December 25 2013

As  a traveler I am consistently challenged by my own limitations. Whether it be tolerances or accommodations my underlying internal structure has been determined  by the "slings and arrows" of my conditioning, misfortunate or otherwise. The stimulation of new and foreign, unfamiliar and extraordinary is certainly part of the draw. And yet, perhaps understandably, there is occasionally something missing. Especially on days like today.
Christmas has been a challenging one for years now. A number of conflicting contradictory messages have created confusion and occasional despair.
Beyond the local relevance of this "holiday" what I am missing most is friends, family, my tribe. Even nomads have consistent community. As I understand it, family or tribe is essential for the human social animal to thrive and succeed. Here, now, my community is ephemeral, if it exists at all.  I spend 9 months in this place or that place. I can find a few friends in most situations, we foster connection, but ultimately I am always just passing through.
  Thankfully the internet facilitates friendships and relationships no matter where we are (given access) but nothing beats face to face human contact. I am heartened by my personal correspondence and my affiliation to the ManKind Project (MKP) community.  I wouldn't be where I am now without the leadership, growth and maturity I gained there.
For this seasonal celebration, the gathering of friends and relatives trumps the gift giving (and receiving). The artificial trees, shiny decorations and annual church attendance have little meaning for me. I have yet to see any awareness or celebration of celestial events like the solstice. The daily passage of the sun is relatively consistent. The moon makes it's way from full to new,  the sun rising within a few degrees at the same time everyday. Those earth based, sky focused rituals or ceremonies have likely been stamped out or swallowed up by another set of parameters determining religious belief. The people here seem to have embraced the missionaries message. My beliefs are more aligned with the ancient indigenous than the introduced.
I have created this reality for myself, journeying beyond the frontiers of the familiar both physically and in spirit. The like minded, the sympathetic are with me in my heart. Although my tribe is on Vancouver Island, my family in Canada and, within MKP, a few honourary members throughout the planet,  I am grateful for all my connections, where ever I find community, as they are the very best gift one could receive. Ultimately all the belief systems, differences and arbitrary divisions are irrelevant. The message is, and always has been, about connecting at the heart level.

December 13  2013
I'm sitting here in Bamenda on a cool a grey morning looking out over the town below. The market as usual is busy with taxi's and motorcycles dropping off and picking up people loaded down with packages of things to sell or what they've purchased. From up here it's like watching an anthill peppered with tiny umbrellas, an occasional bus slowly working its way along the edge. Directly below us are houses, compounds mostly made of mud brick covered over with corrugated tin roofs. You can imagine what it sounds like when it rains. These buildings descend like steps, intermingled with bananas, papaya and mango trees down to the market. The sounds of people talking, yelling, banging away on metal, an occasional dog barking, children crying, laughing and playing mingled with loudly broadcast music and the ubiquitous honking goes on into the night daily.
Beyond the market the terrain rises slightly covered with concrete block buildings,  some apartments, but mostly business's. We walk that way frequently going downtown. One whole section is dedicated to car repair, parts and "service" the rusting hulks of cannibalized taxi's, vans and small trucks willy nilly lining the "roads". When it's been raining it is barely navigable on foot, rutted and potholed it turns into a quagmire with all the metal, broken glass and spilled oil unevenly distributed for blocks. The paved street two roads over to the right is like a racetrack, the taxis and motorcycles weaving up and down as the pedestrians squeeze between the parked cars and the live traffic, a constant stream of humanity walking back and forth with goods for sale on their heads, or delivering used car parts, business men in suits and women with babies.
 Not many tourists here, it's almost worth remarking when we see one. Ironically they seldom acknowledge me, some kind of denial that there could be anyone else having this unique experience, I know I've felt it myself, and read about others experiencing and describing it... Read any Pico Iyer? He nails a lot of the traveler's angst and dismay.
Beyond that commercial area up to the left a ridge with more apartment buildings rising up it's slopes and some open land at the top, likely a religious school or church grounds. Almost every educational facility here has Presbyterian or Catholic affiliations. And they seem to own most of the green space, beyond the individual garden plot everyone has to grow their sweet potato, corn or assorted yam varieties.


Behind all that there is more, and more of the same to the north and west but it's framed by cliffs that line the south east edge, houses and compounds climbing to the vertical limits.  We climbed up those slopes a few weeks ago to view one of the waterfalls.

