Cameroon: The Bushmeat Paradox

I open the door to a horrible room in the Meumi Palace Hotel in

Yaounde, the capital of Cameroon in central West Africa. There’s a thick stench of sweat mixed with something I can’t quite put my finger on – possibly blood – and a table covered in empty beer bottles and fag butts. A TV hangs from the wall fizzing static and I can’t get rid of the thought that someone has recently been brutalized in here. The smell of mould is overpowering, the shower’s bust and there’s an entire Natural History Museum of insects scuttling across the floor, including several species as yet unidentified.

Outside my grimy window the rain is coming down like a ballistic power shower. I’ve just found out that it’s the rainy season in

Cameroon, and I’m trying to look on the bright side but there doesn’t seem to be one. This place is poor, unhappy, sweaty and corrupt.

I’ve come here to find out about the bushmeat trade, and it looks like being a tricky story. I’m probably going to have to eat all manner of unusual insects and mammals, but it’s not that that’s worrying me – I believe that we should eat pretty much anything on the planet – the trouble is that in Cameroon it’s exactly this belief that’s causing an ecological and environmental catastrophe. Cameroonians consume a vast amount of bushmeat, accounting for an estimated 60–80 per cent of all protein eaten (up to 90 per cent in rural areas), and cut swathes through the forest fauna. The meat comes from rodents, forest-dwelling animals and even primates such as highly endangered mandrills, gorillas and chimpanzees. Some scientists warn that the next generation of children will grow up in a world without any great apes at all. If you think you’ve heard all this before, stick with me because it gets messier. HIV and other diseases originated here in Cameroonian primates, and eating bushmeat is one of the ways animal diseases are transmitted to humans. Many people say that we’re so closely related to primates that we shouldn’t eat them anyway – it’s practically cannibalism.

And here lies my big problem: if I’m presented with a primate and asked if I could eat it, my complex carnivorous rationale is going to be severely tested. I’ve always based my carnivorousness on the simple idea that we can kill animals for food, but not humans, and I can’t start differentiating between species now or my whole carnivorous justification might come tumbling down. And if two sticky weeks of moral and zoological relativity sends me home a vegetarian I’m going to be mighty pissed off.

Yaounde Market

The sky is ominously dark and the clouds are on a rolling boil above us. I curse the series producer, Marc, once again for sending me here in the rainy season, and get into a taxi so knackered that it’s an insult to knackered taxis: the windscreen is a mosaic of broken glass and the make and model unidentifiable due to years of being crashed and beaten back into the basic automobile shape.

There is no room in the taxi because there are too many people in it. For some reason we have managed to employ two local guides rather than the usual one. This should make my life easier, especially in a place that’s as notoriously difficult to work in as Cameroon, with its high levels of corruption, intransigent bureaucracy and lack of infrastructure, but right now they are having a nasty row about who should sit in the front. The diminutive, intellectual Louis says that he needs to direct our driver so he needs to see better, but the garrulous, assertive Joseph says he’s bigger and needs the legroom. It’s true – the guy’s enormous. In the end it’s easily resolved when Joseph gets bored with arguing and physically shoves Louis into the back to join me, and we’re off. I wonder why we need both guides with us. Shouldn’t one of them at least be off setting up our next meeting? No time to ask – we’re bouncing along the roads of a new city and I’m excited.

Yaounde City is sticky, filthy, aggressive and chaotic, but at least it’s got roads, electricity, pavements and even working traffic lights. And although Cameroon is poor, for a West African country it isn’t doing too badly. It’s been stable and peaceful for a long time, which has allowed some development and investment, but it’s got its fair share of problems like inequity, a heavy reliance on subsistence farming, and corruption. It’s run by an ethnic oligarchy led by a chap called Paul Biya, who’s been president for 25 years despite widespread accusations of vote rigging and electoral fraud. But it’s the country’s insatiable appetite for bushmeat that is causing global concern.

We pick up Mme Pascaline, a proud woman resplendent in flowing African print robes, who makes a living cooking and selling bushmeat. Joseph grumpily makes way for her in the front seat and gets in the back with the rest of us. Holy Mother of God and all the saints, I can’t breathe back here! Why can’t we get two taxis? They only cost the price of a box of matches. No one can hear me so I sit with my face squashed against the greasy window until we arrive at our destination: a roadside market with several bushmeat stalls. I re-form like a Tom and Jerry character that has been briefly and painfully turned into an anvil for comic effect.

