Christmas in Kenya

 Dec 24
At the moment I’m staying in an A-frame surrounded by second growth trees in some of the last remaining indigenous forest in Nairobi Kenyas’ environs. A few moments ago there was a large Sykes monkey sitting on the balcony peering at us from the railing. Long tails and a huge hairy brow. They are quite entertaining jumping through the tree tops, chasing each other. The dogs barking their heads off while the monkeys run up and down the vines and trees beside the house teasing them. If we leave a window open for the cats, and bananas on the counter? Bananas gone. Yesterday I was sitting doing my writing and I hear the window moving open, then a face peers under the blind. Cheeky!
It’s a tremendous relief to be away from the instability and potential violence we experienced last month in Bamenda. It was challenging to  focus on anything with random gunshots , tear gas and protests happening. We were already intending to leave, so it seemed appropriate to accelerate our departure since we had a destination and accommodation waiting. Putting out the word to friends and associates we were able to give away and sell  all our furniture and household goods, recovering some of our investment. A bonus really. And all done long before the arranged ride arrived. Floors mopped, bags packed and waiting at the entrance.
It was a bitter sweet departure. We made some good friends in Bafut, some friends were out of the country and others we hadn’t contacted before leaving. The threat of more troops arriving, unknown outcomes and more protests anticipated,  encouraged us to cut short our stay, and move on to our next adventure. One of the German volunteers accompanied us to Dschang where there is a famous museum. The other volunteer was there already staying with a friend and raving about how friendly everyone was. A college town with a lakeside promenade beside the museum, it was quite a contrast.
Then onto Douala by bus. The proprietor of the hotel drove us in the morning to the depot where numerous touts attempted to “assist” us into their company’s bus. I watched them accost a number of arriving women on motorcycles, quite aggressively. The women were not impressed. Eventually we left after a few false starts, entertained by a salesman flogging herbal remedies, standing in the aisle at the front of the bus exhorting everyone to try his samples. After some time he got off and not long later another fellow stepped on and did a repeat performance.
Douala’s a busy place, international seaport and airport, a real cross-roads of cultures. We spent time walking near the hotel, breakfast at a roadside stall every morning, a pizza in the Greek/Lebanese restaurant on our last night. We had a driver from a previous visit and he gave us a tour of the town. Through the port authority; massive warehouses,  lines of waiting workers, stacked containers and seafood restaurants, then the old part of town past impressive architecture, hotels and residences. Lots of very old street trees, mostly mangoes.
 Then into the main market, a more chaotic and crowded place, I’ve never been. Negotiating through intersections spilling over with produce, people and intense smells we inched through, the market itself stretching in all directions beyond sight. Trucks disgorging endless boxes of goods manhandled and hand-trucked back into the market from blocks away where there was somewhere to park. Intense.
In the morning a Christmas parade had us leaving early to avoid the blocked streets, through the airport and onto our plane… practically empty. We managed to score the exit seats, lots of leg room and they cancelled the scheduled stop in Yaounde so we arrived an hour early. The view was clouds the whole way until I saw Lake Victoria!   Our ride arrived after Elke had arranged sim cards so our internet connection is set.

