Back to Cameroon

Getting around Yaoundé happens by taxi if you do not have a car. Judging by the colour of the cabs alone, you could think yourself to be in NYC, but that thought is just as fleeting as the cabby who just briefly stopped to find out what your destination is. First of all, do not attempt this if you do not know, or cannot pronounce the name of your destination. Know your drop point and know what your fare is. If you have this in place you can start your adventure.
The fare; for really short distances you can propose 100 FC (€0,20) and most will except if it is on route. But the regular fare is 200 FC a person. If you have a destination that is a bit out of the zone you would be wise to propose a fare that is tempting enough for the driver to detour that far, as to avoid to take two or three taxis to reach your destination.
The cabs are by no means private transportation. If you are peopleshy, suffer from crowdphobia; germsphobia, or any other form of phobia that will prevent you from sharing tiny spaces with strangers, than do not attempt this either. Often it is the first passenger who will determine the destination. On route the cabby will fill his cab up to 5 passengers, meaning three on the backseat and two on the front passenger seat. For those of you who do not know this, for African understanding I am very skinny. Keeping that in mind, you can form yourself an idea of the average size passenger. Often I have found myself wedged between bodies and luggage. After you have adjusted your perception on personal space, a concept that is pretty much non-existent here and your nose has acclimatised to people’s natural perfume, travelling like this can be quite cosy. The best palace is the front passenger seats, which you often have to share. Getting in as last, you kind of have to sit half on their lap and then lift your self up slightly to close the door. Or you are the first passenger and will be joined by nr 5, in which case you would have to move up so that your left bud cheek will hovering over the hand break and your left knee is in a constant battle with the gear stick. But with a little practice, you can master these skills and actually enjoy your ride.
Once we have filled up a cab with 6 grown ups, a child and a whole heap of luggage. I eventually found myself half lying over the other passengers on the back seat, with my head squashed against the roof of the cab. This was way worse than any of the bus rides I have described in my previous stories, but luckily, this ride only lasted 20 min across town and my fellow sardines were family.
The cabs come in all shapes and sizes. From completely stripped bare cars, with only the seats left in them, doors that can only open from one side and then again will not completely close – to brand new cars that have been kitted out with the most beautiful fury seat covers, ornaments that shine in different colour lights and bible quotes to set you off on a good start of the day.
Also the drivers come in different degrees of capability and natural born talent. Don’t be surprised that some of them will never have taken their driving test. In this beautiful land anything is for sale, even licences.
Most areas have designated taxi stops and pick up places, if not you can just stick out your hand along the road. If a cabby has space, he will reduce speed beep his horn and stop just long enough for you to tell him your destination and the proposed fare. If it is “en route” he will beep twice and it means the ride is yours. I call this drive by pickup, at times it does not even seem like they have stopped as the pause is so incredibility short; if you’d blink you would have missed it. Once in a cab, it is custom to great your fellow passengers. Keep note, after 1 pm it costume to great with “bon soir”, as the day is already done.
If you truly want to get to know this town, the people in it and what makes it all tic, this is the best way to travel. You will see areas that you maybe never would have gone to, as Mr. cabman often has to take a small detour to drop of a passenger. You meet all kinds of people, some of them will have a polite conversation with you, some of them will entertain you, with a colourful story and jokes and some of them will just simply take you in and let you be. When I travel alone, I do prefer to keep my mouth shut and let others do the talking. It suits me just fine that they have a hard time placing me. I could be from there or maybe not. And most of the times it will not matter, but I rather not temped faith by opening my mouth too much and giving away that I am an outer towner. In this crazy city, travelling alone, it is best to appear as rooted as possible, as they might just raise the prices for ‘La Blanche’ …

Build on seven hills with a population just over 2.000.000, you can find this always buzzing town, filled with controversy, the capital of Cameroon, Yaoundé. In the last 10 years it expanded in size so rapidly that the growth has brought along its own problems. Everywhere you look, buildings are being build, roads are being worked on. Hopefully all this will improve the future prospects of this town, but for now it means that whole neighbourhoods are being cut off water and electricity for a few hours, days, weeks, or even months. And there is nothing you can do about it or nobody, you can complain to. You just need to suck it up and live with it.
