He treated us younger Marines less
as “officer to enlisted” and more as “older brother to younger brothers.” Ken’s own brother Mike had, he told us, been assigned to the Marine Barracks in London.
Through his military career, Ken seemed to have kept one step
ahead of the bad shit. He was stationed outside
of Saigon and traversed the combat zones of Vietnam as a classified courier
from 1972 to 1975. He got out shortly before
Saigon fell in April of ‘75.
After a stint in Dublin, Ken was promoted from staff sergeant to chief warrant officer. He was assigned to Yaoundé in 1981. Jon Wertjes and I showed up a year later.
At our weekly TGIF at the Marine House, Ken was always the first to show up and start drinking with us, and he was the last to leave. He watched
out for us. Where our regulations prohibited us
from having ladies in our rooms at the Marine House, Ken had a standing offer
to let us use the spare room at his place. Soft rack. Basement level. Private door. His only request: “Keep the noise
down, will you? Linda and the boys are
sleeping upstairs.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In his Washington Post travel log, Christopher Vourlias described Yaoundé as a green and hilly city. It was
that, along with rust-colored dirt and dust that covered everything. Twice a
year, you had to throw out your white tee-shirts, skivvies, and socks. No amount of bleach could get that iron-laden
red dust out of your tightee-whites.
Despite the country research we’d done prior to leaving MSG battalion, I was surprised at the robustness of the Cameroonian people. I half expected a city full of scrawny
nomads, naked children with bloated bellies and navels the size of figs.
Rather, these people were strong and well-built. They were physically
impressive. I commented on the
muscularity of the women’s calves and thighs. “That’s what walking all these hills’ll do for you,” Cpl. Wood said.
There was food everywhere. On the streets, in the markets, in the cafes. Ken introduced us to a sidewalk bistro
that ended up being our go-to place to eat. The proprietor would wheel a big glass oven onto the sidewalk
at mid-afternoon, with rows of gas burners under a half dozen rotisserie spits. They’d load the spits with 25 fat
pullets and set them to roasting, turning slowly until that roast-chicken aroma filled the street.
The smells of roast bird melded with the rank bite of French and Russian
cigarettes, a waft of sewer or jungle rot, the smoky aroma of other foods
cooking somewhere on the street – fried plantains or roast peanuts or eggs
on crusty baguettes. You'd hear the boisterous voices of Cameroonians speaking in English or
French, in Ubangi or Bantu. The rhythmic
pounding of afro-pop blared from the windows of passing taxis.
We'd meet Ken at the bistro with our personal bottles of
barbecue sauce, strap on the feed bag, and work our way through a table full of
roasted barbecue hen and steak frites. Regardless of sauce or seasoning, the sights and sounds and smells lent an exotic taste to the bird. This was not roast chicken from your grandma’s kitchen.
We washed it all down iced bottles of 33 or Castel or Tuborg or San Miguel. Or some of each.
We washed it all down iced bottles of 33 or Castel or Tuborg or San Miguel. Or some of each.
(To be continued...)
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