My main purpose in going to Denmark was for an unofficial reunion of the Europe in the World international journalism program, which I participated in during 2002-2003. We gathered for a 'Julefrokost,' a traditional Danish 'Christmas Lunch' in the small town of Nørre Aaby, also on the island of Fyn. 10 people (out of the 20) attended, from Denmark, the Netherlands, Germany, the UK, Lithuania...and me, from the US via Cameroon, I suppose. and it was wonderful to see everyone again- people move on though- marriages, kids, houses, everything. I guess that how it goes as you get older- in any case, it was wonderful to reunite, and I'm looking forward to the next get-together, wherever and whenever it may be.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Europe Trip-#7, Copenhagen & Odense
Leaving Switzerland, I went to Denmark, possibly the one person flying to Copenhagen at that time with absolutely nothing to with the COP15 conference on climate change, which happened to coincide with the class reunion I'd come to attend. The city was blanketed in things related to the conference, but it was still possible to see some of the normal touristy stuff. The problem, unfortunately, was the almost all the hotel rooms were booked, meaning that I could only afford to stay in the one place I found for one night, and move on.
It wasn't too bad though- I went to Odense the next day, on the island of Fyn, one of the larger cities in the country. An interesting place, and fun to walk around...
A few of my favorites first, followed by the album.
Nyhavn, the famous (and picturesque) harbor
At the City Hall plaza, full of climate change exhibitions
Banners like this were everywhere.
The main cathedral in Odense, which holds the bones of a saint- see the album for details...
Europe Trip-#6, Lausanne (Pts. 1 & 2)
After Chamonix, I traveled back to Switzerland, and spent a couple nights in Lausanne, a city about 65km from Geneva, also on Lac Léman. Lausanne is the home of the International Olympic Committee, and the Olympic Museum, has a beautiful cathedral, and is surrounded by incredible mountain scenery.
A few of my favorites, followed by two albums; the first highlighting the lake, the cathedral, and a truly unforgettable sunset over the mountains, the second in and around the Olympic Museum.
Looking from the center of town towards the water's edge
Cathédrale Notre-Dame, in Lausanne
Inside the cathedral
A sculpture in Lausanne Harbor
Lac Léman and the Jura Mountains on the other side
A sculpture at the Olympic Museum on the edge of the lake
Sunset over the lake, truly incredible
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Europe Trip-#5, Chamonix
I went from Geneva on a quick overnight trip to Chamonix, France, a few hours by train. Unfortunately the trip ended up being a bit of a dud, as the beautiful Alpine views I'd been hoping for were replaced by beautiful views of rain clouds. Nevertheless, I was able to get at least a few nice shots of the town, and one or two of the mountains...
Europe Trip-#4, Geneva (Pts. 1 & 2)
I spent a few days in Geneva, staying with a friend of mine who I served with in the Peace Corps- I'd never spent any significant amount of time in Switzerland before, and Geneva was a beautiful place to start. The first album is mostly pictures of all the international things the city is known for, like the UN and the Red Cross, as well as a few photos from the Salève, a cliff overlooking the city. The second album is around the city itself, especially the Old Town and the St. Pierre Cathedral, inside and out.
As with most of these entries, I'm going to post a few standouts, followed by the albums themselves...
Looking down from the Salève, into Geneva and Lac Léman
Perfect timing for a rainbow.
Waiting for the télépherique, the cable car, on the way down...
The St. Pierre Cathedral
Along the Rhone, in the center of the city.
At the UN office, a sculpture representing victims of land mines.
The Palais des Nations, the European home of the UN.
A view of the city, from the top of the cathedral
Europe Trip-#3, Wangen (Alsace)
I visited the Szobody family, formerly missionaries in Chad, in the small village of Wangen, France, about 30km outside of Strasbourg. After being in Paris and then Strasbourg, it was a really nice change to get out to the countryside.
Paul & Teresa, who I first met in Gounou-Gaya, Chad.
With a few of the kids (l-r): Matthias, Micah, Mercy, Phillip, and Tytus.
