I am dreaming of the mountains of my home

I’ve been thinking about a song which Stan Roberts has performed at concerts. It’s called, I think, “My little Welsh home”. It starts, “I am dreaming of the mountains of my home.
Of the mountains where in childhood I would roam. I have dwelt 'neath southern skies.
Where the summer never dies, But my heart lies in the mountains of my home”
The summer never dies here. Indeed, it’s strange to be in a country without what we know as seasons. Another hot day (31 degrees) here today.

Late on Friday I took the night bus to the fleshpots of Douala in order to ... attend the AGM of the Cameroon Esperanto Association. The meeting was held entirely in that language, and a new chairman and committee were elected. The meeting opened with a lusty rendering of the Esperanto hymn “La Espero”, a practice which has faded away a little in Europe. After the meeting we went to have a drink, and the disagreements of the AGM were forgotten, as people laughed and joked in the sunshine.

As usual, my hosts Victor and Dhome were kind and attentive – maybe too kind, because I was taken to a nightclub until 3pm on Sunday morning, having had no sleep since I got up on Friday morning.

The pictures show Victor Nto Nto, new President of the Esperanto Association of Cameroon and some of those who attended. And I can't help adding one of two children playing in the street in Douala. They do have shoes, but chose not to wear them.

Visit to Douala by the sea

Over the weekend I went to stay with Victor Nto Nto and his wife Ndome Julette Ebongue in the port city of Douala. It was a long journey, with Vatican Express, a curiously misnamed company in more than one way. The route is through beautiful country, the road being fine in some places and very poor in others.

Victor and Julette live in very modest circumstances, but they shared with me what little they have. It was a privilege to share their lives, albeit briefly. They have very few possessions, no computer, no car, no hot water for washing themselves and no luxuries except a black-and-white television. Victor earns the tiny salary of a schoolteacher, and Julette is unemployed, in a society where there is no social security system. Ah, the next time I hear teachers in Wales complain about anything, I’ll get very cross. I made a brief visit to the school where Victor teaches. The classrooms have no windows and a bare uneven clay floor. The pupils sit on long wooden benches. The only audio-visual method is chalk and talk.

I was able to hear some fine live music in Douala. I’m collecting languages like mad, and at one cabaret the songs were sung in Douala and Erewondo.

Worrying that I might fall prey to sundry ne’er-do-wells, Victor put me in the care of a soldier riding shotgun on the return journey, in the way that you might put a small child in the care of a guard on a train. This soldier took his duties very seriously shadowing me and enquiring how I was from time to time. He felt his country’s reputation was at stake. This big man even bought me a beer. On this very long weary 7½ hour trip from Duala to Bamenda, at a refuelling stop, I ate grilled goat’s meat, served in a piece of old newspaper. Very tasty, until I went round to the back of the stall, where the goat’s head and feet were laid. The head seemed to reproach me.

Today I went to meet the mayor of the nearby town of Santa. That reminds me of some other strange place names. On the road between Yaoundé and Bamenda is a village called Tonga. There’s also a place called Bali. And don’t mention Menchum.

The pictures here (from the top) are of:

1. My bodyguard on the bus. You wouldn't argue with him!

2. Victor's sister washing clothes in cold water in their courtyard. Her smile says it all.

3. View of Victor's school and a classroom

4. Lizard in Douala

5. Boatmen ferrying dredged sand on the river at Douala