Free In the Danger Zone by Stefan Gates Page B

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