With that Bakweri title 'Mola' I feel part of it all.
   The Welsh word 'teulu' once denoted a household, clan or tribe, not just 'family'.
   We are two countries who share linguistic divisions and this has caused problems, yet ironically also adds to the richness of our nations, the interactions between them bringing new forms like the hybrid Pidgin and the English dialects especially in the Valleys. 
   Such divisions are a legacy of old colonial ties and still serve to divide and rule.
   Cameroon moves slowly towards embracing bi-lingualism just as Cymru sees an upsurge in Welsh medium education. Yet what of the many tribal languages there? Indigenous as Welsh to this land and linked to their ancestors, to that ancient sense of 'teulu'. To make a vital contact with the land and its gods again it can only happen through these.
   In a circle we share palm wine from a plastic bottle ; hole pierced at the top. It has been tapped that very day and fermented as we spoke. Anybody is free to join and, at our hotel, a mayor from a nearby district sits down to imbibe , calling us 'mes freres aux Pays de Galles'. The next day he brings an even bigger bottle to share.
    On the roads we come face to face with realities of death. Three hunters stand over a beautiful antelope and a porcupine resting on it. Bloodstains beneath them as they put a price on these corpses and even on photos of them.  
   On our return journey  a man is run over by a truck whose brakes failed and the driver does a rapid runner into nearby dwellings pursued by many locals. His fate could well be to be macheted or torn limb from limb unless the gendarmes get to him first.
  One cop shows up late and waves his arms, phoning for reinforcements.
   When we're stopped at a checkpoint by armed police one evening I'm desperately looking for ID as I've forgotten my passport. I use my trusted Merthyr bus pass instead and they write down the details diligently. There's a moment of panic as one of our party ( a man from the mountains, his name a give-away) has no ID! Money's passed and we're able to move on : typical of many a tricky situation, but a great relief also.
   My free bus pass proves equally effective getting into the British Embassy a few days later where I'm 'poet laureate' but not Carol Ann Duffy with a sex change!
   After two hours of browsing through royalist propaganda in their waiting room, we meet a man called Elvis who once wrote poetry but gave it up on reading Keats and discovering it only led to destitution!
   The National Museum in Yaounde was totally empty on a Sunday and our meticulous guide showed us around all the exhibits, explaining with erudition.
   He also told us how a Japanese tourist had slapped him when she saw the huge picture of President Biya which greets you as you enter.
   I never saw any tourists in Cameroon, just a few Westerners visiting on business or reporting on the election and Chinese contractors working on the football stadium at Douala.
   The museum tour did end in a whole room dedicated to Biya, including a photo of his first wife who, apparently, he got rid of!
   Outside was a photographer with a series of pictures of the same sky where a space in the clouds was the shape of Cameroon. 
   I couldn't help thinking of the many aspects of this lively and fraught country you could photograph : signs, street-sellers,empty rows of Government shops, okada drivers, those with goods balanced on their heads, or official buildings protected by razor wire.
   Religion underpins society here.....so different from home.
   Protestantism of the Anglophones, Catholicism of Francophones, quite a few Muslims and that ancient connection with the tribes and their many gods, so tangible in the sculptures outside the museum, like the spider of wisdom.
   Yet in the zoo nothing but depression. A car with no wheels and a dead kite left lying nearby.
   Two of our party sensibly opted out of the visit : one who , like me, loathed zoos and the other who commented ' I've seen enough wild animals on my plantation'.
   Neurotic baboons in confined spaces and one, seriously disturbed by the keeper , who dashed to the wire, baring teeth and then retreated in fear.
   The keeper explained how he'd actually fought with this ape and lost, so ran for his boss to save him; since that day the animal had always challenged him.
   Soldiers in watch-towers; patrols on the roads ; aftermath of a controversial and much-queried election evident everywhere.
   As playwright, poet and editor Eric Ngalle Charles often said - ' If you think you've grasped the politics of Cameroon,then definitely haven 't!'
   So where was this divided country heading? Could it be whole again?
   In his poem 'Y Ty Hwn' from Eric's anthology 'Hiraeth / Erzolirzoli' , National Poet Ifor ap Glyn writes -
          ' boed i annodd bod yn syml,
           a'r heriol yn hwyl'
  ( ' let difficult become simple,
      and challenging become fun')
   ........a call for a new kind of government in our country, but which could equally apply to Cameroon, whose challenges are far more serious in terms of violence and the well-being of citizens.
   One man tries to balance a country on his head, it will sooner or later crush him, pound him down.
   But if every person carries a part of it along the dusty highway - even in midday sun - it can be transported : a shoe, some fruit, coconuts or clothing.
   One person holds a country like a coffin, but each person sharing the load holds it high like a trophy, a celebration.


