Living in the rolling shadow of Mt. Manengouba, it is a wonder that I did not find the time during a whole year to visit its notorious twin lakes of volcanic origin at the apex. Always having the intention, it was not until the saturdy before International Women's Day that this sentiment would be realized. Hiking from my house, while not impossible, would take an unreasonable amount of time and probably manifest into me lost and eating overripe coffee berries and uncooked manioc for sustenance in a nearby farm. Luckily, another volunteer lives halfway up the mountain, albeit on the other side. The highschool students were planning their annual trek to the lakes, so we decided to accompany them.
With an anticipated early morning departure, I arrived in Moumekeng the eveing before. Taking the paved road towards Douala just until Manjo, and negotiating a motorcyle up the regretfully bumpy, mountain road took about 2hours, not including time spent waiting for cars to fill and leave. It was market day in Moumekeng, but as I arrived in the early evening, most vendors, including the ones selling horse meat, where already packed up and gone.
Anticipating a strenous hike the next morning, Dan's cook prepared a fortifyingly, nutritious meal of deep fried plaintains, makeral and porcupine. As a rule, I try most bush meat, as long as it is not endangered, to my knowledge, or a primate. Porcupine was no exception to this rule, as I sank my teet into its gamey forearm, but I draw the line when it comes to sucking the perfectly preserved, deep fried claws, evidently structured for efficient digging (not your general american porcupine!), clean of all flesh.
Our bellies sufficiently filled with grease and regrets, we turned in early for a good nights sleep. Like all mountain villages, Moumekeng's evening climate was favorably cool and mosquito free. I even had to use a blanket, an idle fantasy in my own humid little piece of paradise!
Rising the next day before the sun, we firstly headed back th the cook's house to receive a packed lunch of last nights leftovers, plus a weighty amount of baton de manioc. We made our way towards the congregated and noisy crowd of sleep deprived adolescents, even in my refreshing slumber, I was concious of the Makossa music playing until 3:30am at the highschool, where the kids spent the night. For those who still had batteries and portable devices, the music was starting up again for the long haul.
We surged out in front of the crowd, but were quickly trailed by the eager and enthusiastic youth. Having identified a guide in a nearby village along the way, we split off from the group, who opted for an alternative path. This I didn't mind as less noise meant a greater plausability of wildlife sightings. Which with the frequency of bushmeat in this locale, I would assume to be high.
Arriving at our guides house, we found he underestimated our timeliness and had squeezed in an early morning palm wine harvest upon this premonition. The sun rose over Manengouba while we waited for his imminent return. By 7am, Roger was ready to go with three liters of a mild palm wine- manot, for the road.
The village and farms quickly disappeared behind us as we entered the forest upon an obscure trail. We were soon joined by an capricious community member and his resilent radio phone for entertainment. My aspirations of seeing wild monkies dashed, I turned my attentions towards my familiar floral holdfasts. Strangler figs descending deviously down the trunks of unsuspecting ironwoods created crevices and crooks, overflowing with mouthfuls of soft mosses and liverworts in the wetter areas. A bit higher up, the flora changed as more light penetrated into the open grassy exspanses, tangles of dried grasses were interspersed with warm, magenta, waist high Rhexias, and bushy yellow Hypericums, familiar looking foamy lichens were strewn haphazardly across the night by the previous evening's wind and rain.
Well along the path, and past all noticeable signs of civilisation, excluding the occasional cookie wrapper, we were passed by a woman carrying a farm basket on her back. Dan and I were perplexed, as to her destination, but a few kilometers more and the enigma was resolved in the cultivated hillsides of macabo, growing under the spotty cover of the scraggly montane overstory.
By now the evidence of resident Mboros was undeniable, in the scattered fresh cow pies, and hopeful, yet ineffectively constructed stick fences. However, it was not until we reached our highest altitude and descended into the still foggy valley, towards the lakes, that we saw cows grazing in the dry wetlands and Mboro settlements from a distance. Along with a small herd of cows, a good number of sheep also dined upon the palatable grasses and sedges of the mountain top.
