Three little monkeys jumping on the bed…

We all know how this story goes, but why couldn’t my co-workers and I figure it out sooner. Having just returned from a European holiday, I returned to post, much to my dismay still in the rainy season. I knew that usually the rainy season ends by November, and so I was hoping that upon my return from my sisters (very beautiful) wedding, I would be able to have a smooth-ish ride back to post, or at least one that was not interrupted by a mudpit. Yes, the elusive mudpit. In America, mudpits are prized for times when girls in bikinis wrestle in them, but no matter how much it rains in Oregon, unless you come to my town in Cameroon, you do not know what a mudpit is. The word in French- le boulbier- was a word that I did not know until I left Campo a little over a month ago right after a heavy week of rains. People kept talking about “les boulbiers”, and I kept asking them what it is. In my mind I had it translated as a big pothole spanning the road, which often occur on dirt roads and are usually filled with short wooden planks to help smaller cars pass across. A few days before leaving that time, I had gone for a run. In an area where there was a lot of mud, I scanned around for a place to hop to higher ground where pedestrians pass. I looked, trying not to break my running pace too much, saw what seemed to be solid ground, and placed my two feet straight into mud that was shin high. I then quickly pulled my feet out, decided it was better to maybe just keep going on the muddy road, and unfortunately had to run back to my house looking like a melting swamp creature. Not knowing the word, even in English, for what that kind of mud was, it was when I travelled those few days later and arrived at the dreaded “boulbier” that I finally understood. Trucks were lined up on either side of the 1km-long mudpit in the road. Other trucks driven by adventurous drivers were stuck inside the mud, and one pick-up, driven by my friend, had accidentally placed his whole right side of the pick-up in a 3-foot deep boulbier on the side of the road, evidentially achieved when trying to turn around. To cross by foot was not a whole lot different, and I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants, and dove into mud that was, at times, 2 feet deep. Upon crossing the mudpit, you have to take a different car to get the rest of the 50km to town. I met with my friend Abwe, a Congolese/Canadian VSO volunteer, who was travelling to Campo that very day, and I warned him. Since he grew up in the Congo, I figured he knew everything. I told him how bad it was, but that if he walked slowly across the pit, he would be ok. When he returned to Kribi, he recounted the story of how he, too, had placed his feet on what appeared to be solid ground, only for him to fall into mud waist high! This explanation is leading up to my story of last night. When I made it back to Campo after two weeks of Europe eating cheese and fine chocolate and using public transport, I learned that the cell service was down, there was no electricity, no running water, and no food (these last three due to the bad road). I hadn’t spoken to anyone in a while and was sure that the cell service would be out a long time, so I insisted that my coworkers and I use the satellite internet at the neighboring logging town. The WWF car took me and two of my coworkers there and promised to be back soon to pick us up, after finishing work in the forest with the gorilla habituation team. We were sure they would be gone for about an hour, and we were out by 4pm. By 6:30 there was still no sign of the WWF, and I began to debate the merits of taking a moto home the 10km. Had I left at 4 when we got out, I would have been home long before, as there is a good walking shortcut through a wetland, but in waiting for the car, the night had already fallen, and the rain was looming ahead. Finally, at 7pm, the WWF car came, and we began to make our way back to Campo, but 4 minutes into the car ride, our Land Cruiser fell into a mudpit and were seriously stuck. Then, of course, it started to rain, and our driver left to find a truck that can pull us out. At about 9pm, the phone network finally came back and we were able to call people who could potentially help us, but no one could, as all of the trucks were evidently stuck on the other side of the gigantic mudpit on the road leaving town. Finally, we decided to call the other driver to come get us with our other car- a really beat-up SUV. He came, but went to the wrong entrance and the car died right in front of a mudpit, eliminating any chance we had to push the car to jumpstart it. By midnight, Nadege, one of my coworkers, and I were stuck on the side of the road, alone, with three laptop computers. We were not sure what was going on because we were told to wait for the car, but tired of waiting, we decided to begin the walk back to town. Because she wore high heels, though, she had to change into another co-workers sneakers, such that she looked like a little girl wearing her father’s shoes. At 1 am, we finally decided to call another colleague who sacrificed his sleep to come pick us up. When he arrived, we realized that almost our entire staff was stuck at one of three areas around the logging town the entire night. It was only Elizabeth, our very wise human resources staff, who decided to not come with the “rescue” car, and so it was only her that got a good night’s sleep. Everyone made it home by 2 am, on either one of two motos or in one of two cars, but the experience helped me to appreciate even more my new brother-in-law’s phrase that “The Swiss have the watches, but the Africans have the time.” Nothing works in Cameroon, but everything works out (fine?).