mylifeincameroon - Paul J Hamel Official Website All Rights Reserved

M y L i f e i n
Bafia
C a m e r o o n
Memories of a Peace Corps Volunteer from 1969-1972
Imagine being very, very far away from home in a small town in the middle
of Africa with no internet, no television, no phone, no electricity, no running
water, no car, and no paved roads. That was life in Bafia in the 1970s.

A panel from a wood carving from Bafoussam,
Cameroon
This memoir is dedicated to all
past and future Peace Corps
volunteers who have served and
will serve in Bafia.
Paul J. Hamel
1133 North Clark Street, Unit 101
West Hollywood, CA 90069
Home: 310-657-8814
Mobil: 310-991-2374
Email: paulhamel@roadrunner.com
© by Paul J. Hamel All rights reserved

Sometimes people ask me
what it was like serving in
the Peace Corps in Africa.
I usually reply that it was
a life-changing experience
that has influenced me
greatly throughout my life.
My Peace Corps experiences taught me
many valuable lessons that helped guide me through
life: self reliance, appreciation for what I have, the art of
giving without
expecting anything in
return, and
feeling that I
have made a
difference in
the lives of
others. After
forty years,
there is not a
day that goes
by that I don’t
think about
C a m e r o o n
– especially
at the time
of writing
this memoir
because I
will be returning to Bafia for a visit in
less than a month (Sept 14-28, 2013). I can’t want
to see how everything has changed. Upon my return,
I plan on adding this memoir to include a “Then and
Now” section.
Paul Hamel and Carl Kovanemi in 1970
I am happy that my adventure happened early
in my life. It was my introduction to travel, community
service, and a career in education. I am grateful for
this extraordinary experience, and I still continue
to appreciate more than ever
such basics as
a comfortable
bed, running
water, and
e l e c t r i c i t y.
After forty
years I still
find moments
when I stop
myself and
a p p r e c i a t e
the sight of
a simple
light switch
or a faucet.
L o o k i n g
back, life as
a volunteer was hard, but very
Part of our “stage” training was in Obala
satisfying. Luckily I was young, strong, and healthy.
If I had to put up with the same conditions again today,
I’m not sure I would be able to.

g e t t i n g t o
Bafia
My New Town
The day had finally arrived. I was about to
begin the trip to my new home
in Bafia for the next two years.
Bafia was then a town of a few
thousand inhabitants and the
capital of the Department of
the Mbam in central Cameroon
in West Africa.
After the many
months of training, first in
Quebec, Canada, in Obala,
then in Yaoundé, the capital
of Cameroon, I was ready
to embark on my longanticipated
journey. I felt
nervous, numb, and anxious
to get to my destination. I
didn’t know anything about
Bafia, and I had no idea what I
was going to find or where I was going to stay. Luckily
I was not alone. Carl Koivunemi, another Peace Corps
volunteer assigned to the same school, and I traveled
by Landrover to Bafia along with Brenda Remmes who
was stationed in Bokito, a neighboring village.
We took a paved highway past Obala and turned
off into a dirt road wondering
where we were going --
only later to learn that it
actually was one of the major
highways in Cameroon!
When we got to Bafia, I
waited for an audience with
the Prefet while Carl and
the Peace Corps Assistant
Director accompanied
Brenda to Bokito. By the
time they got back, I was
still waiting to see the Prefet.
I’ve often wondered if we
would have had better initial
accommodations if we had
gone directly to the Proviseur
(Director) of the school rather than the Prefet, and why
the PC told us to go to the Prefet right away.

When we arrived in Bafia, our house was not
ready so we were directed to a small room behind the
official government guest house, which was reserved
for VIPs such as the Prime Minister or President. Carl
and I shared the back room for a few weeks before our
moving to a house. The room was furnished
with a double bed, a
table and two chairs.
There was no kitchen
or bathroom. Every
morning a grounds
worker delivered a
bucket of water for
washing. We used
the area in back of the
building to wash and
shower. We quickly
experienced the effects
of the local food, a
tarantula in our room,
and the theft of some of
our personal items: a pair
of prescription glasses,
a radio, a tape recorder, and a few pieces
of clothing. We ate mostly chicken or chunks of beef
or goat in peanut or some tomato-based sauce over
The road from Bokito to Bafia
rice. We drank only bottled drinks such as warm beer,
Coke, and flavored bottled soda water. Bottled water
was not available then. When we finally moved into
our new home we were joined by Michel Guien, a
Frenchman, who would be teaching math at
the same school. There we
were, plopped down in the
middle of an exotic place
where we had to learn to live
new lives. I was young and
adaptable so the transition
from an urban American
culture to the remoteness
of the African bush went
relatively smoothly. I
wound up living in a
new house with my own
room and bathroom and a
comfortable bed. It didn’t
take me long to develop
a daily routine.
After a few weeks in
Bafia, Carl and I decided to go back to Yaounde before
the school year began to get some household supplies
and for me to get new glasses, which were stolen from
our temporary living quarters. This time we had to take
A mammy-wagon
crossing the Mbam
River in 1969

a “mammy wagon,” a sort of mini-bus. We spent a few
days collecting what we needed and headed back to
our new home in Bafia.
I remember getting up very early in the morning
and took a taxi to the “mammy wagon” station not far
from the American Embassy and the Hotel National
where volunteers usually stayed while visiting the
capital. We dragged our baggage through a dusty lot
with scores of “mammy wagons,” mini-buses that
connected the outlying villages and towns. The scene
was a riot of color, sound and smell. Women wore
brightly colored outfits and the men wore “boubous,”
pullover shirts with embroidery around the collar and
sleeves. Everyone was in a hurry; they were jostling
in and out of the crowded mini-buses, taxis, and cars.
The horns, motors, and exhaust added to the chaos.
Carl and I found a mammy wagon heading for
Bafia, but it was already full so the driver forced the
occupants of the front seat out and told Carl and me
to take their seats. We looked at each other and said
nothing. We knew that we were getting VIP treatment
and felt bad and a bit guilty for taking the front seat.
The rest of the passengers rode in the back of the minibus
where they were crammed in like sardines. The
group was so tightly packed that no one could possibly
move. Any available space was taken up with children,
baggage, and small animals. The 85-mile ride from
Yaoundé to Bafia took eight exhausting hours. The
only relief from the constant bumps and curves were
the stops at the Sanaga and Mbam Rivers. Both rivers
had to be crossed by motorized “bac,” a sort of ferry
attached to a cable, which guided the bac across the
swiftly moving water. The Sanaga bac could handle
about six cars, a few trucks, and scores of passengers.
The Mbam ferry was smaller. Unpredictability was the
norm. Sometimes travelers had to spend up to three
days to get across one of the rivers, depending on the
weather, the speed of the current, the condition of
ferry motor, and the cable. One of the few food items
that could be purchased and safely eaten were cans of
sardines and some fruit.
The commercial center of Bafia in 1971

