Buea to Bamenda

The generosity and friendliness of Cameroonian people is remarkable. Our hostess in Buea, Rose, arrived early to drive us to the bus on Sunday morning herself, dispensing with her driver so she could attend church. Traffic was light and after unloading all our baggage we thanked her for her  kindness promising to stay in touch.
 Busses here are an adventure by themselves. Our 8 o’clock departure  actually left at 10 what with loading everyones' bags, root crops, furniture: a couch and two matching stuffed chairs. (Moving van? whats that? )  on the roof. Passengers getting on and off, buying food and water for the trip and  possibly reselling tickets for already sold seats. Likely the folks who arrived with their complete kitchen cabinets, disassembled but well past the projected departure time, wanting their kitchen pieces piled on top of the now tarped and ready to go pile will be taking a later bus.
We had purchased tickets for front seats assuming, incorrectly there would be more leg room. That seat is beside the passenger door where everyone who enters the back of the bus must rest their arms as they haul themselves over the folding seats between seats where one expects an aisle…. So in the case of a quick exit it might be advised to use a window. However.
When we finally left, behind us a fellow stood in the entrance preaching away until the next stop, (barely 15 minutes) where he collected coins and exited the bus. At first I thought he was giving a safety speech, but he never stopped talking and the frequent insertion of Jesus, Almighty Father and other familiar expressions soon cleared up that misunderstanding.
The moment the bus stops there are women children and young men hawking things at the windows. Squared loaves of white bread mostly, groundnuts, bottles of pop, boiled eggs and occasionally bananas. Further north we were offered tangerines, kola nuts, more white bread and bobolo: thin sausages of cassava  wrapped  in banana leaf. Mostly tasteless, the consistency of rubber,  a translucent worm of starch accompanying most street food here.
As the bus motored on we passed through numerous towns, police checks and some spectacular scenery climbing from a broad valley switch-backing up a bamboo covered mountain. Even on this steep hillside folks are carving out their farms to grow what food they can. Much of the countryside has been transformed by people cutting down the trees to grow corn and cassava.
Sitting up front we had a great view of approaching buses and trucks, like the fuel carrier apparently leaking/spraying (I hope ) diesel on our windscreen. I was surprised the driver, when we finally stopped for a bathroom and food break, didn’t bother cleaning it off.
There were a few scary moments as approaching passing cars and trucks swerved last minute back into there lane and when our driver suddenly swerved off the road as an even bigger bus passed us while another equally large bus approached in the opposite lane the whole busload heaved a sigh of relief.
The last 40 km were the longest. I have never seen a road in such bad shape to a major destination. This is the route,  only way into Bamenda from the south. Every bus, freight truck and I assume any government officials must travel this potholed, bone cracking, jerky excuse for a road. It took us almost two hours to finally reach our destination. Darkness fell and we hauled our bags off to the side as it began to rain which then erupted into a drenching downpour. Welcome to Bamenda!

Return to Cameroon

When the call comes it can be a surprise. On the eve before our morning departure, it was an sms/text message informing us our flight was cancelled.  As the message was less than illuminating, which flight? Morning or night? I called the airline.  A recorded message.
Thankfully I’ve become somewhat obsessive about packing. Most of it was done. Only the daily necessaries, toothbrush, bedding clothes for the trip and reading material still strewn about the room. We bussed out to the airport and spoke with an agent there.  Her eyes welled up, she composed herself, then expressed appreciation for us actually showing up and not ragging on her. We had two and half hours to get back, finish packing  and return for the 8pm flight to Brussels. Hotel room provided.
Landing in Douala the heat enveloped me like a wet blanket. What breeze there was blowing in the “windows” was warmer than warm. We trudged along the passage turning right, left and then down a long hallway,  then right again into a narrow booth where a fellow read our temperature… no Ebola here. Just around the next corner we entered a construction zone where the mass of people spread out into three indistinct lines creeping slowly through customs and immigration. I was at first pissed and resentful as two white guys basically forced their way through from the back past us all, then let it go and relaxed into patience.
Approaching the luggage carousel I wrestled off three of our bags,  and as the crowd thinned, waiting for the last one, imagined a number of dire scenarios. Thankfully all was well with the luggage angels… With help we managed to exit the building, everything intact to our ride waiting outside.
By this time it was dark. Rose our hostess had come with her driver to take us to Buea and  after greeting her we managed to jam our luggage and ourselves into the car.  But first a small “tip” to the fellow who negotiated past all the hawkers and touts crowding the exits.
Traffic here can be challenging with taxis hurtling past in either direction on either side and motorcycle taxis driving without due care and attention in all directions at all times. The bridge we needed to cross was a mere two lanes.  Crawling along bumper to bumper, three lanes deep, drivers would switch lanes pushing their way from one to the other when the smallest of openings appeared.
Once past the bridge I spied a large crowd of,  I assume, sports minded men doing jumping jacks surrounded by hundreds of …spectators? There were people everywhere, crossing the road, walking beside, joggers and folks having their evening meal, mothers with babies hauling bundles home and where possible everyone driving as fast as the road would allow.
Did I mention cracks in the road? Potholes in the pavement  big enough to lose luggage into?
After leaving the city proper the traffic thinned considerably and flashes of lightening lit up the sky. We cruised past miles of banana and rubber plantations and not much else till the outskirts of Buea.
 At our hotel  we took a short walk to stretch our legs and find some food and a drink. Nothing like a beer to sooth the frayed nerves and transition into another culture.
 In the morning  I extracted local currency from an ATM (neglecting to count zeros I took out 20,000 instead of 200,000) Then a walkabout with Rose, taking pictures with our now semi functioning camera (do not spill lime plaster on your camera). We managed to get a video interview recorded then trucked up the hillside to sit under cover as the skies opened up in a typical tropical downpour.
Later after securing our bus tickets to Bamenda I revisited the ATM and we were on our own for lunch.
 A slow walk up the main drag, a taxi back to the hotel and then a Cameroonian German style beer sweetened the fading light.  We ate dinner on the balcony, watching the local night life; Taxis honking, picking up and disgorging passengers and the endless stream of walkers.

