So my final nights in Dschang passed in spectacular fashion. My mother, who was heartbroken to see me go had to leave early to go back to the village for a reunion. Thus it was just the man of the house remaining. This got weird. First, I've yet to mention that my dad is like an average fifteen year old boy in the U.S.: He likes video games, musical instruments and porn! Hes the sweetest man on the planet and you wouldnt see it coming. Anyways we passed the nights listening to country music until he passed out at the dinner table until the last night. I came home and there was no electricity in the entire neighborhood so we lit some candles and sat down for what I thought was dinner. Turns out Papa Woulalou had a 30 minute ritual for me: Included in this were the beating of drums and shouting "You are my son," the climax was when he smacked me in the face a couple of times with a broom. All by the light of a single candle. Africa.
Friday and Saturday were spent in Bamenda where we talked to secessionists and John Fru Ndi, the Cameroonian Al Gore (Leader of the Opposition Party, he won the presidential election in 1990, but Paul Biya, my favorite dictator, kept power). Later that night, Ben Fru Ndi, his son, took out the whole group to a Cabaret and a Night Club and ended up paying for everything or it was all free, you never know with celebrities.
Back in Yaounde after an enormous Bus Ride.
Gotta Catch Em All.
(Photos this week, I promise)
I feel like you're making this shit up. That is ridic.
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