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.

Instability

Nov 25
It’s back to normal here, honking taxis, the flash of reflected light down in the market, crowds of shoppers, children playing nearby and a couple of falcons wheeling and soaring above.
I spent part of the morning walking through town past the piles of charcoaled coils of wire pushed off the road, blackened pavement where the fires had been. Most of the evidence cast aside and contributing to the general debris at the side of the roads. In a few places piles of garbage mounting, smelling of course.
At the main intersections, police pick-ups, some with bored soldiers sitting in the shade under the vinyl covers, cradling their rifles. I had occasional glimpses of camouflage dressed militia here and there, walking the streets in pairs. In front of every cash machine a long line-up of people.
The vendors are busy, stores open for business, crowds around the women hawking fruit and vegetables beside the market. Young boys and older men trundling loads of firewood in their two wheeled carts.
We hear from locals that there will be a protest march on Monday. The last one here in Bamenda was “moved” to Buea so not much happened while we were gone to the farm. Some cleanup I imagine. Removing the piles of burnt tires, broken up phone kiosks and the hulk of a car off the road.
The protesters needing an outlet for their frustrations, piled tires and whatever else they could find, onto the roads across the city, setting them on fire to limit the mobility of the military.

 The response was, in my mind both pathetic and provocative. Various extensions of the military (so many  to account for and all their signs in French) racing up and down the roads randomly firing either tear gas or smoke bombs (I didn’t see anyone in tears or suffering) into the neighbourhoods, whether there were people assembled or not…! Like boys with big toys, showing off their firepower.
The helicopter surveillance (they seem to have only one) filled the air the day before we escaped with it’s noxious noise, circling the town wending it’s way across the landscape monitoring whatever.
After 50+ years of inaction and stonewalling the Anglophones are fed up. The president in power for more than 30 years appears to spend more time in luxury hotels outside the country than in. Sounds like the definition of absentee landlord living off the avails. He’s worth a fair chunk of change from funnelling monies received for the country into various offshore accounts. It helps support his playboy son heir-apparent in this fiasco. At least according to what I’ve heard.
There is talk of secession. When the British gave up their rule here, there were two Cameroons and most of the country determined that unity was the best option. That sentiment remains only on the French side now. There has been a constant erosion of rights and privileges, installations of government officials who don’t speak English and general ignoring of the desire for dialogue.
For us temporary residents, it was disturbing, anxiety raising and unpleasant; breathing in the smoke from burning tires (our  floors were covered in the dust, and this is with all windows and doors closed) random gunshots and people scattering whenever a military vehicle approached. Their laughter,  seen from my perspective, either nervous or disdainful.

 I had no desire to be stuck in civil war or any kind of violent  confrontation. That night the streets were uncharacteristically silent.
 Our driver had been unable to get past a barrier the day before so when we heard that something might happen we arranged for a quick getaway early in the morning.
Out at the farm it was quite peaceful, only a few passes overhead from the helicopter, birds singing and a beautiful star filled sky. We spent a couple of nights there, did some work on the stoves, some cultivation, chopped firewood and talked with the neighbours. Their perspective was we should not worry, nothing would come from it and everything soon back to normal, so we returned. It was ironic to be happy to hear the sounds of a busy city as we drifted off to sleep.
Monday? maybe back to the farm. And if things really get nasty? Already making plans to leave the country. But only if necessay.