General Strike the day after

Dec 9
As we walked out to say our last goodbyes to the women in the village, Elke received a call, a friend was trapped in town, her car’s back window smashed, a neighbour beat-up and gunshots all around; a riot in progress on the main street of Bamenda. How does one respond to news like that?
We met up with the children, some of the women and said goodbye. The women were understanding but regretful. At lunch with one especially hospitable friend, we heard over cellphone that people had been killed, the riots had spread throughout the city, police station burned, a politicians car torched in front of the hospital, blockades on many streets.
My anxiety level rose considerably, in spite of the benign surroundings and we proceeded walking out to say goodbye to another friend, wondering where we might be spending the night. Calling  our friend who had been downtown, she invited us to her home nearby. She’d been rescued by a young man on a motorcycle who navigated the back roads around barricades and burning tires to get her home safely. Plus, someone had driven her car back as well. All her groceries had to be discarded -full of broken glass.
Our time there was fraught with concern, a continual ringing of phones and incoming text messages kept us up to date with all the latest conjectures and possible truth, including the news that more troops were coming from Yaounde. Hard to sleep with all this weighing on our minds, our intention to leave on Monday now placed in jeopardy. 
All our furniture spoken for, household goods and incidentals ready for removal Saturday. That is if the roads are cleared and people are allowed out.
More phone calls in the morning. Apparently the authorities were now releasing all the children held in residential schools. A window of opportunity to make our way home… past charred pavement, piles of still burning refuse and tires, the burnt out hulk of a truck straddling the road. In one spot  an opening pulled aside for the traffic between still burning tires. At most intersections military armed and watchful. People lining the streets, on the move loaded down with all manner of items. In front of one school taxis loading children, some looking a little lost, backpacks and bags in hand.
Our fellow apartment resident had told us not to return yesterday; tear gas drifting, tires burning and police and demonstrators everywhere. She was at the hospital when we returned, a friend caught a bullet.
The floor in the apartment looked clean but as soon as I walked in, black footprints.
It all looks normal outside except for the blackened pavement, taxis and pedestrians going about their business, buses driving past the food market… except they’re all empty…?
At least there’s no gunshots or tear gas. We finished packing, we are ready to go as soon as we an arrange transport. But when will that be?

General Strike an interlude

Dec 8
The 3 day strike is over, another called for January. Yesterday, traffic was flowing a little subdued but almost normal. The motorbikes did another honking drive by in a group, the water cannon and tear gas possibly taking place elsewhere but certainly not visible to us.
The market down below was busy almost all morning, well past the stated 9am “deadline” a few stores open along the main roads, although we heard nothing was open on Commercial ave. 
The night before we heard the ruling party CPDM was planning a rally in town at the grandstand, a feature of every Cameroonian town we’ve been in. An interesting proposition, provocative in the extreme since this area is represented in the parliament by the opposition party and the strike was challenging the government to address concerns. Which it hasn’t. Instead it continues to ignore, deny and repress any actual dialogue. See this
In conversations with numerous individuals, the under current of dissatisfaction and impatience soon comes to the surface. We heard stories of successful businesses driven into failure by the policies and attitudes of the rulers here. Opportunities for improving the lives and fortunes of citizens squandered or undermined by the powers that be, the regions resources providing for the rest of Cameroon. Or more likely the people in power, Teachers and military often wait months to get paid, the standard of living is in  the lower 3/4 of countries worldwide and yet the president is one of the richest men in Africa. What is wrong with this picture?
Early in the morning one of the volunteers went downtown to mail something for us and to attempt to get cash. He told us the area was crawling with machine gun toting military police. Made him extremely uncomfortable.
We had arranged to head out to the farm since we understood everything was supposedly back to normal. And it appeared to be. Our driver took us easily out of the city, we purchased bananas from a roadside vendor and arranged for pick-up later in the day.
 I spent the morning re-ordering/organizing the toolshed while Elke re-plastered the lounge hangout space. It’s a pleasant place to be, birds singing, a gentle breeze and plenty of greenery. And a great way to say goodbye, doing something useful and meaningful.

