Military intervention in Yaoundé
Hi BoBers,
Yaoundé has a strange beauty despite the constant noise and crazy traffic. Every evening, the sun sets through the smog, bathing golden-red the hills, pock-marked with apartments, banana trees and towering state monuments. My hosts were lovely. An American/French couple volunteering at a local university. I had my first warm shower months and my clothes were blinding out of the washing machine. We ate dinner together in the evenings and discussed politics, culture and travel. A lovely respite.
As instructed at the border, I visited the General Delegation for National Security to get my visa sticker and stamp. After cycling there, I removed my boots and put on my embassy long pants and shirt, trying my best not to completely soak them with sweat. I walked in. They told me to go to the airport. I walked out. Sweaty pants and shirt off. I decided to leave the next day, visiting the airport on the way. Five minutes in total.
At least the whole thing wasn’t in vain, because while leaving I met someone living in Limbe, a city I planned to visit. We chatted briefly and exchanged numbers. Later that evening, she mentioned a cyclist who’d been missing for 9 days. It was Adrien, the Swiss guy I’d met at the border. His gps tracker had stopped for 4 hours just outside of town, moved into town at 80km an hour, almost certainly in a vehicle, and then had stopped in the ministry of defence.
I decided to postpone leaving and check it out. By my estimation, he’d either had an accident and was in the open-to-the-public military hospital, or he’d been taken by the military and was in custody. I needed to be careful, because my visa situation still wasn’t in order. The ministry of defence was on my way to the airport, so I made a plan. Visit the hospital first. If I found him there, great. If I didn’t, I would go to the airport and sort out my documents, then I would return and explore the ministry with my valid documents.
On Tuesday morning, it didn’t start well at the hospital. There is no central reception, so I hunted the corridors, packed with the sick and haggard, asking random staff if they’d seen a white patient. I visited multiple departments, emergency, surgery, vip care. Nothing. A Swiss doctor had been volunteering at the hospital, which just complicated matters. Luckily, I bumped into a formidable French doctor, who immediately instructed a nurse to help me find him. After searching the hospital, she was taking me to a clinic in the ministry, when we were stopped by some soldiers. One of the soldiers told me excitedly he knew exactly where he is.
We head into a military compound and immediately an officer chews me out for wearing shorts. The soldier, still smiling, leads me to a small field where I put on my pants half-discreetly. We move into a courtyard, with soldiers and civilians milling about. We approach some bars behind which I see a white, slightly waxy face. Instinctively, I approach the bars and start asking questions. Stop! No talking allowed. I’m told to sit and Adrien’s escorted out.
Surprisingly, we’re allowed to talk. He seems a bit stunned, but we get to business straight away. Who do I need to contact? Luckily, I brought a notebook and pen. He hurriedly writes down some names and numbers. His girlfriend. His dad. The embassy. Suddenly, someone arrived. I needed to go with them. Shit. It had all happened so fast, but this was exactly what I’d tried to avoid. Surrounded by the military without my papers in order.
I was brought in front of two men in sunglasses and fashionable grey suits. They chatted casually for five minutes. I waited, alert. Eyes firmly on the ground. With the same casual demeanour, they eventually began to ask questions. Firstly about my trip in general, with the usual canned answers. Then about corruption. Then about visas. “Do you always get a visa before arriving in a country?”. I tried to stop my hands from shaking.
I resisted the urge to obfuscate and told them the truth. I had an approved e-visa. At the border they told me to go to the airport for my visa. My only adjustment was saying the border was “missing a stamp” rather than “no longer a valid border” as they told me. At the mention of the e-visa, they seemed to relax. The conversation turned back to my trip. Why I’m not married and have no kids. They joked that I’m redirecting all the energy into riding and I genuinely laughed.
Later, Adrien was brought in. After 9 days detained, this was the first time he’d seen a higher-ranking officer. He told them passionately about the situation with the visa. At one point I tensed up as he, defending himself, said that he and I were in the same situation with the visa. But they seemed surprised that he had an e-visa at all and seemed to be on side. He mentioned he’d been sick for days and was losing weight. They offered him medical care and said he would have his phone that evening. Then they let me leave.
I got a beer to calm the nerves and contacted his friends and family. I didn’t think about it in advance, but his father was understandably suspicious of these whatsapp messages of dubious origin. He quite dryly thanked me for the information. Adrien’s girlfriend was more open and delighted to hear that he was safe and mostly sound. We organised for me to print a letter and bring it to him the next day. I had no idea if they would allow me back, but I would try. I put off talking to the embassy, because I thought they might tell me to stay out of it, stopping me from delivering the letter.
After that, I went to the airport. I briefly stopped during a passing storm, enduring the store owner insisting that I find him a white girlfriend. I chose to get wet. At the airport, the process was quite straightforward. First, a tag to pass security. Then the e-visa sticker. Photo. Fingerprints. The immigration officer seemed surprised, even though this was clearly a common occurrence. We had a brief, friendly conversation and he gave me a stamp for the date I crossed the border.
