Walking in Yaounde
Yaounde welcomed me with open arms.
I walked the streets of its old town, the slums, the markets, documenting everyday life, the colors, the energy of the two and a half million inhabitants that keep the city alive day and night.
Suspected of terrorism and stopped by police, I was taken to the gendarmerie for seven hours of questioning because of my street photography but not before I had the chance to take over a thousand photos of Yaounde.
I don't speak French. I understand it well enough to get by but this was never a problem. When people really want to communicate they find ways to be understood.
In Moloko , an old quarter of the city, people took to calling me "Le Blanc", Whitey, where I found myself drinking Matango and eating chicken with spiced banana.
I spent a day with a taximotor gang.
Ironically, I drank beer with the police who arrested me, and even met the King of Foumban! Fate twists thusly in Yaounde.
I was lucky to be accompanied by Assan and Mustafa, my brothers in law, who shephearded me into the bowels of the city where children play in the gutter and mothers hang their laundry in the street, just as they did in Italy when I was a child.
I found Yaounde very photogenic. The colors of the city lend themselves to photography, each wall becoming the perfect background to my rich documentary.
After three weeks spent in Yaounde, I came home bringing the memories, the colors, of Africa. The warmth of the people, the childrens' eyes. The rich taste of couscous when you arrive home ravished. The fresh morning air, and the red color of the roads that have stained forever my shoes and my heart.