Long Way to Libreville

"I saw you a week ago on the ferry from Nigeria!"

Stunned, I took a minute to form a response to the man who owned the copy shop across the road from the police station in Bitam, Gabon. And when I did form one, it was lacking in articulateness.

"Wha...really?" 

"Yes, from Calabar." 

Damn, he was right. I started laughing. He laughed too, and then explained why the police had asked him to come across the street to translate for me.

"They want a copy of your visa. Here, I will take your passport and make it for you in my copy shop."

On to Gabon

"How do I get out of here?" I addressed a matronly woman sitting at the dining room table on the porch at the hotel/family home I'd checked into last night Ambam, Cameroon.

"You need a taxi?"

I nodded.

"Wait." She called her helper, who was the same college-age kid who'd checked me in last night. I'd guess this was her son, and her husband was the man who'd been sitting in the living room last night when I'd arrived. Helper-son disappeared through an opening in the wall of the yard. Minutes later, I heard a whirring. He showed up on the back of a motorcycle taxi he'd hailed.

Leaving Yaounde

The visa for the Republic of Congo, or Congo-Brazzaville, was a bargain at $140. Compared to the $267 I paid for the five seconds I was going to be in Congo-Kinshasa, this seemed like a steal.

I'd walked my passport back up to the Gabonese embassy on Wednesday afternoon. The visa officer visibly pulled back when he saw me.

Again.

"The boss isn't back yet."

"I know. I just want to get my passport in for processing."

Relieved, he took it and gave me a receipt.

"Come back Friday at 2."

"How about tomorrow? Any chance?" I couldn't afford to keep hanging around Yaounde unless I changed hotels. And I was lazy.

He laughed. "No."

"A little earlier on Friday then?"

"Maybe. Probably not."

Oh.

Like Overfeeding Your Fish

What should I eat first, I thought. The baguette or the croissant or the toast?

I've really, truly had quite enough bread since crossing over from Spain at the beginning of March. And why exactly was I still drinking this hotel coffee tastes so bitter?

I have developed the unfortunate habit of eating every meal on the road as if it were my last. I gorge myself on things I don't even like because I don't know when I'll get to eat again.

But, I reminded myself, I'm not on a long bus journey. I'm stuck in Yaounde all week, waiting on visas. There are nice restaurants right down the road. Who knows what logic my instincts are following?

I ventured down to the DRC embassy, with the 5,000 CFA I owed on my visa. They made me wait a bit while the people behind the glass partition had a riveting conversation that was probably about office gossip, then handed over my extremely expensive visa.

Yaounde by Candlelight

Here's how taxis work in Yaounde, Cameroon. A taxi driver sees you and slows down his cab. You yell out your destination, followed by how much you're willing to pay. In French. If he agrees, he honks once and stops. If not, he keeps going.

Great. So this should be...well, not easy.

But it doesn't work that way when you get off the bus from out-of-town. There are taxi drivers actually waiting when you get off the bus. Of course, they can't understand my accent and don't know where the hotel I've chosen is. But at least I don't have to yell at them from the side of the road.

I tried asking for my hotel, Meumi Palace—which I'd chosen due to its location near embassies—using different pronunciations.

Worse, Yaounde Had No Chocolate Bunnies

Dear lovely and sheltering hotel: You really don't have to turn on music or TV every time I enter a public room at 6:30 a.m.

Yep, Lady Gaga again. Which means that Serge Gainsbourg can't be far behind.

I was up early to catch the 8:30 bus to Yaounde, where I was going to hang around all week and apply for onward visas.

People who don't travel much might at this point ask me: Why didn't you get your visas before you left home?

I got all I could. West Africa is tricky visa territory. Maybe the trickiest region on earth. Wait. Let me think. hmmmmmmgulfmmmiddleeastmmiranmmmmpakistanmmmcentralasiawithitsinvitesmm...yep. I award the region of West Africa the Marie-prize for trickiest visa spot on the planet.

Mangoes and Monkeys

Sunrise in the pouring rain.

KA-BOOM.

And thunder.

Right, so it's rainy season in Cameroon.

That's not all bad, of course. I'd circumvented the tricky muddy roads over the mountains by taking the ferry from Nigeria, and I didn't have anything to do today. So I slept in until 8:30, ate a piggy breakfast, and did my laundry in the hotel sink.

And listened to Lady Gaga. Did they only have one CD in the lounge? No, wait...two. Serge Gainsbourg and Lady Gaga on a loop. Not at the same time.

Happy Birthday, Me

I woke up on the Endurance ferry from Calabar to Limbe just in time to catch the end of a rain shower outside and a Nollywood video inside.

Where is my passport? I was starting to get nervous. A man with the shipping company had taken my passport at the start of the journey and I'd figured it would show up eventually. Now I was getting worried.

We pulled into the Limbe port and anchored.

My, Cameroon was green. Deep, rich, Central African green. I was glad not to be crossing the green mountains between Nigeria and Cameroon in a vehicle. That's the kind of forest that sucks you up and spits you out at its own pleasure, with complete disregard for your schedule or wishes.

I followed the other passengers off a steel gangplank, onto the pier, and then down to a container-turned-immigration office. The sun was fierce and had burned off any coolness from the rain in moments.