Departing Douala

Our exodus from Douala Cameroon began with a taxi ride to another hotel. Douala is at the mouth of the Wouri river and is the major port for the country. Development has not kept up with growth and the once ample bridge built in the 1950’s is now a bottleneck. Construction on a new replacement is underway slated for completion in 2019 according to our driver. It towers over the existing structure which carries a rail line down the middle doubling as a passing lane although I doubt if much rail traffic crosses the bridge. During mornings and evenings it can take an hour or more to get across so during a lull we changed hotels.
The fellow pulling our luggage into the room said there was an early bus, that left at 8 so to get there by 6. We accordingly set our alarm and were ready to go before any breakfast (or especially coffee) was available. The driver misunderstood our request, taking us to an unfamiliar, complete war zone of a “bus station” Certainly there were structures masquerading as terminals, decrepit booths  with little roof and less seating. On top of which, at that hour, no one was selling tickets. The rain in the night had filled every pot hole and depression which along with months of garbage, refuse and discards made for a fragrant and unappetizing  prospect to walk through. The amused patrons of the stand we arrived at offered no suggestions. So we commandeered another taxi to take us to the “early bus” stand.
Arriving at the now familiar bus stand it was almost impossible to enter due to the narrow entrance and dedicated taxi drivers, motorcycles and pedestrians streaming in and out. Mayhem barely describes it. Elke alighted to go purchase tickets while our driver jockeyed with the other drivers and entrance guards. He managed to convince them to let him in to disgorge me and the luggage then quickly escaped. After dragging our bags under cover, I stood watching while the line slowly inched forward. It was a long line. Snaking from inside where patrons were seated on benches and shuffled forward as tickets were purchased back again on itself reaching around the roof supports and a pile of luggage, well past the building and onto the “sidewalk” behind.
Out in the yard taxis continued arriving  with more passengers. Trucks and buses came and went backing up slowly with liberal use of the horn as the motorcycles and pedestrians negotiated around the moving vehicles with little concern. Aplomb I believe it is.
A couple of women came up to us who had been at the previous bus “terminal” where tickets were apparently sold out. An explanation for the chaos was soon forthcoming… school start on Monday so everywhere families and children are returning. By 11 o’clock when our bus finally pulled out they had filled three and were working on the fourth.

Adapting to circumstance

Aug 31
I’m conflicted,  but not convicted or convinced. Faced with internal  contradictions and dilemmas. I’m in cognitive dissonance with what I believe to be truth in this moment.  My emotional response tells me, “it aint so” yet the words I’ve been saying, the line I’ve been spouting is something quite different.
I AM a chameleon in spite of my ethical challenge to embrace it. To be so adamant or (dare I say it?) convinced of the apparent truth in the moment. As much as I said I was not looking forward to returning,  I cannot deny that right now,  I am enthralled, excited and definitely looking forward to my return to Africa.
My time away has brought up many feelings.  Big enjoyment and appreciation for the familiar terrain, friends, family and the pleasures of excellent bread, fine wine, good beer and (almost legal) cannabis. In Europe even better beer and bread, fantastic public transit, mature and adult attitudes to lifestyle, personal choice and intellectual stimulation.
But, there is something incredibly compelling about the experience of being in Africa. Granted I’ve a narrow perspective- 3 countries do not a continent make… (Excluding North America where the vast geography of both USA and Canada consist of numerous regions and differences that are in actuality  different cultures). That aside, I’m anticipating with pleasure, my return, now that I am here, committed, on the plane, in the air. Yes!  In spite of all the complaints and hesitations, the discussions of challenges, contradictions and frustrations I expressed with friends and to myself.
 It’s an exciting and compelling  place to be, I haven’t personally found much boredom or apathy. The only thing I might take for granted is that nothing is as it seems. Decisions and choices are often immediate, although sometimes I’ve had to wait and wait for results. There are many old patterns well entrenched but I’ve experienced  a climate of potential, change and transformation  that can alter the obsolete or ineffective with  a fusion of new and old ideas.
The paradox is entertaining. This old dog can learn some new tricks. Keeping my mind and options open I accept the possibilities. The well entrenched structures of my heritage, birth country and culture provide a foundation of knowledge I can potentially apply where ever I go. I’m unlimited to some extent, able to improvise, advise and learn from the circumstances and various environments I find myself in. Perhaps because it is so different to my Northern/Western experience that I’m able to reinvent myself without restraint (personal limitations notwithstanding!)
I didn’t expect this. My feeling was subdued and sad, disturbed and hesitant, somewhat fearful of leaving the comforts and pleasures I had slipped back into so easily. I see that that makes me adaptable and resilient, able to go with the flow and be comfortable where ever.
Thankfully I can change to meet the situation, enjoy the process and that works for me. Bring it on!

