The Way Forward

I remain optomistic in the face of current affairs in the world. Recent events, tropes and memes are intruding into our collective consciousness. Slurs and insults, the polarized political conversations are symptoms of an ennui that seems to confirm a disintegration of culture if not society, happening right before our eyes.
 I have no illusions that life is supposed to be fair or uncomplicated.   The experience of struggle,  overcoming obstacles, conquering our inner demons, patterns and old beliefs that guide or direct us are a critical part of life's journey. And unsurprisingly, we  resist. We resist abandoning what has served, guided or determined our paths forward, tied up in the fear of the unknown, untried or unfamiliar pathways and models.  Our  investments.

 "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

Our reality is determined by what we believe,  are willing to accept and resonates within us; that which pays the biggest dividends.
No one  lives in a vacuum. We are influenced, manipulated and affected by our environments. Certainly genetic predisposition has some say, but ultimately we either support, deny or accept it, each with it's own affects.

As western civilized individuals we are exposed to so much propaganda (for lack of a better expression) that it is a wonder we still have free thinkers, folks challenging authority and critical interpretations. But we do, thankfully, in spite of it all. I am heartened that the truth and essence of actual humanity shines through to those who would listen.

I've come to realize that all these years of bucking the system, embracing alternativity, living on and at the edges has honed my bullshit meter. It has allowed me to experience a taste of what real co-operation, trust and sustainability can look like.

It is the very antithesis of capitalism.

Constantly holding our own against the flowing and raging streams of conventional  western societies is deeply wearing. It seems so easy, on the surface, to give in to it and certainly it is almost impossible to avoid participating. The structures and systems are pervasive and insidious.
 Yet I continue holding a light of hope, of rationality, that nature and our innateness will  eventually prevail. That reason and reality can coincide in a celebration of life that includes all beings, all pieces and parts of this planet and cosmos without a need for pointless competition, repressive and abusive hierarchies, classes or privilege.

 I remain optimistic that we will prevail, that our understanding of what is appropriate has been tempered  enough by experience and discourse that we recognize truth when we see it. That in spite of all the previous conditioned response our inner essence/soul/daimon shines through, if we are willing to open to it.  Living with purpose, intentionality, integrity, authenticity and respect takes effort, commitment and consciousness. I choose to embrace it. I believe others do too.

Keeping silent feeds the shame and buys into the less-than reality being perpetuated upon us. To empower and essentially free ourselves we MUST speak out, acknowledge our missteps, mistakes and misguided behaviours, examine our personal shadows and shine the light on the darker aspects of our collective society/reality and culture.
 I see this happening through social media.
 It IS happening. People are stepping up and expressing their heart's concerns, blowing away the shame and collective guilt that does not belong to us.
We are social animals, our existence depends on empathy and co-operation.

 Isolation, separation and divisive categorization are used to prevent our connection.
2500 years ago  Aesop  said "United we stand, divided we fall".
We have power as individuals, if we link-up , create relationship  and connect with each other, to make change happen. Big change.