I find it incredible how people can manage to capitalize on the slightest amount of barely level ground and punch in a garden. Although the gardens themselves are not visible from here, I recently saw fires and smoke so assume they are doing slash and burn as we approach the dry season.
Up top in Upstation, the government officials, high rollers and gentry of the place have massive properties with even more massive "houses" among the very old mansions built during and since the Germans were here 100 years ago. Apparently the view up there is spectacular. It was hard to see through all the hedges, walls and fences erected around their properties.
The view from here is pretty amazing, the mountains beyond blocking the sun's rise until 6:45, later lit up as it sets. It's a constantly changing panorama when the smog/mist clears.

I've been reading an old travel guide; this place has tripled in size in ten years; you can well imagine the infrastructure  challenges. The folks next door down below have an outside shower and biffy and put out buckets to collect their water or walk a few blocks to a seemingly public "tap" which I first thought was a leaking waterline. It may be, but recently some enterprising individual poured concrete around the outlet and installed a pipe. Everyday there are kids surrounding it waiting with their used plastic "jerry cans" to fill up and haul off.
The dry time is coming, when the Harmattan blows sand and dust off the Sahara, blocking the sun for days at a time and dropping the temperature.
Not enough for a white Christmas though.

At home in Bamenda

We've been here in Cameroon for 4 months this week.

Housed in the Bamenda guest house of Better World Cameroon, an apartment on the 4th floor above a nightclub at one end and a Pentecostal congregation directly below us. Needless to say there have been some noise issues. Unfortunately, especially bad Sunday mornings when I've been tempted to monkey wrench the large speaker outside the hall below us. Suffice it to say voice lessons would be recommended. Our room turned out to be our host Joshua's. He was gone for a good part of the time, but when he returned we felt it was time to give him back his space.
A search around found some affordable "caves" or moldy walls or way out in the country... I was all for in the country, but practically speaking this time it's an urban(e) experience. Elke found us an airy, light filled apartment at the top of a hill, a 2 minute walk from the office overlooking the food market with a great view to the....? North-east across the town to the cliffs surrounding.
The sun rises over the mountains about 6:45 every morning. Works it's way overhead, shining all day on the south east wall of the building, making for radiant heat into the night. Luckily the bedroom is two rooms away. (Spare room for visitors!) The bathroom though shares that wall, so occasionally, if planned well, I can have a briefly warm shower. This apartment was meant to be an office. We had an extra tap installed next to the toilet to fill buckets, since there is no kitchen sink. Our friends in Better World loaned us some furniture and I ordered a custom made chair of cane with a shorter matching one for Elke. Mine feels like a throne.

A local carpenter came to drill holes in the concrete for hooks and installed a  2 legged table on  a window sill for a counter. He then made us two screens for the windows. We bought some cane "shelving units" for the kitchen and bedroom along with baskets for the miscellaneous.

We splurged on a raffia bed (actually it was cheaper than one of the heavy, overly embellished wooden ones displayed everywhere at the edge of the road) made to order by a local Bafut craftsman. Light, attractive, simple and possibly shippable (!)
The little touches of decoration make such a difference: raffia mats on the floor, fabric hung on the wall to diffuse the echo, locally produced lampshades from gourd and thin iron and (no surprise) more baskets.

We borrowed a "wardrobe" from Joshua (that was a picture, us carrying it up the road  with our backpacks full), but it's really just a frame. Works for hanging our shirts, suits and dresses with the suitcases on top to keep off the dust.
Downstairs an internet provider ran a wire for us and now we have a great connection (we take turns)...when they are closed.
And we have a balcony, now with basil, parsley, tomato, lettuce and the "peaceplant" Dracaena in pots.
We're home for the duration.

Sachsen to Niedersachsen

How easy it is to become ensconced somewhere. Some creature comforts, steady access to a seemly endless supply of cheese, meats and bread, not to mention beer and wine and I was ready to settle in. Sort of. Not speaking the language is a major liability and in spite of my dedicated efforts, online learning is not the same as conversation. Our situation began to crack at the seams when the little work there was, dried up.
 Miraculously or so it seemed at the time, we received an invitation to come support, teach and participate in an Eco Village Permaculture Work camp in Cameroon. I had to look in the atlas to find it, google informed  me it was French and English speaking with 200 local indigenous languages. In the Northwest region we will be visiting they speak English.
All that we'll deal with in due course. Wrenching ourselves out of the suite in Sachsen we rented a car and spent most of the afternoon packing it and cleaning up, gracefully exiting south and west towards  the ancestral home of my mothers' people.
Amazingly we managed to get everything ( I thought we were traveling light?) into or onto the car. I had quickly thrown together a roof rack ... the bicycles would not fit inside.
The autobahn's are quite efficient even in the slow lane at 120kph so we allowed serendipity to determine our resting place that night, turning off onto a secondary road driving through potential National Park and deep forest till almost dark. We made a right, drove through an old stone gate and there it was, an ancient Monastery converted to prison and  a hotel beside. Slightly richer than we had planned for, we took a room above the entrance and fell asleep to the sounds of Italian tourists telling stories and laughing into the wee hours.