Joseph warns me that people are likely to be extremely aggressive towards us. Suddenly I’m pleased that he’s big and assertive.

There are some specific licensed markets in Yaounde, but in reality every street in the city is crammed with stalls, including bushmeat stalls. The only difference with the bushmeat is that the stalls are always set back from the road in a half-hearted attempt at hiding, although they are laughably easy to spot.

I follow Mme Pascaline towards the stalls that she normally buys from, with the camera slung low, chatting and smiling as we walk, but the shouts and warnings start as soon as we are spotted: ‘No camera! No camera!’ It’s aggressive and panicky.

There are large piles of blackened monkeys, porcupine, rodents, and limbs, hands and heads of Lord knows what. Many of the monkeys have been spatchcocked and sit in piles with grimacing faces and blackened skin. They’ve actually just been smoked for preservation but they look gruesome, like they’ve been tortured in some satanic ritual, grinning because their lips have been burnt off. The stallholders cover the piles with plastic sacking when they realize that we’re going to persevere.

Joseph tries to talk to them, saying, ‘We just want to film our friend buying some meat for lunch,’ but the anger and shouting builds to hysteria, so he gives up. We lower the camera and the shouting calms enough for Mme Pascaline (who is clearly enjoying the attention) to size up a few animals that look like vast guinea pigs. She chooses a small one and bargains the price down to 10,000 francs (about £10), which sounds like a heck of a lot of money. I was expecting bushmeat to be cheap. I make one last attempt to film her buying the meat, but the crowd goes nuts, shouting and pushing, and trying to throw water over the camera. I decide to beat a tactical retreat to the taxi. Joseph follows soon afterwards, whistling with surprise at the reception we got. ‘Ooh man, they aren’t happy!’

Mme Pascaline giggles in the taxi: ‘Ils ont peur’ (they’re scared), she says. They’re scared? I was terrified. ‘It’s illegal to sell bushmeat without a licence.’

‘Why don’t the stallholders get a licence?’ I ask.

‘You can’t get a licence – they don’t give them out because they don’t want anyone to sell bushmeat.’ Ah. ‘The woman is scared that if your footage shows her stall, the authorities will come and arrest her.’

So is it illegal for you to cook and sell the meat? ‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs.

Joseph says, ‘There are many international organizations who are giving money to people fighting against bushmeat hunting. That’s why when they see a camera they think you’ll take their picture to give it to those people or to the police.’

I’m confused. If I can stumble across bushmeat stalls all over Yaounde, and it’s clearly illegal to sell the stuff, why don’t the police close them down? And in any case the animals on sale may have looked gruesome, but they weren’t endangered species. Louis explains, ‘We didn’t see gorilla or chimpanzee because the stallholders keep them out of sight. You have to ask for them and they only give if they trust you. Gorilla is very illegal and very expensive.’

There are three legal categories for protected animals: Class A are species threatened with extinction (such as gorillas, chimpanzees and mandrills) and to kill or keep one requires signed authorization from the minister in charge of wildlife. Class B species (such as buffalo, parrots and African civet) are not necessarily threatened, but may become so, and you need a permit to hunt or sell them legally.

The tricky bit comes in the last category: Class C, which is wideranging and contains blue duiker (a small antelope), porcupine, cane rat and all manner of other bushmeat. There can be many reasons why animals are in category C, but certainly these three species are far from endangered (all listed as ‘Least concern’ in the IUCN Red List, a register compiled by the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources). The meat on the stalls all appears to be in this third category and by all accounts it’s very popular.

A terrifying problem that’s been looming in recent years is zoonosis: diseases jumping from wildlife to humans. The origins of HIV-1 lie in the central common chimpanzee right here in southern Cameroon, and almost certainly transferred to humans through hunting or butchery of bushmeat. Ebola and the glamorous-sounding simian foamy virus are also known to have made the jump.