Flying again..almost

I missed my flight. Arrived as it was leaving the terminal. After inserting my passport and a machine telling me I was too late, I suddenly realized my mistake. An addled and complacent brain had  associated 18:40 with 8:40 pm and I was quite out of luck. The sense of shock, vulnerability and disappointment was overwhelming, but my need to continue my journey pushed through this cognitive lapse towards a solution. My phone skills are not enhanced by a lack of hearing due to ongoing peripheral neuropathy, but I managed to extract another booking from the agent, while on hold I contemplated their advertising and muzak, the clock ticking on my limited airtime.
On a scale of traumatic incidences this barely deserves mention. I however felt devastated and impotent, out of synch with reality, ungrounded and adrift. Life goes on as usual, the skytrain whisks us all towards our destinations, the masses of people filing in and out on their way to whatever, where ever. I remained in this state of disbelief and disconnection for some time. Cancelling my train passage across Germany and booking a flight instead. Money talks. My previous obligations and agreements needing to be honoured and met.
 There is, for me, some security and well being, a sense of gravity or grounding in place when I am feeling safe and confident. This shook me deeply. I had made a mistake in calculation and by doing so lost my compass, my sense of knowing or taking for granted what I knew was up and relevant. And I was mistaken! Is this what losing one’s way is like? Dementia or Alzheimer’s? Scary to contemplate being unable to design my own path, control my destiny.  However, I was reminded on reflection of the impact living in a war zone might be like. Constantly aware of impending doom, drone strikes coming out of an empty blue sky. My troubles pale in comparison.
 I have a ticket out of here thanks to the good will of the airline and possibly my entreaties on the phone. No extra financial cost incurred as far as I can tell. So I will continue, a day later. Not much disrupted except for my mental state which once I’m in the air I assume will settle down and level off as I attempt to sleep on this redeye across the Atlantic. No point in sitting beside the window. Travel may broaden the mind but this modern age has us herded like sheep, willingly entering a mechanism that takes us anywhere on the planet. As long as we follow the rules. Always at the mercy of circumstance and our ability to pay. I do feel at times out of integrity with much of the population by my carbon footprint when I fly.
The complexity of it all is almost  beyond comprehension. Actually for me it is beyond comprehension. The number of people employed, all their jobs, technology and organization it takes to get me through security, immigration, booking flights and arranging ground transport reflect upon a massive structure supporting an even larger culture. This has been enlightening and scary, how easily I’m trapped into routine and ignore my sense of scale or context of the bigger picture. I get caught up in my stuff and lose track of the essential nature of paying attention. Mindfulness. Be there or lose your way eh?

July24
Travel broadens the mind. but anticipation drives the bus. Maybe. Some parts of travel are wonderful, vistas and obscure or unique examples of ancient architecture, foreign foliage, magnificent beaches and awe inspiring waterfalls are all a turn-on for me. I love the costumes or local dress of different cultures and sometimes the variety of food choices. Peoples attitudes and understandings, family dynamics  and governance are occasionally challenging to my preconceptions. They are part of why travel is so satisfying. Being in the moment, experiencing  difference and diversity. I thrive on variety and novelty.
Perhaps my age is showing, but the actual moving around is harder. I am continually asked to squeeze myself into taxis, sharing the seat in front or back till I’m jammed tight against the shifter or the doorhandles. Worse though is contemplating getting on a bus that might break down before we get there. Sometimes I have a non refundable ticket for a flight out of the country.
The busses are  often so crammed with passengers that the aisles are full of standees. The roof loaded so high it looks top heavy. Drivers who seem to believe fate is on their side hurtling around corners  and  passing on hill approaches. Passing upside down buses in the ditch or burned out hulks at the side of the road re-enforce my apprehension.
 I sat in the back a few times when we were unable to secure seats up front. Every bump magnified, throwing me skyward into the ceiling. My legs are usually jammed up against the seat in front, or splayed so wide anyone sitting beside me is sitting on my lap.
I hold my biggest fear for flight though. Consciously, willingly I enter a narrow a cigar of aluminum to surrender to a person I don’t know or usually see, much less meet, who proceeds to accelerate down a track lifting us into the sky at speeds beyond my comprehension. The takeoff is mostly smooth as we leave the earth pointed skyward.  I hold my breath, close my eyes and pray to whatever force available to make it successful.
My fear diminishes once airborne, the inflight goings-on a great distraction till it’s time to land. If the person in front of me is resting with seat tilted back, they are resting on my knees. Getting in and out is a balancing act wedging myself back in. I’m unable to make out dialogue through the supplied earbuds so I usually read: whatever is at hand or my own supplies, till I’m bored out of my skull. Sleeping is almost impossible. I drift off, jerking awake continually, legs cramping, back aching and neck in a permanent spasm.
 When the meals arrive they are welcome diversion no matter how they taste. Then getting to the toilet,  an opportunity to block the aisle as the stewards pick up remains. Standing a welcome relief; walking as much as is possible in the limited space. So many of my fellow passengers are comatose; watching the movies, listening to music or asleep.
Landing is deadly. That scorch- sound as the tires touch the pavement, the jolt and shudder as the plane settles onto terra firma is both welcome and terrifying.
 Security and customs, long lineups, usually unfriendly officials and the baggage lottery is anti-climatic in the extreme. Into the next conveyance, then arrival at my destination for recovery from the time zone difference  and respite till the next excursion.
It's all worth it though, meeting wonderful people and enjoying the gifts of this amazing world I have seen so little of... so far.