After a wander through the town of Erbrach and an extended visit with the hotel owner (she reduced our bill!) we were off, lunch included.
 After driving for an hour or so we were finally in the neighbourhood of my ancestors.

 I had a few place names which we investigated as only one can do sitting in a car, but unsurprisingly no traces remained. I did get a feeling for the place, as much as one can 400 years later.

We visited a nearby castle where stopping in the weeds at the side of the road I inadvertently picked up a hitchhiker.

Staying as long as possible on the secondary roads we eventually joined the autobahn, into Frankfurt and the challenge of parking with two tempting bicycles on the roof. Reassembled they spent the night in the backyard locked.
I woke in the morning scratching like crazy from a bite on my leg. Only later did we figure out, I'd picked up a tick....Lyme disease...
Then following the Rhine to our next stop Cologne or as they say it in Deutschland, Köln. An amazing city with some interesting architecture, less worry about the bikes, we locked them to the car and spent two nights in the company of good friends.
 Of course we visited the Cathedral, had beer in typical (small) glasses and took the gondola across the river and autobahn.
 I couldn't help noticing as we drifted over the once Roman spa now modernized a few unclothed sunbathers below.

 I love how bicycles are an important mode of transport here, dedicated bike paths beside the sidewalks, everywhere.
 Münster especially, thousands of bicyclists nearly dominating the traffic scene.

In Bonn we reconnected with a long time friend of Elke's, walked along beside the river and had the universal male ritual of bonding over BBQ in the backyard.
Driving can be hypnotic,  but relentless on the autobahn, the lines of trucks on the outside, the fast drivers on the inside and us weaving back and forth between the three lanes between. So back onto a secondary and past the historic home of my partner, the family name prominently displayed. Her school still stands, although memory made it hard to locate at first.  A short visit with an auntie and a hotel in Bremen for the night.
 Morning found us wandering through her old haunts, reconditioned and spiffed up for the tourist trade. Not far away we stopped at her younger sister's, where we stored the bikes. A late afternoon run into Ahrensburg and then Hamburg, the final stop for the car, returning it in the morning with 10 minutes to spare.
It's amazing to have all that responsibility, and then to let it go.....
Our resting place at the moment a flat landscape excellent for bicycle riding to the trains... to Stade or Hamburg, or Cuxhaven.

Ongoing aging

Recently my  brother Charles wrote a blog about aging.
His was in terms of our survival as a society; the metaphoric parallel being a crumbling edifice of over extended credit and wasted energy squandering the last moments (resources) and possibilities in some mad rush for profit with no regard for consequences or tomorrow.
That is not my plan or strategy.  I  tripped and fell on the road last week, my knee and toes were scraped, the other knee twisted as I successfully held an empty beer bottle up and away from the pavement and breakage. Those bottles are precious here, no deposit unless you break one. Like me, luckily unbroken but used.
 I've been limping along with a cane back and forth to the office making the climb up and down the 4 flights to and from the apartment, my knee complaining on every push up or jar down until today when I declared enough! I need to rest.
Oh for the immortal feelings of youth! Those days of pushing through the pain trusting in my body's resilient self healing abilities.
I sure as hell don't feel old, or at least my mind doesn't . That word feel, somewhat limited by my 5 senses to the emotional physical. What is it that I sense? This experience of aging? Layers of events in time, some sweet, some bitter, sour and... salty? The perfumed memories of ecstasy,  of unbridled pleasure, the sharp taste (?) experience of fear, eruptions of anger and the shock of disgust. Each a moment in time past, layer upon layer stretching back beyond my actual recall.
I am in the here and now struggling with a desire to know my future (what a joke! we make it in the moment by the consequences of our actions). There will be forces beyond my influence that will shape what happens next. By my actions and thoughts in  this and every proceeding moment I determine my direction. I open my mind to possibilities and the opportunities appear. I make my choices and I age. My choice would be gracefully, in spite of the numerous challenges I've inherited or absorbed. I take care of myself now, little accommodations and indulgences, hesitations and allowances keep me  centered and secure, at least within my own mind.
My parents are aging. Does this process speed up as we approach our end? They have seemed old since I was young and now I am old too. Relatively of course, a mere blip in the earths history, my importance limited to a small circle, yet potentially significant beyond my understanding. We are all, each of us, part of a cycle that may go on and on depending on circumstance for longer than I can imagine.
So aging as I see it remains limited to what I experience directly, I have seen death, participated in creating life and recognize my limitations in at least a physical sense. My accumulated knowledge gives me some potential for wisdom, my experience has taught me the value of patience and restraint, the pleasures of companionship and community and  exposed me to the amazing diversity of life itself.
Where do I go from here? I continue on this path of service. Sharing, supporting, assisting, contributing and receiving, embracing humility, offering what I can to the processes that shape tomorrow.