But if it’s illegal to sell them and extremely dangerous to butcher them, why don’t Cameroonians just eat something else? Louis explains that ‘Cameroon doesn’t have a tradition of animal husbandry, mainly because it’s always been so easy to catch animals in the forest. Why would anyone go to all the effort and expense of keeping animals when you can just go and lay a trap?’

Mme Pascaline has a simpler line: ‘People like bushmeat. It reminds them of living in the forest.’

Delicious Little Porcupine

We drive to Mme Pascaline’s house in the slum area of Yaounde called Moloko. It’s notoriously dangerous here, but she is well respected (and our guide is the size of a small, semi-detached house), so it feels safe. She has a little shack to serve food from, and behind it, in a rubbish-strewn alley, is her kitchen – really just a place where she leans a fire against a rock.

It turns out that the cute furry creature I thought was a vast guinea pig is actually a ‘porc-epic’ – porcupine. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one of these before, but I thought they were covered in vicious quills rather than fur, so I stroke it. I scream with agony as the thick fur turns out to be vicious quills indeed, several of which are now protruding from my hand. Must check my rabies jab is up to date when I get back to the hotel. I dig out Kingdon’s Field Guide to African Mammals (essential reading for anyone planning to eat out in Cameroon) and identify our little friend as a bush-tailed porcupine. Apparently he’s a type of rodent and he’s far from endangered.

I help to de-quill the porc-epic by pouring boiling water over it to loosen the quills, then scraping them off with a knife. Around its legs and head the quills seem to be so small as to resembe fur, but they are still angry little things that attack me at will. Underneath the quills the skin is thick, pinky-white and rubbery. It now looks like a huge bald guinea pig.

I ask Mme Pascaline if she’s concerned about some types of bushmeat becoming extinct, but she says, ‘I know they can never disappear, no matter the amount that we eat.’

I say that there’s been a lot of research that says many of the popular species will be locally extinct in Cameroon unless people change their eating and hunting habits.

‘Hmm?’ she says. She really doesn’t care.

‘What about gorilla?’

‘I’ve eaten it, and I serve it here, but I need the help of another person – I can’t do it all by myself,’ she shrugs. ‘My favourite is porcupine. And chimp.’ Blimey.

‘Why’s chimp so good?’

‘Because it almost smells like human flesh.’ Her brother tries to stop her talking, scared that she’s taking things too far, but she insists, ‘Yes, it’s true.’

I ponder her frame of reference, but she hurries me along so that we don’t miss the afternoon trade. We chop the porc-epic up into small pieces and lay it in a pot with a few fragrant leaves that I’ve never seen before. They smell of the best bits of Cameroon: sweet, flowery and dungy. I add a few onions and a little water and the pot goes on the fire for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, Mme Pascaline puts me to work peeling plantain (like bananas, but taste like sweet potatoes).

She unties little wraps of white peppercorns, cloves, fennel seeds, chillies and chick peas, and I grind them to a paste using a large, flat stone. The pot’s beginning to smell delicious.

Mme Pascaline lifts a little hatch and declares her restaurant open. It’s got bench seats for about ten people, and in a few minutes the place is full. I have to reserve a portion for fear of lunch running out. It’s the first time I’ve eaten porcupine, and I’m very excited. It has a thick layer of tough, fatty skin marked like a honeycomb from where the quills were pulled, but then: tragedy! It’s disgusting, like chewing a gamy mouse-mat. The meat is pretty hard to get off the bones, and it’s tough and pungent, like … like … I’m eating engine oil. This doesn’t seem to bother the punters, who can’t seem to get enough of it.

The customers are all boisterous blokes, dropping in on their way back from work. They sing a little song about the porc-epic for me: ‘Hey delicious little porcupine, be kind and don’t injure me with your little thorns.’

One of the men says, ‘Bushmeat is important. It’s what we grew up with. In villages and even cities some people can’t afford beef, so you just go in the bush and catch whatever and eat it.’ They admit that it’s very expensive but ‘It’s a treat – although it’s not just rich man’s food, we can’t afford to eat it every day.’