Walking along the fields in the countryside...
Monday, December 28, 2009
Europe Trip-#2, Strasbourg
After leaving Paris, I went on to Alsace in eastern France, where I stopped in the city of Strasbourg. I'd been there before in 2005, but this time I went to visit the Szobodys, a family of American missionaries who I met in Chad when they were living in Gounou-Gaya, the village I served in as a Peace Corps volunteer.
As with the previous post, all the photos (and larger versions of them) can be seen by clicking on the photo in the slideshow. Same as before, I wanted to highlight a few of my favorite photos from the album...
The Strasbourg Cathedral, incredibly imposing- this is one of my
favorite pictures I've ever taken, and was another long-exposure.
favorite pictures I've ever taken, and was another long-exposure.
Inside the cathedral, with the organ, the columns, the stained glass
and everything else you'd expect from a 500+ year old church.
and everything else you'd expect from a 500+ year old church.
A section of the Old Town of Strasbourg, with the
traditional Alsatian construction preserved.
traditional Alsatian construction preserved.
A small canal linking up to the Rhine, which
serves as the French/German border.
Followed by the rest of the album...
Europe Trip-#1, Paris
I began my two-and-a-half week European vacation with a couple days in Paris; naturally it was quite a change from the (relative) heat of Cameroon to go somewhere cold and almost snowy. Strange as it may sound, it was actually a really nice change. You can see all the photos in the album below, and can see larger versions by clicking on any of them, but there are a few standouts that I want to highlight first...
Notre-Dame Cathedral, early evening- I tried a long-exposure
photo, to make sure I had enough light.
photo, to make sure I had enough light.
Along the Seine, just across from Notre Dame
Inside the courtyard at the Louvre
One of the buildings of the Louvre palace- also a long-exposure.
...And the rest of the album.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Black magic, with a side of sheep
I’m visiting Kumbo, a town high in the mountains (about 1,900 meters up) in the Anglophone northwest of Cameroon, where I’ve come with my colleague Dr. Leslie to assist in a microfinance workshop we’ve helped organize for an ongoing HIV and AIDS project. We’re here on another mission however, and it’s hard to say which is more important. We’re on the hunt… for goats.
Kumbo is known for its livestock market, held a few times a week, and we’ve been directed to pick up three goats for Dr. Kenneth, one of our Cameroonian project managers; he’s getting married at the end of this week, and as tradition requires, his fiancée’s family has insisted he provide three goats (as well as three pigs and other assorted livestock) as a dowry for their traditional marriage. This is interesting to me. Kenneth is a trained pharmacist, regularly attending conferences in Geneva, Mexico City, and the US. In order for his bride’s family to accept him though, he has to provide a goat? This in itself is something that has always struck me as interesting- I can understand why the idea of the dowry still persists among people living in the village, but the fact that it continues among urban, well-educated Cameroonians (and Chadians, and Ugandans, and Sudanese) seems a bit odd. Tradition is far stronger here, I guess.
The day before, for example, I’m sitting on an outdoor terrace with a Peace Corps volunteer I met in the middle of ‘Squares,’ the main intersection in ‘downtown’ Kumbo. As I sip my drink, I suddenly see four or five older men dressed in loincloths and carrying wooden spears, ceremonially making their way down the street. They’re dancing on either side of a figure dressed entirely in black, wearing a costume covering his face with nails protruding all over. He’s ‘surrounded’ by the men in the loincloths with the spears and ropes, and dancing his way down the street, lunging at people at random, and shaking the spear he carried.
“That’s the juju,” one of the Cameroonian men sitting with me explains, referring to the local black magic that’s still very much a part of life here . “They’re guiding him down to the royal palace for a ceremony.”
Nobody seems to find this even the slightest bit unusual, from what I could tell- taxis continue to circulate, women cook omelettes and fried potatoes in cast-iron woks over charcoal on the side of the road, and people chat on cell phones. I guess cultures everywhere like to showcase their traditions though - it’s why the St. Patrick’s Day parade exists, and why we light a menorah in the center of most major American cities at Hanukkah, right? In any case, the juju passes, I finish my drink, and Leslie and I continue to look for goats.