Reflections and criticisms

After a week of "summer camp" I'm reflecting on the events and people. My impressions swirl around as I attempt to articulate my thoughts.
Chaos is what comes to mind first. A revolving door of individuals who may or may not be committed to the process.
 Hassles with taxis,  too many passengers and changing the fare on arrival.
Conversations in a cement room, the sounds echoing, the accent, pronunciation and speed of speech making it near impossible to understand anything.
Fish in almost every meal, often with plantain; boiled, a dry mealy, hard and starchy filler. It  does taste better than Ugali. I can only handle so much of it, although sometimes when ripe, it's sweet and not so mealy.
 We eat breakfast at home and often the evening meal; usually avocado and tomato with Laughing Cow process cheese, bread, then ground nut paste (peanut butter) for variety.
A lack of team or group consciousness, which manifests in chatting instead of working, interruptions and lack of listening  with very little personal responsibility apparent. Seemingly no interest or engagement in the bigger picture (is this my age?)
Gender role politics.. this seems like a taboo subject. The women are "assigned" a role and the males get waited on. Not exactly that cut and dried but subtly in place and everyone, while denying it, perpetuate it! Another example, women working and a male comes and takes over with some force usually without asking.
The almost constant honking and the kamikaze like behaviour of taxis and motorcycles. I refuse to ride on a motorcycle. They drive for the most part without any regard for anyone else.
Music blasting out of tiny establishments,  late into the night.
The bar/restaurant downstairs has no food until..? the music too loud to have a conversation, two tvs playing, competing in volume.
Very loud relentless "music" emanating from various "churches" both early in the morning into the night almost daily.
The disgusting filthy state of the watercourses.. this is beyond unacceptable, it threatens the health of everyone. Maybe the volume of garbage beside and around the dumpsters should imply more frequent pick up? But where do they take it all? It seems mostly compost-able and ....plastic.
No water in the morning.. not enough pressure up here on the fourth floor, so the dishes get done at night.. right? seems like a sensible idea...
Apparently sense, planning ahead and paying attention are in short supply with some folks. Again is this my age?
Oh well  ranting I mean raining again, washing all the trash downstream...  to somewhere else... How is that like my life? Or anyone elses?

Walking The Gauntlet

Every morning as the traffic increases with the light I wake up and begin my day writing something. We eat a light breakfast and descend the 4 flights to the lane and then out to the street.
The walk to the camp house takes us past a number of businesses; motorcycle repairs and parts dealers, building supplies, bars and the vendors spilling out of the market.  Mostly we need to walk in the street as the sidewalk, when there is one, is often blocked by parked cars, motorcycles being repaired and bags of cement along with vendors selling everything from doughnuts to avocados, cell time, boiled eggs and peanuts. Along with children and a few adults walking by, their wares displayed on trays and boxes carried hands free on their heads.
At the market there seems to be some kind of territorial agreement with the motorcyle taxis who wait parked on the sidewalk at one end, lined up , pushing off into the honking traffic when they have passengers.
We dodge around  a constant stream of staring people and when I'm not too intent on avoiding being hit by the traffic I'll say hello. Immediately the response is a smile and hello back. There are children everywhere, hanging about the skirts of the vendors shyly regarding us and thrilled or occasionally frightened when I say hello.
At the far end of the market where we turn to head down to the camp house are the taxis. The drivers accost us when we return for the trip out to Bafut and the Ndanifor Eco-Village site. Elke and I stand aside until a fare is determined and  then off we go.
As we leave Bamenda and the press of people and urbanity the road  slowly climbs past great gardens and plantations of banana and cassava. An occasional  church, bilingual school, building supplier and a hotel or two  We dip and then ascend through a cut into the hillside. Beside the road are piles of uniformly broken rock opposite excavations, collapsed  and newly started, piles of dirt and debris surrounding men sitting under shade cracking rock with hammers.
The temperature is pleasantly warm, cloudy with a threat of thunderstorm on the horizon when we arrive in Bafut. After driving the extremely bumpy, eroded and slippery red clay road it is welcome to walk along to the beginning of the gardens.