Rich and poor here, live side by side. You will find well-guarded villas, with high walls intended to keep out the outside world, next to an improvised two-bedroom house, housing a family of 7. Without fail, almost everybody belongs to one of the churches you can find on every street corner, while most families still travel to the village for the traditional ceremonies, rituals and in times of desperate need the councils of a witch doctor against all kind of curses. Billboards are gracing the roadsides, advertising products, that most most will never be able to afford. The main form of transportation is the yellow cab, which dominates the street view. Aside the road corn, plantains, fish and a lot more yummy food is being grilling on small barbeques, by women selling them. And everywhere you go, someone is pumping up the volume to fill your ears with the never failing beats of the makossa. This town is always buzzing with people, regardless if it is 6 in the morning or 12 at night.
Somewhere in this town, in a neighbourhood called Emana, not to far from the cross road Bonne Fontaine, through a labyrinth of allyways, half way down the hill, you will find a group of woman sitting on a veranda, grooming each other. The veranda at my aunties’ house has been turned into a beauty parlour for the afternoon, as we need to get our self-ready for the night. As I am working my magic on my cousins hair, my skills with the hot iron, propels me to head stylist and before I know it, I have a few more ladies waiting their turn. I really do not mind I like to bring out the best in people. It also reminds me of my long distanced past, where I grew up in a house filled with woman and where afternoons like these where weekly routines. For a while, it seems like I have never left. Gossip is flowing richly; the use of language is colourful and creative. If you are looking for new talent for stand up comedian, here is where they should be looking. The originality in use of language is unmatched. Everybody has something to say, except I, who normally can be pretty quick of the tongue, am mute for once. After the translation has taken place in my head, the moment to react has past. Besides in this moment I am one of the women, where my skin colour heritage and nationality plays no part whatsoever and I would like to keep it like that. Besides I sound pretty stupid with my late reactions, so I just rather be mute, look pretty and enjoy the entertainment around me. Growing up, it are these moments I have missed more than anything else.
Suddenly the conversation is brought to the subject of cholera. A child of a friend of someone they know has died from it and two more others in the neighbourhood have been diagnosed with the disease. You can feel the weight change in the air. Prior to now, cholera was an epidemic in town everybody talked about, but now it had crossed the boarders of our own neighbourhood and it becomes real. I can feel the gravity of peoples fear and concern. Everybody knows the problem is the lack of fresh clean water, but if the government doesn’t resolve it, how can you? It makes you feel helpless.
But as soon as the weight of the problem has touched the ground, the conversation picks up again; everybody has something to say about the subject. Soon the jokes are making their entry again and the mood picks up. Meanwhile the evening air has brought along rain, and a storm is announcing itself. As the first raindrops are leaving their mark in the earth we pack up with the speed of light. Rain, just set hair and electrical equipment are not a recipe for good ending of the evening. Besides it is time to get ourselves dressed and to make our way across town in one of the many yellow cabs.

