Still walking

Walking is our default option for mobility. This weekend we watched Artur Mikes, a 15 month old inquisitive, smiling little bundle of energy make his way around the circling porch of his home. Trucking along with and without my finger grasped firmly in his hand. He would falter, trip and pick himself up consitently without complaint.

 Into the garden, down pathways, back and forth, in and out of the kitchen. Occasionally he reverted to a crawl working his way to his dad or mom then standing, motioning with his hands and spouting incomprehensible syllables.

I felt like I was at the other end of that cycle.
After walking in to their home, a farm tucked in between forest and pasture in the mountains of  North West Cameroon I was beat and almost mute.


Halfway there, Louis, our friend from Bafut offered to take my backpack. No hesitation, I handed it over.
 We’d been climbing up a rutted slope after picking our way across two log bridges traversing the stream at the bottom of a ravine.
The cattle and the rain had made the ground like inconstant corduroy, deeply eroded channels all aimed downhill. Or uphill which is where we were going. These “trails” are erratic, narrow and occasionally slippery. I was using my cane and it often slipped, throwing my already compromised balance off. The grassy pasture, a bright green from recent rains was tufted and steep making for tough going even without the pack. However, the view was spectacular. These are the mountains in the North East we can see from our apartment in Bamenda and it was clear enough to see all the way back there.
 All around was lush growth, blooming trees, shrubs and bulbs.With hardly a cloud, the sun beat down. The shade was  welcome as we circled the mountain, following the cow paths and “road” where we met a herd of cows accompanied by both younger and elder herders.

That part of the trail is completely pedestrian, the steep slopes and erosion make it impassable even for motorbikes. Crossing another watercourse stepping from rock to rock we climbed again. through deeply eroded banks up onto a grass verge. It was startlingly green, bright and fresh like some vast pasture anywhere in the world. Off to the right were small earth brick houses, laundry hung brightly on the fence.

Here we were joined by 3 young boys who accompanied us and themselves by singing loudly as we walked into the forest along a better maintained road.The large trees and thick bush provided  cooling shade and we soon arrived at Martin and Jella Mikes’ homestead.

After a short rest and refreshment we toured the property. Martin is passionate about protecting the forest and has planted over 15,000 trees up the mountain on the property he stewards. His tree nursery has thousands more germinating and filling poly pots.

 He’s also passionate about permaculture  and organic gardening, growing wheat, irish (potatoes), cabbage, onions and carrots. What they can’t grow they trade with neighbours making them almost community sufficient.
Nearby there is a group of chimpanzees living in what remains of the primal forest. Part of why Martin and Jella are here is to advocate and protect the habitat for these remaining animals. The local herders are more interested in burning the vegetation away to make more pasture… Cattle are their life blood. Their economies are based on having large herds and somewhere to graze them.
The local forestry officials seem less than committed to protection and there have been constant struggles with officialdom navigating the bureaucracies. But after 8 years the Mikes’ interest seems hardly diminished and much has been accomplished. Chickens, goats and 3 types of fish in their pond, compost piles producing mulch and dark soil growing healthy vegetables. A well established herb garden and a number of round earth block buildings , water systems and a school for the local children. Unfortunately at this time the school has been closed.
Oh to be young again, with this knowledge and experience….
We had brought some bratwurst from the Helping Hands Butcher shop and with a substantial salad of homegrown veggies had a satisfying supper.

The light faded, the clouds rolled in (literally!) and were in the fog and deep damp.







In the morning after breakfast and some conversation, Elke and Louis built a rocket stove cooker in the  kitchen. Martin had blocks already made and it was together in very little time. I did my best to record the process, It is entertaining how everyone gets in the way of the camera, especially those actually building!

Their previous cooking arrangement involved 3 stones and very large pieces of constantly smouldering wood, so this was a revelation. But also a major adjustment from big stuff to small, twigs and branches. I sensed some resistance from the cook, it will take some time and experience to win her over. The design needed adjustments as well, we are all still learning but it is an improvement in air quality and safety.






Our stay was short, we’d arranged for our taxi to pick us up at 3 so after lunch cooked on both 3 stones and the new cooker, we walked out, accompanied by Jella with Artur on her back. At the rutted field we said goodbye and made our descent into the narrow valley recrossing the stream, clambering up the other side, then back along the road, past horses in the fields and walkers hauling sacks of groceries to their homes. Onto a better road where fellows were falling great eucalyptus trees, slicing them up into timber and boards. Up the steep hillside some women called out us as they stopped their harvesting and hoeing in the terraced farm. Motorcycles passed us carrying massive sacks of NjamaNjama; what they call Huckleberry-  Black Nightshade leaves-Solanum nigra- for sale in town.
Eventually we arrived at the paved road leading  east to Ndop or  back to Bamenda. I had managed the backpack every step of the way. Tired but satisfied. I’m not over the hill yet.
  After purchasing a few items from the vendors congregating along the road we found ourselves a seat in a Mimbo bar and grill and sheltered from the rain. Good timing! Eric our driver came along and we were on our way home. (More pictures on my Facebook page!)