Summer Camp Begins

Elke and I are here in Cameroon to assist in running the BetterWorld Summer Camp.

 Day one and we revisit the schedule, posting on stickie notes each activity, re-arranging them to maximize our time on the land. Nothing like a visual aid to organize one's thoughts. The camp attendees drift in slowly over the next week, a few are in and out with other more compelling responsibilities that have them missing chunks of the program.
The camp's presentations and information sessions are being held in a ground floor apartment, in a higher end part of town, although it's hard to tell from the roads.
 The "campers" sleep there and we have our meals together. No furniture so Sonita brings some chairs from the office in a couple of taxis...

We introduce ourselves and spend some time determining what everyone has to offer, what they are expecting.
 An introduction to Council Circle, The Four Agreements and basic communication understandings get us going.


Our first work day at the farm, we all pile into  a taxi. Obviously the rates aren't enough because each time we are jammed in tight with more people than I deem safe. I finally say no when the driver has someone sharing his seat as well as the 5 people in the back and 3 on the front passenger seat of a Toyota Tercel, the standard taxi here.

On arrival our first exercise is observation.
Everyone finds a spot to draw their map from. I try to inventory all the trees I see from the edge of the cleared area. It really is too much. I'm unable to differentiate the different palms yet, along with a number of other unfamiliar trees  interspersed among the rows of corn and cassava all interplanted with beans, sweet potato...It is a big list. I try a different tack from another angle.
 Elke calls us all back and we discuss the exercise, I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, but we all have better sense of being there.


Next we descend the slope into an even denser, lusher area where there are some seedlings that we'll be planting out.

 Up the hill and measuring the approximate mature span of the eventual crown size these trees will produce determines how far apart to plant along one edge of the cleared area and into the swales below.






As we head over to the next planting spot it begins to rain. Someone pulls some ripe ears of corn and we decamp to the shed where a fire is quickly built and the ears roasted. The rain comes down, Hard.

 Big drops and intense, one can barely see the women who continue to work, making beds to be planted later, each covered with a large white bag one side slit to make a raincape.
They do eventually join us, soaked to the skin to dry out and have a roasted corn snack just before we head back to town.

First Visit to Bafut

Nothing happens quickly here, except the taxi rides: one minute we're standing at the side of the road and the next hurtling through oncoming traffic dodging potholes, pedestrians and other taxis going in both directions either side of the road.
This after visiting the office of  Better World Cameroon where the "bamboo" man Pius, was waiting for us.  While Joshua fielded phone calls and email, Elke conferred with Sonita about the program. After an introduction, Pius waited patiently beside them listening carefully to everything they said.
Then we took that aforementioned cab ride to the "bamboo" man's house along roads that reminded me of washouts I'd hesitate to bicycle into.
 Welcomed into his home he showed us examples of his work; panels for walls and ceiling, a chair and a small briefcase his son had produced: no metal, even the locking mechanism made from this "bamboo"
With a word to his daughter lunch appeared in front of us. The hospitality here has been impressive, local food and lots if it. Plantain, boiled this meal, with chicken in a delicious tomato hotsauce. So much for losing weight here...
Another cab ride, this time with extra passengers. We were wedged in tightly 4 in the back and ! 4 in the front! 2 small children but still...The police were obvious standing at the side of the road. Apparently this is a "toll" road. Our driver must have paid earlier, we weren't stopped.
From one cab into another and down a red, red eroded slippery road to Bafut. We stop at a booth and pick up a bottle of Palm Wine. Fizzy and sweet like Ginger Beer only mildly alcoholic. We trek in to the Ndanifor Permaculture Eco-Village  site and are blown away by how much has been accomplished. Terraced, swaled hillsides, a cleared area for the buildings,  bananas,  numerous trees and cassava, ginger, corn, Taro, palm oil trees, pumpkins, sweet potato and more, both ready to harvest and just emerging. The soil enriched by a constant source of mulch/compost from the prolific growth of... everything! Little tree nurseries here and there, a riot of green, ferns, palms....it's the jungle......
The "bamboo" turned out to be Raffia-Palm wands/stems (for lack of a better term) the business end of the palm frond. A solid chunk of fibre about  as big around as my arm and 3-6 metres in length. Beside the building site large bundles stacked and waiting for the plan, some leaning up against a tree like tipi poles.
I was reminded of Eden, a veritable paradise of food plants with a climate to match. Walking out I thought about my permaculture lessons- that's how it's done. Interplanting, succession and stacking, nothing wasted, moisture stored in the rich soil...
We picked up a jug of Palm wine, walked out to pavement and another high speed taxi ride took us back to the apartment.

