupid, American tourists everywhere I went ("My brother is the biggest U2 fan! Really, he used to, like, travel to other cities to go to their concerts.")

I'd like to think that I have become more open-minded; that living in Africa has had that effect. During the coffee breaks between lectures, I ended up socializing with more blacks than people of any other race. Most white people didn't want my love, and it's the front-row, glasses-wearing Cantonese who suddenly looked the least approachable and interesting. Let me point out here that I am more sarcastic than I am an ass, as not only do I have a bit of Cantonese in me, but I wear glasses, occasionally, and choose the front row, too.. sometimes. It's weird this passage turned out like this because the overall message is supposed to be that race does not matter.

The evening before I left London, the woman was there again, approaching me with an "Excuuse me!" from afar; but in the relative darkness, she recognized me only after she was within about 5m distance and greeted with a big smile -- at which point, with a look of frustration and disappointment on her face, she let out an "Ahh Sh...!" I thought this little incident was wildly amusing, not least because I had been wondering if she was for real or not, if there I had declined to help someone in need or if she was a failed con artist. If only I had a picture of that face!

- - - - -

Epilogue: About meeting random strangers.

There's something very different about traveling alone: You take in more of your surroundings and it becomes more of a sensory experience simply because, for better or for worse, you need only to entertain yourself. Somehow, it also makes it a hundred times easier for me to get into a conversation with a perfect stranger -- if he or she is of any interest, or is at least friendly. Among the people I had the chance to get acquainted with were Remy, the Portuguese-French, soon-to-be fighter pilot; Jorge from Venezuela who insisted that Chavez is loco, and who worked for a year to save up money for his first-time trip to Europe; Holly, the hippie vegan from New York; Florin, the Romanian truck driver who was returning home, scared after being attacked and robbed of his possessions, including the truck he was driving, by another Romanian.. but who was excited to be in an airport for his first time, and to tell a stranger all about his country and people.

For the flight from London to Brussels, one had to check in using one of those machines, and so I reluctantly did and while at it, chose the seat 22C. They're my number and letter, and it proved to be the best seat on the plane. What I found when I got to it was a black little bag. In it were £185 and $145, a considerable amount (especially in Africa, I kept thinking). I knew not what to do with it, but reckoned that without a name on it, it was near-impossible to return it to the owner who must have long left. And anyone I would hand it to would just keep it for him- or herself. The clean-up team probably hadn't noticed it; Mr. 22A had, but left it untouched. I decided to split it with this Mr. 22A, a Bangkok-based, self-employed Belgian who thought I was being generous, when really it was just so I needn't feel weird about the whole thing. In Brussels, I would, among other things, pay more attention to street performers and musicians; spend €30 on a pay-as-you-wish ashtray, made by a homeless person using scissors to work the bottom of lemonade cans; and in an act of cultural exchange, buy Jorge his first Guinness and Belgian beer. Altogether Brussels was a quite a success, it appeared.

Then I missed my flight to Cameroon the next morning -- and to punish myself for such retardedness, I stayed and waited in the airport until the next flight (45 hours later).