Palm Wine sellers, Yaounde, Cameroon
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.
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