Descending into Bemanda the bus pulls around and to the left a waterfall dropping unimpeded for about 60 metres, a slow white arc against the green of the mountainside. On the right the city spreads out up to the hills ringing it.
Like many bus stations we've been to recently the "driveway' is dirt and mud. After exiting the bus we  carefully retrieve our belongings. I take on my backpack and Joshua's in front (actually nicely balanced) while he finds us a cab. I'm lost immediately as the driver takes left turns, right turns and proceeds along streets towards our destination.
 From the balcony later I spot the waterfall and determine it is to the south and east of our present location. A thunderstorm erupts off in the distance, immense black clouds crossed with a rainbow.
That evening we are led down a narrow alley in the dark to be welcomed officially by the Board of Better World Cameroon. They called us brother and sister, many hugs and handshakes, new names and introductions.
  Prayers had been said to assure our safe arrival as we came through the air and overland by bus. A short speech of welcome, and then the meal. Being the guests of honour we're served first. Rice with vegetables, fried plantain in strips, greens with little white flecks (ground melon seed)and chicken.
The host and Board chair brings out a bottle of ...  German style beer brewed here in Cameroon (since 1759 it says on the bottle) and then everyone else fills their plates. A major grace spoken with much reference to Jesus and then the toasts. We are told the tradition of serving the patriarch the chicken's gizzard and yes I ate every morsel. 
Energized by a delicious meal  Elke speaks, introducing herself and her work. My turn and I speak about education, men's work and my role working with Elke. How our intention is to support the creation of a Better World.
Aware that we have been traveling for the last three days our hosts encourage a short evening and we head back to the apartment proceeding flashlight in hand to fall asleep to the sounds of the nightclub below, the honking of taxis and motorcycles from the street out front.

Travelers

I'm sitting in the Istanbul airport, drinking a Turkish beer, when a fellow takes the seat beside us. A burly hunk of a guy, he wants to know where we are from. When we ask, he's Turkish and on his way to  a kickboxing competition in Thailand.
Across from me at another table  I watch an older Oriental lady sipping beer and fanning herself. There is something quite elegant or regal about who she might be. The airport is full of milling,  shopping people of all descriptions. We blend in easily, two more travelers bound for somewhere else with no desire to visit or actually purchase anything in the "Duty Free"
No, we have enough stuff already.
In the lounge for our flight a young couple, white, among all the black faces, each speak to us. They are Cameroonian residents, working in a school in Yaounde, both born in Africa, she speaks with an Illinois accent. Super friendly and offering much info about Cameroon I'm struck again by the reality of actually being somewhere as opposed to  reading the warnings from the state department on the net.
My experience of people everywhere is that they are friendly.  A stern or seemingly unfriendly stare or gaze is often disarmed with a simple hello. And, placing oneself in challenging or compromising situations puts you at risk . Obviously.
On the bus to Bamenda I take a seat at the back so I can sit more comfortably. The guy beside me is huge and intimidating looking. I offer my hand to shake and he shares his trouble sitting in the cramped seats. His two boys perched beside him stare unashamedly at me for most of the trip.

