a écrit le 7 janvier 2017 à 21h40 Less than 36 hours before this moment I had never heard of Yaounde, Douala or even Cameroon, a corruption-racked central African country named by French settlers for its abundant stocks of prawns.
But here I was, white walls closing in, under arrest in a subterranean interrogation room at Yaounde airport where a thin man with a crisp manner was stating more than asking “you are a spyâ€.
It had been a long journey that started in winter-chilled Sydney and was headed for the steamy, thick jungles of the Congo.
A plane was missing, presumed crashed, while carrying the full board of directors of small Australian mining company Sundance Resources, which included one of the nation’s wealthiest businessmen, Ken Talbot.
At morning news conference we had discussed sending London correspondent Peter Wilson to cover the story but he could not go. Having been to West Africa before to investigate the voodoo healers of Benin and Togo, I was a natural choice as replacement. Unlike others in the newsroom, I could pass the threshold test for entry to Cameroon — a current yellow fever certificate.
So, after successfully arranging an expedited visa from the private house in Hornsby, I was airborne, business class, via Dubai within a matter of hours.
But on arrival in the port city of Douala, where pickpockets roam the arrivals hall and police with canes warn against loitering, it was immediately apparent my speedy departure had left many issues untended. The hotel pick-up was late and as my driver made his way into the unlit backstreets he uttered the words I have learned to dread from Third World travel: “The hotel you booked is full but my brother has another one. I will take you there.â€
I insisted we go to the original destination but it turned out the driver was telling the truth.
Nonetheless, at 2am, I took stock and organised a “fixer†to take me to Yaounde, the capital, from where the plane carrying the Australian miners had departed.
Conflict zones and harsh Âplaces such as Iraq, Papua New Guinea and East Timor had taught me the importance of paying for local knowledge and support. Unfortunately my Douala chauffeur cum fixer turned out to be a dud because when things realÂly got hot he was missing in action.
It was about a six-hour drive from Douala to Yaounde, past the impressive high-voltage power pylons being built by gangs of Chinese labourers who lived in compounds. Along the way I checked progress of the search for the missing plan
But here I was, white walls closing in, under arrest in a subterranean interrogation room at Yaounde airport where a thin man with a crisp manner was stating more than asking “you are a spyâ€.
It had been a long journey that started in winter-chilled Sydney and was headed for the steamy, thick jungles of the Congo.
A plane was missing, presumed crashed, while carrying the full board of directors of small Australian mining company Sundance Resources, which included one of the nation’s wealthiest businessmen, Ken Talbot.
At morning news conference we had discussed sending London correspondent Peter Wilson to cover the story but he could not go. Having been to West Africa before to investigate the voodoo healers of Benin and Togo, I was a natural choice as replacement. Unlike others in the newsroom, I could pass the threshold test for entry to Cameroon — a current yellow fever certificate.
So, after successfully arranging an expedited visa from the private house in Hornsby, I was airborne, business class, via Dubai within a matter of hours.
But on arrival in the port city of Douala, where pickpockets roam the arrivals hall and police with canes warn against loitering, it was immediately apparent my speedy departure had left many issues untended. The hotel pick-up was late and as my driver made his way into the unlit backstreets he uttered the words I have learned to dread from Third World travel: “The hotel you booked is full but my brother has another one. I will take you there.â€
I insisted we go to the original destination but it turned out the driver was telling the truth.
Nonetheless, at 2am, I took stock and organised a “fixer†to take me to Yaounde, the capital, from where the plane carrying the Australian miners had departed.
Conflict zones and harsh Âplaces such as Iraq, Papua New Guinea and East Timor had taught me the importance of paying for local knowledge and support. Unfortunately my Douala chauffeur cum fixer turned out to be a dud because when things realÂly got hot he was missing in action.
It was about a six-hour drive from Douala to Yaounde, past the impressive high-voltage power pylons being built by gangs of Chinese labourers who lived in compounds. Along the way I checked progress of the search for the missing plan