We arrive the next morning at the main livestock market, down a bumpy dirt road and in a fenced-off triangle. Leslie suggests that I should probably wait and follow him a few minutes later- if we’re seen together, the price for the goats we want will skyrocket- the fact of being white in Africa. I wait with Mahmane, our driver, by our truck, and watch. Sheep and pigs are milling around everywhere, and the chorus of maaah-ing and squealing is overwhelming, as is the smell. We don’t see many goats though, until we spot a truck on the edge of the market, where three teenagers are piling them into the back, at least 20 or more, most sitting in large woven-grass baskets. I decide enough time has passed, and I make my way over to Leslie, Mahmane in tow.“That isn’t good,” Leslie says, gesturing at the truck. “Someone came from Bafoussam (the capital of the Western Province), and is buying all the goats to take back and sell. Now it’s going to be very expensive.” He does manage to arrive at a price with the seller though, 15,000 FCFA (about $33) each for two goats, and Leslie leads the animals to the back of the truck, where Mahmane ties them inside. Leslie goes off to find a third, and Mahmane and I wait.
“Il y a beaucoup des moutons ici; j’aimerais acheter un pour la fete de mouton vendredi,” Mahmane says. There are lots of sheep here- I’d love to buy one for the ‘sheep holiday’ on Friday.
He’s referring to Tabaski, a Muslim holiday known as Eid-al-Adha in most parts of the world. It’s meant to commemorate Abraham’s sparing of Isaac in the Bible, after which he sacrificed a sheep instead.
“How much are the sheep?” I ask Mahmane, an idea brewing.
“Maybe 25 or 30,000 FCFA,” he answers, about $55 or $60.
One of my favorite parts of living here, and living as an ‘expat’ is the ability it provides to do little things that can mean a lot for people. At the moment I’m earning a stipend, instead of an actual salary; the truth is that it’s a very generous one, and coupled with the additional benefits, it means that I earn substantially more money than the majority of the people I work with in the office. On one hand, I can see why this isn’t particularly fair; on the other, I realize that if Cameroonians working in Cameroon were paid on the same scale as international employees it would wildly distort their lives, and make extended families even more dependent on them than many already are. It means that I probably am taking home more than my boss does every two weeks, despite his 15 additional years of experience in this job. And it certainly means that I’m bringing home more than Mahamane, probably 15-20 times as much as his driver’s salary, I’d guess. This disparity isn’t something I have the ability to change, so rather than attempt to do so, I like to do what I can to provide a bit of help and support when it’s possible.
“OK, Mahmane,” I say. “Do you have 15,000?”
“Oui.”
“If we can find a sheep for 25,000 or less, I’ll chip in 10,000 for you.”
For the first time I can remember, I hear an adult Muslim man squeal with delight.
“Wow! Thank you so much!” he says, grasping my hand. I smile.
“It’s my pleasure,” I answer. “Now, let’s see if we can find you a sheep.”
We make our way into the market, where we see a few sheep tied up by the fence. We make our way over to one, white with long horns, and the seller appears. He’s an old man, wearing thick black plastic-rimmed glasses, dressed in a pinkish bubu, and sporting a bright purple cap.“How now?” he says, greeting us in Pidgin English, the local lingua franca. Mahmane and I smile at him- neither of us are Pidgin speakers, and although normally Mahmane would take the lead, the fact that he’s French-speaking actually means it makes more sense for me to do the talking in this part of the country.
“How much for the sheep?” I ask, speaking as clearly as I can.
“You bring 33,” the man answers. Naturally the price is higher than it would normally be, simply because I’m standing there. I know how the game works though- after the initial offer, you generally offer half or slightly more, and get progressively closer from there.
“That’s expensive,” I respond. “We can’t do that- I can give you 20 though.”
The man shakes his head and clicks his tongue distastefully. “You bring 29.”
