Elevator

We are at a Ministry building in Yaounde, Cameroon. There is an event taking place in the front, so we enter at an odd entrance in the back. Dim hallways with old carpets are filled with piles, I mean piles, of paper folders reaching the ceiling. There is old furniture and boxes littering the hallways. Some ceiling panels are missing and wires hang in various locations like Christmas lights. We have a meeting on the 17th floor, so we head to the elevator.

In the hallway we wait with dozens of people for the elevator. Now, personal space is something Americans cherish. Here, in Central Africa, forget it. Getting onto a bus, plane, elevator, you name it, there is no personal space. You push, shove, press and find yourself pressed against strangers in a way you would get yelled at for in the USA. Meanwhile, if you try to create you own space, fine, go for it, but you will never get on that bus, plane or elevator in this case.

The elevator doors open, and my colleague yells over the heads of many, get in! The four of us shove and push our way in. There are at least 25 of us now squeezed into this tin box. It is hot, like 90 degrees hot. Little air. Dingy. I wonder if the elevator is even going to be able to move from the ground given the weight. It does. Needless to say, not a high speed elevator, we creep our way up. Sweat is dripping down my back. A woman in a beautifully printed dress is pressed on my one side and a man in a grey suit on the other. Power outages are quite common in Cameroon and most certainly, this place does not have a generator. As we crawl to the 17th floor I pray to whoever is listening that the power does not go out and leave us stuck in the elevator.