Epistle 27

 

My friend     01312022

Much has emerged during the past few hours. After heavy downpour yesterday, this morning we have patches of blue sky and sunshine. I drove the car for the first time in a month to visit a Dr. and jaywalked successfully. Small towns are good for that.

A change in perspective has been encouraging as well. Who would have thought the simple act of 'signing' a pledge on some random website could solidify and resolve the already fertile ground of my mind. Commitment is like that! The Children's Fire.

Last evening I applied to a fellowship I was offered by email.

The process was inspiring and enlightening, I sent it out to contacts who might be working towards alternative possibilities. I feel a strong sense of foundation in the principle or law or basic understanding that humanity/me and everyone else could hold sacred  both women/womyn and all those birthed, including the trees and herbs, mushrooms, landscapes, mountains and water. How many times will it need to be said that we are all related until it lands? Until it is understood and acted from.

Our acting out, 'mental disturbances' rage and suicide, rape and addictions are symptoms of disconnection. All this 'structure' around us, The military industrial complex managing systems; running supply chains of goods and services, employing thousands of people in a self perpetuating spiral into entropy and oblivion as we ravish the planet in a cannabilistic orgy of chaotic ignorance. Sad.

I find hard not to write about this travesty, I have skin in the game as they say and this conversation allows me to fine tune my thinking and understanding. Creating possibilities for articulating relevant wisdom to share from gleanings and experience.

There is within us all, one thing.

A desire to participate in the living of life.

 A child is born into whatever circumstance, surrounded by various related characters, or not, plus all the inherent cultural and environmental constructs of the period that soul/spirit manifests currently. Whatever shore that seed washes up on, however it became fertile and germinated, it wants to thrive. To mature and bear fruit. Possibly fertilize others. In an ideal world all that happens. Unfortunately trauma and domination have interupted the flow. And have been doing so for millenia. Within the history are lies. Manipulations and suppression. Stories, entrenched beliefs, attachments and structures.

 I hold out hope and trust that the consciousness of humanity is big enough to transition towards an egalitarian, respectful engagement, leading to cohesive harmonious community. Polarity is uncomfortable but has the potential to encourage the emergence of realistic replacements for dysfunctional structures through the chaos and destruction of traumatizing systems. There are places on this great spiral, moments of ignition or collapse. They are always there, waiting for enough focus and intention, group mind, alignment and affinity. We are approaching these moments. And they pass by unnoticed until the energy is felt in enough people that they act.

The algorithms are birthing something as well and we need to pay attention to how easily we are hijacked by the economic engines driving the bus. And where it is taking us.

So many intersecting subjects.

Virtual reality interfacing with the 'real' world.

Who speaks for life itself?

I do.