The next day, Wednesday, I went to visit again. I’d been sure to not offer any promises. After the frantic response the day before, I wasn’t sure they’d allow me back inside. I went back to the entry and handed over my phone and passport. They all recognised me and let me in with a smile. He was off getting treatment, however, and returned from the hospital over an hour later, looking much healthier. This time, we only had a few minutes together. Enough to hand over the letter and the news that everyone knew he was safe.
Afterwards, I went to the Swiss Embassy. Far from my expectations, the embassy staff were very appreciative to hear from me and had been working hard behind the scenes. I was offered a coffee with real milk (!) and the Consul, Roland, gave me his personal number. If things didn’t move soon, he said he might even just walk in with me. Another chat with Adrien’s girlfriend that evening. We were bonding quickly through this urgent, shared task.
In the courtyard Thursday morning, there were haggard-looking shirtless men holding cardboard signs saying “deserter” and “false agent”. People walking past occasionally taunted them, having a grand old time. Except the captors, of course. I needed to see the Colonel before visiting Adrien. He spoke excellent English and it was mostly chit-chat about travel while I cringed about the bag of fruit I’d brought slowly dripping on the office chair. He called someone to escort me. He didn’t arrive. He yelled out for someone to bring a walkie-talkie. Nobody responded. After two awkward minutes of yelling, during which I had no idea where to direct my gaze, finally someone came with the radio. No response to the radio. More yelling and someone was told to go and fetch the captain. More chit chat.
Eventually, the captain arrived and was mildly chastised. Then they chatted triumphantly, I assume about the new captives. After about 10 minutes, we left for the captain’s office. I waited 30 minutes outside. Obviously a power play. Eventually I entered the office and was told to sit. The captain and two obsequious underlings, one skinny, the other overweight with bulging eyes discussed the captives, all drinking beer. The captain downed the rest of his beer and, leering intensely, called a teenage girl in and asked for another beer. After it arrived and he’d had a swig, he escorted me, with another soldier, to Adrien. The captain was immaculately dressed, efficient and quite charming. He said I was free to return and visit whenever.
The captain immediately left, busy with more important matters. Adrien was comfortable in an air-conditioned hospital room. After discussing the essentials, we were free to just chat bikes, travel and his time being locked up; the soldier quietly sleeping in a chair in the corner. I imagine it was nice to just have a normal conversation again. Things had been rough, but also very interesting. At points the holding cell had 30 people in it, barely enough for them all to lie down. Mostly soldiers, they kept themselves and the cells very clean. There were also some heinous stories, told casually, about things they’d done while fighting in the far north. But for the details you’ll have to read Adrien’s book.
Friday, I went with a book and we chatted some more. Things seemed very relaxed this time. The guard had brought his PS4 and they were watching movies and playing games. The consul had visited and brought a pile of snacks, which Adrien tried to palm off onto me. Also a stack of cash. Almost worth getting detained if you’re Swiss. However long it would take, he was comfortable, if a little bored.
I got a text that night from the consul. Adrien was being released the next day. I arrived early and Adrien was clearly excited to leave. A little later, the mismatched envoy arrived. From jeans and sneakers of the consul’s driver, to the dress uniform of some of the military, others in suits and dark glasses and Adrien in his shorts with tan lines showing. The mood was conciliatory. The military explained at length why they needed to detain Adrien. Then the director of the hospital arrived and shamelessly hit on one of the nurses, putting his arm around her. He then held court on medical matters for 20 minutes. After another 10 minutes of awkward conversation the consul finally interrupted, suggesting that Adrien might be keen to leave. We stopped by the colonel’s office, who offered us expensive bourbon and wrote down his personal number on post-its and handed them out.
And then, Adrien was free! We threw our bikes in the back of a troop carrier and went to the consul’s place. Apparently, one of the captains had even asked the consul about getting a visa to Switzerland. We celebrated with pizza and beer. The consul offered for me and Adrien to stay at his place, which we gladly accepted. The air-conditioned room was magical. I even had a bath. That evening, we were invited to dinner with embassy staff. There was live music by a man in a sleeveless vest who would have been at home on a much bigger stage. It felt strange. After struggling for days for basic information and medical care, we were deciding which wine would best go with the food. Adrien was dumbfounded.
The next few days were relaxed for this odd thruple. Adrien and I definitely have completely different approaches to travel. He loves to ride. He told stories about ultra-endurance races. About hallucinating after days without sleep. Roland was shocked by our travel stories, but had stories of his own, about working in Istanbul, in Barcelona, in Azerbaijan. One night I made a big cous-cous and salad and we made cocktails. Adrien was back on his bike on Sunday, redoing the section he’d covered in the army van. He’d said he felt psychologically incomplete, having not ridden to his current location. No rest for the wicked.
And then, on Monday morning, after a week of madness, we parted ways. Me, heading west for Limbé, Adrien heading south for the Republic of Congo, and Roland, readying the embassy for the coming world trade organisation conference. It was a strange feeling to be on the road again. A little listless, even, after all the stress and clear plans. All that was left was to ride, and that’s what I did.
Miraculously free,
J&BoB
