::: Sketches Of Cameroon...Part 2 :::

Bimbia

A forest hillside steeply descending into a thicket of bamboo. Treading on a carpet of silvery dried bamboo leaves, we are on our way to an ancient slave site. The footpath is flanked by majestic bamboo plants whose leaves are woven into an airy dome far above us. A strangely ethereal silence envelopes us as all noise is filtered through the thicket of trees. After about ten minutes we arrive at the site.

Below in the clearing there is a scatter of makeshift huts and, beyond the bustle of ordinary people, barely dressed in rags of woven material, a handful of men, women and children. Some have angry red gashes on their bare arms and backs. Others are chained to the derelict structures of the ruins. Rows of plastic chairs and a modern set of speakers give it away: the Cultural Festival has been moved to Bimbia today and, in memory of the sad history of the place, a play is about to be performed. Telling the story of a chief who betrays his villagers and trades them to white slavers for a pocketful of pretty beads, a mirror and a bottle of whiskey.

During the 18th century the site had served as an important trading post where slaves, having been marched to the coast from as far north as Chad, were shipped to the Americas. All that remains are a jumble of dark stones, partly overgrown structures, walls and solitary stone pillars of buildings.

After long speeches and the welcoming of the local dignitaries, the congregation of locals and tourists follows the sorry procession of slaves-actors to the former landing site. Before us, the clearing opens up to the sea. There, on the red shore, shadowed by palms and trees, the spectators assemble to see the slaves off.
 A line of black wave-smoothed rocks forms a sort of corridor stretching into the water. A few hundred meters off, a small forested island. It is quiet. The sun is burning fiercely. There is the faint sound of the surge, of cicadas and the breeze. The shimmering silver surface of the sea.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Perfect.

How can a place so beautiful have held such a history of horrors?  

By

K. L .E

Pic from www.cameroontraveler.files.wordpress.com