I’m joined by Ofir Drori who runs the Last Great Ape (LAGA)  Organization. LAGA tries to encourage the Cameroon authorities to prosecute people who trade or traffic Class A endangered species, filming undercover footage to incriminate traders. Ofir is really an ape  man, and doesn’t care so much about Class C bushmeat, but he mentions that eating it ‘does create a problem of harming the overall biodiversity in several areas’. More importantly, because Class C animals are now considered contraband, the price of bushmeat has risen, and traders are often linked to Class A animals, drugs and people trafficking, so even porcupine is inevitably part of the wider problem.

I worry that making bushmeat illegal when it’s clearly enormously popular in Cameroon just pushes the industry underground and creates a new world of criminality – as with Prohibition in 1930s’ USA. Ofir throws his hands up in the air and says, ‘I don’t care. It’s illegal and people shouldn’t do it.’ However, he says that there’s a world of difference between the illegal commercial bushmeat trade in the city and legal subsistence hunting and eating of bushmeat in rural communities. But he adds that, ‘The most important problem is corruption, no doubt about it. And again it is not [only] Cameroon; Central West Africa is all the same.’

Snake-oil massages and other miracle cures

Louis takes us to meet Bobu, a traditional healer who uses extraneous bits and bobs of endangered animals to heal all manner of ailments from gammy legs to rows with the missus. He’s got gorilla legs, leopard skulls, various horns and tusks, and a wide array of wood shavings ‘from very rare trees’, all of which look spookily like the same bit of wood that’s been ground to a dust.

‘I’m a doctor and I can cure any kind of problem. People often come to me when hospital medicine has failed. I have lots: all the mystical medicines. For instance, if someone has mental problems, or if you fall out with your boyfriend, I can help you and put you back together,’ he claims.

He is also the most magnificently smelly man I’ve ever met.

He shows me around his wares – gorilla bones, lion limbs, panther skulls and all manner of bird bits. ‘That’s the panther’s skull, it’s an antidote against poison. That’s the arm of a lion. It’s to heal fractures. This is gorilla bone, which is for mystical illness that they can’t cure in a hospital.’ He offers to make me an aphrodisiac that will keep me going at it for a day and a half. I tell him that Mrs Gates is more into tenderness than competition-level endurance pounding, but he waves away my objections and lazily throws several handfuls of sawdust into a scrap of paper and demands that I pay him 15,000 francs.

He’s obviously a total and utter charlatan, which would be fine, but I prefer my charlatans to have a bit of charm or grace. Worst of all, he has a gammy leg of his own, which you’d have thought he’d have been able to cure himself. When I ask why he hasn’t, he laughs uproariously and swiftly changes the subject. He asks me to suggest an ailment to cure, so I confess that I’ve had a dodgy shoulder from too much swimming, and he prescribes a three-week course of python-fat massages. I tell him I’ve only got an hour, so he thinks for a moment and says, ‘That’ll do fine.’

He takes me back to his shack in a nearby slum to perform massage on my gammy shoulder. It’s one of the sweatiest, smelliest, seediest rooms I’ve ever been in, and I’m not very keen on the idea of this snakeoil salesman laying his hands on my flesh. But it might be interesting and, to be honest, if he does cure my gammy shoulder with his pseudospiritual claptrap I’ll be enormously grateful. You see, I’m falling into his smelly trap – these holistic therapists are crafty buggers, aren’t they?

He shows me around the tricks of his trade, including his mystic telephone – a gourd in the shape of a 1970s’ trimphone that he uses to summon the spirits. I promise I’m not making this stuff up. He says he’s going to use python fat to rub into my shoulder, which is priceless – a snake-oil salesman actively selling me snake oil. He gets a little fire going, then rubs the python fat on his hands. It stinks – like rancid butter mixed with week-old BO, then mixed with skunk juice. I’m almost certain that it’s chicken fat, which would be great because python is a Class B ‘slightly endangered’ animal. He also has sand on his hands, which makes the whole experience utterly, utterly unpleasant. He rubs it in with a great deal of force, taking my breath away.

I wonder why he doesn’t use more commonly available animals, but he says, ‘People want rare animal cures because they are powerful, symbolic, exotic, and you just don’t get that with a chicken. The chicken isn’t important at all, it’s only good for eating, and the bones aren’t mystical.’ It’s all part of the bushmeat jigsaw – this stuff has a greater resonance here in Cameroon.

Read more of this chapter in the book...