Leaving Dowayoland is as protracted an undertaking as getting there. This time, fortunately, I was a mere tourist, not a searcher after knowledge -- as far as my papers were concerned. Nevertheless, a protracted bout of leave-taking was called for, a judicious distribution of largesse, an expressing of thanks. Habits of the bush had to be shed. Habits of the city resumed. As the only English-speaker for miles, I had quite naturally dropped into the habit of talking to myself. Talking to oneself or 'thinking out loud', as I determinedly called it, carries for Dowayos none of the connotations of wild-eyed lunacy that it has in our own culture. It is as normal as singing to oneself, which is something Dowayos do all the time. It is a hard habit to drop. Especially in one who had had to cut his own hair without a mirror and has green, fetid teeth it can be initially disconcerting.

Resumption of city ways was accompanied by a most inopportune bout of malaria, something I doggedly maintained to be due to the many bites received at the German's anti-malaria film. Fortunately, I was recovered in time to make my last public appearance in Dowayoland at the ceremony to circumcise a dead man's bow.

The circumcision-of-the-bow ceremony is just one of the complex rites by which a man moves from being a dead individual to being an ancestor available for reincarnation. His most intimate and therefore his most dangerous personal possessions must be disposed of. Knife, sleeping-mat and penis-sheath must be buried in the bush. His bow must be circumcised by a clown and hung behind the house where the skulls of dead men are kept. Only a man's 'brothers of circumcision', those who were cut with him, can be associated with this operation. The whole affair is conducted with the jokey good humour that characterizes all-male events. Women must shut themselves up in their huts when the special flutes for the ceremony are heard.

Anthropology is a subject that many people move on to from other disciplines. It sets its bounds extremely wide. This is why nothing one has learnt is ever wasted for an anthropologist, be it never so impractical a skill or never so recondite an ability. As a child, on my first day at school, I was made to listen with my classmates to one of the BBC programmes for children. At that time, it was held to be important and healthy for children to dance. Young minds were to be encouraged to express themselves in motion. Mind and body would move in perfect harmony to the rhythm of pure melodies. Our task on that particular day was to be trees. 'Wave your branches, children,' we were instructed in fluting tones. 'Show how the wind rustles your leaves.' Dutifully, we waved our arms over our heads and made whooshing noises.

Little had I thought, when devoting myself to the comparative study of culture, that this would constitute a valuable experience -- but so it was.

Sometimes there is no suitable Fulani-thorn tree available and the tree must be played by a human actor. This part was assigned to me; little did the Dowayos realize that I had deep wells of previous experience as a tree on which I could draw. The waving of the arms went down very well. Views on my version of rustling were more divided. However, in the quite general good humour of the rite it was accepted as a fine innovation. Since the tree-actor is permitted only a penis-sheath as garb and has to wear certain branches of the unpleasantly thorny Fulani tree as a concession to naturalism, it is perhaps not a popular role.

The ritual involves the men running around naked except for penis sheaths and ends in a little play that all men can witness. It deals with the origin of circumcision in the beating to death of an old Fulani woman. She is played by one of the men, old, decrepit, excessively cantankerous and timorous. He dresses up in the bulky leaves favoured by old ladies and makes great play with bending down in such a way as to expose his genitals. This is hugely enjoyed by all men present and evokes great hoots of laughter. The highpoint involves the ambush of the woman by men who crouch down with sticks. She waddles tremulously between them several times, dragging a long tail of leaves behind her. Finally, they leap up and chop off the tail with their sticks. All this has to happen under a special tree called 'Fulani thorn'.

All the men sat around afterwards smoking and drinking warm beer. There was some discussion as to who should spit on the widows of the dead man, so releasing them for remarriage. Matthieu and I were busy packing up. A sorcerer dropped round with a handful of aromatic leaves. I had been in contact with death, I must not forget to wash my hands with these leaves. Also I should join in the spitting on the widows, to show that I had no grudge against the man whose ceremonies we had performed. It all seemed terribly normal. Afterwards, we took off our penis-sheaths like undergraduates taking off their gowns, relaxing after the weekly tutorial. Tonight, there would be drinking, and dancing stories would be told. Matthieu and I headed for the mission as a halfway house on the road back to a separate normality. No one seemed particularly interested in our departure. There were no tears or elaborate farewells. Zuuldibo sought to raise the unresolved problem of his umbrella, some money was left to pay for the new roof of my hut. When would I return? Only God knew.

As in various other institutions of learning, many of the pupils had assumed false identities. Rules concerning the number of times a single pupil may take the same examination are sidestepped by borrowing the identity of a younger brother or sister. Some of the putative sixteen-year olds in the class had grey hair. A disconcerting number had the same names. The problem was exacerbated by twins. Having sought the term for 'twins' in a French-English dictionary they had discovered that they were 'binoculars' and referred to themselves by this term. 'This is my sister, Naomi, patron. We are binoculars.'