Through a labyrinth of rocky paths, peoples’ porches, jumping over open sewage and then again mud puddles; I am making my way down the hill. My cousin Carelle is taking me down to the fresh water source as promised, which appears to be at the edge of the neighbourhood, which in its turn also seems to me to be the edge of Yaoundé, judging by the vegetation of green forest below me. Yes I think to my self, finally we go into the wild. Even more exciting than before, I am bouncing on the rocks, between the puddles down the hill, with my entourage of cousins and neighbourhood kids. Everywhere I go I am being stared at with big eyes. One kid crouched in his porch was so shocked when he saw me bouncing pass, that he instantly looked frozen like a rabbit caught in the headlights with his hands in front of him, as if he wanted to protect himself against this alien feline and fell straight on his back. When my cousins and friends saw this, they almost rolled over the ground of laughter. The boy in question, slowly got to his feet again and you could clearly see he was slightly embarrassed, by his one somewhat slap-stick comic reaction. Obviously I caught him of guard and feeling somewhat sorry for the boy I urged the kids to move on. After another 5-minute hike we arrive at the source: I am stunned, lost for words. Just before the vegetation starts, between the last few houses of the neighbourhood, there is this concrete block with a PVC pipe sticking out of it. This is the water source of which I had this beautiful picture from in my head. I am horrified with what I see. People are queuing for water and though the surface of this spring is protected by a concrete cover, the life that is growing from rotting things in the black tainted puddles surrounding it can¹t be good. In this paradise breading ground for diseases, people are getting their water when they cut the main!? This now, seems even crueller to me. Here, there is water, that can give you al kinds of god knows what. And even if you take all precautions of boiling it before using, you risk catching something from it. And if you are smart, you buy bottle water to drink, but hey not every body her can afford that luxury. And you can¹t just say well we¹ll skip it for a day, it is a necessity in this heat. So there is water, you have no choice than to get it, but you know that it can make you sick or even worse, your children. Here I am standing on a few planks laid over a huge deep puddle, look at all the new species developing in the darkness of the shallow depth below. I look up at my cousin, who is looking at me with a big smile on her face. She does not see the horror, as she is used to it. I do not dear to communicate my shattered illusions to her. Longley I look over my shoulder to the lushes green that lay just beyond the houses behind me, very carefully I try to see if we could maybe also go further on adventure. She looks at me like I am crazy, we never go there she says and we start on our climb back up the hill. I’m beginning to understand why there is a cholera epidemic in town.

Sitting at the kitchen table, recording the daily events from the previous day in my notebook, there is a knock on the kitchen door. As the first one awake for some time now, I open the door to find a middle-aged lady with a few buckets; some jerry cans and half a dozen empty water bottles. Since my arrival I have taken these early morning chores upon me, since I wake up without fail every morning at 4’o clock, I am now managing the water selling business.
Before the rising of the sun, under the slowly blue turning sky graced with a transparent moon sickle, some few fading stars and smoke from the wooden fires heating the cooking pots in the neighbourhood, I step out into early dawn to take the lock of the water tap. The lady is a bit surprised when she sees this ‘white one¹ opening the door, but recovers quickly as she sees me taking of the lock on the tap in a fashion as if I have never done anything else in my life. I take my seat on the veranda of my aunties house. This house is one of the few houses in the neighbourhood with running water and soon more people with more buckets and more bottles have come to fill them. None of our costumers is talking to me. They are a bit surprised to see and when they hesitatingly approach me for payment, I simply hold out my hand as sign that I am indeed collecting. I maintain the attitude of: you don¹t want to talk to me? Fine, but you can pay me nonetheless. Here you have to learn fast, you can¹t afford to show ignorance to the task at hand, as money is hard to come by and people will under cut you where they can. Some are even testing me by asking me how much, but I have been born with some wits and done my homework regarding the prices. Surprised they hand me over the money I ask for.
I in my turn am surprised and mesmerised by the strength and resilience of these people. They have filled their jerry cans and buckets, which on average contain 25 to 30 l. Now they have to get them home. Men and women, without fuss lift them onto their heads, to make their way home over the hilly, rocky, uneven and unpaved paths of the neighbourhood. They will soon return, offend with some other family members to carry the rest home. These people don¹t need to go to the gym or have to be afraid for obesity; every morning they get their fair share of daily exercise. But seriously, it does make you think of how for granted we take the supply of our basic needs like running water in every household. But seeing this here makes me realise that in the biggest part of the world it is most likely not the norm. That most people have to work bloody hard to provide their families with all the basic needs, before they have even stepped out of the house to earn a living. I have always known I was born in a privileged existence, with my eyes halve closed; now they are wide open.
As the hour of 7’o clock approaches, I feel a slight change in attitude in the crowed of waiting people, they are becoming anxious and are watching the tap closely for any change in water pressure. It is not long before the tap stops flowing. The water has been cut! I am baffled. And yes Odette told me all about the water story when she was with us in Zoetermeer, but I always listen to it as some interesting story from a far and away place, never really grasping the weight of and severity of the subject. I look at all those people who have patiently been waiting their turn; I feel sorry for them and wonder how they will get through the day without water. To me this seems incredibly cruel. But with an air of business like usual, they pick up their buckets and walk off. The only conclusion left too drawn from this reaction, is that they are used to it. I ask my cousin Carrelle what they will do for water and she tells me that they¹ll go further down the hill to the water source. Thank God for that, at least there is an alternative. And as in tune with my curious nature I ask my cousin to take me there a bit later as I would like to see this source. She¹ll promise to do so, but first things first, the dishes still have to be done without running water! Ehhh??? That is a trick you learn quickly, thank God we have a wall full with jerry cans all filled to the rim, more than enough to get us get through the day. I guess even here I am one of the lucky ones.