A Water Catchment Project

In my volunteer work I’ve chosen to use my growing photography skills to document some of the events and occurrences for Better World Cameroon. At the moment we are focussed on  a water catchment project.
From a small trickle of sweet and dependable water that we were  barely able to access, the eventual intention is to have it filtered, contained and then pumped up to the kitchen and dormitory. As Ndanifor Permaculture Ecovillage is meant to be a community resource and learning centre, the local Regent of Bawum was approached and he pledged the community’s support.
 Every mutanibaa ( the day after country Sunday, a community work day) one “quarter” of Bawum (one of the Fondoms within Bafut) sends a group of folks to help.  Both women and men bring hoes, shovels and cutlass to clear land, dig and clear mud from the channel as we slowly approach the source of our spring.
 The major thrust of work has been at the end of the dry season. Our intention, as project leader Joram Shu has stated, is to get below the water table, deep into the earth where the water source appears to be.
The first week’s group of people worked long and hard, from a muddy track on the surface to a ditch a metre and half deep more than 50 metres long descending into the valley bottom. Through topsoil down into a grey clay that had building manager Elke Cole expressing interest for plaster.

The women pulled muddy slop downhill continuously, opening up the channel while at the head of the excavation the men burrowed into the hillside, deeper and deeper.

Strong young (and occasionally older) men lifted great, wet slabs of clay up and over their heads onto the edge of the ditch, There someone would either pick it up by hand, hoe or shovel and throw it onto an ever increasing pile.
The second week we had women carrying large rocks down for the filter bed and cistern, on their heads, and in their arms. Young men had brought wheelbarrow loads of sand and gravel anticipating the eventual creation of each piece of the system. However the digging continued. After cutting right at 90 degrees chasing the water our flow had increased to 4+ litres a minute.
This week the flow from the  right hand turn had diminished and seemed to be coming directly below a raffia palm.

With more excavation, the channel deepened and the flow increased. Everyone in the ditch, now over two metres deep near the source, comes out covered in grey slip.

After 3 sessions of hanging about the edge I felt it was time to take my camera into the heart of the experience. Most of the community had left so I knew I wouldn’t be getting in the way.
Unfortunately, lacking experience and having a large lapse in judgement, I neglected to note the depth of mud, the narrowness of the ditch,  and the risk to the camera. I did manage to get some footage, grey walls grazing the lens, as I slowly sank deeper and deeper into the soft and grasping clay, one foot disappearing almost to my knee. No purchase on the sheer and slippery walls.

Unwilling to proceed and get both legs swallowed up, I had a hard time turning myself in the canyon like passage. Extracting the one foot while maintaining balance meant the camera made contact with the wall.Yuck! Covered almost completely in grey clay slip I pulled myself out and lay the camera in the sun, while I went for cleaner water to at least wash my hands.




From now on I’ll remain the observer. I have some footage, interviews and a record of the progress. When the project is completed I intend to create a video. It will be a celebration and acknowledgement of community involvement and support in the creation of natural resources; human and environmental. Offering possibilities for the community.

Follow the progress in the Facebook album

Castles... on the ground

In the relatively old culture of Europe  the countryside is peppered with castles. Many in various stages of repair, ruin or restoration. Unlike the ones of many fairytales, they are cold and draughty looking edifices, squared off and clunky looking. The walls are thick and windows small. Some have been converted into museums, many in their restoration become the destinations of tourism propping up dying towns. As industry dries up,  folks are migrating to the cities.
 I recall the first one I saw, from the train, on my first foray into the German countryside. High up on a ridge, towers of stone starkly silhouetted against the sky. Decrepit and crumbling, the remains of some kingdom now irrelevant to the day to day down below in the well established village.
 The hillside overgrown and thick with trees almost swallowing the structure.
 Later that day we arrived at the geographic centre of Germany and spent the night in a hotel attached to the castle where Martin Luther had penned his Protestant bible, eventually uniting most of the country in one language and faith. At least temporarily.

 Wartburg castle, restored and filled with artifacts and artwork overlooks a vast expanse of terrain.
Useful when guarding against marauders of all stripes.


  Fascinating to imagine what life was like then, the landscape barely populated among great stands of ancient forests, the remnants of which were still visible.





My flights of fancy around happy ever after did not take into account the endless firewood need to heat those massive high ceilinged structures, the need to have water and the dependance on local food production necessary for feeding everyone employed, plus the royal family.

In Finland we  entered a large inner courtyard of a castle fortess. The walls rose to 3 stories, balconies surrounding. Up many flights of stairs into a large number of rooms on different floors some not connected to others. A real maze of a building. I was impressed to  find a brick toilet high up in one corner. Freshly restored but only for display.









During our extended time in Germany we stayed near a well restored relatively  modern example, Schloss Blankenhain, it’s grounds dedicated to the preservation of early agriculture. A yearly festival celebrates the (almost) lost art of basket weaving along with seasonal agriculture, art and craft based tours. It didn’t look like a castle to me though!

The crenellated towers and spires of the churches in the Catholic world in Spain seemed more like my original fantasy of what a castle should look like.









In the north they are blocky buildings built of whatever stone is at hand, excavated out of the mountain or, if unsuitable, brought up from elsewhere likely on the backs of beasts of burden or sledded by serfs.

When stone wasn't available or too expensive they were built of brick. Layers and layers  4 or 5 deep in order to withstand the force of gravity or occasional cannon balls. Every so often one can see where weather, poor mortar or cannon balls have opened up a wall exposing the inner structure.

Meanwhile the romance of living in one still beckons. In Bavaria we visited a converted castle/hotel, the Schloss Blumental, where folks have established an intentional community.
They have a small restaurant, a theatre and huge gardens outside the castle proper. Inside, walkways, playgrounds and a seasonal beer garden (they make their own). Many buildings still being renovated/restored, but the stables now house offices and workshops.

So much effort was put into creating these massive structures, it seems a shame not to maintain and re-establish the sense or actual community they supported once upon a time. With an egalitarian, survivalist focus, embracing some traditional wisdom along with sustainable principles and practices they could be the life boats and islands of success we may need as the future unfolds.

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.