It was perhaps appropriate to my present halfway position that I should end up standing in for the local schoolteacher, teaching English while he recovered from one of the vague agues that afflict everyone in the area. In the West, from time to time, one feels rotten, with a fever, headache, general sense of mortality. We term it 'flu', take two aspirins, go to bed and expect to be well in a couple of days. In West Africa, the same symptoms are diagnosed as 'a little malaria'. The treatment and prognosis are much the same, and one looks no further for cause or effect.

A sound rule of thumb seems to be that when the alien culture you are studying begins to look normal, it is time to go home.

After some days, the schoolmaster returned to what must have been the considerable relief of his pupils. I was free to move off and headed with sinking heart for the town of Duala.

I taught them the rudiments of the English tongue from a book that dwelt lengthily on such phenomena as Ascot racing, Bonfire Night and the ever-incomprehensible Yorkshire pudding. This they internalized as 'chaud-froid pudding'. In a splendidly medieval collapsing of microcosm and macrocosm one of my pupils had declared, 'The blood makes twenty-four revolutions of the body per day.' Yet another wrote me an essay containing the surprising intelligence that, 'People get headaches standing in the sun because they produce too much oxygen.'

Matthieu conceived the notion that he too should learn English. The pedagogic urge dies hard even in one who has spent several years in university teaching. I acquired a somewhat outmoded phrase book and presented it to Matthieu who otherwise had nothing to do. Henceforth, he would screw up his face into an expression of intense concentration and greet me with, 'Bonjour, patron. Are you of good cheer?'

The aggressive maître d'hôtel had flourished and prospered in the meanwhile. His smooth, fat face shone with self-satisfaction. With cowed relief, I noted that he did not recognize me as Humphrey's ally. He now seemed completely to dominate the hotel with his autocratic rule. The manager, a furtive Frenchman, huddled in his office as the maître d'hôtel stalked the lobby. By slow degrees, he had insinuated relatives into strategic positions on the staff. None of them spoke any language of wide circulation with the result that guests were unable to make themselves understood. Only the maître d'hôtel could give them orders. This arrangement extended to the waiters in the bar. American tourists would give long complicated orders involving recondite cocktails compounded of rare liqueurs. The waiters would bow gracefully and smile, returning after considerable delay with random assortments of orange squash and beer, which would be set down, regardless of complaint, on the table. By some rule of the house, there was always one drink for each customer. The new arrangement had not passed unnoticed. A group of bored and jaded Frenchmen had seized on it as a source of diversion and were laying bets on the relative number of orange squashes and beers in the next order.

The place had not grown fairer in the interim. Sloth triumphed over enterprise and I found myself bound for the same hotel I had used before, half in the expectation of meeting Humphrey.

There was no sign of Humphrey. That night I sought the Vietnamese restaurant in vain, walking the length and breadth of the town. In a bar, loud with neon, a tourist sat across from a man whom I recognized, despite his mirrored sunglasses, as Precocious. The tourist was raucously relating an adventure from his hotel. 'So there was this knocking on the door at one in the morning. Gave me a start. Then this voice shouted, "Hey, have you got a woman in there?" I shouted back that I hadn't. There was this crash. The door flew open and someone threw a woman in.' He rocked with laughter.

Precocious looked impassive. He could see no cause for humour. The man tried to explain. 'No, you see. When they asked if I had a woman in there, I thought…'

'No, I was just explaining this story…'

'I take you to fine womans.'

Precocious brightened. 'Womans? You want womans?'

The journey to the airport the next day took hours. The President was making some sort of a public visit to the town which meant that whole areas had been sealed off. Many roads were closed. I huddled uncomfortably in the back of the taxi, carrying a large Dowayo water-pot on my knees like a yokel, waiting for the inevitable attempt to introduce further passengers. The driver took exotic detours to avoid barriers. Some seemed to involve driving through people's gardens. We came to a halt at an intersection. A policeman stopped us sternly. 'Stop. Here comes Monsieur le Président.' An expectant hush settled over the crowd. Soldiers and police unbuttoned their holsters. I leaned out of the window. For a second, there was no movement. Then, with infinite slowness, a baffled old man rounded the corner on a rusty bicycle. Intimidated by the attention of so many people, by so many gaping mouths, he bent low over the handlebars and pedalled furiously. Several large policemen leapt on him and dragged him away to the cheers of the crowd. The sergeant in front noticed my grin. 'Stop laughing!' he screamed. 'You are mocking the President.' The driver gave a nervous glance at me and shot off at speed. It appeared that this was a reflex he had developed in the course of many years' dealings with the law. He unloaded me without further incident at the airport, cheerfully pocketing my grateful tip. Furtively clutching my pot, I lurked in a dark corner until the reservations desk opened, hoping that I looked inconspicuous. This, however, was Duala. I stood about as much chance as a non-swimmer in a pool of sharks. A small sharp-looking man homed in on me, looking me over appraisingly, watchful eyes noting -- no doubt -- the sweat on the forehead, the tight clasping of the pot. 'Paris flight?' he asked. I nodded. He executed one of those sharp intakes of breath beloved of garage mechanics as they survey the damage. It appeared that the flight was very heavily booked. Indeed all the seats had been sold several times. Fortunately, however, he had a friend who worked at the desk. For ten thousand francs he could get me a seat on that plane… Outraged, I sent him packing. Did he not know I had been here before? I was wise to such tricks. He shrugged and moved away. Later I saw a worried German passing him notes.