Still a bit dazed, confused and sleep deprived I am trying to wrap my head around the fact that I am home. Everything here appears to be the same, but in fact nothing ever will be again. The speed, in which the events of the last three months have taken place, has left me no time at all to process. The only thing left to do was to take what came my way and run with it. But now that the dust is starting to set slowly, the full weight of it all is calmly posing itself on the balance of my life. Sitting in my window seat high above the clouds, flying into Brussels, I know already that my homecoming is a whole other story, a more private one. Despite this, I would like to let you all know that the story about my return to my motherland is not finished yet. For those of you who have enjoyed reading them, I would like to let you know that I still owe you another two and a half weeks of adventures. Further more will I be illustrating the blog with some appropriate photographs.
I also would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your wonderful comments and touching words, which have inspired me to continue my reports. I would like to thank my entire family that has taken me in
with so much love and understanding that it made my heart overflow. My cousins who have taken their time to show me the town Yaoundé, my father for his never failing love, encouragement and believe in me. And to Emmy and Walter I would like to give my everlasting gratitude, for making this almost impossible mission, possible without complications in hard times.
I am back, but have not finished writing yet!

Finally the doors have closed and we are on our way. Once again I have my window seat, but this time no breeze is calmly circulating the bus. Outside my window village life is continuing as we are driving by. The setting has the resemblance of Cuba in the old days, as I know it from photographs and movies, except here the earth is red and the people are all black. I could easily stay here for a while. Maybe I will use this place as a retreat sanctuary from time to time, it is too beautiful to never to return to. We leave the village behind use and the bus is following the bumpy red road out of the mountains. We haven’t left the highlands yet and my cousin next to me starts to throw up, she is seriously not well and it will not stop till she’ll gets of the bus in Yaoundé. I really feel sorry for her! I have to say the conditions on the bus are not exactly pleasant for someone in good health but is even more horrendous for someone who is ill. Besides that, the rest of the journey is without hick ups and this time we do not stop half way to eat or have a toilet break. The only times we stop are at check points and when we do, you wish we didn’t have to, as the little breeze that circulates when we are on the move makes all the difference. But then, we hit Yaoundé… what can I say. We are not even 5 minutes into the city and we hit traffic jam, but still progressing slowly. Meanwhile the temperature in the bus is rising and you can feel the change in attitude amongst all passengers; everybody is keeping their calm to preserve energy. But after a while we have come to complete stand still, 5 minutes are becoming 10 and 10 becomes half a hour and still we are standing still, in a bus with no ventilation, windows that can’t open at the hottest time of the day. We are like chickens, baking in an oven. My cousin next to me does not know what to do anymore, she has run out of bags and by the look on her face she can’t hold it for that much longer. Luckily we are about 10 min walk from the house and as she only has her handbag as luggage, she decides to get of the bus and walk home. Easier said than done, the bus driver is refusing to open the back door, so she has to climb her way out over all the people sitting in the walking ail. It takes some effort, but she finally reaches the exit and she is visibly relieved. At that moment I wish I could join her, but Odette has all her luggage under in the bus and so we stay. Meanwhile, people are starting to scream for the bus driver to open the back door, but to no avail. All this time I have managed to stay pretty calm, but have stood up on my chair, to catch the little bit of ‘fresh’ air that comes through the slightly open roof top. Now, I love saunas, but even this is ridiculous and I am all too happy when my aunty decides to get of the bus to see if she can get out her luggage regardless. She gets of the bus and to my luck she manages to grab everything, yeah!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t know how fast to move myself, climbing over people, towards the exit. What am I saying, I was flying! Finally outside in the burning sun, but at least my skin catches the wind as I spread my arms in relief. Through the window of the bus I say goodbye to the rest, charge myself like a donkey with language and off we go. I am walking on the elevated concrete fence that separates the two lanes of traffic, while my aunty is finding her way through the still standing cars. When I tell her that back home people pay good money for our sauna experience, even she has to laugh. When we have finally arrived home after our ten minute hike, the only thing I want to do is take off my skin, as I think I am going to boil otherwise. But instead I take a two big buckets of water, wash myself and pour these over me. I’am reborn as the evening sets in.