Be well

CM

Riff off Men's SchoolFace Book post on Initiation

 
From FaceBook The Mens School group
Jan Darwin Hutchins
 ·
INITIATION: "There is, as Carl Jung writes, a clear pattern, a fourfold cycle, within the rites of initiation across the world: First there is a separation from the mother, then a trial is undertaken, then a metaphorical death and lastly, there is atonement with the father.
The father, or the symbolic father, the tribe of manhood, as Joseph Campbell writes, is the priest of initiation, and when a boy outgrows the embrace of the mother, it is the duty of the father, no matter his status in wider society, to encourage the boy’s spiritual passing from the sphere of the mother, of dependency and nurture, to the sphere of the masculine.
In our time, there are no systems that bring a boy away from the mother and onwards to the undertaking of the ‘quest for the father’; our fathers and our old men no longer provide a spiritual way for boys to separate from the mother. And so it is a common experience now for a grown man to feel that he is not a man at all, that nothing significant has changed since the beginning of his adolescence.
For men intuitively know that manhood can only be achieved through trial, sacrifice, and effort — mature masculinity does not happen of its own accord; a man must become a man. And if there is no intervention by older men to encourage boys into adulthood, then boys, sensing that manhood awaits them, will try to initiate themselves, often through rebellious, immature and irrational behavior directed at people of authority, particularly the mother.
So what is happening nowadays is that boys are being initiated, dishonestly, by other boys — and older men have vanished from the maturation process.
The breakthrough between the two worlds — from the world of the mother and to the father — is necessary if we wish to have real men and real leaders in our society, and not merely boys who plead and pander to the majority.
As I have mentioned above, this passing of the spirit was once facilitated by all the men in the tribe or community — fathers, uncles, grandfathers. But our culture is oblivious to the necessity of this exchange, and so we have a generation of men who are still stuck in the maternal world and who spend their lives moving from one form of dependency to another, forever having to ask for permission and approval, and always apologizing for their true nature.
Possibly there is an appetite today for a rite of passage, for men of all ages to come together and celebrate and share — but we are not going to achieve this in our lifetime, because the desired rituals and symbols, if they are to have true and honest meaning, take time to come about and mature naturally. However, the principles and archetypes behind the ancient rite of passage remain true.
In our age, on the cusp between the old world and the new, men must learn to lift themselves onto the higher ground and leave the walls of the grand palace, the walls that have so far imprisoned men from the true experience of life.
Life is initiating us at every moment, and it is our duty to accept this initiation, to find joy in self-conquest, to play with the burdens of existence, to feel privileged in hardship. Once we have taken up responsibility and declared ourselves accountable for ourselves, the childish ego will collapse under the weight of our own pressure, and once this happens, we will be on our way to reconciliation with the father."


CliveMichael Justice

writes
Still true and more relevant than ever if community is to manage itself wisely, sustainable and in harmony with chaos and transformation. Language is evolving with consciousness and my choice is to embrace empathic and compassionate relationship with my local relations.
 Domination has brought us to the cusp of opportunity while holding us to the edge of destruction. 

Then
On Initiation

Initiations of the past emerged and evolved out of groupmind, social commitment and serendipity. Magic, Spirit, Sacred, Divine however it gets defined remains a player in relationship in the reality that I believe is a necessary element in the sustainability of human species.
 Domination has brought us to the cusp of opportunity while holding us to the edge of destruction.
What that means for me is an engagement with the place I Iive, in the weather, geography and the people. What relationships have been created with the rivers and forests, the land itself. Who stewards the fish, the birds the growing of food and the education of children? If not all of us then where is the community cohesion? Where is the essence at the core of spirit? Without an experience of that belonging, that unity or affinity, I’m not grounded. Cast adrift in a maelstrom of distracting influence, opportunities and myriad possibilities.
As an adolescent when my testosterone was stimulated I had the capacity for great destruction, emotion driven powerful energy and unguided creativity. This is one of the pinch points of society. Initiation certainly can be an indoctrination, a manipulation of hormonal expression towards a common goal of submission, compliance and embraced engagement. Welcome to the tribe. Here is a marker of your journey. Now you truly belong, we have you, we have your back and this is how you live your life, according to our (you did agree to this, right?) standards and values. Our expectations and obligations, reciprocal arrangements that benefit us all….right?
Not necessarily as was experienced, not necessarily as was arranged or delivered. Not necessarily received or embedded or allowed.
We humans have  great propensity for ignoring the past( insert appropriate quote) and to generalize, exaggerate,  make assumptions and look for confirmation bias. Part of our need to belong, embrace the reality, be comfortable and anonymous. And out there; flamboyant, outrageous or celebrity as a means to access resources, status and power. How far out on the extreme  will we go? It was safer in the middle, without definition, struggling, however it best manifests, to maintain a hold on whatever solidity appears. Whether it be education, career, furniture, or a house to put it in we all need land to stand on and that land has to be providing us with something more tangible than wood for our fires, stone for our buildings or sustenance from its fertility. I have not felt truly connected to the spirit of these places. I have relationship cultured over time with stories and events of significance that describe  a history subjectively focused mostly on the structures created, not the actual energy and experience of each location.How is that I am disconnected and misguided? what is preventing this great wave of belief and engagement I’m unable to access? Why all this resistance to the basic essence, the primal note and harmony that resonates through our beings that I’m somehow isolated  from and pushed aside? There is a great  imbalance and a huge potential for disharmony stress and trauma. Mental illness, homelessness, addiction and entropy on a scale beyond comprehension. We are compelled to comply, in complicated procedures that impitomize  force and submission rather than embracing and landing something welcome and appreciated. Becoming part of and integral to any ongoing success as an entity. The free choice ‘discussion’ rears its’ philosophical neurolgical head here and I say that I believe we are deeply embedded in a possible opportunity to manifest a greater harmony through participating on existing wavelengths of sound, magnetic resonance and likely unnamed and defined waves emerging into particles if we want to create that possibility. Everything we do is the result of an almost endless laying down of behaviour, response to stimulae and adaptation to our environments. Our need to make sense of it all provided incentive to intitiate, to improve, to explore possibilities.
But not all possibilities are either possible or useful.
This moment in time like all others has the capacity for transformation. Depending on what choices we make what patterns we hold and what we are willing to let go of, we can create something  new and old, something vulnerable and fierce, something humble and resilient.

