Adventures in Douala

The heavy tropical air enveloped us as we walked off the plane and into the aging Douala terminal. A multitude of officials stood around while one glanced at my yellow fever certificate and another interminably examined my visa as I sweated in my fleece and gortex jacket. I was pleasantly surprised to see my familiar bags bouncing on the decrepit old carousel in a strange city. My travelling companion David was not so lucky; only one of his bags arrived. Trying to help, I gave an official ten Euros to help us speed us through customs. This was a mistake, as all his friends then besieged us with offers of help and we had to run a gauntlet out to our taxi, which Ebob had arranged to whisk us off to the Catholic mission where we were staying.