General strike- Next installment

Dec 6
As the morning progressed, I headed down to †he market. A few taxis heading up the hill, lots of motorbikes and a steady stream of pedestrians going both ways.
The fellow with a table near the taxi stand had a chunk of meat on his table, the smell indicated it wasn’t fresh in spite of the hour. Must have been left over from yesterday. Crossing the bridge I averted my eyes from the creek, it’s choked with debris, plastic waste, discarded clothing and all the leftovers from the market. There is nothing quite like the smell of… you get the picture.
In the open part of the market where the trucks drop off oranges, melons and papayas folks were busy distributing the wholesale into retail, wheelbarrows and handcarts piled with produce. I was jostled by the crowds of women (mostly) out getting their daily supplies. From my usual vendors I got lemons, tomatoes and papayas. They seemed unworried, the tomato lady was busy negotiating for 6 baskets of tomatoes, the lemon lady always looks worried and the melon sellers never stop trying to get me to buy.
My usual trudge back uphill was marked  first by an inability to cross over due to a preponderance of motorbikes and then the sight of Elke on the balcony waving to me. She had preceded me out the door taking a bike to Oscar shop where things not available in the market (occasionally) can be obtained. Actually just about everything is available in the market, one just needs to know where to look and I wasn’t relishing the thought of traipsing through the rabbit warren. Normally an enjoyable experience on a dry day, the women constantly call out to me. Those who we are familiar with ask after “Madame” or “Ma”. It’s often cooler in there  as well and folks are friendly whereas walking the street edge can be percarious as traffic honks it's way through the crowds of vendors and shoppers competing for space.
Back home we are set for the next few days, we won’t go hungry. Our friend and associate  Beatrice stopped in to collect the drying ginger from the back room. She’s interested in some of our furniture. We’re both willing to write it off in our need to leave but it’s wonderful to get something for it . Others have expressed interest, looks like it’ll all be out of here, which is also a concern; I don't want to walk away from a partially furnished apartment , leaving it for others to deal with. It will all be absorbed into our community. Items of clothing given to friends, household articles taken to the Eco-village or the guest house.
The waiting around is the worst, not knowing when or if, much less concerned about being involved in some ridiculous political disagreement or altercation. The occasional percussive report, scenes of people running plus stories of injury and worse are not something I want to get used to.
My privilege is showing. I’m quite aware I have the option to both come here and then leave should things become too difficult or uncomfortable. My upbringing and background presupposes an expectation of basic human rights, guaranteed access to appropriate healthcare, nutrition, water and waste management. I have taken these things for granted. Along with trusting the police to protect me and having faith in the benevolence of government. I suppose I could say this is another awakening from complacency.

Life in a general strike-reflections

Dec 6
Another quiet night. The general strike is keeping most traffic, specifically taxis, off the roads. The motorcycle riders are like young rebels everywhere,  nothing (or very little) stops them from trying to make a living ferrying people and goods about the city. This morning the activity/traffic seems especially intense. It appears we have a safe window between 6 and 9am to get get things done to shop and travel where necessary. I saw some buses arriving too. None left last night.
Yesterday after checking with friends we were advised to stay put. In any case there were no taxis’ running and a trip out to the farm on a motorcycle would be brutal. And to be stuck out there? It’s a great place to spend the night but some prep is needed to make it work.
As 9 am approached the traffic noticeably diminished to occasional private cars and a few motorbikes. The police vehicles make a lot of noise as they hurtle along warning everyone to “get out of the way!” with their horns. From our balcony we watched as they attacked some buildings and I assume dissenting citizens just beyond Hospital Roundabout with their water cannon. Much smoke on either side of the road. I’m tempted this morning to go view and photograph the damage. The street there is lined with small eating establishments, up one nearby road is a bus stand we’ve arrived at from south. But I won’t. Elke has pointed out I don’t run so fast (or at all!) and if this area is a hotbed of resistance, who knows what they or the military have planned today. My jokey manner belies the anxiety we are feeling.
I walked out mid morning yesterday looking for bananas, they can be found most days on trays atop the heads of vendors walking around the city but seldom if ever at the market. Usually at roadside stands here and there. None to be seen. Even the roadside stands themselves were missing, their wooden shelves and tables hidden from the possibility of use as fuel. I passed  quite a few pedestrians. One fellow accosted me , in pidgin, warning me “No taxis”.  I saw a couple of men standing in the road stopping motorcycles and encouraging them to disgorge their passengers.
Back in the apartment we watched through binoculars as tires were laid across the road as a barrier, then the police moved in and threw them aside, proceeded up the road blasting water into the buildings and side streets, lobbing smoke bombs or tear gas here and there. As soon as they were out of sight, the tires reappear. This looks more like mischief than open insurrection. And the response is like smashing a sledge hammer on a mosquito. The military/police seem intent on provoking a violent response so they can justify their behaviour.  From what I’ve seen (and it aint much) the citizens are exercising incredible restraint, operating with non-violence as a rule; racing on motorbikes in swarms honking their horns and pedestrians running away to avoid confrontation. The general population attempts to continue as usual, although  most everything is closed for business.
 The strike will continue till Wednesday, after that we intend to make our way, away. By bus if possible otherwise if not, we’ll charter a taxi out to the next large centre and thence to Douala where there is an airport.

