The Naked Man of Maroua

I had been in Maroua barely one week when I was asked a question that I honestly never expected to hear in the orthodox environment of northern Cameroon.
“Have you seen the naked man yet?” a returned volunteer innocently inquired, as we wound our way across town in the back of the VSO jeep. I admitted that I had not. Our driver, Aziz, let out a snort of laughter.
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” he promised.
And, sure enough, I did. A couple of days later, liberated from training for a few blissful hours, I embarked upon a brief yet illuminating tour of the local produce market. My chief aim in this endeavour was to photograph the fly-infested slabs of meat that had so filled me with horror on our first tour of the city. And so it came to pass that the first time I saw the naked man was through the lens of my camera, poised and ready to photograph sliced animal remains. He appeared as if on the distant horizon, a lone figure of matted hair and leathery skin among the conservatively-dressed market traders. It was all I could do to stop myself taking a quick shot, Hungry Joe-style.
It is said that you can set your watch by the naked man. Every day he completes a circuit of Maroua city centre, beginning at roughly the same time and taking the same route at the same serene pace. At midday, for example, he can usually be seen outside the MDDHL office; he reaches the central market by late afternoon. Vendors always give him food; any who dare refuse find that their wares are soon marinated by a fresh stream of urine. He has no possessions as far as anyone can tell, and never seems to require more than basic food and water. Perhaps he is preparing himself to take orders as a Franciscan monk, in which case someone really ought to warn him that there are no abbeys in the Far North Province.
Stories abound as to the origins of the naked man. My favourite is as follows: he fell in love with the wife of his best friend, who came home one night to find the pair in bed together. Stricken with guilt, he promised his friend that if ever he betrayed him again, he would cast himself out from society. He resisted the call of his loins for a few days but finally heeded to his lover’s charms once more. Awaking the next day to the terrible realisation of what he had done, the man ran from his friend’s house, leaving his clothes behind, and from that day forward abandoned civilisation for the life of a vagabond.
Romantic as it is to imagine that the naked man is doing penance for a doomed love affair, the likelihood is that he is simply another victim of mental health problems for whom the State and society can do nothing. Hospitals here can treat malaria, typhoid and amoebas – they even tried to recommend a cream that would cure my freckles – but they cannot help people who hear voices or experience violent mood swings. Such people are left to fend for themselves, abandoned by families who cannot cope with their behaviour.
Then again, perhaps the naked man is not so crazy. In a country where temperatures can soar above 40 degrees, it must be nice to be able to dispense with the inconvenience of clothing. And why pay for food when you can get it for free? Anyone who can get away with doing as he pleases, eating whatever takes his fancy and defacing others’ property without so much as a word of abuse against him is, in my book, an absolute genius.

Dark deeds are afoot...

Yesterday I met a friend for lunch. I asked her how things were going in Mokolo, the small town where she works.

"You mean, apart from the riots?" she replied.

Riots?

Apparently it started about a week ago. Several girls at a local high school suddenly came down with a mysterious illness, characterised in most cases by a sort of epileptic fit. It was not long before another high school reported a similar phenomenon. The girls were taken to hospital where they were found to show symptoms of diseases common to the area, such as malaria and typhoid.

This was not, however, the conclusion drawn by the local community. The fits were instead taken as absolute proof that the girls had been possessed by evil spirits. But who would do such a thing? The culprit, in everyone's eyes, could only be the local school director. He was, after all, from the south; furthermore, he had studied in Spain, where he had picked up a style of dress markedly different from the local fashion - including, on occasion, bracelets. There was no doubting that he was a wizard.

Retribution was swift. A group of high school students started a demonstration that was quickly joined by most of the town. Teachers fled from their classrooms as their pupils were recruited to the cause by large gangs of protesters. The director's house was burnt down; his wife escaped with minor injuries. The director himself was cornered in his office by a mob clearly intent on killing him, until mercifully a police envoy managed to scatter the would-be assassins.

The director and his family are currently hiding in my friend's compound, unsure of what to do next. Curiously, it seems that this is not an isolated case of mass hysteria: people from the south of Cameroon who hold high positions in the north are often accused of witchcraft or other heinous sins. The south is considered to be more developed and its residents better educated, which is why many southerners, especially teachers, are sent by the government to serve a stretch in the north. The hope, ostensibly, is that the balance shall be evened out, but the more common response appears to be jealousy and hostility on the part of the 'less-developed' northerners.

The incident in Mokolo also brought home to me the influence of ideas about witchcraft and sorcery in northern Cameroon. Beliefs such as those described above are not confined to rural towns and villages; even the President of my organisation is a strong believer. We recently learnt that he consults a 'marabou', or sorcerer, on a regular basis in order to cast spells on those he wants to control. For example, if he wants to seduce a woman, he rubs a lotion over his hands and arms and then does the same to the object of his attention by shaking her hand, squeezing her shoulder or stroking her arms. The victim will then fall under his power and agree to marry him. The spell does not last forever, which is perhaps unfortunate for the woman who suddenly wakes up to find herself married to President Math. (I can't help feeling, however, that this is how most seductions in the West are carried out, only with the man drenched in Lynx or something equally repugnant).

Anyway, riots and sorcery aside, I made it back to Maroua with few hiccups (leaving my house keys in England being one of them). I had a wonderful time in England, ate twice my weight in mince pies and Christmas pudding and even managed to smuggle some marmite and bags of PG Tips into Cameroon. I also discovered to my delight that quite a few people have been kind enough to read my blog, making me feel very bad for not updating it very often. From now on I promise an entry at least every two weeks. Next week: the Naked Man of Maroua. You have been warned!