M y N e W
Home
Our new home was the newest construction
in town built by Mr. Bidias, the
country’s finance minister, who
was from Bafia. The building
was a triplex occupied by new
teachers. The structure was
long, narrow, and spacious with
many windows with iron bars,
tiled floors, and an aluminum
roof. It even had a garage.
My Peace Corps
monthly allowance was
enough to take care of my
basic needs. Having two
housemates also allowed me
to save a little extra money
for unforeseen expenses such
as having a new shirt made
or having my motorbike
repaired.
Life was hard
and everything was labor
Luc, our cook, and Richard, our housekeeper
planting a garder
intensive. For example,
the simplest need, such as having enough water for
drinking, bathing, and washing was a major daily
challenge. There was never enough time to take care of
every basic need and teach full time at the local school.
Help was needed to survive. There was water to fetch,
filter, boil, and store. There was food to buy, prepare,
and cook. And, of course, there was the need for bottled
gas for cooking and kerosene for the Coleman
lamp that constantly needed a
new mesh almost every night.
Clothes had to be washed by
hand and ironed using burning
charcoal in a steel iron. For me
live reverted to the way I imagine
our ancestors lived.
We found that we couldn’t do it
alone so we decided to hire two
“Boys,” which was actually the
official title for our cook, Luc,
and housekeeper, Richard. In fact,
there were three different classes
of “Boys” who were hired through
the Bureau du Travail. At first it
was uncomfortable referring to
grown men as “boys,” especially
as an American who witnessed the
civil rights struggle at home, but
after a while I learned to appreciate
that it was a prestigious title in
French.
Luc and Richard’s work day began early and
there was always the unexpected. The typical routine

Carl reading in the living room
for Luc was to pick up baguettes from the bakery
and race to the house on the motorbike that I used to
let him use overnight. Just before I left for school,
Richard would arrive laden with bundles of fresh fruit,
vegetables and the occasional piece of beef, a live
chicken, or a young goat from the bi-weekly outdoor
market. Richard delivered the bundles to Luc in the
kitchen then started to do the laundry. He washed our
clothes outside in large concrete sinks and ironed them
on the dining room table with a charcoal iron.
Our living room and dining room
very talkative. They got along, but did not seem close.
They were serious. I never witnessed any joking or
laughter between them.
Luc was illiterate, but was eager to learn. I
taught him to bake a cake using simple drawings.
Instead of writing the recipe, I drew pictures of each
of the steps. It was one of my first attempts to teach
someone who was illiterate. I found that using pictures
worked best. At least he had something to refer to. I
did the same thing for other dishes. With regret, I was
never able to spend enough free time with Luc to teach
him to read and write.
Michel (right) with a visitor in front of the house
I never knew Luc or Richard’s last
names. They worked for us as a cook and laundry man
six days a week, excepts on Sundays. Luc was a thin
and lanky, thirty-something-year old, single, shy, with
bucked teeth and an infectious smile. Richard was
older than Luc: about 40 years old, married, and not
Our porch where we spent most of our time

Our neighbor was the Chief of Police (third from the left pointing to
the camera and his son) who invited us to his son’s wedding.
Luc and Richard roasting a goat
in our front yard

a n
averagE
day
At dawn the crows began to caw and the kid
goats’ hungry cry sounded
like they were being tortured.
Another day was beginning
in Bafia. I pulled the
mosquito net to one side of
my bed, looked on the floor
for any bugs, crawled out of
bed, and put on my socks.
Then I would look around
the room and say good
morning to the ubiquitous
and harmless lizards
that lived in the corners
of ceiling and walls. I
welcomed them and left
them alone because they
ate some of the many bugs
that also visited our home
especially at night. Then,
I made my way to my
“modern” bathroom and
relieved myself in a real toilet, but there was no water to
flush. In fact, there was no running water or electricity
Michel, right, with visitors
in the whole town of Bafia. To flush I used a metal pail
of water that was kept nearby. And the smell! There
was never enough water to flush completely. I had to
live with it. There were holes in the walls throughout
the house for light switches, and
they remained that way;
there was no electricity
available.
From my bathroom
window I could hear the
sputtering of my motorbike’s
noisy engine approaching.
It was Luc, the cook, who
had kept the motorbike
overnight. Richard, who did
the shopping and the laundry,
came a little later in the
morning.
The motorbike’s raucous
approach scattered the goats
and crows. The motor
sputtered to a stop and Luc
leaned the motorbike against
the wall of the open garage.
He would unlocked the kitchen door and placed a
freshly-baked, aromatic French baguette on the kitchen

counter. Every morning I followed the smell of the
fresh baguette to the kitchen where I greeted Luc.
While Luc set out to fetch well water, I made
breakfast. I emptied the small water purification
I usually carried my breakfast to the front porch
where I could view my neighbors beginning their day.
From a distance I could see the neighbor’s children
brushing their teeth, combing their hair, and getting
ready for school; children and adults walking along
the road; and the town’s prisoners cutting grass with
machetes across the dusty red road.
I turned on my battery-powered short wave
radio—my only contact with the outside world except
from the occasional Time or Newsweek magazines
and newspaper clippings from home. With great care,
I turned the dial to tune in a radio signal. Sometimes I
could get Voice of America and a few French language
stations. Some days I could even pick up the BBC
and a Portuguese language station from Angola. Carl
remembered listing to Radio Beijing. This was during
the period of the Cultural Revolution, and the station
was quite strident. They were always playing “The
Ode to the Yellow River.”
Luc would appear from behind the house with a
large wash basin balanced on his head and, at the same
The road to school
containers that filtered water overnight.
I poured the filtered water into an aluminum kettle and
placed it on a burner of the gas stove. I then opened a
small kerosene-run refrigerator and pulled out a stick of
butter. Among my fondest memories was when I would
split the warm crusty baguette in two and spread some
sweet butter and some jam on it. Then, I took a jar
of Nestlé’s Arabica coffee from the screened cupboard
and placed a heaping spoonful in a cup. When the
kettle began whistling, I added boiling water, sugar,
and some sweetened condensed milk. Fresh milk was
never available. That was my typical breakfast: coffee,
a baguette with butter and jam, and some fruit—usually
pineapple. Better continental breakfasts could not be
found in all of France! Though isolated by an eighthour
drive to the nearest city (Yaounde), Bafia had a
bakery that produced outstanding French bread—a
treat in the midst of “la brousse”—the bush. We could
even get bottles of French wine and cheese from the
owners of the two general store in town. They were
owned by merchants from Lebanon and Cyprus.
Tapping a tree
for palm wine

time, carrying a plastic bucket filled with water from
the nearby well. While I was finishing my breakfast
and reviewing my daily lesson plans for my classes,
Luc was heating water for my morning shower. Luc
filled the shower
bucket in my
bathroom with
regular well
water. Then, he
poured one hot
kettle of water
into the shower
bucket to make
it tepid. The
pail had holes
at the bottom
and a cord that
controlled the
flow of water.
A small
portion of the
hot water was
reserved for
shaving. A
somewhat tepid shower was
another little treat that made life in the middle of this
tropical climate bearable. This was my shower routine
every day and some days twice a day, especially during
the dry seasons.
The government guest house
There was a pervasiveness of dust during the dry
season and mud during the rainy season. I remember
being coated with red dust whenever a car passed on
the road during the dry season.
My typical
w a r d r o b e
consisted of long
pants and a colorful
African shirt called
a “boubou.” I
loved my boubous;
they were loosefitting,
airy and
comfortable. Short
pants were not
in fashion, and
I always wore
closed leather shoes
outside. Since much
of the clothing I
brought with me was
stolen during my
first few days living
at the “guest house,”
I had to have clothes
made by a local tailor. There were no clothing stores.
Then I was off to school, the Lycee de Bafia,
which was the only government run secondary school
in town. I taught English as a Foreign Language. I
The administrative center