                                 Y   TRI   MOLAS
                                ( i  Ifor ap Glyn)

Aeth y tri Molas o Gymru i Gamerwn:
roedd Eric Ngalle capten y criw,
dyn o'r bobol Mopkwe
gyda theulu ro'n ni ei ddathlu
a chwerthin oedd yn teithio'r byd ;
a hefyd roedd 'na Ifor ap Glyn
un o fois enwog Cymry Llundain
gyda biro wastad yn barod
ro'n sgwennu, sgwennu, sgwennu,
ac, wrth gwrs, dyna fi
'poet laureate' yng Gghamerwn, meddai,
am dim ond cwpl o wythnosau,
gyda cherdyn bws Merthyr
a agorodd drysiau swyddogol. 


Aeth y tri o Ddouala i Yaounde
yng ngwlad y Matanga ac okada:
lle mae'r tlodion'n trio bod yn well
ond mae'r arweinwyr'n dal i ennill.
Roedd y tri Molas yn darganfod
cyfoeth y cregyn 'cowrie' a chwmni.

( diolch i Marie a Phil Stone a
m eu help) 



                             THE  THREE  MOLAS
                                (for Ifor ap Glyn)

The three Molas, from Cymru to Cameroon :
captain of the crew Eric Ngalle
a man of the Mopkwe tribe,
whose family gathered to celebrate,
whose laugh encompassed the globe ;
and then there was Ifor ap Glyn
one of the famous London Welshmen
with biro always at the ready
to write, write, write,
not forgetting me , Mike,
'Poet Laureate' of that country
for a couple of weeks only,
with my trusty Merthyr bus pass
perfect for checkpoints and embassies.


Three of us from Douala to Yaounde
in the land of Matanga and okada,
where the poor struggle for better lives
while the rich are always victors.
The three Molas who discovered
a wealth of cowrie shells and company. 
   
  
    
   