Those of you who are reading this on www.nelverduijn.gaatverweg.nl will see a bird’s eye view of the main crossroad of Bandenkop. This is the beating heart of the village. There is a market that will count say 5 or 6 stalls; there are 2 bars and a bank with a tree growing through the roof. It is about 9 ‘o clock Sunday morning, uncle Robert, his wife Jeanne, my aunties Claudine and Odette, my nana Ma Pauline, cousin Gladys, all the luggage and me to complete the picture, have joined the chaotic group of people who are looking to get a seat on the next bus service to Yaoundé. In contrast to the temper of the people around us, my family is quite chilled. I think after our stormy weekend we are enjoying our clear blue sky today and aunty Claudine takes this as an opportunity to show Gladys and me the house of Mbouijom Martine, our grandmother. As we walk through the red and green ‘neighbourhood’, Claudine explains us that it was quite rare for a girl to inherite land to build on. But that her father in fear for her safety during the independence war, gave her that house to live in the village with her three children, instead of on the land of my grandfather that lays secluded higher up the mountain. I guess this man had a pretty sharp foresight; if Mbouijom Martine would have lived with her husband at the time, she maybe too would have been found with a bullet in her head from bandits that roamed the lands at the time, profiting from the confusion of the war. I ask Claudine why, if it was so dangerous, my grandfather did not think of coming to live with his wife? Apparently he did not want to leave his land and his three other wives.
As we return to our departure sight, the chaos has developed in an even bigger heat, but with no solution in sight yet. Gladys and I are being told to take our seats on the bus and to reserve the seats for the others, while the rest stays outside to take care of the luggage. My cousin gladly takes this offer to sit down, as she has not been feeling well since the early morning. After more waiting, heated tempers, arguments over seats and the always present know alls, we finally depart… only to stop 100 m further as a woman has noticed that her bag has been left aside the road, as there was no space for it anymore in the luggage department. She is screaming to let her of the bus, so she can wait with her luggage for the next bus. God only knows when that will be. But if I thought we would rapidly continu our journey, I should have thought again. If you’d ask me, the bus driver and ticket master are on commission with the local shop we stopped in front of. Because as soon as the doors have opened to let the woman off, the shop keeper is on the bus taking empty bottles of water and money, from passengers, who know exactly what is happening. He will fill them with the local delicacy, white wine, otherwise known as ‘vin de palme’. And if the bus would have windows that could open for some air to breeze through, it would not have be so bad, but the window doggy sliding mechanism is blocked, due to a do-it-yourself- job on a broken window. And it does not help that the bus is packed to the rim; I tell you every available space is taken. In the walking ails, wooden chairs have been placed to create about 10 more seats, you understand that safety regulations are defiantly out of the window here. Meanwhile the temperature outside is rising while we wait and wait. Then in a moment of clarity my cousin, thinks it’s a good idea if we also bought some wine for me, as me being the ‘tourist’ of all. And if you know me a bit, of course I would never object to that, but unfortunately we have waited too long and the doors are finally closing, thank god we can be on our way, sod the wine! But Gladys is persistent and without shame she asks a young man on an ail seat close to us, if I could try some of his, and without fuss or hesitation he passes me his bottle. Palm wine is best drunk when it is still fresh, clean and sweet of taste. It is divine, fresh like this, you hardly taste the alcohol and I could finish the whole bottle, dangerous! But I control myself and do not abuse the young mans generosity. One thing I have noticed is that yes, people like to argue, tempers are heated, but without a fuss or hesitation, they will share the little they have and help a stranger, when it is needed.