These are NOT rhetorical questions

I have feared and believed all my life in an upcoming chaos, whether climate change, nuclear winter or some form of armageddon. Fuelled by the media and the obvious disregard of the populace for each other. Too many examples of racism and sexism, perpetrations of violence, abuse of privilege and manipulation of circumstance to fleece the unwary; much of humanity really doesn’t care about individuals. They are expendable, “collateral damage”, the consequence of generalized disregard. I’m aware there are individuals, groups, communities of people practicing empathy, charity and support for the oppressed. But why are people oppressed in the first place? Why do some segments of society choose to place themselves above? What is it about destruction that is so seductive? Why is it that individuals will abuse their power in order to control, manipulate and profit off of the death of others?
     This is not a new story, it’s not even news.  It is assumed and expected that some will profit while others suffer and ultimately die in the service of those profits. Slavery in all forms is abhorrent  (to me) yet flourishes across the globe in many manifestations. Every situation of it demands a disregard for the basic human rights of the enslaved individual. Who are these people? What drives them to treat members of their own community as subservient or beneath contempt? What expectations do they have about where this will eventually lead? 

     I’ve read enough dystopian scenarios to imagine just about anything is possible. The utopian scenarios are generally structured around naive assumptions about co-operation, a lack of of need or desire for personal profit, a collapse of caste and political hierarchy. I don’t see much movement in those directions.
     Where is this all going? What happens if this massive climate scenario levels the field? 

     What do we need to  survive? My own concerns have me focussed on developing skills I feel best further and support actual community involvement: Open lines of communication, awareness of dangerous or threatening situations, observation of the immediate environment, individual responses and my own response/reaction to stimuli. Low level technology; growing and processing food and fibre, building from natural material, developing personal networks and creating resilient community.
    As I am living a nomadic existence my ability to be grounded is conditional on, firstly, my own self consciousness, then, who I connect with locally. My sense of safety or security is always dependent on, again, my own self awareness, my ability to be resilient and adaptable to circumstance. These are positive actions in the face of possible disruption.
     Whether the political structures around me are friendly or not, it is with the local people that my possibilities exist. Maintaining, sustaining and encouraging relationship based on sharing empathy and mutual success go furthest. No one has a monopoly on knowledge much less wisdom. Losing my arrogance and rescue mentality creates trust faster than a belief in any expertise I might have. As a visitor /stranger I seldom have  much understanding of local issues, environmental anomalies or specific concerns. I bring my own and they often need to be put aside in order for me to become part of the community.
      In the beginning I thrust myself as fully as possible into the challenges I see. I make efforts to engage where I’m encouraged, tentatively investigating where I’m not and doing all the research I can in order to support the creation, movement and expansion of consciousness within the organization, community and society. 

     My reality though is to not engage fully,  not to be absorbed. I will always be an outsider, different, and this brings up a number of conflicts or dilemmas.
     Eventually the fear of, or resistance to, change  begins to provide friction. What do I have actually that is of value? What can I learn here? Why should I expect anyone to embrace whatever I have to offer when everything they know has been working for them so far? And my culture, my  heritage, is essentially responsible for the continued destruction of the environment, abuse and exploitation of people across the globe. What credibility do I have ultimately?
     I’m transient, offering what knowledge I have, sharing my stories, relating human to human, getting to know the people I meet, learning what they are willing to share. I gain from this, I believe they do too and the world is a little brighter for it.

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.

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!