taught four classes per day: three in the morning and
one in the afternoon.
Some days I would walk a kilometer (about a
half mile) to school so that Luc or Richard could use
my motorbike for shopping and running errands in the
commercial center in the
other part of town.
Occasionally my
dog, Ginger, accompanied
me to school. Ginger
became a novelty both
in the community and
at school. At school,
children usually giggled,
pointed at her, and made
a fuss over her. Ginger
was a great oddity: a pure
bred dachshund—a large
wiener dog in the middle
of Africa. Upon arriving at
school, Ginger, attracted
attention, then after the
bell rang, quietly curled
up by the door of my
classroom until the end
of the lesson. I first heard
about Ginger from Mary
Ann, the Peace Corps
doctor, who visited me twice a year for a physical
and shots. Apparently Ginger was left behind by an
embassy family who was returning to the States. I
immediately volunteered to take her in. She was my
loyal companion until the day I left Bafia. While on
Flag pole in the center of the Prefecture
a trip to Yaounde making arrangements to have her
come back to California with me, she disappeared. I
later learned that she had been stolen and eaten. I was
heartbroken.
On our way to school I walked along a dusty,
unpaved, red-colored main road bordered by tall
palms and high grass.
We first passed the home
of the Chief of Police
whose compound was to
the left of our house and
consisted of a dozen small
structures that housed
the Police Chief’s many
wives and children. Then,
we moved pass the local
prison, the old Post Office,
the German-built Prefecture
building, parade grounds,
flag pole, and the Prefect’s
residents on the right. It
took ten or fifteen minutes to
get to school. The morning
walk was usually pleasant
especially in the coolness
of the morning. It was much
less pleasant in the mid-day
sun or when it rained. It was
either getting covered with
fine red dust or drugging through thick mud.
During late afternoon and at dusk, I usually sat
on my porch correcting papers and preparing lessons
for the following day. Luc would clean up after the
The road toward Doninking

midday meal and Richard would be finishing up ironing
our clothes and put away the laundry. Everything had
to be ironed in order to kill larvae that might burrow
into your skin. This happened to me twice during my
stay.
Just before leaving for the day, Luc usually
prepared a light evening meal. Richard occupied
himself with attaching the silk mesh in the Coleman
lamp in the living room, placing a
small hurricane lamp
in the kitchen, and
setting down a candle
on a metal dish in the
bedroom hallway.
As night approached,
both Luc and Richard
sped away on my
bike.
The evening
meal was usually made
up of leftovers from
lunch and a plate of
French bread, cheese
and fruit, After dinner
time was usually spent
on the front porch with
Carl, Michel and Ginger until the mosquitoes and other
swarming bugs were too numerous to brush away.
We had a limited number of record albums
which we listened to incessantly. One of the albums
I remember was the Beatle’s “Here Comes the Sun”
from their Abby Road album and “On a Toute Besoin
d’un Homme” from a collection of classical records
that Michel had. We played the same records again and
again and we were always
running out of batteries.
Light inside the house was
provided by two Coleman
lamps and candles, however
there was never enough
light to read comfortably
so evenings were spent
relaxing and chatting about
everything and anything
over a beer, a cigarette,
or a soda. Around nine
o’clock we all went to bed
and waited for the next
day to begin.
Richard and his family
The view from our front porch

Despite a general daily routine, everyday was
full of challenges -- big and small. There was little
time to relax. There was always something that would
go wrong or something that had to be done: running
out of natural gas for the stove or kerosene for the
refrigerator and lamps; forgetting to filter and boil
enough water; having to fix a flat tire on the motorbike;
or dealing with snakes, mice, spiders, scorpions, and
bugs in the house. It seemed that every night there was
another kind of bug that was having its mating season.
The following morning, the floor around the Coleman
lamps would be completed covered with different types
of insects.
Once a routine was established, our lives
flowed, but sometimes too slowly. Little by little I
could feel myself losing contact with the outside world.
There was no daily newspaper, weekly magazines, or
TV. The only contact with the “outside” was a short
wave radio and the occasional letters from home.
Reading for pleasure was rare except during weekends
of summer breaks. I couldn’t read for very long with a
candle or a flickering lantern. Little reading was done
at night except when there was a full moon when it
was possible to read easily outside when the moon was
overhead.
Darleen and children along the Mbam River

The weather was always hot—either it was very
humid or very dry. There were two wet and two dry
seasons per year. When the first winds and rains came
after the dry season, everyone celebrated. We gathered
every type of container we could find to collect water.
We even took turns taking cold showers in back of
the house where the two roof sections came together
providing a perfect showering spot. What a treat after
several months of the dry season.
The crossing of the Mbam River
on the way to Yoko
One time during my exploration of the
surrounding area, I decided to try my hand at fishing. I
grew up fishing having lived at the bank of the Putucket
River in Rhode Island. So I thought that I would try
fishing at the banks of the Mbam. It only took one
time at the Mbam’s river’s edge to realize that I had the
wrong equipment, the vegetation was too dense, and
the current was too fast. I gave up that idea quickly.
Notwithstanding these challenges, life took on
a slower pace. Nothing was hurried and everything got
done in its own time.

M y
School
le LycÉ e de Bafia
The lycée was somewhat equivalent to high
school--something like 9th to 13th grades. The
physical compound was a collection of three cinder
block buildings that housed about 300 students in a
dozen classrooms. During the second year, three new
buildings were constructed. The classrooms were stark
and mostly bare except for rows of long, rough wooden
desks, low benches, and a simple teacher’s desk with
no draw or accompanying chair. The floor was earthen
and uneven; the walls were unfinished and unpainted;
the window openings were covered with wire mesh;
and the roof was constructed of aluminum sheets
positioned on a skeletal wooden frame. On rainy days,
there was little else to do except to let the students work
in silence since no one could speak above the noise of
the rain hitting the aluminum roof.
The students were made up of speciallyselected
and carefully-screened, local high-schoolaged
children. Unfortunately, only a fraction of the
applicants were able to attend due to the limited number
of spaces and a rigorous entrance exam in French, one
of the official languages. (English is also an official
national language, but it mostly used in Englishspeaking
West Cameroon.) The local languages such
as Bafia and Bulu were not taught at the lycée.