I left them to it and traipsed back to the hotel.

The plane was, quite simply, empty. The others at the desk were embarked on a charter flight. The six or seven of us who shared the plane until its first stop were almost lost inside. There was even a spare seat for the pot that haunted me, albatross-like. It came as some comfort to learn that I was not the only one who had been bilked, two of my fellow passengers admitting to at least the same amount of credulity as myself.

As more and more people arrived, as more and more furtively passed over money, confidence began to wane. I totted up how much it would cost to spend another night in Duala. Perhaps at this very moment I was being sought by the entire Duala police force for mocking the President. I would be easy to find. A white man with green teeth and a pot. Perhaps I should abandon the pot and keep my mouth closed. Paranoia set in. After another half-hour. I was ready to do a deal. I sought out the tout. We haggled bitterly. I declared that I only had two thousand francs. I offered him the pot. Finally we agreed and he sidled over to the man at the desk. There was a deal of whispering and shaking of heads. Hands passed briefly under the counter. My ticket was stamped. I was on! I looked at all the others queuing before the desk, innocently unaware that they would never see the inside of the plane. I felt sorry for them, as I lugged my pot past the immigration desk.

The air-conditioned tedium of the flight seemed like a good time to draft a report to the Research Council. I dug down in my bag for the appropriate form and found it nestling under the health-insurance policy that forbade me to go hang-gliding or to use power-assisted woodworking tools while among the Dowayos.

The only comfort was to be derived from one even more gullible. He had purchased what was clearly a Precocious-type pendant in a bar, being assured that it was 'eight thousand years old'. The canny salesman had warned the traveller that this piece was so rare, so valuable, of such cultural importance to the Cameroonian nation, that it could not be legally exported. However, fortunately, this man had a friend in the customs service at the airport. For a further sum, it could be arranged that the man would be able to get it on the plane…

Writing a report is a dangerous thing. Once written it becomes the fieldwork and takes on a life of its own. It becomes impossible to think of what one has done in any other way. The experience is packaged and sealed. Possibly, I should simply not mention the non-occurrence of circumcision. It was hard to believe that anyone would notice. I could simply dwell on things I had done. A neat summation of the work with Dowayo healers would imply that this is what I had deliberately set out to do. Research bodies normally assume that the world moves in straight lines according to the programme laid down by the researcher. The ethnographer is omniscient and smoothly competent, a well-oiled investigative machine. All anthropologists, however, know that research proposals are works of fiction. They almost all boil down to one simple request. 'I think such and such might be interesting. Can I have some money to go and look?'

A trip terminated always brings a sense of sadness at the passing of time, the rupturing of relationships. Combined with this is a very basic sense of relief at returning, relatively unscathed, to a world that is secure and predictable, where plagues of black, hairy caterpillars do not overturn the cosmic timetable. It leads too to fresh ways of seeing ourselves -- which is perhaps why anthropology is ultimately a selfish discipline.

I put away the form and waited for inspiration to strike.

As a contrast to the steamy delights of Duala, I took a seat in an extremely chic pavement café by the Paris Opéra, passing the time by watching the passers-by. An extremely ragged tramp appeared and sized up the clientele, much as the airport tout had appraised travellers. Indeed, the resemblance was made closer by the fact that this man was also black. He turned to the seated crowd and tapped his nose in the conventional French gesture of conspiratorial knowledge and drew from inside his coat a large, plastic rat.

The fact that so many return to rather uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous parts of the world is eloquent testimony to both the shortness of the human memory and the weakness of common sense in the face of sheer curiosity.

Old colonial ties mean that most Cameroonian flights pass via Paris. I stopped off for a few hours to change planes, depositing my water-jar gratefully in a left-luggage locker.

After a dozen or so assaults, he passed round the tables with his hat and collected a fair sum of money. The label showed it to have been made in Cameroon. To a Dowayo all this would be a powerful omen of something. It served at least as a recall to duty. I drew out the report form I had to send to the Research Council and, taking a deep breath, began, 'Owing to an extraordinary plague of black, hairy caterpillars…'

Whenever any young lady of particularly glacial elegance passed by, and in that location they were legion, he would propel the rat by its tail so that it appeared alive and seemed indeed to leap upon the bosom of the victim. The results were most gratifying. Some screamed, some fled, some beat him about the head with their handbags.