Neurodiversity in a neurotypical world

In my mid 30’s  I spent a few years working with autistic children in my local school system. Being at the bottom of the seniority list meant I was often assigned to extremely challenging children, mostly boys. Individuals who were non verbal, epileptic, occasionally violent and frequently if not universally, non conforming. I knew next to nothing beyond what I was presented with, having no university training. I did  however have experience with changing diapers, cleaning up barf and being patient with distraught or seemingly inconsolable children.
I recall one day observing a boy, not in my charge, endlessly pacing the room. He’d snag any food left unattended, was “diagnosed” extremely low functioning autistic and seldom engaged unless compelled to. Someone dropped something near his path and I casually said “pick that up___” and he did. In that moment, I knew I wanted to work with him.
Our seniority system had us bid for our jobs according to seniority so I spoke to the fellow currently responsible for that student, warning him I wanted his job. He was ok with it.
I spent the next year studying everything I could find on autism; from the internet, the library, magazines, whatever I could find. Some of it now I realize was misguided, but I lapped it up with enthusiasm.
My fellow was extremely challenged, he never did speak, although he made sounds. I hoped and worked towards the smallest of accomplishments. Little by little he moved toward adapting to the system.
We worked through a number of strategies and procedures suggested by the teacher and consultants. It was an uphill battle, constantly addressing the expectations of an education plan that was mostly designed to facilitate the needs of the school, attempting to mould or adjust behaviour towards conformity and compliance. It was a lesson for me in how a rigid structure is uncompromising in its need for the individuals to accept and adjust to the socially determined standards. There was little allowance or acknowledgement that this boy’s individuality was something that might possibly have value or relevance. Certainly, now my perspective is more informed and defined.
Which brings me to the point of all this.
My limited experience with autism, Aspergers and disability, however it gets defined, has been validated, inspired and enlightened by a phenomenal and amazing  book  I read  recently.  A history and description of the  diagnosis and odd directions the experts and parents have pursued in order to fully understand what autism is.
For so long many believed it could be cured, that it was caused by a number of external interventions  whether the “iceberg mother” or vaccinations. How Aspergers became one end of the spectrum and  individuals through the years capitalized on their neurodiversity in order to survive and thrive in some cases, in spite of so much discouragement, abuse and alienation.
Today many of these individuals are thriving, making their way through the neurotypical universe. People that find it almost impossible to lie, who tell it like it is and prefer the company of like minded are speaking up, stepping out of the background, writing about their experience and living quite independently. Certainly there are some who will never live away from 24 hour support, but the stigma and prejudices are being eroded. How much better would this world be if we could capitalize on the gifts everyone inherently has instead of constantly comparing and competing, disabling and negating anyone who doesn’t fit within the normal range?
 Isn’t time to throw out that term? What is it and who wants to be normal? We are all exceptional individuals, neurodiverse beings working towards perfection, each in our own way.  Celebrate it!

Nomadic lifestyle of the poor and obscure

I have the  privilege of the ability to travel almost anywhere in the world (repressive regimes and scary violent places notwithstanding).

 My meager pension, hardly enough to survive on in Canada, allows me to live a very rich life here, full of relationship, engagement and contribution.
How is this possible?

As a young man I experienced life as long and challenging. Like many others I struggled through periods of angst and frustration.  There were times I felt isolated, misunderstood and without purpose. “What will I be when I grow up?” and “What is the meaning of (this) life?”.
 My forays into National Geographic, my reading had me question the sedentary life and romanticize the nomadic.
 I spent my youth in the city flanked by the ocean to the west, the Fraser river to the south and the coast mountains looming to the north. There were many opportunities to explore the edges of an amazing, breathtakingly rich and varied environment.
For me though, the city itself was overstimulating, raw, dirty and quite unappealing.  As soon as I was able I crossed the Strait and settled on the Island where I spent most of my adult life, anchored firmly to the land, a shangri la in a country of vast landscapes, beaches, wilderness and fecund farm land.
Why go anywhere else? it was all there, fertile soil, a temperate climate and comfortable lifestyle filled with opportunities for recreation, discourse and discussion with like minded.
  I helped raise  family, grew food, took a job, volunteered in a men’s centre and worked on creating community.
I thought I would never leave.
Often I imagined travelling with my young family to Mexico, across Canada, into the states, but the family grew up and moved on to their own journeys. We  managed a few forays; east, north and south and made an annual pilgrimage to a special beach on the west coast for a number of years.
 At one point, I declared that the Island was big enough  that I could reasonably expect to continually explore it, yet not see it all in my lifetime.
What I realize now was that I was scared. My brief excursion to visit Machu Pichu when I was 21 had threatened my equilibrium. How could I visit or explore another country when I didn’t know what my own looked like? Not to mention being unable to speak the language!
It was easy to make excuses and trap myself in an assumption or a cage of my own making.

The winter of 2010 was the clincher,  heavy snow, a basement suite and a mixed up relationship brought my deepest desires to the surface. I applied for a leave and made the arrangements to finally visit New Zealand.
That broke the pattern. I began to explore the possibility of living in community and  began courting an exceptional woman.

We spent the summer camping , travelling here and there, out to the west coast  and into Arizona.



 In the fall she returned to a project in Tanzania.  When she came back, I went off to spend 3 months exploring New Zealand on my own, and started blogging.
The following year I retired. We  tied up loose ends, discarded or gave away much of our stuff and packed the last of our possessions into storage.



 It was the beginning of a new path for me.




We started by walking the Camino in Spain.  Our agenda, day by day, was to put one foot in front of another, which brought our consciousness truly into the moment.