The terrain is a visual feast; dense jungle looks like a lot of trees and undergrowth, the occasional plantation of banana, oil palm or coconut completely engulfed by the vines and miscellaneous greenery that seems to take about a week to reassert itself. Along the road to Yaounde there were smashed (usually front end) abandoned cars about every 5 km interspersed occasionally with trucks like dead animals, their wheels in the air, in the ditches and rolled down the banks. No buses thankfully.
Many of the towns along the way have speed bumps along with disrepair and considerable gaps in the road (pot hole does not begin to describe them) which, depending on how adroitly our driver swerves, has me airborn or looking down at the ground. That and the near misses of passing vehicles drives me to reading my e reader. That is when I'm able to focus on the jerking screen.
When we stop halfway (maybe!)  the food vendors are all over us  Most can speak some English, pidgin and French so we are able to understand... mostly.  Cassava in a long sausage shape, roasted plantain,
a peanut or pistachio paste wrapped in a banana leaf with hot spices and a  small purple eggplant looking fruit I saw in the trees that's roasted then eaten cold. Try and find that at home!

Willow weaving

When I left Canada/Vancouver Island I had recently begun to investigate and embrace basket weaving. An encounter with Cedar and the Sacred Grandmother left me wishing for more... instruction, knowledge and understanding.

I created, with help, (Thank you Maria and Sacred Grandmother Cedar) a basket from the branches and bark of one of the last tipi poles I ever harvested. It felt right to be utilizing all of her, working the branches into a usable if primitive carrier.


My research determined that there were still Basketry schools in Germany and France, plus a number of museums and a culture in Europe that supported the artisans who grow, harvest and create with willow.

Willow is the historic and quintessential material here, from the ubiquitous shopping basket to wood carriers, baby carriages, bread holders, fishing creels, laundry baskets and the beach basket chairs lining the seashore and beaches all over Germany. From fencing to hats and split for the finest of work, willow works well.

So I wanted an immersion, an introduction and download of as much information as I could assimilate. The museums unfortunately were closed all winter and I wondered "How was I going to get it?"
In the spring the local castle in Blankenhain hosts a basketry display and plant sale where the numerous examples of utility and whimsy excited my passion again.
A flyer from the Deutsches Fletchwerk Association had me surfing the net, writing to contacts and somewhat excited about German weaving terms: more vocabulary!  Then I got onto the British weaving websites and things really began to move for me. I contacted Mary Butcher to purchase her book Willow Work.
In response to my request for an English speaking instructor Hansgert and Ursula Butterwerk invited me to spend 3 days at their home and workshop.
I knew I was truly and completely there when on arrival I saw many bundles or 'bolts' of willow withes or 'rods' leaning up beside the back door, willow soaking in long tubs and green willow upright in water, roots formed and leaves sprouting.

 Inside a chaotic (to me) assembly of power tools, started projects, bending jigs and more willow along with cane, rattan and likely a whole lot of material I didn't recognize. 

The Butterwerks also manage a basketry museum including a a studio/workshop and gallery where local artists display their works and create cultural events. A former weaver's residence,  the museum documents the rise and fall of basketry in Dalhausen village. Old photographs and small dioramas illustrate how the people lived and worked with willow. The tools, benches and pictures, along with many examples of the types of baskets they produced, are spread throughout the building. The journey through is well organized and with Hansgert guiding I received an incredible amount of relevant information in the short time we were there.



For the next three days I was immersed in the culture of willow; talking, working and examining as I made  willow circles, then bottoms: the base or 'slath' of a basket in brown (with bark) and white (without). The smell of those wet rods took me back ... I don't know where, but it was familiar, very familiar from long ago.


One evening we piled into the car and headed north to Rheder (Brakel) where the locals had harvested willow into bundles and under the direction of a Swiss architect created an outdoor willow "building" or pavilion earlier that spring. I had dreamed of someday doing something like that.
Each day I managed to create a number of samples under Hansgert's able and friendly direction. He was generous with advice, and happily described his work and projects he was engaged in creating. Ursula popped in and out daily, working her shift at the Museum as well as producing gourmet meals for us. She and Hansgert met at the Basketry College in Lichtenfels.
By the last day I was close to full. I completed a simple yet complex bread basket in white willow that one starts upside down then turns inside out, slowly tightening the rods together in threes.
Still excited, still committed to learning more, I filled my cup. I'll have room for more at another time.