It is still dark, but far on the eastern horizon a ray is announcing the suns arrival. The midnight blue sky, that is dark and light in its intensity at the same time, is decorated with thousands of smaller and bigger diamonds shining brightly. In between trails of stardust, like jetplanes leaving their tracks in the sky and a moon sickle shaped like the smile on my face. The sky of my dreams I have not seen for a very long time and I had almost forgotten that somewhere it really exists, embraces me as I step outside into the early morning air of the highlands Alone under the night sky, I lay myself down, forgetting my fear of snakes, to surrender myself to the universe. Time stands still and the events of the last few months are being played as a film in front of me. I see myself that afternoon, the second of April, waking up after a long profoundly deep sleep, to discover that the peace has returned to the land and that al visitors, well saturated, have taken their leave. As I walk around on my families land, performing blessing rituals I have just been taught, I connect with this place. I am no stranger to this land, though I feel it knows me better than I know her, but what I do know is that I will return to this place, more frequent in the future than I have done in the past. I belong to this land, to the bloodline that has cultivated it for generations; I am a part of it, as much as it is a part of me. I know now that my life journey, that has brought me to this point, has not just been a series of fortunate and unfortunate events. But it was foreseen for me to return to the source of my birth, to prepare me for even bigger things to come. This weekend I have shed my skin, my transformation is complete. It only saddens me that it took my mothers death to get here, as I would give anything for her to be by my side to see my new skin. But here under my diamonds covered sky, I feel rich and can see our loss as a rare precious gift, not to be wasted. I know her death is not the end but only a new beginning and I know I will see her again, but not just yet.

Here I am with my Nike t-shirt, All Stars trainers and Diesel jeans. In my hand, some kind of horse tail on a stick, which every direct family member is holding. In a strong flowing current of events, that followed the actual burial, I have been transported right into the middle of the mourning circle, leading a circle of my own and this time there was no polite refusal, as it was not being asked but expected. This circle is the biggest, busier and more complex. In the centre of it, four big Tam Tams are bound together and being played by their musicians. Than the male family members form a circle around it, amongst them I see my uncle Charles and Robert each with a horse tail on a stick, with a vacant look in their eyes. This circle is being enclosed by an even bigger circle of women, amongst who I also see my aunties, Claudine and Odette, both also with a horse tail in their hand. Till today I have been trying to find out what this stands for, but nobody exactly knows. I do know that it is some kind of status symbol. The circle I lead is placed in the middle of the other two. The woman, who shows me how it is done, is holding me from the back and is trying to move me in the rhythm of the music, I think, she thinks I have no rhythm, but the truth is that the sound of these drums have echoed in my veins my whole life and I have rhythm like no other. She is restricting me more than that she is helping and though it annoys me, I let her, as I am too overwhelmed to make a fuss. Portraits of my mother are being carried around and randomly being placed on the ground, where we then hurdle around and make striking movements to it. Me with my horsetail and the rest with their hands. Then the picture is being picked up again to be placed further along on the track of our circle. This will repeat itself, till the circles will eventually break up. Meanwhile life in the circle is chaotic, pictures are being taken, instructions are being given for the last preparations for the eating fest that is to follow and everywhere shots out of shotguns are being fired in the air and it does not seem to stop. My ears are ringing and my eardrums are hurting. They definitely have not heard of health and safety regulations up here.
After all is done, I am dazed, but clear enough of mind to know I am not dressed appropriate. Not that others would mind, as here, there is no dress code. But more so of what mamma would think as she is watching me. So as soon I see my chance, I run inside to change into my traditional pagne I had brought along especially for this occasion.
When I come back out, my cousin Yannick tells me to pose for a picture, as my picture is taken, one of the gun men, hands me the riffle to pose with. I think he is just being nice, but when I am done he asks me to pay him 1000 FC, confused I look at him, I slowly realised I have been done. But you know what; I have no money on and tell him so. If he wanted me to pay him, he should have said so before he handed me the riffle. But to avoid complications, Yannick gives him 500 FC and tells him to get lost.
Every brother and sister of mamma has an own entourage of people, that have come down to the village to show their respect and now it is time to eat, so most of the onlookers have now made their way down to the house of their host. I in my turn visit each house, where enormous amounts of food are being served. At my aunties Odette’s house, little piggy Babe and the stupid chickens are doing a good job in feeding the masses. In every house they are trying to persuade me to eat something, but I am not hungry.