“22,” I reply.
“27,” he answers.
“23,” I shoot back. The man pauses for a second to consider. “You bring,” he says, gesturing with his fingers tucked into his palm. Mahmane reaches into his pocket and pulls out 13,000- I slip an additional 10,000 into his hand.
“Thank you again so much,” Mahmane says to me.
“Bonne fete,” I reply. Enjoy the holiday.
Mahmane and the seller pull the sheep out of the market and to our waiting pickup, where they half-wrestle/half-toss the animal into the bed. The sheep struggles at first, but eventually the two men are able to attach the woven grass rope to one of the metal rods holding up the canopy that covers the truck bed.“Now that I’ll have a sheep this year,” Mahmane says, “our tradition says that I’ll need to slaughter one every year for the festival. It’s very important.”
I’m a bit concerned- I helped him to buy one this year, but when the next Tabaski rolls around, I almost certainly won’t be in Cameroon any longer- I wouldn’t want to put an obligation on him to buy something he can’t really afford.
“I hope I haven’t caused you a problem for the future,” I say. “I know sheep are expensive.”
“No, not at all- it’s important to have a sheep for the festival, and I’ll save up every year to be sure that I can afford one from now on,” he answers.
“Since you helped me to get it,” he continues, “I want you to join us this year- it’d be my honor.”
“If you’d like me to be there, I’d be happy to.”
36 hours, 500 kilometers, four goats and a sheep later, Leslie, Mahmane and I are back in Yaoundé. The livestock take to the journey surprisingly well, although I imagine the fresh carrots and cabbage we buy along the way in the home village of my boss, called Santa, help a bit.
The name of the village makes me think- I suppose there’s something Santa-esque about my role in this; I’m being the benefactor, providing a gift to make a holiday possible. On one hand, it’s truly a privilege to be in a position where I have the ability to make someone so happy with something that’s so (relatively) small. On the other, there’s the law of unintended consequences… By buying the sheep for Mahmane, I’ve locked him into purchasing livestock every year; he assures me he can afford, but I still wonder. I know I’ve made a difference for him and for his family this year, and I know it’s a positive one. In the future, I know this sheep will have a lasting effect, long after it’s been prayed over and served with carrots, couscous and sweet tea. Next time though, I hope it’s still a good thing…
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Jail
The next time you get into an argument, if someone tells you to 'go to hell,' let me know. I can give you directions.
New Bell Prison is the central prison in Douala, Cameroon's largest city. I visit along with Dupleix, one of the program managers and Olun, our technical advisor. We're working on a proposal about prisoner's rights, and have come along with Sister Jacky, a Cameroonian nun who has devoted more than 20 years to working with people in the prison system here. Having visited San Quentin prison in California once for a story I was writing, I remember how intimidating and scary it felt being there. New Bell is that and more, as it combines all the same disturbing aspects of a prison in the US or Europe with the poverty, corruption, and decay that permeates much of the developing world.
One thing I notice right away is that the prison is practically in the middle of town, maybe three long blocks from one of the main markets in Douala. New Bell was originally built by the colonial authorities, and was probably on the edge of the city at first, but rapid growth has swallowed it up, and now it sits surrounded by warehouses, homes, and storefronts. The prison was originally designed to keep 800 people locked up, but now holds somewhere between 3-4000, depending on who you ask. We've been told that of the people inside, more than half have yet to actually be convicted of a crime, but are simply awaiting trial, often for months on end.
Before we go inside, Sister Jacky tells us to keep anything valuable out of sight, and leave it in the car. I take out the single diamond earring I wear, hide my wallet and phone, and take off my watch, burying it in a bag in the backseat. Two guards with olive uniforms and large machine guns stand at the main entrance. We walk in to find three more guards sitting at a table in a dark room.
"Les pièces!" They yell at us. Your IDs. I hand over a laminated and stamped copy of my passport ID and visa pages- no way I would risk bringing something like that here. Another guard frisks us, and swings open a metal door held partially closed by a chain. We squeeze through, and we're inside.