Blog on dude#1

 Where is this leading? All the homelessness, addiction, susceptibility to infection, disrespect and disdain for  the other, the stranger, the competition. Maybe that’s where it all started?
There are numerous historical accounts of individuals with charisma accumulating power, wiping out the neighbouring kingdom or religious enclave in order to sequester resources enjoy the “spoils” of war and crow about their superiority. Whether  the motivator of this be moral, religious or basically greed something seems to have been lost, discarded or neglected in the evolution of our education and nurturance of children to have arrived at this juncture. What must emerge from the chaos are collaborate investments in our survival that address the great gaps that have appeared. Like blind spots in our vision, filtered out words or sounds, smells and tastes avoided we may be out of touch with what it is to be members and participants on the planet.
It won’t be enough to embrace humility and clean up the mess, treat all the symptoms and hope it all goes away soon. No, this involves a greater sacrifice. Reducing our needs? sounds oxymoronic. What is needed is a dismantling of the social structures,  cultural standards, the foundations of power, status and values. Embedded deeply in this are the memes of racism, sexism and a patriarchal domination perspective that holds a certain type of personality as superior. Therein lies the key, the linchpin, the mental construct. Superiority as a concept; judgement and discernment with a hormonal response. How our visceral response to a stimulation rules our choices. Is this where ethics appears in the story?
Somehow somewhere, someone/many individuals chose to impose their strength, their physical presence on others. Sick children are likely candidates. A number of sleepless nights in a dodgy circumstance and how do we deal with the noise? These parents’ might became their right and the benefits became greater than the intimate rewards of sharing.
Imposing any kind of agenda on a large scale smacks of authoritarianism and what I imagine to be possible is a stretch of my imagination. But the magnetic resonance, the wave of conscious energy circling the planet is a reality. How we access it is to be determined.
Meanwhile our planet is delivering  responses to our actions, consequences of our ignorant violations of basic necessary practices for sustaining life.
I can relate to the people standing up and saying NO!  STOP!
The stream of consciousness, the stream of behaviours, existing structures and process encourage me  to take it all for granted, not recognize signs of failure, not acknowledge my own body’s  my own visceral response and go on living like it will never end.
That is not working for me. The pain I experience personally and around me through my compassionate, emotional triggered hormonal response continues to warn me of danger to my  being. How much more can we take?  01 05 2022

