Tears of Ivory

Chapter Two: Veiled in Amethyst

Chapter Two: Veiled in Amethyst

                Diffusion had already occurred, even after just the first half of my flight, I had already learned the mysteries of the world from two distinct individuals. Although: I would have preferred for these anthropological guides to not have had so strong of an odour. Nevertheless, I survived the artificial, cultural biosphere that the plane’s fuselage provided. Despite the amusement of the ride, I found pleasure in knowing that the plane had finally landed. I had meant to separate from my seat-mates with kind parting words, but I was unsuccessful. In the struggle for reaching the plane ‘EXIT’ first; I lost sight of my friends in order to secure my baggage from malicious predators. With nary a distracted glance, they were gone—I had thought to yell, but I had not thought to learn their names.

                I rejoined my precious Fantanne during our descent from the plane’s stairs. She had informed me of the hopeless wrecks that she had been forced to sit beside. Plus, she was disconcerted with the vile grimace which the staff had reassured her was ‘dinner’. How dare they serve an Ethiopian dish on a plane coming in from America. She petitioned that they had no empathy for the cultural spelunking experience, whatever that meant. She was French after all, so I don’t mind anything she says overly much.

Nevertheless, we now needed adequate accommodations for our retreat. It was exhilarating to know that if at any point in our travels, if we were to die, no one would even notice. We had no safety net or connections; the only thing we had was cash, luggage and two American passports. It was also quite terrifying arriving in a place with no prior arranged plans. Luckily a single pamphlet, covered in broken English, appealed to us; it bade us to the Buéa Resort –a short distance from the airport. Although it is called an airport, it was reminiscent of a landing strip in a ‘Billy-buck’ field—there was not even a gift shop.

                Shortly after, we rode a small worn out, double decker bus to the resort. The place had the flare of a dull candle, its amenities were similar to the accommodations of an American Brothel and furthermore, the staff had begun to steal my dear Fontanne’s jewelry. I suspected that it was some impoverished victim of the government’s corrupt reign, so therefore I did not pursue investigation into the matter. After all, if an orphan nicks your car, you do not proceed to run him down in it: such is the case with a desolate chambermaid. Among the testaments of Fontanne’s romantic past—which consisted of many men trying to abide through much pleading and gift giving—was her ivory necklace. Its white purity was spoiled by the dark hands of desperate innocence that had stolen it.

Although the resort had been labelled as an authentic glance of Cameroon, it was anything but. One day, we had gone to the buffet on the resort, both Fantanne and I ate some pizza that had been undercooked; severe nausea plagued us. The fit of sickness struck so rapidly that I rushed to the restaurant washroom, I clung to the marble floors to the side of the porcelain toilet; I shamefully raised my head to succumb to my innards’ demands of immediate evacuation.

                We begrudgingly returned to our hotel room, pungent aromas gleaming from our clothing (which we had later donated to a couple of street urchins). After unlocking the door, we saw the chamber maid dressing the bed. I happily greeted the black man. Thoughts of accusations flooded into my head, could this have been the man that stole Fontanne’s necklace? I briefly pictured this man’s wife or daughter parading around their shacks in ivory. The man approached, shook my hand and greeted me in a thick, British accent. I had expected a homely, African jaunt, but instead—a British accent.

Although I do not consider myself to be a sterotypist, I expect Cameroonians when visiting Cameroon; the British should stay in Britain. Thus far, I would have received a more accurate picture of Africa if I were to listen to tribal music in the back alley behind an A & W. Once again, a vacation was disgustingly necessary to keep myself sane; a vacation of salvation, in the midst of a vacation. Later that night, Fontanne had gone out to fetch some water and ice; I was left to consult with the map that I had removed from the reception desk. All of a sudden, Fontanne jiggled open the lock and busted through the door, she approached my bed with the tenacity and daintiness of a French gymnast.

“Martin, my dear, I just talked to a local. The strange man, was leading a small tour bus through the countryside.  They had just returned from a venture out further into Cameroon, to the South. The guide said it was where all the ‘Moswen’ like to go.” Fantanne’s suggestion had caused my ears to perk and my mind to resolutely close. I was sure that our destiny had planned this detour for this very reason.

“What is the name of this area? Oh, and what is a MOSWEN?”

“I assume the word is of their mother tongue…most likely means local or tourists, I suppose. The place is the Ballassi Peninsula, it is a world famous fishing destination don’t you know.” Her as-a-matter-of-factly tone, confirmed her absolute desire to leave our current resort at once. “Shall we depart? To the wild, Martin. Let’s grab a few complimentary towels for the road; it will be a long voyage.”

We left immediately, hardly leaving time to grab our luggage. Outside our hotel, the terrain was rugged yet beautiful. Hills and dunes of dirty sand stretched throughout the endless land. Few trees existed for shade, only a random rock or such every several metres. Cameroon is a place of extremes—you are either going uphill or downhill; you are either in a slum or a castle; in a cackle of white men or a sea of local black men. There is nothing in between.

Outside the resort, there was a towering rock face, that cast a shadow throughout the highland plains, underneath the feature was a small wooden stand. The sign adorning the stand spelled out “Tranzit”. Of course it was a pitiful attempt at spelling, but who can blame these people for butchering our language. We headed over to the shadowy man, hesitantly wondering what type of transit he had in mind.

We were no sooner attacked with an influx of venders and merchants as the Tranzit man stepped in to pull us to the safety of his stand…err…storefront. I finally saw a hand drawn map curling out from the man’s back pocket, it depicted a long journey, and had drawings of marching elephants. Fantanne stealth fully put her face to my ear and whispered about how much she would enjoy riding an elephant, I agreed.

“Hello my friend, American? American money? Elephant? Ride like fumo!” The transit man rambled on, his words even more disjointed than his dreadful teeth. I certainly did not appreciate the locals using words we did not understand; I therefore had a journal which I carried around at all times. I etched in every random which word that was in their language, I had hoped that the translations would come to me.

Nevertheless we paid the man several bills and he led us to the elephant stable several miles away from his stand.

End of Chapter Two