In front of the
school office
Only the “crème de la crème” of the applicants
were admitted. Of course, there were exceptions made
for those with “special connections” or for those who
had money.
All students wore
uniforms; the boys wore
grey pants with matching
shirts, and the girls wore
simple blue dresses.
The boys had short hair
and the girls showed
off corn-row hair in a
variety of styles. Some,
but not all students wore
shoes, and some of those
who did could be seen
carrying them on their
head to and from school
so that they would not
wear out. The dress code
was strict; students were sent home if they did not wear
their uniform.
As I would entered the classroom, the students
raced to their places, stood to attention and shouted out,
“Bonjour Monsieur.” Being an American only twentyfour
years old, I was not
used to this formal title of
respect. In time I learned
that not being addressed
with “Monsieur”
meant disrespect. The
chalkboard was a mostly
rough, thin painted,
horizontal concrete
slab that seemed to eat
a whole stick of chalk
for every stroke made.
The only other teaching
tool was an Englishteaching
textbook and
an occasional paper
handout produced by
a complicated process
involving a stencil machine that was kept in the office.
On several occasions I had been warned that I was

equesting too many handouts. This was frowned
upon by the school secretary, who constantly pointed
out how much paper and ink were being consumed.
As a new teacher I spent many home hours drawing
pictures, writing grammar rules, and etching grafts on
large sheets of pager with crayons to get my teaching
points across.
At the beginning of a lesson I waited and gazed
at my students as they were quieting down, and the
students waited for my command to sit. As I motioned
to the students to sit, there was one thunderous sound
of creaking furniture as these youngsters settled onto
their hard wooden benches and placed their books and
notebooks on their desks. Then, there was silence and
the lesson began. First, there was homework correction,
then the presentation of new vocabulary illustrated on
the board or with my amateurish illustrations on white
sheets of paper, or by acting out the meaning of a word
or phrase. Then the students took turns reading from
a selection from the textbook. This was followed by
oral and written drills. Finally, there was the usual
homework assignment.
The morning session ended just before noon
and the students and teachers took a long afternoon
break. I went home for lunch, which was the most
substantial meal of the day. I, Carl, and Michel usually
ate together. Lunch was followed by a quick afternoon
nap before returning to school at 2 p.m.
The school library consisted of a locked room
where no one was permitted to enter for fear that the
books would disappear. The school’s policy was that
it was better to keep the books safe under lock and
key rather than risking the loss of some by having the
students borrow them.
This changed when my sister, Darleen, became
a volunteer librarian. Darleen was a student at the
University of California, Berkeley and stayed with
me in Bafia for the last six months of my second year.
Darleen and I solicited books from the American
Embassy, which supplied us with about two hundred
books—the “LIFE” picture book series, novels, history
books, reference books, and even a class set of Dr.
Seuss’ “Cat in a Hat.” Students could read the books at
school, but were still not allowed to take them home.
Below: Claude, Michel, the Proviseur (Director) and Mr. Zanga

Students marching in the Independence parage
One day, I had a special surprise for my students;
I was going to teach them how to play baseball with a
bat and ball that I discovered in the basement of the
American Embassy in Yaoundé. After explaining
the game on the chalkboard, I invited my students to
join me after school for a game on the soccer field
where I set up bases. The lesson was a huge success.
Occasionally, I found ways to teach English by doing
interesting and creative activities. Being a new teacher
under difficult circumstances was challenging and
sometimes the lessons didn’t work. On this occasion,
my lesson was a great success. The day of the baseball
lesson, about a dozen boys met on the soccer field for
the promised game of baseball after school and a group
of girls stood by to observe the event. After an hour
or so, the game ended and the children scattered. I felt
satisfaction at how well my student picked up the game
while practicing their English skills. This was a good
day for me, and everyone had fun. It was time to return
home before sunset. It only took fifteen minutes to get
because of the locality of the equator especially during
a new moon.
Below: Student watching a
soccer game behind the school

T h e
town
of Bafia
Very few
foreigners lived in
Bafia. There were two
American missionaries at
Donenken, a few Middle
Eastern commercial
traders, French missionary
brothers and nuns, a few
French teachers, a female
language teacher from
Germany, and two Peace
Corps volunteers, I being
one of them. It was hard
to blend in. Everywhere
I would go, I was noticed
and people, especially children, would stare and point.
Over time I got used to it and instead of ignoring the
attention, I started to wave hello.
The most imposing
structure in town was
the prefecture building,
which would be the
equivalent of a county
seat. It was located in my
neighborhood where the
Germans had built the
area’s first administrative
center when Cameroon
was a German territory
from 1884 until the end
of the First World War.
As late as 1971 there
were still people who
spoke German. To my
amazement I once visited
the weekly outdoor market and witnessed our school’s
German language teacher negotiate the cost of some
tomatoes with an elderly woman in German.
The road to the commercial center

Bafia
C a m e r o o n
Africa
Bafia is a Cameroonian
town and commune in the
Centre Province region. It
is the capital of the Mbamet-Inoubou
department. It
lies 75 miles north of the
country’s capital Yaoundé.
Bafia has approximately 55,700
inhabitants, making it the third
largest city in the province after
Yaoundé and Mbalmayo. Most
citizens belong to either the
Bafia people or the Yambassa
people.
Bafia
Yaoundé
Origin of the Name
Cameroon
Independence Day Celebration in 1970
The story is told that when the Germans, once the colonial power, were crossing through the Mbam region, they
stopped on the high plateau of the region which is today called Bafia to ask a native who was returning from hunting
what the name of the area was. Assuming that the guests were asking his name, the hunter answered, “Ufino yame
yo lomo Bofia Nkano” (“My name is Bofia Nkano”). This misunderstanding led to the name “Bafia” being given to
the area.
The Prefecture building was the area’s first administrative center when Cameroon was a German
territory from 1884 until the end of the First World War. Luc is shown riding a motorbike in 1970.

The town was divided into two main sections:
the administrative area where government buildings
were situated and commercial center which in many
ways resembled the towns that we would see in
American movie Westerns.
I lived near the administrative center where there
was Prefecture building, the official guest house, the
Prefet’s residence,
the lycee, parade
grounds, courts,
police station,
prison, a small
bar/restaurant, and
post office. A small
hotel was being
built near the post
office, but was not
finished in the two
years I lived there.
Before independence in 1960, there was a substantial
number of French nationals in Bafia. Most left taking
their skills with them. Bafia once had running water in
the administrative center, but the machinery gradually
broke down. There were no spare parts and nobody
know how to repair it. While I was in Bafia, our home
had running water for only a few days during the two
years I was there.
The other part of town was the commercial
center about a 15-minute walk from the administrative
area. Stores were built along both sides of an unpaved
street along one block. The streets were always full
of people, mammy-wagons and trucks filled with foul
smelling coco beans. Further on toward the direction
of Bokito there was the slaughter area and market place
where Luc or Richard used to buy meat twice a week.
At least once a week a herd of cattle would pass by.
They were raised in
Northern Cameroon,
and driven to the south
stopping at towns and
villages until they
reached Yaoundé and
beyond. I rarely went
to the market during
the week because I
had to be at school.
Richard would go to
the slaughter area and
buy meat twice a week.
Although we usually bought the best cut of meat, “filet
mignon,” it was always tough and needed to be cooked
for a long time. No juicy steaks, just pieces of meat
cooked in a stew.
The commercial center was the area where a few
families of Lebanese, Cypriot, and Greek merchants
lived. They were left-overs from when there was a
sizable French population before independence. There
were two general stores, a gas station, an area where the
The commercial center during the dry season
looked a lot like a “Wild West” town.