 That was a few years ago, and I’m finally grown up,  constantly evolving and maturing everyday. I’m volunteering, in service to the greater good, supporting  the creation of community and self empowerment through educating, building with natural materials and intelligent ongoing discourse.
This is a compelling purposeful lifestyle, albeit nomadic and possibly temporary. But that is what is so powerful about it,  it is challenging, stimulating and rewarding. I’ve never been more satisfied or content.

Funeral -redefined

We were invited to a burial this weekend. Not a funeral. The uncle of a close friend,  one of the last of the elders in his family had passed . He had been a big man in the community, well liked  and a significant influence supporting many members of  his village to go on to become educated.
Our friends, the daughters, nephews and cousins went off to the village of Mankwi early in the day to do preparations. A group of us volunteers shared a taxi and made our way off the pavement and into the mountains behind Bafut. The narrow road was dusty with occasional large rocks and a few potholes, squeezing to the side as an occasional taxi or truck roared past.  The views were majestic, through some seemingly unharvested forest, infrequent houses and a great valley falling away below to the mountain across the way,  eroded and scalped by the locals preparing to grow crops once it starts raining again.
Arriving in the village the road was plugged with pedestrians, parked buses and cars. Most folks dressed in their finest clothes, some in ceremonial robes and all the family we knew, wearing one fabric. As well there were choirs and women’s groups also all dressed in a "uniform" of colourful fabric making their way uphill to the church.
 Our friends welcomed us and insisted we head up to the church, along with  the continuous stream of arriving friends and relatives.
There were a few choirs,  the congregation sang,  eulogies and an overflowing building. But no lamentations.
After the service the coffin was driven down to the man’s residence where it was laid to rest in front of the house.
All around people were singing, greeting old friends and sharing food. We were offered the regional favourite Achu; cooked cocoyam with banana, wrapped in banana leaf. Unwrapped, it is spread round and round with flourish then formed into a mini bottomless bowl on the plate.  Yellow “soup” is ladled in and chunks of fish, chicken and/or beef placed beside. Normally eaten with index and pointer fingers much amusement ensues when I ask for a spoon. The spices in the sauce bear further investigation.

While our companions were busy snapping pictures, a parade of family and friends circulated through the room and through the village, meeting and greeting.
Outside we could hear  drums and after eating, walked down to where a dance group were performing surrounded by spectators.

What  a celebration of life! Everyone seemed joyous and friendly, although in the dancing there was occasional aggression and likely symbolic expression: Men shaking sticks and charging the circle of onlookers, occasional passionate arguing and of course the masked dancers posturing spinning, stamping their feet, ankles ringed with rattling seed pods.

No somber looks here, the pleasures of feasting, family reunion and witnessing the growth and maturation of children all speak to a culture focused on life and living.
And libation, the palm wine flowing freely, beer and carbonated sodas, men drinking from their cow horn cups, folks walking by in both directions with cases of beer, soda and jugs of mimbo.
During the dancing men were uncapping bottles and pouring it bubbling onto the ground amid shouts and clapping.
Back in the room where we had eaten, most of the Eco-builder  women's group began dancing with the folks from Betterworld  to the beat of a drummer,  practicing at first, with almost everyone in the room joining in.

I did my best to record their “entrance” weaving in among the celebrants down to the crowd at the main house where another group were dancing, circling the gravesite.






Our group stepped in once the others left. As I  filmed the dancers, everybody laughing singing and  having a good time I was struck by the lack of grief, the sheer exuberance and delight of the crowd. I managed to dance briefly as it wound down.

This was truly a celebration of life, the impact and deeply created connections of one man in community. It was inspiring. That’s what I want to happen when I go, no funeral for me,  instead family and friends celebrating the joy and appreciation for how well I lived my life.

making bread and ovens

I have been making bread for a few years, I love the sensual feel of spongy dough, hanging off my hand working it’s way toward edibility with my help and the intervention of a hot oven.
The construction of dough via the cultivation of yeast is a topic in itself. Combinations of ingredients coming together to be transformed into something that will support peanut butter and honey or cheese,  salami and pickles. The final process of converting those raw ingredients, albeit some chemical changes, depending on one’s process, into a firm and solid product that, not infrequently, elicits praise and acknowledgment.
From the idea to the physical takes some work. I grew up with an oven in the house. Almost everywhere I’ve lived there has been one attached to a stove, sometimes a separate entity mounted on the wall or a table top model. And my therapeutic spiritual practise has been supported by the punching, kneading and smacking down smartly of various incarnations and combinations of ingredients in dough form, manifesting eventually into generally delicious bread.
Since embarking on a nomadic life in the African countries I have found it necessary to create the reality myself, and with help, building ovens to satisfy my desire to make, bake and eat decent bread.
I will not attempt to define or describe what constitutes “decent bread” but I will say there is not much if any of it available here.
Through the inspiration of my partner Elke, we have been exploring the possibilities of decreasing incidence of smoke inhalation, deforestation and  increasing fuel efficiency by showing local folks how to build earth stoves . Ovens just seem to be the next step! In Mnenia Tanzania at the Amarula Campsite I made my first African Pizza.