Just on the other side of the door, across a small concrete walkway, there's a large fence with barbed wire spikes at the top surrounding a large courtyard. A ring of buildings surrounds the courtyard with warped tin roofs and crumbling walls. A few tiny windows run along the top of each building, filled with thick and rusted bars. One of the buildings looks to be missing part of its side, and the gaping hole in the internal wall is covered by a collection of ripped plastic sheeting and blue tarps.
At least 50 men lean against the other side of the fence- they wear dirty, torn t-shirts, gym shorts, or less- apparently there are no uniforms in the Cameroonian prison system. As soon as they see us, they start yelling.
"Le blanc! Le blanc! Ça va?" Hey, white man, what's up?
An overweight guard unlocks the gate, and we pass through. Sister Jacky goes first, the veteran, followed by Dupleix, me, and Olun. Immediately, I feel hands start grabbing at me, wrapping arms around my shoulder, 20 voices talking to me at once, all of whom seem to be asking something. Instinctively, I reach out and grab ahold of Dupleix's shoulder, a way of staying together in the midst of the mob. We make our way across the courtyard, the four of us surrounded by the group of prisoners.
"These men are called 'taxis,' "says Sister Jacky. "If you need to find someone inside, you pay them 100 francs, and they'll find the person for you."
At the edge of the courtyard we duck under a small partition, and find ourselves in a market. Stands are set up along the walkway that don't look much different from your typical Cameroonian open-air restaurants and shops. People are cooking pots of beans, sticks of manioc baton, and pots of okra and vegetable sauces. Sister Jacky tells us that these 'café's' were set up by the prisoners, who can buy a plate of food for 50 or 100 francs. Again, she explains.
"The prison provides food, but it's only boiled corn meal, with maybe six or seven beans. If they have money, the prisoners buy food for themselves."
Throughout my time in Africa, I've become accustomed to people staring at me- it's part of the reality of being a foreigner here, particularly a Caucasian foreigner. Inside the prison market/café though, I feel the stares much more than usual; the stares of bored and angry men. As we walk through I hear a few of them call after me.
"Père, père!" they yell. Father. Walking around in the company of nun, I guess I'm easily mistaken for a priest. We turn a corner, and duck into a small workshop. Three women sit clustered around large sewing machines, and are surrounded by crimson sweaters. They're making school uniforms for one of the local private schools. Sister Jacky explains that this allows the prisoners to earn a small amount of money for food.
On the way out, I notice a man laying prone on the concrete in the doorway. His eyes are red and cloudy and he's wearing a filthy light-blue sweatshirt.
"You're leaving him here?" Sister Jacky asks the other prisoners.
"Il est malade," one of them answers. He's sick.
"I'm going to the see the doctor now, and I'll tell him," she responds.
The doctor's office is on the other side of the courtyard. We make our way across, again being jostled and yelled at by the prisoners. I try to keep my face expressionless, responding as little as possible to the men on all sides.
"Tu es ici avec les noirs maintenant!" someone yells. You're here with the blacks now.
As we walk through, people come up to us, thrusting sheets of paper into our hands. I initially try to fend them off, but I see Sister Jacky taking them, so I accept one from one of the men. The sheets all have a similar format- the prisoner's name, date de condamnation (date of sentence), peine (sentence), amende (fine to pay), and the name of the sentencing judge. The crimes seem relatively minor- things like petty theft, although some list things like assault and worse. In many cases, the amende section has a number, perhaps 100,000 francs (about $220) or a time period, maybe 10 months. Sister Jacky explains that when a prisoner is sentenced, they're often given a fine, and if they're unable to pay it, it's converted into additional time to be served, something like 9,000 francs for every month.