Struggles

I’m struggling with an understanding of our continued survival on the planet. Our species has fouled the nest in ways I cannot begin to fathom, the number of interventions necessary to remediate or transform go beyond my comprehension. This reaches deep into every facet of our existence at every level of engagement. The common thread that ties it all together is denial.
 "The human mind has a primitive ego defense mechanism that negates all realities that produce too much stress for the brain to handle. It's called 'denial" (Dan Brown Inferno)
 It is here, it is now, this is no dystopian fiction. This is real, this is happening and if we do not address it yesterday, everything is going, going gone!
Like many others I continue with business as usual because I’m unable to fully assimilate the gravity and intensity of the doom scenario. I step forward with optimism and enthusiasm because if I don’t, I have given up.
I choose to proceed towards life on purpose, in balance and relational harmony.
Whatever happens our relationships will be essential. They always have been but over time I have taken things for granted; I’m ignorant of the profound consequences sometimes. I have not thought through  all the process, the networks the interrelations. Also, some of theses relationships have been neglected, due to the complexity and our collective ignorance of those systems.
Every action I take has consequences beyond my awareness. The relationships I have with people, food, transportation systems, my immediate and extended environment, climate and water are impacted by my choices.
When I throw something away, where is ‘away”?
 I feel a deep despair at times and grief, for what could be, what’s been lost and how I am dealing with it.
“grief isn't about feeling guilty about what human beings have done to the earth.
"Last time I checked, guilt is not an enabler of anything but self-hatred. Our current regime of self-hatred, or misanthropy, is simply the incarnation of self-absorption."
….. Grief is the ability to see things for what they truly are…”  Stephen Jenkinson

 My responsibility lies with my conscious choices, the unknown I can only hope to address with good intention.
This is an opportunity to create. To network, to connect,  to work in concert, sustain harmonies of spirit, humanity, sound, thought and resonance. Together.
Sometimes the fear of vulnerability, the perceived shame of needing help or looking weak has held me back. This is not the time to succumb to that evocative siren call of withdrawal.
 No.
 Friends, family, compatriots, brothers and sisters, it is time to stand up courageously, to weather the storms of discomfort, dis ease, and disinformation and strive together to transform, recreate and manifest a future and existence that honours all life, That respects the earth in all it’s splendour, celebrates the humility as well as the brilliance of our accomplishments. We share the air and water with all other forms of life, the machinations and grinding processes of earth movements, volcanic eruption and lunar gravity. We know so much and so little. Can we align our thoughts, our hopes and aspirations in one focused inspiring direction?
Yes we can.