Marafa to Magarini with Hell's Kitchen in Between

Having a dedicated and trusted driver is an asset in Malindi. I’ve seen a number of posts recommending it, although of course (bila shaka) it costs. As we found out when we asked ours to take us to Marafa from the PolePole Beach resort. Famous for the nearby ‘depression’ (does that sound appealing?) also known as Hell’s Kitchen there is a stream of tuk-tuks and cars making their way out most evenings to catch the sunset over the vast and startling landscape that has become an enigmatic attraction there. We, however, were spending some nights in a local guest house before heading to the Magarini farm and school site. Our driver brought us right to the door, literally, collecting his payment that must have made up for the extra driving he’d had to do previously. It all works out eventually.
Watching our daily entry and exit  from the guest house in Marafa, a family of brightly dressed children called out ‘Ciao!’ to which we replied ‘Jambo’.  Which brought forth a chorus of Jambos and laughter almost every-time. All attempts to speak Swahili were greeted with smiles of appreciation and often a welcoming Karibu.
Stepping out into the ‘street’ and I use that term loosely, we took a short walk down the main drag checking out the possibilities in Marafa. From one end to the other it  takes all of 5 minutes. Another 5 minutes out of the village to the bar at Hell’s Kitchen, where in spite of the large lettering declaring Italian cuisine, there is, unfortunately, none available. In fact getting a meal in Marafa is a bit of challenge. Generously our hosts invited us for dinner where, surrounded by her flock of ducks, Jescar and her daughters pulled together many evening meals by the light of solar lamps and the rising moon. We had breakfast daily at the New Shalom cafe (not yet on TripAdvisor) and afternoon beers at a couple of  fairly anonymous establishments.
After breakfast we climbed onto  pikipiki/bodaboda/ motorcycles and out to Magarini Childrens Centre. As I’m rather large I had one to myself while Elke rode with Emmanuel. In the first days we set up the Safari tent and met the onsite staff. When our volunteer AJ was scheduled to arrive we took the minibus/daladala back to Malindi, and purchased supplies: mattresses, cookware, gas bottle and stove. AJ attempted to arrange sim card for his phone (bring an unlocked phone!). Transort arranged and we were delivered with all our purchases directly to the school and then on to to Marafa for the night.
Once the second tent was set up the following day we celebrated by stopping at Hell’s Kitchen and doing the tour through the quite impressive terrain. Winding down the trail into this ‘depression”  some local children were doing flips and acrobatic moves on the sandy floor. Superlatives don’t begin to describe the place. Erosion at it’s most colourful, not a place to be in a downpour though! Climbing around outcrops, standing in mini canyons and under overhangs and mushroom shaped hoodoos,  twisting back and forth takes about an hour. Then a climb up and out and along the rim where the more inaccessible portion (with occasional visits from troops of baboons) is visible. Pictures barely touch the majesty of it, but here are a few.

Tanzanian Exit

Once again we are on the move. An early rise and breakfast at our friend’s in Arusha  before loading up and heading off to catch a bus. At the main road, Old Moshi highway, the traffic is at a standstill so our driver pulls around and takes us on a dirt track between houses that snakes around, bumps us up and down, back and forth emerging onto another artery that brings us through a roundabout and to the bus. Elke had reserved the front seats in the bus so I climbed aboard and placed our backpacks on the seats.
People arrived in various conveyances, the ticket touts running alongside to sell them tickets, and grabbing their bags to be thrown or lifted, depending on the weight, onto the roofrack.
Once the luggage was up, tarped and tied down we said our goodbyes, not knowing if or when we will see these folks again. The challenge of living and working as a Mzungo in Tanzania has become difficult and when the rules change without notice, the official message seems to be
"not welcome".
On the road again, the landscape stark, dry and  dusty, the ever present herders watching as we pass by, Maasai in shukas and tire sandals carrying their long sticks, trudging single file along well worn tracks toward some destination in the distance. Every bridge over a dry riverbed, the earth eroded deeply showing the layers of deposit, back who knows how many years?
We drove west out of Arusha, then north and east with the sun directly in our faces, hot already at 9 am. The hills and Mt Meru to the  right clothed in green bush, no sign of any habitation, the herders preferring the open plains to the left, grey and brown interspersed with an occasional acacia.
Our driver seemed to know almost every second truck or matato, waving as they flashed their lights.
Occasional tiny settlements with the mandatory speed bumps, folks standing around; goats and cattle crossing and commerce of some description occurring.
In between the tree cover well off the road I could see bomas, the small round mud shelters of the Maasai with thatched roofs and adjacent corrals of sticks and thorn bush to secure the animals at night. Three zebra, a large curly horned antelope, various birds and a long tailed rodent racing across the road were the sum and total of my wildlife sightings.
At the Kenyan border we  lined up all our luggage outside the facility and they brought out a sniffer dog. Then Elke filled out a survey for the two governments and we were processed through. This time the wait was more reasonable although the Maasai women were even more persistent standing beside my window showing me every item and ignoring my insistence that I didn’t need or want what they offered. I remarked on one woman’s ear adornments, but they were not for sale.