Wading through waste high bunch grasses, we emerged at the rim of the smaller, emerald green, male lake. Without a visible path and a steep slope, partially covered in forest, I had no intention of descending to the male lake's shore. What sealed the deal was the electric level of myths and history associated with the lake. For one, it is forbidden to swim in the lake, if the eerie green did not dissuade you in the first place, the common belief of an underwater villaged might be more convincing. Like many waters, the male lake is not excluded from hosting a thriving population beneath its surface. These people are only visible to sorcerers and practicers of witchcraft, who reportedly converse quite cordially with the inhabitants of an apparently parallel world. Water taken from this source is also used in traditional medicines and cultural practices. Even more appetizing is the occasional sacrifice and division of a sheep on the shore, because, thats right, it is split evenly between the people beneath and below the surface of the caldera.
Immediatley adjacent to the male lake, the female lake is more accomadating with stairs right down to stone viewing benches and swimmable, fishable shoreline. Upon our 11am arrival, the already accounted for students boasted of an 8am arrival, and where happily swimming and snapping photos along the shore. As an anomalous white woman, I was asked to pose for numerous photos. My dirty, ripped jeans and sweaty tanktop felt glaringly inappropriate next to the elementary school teacher who had changed into formal wear for the photo, but I played a good sport and versatily posed in everything from possesive hands on my hips to sisterly embraces, to our guide who kept a safe six inches from me for the photo.
By 12:30, another volunteer, having hiked from Nkongsamba, on another side of the mountain with his dog, met us. The students were not wasting any time, hiking back and soon we had the lake all to ourselves, excluding a few fisherman. We rested briefly, and after a circuitous argument with a council member, demanding an outrageous entrance fee, we headed back.
Arriving in Moumekeng after enjoying a box of red wine in our guides village, I was fortunate enough to find an available motorcyle to take me back down the mountain. The descent was perhaps the most grueling part of the day, but I made it back to Baré in time to pick up my dress from the tailor for the preceding day's parade. I was tired and content with the trip, and only slightly disappointed by the case of ameobic dysentary I mananged to pick up somewhere along the way, (don't worry, its over with by now).
With an anticipated early morning departure, I arrived in Moumekeng the eveing before. Taking the paved road towards Douala just until Manjo, and negotiating a motorcyle up the regretfully bumpy, mountain road took about 2hours, not including time spent waiting for cars to fill and leave. It was market day in Moumekeng, but as I arrived in the early evening, most vendors, including the ones selling horse meat, where already packed up and gone.
Anticipating a strenous hike the next morning, Dan's cook prepared a fortifyingly, nutritious meal of deep fried plaintains, makeral and porcupine. As a rule, I try most bush meat, as long as it is not endangered, to my knowledge, or a primate. Porcupine was no exception to this rule, as I sank my teet into its gamey forearm, but I draw the line when it comes to sucking the perfectly preserved, deep fried claws, evidently structured for efficient digging (not your general american porcupine!), clean of all flesh.
Our bellies sufficiently filled with grease and regrets, we turned in early for a good nights sleep. Like all mountain villages, Moumekeng's evening climate was favorably cool and mosquito free. I even had to use a blanket, an idle fantasy in my own humid little piece of paradise!
Rising the next day before the sun, we firstly headed back th the cook's house to receive a packed lunch of last nights leftovers, plus a weighty amount of baton de manioc. We made our way towards the congregated and noisy crowd of sleep deprived adolescents, even in my refreshing slumber, I was concious of the Makossa music playing until 3:30am at the highschool, where the kids spent the night. For those who still had batteries and portable devices, the music was starting up again for the long haul.
We surged out in front of the crowd, but were quickly trailed by the eager and enthusiastic youth. Having identified a guide in a nearby village along the way, we split off from the group, who opted for an alternative path. This I didn't mind as less noise meant a greater plausability of wildlife sightings. Which with the frequency of bushmeat in this locale, I would assume to be high.