Revolution

Revolution is the turning of ideas and actions into the transformation of society. That’s how I see it. Numerous signs and indications are daily demonstrating the truths that many prescient writers from distant times have described. How the ruling players; oligarchy, plutarchy and the corporations undermine and control the media, money, transport and food, which in turn controls the populace. After being lied to and manipulated for years, I for one am no longer willing to entertain any trust in them. The status quo for many is a life of deprivation and dis-ease. Constantly played against each other, demonizing various portions of the population maintains an us and them that effectively isolates and distracts everyone from the elite perpetrators of this travesty.

I have felt the ennui and apathy of overwhelming fear in the face of this monster. My inability to deal with or fix the problem, which ever one has my attention, seems part of the strategy. Realistically I see it all as symptomatic of a society that has lost touch with actual culture. We are constantly bombarded with advertising promoting impossibly perfect visions of humanity. By playing on our latent desires and need for validation  it maintains a sense of insecurity, whether intentional or not,  so we are all always in a state of stress. Medications abound to alleviate or relieve this state, never dealing with the cause. Who wants to give up their toys? Comfortable lifestyles or out of season fruits and vegetables? It all has a cost and much of it falls on our organism; humanity. Where are the cultural  commonalities that speak to our actual essence in this?
History has many lessons for those who would examine it. Numerous groups of people, societies and cultures were quite able to maintain relative homeostasis, comfort and balance, living in harmony with their environment. And a number of movements driven by extraordinary individuals have wiped out those peoples. Greed, organized religion and a tremendous lack of empathy,  all possibly the consequence of crowding, are now part and parcel of the ruling paradigm.

Thankfully there are voices of reason, individuals and groups who share a common understanding of our empathetic nature, our need to be in community, connected to the earth itself. Through the magic of the internet the possibilities exist to mobilize large groups of people, disseminate truth and wisdom. Used with prudence! We must also acknowledge awareness of the insisdious elements wishing to mine our information. The tools of this age provide possiblities to dialogue across continents and oceans, cities and countries. However, it is the face to face, down to earth grass roots connections that weave us together into  community. Those opportunities to sing songs, share meals and read each others body language bring us into the cauldron of connection.
I’m afraid for the many who are complacent and in denial, ignorant intentionally or otherwise of the absolute meaningless of our popular culture. There is nothing sustaining about a society whose morals and ethics are for sale, that has no meaningful rituals or ceremony enrolling it’s members. Retail therapy notwithstanding.
The revolution begins when individuals have had enough of the bullshit, the lies and obfuscations preventing us from truly being part of our environment. It starts with growing our own food, speaking to our neighbours and connecting with spirit , however that looks. It maintains itself through joyous celebrations; in song, feasts and rites of passage for our youth. It thrives by establishing manageable community, harmonized and in balance with local environments, creating no waste, sharing surplus and using the least energy to create the maximum effect. It’s not rocket science- we don’t need to go to Mars to succeed in this experiment.