We stop briefly at the doctor's office, where Sister Jacky tells him about the prisoner lying in the doorway across the courtyard. He nods, but doesn't seem like he's particularly interested. Just beside the doctor's office is another gate, which we pass through. This is the section for prisoners who have already been convicted. I can't exactly tell, but I think Dupleix says it may be some sort of isolation unit- there are only a handful of people in the section, and there are some vestiges of normality, with a television in the corner of one of the rooms. Two men sit on a low bench against the wall; a heavy chain with a padlock encircles their legs. A curtain parts, and I see something I'm not expecting, a white man. He's wearing a white t-shirt and ripped jean shorts, and has a several day-old beard. He looks haggard and weak. Sister Jacky seems to know him, and they talk for a moment. I can't make out their conversation exactly, as she moves away, I hear the last bit. "I'll contact the embassy," she says.
I remember hearing about foreigners are subject to local laws when they're visiting a country, but this is the first time I've seen it put into practice. I have to wonder what the man did, but unsurprisingly, he doesn't really seem to be in the mood to talk. I've been visiting New Bell for less than an hour, but looking around, I have a hard time imagining a worse place to be, particular as a foreigner. Perhaps he's in the isolation section as a means of protecting him from the other prisoners- I can imagine a blanc would be a pretty inviting target.
A guard opens another door, and we walk along the inside perimeter of the wall- looking up I see rows of barbed wire arcing inward, connected to what look like glass insulators- the wire must be electrified as well. We duck through a small door and find ourselves in a set of surprisingly nice buildings, freshly-painted and cream-colored.
"This is the juvenile section," Sister Jacky says. "It was built by the EU last year."
We step onto a large concrete porch, and see two large chalkboards. 'Controle de Français,' one reads. 'French test.' I look through it- there are a few questions on French grammar. A group of teenage boys sit on tables by the chalkboard, chatting. One of them comes up to me with a bright pink knitted hat- he gestures at me, seeing if I'm interested.
"What would I do with that?" I ask?
"You could buy it," he says.
I decline as politely as I can. Looking inside the rooms on either side I see several rows of bunk beds, each of which is sealed off with mosquito netting. Relative to the rest of the prison, this is luxurious. Dupleix has a small group gathered around him, and they're talking quietly. I go over to listen.
"Yes, it's true you made a mistake," he says. "You're young though, and you still have a chance. You need to learn from this, and when you get out, you need to follow the correct path." The boys nod. One of them passes along a phone number to him, saying he's an uncle in Douala. Dupleix promises to call.
We leave the juvenile section, and a guard lets us out through a side door- suddenly we're back in the main reception area; I'm grateful that we were able to avoid the crowd this time. We collect our IDs, and make our way out the door, where the same guards are standing with the same machine guns. Mahamadou, our driver is waiting across the road, and we quickly climb in and head off.
"Mon dieu," Dupleix says, shaking his head. My God.
I agree. I'm not particularly religious, but I think in this case, a little divine intervention at New Bell would be a good thing.
It's been said that the measure of the civilization of a society can be seen in how well it treats its prisoners. We have more than our share of problems with the prison system in the US, of course, but New Bell is something totally different. I've seen my share of disturbing things in the years I've worked in Africa, but the sights, smells, and sounds from today are something that will stay with me for years- it's scary to think what we're capable of as humans. I know we can't do much in the way of change for inmates of New Bell, but our visit there was meant as a way to get an idea- now that we understand the situation, at least someone, hopefully we can help...
New Bell Prison is the central prison in Douala, Cameroon's largest city. I visit along with Dupleix, one of the program managers and Olun, our technical advisor. We're working on a proposal about prisoner's rights, and have come along with Sister Jacky, a Cameroonian nun who has devoted more than 20 years to working with people in the prison system here. Having visited San Quentin prison in California once for a story I was writing, I remember how intimidating and scary it felt being there. New Bell is that and more, as it combines all the same disturbing aspects of a prison in the US or Europe with the poverty, corruption, and decay that permeates much of the developing world.
One thing I notice right away is that the prison is practically in the middle of town, maybe three long blocks from one of the main markets in Douala. New Bell was originally built by the colonial authorities, and was probably on the edge of the city at first, but rapid growth has swallowed it up, and now it sits surrounded by warehouses, homes, and storefronts. The prison was originally designed to keep 800 people locked up, but now holds somewhere between 3-4000, depending on who you ask. We've been told that of the people inside, more than half have yet to actually be convicted of a crime, but are simply awaiting trial, often for months on end.
