Yaoundé

Yaoundé is the capital that climbs: seven hills — the count is affectionate rather than audited — stacked with ministries, embassies and mango trees at 750 meters, which spares it the coast's steam and gives it evenings that ask for a light jacket. Douala does the commerce; Yaoundé keeps the paperwork and the calm, and from Mont Fébé at sunset the whole green quilt of it rolls out to the horizon.

The traveller fills a day or two easily: the strange and wonderful triangular cathedral of Notre-Dame des Victoires; the national museum in the old presidential palace; the Mvog-Betsi hills for the view; Mokolo and the Marché Central for fabric and everything else; and at night the essential lesson — bikutsi, the driving 6/8 of the Beti hills, was born here, and the cabarets of Mvog-Ada teach it after the brochette stands close. Ndolé and grilled fish do the rest.

The Guide's practical counsel: the yellow shared taxis are the city's bloodstream — agree the fare before boarding and enjoy the choreography —; the hills mean real walking, so pace the afternoon; cash small and often; and for journeys beyond the capital, the far northwest and southwest speak with their own weather these years — the prudent traveller checks current counsel for those regions, while Yaoundé itself keeps its administrative calm.