A Day of Sunshine

Nov 30
I get up after the first call to prayer, The Muezzin sings out for 2 minutes or so, mostly melodic, in Arabic of course. It's dark still but soon the eastern sky lightens and the mountains are backlit as the sun rises towards the edge of the hills. Down below in the city there are occasional taxis and motorbikes, a few people are walking down the hill to the market where trucks have arrived, unloading sacks of oranges from Nigeria, baskets of tomatoes and hundreds of melons passed  and thrown to waiting vendors who stack them in the open area in short wide pyramids. Sometimes the whole area is a peculiar green from the piles of them, like thousands of grapes covering the place. Running up the hill are the morning exercisers, who congregate in front of the building doing stretches and counting in husky, breathy voices together.
 The Sun makes it to the edge of the horizon just after 7am and below, the city is bathed in dust or haze, everything is indistinct except the noise. More people walking down the hill as the traffic increases. The sun is now brilliant, strong and hot as the light fills our apartment. I have to drop the curtain since I’m facing east and it shines into my eyes. The cool air of the night dissipates quickly. We have put our “perishables” on the balcony overnight and I pull them in before the sun has risen past  the mountain. Some vegetables and occasionally cheese. This is my time every morning. I sit and write and look at email.
Elke sits with her coffee and does exercise in the other room, then we make breakfast. After, I do the dishes standing at the window with the curtain part way down. The dishes dry quickly with the sun shining directly on them. By 11am the sun has gone past the edge of the building and we are in the shade.  A bit of wind might come up the dust/haze diminishes some.  By 1pm it is very warm.
Yesterday after writing /editing a piece for BWC I walked down to the market. There I bought some pears (avocado)  1 ripe, 1 almost ripe and 2 not so ripe- 900 francs- a bit expensive, the season is about to start so there are not a lot of them available. When they are, we buy 10 or 11 for 100 francs. about 20 cents. Tomatoes 10 or 12 for 500 francs-$1.00  Fresh (still covered in dirt) carrots, potatoes, and beans(no dirt), papaya’s in season and my daily lemon. Occasionally a treat; an eggplant, mushrooms in season, Chinese cabbage, broccoli or cauliflower. We rarely if ever buy melons, too big, no fridge, they go bad fast.
 After shopping I walked back up the hill, slowly with my walking stick. Arriving at the top I was sweating pretty heavily, heart rate up, shirt soaked. Inside the apartment a cool wind blows up or down the stairs. I have to watch myself on them  as they are inconsistant in depth and height. I’ve tripped a few times.
 Elke will have done laundry in a bucket in the bathroom and hung it out on the balcony. We have no large sink, this apartment is actually office space. We had a tap installed on the toilet  line to fill buckets. Dish water gets dumped down the toilet. The laundry is usually dry by the time we eat lunch.
By 5pm the wall in the bathroom has heated the pipes in it enough to have an almost hot shower. It  will radiate heat all night long so sometimes we leave the balcony door open during the night.
I miss the sunsets, they are on the other side of the building. By sticking my head out of the bathroom window I can sometimes catch it but it’s awkward. The window is just big enough for my head to poke through.And I have to remember to look. Around 6 the bats begin to fly from the cliff to the east, the flow of pedestrians up the hill increases and the setting sun lights up any clouds building in the north east,  bright red and pink. We often sit out on the balcony to cool down and talk  until the smell of some noxious burning substance drives us inside.

Entertaining events

Dec 1
Meanwhile the entertainment, if it can be called that, continues here.
One of the volunteers went to the main market in the morning yesterday; she told us the police had appeared and locked the gates (usually happens at 5pm) to prevent the escape of some suspect. Apparently this fellow was a friend of the guy standing in the coffin last week preaching (I’ll use a euphemism) change. Eventually he was located and arrested, not necessarily in the market.
About 3 hours later we heard a lot of honking and yelling. Looking out the bathroom window (I spend quite  a lot of time checking traffic, weather and sunsets through this tiny portal) I watched a convoy(?) of motorcycles race past, many were carrying branches of greenery, hooting and hollering expressing some kind of joy or celebration. A lot of them. Many had passengers; some drivers and passengers were standing, doing acrobatics, fists in the air, mostly men but a few passengers were women.  (I have seen perhaps, 1 female taxi driver and 2 or 3 female bike drivers in the 3 years we’ve been here)  They raced down Che street towards Ntarikon. Then within half an hour they were  back and racing down Fish Pond Hill. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to take a photo… Any way it’s a one way street UP. More hooting, hollering and acrobatics down this rather steep street. They raced past the food market and turning left towards City Chemist. That’s the road I pictured with the tires burning in a previous post, the second picture of smoke and people in the street is leading towards City Chemist where the guy in the coffin spoke. It’s a round-about that turns right onto Commercial ave and SE towards Veterinary junction. Commercial runs approximately parallel to Che street out front of our building and Food market road down below us. Anyway a few minutes later, there they were again!   It was a celebration. The police had released the fellow.
Elke was scrolling through FB and saw a reference to some US Cameroonians who are requesting interventions from the US military, plus, they have collected 43 million francs for the purchase of (according to FB anyway) weapons for the struggle. You might imagine our reaction to this news. We are giving ourselves  2 weeks to pull our loose ends in, deal with our furniture and say farewell to folks we’ve met here… Unless things calm down.
Wednesday was supposed to be the end of the teachers strike, no word on the lawyers yet and nothing about any negotiations with the government. Then we heard that the teachers asked the parents of all students in English residential schools to receive them home. That will make the buses busy.
  Traffic is back to normal, noisy and backing up on the hill. Tonight the bars are full with patrons watching a football game. Everytime Cameroon scores, there is a roar of approval.
And we heard our first Christmas carol broadcast from somewhere down below.