Arriving at our guides house, we found he underestimated our timeliness and had squeezed in an early morning palm wine harvest upon this premonition. The sun rose over Manengouba while we waited for his imminent return. By 7am, Roger was ready to go with three liters of a mild palm wine- manot, for the road.
The village and farms quickly disappeared behind us as we entered the forest upon an obscure trail. We were soon joined by an capricious community member and his resilent radio phone for entertainment. My aspirations of seeing wild monkies dashed, I turned my attentions towards my familiar floral holdfasts. Strangler figs descending deviously down the trunks of unsuspecting ironwoods created crevices and crooks, overflowing with mouthfuls of soft mosses and liverworts in the wetter areas. A bit higher up, the flora changed as more light penetrated into the open grassy exspanses, tangles of dried grasses were interspersed with warm, magenta, waist high Rhexias, and bushy yellow Hypericums, familiar looking foamy lichens were strewn haphazardly across the night by the previous evening's wind and rain.
Well along the path, and past all noticeable signs of civilisation, excluding the occasional cookie wrapper, we were passed by a woman carrying a farm basket on her back. Dan and I were perplexed, as to her destination, but a few kilometers more and the enigma was resolved in the cultivated hillsides of macabo, growing under the spotty cover of the scraggly montane overstory.
By now the evidence of resident Mboros was undeniable, in the scattered fresh cow pies, and hopeful, yet ineffectively constructed stick fences. However, it was not until we reached our highest altitude and descended into the still foggy valley, towards the lakes, that we saw cows grazing in the dry wetlands and Mboro settlements from a distance. Along with a small herd of cows, a good number of sheep also dined upon the palatable grasses and sedges of the mountain top.
Wading through waste high bunch grasses, we emerged at the rim of the smaller, emerald green, male lake. Without a visible path and a steep slope, partially covered in forest, I had no intention of descending to the male lake's shore. What sealed the deal was the electric level of myths and history associated with the lake. For one, it is forbidden to swim in the lake, if the eerie green did not dissuade you in the first place, the common belief of an underwater villaged might be more convincing. Like many waters, the male lake is not excluded from hosting a thriving population beneath its surface. These people are only visible to sorcerers and practicers of witchcraft, who reportedly converse quite cordially with the inhabitants of an apparently parallel world. Water taken from this source is also used in traditional medicines and cultural practices. Even more appetizing is the occasional sacrifice and division of a sheep on the shore, because, thats right, it is split evenly between the people beneath and below the surface of the caldera.
Immediatley adjacent to the male lake, the female lake is more accomadating with stairs right down to stone viewing benches and swimmable, fishable shoreline. Upon our 11am arrival, the already accounted for students boasted of an 8am arrival, and where happily swimming and snapping photos along the shore. As an anomalous white woman, I was asked to pose for numerous photos. My dirty, ripped jeans and sweaty tanktop felt glaringly inappropriate next to the elementary school teacher who had changed into formal wear for the photo, but I played a good sport and versatily posed in everything from possesive hands on my hips to sisterly embraces, to our guide who kept a safe six inches from me for the photo.
By 12:30, another volunteer, having hiked from Nkongsamba, on another side of the mountain with his dog, met us. The students were not wasting any time, hiking back and soon we had the lake all to ourselves, excluding a few fisherman. We rested briefly, and after a circuitous argument with a council member, demanding an outrageous entrance fee, we headed back.
Arriving in Moumekeng after enjoying a box of red wine in our guides village, I was fortunate enough to find an available motorcyle to take me back down the mountain. The descent was perhaps the most grueling part of the day, but I made it back to Baré in time to pick up my dress from the tailor for the preceding day's parade. I was tired and content with the trip, and only slightly disappointed by the case of ameobic dysentary I mananged to pick up somewhere along the way, (don't worry, its over with by now).
1 comments:
Hello,
I was just surfing on your blog and thought I should introduce myself. I am steve, I am an engineer currently working in yaounde Cameroon. I graduated in the USA before going back home over 7 years ago. I see you are in Cameroon as well, What do you do and I hope you are enjoying the country.
Yours sincerely,
Steve T.
lecamer@gmail.com
cell: +237 75 29 99 09
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