Wanda Elizabeth (Peckinpah) Justice

 My mother died recently. She had been diagnosed with liver cancer and hearing this from my distant location, I was torn, wanting to see her one last time.
 Before I left on this extended adventure we had spoken together, anticipating this, her demise, and she insisted it was unnecessary for me to return to her. But now I wanted to come. I knew she wanted to see me and yet the situation I found myself in made it, if not impossible, extremely difficult to leave.
I received a few updates from my brother who had recently retired from nursing in Prince Rupert and had temporarily moved back into the family home.
She went fast, in just over a month she was gone, released from her pain and suffering, released from the corporeal restraints of her injured and diseased body.
I grieved as I wrote to her during that short period, expressing my love and appreciation for her parenting, lessons learned and learning. The wonderful example she provided of positive attitude. Not to take life for granted, to have gratitude and acceptance of what we are shown and given. That everyone has a meaningful and relevant place on the planet even if we don't agree with them about some things.
 I remember walking with her and the Voice of Women against Nuclear weapons, taking us to the beach to go swimming on my birthday (in April!) encouraging my brothers and I not to be afraid to speak up, to be free thinkers and that work was something supposed to be rewarding, not about the money.
She was  a rudder in my life. Steering me into the man I am today and the lessons keep coming. How one's legacy is about the people left behind, the impact we have on children and how very, very, powerful, essential and fundamental relationship is to everything.
I miss my mother. With the deepest respect, I'm glad she is gone though, past the pain, done with her full and eventful life, her joy and sorrow. No more fear and anger, her spirit released into the cosmos.
Wanda Elizabeth your essence is carried on by all of us who remain, touched by your presence however small or large spreading out in waves and ripples beyond imagination. Thank you for life, thank you for living, thank you for dying with grace.

Homemade micro Hydro

While in Cameroon an opportunity came up to visit the site of a small hydro project in Kugwe near Batibo (the Palm Wine capitol of the world!).
Local engineer  Farmer Tantoh arranged the trip and we wedged ourselves into a crew cab. Elke and I sitting up front, Joram and Tantoh conversing behind us non stop.  Our driver, Divine, quietly   answered our questions; (mostly Elke's) names of towns, items for sale at the side of the road with a little about himself while enjoying his music as we passed through the inevitable checkpoints.
 The road was good, paved within the last 3 years, through rolling hills mostly deforested and covered with grass.  Occasionally we'd dip into a jungle like valley but the majority of terrain around the settlements and villages was small farms. At numerous junctions there would be clusters of motorcycles,  large plastic containers hanging off the back, stacked sideways; 20+litres each, blue and white, empty or filled with mimbo (palm wine) for sale elsewhere, the drivers waiting...

Turning off the pavement we spied a fellow climbing a palm beside the road, his palm stem belt allowing hands free action when trimming the fronds.
The road  began to deteriorate, narrow, more potholed and still we drove on turning eventually down a trail, wheels straddling the twists, turns and contours. Parking amongst a group of houses,  people emerge with great smiles on their faces extending hands to shake and even a few hugs. Adult men mostly, children shyly looking through doorways holding back.

After a few moments of greeting we are immediately underway walking along the path following a line of wire strung up on poles through trees past extensive gardens, swales running down hill, burnt over and in various stages of cultivation. The air is thick with moisture, it's warm and I'm immediately sweating.





The trail descends, crossing a stream, swampy and fetid with decomposing vegetation the air filled with the spicy smell of something blooming.

 It gets steeper, slippery and the men attempt to help me, to stop me from falling as I grasp this or that root, vine or branch.







 We  hear the waterfall and  then stand at the top where they have engineered a sluice-way to pipe the water to the turbine another 50 metres below.
No water runs now, the pipe is punctured. Unfortunately, rocks hurtling down inside have broken the plastic. But for 5 days they did have light in the village.


What effort it  must have taken to haul the pieces and parts down this steep and treacherous slope!

 We continue, handholds necessary as I negotiate the nearly vertical climb and descend onto another small outcropping.







Here they have installed their turbine using a used auto transmission and various mechanical and electrical components.
   It sits now waiting to be reengaged. Ingenious, resourceful and creative, these folks are still positive, hopeful and encouraging.
 Elke and Joram film and interview them standing proudly behind their creation, the waterfall roaring in the background.

Everyone then inches out onto the slippery rocks, another 70 or 100 metres above the last drop and we all pose for "snaps".

On the way back up my shoes seem to fall apart (velcro doesn't like mud), I'm exhausted, recalling in my youth bushwacking through the Devils Club and Salal above Sombrio on West Coast Vancouver Island. Thankfully I've seen nothing here like Devils Club, grabbing whatever I can to haul myself up. Reflecting on my age, I compare myself to these   30-40 year old "young" men who almost daily make their way through this landscape.

 Back at the village I learn that the women, missing from the meal, speeches and mimbo drinking session we enjoy later, are off working their farm/garden plots a 3 hour walk away...


They have big dreams here; to improve their children's chances of success by providing  light so they can study at night,  by creating fish ponds to supplement their diet,  building cabins for visitors to stay and of course to get their electrical system working again as model of what can be done with a little ingenuity and resources at hand.


This experience like many others, inspires me in my exploring, meeting people and assisting where possible as we continue to create a better world for all.

Bookstores

I love bookstores. Wandering the aisles, searching out my favourite classifications to see what the latest author has to offer, browsing the pages of some beautiful coffee table extravaganza. Almost as entertaining and satisfying as visiting a library where I can take those books home! At least briefly.
But here in Bamenda Cameroon, I've had to readjust my assumptions and expectations.
 My experience of bookstores has taken a giant leap... sideways. It's not that there are not bookstores, there are.
Along Commercial Avenue I spotted the Simplicity bookshop, Academic bookstore and College bookstore to name just a few. I had some specific interests I wanted to explore; some technical tomes on indigenous flora, maybe a few local authors  for their perspectives, something about Cameroon itself, local geography, history....