i-weekly market was
held, a bakery, a tailors,
barbers, and a dozen or
so small shops.
The general
stores reminded me
of what general stores
might have looked like in
the American wild west.
We could get anything
there—canned goods,
cheese, salted fish, beer,
soft drinks, bedding,
cloth, motorbikes, and
all kinds of building
materials—you name
it, they had it. If they
didn’t, they could get
it. We had a charge
account that Luc and
Richard could use to
buy supplies. No money was used. The merchants
would charge our account and we would pay what we
owned at the end of the month.
The only places in
town that had electricity
were the Greek and
Lebanon merchants’
stores. They had
generators to preserve
fish and other perishable
goods. We used their
refrigerator to store
birds that we hunted at
a nearby seldom-used
air strip. Although there
were other “blancs”
(whites) in town, we
rarely socialized with
them. The Greeks
and Lebanese families
stayed to themselves as
did the French Catholic
nuns and brothers. The
only other blancs I knew
were the Sandilands, who would check up on me once
in a while. All business was taken care of during the
day because most people stayed home and rarely went
out after dark.
Carl at a gas station in the commercial center

I was fortunate to
be able to return to “America”
on a regular basis. Not the
America thousands of miles
away, but an American oasis
where I could reconnect and
recharge.
Dr. Robert Sandilands
and his wife, Marie, were
American medical missionaries
and had lived in Cameroon
for many years at the Presbyterian
Hospital Mission as Medical
Missionaries in Doninking,
which is a few miles from Bafia.
Robert was a surgeon and
Maria was the anesthesiologist.
T i m e
Warp
at Doninking
Dr. Robert Sandilands and his wife Marie
Going to Sandilands
was like going into a time
warp. As soon as I was on
their property, I was in America
again with all of the trappings
of a typical American
house. There was American
furniture, doilies on the coffee
table, a full kitchen, peanut
butter, jelly beans, as well as
a million other familiar goodies.
There was running water
and even electricity from a
small generator that was used
at night. This was my home
away from home -- my escape
from “my reality” for short
periods of time.
Staying healthy was a
major challenge. It seemed

that I was sick every day I was in Bafia especially with
digestive problems. There were bouts with malaria,
diarrhea, stings, rashes, and fungus growth to name a
few. We had to take an anti-malaria pill daily, cook everything
well, not eat any raw vegetables or salads, and
drink only boiled
and filtered water.
Visiting friends and
colleagues was also
a major challenge
because I could not
eat everything that
was offered. Not
having running water
or electricity
added enormously
to these challenges.
I don’t know
if I would have lasted
two years in Bafia
without the Sandilands.
Medical care
was not easily available
and having an American doctor nearby was truly
fortunate because there were many time that I needed
medical care. I had an operation done to remove a
large cyst, and I spend a week the Sandilands’ guest
bedroom recovering from malaria. Luc, our cook,
spend several days the the hospital for a hernia operation
and to receive rabies shots after having been bitten
by a dog. Carl went there to get rid of a tapeworm. The
list goes on and on. It seemed that there was always
something physical wrong with all of us.
The Sandilands
The Mission Hospital became my second
family with whom
I spent a lot of
time. I don’t consider
myself a religious
person, but if
I had to name two
people who would
rise to the position
of sainthood, they
would be the Sandilands.
They have
been my role models
throughout my
life.
When I left Cameroon,
I lost contact with the Sandilands. Recently, I
contacted the Presbyterian Church and discovered that
Dr. Sandilands passed away in 0000 and his wife in
0000.
Below: Dr. Sandilands and medical
staff on a hunting trip near Yoko

One day while visiting the Sandilands,
I found out that their cook had died from falling
off a palm tree while collecting palm wine. The
center photo is an actual photo of
him in a tree in the back yard of the
Sandilands’ home. He had worked
for them for many years and was
part of their “mission family.”
I accompanied Dr. Sandilands
to a funeral which in a hamlet a few
miles from Doninking. Expecting
a lot of sadness and tears, I
discovered that it was more like a
celebration than a funeral. The women were all
dressed up, singing, and dancing. We paid our
respects to the family and viewed his body, which
was laid out in one of the huts. We
were welcomed by the head of the
family, given a place to sit, and
offered something to eat. This was
the first and last time I ate monkey.
The meat was cooked in a stew
with lots of hot spices and served
with yams and other unfamiliar
vegetables. This was my only
experience with “bush meat.’

T h e
Bad
times and ...
Nightfall in Bafia
As soldiers have “war stories,” Peace
Corps volunteers have “horror stories.” There are too
many to mention here but here are a few.
My worse experience was when I ran over a
child with my motorbike. I was crossing a small bridge
just before entering the commercial center when a child
about five years old ran in front me. I tried to stop, but
not in time. The mother ran to the child, picked him
up, and ran as fast as she could. I was stunned and
didn’t know what to do. I just waited, and they never
came back. Apparently the child wasn’t hurt because I
never heard about it again.
During the rainy season, it usually rained almost
every day at dusk. One day there was an unusually
violent storm. There was heavy rain and blinding
lighting that struck a tree directly in front of our house.
I was blinded for a short time and had headaches for
a few days afterwards. The same
storm produced a tornado that tore
off the roof of the house behind
ours. I saw the storm peel the roof
off as if it were a can of sardines.
The storm felled many trees and
closed the road out of town for
many days.
Bush fires were a danger After a bush fire
that came during the dry seasons.
During one particular fire storm,
flames came as close as 100 feet from our house. We
were saved because the building was made of concrete,
the roof of aluminium, and the area around our house
was always kept clear of vegetation. Prisoners in the
jail across the street and misbehaving students made
sure that the areas around our house as well as other
government structures were always keep clear.
Walking around town at night was rare. A
flashlight and a long walking stick were necessary
especially during a new moon. Once I was coming
back from Donenken when there was no moon for
light. My motorbike broke down and I had to wait in
pitch dark for someone to come along the road. It was
terrifying not being able to see even an inch from my
face. I didn’t move and waited for over an hour until
a man on another motorbike drove by and helped me
find my way home.
And the bugs. There were lots of different
kinds of bugs. The worse were the wasps. They were
everywhere. I was stung three times. The first time
while sitting in the living room of my house, another
time on my ear while teaching in my classroom, and
finally on my motorbike when a wasp flew up my
sleeve.
I learned to respect fire ants. Coming home one day
I found Luc and Richard trying to get some large
fire ants out of the house. It was no use. The ants
were passing through and all we could do was wait
until they left. They left the house cleaner than it was
before. Spider webs and hornet’s
nests were gone.
One day our town was visited
by a swarm of locus. The locus
were a light green and measured
about six or seven inches long.
They were everywhere and landed
on everything including people.
I remember leaving the house to
go to school and I was covered
with about a dozen locus. They were harmless, but
the feeling of having them crawl on me was unsettling.
Same goes for flying cockroaches which grew to be
two inches long.
Night prowlers were a constant menace. I did
not feel in danger, but there was always the chance of
being robbed while not at home. Nights were mostly
quiet with occasional prowlers who were chased away
by our night watchman, Johnny, a one-legged older
man who kept watch throughout the night.

