Cameroon
American Embassies around the world provide many wonderful services to citizens. The Gold Key package that the Embassies offer for purchase by American companies includes setting up meetings with local ministers responsible for overseeing investments and providing a local escort. The escort drives guests to meetings, explains customs, and serves as an interpreter, if needed.
One of the escorts at the American Embassy in Yaoundé, Cameroon, is a distinguished smaller gentleman. He is four and a half feet of unbridled enthusiasm. Rain or shine, he always greets you with a beaming smile. No matter how hot and sweltering the day, he dons a three-piece suit. With perfect English and manners fit for a Queen, he is a popular figure around the capital.
Scott’s Story
The Escort had worked hard all week, climbing many flights of stairs during periodic blackouts that turned government offices into saunas. On our last day in Cameroon, my colleague and I invited him to a fine dinner at “his favorite restaurant in Yaoundé.” Those unfamiliar with Africa might think that fine dining in Yaoundé is an oxymoron. Yet almost every African capital has its share of elegant and expensive restaurants serving three- and four-figure French wines. Given the Escort’s aristocratic appearance, that’s what I was expecting when he picked us up at the Hilton.
Then we drove out of town, and the paved road gave way to red dirt. That’s when I started to get concerned. The Escort’s Mercedes expertly navigated the rutted road, eventually stopping at our destination.
“Welcome to the best restaurant in Yaoundé—the Dense Forest,” the Escort said, his white teeth gleaming in the fading light.
A hand-painted sign read Forêt Dense. The establishment consisted of a small shack and picnic tables. Out back were several open fires. Shirtless Africans were roasting a variety of carcasses, turning the spits by hand.
The hostess welcomed the Escort, and they exchanged kisses on each cheek. She led us inside, which was simple but clean. It looked rather like a Texas bar-b-que joint. The Dense Forest was bustling, too. Most of the tables were occupied with smiling patrons. There were a few glances in our direction, but no one seemed surprised to see two Americans.
We ordered a round of cold beers and then took a look at the menu. While I do not speak French, I’ve spent enough time in French-speaking nations to navigate a menu. Yet none of the foods looked familiar. There was no poulet (chicken), no boeuf (beef), no crevette (shrimp). The only word I could make out was serpent—snake.
“What do you recommend?” I asked the Escort.
“Pangolin is the house specialty,” he replied.
“What’s that?” my colleague asked.
“It’s like your armadillo,” he explained.
I remembered seeing a National Geographic special on the endangered creature. I recalled that it lived in, well, the dense African forest. Then I realized where I was. It was a bush meat restaurant. Everything on the menu was a creature of the forest.
As the Escort walked us through the menu, the choices only got worse, culminating in various monkeys and bats. Basically, the fare was everything you might find crawling or flying around the rainforest.
When the waitress came to take our order, I asked about poulet. She said that could be arranged. My colleague concurred.
An hour later, the waitress brought the Escort’s pangolin. It had been spit-roasted whole, and was being served on its back in a bowl of black gravy—with its four little feet and head pointing upward. When it was plopped on the table, it smelled awful.
The Escort wafted the aroma in the direction of his nose and closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy.
“Ah, the best smell in the world!” he exclaimed. “There’s nothing like it.”
At least I could agree with the “nothing like it” part.
The scene was surreal. Here was a man in a three-piece suit and tie making a bib out of his napkin so that he could feast on an endangered species. What followed next was a one-man feeding frenzy. The Escort dug into the pangolin’s stomach and started plucking out its organs, swathing them with black gravy. He chewed on its scales. He plucked off its head and sucked on it.
All the while, the Escort was rolling his eyes and making guttural sounds of pleasure. He was enjoying the pangolin so much that I wondered whether I was missing something. My stomach actually grumbled as I tried to find meat on my own emaciated chicken. It seemed to be nothing but skin and bones. So, I ordered more beer and watched the Escort chomp away.
He plucked every bit of meat from every corner of the carcass until nothing was left but its empty shell and a pile of chewed up scales. The Escort’s bib was filthy, splattered with pangolin and gravy. But the look on his face said it all. It was complete satisfaction. Could pangolin really be that amazing?
Back at the Hilton, we ordered a cheese pizza. Simple pizza never tasted so good.