Adventure

Adventure
It has a nice ring to it, images of slogging through lush grass across a wide vista, entering a darkly dense forest following barely discernible trails and scaling some rocky crag.
 Or fill in the blanks from your own memory banks!
I was brought up thinking adventure involved chasing some dream or illusive entity across varied landscapes with or without companions...The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings and numerous manifestations of travelogue and fantasy tale have kept me "armchaired" for years. I hardly imagined I could participate in such endeavors, until I met Elke. She was living it, with little fanfare, no corporate sponsorship and humility that awed me. My first thoughts? "I want to do that!"
On reflection I realize that my life has always been an adventure, one's definition of what is important, valuable and relevant determines the path chosen, who we associate with and the choices we make day to day. I chose a long time ago to "not be normal" whatever that was. It is who I am today, a character, enigmatic and predictable, both in my moral sense and commitment to truth, my desire to create and support change and consciousness transformation towards  community based (tribal) reality. To me that sounds like adventure.
So here we go again or really still. A continued procession toward whatever end is in store for me/us down that road of time and experience. Next stops; Hamburg, Berlin then Cameroon.
I read somewhere long ago that once the nest is empty and the work is done our role is to move to service, to forgo the material pleasures of permanent residency, puttering in the back 40 and acquisition of goods. I cannot claim much success in this but I am moving in that direction. My bell collection quietly stored with books and kitchenware back in Canada as I move toward a nomadic, minimalist existence providing service how ever, when ever and where ever possible.
 I feel a tremendous need to have a good memory here, to have access to the collected knowledge distilled to wisdom through years of experience. I judge I am woefully unprepared! And in the moment what works, where we are, is what needs to happen. Living in the moment, now that is adventure!

Thoughts on clothing from the bus

The polyester leisure suit is alive and well in Tanzania. Well maybe thread worn and stained, but holding it's own among the more well to do in the rural population at least. On the bus to Kondoa our conductor looks dignified and official in his faded lime green affair. Numerous older men step on, wedging themselves in deeper, immaculately dressed in matching jacket and trousers. Any wonder? The dust and dirt here is enough to get a Maytag salesman drooling. Too bad electricity is in such short supply although they've put up the power poles into the village (Mnenia) recently...

The women seem committed to the maximum visual effect, colourful kangas and kitenges draped over their shoulders, covering their hair and of course in layers as skirts. The one exception to my generalized observation would be the Maasai. The men mostly (we only occasionally see the women) dress in layers of shukas, brightly patterned woven fabric in plaids of  blue and red, green and yellow and flourescent orange and red...(yes!) or all of the above, together. Which cannot  begin to describe what it looks like.  

These Maasai herdsmen stand at the side of the road, seemingly miles from anywhere in blue and red plaids with their ever present staff/stick/cane, watching their livestock eke out some sustenance from the (what looks like) non existent vegetation. But this year is an initiation year and many of those young herdsmen are dressed in black. Completely in black, every item of clothing black. Except their faces, white foreheads with various permutations of design and expression on the cheeks in white face paint, ash likely or flour. A few have ostrich feathers shooting up from behind their heads, black of course. As we drive by they stare more intently than I dare to. Out of respect for their process I took no pictures.

Meanwhile in the cities their elder brothers walk up and down the streets, cell phone in hand decked out in colours many women would be challenged wearing.  On their feet the famous Maasai sandal; a chunk of motorcycle tire with a piece coming up between the toes; a beaded fringe waving saucily in the air. Although the ubiquitous running shoe/sneaker/training shoe  (I'll name no brands) seems to be making inroads, pardon the pun.

Back on the bus in rural Tanzania, if you can get a seat, there will likely be someone sitting beside you. If a woman,  she'll be constantly fiddling with her head scarf, tucking it here, pulling it out there, occasionally disappearing from view. Possibly to sleep or at least avoid any eye contact with this heathen infidel. The men are usually more friendly, their suits staining sweat right through to their jackets. Asking in their best English where I'm from and for how long, and expressing incredulous surprise at where I'm living.  Almost every man wears the Islamic hat called taqiyah or kofia. Occasionally a ball cap and rarely a fedora. 

 The availability of western clothing is remarkable (at least to my naive mind) For 10,000 Tanzanian shillings one can purchase a bale of clothing, jam packed into a metric cube that when opened -stand back!- will overwhelm one with such a variety of shirts, pants and underwear to possibly jade one forever from ever wanting to wear the stuff. T-shirts with every imaginable slogan, endorsement or "witty" saying, adorning folks who have no English,  no idea what it says. Cheap though, thanks to the folks who donated these dated, discarded derelicts of a disintegrating culture to the land of all our ancestors.

 This is globalization in action,  the few folks  still wearing traditional clothing fast becoming anomalies in a rapidly moving, corporate driven, pathological push towards  uniformity.

 No thanks! I had  a shuka made into a shirt and a kanga into pants. Bring on creative dressups!