   Just a few weeks back the 3 Molas - namely myself, Eric Ngalle Charles and Ifor ap Glyn - set off on a visit to Cameroon, a Welsh delegation ready to launch the anthology Eric edited 'Hiraeth / Erzolirzoli' ( Hafan Books), make contacts with writers there and build for the future of Cymru-Cameroon ( all supported by Wales Arts International).
   So, I entered the utter darkness.....no, I don't mean Africa, but Sophia Gardens bus 'station' in Cardiff. Park gates locked, no lights....overnight express to Heathrow ( loosely 'express', as it goes through Chepstow!).
   Screaming kid all the way recalled the new TV drama series 'The Cry', especially when a woman yelled - 'Give him some bloody water!'
   At the airport Eric's case was seriously overweight with copies of the book, but sharing and a new case sorted that.
   Africa before us, first time for myself and Ifor.....a Continent shaped in my consciousness by the likes of Achebe, Jack Mapanje and Conrad. Cameroon itself hatched in my head by Eric's own inimitable performances ....a part of that country already in Wales, as Ifor put it.
   We landed in the commercial capital Douala and very soon at the cafe opposite our hotel, Eric's many friends and family gathered : sister arriving with her baby on an okada (motorbike taxi) and his mother, as larger-than-life as he is, so even Sion Tomos Owen's cartoons would find it hard to pin down.
   There were immediately many tales of his home near Buea, across the river and not so far away : tales of the guerilla war fought by Ambazonian secessionists for an Anglophone state ( Cameroon is 80% Francophone and 20% Anglophone) and brutal army response. How even Eric's mother wanted to move and his friend, the film-maker Palmer Ngale Mbua had run 3 kilometres when shooting broke out. 
   This starkly contrasted the celebration and feasting of this first evening.
   The first of countless times, Eric patiently explained that I was a 'vegeterien' and, as in France , he might as well have introduced me to waiters as a 'Martian'.
   While they tucked into snails, chicken, fish and tripe ( avoiding the viper and python on the menu), I ate the furlong ( Garden huckleberry) and plantain that would become my staple diet.
   Languages criss-crossed and leapt about the tables : Bakweri of Eric's tribe, English, Pidgin ( a hybrid dialect of English and some German),and some French ; though Eric is from the Anglophone south-west.
   Next day we embarked on the long car journey to the political capital Yaounde, inland and more tropical, for the launch, media appearances and to meet Cameroonian writers who appear in the anthology.
   The main road symbolizes the state of the country : a place thronging with hard-working, busy traders, a timber industry paying no heed to the environment and a collapsing infrastructure. It often became a rough track or was so full of fissures and pot-holes it was like there'd been an earthquake. 
   A new stadium's being constructed outside Douala in the hope that Cameroon will host the next African Nations Cup: incongruous amongst the dirt tracks.
   Few buses were on the road and , despite teams of whistle-blowing safety-men, many vehicles were being driven with broken screens, lethal loads and black fumes from exhaust from the cheap fuel sold in plastic canisters by the roadside.
   The country's rich in resources from timber to coffee, tea to cacao : where was all the revenue going to?
   Certainly not roads, transport or toilets which consisted of ( as Eric put it) 'dangling your parts' beside a bush or ditch. Caught short in the middle of Yaounde, I had to do this and provoked many car horns to my complete embarrassment! 
   Our Yaounde hotel was welcome comfort after Douala's dubious dwelling and that evening we met several writers from 'Hiraeth / Erzolirzoli', including Douglas Achingale, Joffi Ewusi and story-writer Tiffuh Esther.
   Douglas is a brave poet of protest and I gave him a copy of 'Red Poets' ; I sincerely hope he submits as his work would be the perfect fit.
   It was wonderful to hear Ifor , our National Poet, talk so eloquently about Welsh history.
   Explaining Cymru became a vital task just as we were learning so much about their country. It wasn't enough to reference Gareth Bale either and our language and degree of self-government had to be placed into context.
  If there was ever the perfect choice for National Poet then Ifor must be it : he adapts so readily, writes notes furiously about the culture and place and even won the great Achu challenge, a one-finger style of eating this yellow soup in a crater of coco-yam, while I swallowed a chilli whole and spluttered ! On Facebook, one wag described that meal as 'a ring of meringue with curry sauce inside'!
   For our launch the next evening at the Chamber of Agriculture he had even written a celebratory englyn, which he duly read out after addressing the audience in Bakweri.  
   The launch was due to begin at 4 pm so, as Eric had warned, we kicked off well after 5 , just as the rain poured down and thunder erupted. Soon as I heard it I said to him - 'There'll be a power cut!'
   Sure enough, a black out just after the start. Luckily, his sister had brought torches and our voices carried down the large hall.
   Ifor's poem 'Y Ty Hwn' which was written especially for the last opening of the Welsh Assembly was read out in Bakweri by the translator Efange Protus Esuka. This was a moment of sheer magic, as was Eric's performance in front of most of his village for the first time . In the intervals between readings and speeches, the wonderful ChaCha dancers even managed to involve two rather wooden Welshmen.
   Douglas Achingale's reading of 'The Honourable Minister' was particularly pertinent in such troubled times.
   Each of us was interviewed that night for national tv and in the ensuing days we were interviewed for the national press and radio; the latter by Charles Tembei, who actually did an internship under Channel 4's Jon Snow in 2007!
   Despite being government owned, the radio station building was much like the rest of the country: toilet flooding, ceilings gaping, an entire theatre space disused and a subterranean darkness pervading.
   Defying these surroundings, Tembei was master of the mic and we had a meal with him afterwards as the Presidential election results were announced on tv. They would take several hours and had no running totals he explained.
   When the incumbent President Paul Biya was declared victor with over 70 % of the vote nobody seemed shocked, though everyone expected trouble.
   There had been many allegations of fraud and malpractice and a very low turn-out in the Anglophone south- and north-west where the secessionists operate.
   Biya is 85 and spends an inordinate amount of time in Geneva. He has never addressed the people in English, despite the contentiousness of the issue, a legacy of colonialism. He has held power for 36 years and the first country to congratulate him was the so-called liberal Macron of France, the former colonial power who still benefit considerably economically and maintain a security presence.
   His face ( well, a much younger version) is everywhere on billboards, official offices and the museum and his party are all-powerful. I later learnt about the many Cameroonian writers detained or exiled for their alleged criticism of the regime; surely cases which PEN Cymru must pursue.
   One billboard slogan reads 'THE FORCE OF EXPERIENCE' , an apt mistranslation from the French! 
   Wealth and poverty are strange neighbours here, as they are in India. Right next to a city community like a 'village' without sanitation and with corrugated iron roofs,we came upon a palatial house with high walls and iron gate.
   Yet when I reflect on the people I met  and came to know I admire so much their ambition and drive, despite these stark inequalities and violence lurking.
   I think of the film-maker Palmer who has so little support for his many projects , yet is determined to enter next year's Cardiff Film Festival and, even after watching us lose 4-1 to Liverpool is an honorary Bluebird!
   I think of poet Joffi Ewusi with her three young children, who still finds room in her house for two 'displaced' young people from the war zones ( there are many such 'internal refugees' in Cameroon).
   I think too of the postgraduate Raoul Djemili with French his first language, telling me about the plight of Cameroon's writers ; a subject I hope he'll write about for 'Red Poets'.
   I think also of our indomitable driver 'Benji', a man of few words but many Vimtos, who steered us through so much mayhem with great placidity and who appeared on national TV at our launch to much acclaim from friends and family.
   Above all, I think of the 3 Molas bringing those two words 'hiraeth ' and 'erzolirzoli' so close together they have become inseparable, one Welsh and one Bakweri.
   Who would have imagined it?
   Two countries so far apart, inextricably joined. 


                                      OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS

                                        ( for Eric Ngalle Charles)


A resounding explosion like shock of news
travelling fast from troubled territories,
lights out so we could no longer view
that framed face as it peered
on every street, promising 'THE FORCE OF EXPERIENCE'
( mistranslation telling much).

With torchlight, as in a cave, the ceremony proceeded :
poetry and speeches bringing light.
All his village had journeyed for his homecoming:
for them , a tunic of many colours,
black hat and stick ; applause for returning son. 

From the depths like beams through a cleft
came Cha Cha drummers and dancers chanting,
so Cymru-Cameroon joined together one expression.

Rain ceased its troubled nattering
and the cockerel crowed both dawn and day-time
when we later shared palm wine
under the gentle shade :
two friends, two lands learning.