... and The
Good
t i m e s
There were fun days, too. One day I got
a “care package” from home that contained popcorn. I
told Luc that I knew magic and that I could make the
seeds explode. When I showed him, he was totally
“blown away.” He wanted some to show his friends. I
also received a Betty Crocker cake mix, which spilled
on route and covered everything
in the box with chocolate flour
mix. To have anything from home
was cherished. Luckily, there was
enough flour to make a small cake.
Many high points included
learning about some of the local
animals. Occasionally students
would show up at our front door
with baby animals that they wanted
to sell. Many time the animals were
caught when their mothers were
killed for bush meat. Over time I
took in a baby baboon, a cat, a potti
(a tiny large-eyed marsupial), a
chameleon, and a dikki, a miniature
sized deer. Because they were
babies, most did not survive long
without their mothers. It got to the
point that I had to build an outdoor
shelter for the animals that we were
caring for.
A fellow English teacher from our
school dancing at our house
Other fun times included planting a garden,
exploring my domestic skills such as making curtains,
and leaning how to cook using a Fanny Farmer
Cookbook, which I still have today. With the help of
Luc and Richard, I planted a small vegetable garden
beside the house. It was our only source of lettuce that
we used for salads. Due to wild animals eating the
plants at night, carrying water for
the plants, and the constant request
from other teachers for some of our
produce, I finally gave up. It became
just too hard to maintain.
One of my happiest memories
was when we used to have a monthly
party which consisted of an outside
Sunday lunch in front of our house.
There was no television or movie
theaters so we had to find ways to
amuse ourselves. We would buy a
young goat, feed it oil and corn for
a few weeks, then Richard would
slaughter it behind the house. Luc
would cook it on an outdoor spit.
We would invite our school friends
to join us in a potluck type feast.
We would drink, eat, play records,
sing, dance, tell stories, and play
games such as Petanque, (a French
lawn bowling game).

Another good time
was when Ginger had
puppies. During the first
year, she had six puppies
and all died at birth. It was
heartbreaking. The second
year, she had four puppies
and all survived. The father
was a dog that belonged
to the one-legged night
watchman. It was a pitifully
mutt with half-eaten ears
from all the constant swarm
of gnats and flies. After they
were weaned, we gave three
of them to teachers at the
school, and we saved one for
Brenda, another volunteer, in
a neighboring town or Bokito.
Compared to Bafia, Bokito
was more like a village where
life was much more difficult on
a daily basis than Bafia. Every
month or so, Brenda would
visit us to get away from her
“isolation” in Bokito. Carl and
I decided to drive to Bokito on
our motorbikes to present her
with her new companion. It was
the first time visiting Bokito,
and seeing how she lived,
I appreciated my situation.
Brenda, Carl and I became
good friends and I always looked
forwards to her visits.

There were celebrations, but never often
enough. On Independence Day in 1970 the Prime
Minister came to Bafia for a visit. He stayed in
the guest house where Carl
and I stayed during our first few
weeks. He stayed in the big
house unlike us who had stay in
a small room in the back.
During this time we
had other several volunteers
visiting us from other parts of
the country. We were asked
to perform a dance for the
evening celebration to welcome
the Prime Minister. Someone
came up with the idea of doing
a square dance. We only have
an hour or so to practice, but we
managed to pull it off without
making fools of ourselves.
We listened to the soothing sound of drums
all night long. Drumming at night was meant to
help our important visitors sleep better, and it was
a sign of respect. The next day
we went to the parade, listened
to speeches, and watched our
students march by along with
many other local groups. Then
came the famous Bafia dancers
who were known throughout
the country for their special
kind of dance. It was amazing
watching their graceful moves
and synchronized steps. Some
of the women danced topless,
and I was warned by my
neighbor, the chief of police,
not to take their photo. It was
too late because I already had.
I quickly put my camera away
and hoped that nobody noticed.
Apparently nobody did.

Another great experience was caring for baby
animals. Juliette, even though it was for a short time.
During my service, I took in a baby baboon, a cat,
a potti (a tiny large-eyed marsupial), a chameleon,
and a dikki, a miniature sized deer. Because they
were babies, most did not survive long without their
mothers. It got to the point that I had to build an
outdoor shelter for the animals that we were caring
for.

M Y
summer
B r e a k
During my first summer, I lived alone,
but I was not lonely. It was nice having the house to
myself. Michel was in France and Carl had moved
to another house. It was a peaceful time when I could
relax, read, and do whatever I wanted.
This was the time I learned to feel comfortable
being alone. I enjoyed time reading, cooking, playing
with my dog, rewriting lesson plans, sprucing up the
house, gardening, taking long naps, and doing whatever
I pleased. It was like a stay-vacation at home. Luc was
away visiting his family and recuperating from a hernia
operation. Richard, our housekeeper was still around
to help me, but mostly, I took care of myself. Richard
got the water, did the laundry and the shopping, and I
did my own cooking.
I also found time to volunteer at the hospital
at Donenken, six kilometers away. I spent a few
days a week helping out at the hospital. I would help
wherever I was needed: shedding cotton and wrapping
pieces around twigs to be used to absorb fluids during
operations; assisting Dr. Sandilands during actual
operations; going on a three-day medical safari into
nearby villages to immunize the populations against
diseases; and organizing the construction a new
Opening day ceremony
at the new Martin Luther
King School in Doninking
in 1971
classroom building for the mission elementary school.
I raised the funds, drew up the plans, arranged for the
permits, procured the building materials, and arranged
for their delivery to the site. The structure was made
of cinder blocks, a cement floor, mesh windows, and
an aluminum roof. My aunt, Sister Alice Landry, a
professor at Thomas Moore College in Covington,
Kentucky, and her students helped me raise $1,000
for this project. Another $1,000 was provided by
the students from Gloucester Elementary School in
Massachusetts as part of the U.S. School Partnership
Program. Volunteers from the mission were responsible
for making the cinder blocks and the actual construction.
After about five months the school was dedicated in
1971 and named after Dr. Martin Luther King.
I also took part in a grueling three-day medical
safari to a village near Yoko to inoculate the population
against diseases. In the evenings villagers treated us to
local food and we were given a place to sleep. On the
way back to the mission Dr. Sandilands, a Cameroonian
doctor, a local guide, and I went hunting for game that
could be brought back to the hospital kitchen. This was
one way to provide some meat for the patients at the
hospital at Donenken. The game included monkeys,
birds, and whatever else there was. We only saw one
large antelope during our trip. By the late nineteen

sixties, most of the big game had already
been killed off. Lions, elephants and other
big animals were long gone. During my
two years in Bafia, I only heard of one
hippo that was killed at the Mbam River,
which was only a few miles from town.
Although the medical safari was a thrilling
adventure, my worse memories included
the constant cloud of gnats around my head
and drinking water with iodine tablets. The
experience was exhausting. At that time,
hunting was a way to provide food for the
patients at the hospital . This trip taught
me what not to do, and I would never do it
again.
Paul and Dr. Sandilands holding a monkey and birds after a hunt on the way home from a medical safari.
Left: Crossing
the Mbam
River on our
way to a
village near
Yoko.
Right: Medical
staff hunting
for bush
meat on the
way back to
Doninking
from a medical
safari.