Elke has built a few ovens and with a little of my help and the community women’s groups in each location we’ve constructed them using the local clay earth, sand and empty glass bottles. Creating a stable base is primary, we used  native stone dry stacked and covered with cob. Once it dries a base of sand is laid level and the bottles placed so as to create the most insulation possible under the floor.

Covered with sand then cob and tile, bricks or furnace refractory stone (if you can get it!) to make a smooth floor in the oven. After we pile wet sand on into a large mound, cover with paper then more cob.

 Later we put another layer over of insulating cob, a mix of 50% sawdust that creates a good barrier for holding in the heat.

 Once the cob is dry we cut out the door shape remove the sand and make a chimney directly above the doorway. It actually gets two doorways, one to shut the heat in for baking and an outer metal door for when we  fire the chamber.

I like to make the dough the night before, punch it down a few times and then while the fire burns prepare any other things I’m cooking.
It takes about 4 hours of hot fire to get good stored heat. Some folks build a fire the day before to create a residual bank of heat within, then another on the day of baking.
When it seems ready, the wood reduced to charcoal, I scrape out the remaining coals and as much ash as possible then wipe the floor with a very wet cloth. Gloves are good and long handles on the tools. The heat is intense.

 The first pizza was done in 10 minutes and burnt around the edges!
We baked 8 that night back to back with a small loaf laid  directly on the floor,  in between,  near the end and a birthday cake once the heat was diminished somewhat.
Once everyone had had enough we rolled out the remaining dough,  spread the pizza sauce on then rolled and cut to make pizza rolls for breakfast. I took them out before going to bed. In the morning put them back in covered to warm.
I  had brought a bundt pan from Germany for cakes. It worked well for cinnamon rolls, 8 in a circle, they rose up nicely. During the previous week in town we checked out a number of second hand stores, lots of blenders dishes and pots but almost no baking dishes. We did manage to find a small cookie sheet. Now I’m  looking for bread pans. I’ve seen them near the main market made of aluminum.. not my favourite. So now every time we go out to Ndanifor Permaculture Ecovillage I’ll be baking, cinnamon rolls, mixed grain bread and the occasional cake… Come for tea!

Reflections on Christmas in Bamenda 2015

I find it hard to reconcile the Christmas traditions of my North American upbringing with the reality of tropical Cameroon. There are signs and indications; Christmas carols blasted out from bars or loud speakers on passing trucks from early in the morning starting December 1st, an occasional synthetic Christmas tree parked at the roadside and young vendors walking the streets with baskets of those shiny mylar Chinese folded garlands and decorations in red green and yellow. I even spotted a cluster of those trees beside a gas station like an imitation tree lot without the snow or the camper and fence to prevent thefts. I don’t miss the grand push to purchase piles of corporate generated frivolity, the over the top commercialization and excessive advertising, the implied guilt and expectation to provide everyone I know with something.
I do miss my family, opportunities to connect, eating meals together, making cookies and other treats with children. Sitting together talking late into the night about what is important and how to make a difference in the world. The change of seasons surprisingly (or maybe not) was always a marker of time passing. Here the marker is the end or beginning of dry season. This year it came early and there were no grasshoppers. A tasty treat lightly fried, I’d come to associate them with Christmas.
The solstice came and went, the only noticeable indication the location of the rising sun now as far south as it will go.
And this is marriage season, who wants a wedding reception out in the rain? To celebrate, fireworks are set off, great flashes of light accompanied by sparkles and  concussions of sound reverberating  across the  city. Not only do they go all night long but for some reason they continue during the day, hardly visible even without the haze from the harmattan, dust from the Sahara. It looks like mist or fog, I half expect it to rain… wishful thinking.
The pictures of snowy mountains, trees lit up and decorated on the internet do bring a sense of nostalgia to me, but I prefer to be warm and not participate in the consumer frenzy.
We managed to speak with number of family members through the magic of internet technology, but the cookies are a challenge. Few ovens here and the ingredients are not so available.
Still we have found community and context - dinner with a local family who’ve “adopted” us.  Their newly occupied house, still unfinished, a construction site, but they are home. The opportunity to read a story to the youngest member of the family was grounding. The book, a Canadian  gift from me to him.
I found something deeply satisfying about that, sharing of myself, sitting together reading out loud. This is what  I believe is at the essence of the celebration for me, through food and drink, connecting, reminiscing making plans for the future, enjoying the present of the moment.

