Cameroon: First Few Days; One World, Two Perspectives.

Day 1, Day 2 - Blake

My arrival in Cameroon was immediately met with the extreme heat and humidity that is Africa. I walked off the plane and found myself sweating profusely, head to toe. I knew once I saw Allen we would be right back where we were the last time I had seen him, nearly 8 months ago. Immediately our conversation flowed. We went through discussion that was engaged at time, while at certain points we spat hyper incoherent thoughts that is the relationship of Abay and Blano. We rode in a taxi into the center of the city of Douala and arrived at a Baptist Mission where we were to stay for one night before we made our way out to the beach. After some tuneage listening, we strolled down the dimly lit street towards this Greek restaurant. Our conversation continued through dinner as the local prostitutes stared us down. They not only stared at us, but they sat inside the restaurant just a few tables away from us. It blew me away that the eatery allowed what was obviously going on to occur within the establishment itself. We continued eating and drinking a few beers as they began throwing little pieces of crumpled up paper as us…at times hitting me in the back or on the head. They would make a kissing/hissing noise in an attempt to get us to look over and acknowledge their presence. We did our best to ignore them. When we finished dinner we walked out of the place as fast as possible and went over to the “rare” grocery store to buy some more Guinness in order to continue the festivities.

When we got back to the hotel, the inspiration was flowing like crazy! We just had an endless stream of ideas that seemed to come out of us with ease. The enthusiasm of what was to come was practically overwhelming. We decided on a few key things that would help us along the way. The recording of certain conversations, mostly the discussion that occurred over a meal, became something that would be an indispensable tool in recollecting our cultural, political, and emotional/spiritual conversations.

Seeing as I haven’t been in the country at this point for more than two days, I have incessant curiosity. I feel as though most of the time I am interviewing Allen, picking his brain for the bottomless amounts of knowledge the last 8 months has given him. He seems to possess certain inquisitiveness, working alongside with his lack of a language barrier (by speaking nearly 7 languages now…could be an exaggeration, but he knows a few trilbal languages, Spanish, English, French, and a bit of Italian), which gives him continuous opportunity to learn random pieces of knowledge about the local culture and politics.

We are now in the costal city of Kribi and we have spent a lot of time talking and continuing with the progression of our ideas. It seems as though we will have little time to just be lazy and sit around. Not to say that we won’t at all, but the drive for accomplishment is definitely alive and kicking.

Photography has become somewhat of a stealth-mode procedure. A lot of the Africans feel that their photo somehow possesses their soul, while others are more than happy to pose for a photo. The ones who do end up posing for me usually try to forth their most distinguished of faces, in an effort to maintain an image of integrity. The children are ecstatic to be shot. This is tied to their deference for ancestry, and a smile will usually make them feel as though they won’t be seen as someone who deserves respectful admiration in the future.

Day 1, Day 2 - Allen

Sitting on the grass at the airport on Monday. Waiting for Blake’s plane to land. A lot of anxiety rushed through me that evening, this was finally it. Blake was coming to the armpit. I was overwhelmed with excitement, but I couldn’t let out a smile until I saw his face. He had missed one flight already, and for some reason I just couldn’t picture him here, with me. The steel bird finally appeared on the horizon. She landed gracefully and made her way towards the gate. I left my seat on the grass and headed for the terminal. I perched myself over a balcony that gave me a clear view of the baggage claim and customs area. Waiting. What will he look like now? People started filing into the area. Then he was there.

“BLAKE!” I yelled. He looked around, not sure where to find me.
“BLAKE!” I yelled again as a smile of relief and excitement lit my face. He saw me, we smiled, and he waved.
Several “hey guys” and “yeeeeahs” were exchanged. We were reunited at last. Time to conquer Cameroon.

We made our way into Douala. Exchanging stories. I don’t think there was a single break in our conversation that entire night. From his arrival at 6:30 pm, till we decided to crash and watch a movie at 4 a.m., we didn’t stop. I felt as though I was releasing an 8-month build up of creativity, things I can only share with Blake, things only Blake can understand. His curiosity is like a magnet. He wants to know all the things that I am learning here. He is quickly grasping the culture. He is a perfect visitor. He doesn’t have any expectations. He lets the picture paint itself; he takes it in as it comes. Just like me.

We didn’t waste much time that first night. After Dib, the random Lebanese guy, decided to bail on us due to “a machine failure” in his “factory,” we went out to dinner. We drank a few beers and admired the whores' ambition of planning some sort of ambush on the two, handsome, young white men. We successfully avoided their attack, although it was tempting to let them go through with it ;)

We proceeded back to our “Baptist mission” hotel room," drank some Guinness and some fine Scotch and began to unleash a Tsunami of good old fashion lyrical art. We are some creative bastards. We really are. From the balcony, to the pool, to the room, we exploded. Words, brilliant words were strewn all about. We spoke in poetry, and we spoke in conversation.

The night flew by, as will the next month. But we are going to make the most of every minute. Or at least every waking minute (Blake is now curled up on the bed, I will soon awake him because I am going to lay down some rap). We are in Kribi now, the tropical paradise of Cameroon. I can hear the waves crashing outside our hotel room. Blake is taking an incredible amount of pictures here, some of which the people aren’t too receptive to. Some Africans have superstitions about having their photos taken, like its taking their soul away. Blake wanted to get pictures of some of the people in the market, but we were turned down by everyone. A couple of aggressive teenagers were willing to let us in exchange for some jewelry, screw that. Once we get to my village, where I know the people, Blake will be able to get some of the more intimate people shots. Until then he will have to continue his super spy action photography and the drive by shooting (riding on the back of the motorcycle, hold the camera by his waste, casually snapping picture after picture of the people we passed).

We are already swamped with ideas. We are creative beasts. Idea after idea popping through our minds. I like his ideas, he likes mine. Two ideas per minute per person. That’s 240 ideas per hour. Can we realize them all? Blake knows we can, I believe we can. Better get busy. Tonight we roll, we lay out some “floetry poetry,” and we record our Cameroonian friend “Alain’s” beautiful voice. The shit we did with him last night was amazing. Overlaying traditional African chants on modern techno/trip hop/funk/electronic music. Truly innovative. Alain was eating this shit up; the expression on his face was one of pure amazement and satisfaction. He was living a dream but he kept his composure. Man, he really kept his composure. A perfect representation of the African peace of mind that is embedded in these people. There is no such thing as self-doubt. The word “confidence” does not exist because there is no such thing as “no confidence.” It’s all natural. Alain made beautiful music, we provided a platform. The new 3WB: incorporating local sounds, on our ALWAYS tight ass beats.

Day 3 - Blake

Yesterday proved to be one of hesitation and fear when it came to being able to get the photos I saw (the composition, or shot I could see without the camera up) as we walked through the city market. The marketplace resembled a medieval bazaar with its structurally unsound construction and overall smell and feel. Each vendor attempting to sell his or her goods, each and every one selling the same thing as 30 others. A lot of the time the similar goods were being sold directly across or next to one another. There is no sense of competition in this world. No sense of doing better than the other. Everyone remains in a state of constant respect for each other’s livelihood, no one individual is more important. The concern for the community is all that concerns these people. Family, brotherhood, and respect seem to dominate their approach to life.