After accompaning Elanga
(left) and another student to
a hospital in the capital to get
an eye exam, we went to the
Yaounde Zoo.
One day while teaching I noticed a student (I
don’t remember his name.) who was having trouble
reading. I discovered that he couldn’t see very well. I
thought that maybe he just needed glasses. I spoke to
the director of the school and then had Dr. Sandilands
examine him. The doctor said that he couldn’t do
anything and that the boy needed to see a specialist in
Yaounde. I offered to take him to Yaounde during my
summer break. Dr. Sandilands wrote a letter about his
condition and I arranged to meet the boy and Elanga,
a lycée student who lived with Carl, in Yaounde so
that I could accompany them to the hospital for an
examination. After the exam, we went to the Yaounde
Zoo. Unfortunately, nothing could be done for him.
He eventually became blind and left school.
Elanga and a
chimp at the zoo.

The Sandilands going to buy shrimp for the
evening meal from the local fishermen
Fishermen in Kribi
The view from the guesthouse in Kribi
At the end of the summer, Doctor and
Mrs. Sandilands invited me to spend a week with them
in Kribi, a coastal town in southwest Cameroun. We
traveled by Range Rover and stayed at a mission guest
house, went swimming, visited the famous coastal
Kribi beach near the waterfalls
waterfall, and toured the hardwood exporting town
of Kribi. On the way back to Bafia we searched for
bunches of a red fruit (I forgot the name.) being sold
at the side of the road. Mrs. Sandilands used them
for making the most wonderful jam I have ever had.
We even encountered a gorilla crossing the road near
Sangmelima.
Paul and Kribi Falls

M Y
second
y e a r
Summer break finally came to an end and a new
daily routine was about to began.
Michel returned from France and Jean-Pierre, another
teacher from France, joined the household. Carl had
moved out to live on his own.
There were new neighbors, too, who moved in next
door. They were Serge and Pamala Canadas. He was a
Frenchman and she was an American. They were new
teachers at the lycee. There also was another French
teacher in town, Jean-Claude, who lived a little distance
from us.
During my second year in Bafia, daily life got a
lot easier. With additional house mates and neighbors to
share the cost for many household expenses, I benefitted
by being able to save a little money for extras.
We were able to buy a used stove with an oven from
one of the Greek families in the commercial center.
We even got a small used refrigerator that worked
using kerosene. Another luxury was the purchase of a
portable typewriter which help me in making stencils
for the copy machine. The most significant change
came when Michel bought a car. Now I could now ride
to school, use it for shopping, and explore other local
as well as more distant parts of the country.
Darleen and Paul in front of their house
I took responsibility for supervising the
household and began exploring different foods to put
some variety in our food. I remember the first time I
tried to make a pineapple upside cake. It took me five
tries before I got it right.
I discovered a new fruit, Safou, a small purple
fruit that looks a lot like a small avocado because of the
large seed in the middle and the pulp was green. I used
to roast them and spread the green inner paste onto a
piece of bread. I became addicted to the taste, and I
have never tasted anything like it since.
Pam and Serge’s house next door to ours

animals in Bafia for that matter. There were only the
“Zebu,” cattle that were driven through town on their
way south to market. There was no grazing land and
the climate was too inhospitable, especially because of
the Tsetze flies, which causes sleeping sickness.
I remember Claude making a big commotion.
As he rode into town he attracted a large group of
children who had never seen a horse before. Some of
the kids were actually terrified and ran away screaming.
He kept the horse for a few day then it disappeared. I
don’t really know what happened to it.
My sister, Darleen, visited me during the last half
of my second year. She was a student at the University
of California, Berkley and was taking a semester off to
visit me. She was supposed to stay only a short time,
Darleen holding a charcoal iron
in back of the house
During or winter break Michel, Jean-Pierre,
and Jean-Claude took a road trip to Waza, a game
reserve in Northern Cameroon. I went to Yaounde
to stay with other Peace Corps volunteers.
Jean-Claude was an adventurer and a
teacher. He was a free spirit who did what he
wanted. During my second year, he went to North
Cameroon with Michel and Jean Pierre to visit
Waza, a wild national park. Two of them came
home by car, but Jean-Claude came home on a
horse. What a scene. Horses were a rarity. There
were no large domesticated
Michel, Serge, and Pam having breakfast on our porch
but she managed to stay for six months
and eventually she married Michel. She
didn’t speak French and had a hard time
communicating with Luc and Richard.
Fortunately, Pam and Serge spoke English
and Michel spoke enough English for
basic communication. Darleen took
on the job as volunteer in our school’s
library.
Jean-Claude and his horse

Traveling was always
a challenge. We could not call
ahead to tell someone that we
were coming, or make hotel
reservations, or stop at a
restaurant on the way.
We had to plan ahead
as well as we could.
We were part of a
unofficial network
of friends and
colleagues around
the country who
expected unexpected
visitors.
Many times
out-of-town visitors
would show up at
our door unexpected
needing a place to
stay for the night.
They were always welcome and we always managed
to feed and house them for the night.
A
TRIP
to West Cameroon
When travelling, we
were always careful about
what we ate and drank. As
for water, there were no
plastic water bottles so we
relied a lot of bottled sodas,
Coke, and warm beer. We
brought sandwiches and lots
of fruit. One “safe”
food that we ate was
grilled meats on a
stick that we found
along the way.
Before the end of the
second school year,
Michel, Darleen,
Pam, Serge, Jean-
Claude, Jean-Pierre,
and I decided to take
a road trip to West
Cameroon. We took
Serge and Michel’s
cars. Going to other
parts of the country
required a “laissez-passer” document from the police
department. Everyone went to the police station to get
The road between Bafia and Bagante

one, I didn’t have enough time to get one so I left Bafia
without one.
On this particular adventure we visited Bagante,
Bafoussam, and Foumban in the French-speaking areas
and Bamenda, the capital of English-speaking West
Cameroon, and Victoria at the base of Mt. Cameroon
on the coast.
Our first stop was in Bagante. We visited a
chieferie where the local chief and his many wives lived.
It was an impressive compound made up of one large
central building reserved for tribal meetings. The main
building was highly decorated with wood carvings and
painted symbols and designs. It was surrounded by
smaller huts where I was told the chief’s many wives
and children lived.
Main meeting house
The entrance to the chieferie
Chieferie of Bagante

The city of Bafoussam
Darleen with men in local dress
House on the way to Bafoussam
House on the way to Bafoussam

Next we drove to Baffousam. People
in this part of the country looked different.
They were from the Hauser or Fulani tribes
who were tall and slender rather than from
the Bantu tribes of the south who were mostly
shorter and stocker. While in Bafoussam we
heard about a celebration in Foumban, only a
hour away.
I don’t remember the name of the
holiday, but we arrived right in the middle of
a celebration. People in Foumban dressed in
long robes whereas the people in the south
wore mostly European style clothing. Unlike
the population of the eastern part of the country,
who waare mostly Christian, the people in an
around the area are mostly Muslim. Foumban
Parade in Foumban
Celebration in Foumban

