Iceland review - 2015, Qupperneq 65

ICELAND REVIEW 63
TRAVEL
what it must feel like to journey into com-
pletely uncharted territory. With a bit of
self-deception you can still get close to
that feeling when traveling in Iceland, even
though you can see every rock and puddle
on Google Maps.
EMULATING ANCIENT TRAVELS
Heading east on Ring Road
One, I had just returned from
my own version of Thesiger’s
years among the Marsh Arabs,
having spent a few weeks trav-
eling to the lesser known parts
of Africa with the editor of
this magazine. We had tried to
emulate ancient travels through
uncharted territory by ignor-
ing the detailed maps available
to us, wanting instead to see
what would happen if when
setting out each morning we
would have no idea where to
sleep the next night. Our travels
would be completely random.
Actually, to be honest, while
I was emulating ancient trav-
els, the editor was taking pho-
tographs for a book and just
didn’t care where he slept the
next night. Touching down in
Doulala, the port city of Cameroon, can be
a daunting experience for those not used to
Africa. There’s an aggression in the air that
is palpable, and the heat and humidity can
be overbearing. Immediately after leaving
customs at the airport you are set upon
by a group of men, all intent on driving
you into town and becoming your guide.
The solution, as the editor—an old Africa
hand—points out, is to leave the airport
building through the departure doors, a
trick that he had used many-a-time with
unfailing success.
We have an appointment to see Dr. M.
C. Nkwenti who has promised to supply
us with a brand-new jeep and a knowl-
edgeable driver to take us northwards. Dr.
Nkwenti is a character straight out of a
Joseph Conrad central casting. The brand-
new jeep turns out to be a 15-year-old
Mitsubishi and we are fairly sure that this
expedition will suffer the same fate as our
journey to Tanzania where one wheel fell
off our Land Cruiser as we drove through
the Usambaras Lushoto mountain reserve
on our way to Dar es Salaam.
As you travel north from Douala,
Cameroon feels increasingly remote. My
hotel bedroom in Limbe has such a strong
smell of urine that I chain-smoke cigars to
make it livable. I know this reminds me of
something from my youth. As I lie on my
bed, puffing on a medium-size Cohiba, it
strikes me, the memory of having at the
age of eight traveled with my parents to
the village of Raufarhöfn up by the Arctic
Circle in Iceland. Until now nothing had
surpassed the experience that the village
of 194 inhabitants had provided in terms
of bad accommodation. Then as now we
were the only paying guests. Surely I had
not come all this way to relive something
that I could have experienced in my native
country? I was here for a sense of adven-
ture. But of course Limbe is a much better
place than Raufarhöfn. The white beach is
stunning, scattered with black lava rocks,
the people are friendly, although the fish-
ermen threaten to turn aggressive at the
sight of the editor’s camera, and the town
is charm itself. The temperature reaches
38ºC (100ºF) and I, being an Icelander who
usually dreads heat in excess of 15ºC (59ºF),
start feeling wonderful. My body feels sup-
ple; I can bend down and tie my shoelaces
for the first time in years without my back
aching. This is paradise.
We travel from Limbe up
to Mount Cameroon, where
steady rains keep the land fer-
tile. Icelanders always claim to
have a future growing fruits and
vegetables because of the abun-
dant clean energy—all you need
is massive greenhouses. But in
Cameroon you get four harvests
a year, without expensive infra-
structure. We see small children
picking mangos for lunch. You
can imagine where Sub-Saharan
Africa, with around 13 percent
of the world’s population and 30
percent of its hydrocarbon and
mineral resources, would be if it
weren’t for corruption and strife.
Kleptocracy rules.
On to Koutaba, where we stay
at the Hotel Paradise Palace.
Everywhere we go we are the only
guests. On then to the small ham-
let of Bgambi, where the earth is blood red,
and children play football in bright yellow
and orange t-shirts at 6:30 on a Saturday
morning.
REMINISCENT OF HOME
Not being ones to follow advice, we are in
Cameroon at the start of the rainy season.
The air is clearer than anything I’ve seen,
the colors vivid, the earth red against the
cobalt blue sky and vivid green of the maize
fields. The sharpness of the light reminds
me of Iceland.
There are other things that remind me
of home. South of Yaoundé, the road to
President Paul Biya’s old village is the best
road in the country, a highway laid with
new tarmac leading to a small village. In the
past you would have seen something similar
From Limbe, in the shadow of Mt. Cameroon. The men arrive with
their catch with the boys looking on.