Before we go inside, Sister Jacky tells us to keep anything valuable out of sight, and leave it in the car. I take out the single diamond earring I wear, hide my wallet and phone, and take off my watch, burying it in a bag in the backseat. Two guards with olive uniforms and large machine guns stand at the main entrance. We walk in to find three more guards sitting at a table in a dark room.
"Les pièces!" They yell at us. Your IDs. I hand over a laminated and stamped copy of my passport ID and visa pages- no way I would risk bringing something like that here. Another guard frisks us, and swings open a metal door held partially closed by a chain. We squeeze through, and we're inside.
Just on the other side of the door, across a small concrete walkway, there's a large fence with barbed wire spikes at the top surrounding a large courtyard. A ring of buildings surrounds the courtyard with warped tin roofs and crumbling walls. A few tiny windows run along the top of each building, filled with thick and rusted bars. One of the buildings looks to be missing part of its side, and the gaping hole in the internal wall is covered by a collection of ripped plastic sheeting and blue tarps.
At least 50 men lean against the other side of the fence- they wear dirty, torn t-shirts, gym shorts, or less- apparently there are no uniforms in the Cameroonian prison system. As soon as they see us, they start yelling.
"Le blanc! Le blanc! Ça va?" Hey, white man, what's up?
An overweight guard unlocks the gate, and we pass through. Sister Jacky goes first, the veteran, followed by Dupleix, me, and Olun. Immediately, I feel hands start grabbing at me, wrapping arms around my shoulder, 20 voices talking to me at once, all of whom seem to be asking something. Instinctively, I reach out and grab ahold of Dupleix's shoulder, a way of staying together in the midst of the mob. We make our way across the courtyard, the four of us surrounded by the group of prisoners.
"These men are called 'taxis,' "says Sister Jacky. "If you need to find someone inside, you pay them 100 francs, and they'll find the person for you."
At the edge of the courtyard we duck under a small partition, and find ourselves in a market. Stands are set up along the walkway that don't look much different from your typical Cameroonian open-air restaurants and shops. People are cooking pots of beans, sticks of manioc baton, and pots of okra and vegetable sauces. Sister Jacky tells us that these 'café's' were set up by the prisoners, who can buy a plate of food for 50 or 100 francs. Again, she explains.
"The prison provides food, but it's only boiled corn meal, with maybe six or seven beans. If they have money, the prisoners buy food for themselves."
Throughout my time in Africa, I've become accustomed to people staring at me- it's part of the reality of being a foreigner here, particularly a Caucasian foreigner. Inside the prison market/café though, I feel the stares much more than usual; the stares of bored and angry men. As we walk through I hear a few of them call after me.
"Père, père!" they yell. Father. Walking around in the company of nun, I guess I'm easily mistaken for a priest. We turn a corner, and duck into a small workshop. Three women sit clustered around large sewing machines, and are surrounded by crimson sweaters. They're making school uniforms for one of the local private schools. Sister Jacky explains that this allows the prisoners to earn a small amount of money for food.
On the way out, I notice a man laying prone on the concrete in the doorway. His eyes are red and cloudy and he's wearing a filthy light-blue sweatshirt.
"You're leaving him here?" Sister Jacky asks the other prisoners.
"Il est malade," one of them answers. He's sick.
"I'm going to the see the doctor now, and I'll tell him," she responds.
The doctor's office is on the other side of the courtyard. We make our way across, again being jostled and yelled at by the prisoners. I try to keep my face expressionless, responding as little as possible to the men on all sides.
"Tu es ici avec les noirs maintenant!" someone yells. You're here with the blacks now.