Bamun Sultan’s palace in Foumban
is where the Bamun tribe lives
and the local sultan has a palace
there. We visited the sultan’s
palace and watched the parade
from there.
The following day, on
our way to Bamenda, the capital
of West Cameroon, along a
narrow mountain road our car
was stopped and surrounded by
group of soldiers with drawn gun
demanding our papers. I didn’t
have a laissez-passer and they
let me continue with the group
anyway. Having guns aimed
at us made us feel extremely
Michel (center) in front of the Bamun Sultan’s palace

uncomfortable. We had heard that there had been some
local political unrest so we left the area as fast as we
could.
Bamenda was
very different from
the French-speaking
part of the country.
Before independence
West Cameroon
had been under
the administration
of the British and
there were vestiges
of their influence
throughout the area.
People actually
spoke English as
well as “Pidgin,”
which is a language
that borrows heavily
from English. For
example, “How
you dai? I dai fine.
I dai go fo my tong
fo chop.” means “How are you today. I’m fine. I’m
going home to eat.” It developed as a trading language
and became a lingua
franca spoken in
eastern Nigeria, West
Cameroon and in the
areas around Douala,
the country’s biggest
port and largest city.
Michel, Jean-Claude, a friend of our host, our host,
Jean-Pierre, and Serge visiting a local village near Bamenda
In Bamenda we
stayed with friends
of Michel, Serge, and
Pam for a few days.
Bamenda is located at
a high altitude where
it actually get cold
at night. There was
different vegetation,
stone houses, and even
horses. On a day trip,
our hosts invited us
to visit some of their
Cameroonian friends
in a nearby village.
Darleen (left) and Pam (right) with
children of our host and his friends

From there we went
to Victoria, a seaside city
with black sand beaches
and refreshing breezes.
We stayed at a hotel that
had a swimming pool,
walked along the beach,
and ate all the seafood
we could. It was a great
ending for our vacation.
On the way back to
home, we drove through
Douala and then onward
to Yaounde and then
finally back to Bafia.
Shortly after our vacation, the school year was
was winding down, and I started planning my trip back
home. We said our good buys, gave away many of our
house hold items, and went to Yaounde to wait for our
flights home.
Michel was the first to leave; he went to France
to stay with his parents in Marseille. Darleen and I
left shortly afterwards. We took a detour to visit Spain,
Italy, and southern France before return to the USA.
While were in France, we visited Serge and Pam in
Pau, a city in southern France not far from the Spanish
border. It was the feast of Saint Fermin in Pamplona
so we all decided to attend a bull fight and experience
the running of the bulls. We spent two days there, then
visited San Sebastian where we gorged ourselves on
Sunset on the way back to Bafia
Paella.
After a few weeks, I
headed home alone
and Darleen stayed
with Michel and his
family. Darleen and
Michel eventually got
married, moved to Paris
where Michel got a job
working for a bank and
Darleen resumed her
studies. She attended
the Sorbonne and got
a degree in English
literature, which
allowed her to begin a
career teaching English in the French public school
system. Over the next several years, they had three
children, Raphael, Daniel, and Aurélie.
It felt strange returning home alone, and my
parents were less than thrilled that Darleen stayed
in France. After my parents went to France to meet
Michel’s family and attend Darleen and Michel’s
wedding, their concerns disappeared. Over the years
they returned to France many time to visit the new
French branch of our family.
I spent a month back home in Campbell,
California then returned to volunteer for a third year in
Yaoundé.
A black sand beach of Victoria, West Cameroon

I moved from a
M Y
third
small town to the big city.
The change was dramatic,
and I thought that life in
Yaounde would be an
improvement.
During my first
y e a r
two months, I stayed at
the Central Hotel near
the train station. It was a hotel room and not a home.
Staying there was unpleasant because I couldn’t cook,
entertain, or do any other domestic persuits.
Finally, after
a lot of haggling and
looking at lots of
places, I settled in
a small house near
the Brasserie du
Cameroun on the way
to the airport. It was
a square bungalowstyle
house consisting
of two bedrooms, a
kitchen, bathroom,
and living room. And
it had electricity,
running water, a stove
with an oven, and a
small refrigerator!
Compared to my
house in Bafia, it was
paradise with all the
conveniences I needed
to live comfortably.
The only negative was
that I had to sleep on a
straw mattress, which
would eventually be
one of the last straws
that broke the Hamel’s
back.
Downtown Yaounde in 1971
The house was
fine, but not all was well. My neighborhood was in an
industrial area where there was no sense of community.
The area was a ten-minute drive from the center of town
-- not in walking distance to anywhere I could do my
most basic shopping. I had to take taxis everywhere
because there were no buses. It cost 100 francs to go
to school and then another 100 francs to go downtown
to take care of erands,
visit the Peace Corps
office, visit friends, and
to buy food. And another
100 francs to get home.
Eventually transportation
cost amounted to more
than I could afford.
My new teaching
assignment was as an instructor of technical English
at the University of Cameroon in Yaoundé. I was
not prepared for what I was supposed to do. I had
taught basic English
language skills at a
secondary school, but
I didn’t have a clue
how to teach technical
English. I managed
to get some books
on the subject and
got some help from
an Indian woman
who taught the same
kind of class. I didn’t
feel competent, and I
really struggled in this
assignment. I didn’t
feel that I fit in at the
university. I knew
nobody and never
met with any other
faculty members
except the Indian
instructor. I had no
support, no training.
I felt isolated and
disconnected.
I had made a few
friends, but none
were close. I couldn’t
socialize very much
due to the cost of
constantly having pay for taxis. I stayed home alone
and began to feel depressed and lonely.
Not having enough money was a big challenge.
I pleaded with the Peace Corps director to raise my
allowance, but was the answer was always no. The end
of the month was the worse. There were several times
that I had to sell some of my personal items just to

get by. While visiting the USA before coming
back for my third year, my parents gave me an
electric razor. I sold it to one of my neighbors
so that I would have enough money before my
next check.
I often wished I had stayed in Bafia.
My isolation continued and my dissatisfaction
with living and working in Yaoundé grew.
Finally, I decided to end my third year a few
months early and left in March.
My life in Bafia was hard, but satisfying;
my life in Yaounde was disappointing and
gradually became unbearable.
In September, 1974 I graduated from
UCLA with a masters degree in Teaching
English as a Second Language. Immediately
afterwards, I returned to Africa—this time to
Lumbumbasi, Zaire (now the “Republic of the
Congo”) where I was a member of a team of
English-language teachers from UCLA sent
to teach in a three-month intensive language
course for university administrators and
professors from the University of Zaire.
Over the next four decades I pursued
a career in education specializing in Teaching
English as a Second Language and in
Educational Administration. I earned an
additional master’s degree in Educational
Administration and wrote ESL textbooks. For
the 36 years I worked for the Los Angeles
Unified School District where I served as an
adult school instructor, coordinator, assistant
principal, principal, and regional principal. I
retired in 2009 and now I teach ESL part-time
at the American Language Center at UCLA
Extension.
Over the last forty-two years my
former fellow Peace Corps volunteers and I
have developed a unique relationship. Every
year we all send a letter to one of us who in
turn publishes a booklet called “From Each to
Each,” which allows us to stay connected.
Now I am preparing my trip back to
Bafia. Upon my return I plan on writing a
second part of this memoir that will be deal
with how I and Cameroon have changed over
the last four decades.