By Boeing: 6390 miles
By Boris Bike: 6.2 miles
I had been looking forward to only my second African foray. Algeria, on the Barbary coast, had been fascinating, but is a world away from the heart of the continent.
My perception of Cameroon has largely been formed by an image of their enigmatic footballer Roger Milla’s flamboyant corner flag dance routine at the 1990 World Cup. This seemed so fresh and exuberant compared to the firm shake of the hands that Bobby Charlton may have exchanged with a stern faced Alf Ramsay.
The unbridled, unbounded joy of the fans, blasting their trumpets and beating the incessant rhythm of song, left a lasting impression, so different from the image of the despairing, despotic Africa presented on the news. This image was developed at the recent world cup in South Africa, where a much maligned, misunderstood continent showcased its passion to the watching world.
So when I traipsed through the glum, grotty streets of a suburb on the fringes of the tube network I expected a heartfelt welcome. Unfortunately my visit was treated with suspicion and unease and I am unable to share the details of the restaurant or location and those who want to will find it much harder to discover the flavour of Cameroon.
Nestled between the ubiquitous string of kebab shops and fried chicken establishments that characterise the urban fringes, this community restaurant was dimly lit and dingy. The interior looked like a cross between a Leatherhead sub-office of a cable television provider and the plush waiting room of an eccentric dentist. The grey, flecked, asbestos riddled ceiling tiles, bare carpet and municipal tables were complemented by random bursts of colour courtesy of murals, asymmetric patches of paint and lurid serviettes. The lines of tables were broken by a lounge area , where the sullen owner and her friends sat in huge, sumptuous, grey leather sofas in urgent, vociferous chatter.
As with many of the restaurants on my journey it marketed less to the casual diner than the bride, the betrothed and their brethren. The menu catered for such large groups offering plates, platters and party discounts. The house speciality was a two foot long grilled Tilapia, a popular African fish, but I, as ever, sought out the national dish, a rich stew called Ndole. Unfortunately they didn’t offer that as it was too difficult to make (this is a common theme with national dishes, I encountered the same problem in Albania). So instead I opted for a similar staple, a thick, flavoursome stew in which fragments of goat vertebrae could sometimes be found.
This Egusi came with a mound of pounded yam, the continental variant of mashed potato, but with the gelatinous consistency of semolina. It was spicy and nourishing and reminiscent of the curried goat I had enjoyed on my first stop off in the Caribbean, unsurprising of course given the cultural ties between the regions.
The wine list wasn’t what I would call extensive. Even the greenest of sommeliers would have little trouble discerning the good and the grape. It contained three options: red, rose and white. I opted for an imported beer instead, which complemented the stew well. As a sampler I also ordered Suya, beef smothered in a spicy peanut sauce and skewered, a popular street food and extremely moorish. A dish very typical of the region, that I will look forward to tasting later in my journey, is Jollof Rice, a medley of tomato, pepper and chunks of fish or meat. I considered the ‘assorted meat’ soup but winced when told it contained tripe.
I have heard rumours that bush meat is considered a delicacy and can often be ordered ‘a la carte’, so to speak. But however hungry for new experiences and tastes I may be a Chimpanzee cutlet is never going to be a tantalising, let alone ethically acceptable, prospect.
Cameroon stands at the crossroads of the continent, a former French colony buttressed by the British protectorate of Nigeria. With a ready supply from river and sea fish dominates the diet of all but the richer classes. Shrimp paste is a common ingredient, even in meat based stews, and this is reflected in the name of the nation, which is derived from the Portuguese for ‘River of Shrimp’. Its cities are more cosmopolitan and the urban elites are increasingly getting a taste for burgers, Indian and Chinese.
As is the sad fate of many post colonial African nations progress and peace have been hampered by corruption and infighting. 41% of the population are under 15 and the life expectancy is a depressingly morbid 53. Life for most Cameroonians remains one of struggle and subsistence. The mixture of cultures, tribes, colonial influences and refugees from neighbouring countries has created a complex ethnic and linguistic tapestry.
This rich diversity of cultures, tribes and colonial influences is made more complex still by the mix of religious groups. Christianity and Islam are widely followed while ancient animist beliefs are still prevalent away from major cities. Witchcraft, although forbidden, is still practised and can incite sporadic mob violence when a witch is declared.
This ethno-religious melting pot can be an obstacle to commerce and cultural transaction but In urban centres a solution has been found in the form of a new dialect known as Camfranglais, a pragmatic pidgin of French, English and local slang. I can only assume that the unprounceable surname of the country’s icon, Samuel Eto’o, was its only etymological error to date.
I left Cameroon harried and in a hurry, unable to savour the tastes or get a feel for the country. I very much hope I can stay a while longer, and be welcomed later in my journey.