Beachtime!

From Nairobi“Take the train” they said, it’s scenic, new and comfortable, along with sold out and unavailable as we soon determined. Including the scalpers at the tour companies. The next best choices were a long bus ride to Mombassa along a highway famous for it’s fatalities, then overnight in a hotel before another 6 hour bus north to Malindi or overnight for 9 hours (read 11 or 12) direct. After a few moments of thought we chose to fly.
2 years previous we had stayed in a lovely Italian owned ‘hotel. More like furnished apartments, it is close to the beach, a few nice restaurants and in case anyone’s interested, Vasco de Gama’s self erected monument. This time though, we  decided to treat ourselves to beach house resort style accommodation. A little ways south out of Malindi is Watamu beach; white sand, a reef offshore keeping the surf away from the beach and the (mostly) Italian tourists.
Our driver, prearranged to pick us up, assured us he knew exactly where we were going. Unfortunately he was mistaken, as the Pole Pole restaurant was not the Pole Pole Beach house. Pole pole means slowly, slowly and is also an expression of sympathy, singularly (pronounced poe lay). We were moving pole pole after leaving the tarmac, picking our way over coral outcrops and avoiding holes. Our eventual destination was apparently not well known.  After driving both ways twice, we arrived, in the dark, to a welcome reception. Dida the Ethiopian cook even provided us with a small bit of food and drink before we installed our bags in our room. Once that was accomplished, Ken from reception walked us through and around the building then down to the beach, past the pool, shared by the three other facilities on the property. Idyllic? Coral sand with crushed shells, an almost full moon, surf rolling in the distance, Swahili architecture, furniture and ambiance. Breakfast included. Paradise and posh for the same price as the hotel in Nairobi.
After  breakfast in the morning we walked the beach.  Flat whitish sand stretching almost to the reef with the low tide stretching to the horizon  left and right. The ocean a number of shades of blue and green with warm sun and a constant gentle (mostly) breeze off the water. Higher up in front of the resorts the seaweed being raked away from the tourist path gave me a chuckle, definitely a daily make work project.
Walking north we stopped at the great outcrops of ancient and dead coral sharp as razors with bits of the flotsam and jetsum hanging off the edges. Much of the plastic tidal deposits are also being raked away out of sight of the tourists.We sat quietly on the beach enjoying the temperature and the view...

However our reverie was soon interupted by a insistent stream of rasta boys hustling. These young men are fluent in Italian (English German and..?). The parade of bikini’s accompanied by these fellows is a sight to behold, often chaperoned by husbands, boyfriends and occasionally children. and we witnessed the un -endearing habit of these well meaning (I imagine)  foreign adults handing out sweets to the local children. Which explains the constant greeetings of "Caio' where ever we went. Our hotel security kept the rasta boys and children off the property, but they'd be hanging close by waiting for the next 'best friend" to provide a reason to guide someone into an opportunity to hand over cash. When informed we had none 'amna'  they generally left us alone.
 I  wanted to swim in the Indian ocean but the constant wind and timing of high tide full of seaweed encouraged me to use the pool, which was filled with salt water, so technically, I did swim in it…Then I lay in the sun and collected a very good sunburn. Who knew my overhanging belly would make stripes?  As we lay there Elke and I spoke about personal value, the old messages about what we deserve, what we allow, what brings up guilt. There is a big piece of entitlement and privilege or the lack of it enmeshed here. Equality, assumptions and access.
On our last night we ate an exquisite meal at a nearby hotel resort on their dining patio, outside but covered by the high thatch roof. Romance is how we make it.