The Fon's dance

Once a year the Fon (King or traditional leader) of Bafut hosts an amazing cultural festival the Bafut “Abin”. We have attended now 3 times and this year I danced. Finally!
 The official invitation  includes lunch with the Fon held on a grassy meadow below a massive tree to the left of the museum. At the top of the stairs to the museum, a guard let us through the gate. Chairs were spread along the stone fence overlooking the parade grounds and parking where the dance would take place. We arrived well after the stated start time and waited patiently for his highness, and everyone else to appear.
 When the Fon appears everyone  must stand, till he is seated, and the same when he leaves, till he’s out of sight. He sat flanked by his retainers in their tie dyed indigo ceremonial cloth “skirts”, shirtless, each holding a  2 metre spear.

To his right facing us (sort of, he was behind a small tree) dignitaries are placed according to some formula. Most of them know not to arrive too early, some managing to arrive as they were called up to eat into the serving line.
We sat in the shade, under a canopy till it was our turn to be called up.  The Princesses in traditional attire walked past and an almost endless procession of robed and hatted elites, relatives and invitees arrived. Beer was the chief liquid refreshment although there were also a variety of flavoured  bottled bubbling beverages available.
We were entertained by a local photographer tour guide, who found us to be interesting subjects dressed as we were in traditional clothing. This year I intentionally left my camera behind. Last year I spent most of the event staring through the viewfinder or at the display screen, attempting to capture the pageantry, sumptuous fabrics and embroidery  swirling around me.
It was not so bad at the festival, but I’ve experiencing some challenges taking pictures. The locals never seem to have an issue but my white face brings out resistance and demands for payment.

A number of familiar faces drifted by and we greeted and were greeted ourselves by old acquaintances and friends. This is a well attended opportunity to see and be seen, an annual gathering of the tribes. Family groups, dance groups and the like wearing similar fabrics, designating that they were representing some faction of the populace.
Once lunch was done we stepped out to sit together in one of the local bars while the traditional rites took place. Outside a continuous parade of brightly coloured robes and dresses passed by in the bright sunlight. A vendor came in and I bought a(nother!) hat. I’d noticed most men had a new one each year, so…
I spotted a group going past with swords, spears and bows and arrows so we finished our beers and wandered back through the throng. The crowd was growing, the bandstand full. We positioned ourselves in front of the sacred drum and watched a group slowly make it’s way towards us from the palace, beating drums and playing flutes.
The Fon and the Mayor stood out and blasted away with shotguns,

then the first group came chanting, brandishing weapons and posturing  to stand in front of the Fon and his party. The point of it all is to show they are fierce enough to protect and support the Fondom from attack. Pledging allegiance. But this year no other guns were fired and there were fewer groups or quarters represented.
And then the Fon  began leading a group of notables in the beginning of the dance. He made a small circuit, then sat down to watch. The drummers had maintained their rhythm and moved in closer to the centre.

As the Princesses passed by in a long line  sweeping their horse hair fly wisks in time with the beat, other folks tagged on. I was grooving to the beat and it just seemed natural to step in and follow along, with my cane in hand. The woman ahead of me was impressed and guided me through as we circled in a long oval past the spectators ringing the procession. Numerous cameras and cellphones caught me as I slowly shuffled along. As we approached the shrine she told me to face it as we danced past.
 As I passed the royal party, first the mayor and then the Fon , along with a number of dignitaries,  acknowledged me with raised fists or canes. I was able to respond in kind by lifting my cane.

After 3 or 4 passes both my guide and I were done and  we melted back into the crowd. As best I could anyway, being one of about 9 white faces in a sea of Bafut Cameroonians.
An incredible spectacle, I felt like a Bafut man dancing with the people.