After all obligations have been said and done, I feel exhausted. I return to my room in the house in the kitchen of which mamma is now laid to rest. It has not even gone midday, but I fall into a deep sleep as soon as my head hits my pillow.

My eye catches the lightreflection on the blade of the machete, planted in the pile of red earth. Next to it a hole in the kitchen floor, half a meter away from where the skull of my grandmother is burried. My nana Ma Pauline sits next to me on a wooden bench, not more than a meter away from my mothers’ final resting place. The space is cramped full of people and more have gathered themselves outside the only window that provides this small space with light. The crowd of people blocks the light that is meant to brighten this space, but somehow a ray of light manages to find a way through and shines straight on the hole in the ground in front of me. Here the burial undertaking is a bit like life itself, beautifully simple. One of my mothers’ aunties has dug the hole in the ground with the machete and stands next to the pile of dirt against the wall to oversee the ceremony. I do not know what is expected from me or what is to happen next, but I just run with what is to be. For a while now I have learned to let go of al expectations. As they move to pick up the urn and place it in the ground. I stop them! The thougt of her being burried imprisoned in that urn for eternity, scares me and is unacceptable. The whole reason form me to make this journey was to give part of her back to the ground where she came from, so her spirit could run free and travel to beautiful and magical places we can not even begin to imagine. I look around for my aunty Odette, who has been shown in Zoetermeer, how to release the pressure of the urn, to pop open the lit. But after a few tries, she grabs the machete and with a few hits she has pierced the lit of the urn and we are able to open it. I take out the plastic bag that contains the grey mass that used to be my mother. I did not know what to expect, but the great comfort I felt by seeing it, I did not expect. Tears once again are streaming over my face, though I am strangely calm. This is not an expression of pain, but an overflow of love that I can no longer hold inside and as in big contrast to the cremation in Zoetermeer, I leave the tap open. These tears come from a place of beauty and they are pure. A few weeks ago they came from a place of pain and darkness and had to be contained, to finally be transformed into what they are now. I kneel down on the ground and take out the plastic bag, others are trying to help me as I have trouble pulling it through the small opening, but I don’t want anybody to interfere. I suddenly turn very protective and have to control myself not to snap. Since I have arrived I had to share her with everybody else, but she is my mother and I refuse for anybody to take this moment away from me. I manage to make myself be understood, without hurting anybodies feeling and they give me my space. I pore her ashes in the faded black painted ceramic bowl, from with some chips are missing. I feel an uncontrollable urge to run my fingers trough her and without hesitation I plant my fingers in the ashes and like sand it glides through them. I have been sitting like this for a good few minuets now, but for me time stood still and I had completely forgotten I am sitting centre stage. Now that she is so incredibly close again I find it hard to let her go, but I know it has to be done. I grab a hand full of her ash and release it in the gaping gap that has been provided for it, then place the bowl in it and take my place again, next to Ma Pauline on the bench. The already faded flowers are being placed in the bowl and the remaining space is filled with a white piece of fabric. One by one her brothers and sisters come forward and throw a hand full of dirt and mumble as their final farewells, I chose my turn as last and the hole is closed. A bucket of water is being brought to wash our hands, but I am not ready yet to was her of me, so I take the nails and hammer I had asked for instead and fix the lid of her urn with her name and dates on it to the wall, so the rest of my family I left in The Netherlands will be able to locate her as well. I wait till most people have continued to the second part of the funeral ceremony at the other side of the complex. I retake my place on my knees again, I remove the rocks and little pieces of paper, that have mixed themselves with the earth, of her grave. I plant both of my palms on the ground and feel an incredible warmth that fills me. My tears have stopped flowing, I feel at peace. I stay here for a will and I am happy, happy that she was and always will be my mammy. I finally wash my hands, pour the rest of the remaining water over her grave and help Ma Pauline to get up. We close the door behind us to finally leave mamma in peace with her mother Mbouijom Martine she so deeply loved, but lost at even much younger age than my sister, brother and me have now lost ours.