Culture, Then and Now

I’m not a big fan of ‘tourist attractions’ but… We visit Boma’s of Kenya in Nairobi, a museum offering ‘traditional dance” performances, a restaurant and a number of recreated family clusters from many of the traditional tribal groups. Multiple wives need multiple residences, at least in this country. They also have multiple granaries and some have an inner wall to keep the livestock out of their bed. All made of mud with thatched roofs. The granaries were mostly very large baskets, some also plastered with mud and all belonging to the women.Visiting these little groupings was almost like a trip around the country, somewhere around 30 of them; although by the end there were not so much groupings as examples of slightly different construction.
Speedily walking past the inevitable venders we continued on into the main hall to watch the dancing. Many of the seats in the large circular auditorium were lined with school children in uniform. Rows of red, yellow, brown, green and blue with tourists in groups breaking up the random colour schemes. That was worth a picture and I spotted a few tourists filming the audience although I chose not to.
The dancing was fairly vigorous  and entertaining. I cannot speak to it’s authenticity although the costumes were well made and dancers enthusiastic. A couple of the males would pull individuals out of the stands (mostly female) to the immense appreciation of the rest of us and in some cases embarrassment of the ‘volunteers’. After a number of these performances we made our way off the site walking  towards a nearby shopping centre, passing by a group of baboons nonchalantly checking out the garbage bins around the perimeter.
Another entertaining environment! I hadn’t seen so many white people since Europe, once we got past the security check and into the mall. I scored big, finding a number of packages of my favourite chocolate… no longer available back home, I bought all  they had assuming it was the end of the stock. (Days later in another mall I saw more but I restrained myself).
We sat and had a hot drink  watching the parade of blondes and men in shorts, the occasional Africans with higher status and money hanging out with the colonials and tourists. Yes extremely judgemental but there we were and thats what I saw, or at least make up about what I saw. Your experience may be, no, will be different. It was quite pleasant, civil and enlightening and after looking through the arts and crafts market (where the vendors made complimentary comments about my Tanzanian shirt) we called ‘Little’ an Uber/taxi service and made our way through the traffic back to our friends’ residence for sundowners, conversation and dinner.

Back into Kenya

Arriving early afternoon in Nairobi on the bus from Arusha after dropping  a few folks at the airport, we trundled, dragged and pushed our luggage down the street past the taxi drivers and across to a slightly more upscale hotel. This one has a lift! The previous hotel, kiddy/kitty? corner  to this one had a spiral, tile covered staircase which was narrow and dizzy making.
Once settled, showered and refreshed we enjoyed a beer in the lounge below, then went walkabout looking for sustenance and found Bridges Organic Health Restaurant where we had a lovely meal. I’m a big fan of TripAdvisor where I left a review, along with numerous others on most of the eating establishments and hotels we’ve visited.
The street scene is alive with pedestrians, beggars and touts pushing safaris into the game parks and ‘wilderness’. They can be persistent, following us for blocks sure that eventually we’ll succumb to their amazing offer.  The beggars laying on the heavy eyes and stories of woe and misfortune seem to target anyone looking like tourist. I don’t feel good ignoring them, my best strategy is to carry no cash, telling them amna, I have none, although strictly speaking that is not true. I take my cues from the rest of the populace since they ignore them and walk on by.
I haven’t spent too many nights in posh places, especially in Africa and what’s been consistent has been the tiles in the hallways. Keys in the lock, doors opening and closing all echoing very well. Insulation is not big here if existing at all. It all boils down to interrupted sleep, apparently the trade off I’m making by staying in low budget accommodation. So it’s  a real pleasure to be invited to stay with a friend from a previous visit, off the main road, away from the bars and nightclubs in the city.
Instead we have a BBQ, catch up on all that has passed in the last few years, family and common friends, politics and the state of the world. And a relatively uninterrupted sleep inside the mosquito net.

