Respecting the Rangs

It's not often in Africa you find a perfectly orderly line.

Instead of a line, a sort of casual chaos tends to prevail, people making their business and needs known to one another well enough, with mob scenes standard behavior for any item or service of percieved limited quantity. (But of course that's hardly different than the States. We call it Black Friday for a reason.) Smushed in between both Congos, the Central African Republic of Excitement, and the joy that is Nigeria, duck-shaped Cameroon doesn't seem to necessitate its own standard of behavior.. but perhaps it is due to that unfortunate placement that the country has chosen to distinguish itself from the rest of the continent. For Africa-accustomed travellers beware: Cameroon is an orderly place.

The numerous derailments whch plague the northbound Ngounderé train also wreck havoc on its ticketing and reservation office hours (as CamRail waits for the train to actually show before ticketing it), but once they do open for business they do not mess around. Customers wait in line in an interesting chair version of the normal queue, with four neat rows of eight chairs each upon which hopeful travellers play musical chairs for half an hour or so. A sign invites everyone to "RESPECTER LES RANGS", and indeed they do - upon our arrival we were immediately directed by others waiting exactly which chairs we should claim, and when to vacate them for better ones.

Well, I respected the rangs alright, and dutifully shifted myself along one seat behind David every minute or so, but at the end of the third row I just got lazy and let a space open up between the two of us. The room was quiet and orderly, it was nine in the morning, I was tired; I figured at the end of another minute I'd move up two seats to sit in the fourth row next to David.

Oh ho, the fool that f's with Cameroonian order. As it happened, a newcomer wandered over to my side of the room and, seeing the empty seat, took it.

I wasn't in the least perturbed; since the chair system was fairly self-explanatory and apparently well-known, I figurd he was just resting and didn't begrudge him a chair. Even if he did try to bump along in his new place, sandwiched bizarrely between two white people travelling together, when David got to the ticket window I would obviously get up too to buy our tickts. So I said nothing.

Others behind me, however, instantly noticed the abnormality and rose up with one voice to invite the man to take his proper place in the last chair at the end of the line. He got up immediately with a sheepish "Oh, er, OOPS" expression that betrayed he had indeed been hoping to cut in unnoticed. Abashed, he resat himself right away, I was bid to bump over properly, and everyone bumped along one behind me. Pas de problème.

All was not well that ended well, however, and pretty soon the quiet debate taking place in line behind me grew noisy and vigorous for me to overhear. I was stunned to realize that they were, in fact, fighting about me, and pronptly devoted my full attention to following the argument. Several men were berating me soundly for single-handedly screwing up the orderly chair-queue by not using it properly; a lone woman took up my defense, protesting that the man must have known he would be cutting and had done it on purpose. If I had to guess, I would say the argument probably grew out of her making a nasty comment about the would-be line jumper, and her neighbors defending his ignorance. She made up for her lack of supporters, as people often do, with the energy of her attack, and I was rather glad she was on my side - if I was a topic upon which sides were to be taken.

The argument grew to such a volume, with my nationality (English) now entering into the fray as a mitigating (or further damning) factor, that I began to feel guilty for having caused such a battle, and embarassed by my secret comprehension of it. Twisting around in my chair (for I was by now in the next row), I addressed the men who opposed me and apologized very sincerely and formally for having disturbed the system. I excused myself as being just a bit tired, and therefore slow to move. The men were mollified and accepted my apology as valid; the woman seized upon my excuse ("There, you see? She was just tired!") and claimed victory. The fight settled back down to an uneasy quiet, further conversation made awkward by the now obvious fact that I understood them. I turned back around in my chair, still bewildered to be called to task so after four months of Africa.

I was naïve to believe one apology would resolve the issue, though - it was only simmering, and seconds later I heard them quietly start back up right where they'd left off. The debate was far more interesting and important than anything else going on - with such orderly queueing, what else is one supposed to do? - and only four chairs away I struggled with an ill-timed fit of the giggles. It didn't matter if I did laugh, anyway: despite being the cause of the argument, I really was, as David said, truly irrelevant to it.

I suspect the match continued for some time after David and I left, which thankfully was not much later.

We were indeed the only fools not to realize how serious queueing is. A friendly soldier hanging about downstairs, after directing David to the loo, make small talk with me by asking about our travel plans. On learning we'd just bought tickets, a bit of a gleam crept into his eye and he very sternly asked me, "So, did you truly respect the rangs??"

I laughed. And lied. "Oh but of course, sir, I respected the rangs very well!"