As we walk through, people come up to us, thrusting sheets of paper into our hands. I initially try to fend them off, but I see Sister Jacky taking them, so I accept one from one of the men. The sheets all have a similar format- the prisoner's name, date de condamnation (date of sentence), peine (sentence), amende (fine to pay), and the name of the sentencing judge. The crimes seem relatively minor- things like petty theft, although some list things like assault and worse. In many cases, the amende section has a number, perhaps 100,000 francs (about $220) or a time period, maybe 10 months. Sister Jacky explains that when a prisoner is sentenced, they're often given a fine, and if they're unable to pay it, it's converted into additional time to be served, something like 9,000 francs for every month.
We stop briefly at the doctor's office, where Sister Jacky tells him about the prisoner lying in the doorway across the courtyard. He nods, but doesn't seem like he's particularly interested. Just beside the doctor's office is another gate, which we pass through. This is the section for prisoners who have already been convicted. I can't exactly tell, but I think Dupleix says it may be some sort of isolation unit- there are only a handful of people in the section, and there are some vestiges of normality, with a television in the corner of one of the rooms. Two men sit on a low bench against the wall; a heavy chain with a padlock encircles their legs. A curtain parts, and I see something I'm not expecting, a white man. He's wearing a white t-shirt and ripped jean shorts, and has a several day-old beard. He looks haggard and weak. Sister Jacky seems to know him, and they talk for a moment. I can't make out their conversation exactly, as she moves away, I hear the last bit. "I'll contact the embassy," she says.
I remember hearing about foreigners are subject to local laws when they're visiting a country, but this is the first time I've seen it put into practice. I have to wonder what the man did, but unsurprisingly, he doesn't really seem to be in the mood to talk. I've been visiting New Bell for less than an hour, but looking around, I have a hard time imagining a worse place to be, particular as a foreigner. Perhaps he's in the isolation section as a means of protecting him from the other prisoners- I can imagine a blanc would be a pretty inviting target.
A guard opens another door, and we walk along the inside perimeter of the wall- looking up I see rows of barbed wire arcing inward, connected to what look like glass insulators- the wire must be electrified as well. We duck through a small door and find ourselves in a set of surprisingly nice buildings, freshly-painted and cream-colored.
"This is the juvenile section," Sister Jacky says. "It was built by the EU last year."
We step onto a large concrete porch, and see two large chalkboards. 'Controle de Français,' one reads. 'French test.' I look through it- there are a few questions on French grammar. A group of teenage boys sit on tables by the chalkboard, chatting. One of them comes up to me with a bright pink knitted hat- he gestures at me, seeing if I'm interested.
"What would I do with that?" I ask?
"You could buy it," he says.
I decline as politely as I can. Looking inside the rooms on either side I see several rows of bunk beds, each of which is sealed off with mosquito netting. Relative to the rest of the prison, this is luxurious. Dupleix has a small group gathered around him, and they're talking quietly. I go over to listen.
"Yes, it's true you made a mistake," he says. "You're young though, and you still have a chance. You need to learn from this, and when you get out, you need to follow the correct path." The boys nod. One of them passes along a phone number to him, saying he's an uncle in Douala. Dupleix promises to call.
We leave the juvenile section, and a guard lets us out through a side door- suddenly we're back in the main reception area; I'm grateful that we were able to avoid the crowd this time. We collect our IDs, and make our way out the door, where the same guards are standing with the same machine guns. Mahamadou, our driver is waiting across the road, and we quickly climb in and head off.
"Mon dieu," Dupleix says, shaking his head. My God.
I agree. I'm not particularly religious, but I think in this case, a little divine intervention at New Bell would be a good thing.
It's been said that the measure of the civilization of a society can be seen in how well it treats its prisoners. We have more than our share of problems with the prison system in the US, of course, but New Bell is something totally different. I've seen my share of disturbing things in the years I've worked in Africa, but the sights, smells, and sounds from today are something that will stay with me for years- it's scary to think what we're capable of as humans. I know we can't do much in the way of change for inmates of New Bell, but our visit there was meant as a way to get an idea- now that we understand the situation, at least someone, hopefully we can help...
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