Cue in the sound of the NOT buzzer from some game show.


First of all most of those "bookstores" have a large counter just inside the entrance preventing entry. The few books available are shelved out of reach behind the counter and are either religious or elementary to secondary school texts. And there are precious few of them.



They do have stationary, pens and paper, but are just as likely to be selling; clothing, cookies, onions, appliances or miscellaneous hardware.

As for any technical books... after a long search into every bookstore I saw, we found in one, a few copies of a moth or silverfish eaten agricultural text that seemed too outdated to be useful. Nothing else.

 Across the boulevard are the street vendors, their carts piled high with used and new school texts, photo albums, daily calendars, diaries and scrapbooks.

Browsing here is very different. Each of those used and  sometimes ratty looking paperbacks  represents more forcefully the bottom line for these guys. I'd pick one out and there would be the vendor already to wrap it up and offer me another.

 With patience and some tips from more experienced buyers, I was able to negotiate a better price and find some of what I was searching for. Used of course.

One day I visited one of the local Universities with another volunteer.  Her research had led her to search the stacks in the library there, where we found a text book recently written and published locally by one of the professors at that same  University. Is this book for sale somewhere?
Unfortunately he had passed away, so we asked the fellow there to contact his wife as we wanted to purchase ....
Cue in the buzzer.


Other than those street vendors, and this one in particular, I 'm convinced there is a culture of non engagement with literature here, no one can answer my questions about specific books almost no one even seems to know what I'm talking about!
Case in point , the local "library" The custodians of the books , the librarians, don't seem to know what they have, the card file is not accessible, the books I saw were all donations, out of date, used and abused. They did have a large collection of fashion and political magazines from France...
I won't give up though, I've heard there is a bookstore in Yaounde...

Looking for Peckinpah Heritage

I have  yearned to know my history. That search for roots on one side of the family has taken me to the likely source of my mother's people in Germany. The first recorded ancestor of a long line now populating the United States from Pennsylvania to California where my mother was born. Thankfully a number of the previous generations had seen fit to explore the archives and records in various North American locales documenting the births, deaths, marriages and possible enterprises undertaken by the family as time proceeded.
Near the centre of Germany where Baden-Württemberg and Hessen  come together is a settlement called Eiterbach, a link to that past individual who chose to leave and eventually stood on the deck of some ship arriving in the new world so long ago. My imagination kicks in frequently as I pursue this thread. Did that family; a  widowed mother, 3 sons and new husband have any idea what to expect? and on arrival to what end did they change the name they'd chosen, carried or ran away with?
The evidence is scanty. But there are threads.
During my time in Germany I was able to arrange a road trip, across the centre and south into the mountainous region of the Oldenwald from where my source had indicated the family in question had fled. A long way from any Autobahn, tucked away in a narrow valley, isolated even now, I cannot (but I'm trying!)  imagine what efforts it might have taken to cover the ground I did in an afternoon on paved roads, 340 years previously.

View Peckinpah Heritage in a larger map Proceeding northwest from Heiligkreusteinach we entered an idyllic and bucolic scene of fields and forest. Small settlements of houses, the occasional farm house perched on the edge of the valley's  north side, I wondered how much had changed since their departure. To the south a stream descended along the bottom of the valley eastward, nearby a Pension offered accommodation. Unfortunately we had a tight timeline. We drove on, then soon turned back as the road began to climb into the mountains. Not a big place.
 The  Neckar river to the south 12 km from Heiligkreusteinach  flows through a gorge there, not a likely route. Our path through the mountains took us south, east, west and north, up, down and around. We followed the smaller river courses and then emerged onto the floodplain of the mighty Rhine flowing north to the Atlantic
Here we found the name source,  Bickenbach-  Bicken creek, one in series of larger and smaller towns at the base of the hills and mountains stretching back to the Odenwald. For my money, I'd bet one of those castles still standing on the peaks of the foothills was likely the birthplace of our heroine or  her children's godparents.
The locals are happy to cash in on interest in history and those sometimes derelict constructions, the original residents long since gone, leaving little trace of births, deaths, marriages or enterprise on the heels of religious persecution, mercenary soldiers and the changing fortunes time engenders.
There is continual traffic on the river; north to Holland and south into Switzerland. I'm assuming their passage on a barge or river boat was eventful in itself. What choices led those people to leave? To throw away past alliances or investments and gamble on the unknown? I can only guess. From my perspective, it was a tremendous and challenging undertaking for which I have great appreciation and gratitude.