Back to Amarula

Impressions along the road and within...
Sunflowers among the cassava, sunflowers dried out brown, corn; dead standing, millet, sorghum. Baobabs worn and scarred. Bee hives, both modern and the traditional hollowed out logs hanging from the trees. Cattle and goats on the move, some friendly herders, soot blackened landscapes, scorched trees, deep sand in dry river beds, children waving, others; impassive. Gigantic boulders worn smooth clustered on hilltops, trees as far as the eye can see: acacia, miombo, baobab, other acacia, going brown and others blooming as the dry season  begins.
 Returning to a loved place has been enlightening. Overcoming or at least attempting to understand the cultural differences due to language and religion has stretched my comfort zone, tolerance and occasionally patience. Context as I experience it, in  layers of cognition and insight continue to teach me how little I know. And how educated, sophisticated, motivated and inspired by my consciousness and the myriad abundance I am. Juxtaposed to individuals, children and adults, who can spend the day managing a mixed flock of goats, sheep and cows wandering through a landscape with not much forage. They find what they can. My capacity to understand concepts, consequences and a sense of a bigger picture is limited by my exposure, use and access to information. How much of what I or anyone knows or can use is actually useful in any given circumstance, is dependant on situation, environment, ecosystem ….
Technology is seductive, I am so enrolled. I use a phone and camera to take pictures; a laptop to articulate my thoughts, a reading device to do research and entertain myself on long flights and the internet , when I can find it, to share this with you.
My ability to justify my actions in moral and ethical terms is so caught up in complication it goes way beyond complex. And I’ve maintained and believed I was living a simple life all these years.
Meanwhile, back to what’s actually happening here.  I am overlooking a vast plain to the east dotted with relatively short trees, again as far as the eye can see, eventually reaching the Indian Ocean. The two fellows employed by my host have recently returned burdened by loads of firewood ‘kuni’ they hacked out of, hopefully, dead trees, with a machete, out of earshot, down the slope towards the dry river. Wood being the primary source of fuel for cooking, we will be sauna-ing Finnish style again and then sitting (if the wind dies down enough) around a  campfire. Something I would imagine no one around here would consider a useful pastime unless dinner was being cooked.
The landscape here is so compelling, Walking through the surroundings brushing dry basil stalks, crackling leaves,  drinking in the vistas, the familiar and the novelty. The temperature is certainly amenable, although sitting in a moving car with the windows shut against the tsetse flies can sure build up a sweat. Thankfully they restrict their habitat to few places. I'm glad to be here, again.

Deep in the heart of Tanzania

Tsetse flies and rock art.  One morning we left Amarula camp  and headed south to Kondoa where we did a bit of shopping; ginger, bananas and some fabric… somehow I’m unable to resist, I did however limit my purchase to one. We sat in a small “tea shop” beneath the now leafless Baobab at the centre of town and Elke chatted with a fellow who turned out to be a teacher, hence his relatively passable English. The town has grown, prospered even, since or during the time the Chinese were here building the highways. When they left I’ve heard, they took most of the donkeys and dogs in the vicinity, After two years there are no shortage of loose dogs scrounging around  and I saw plenty of donkeys being herded by Maasai.
After Kondoa we headed west into the terrain of red dirt roads. Not far out of town we came across masses and I mean masses of plastic bags and bottles where it’s been dumped and is now being (you don’t want to hear this) burned. Thankfully we soon left that behind, passing through dry, farmland interspersed with majestic Baobabs.

Crossing a dry river bed on a bridge with schoolgirls playing some game we began to climb through Miombo bush, the leaves on many trees crisp and folded. Surprisingly (at least to me) there are numerous trees blooming at this time, beautiful purple blossoms, puffed out clusters of white and yellow on a type of Acacia along with some other shrubby looking tree coming out with tiny  red flowers that I took to be fuzzy caterpillars as we hurtled along. And we were because the Tsetse flies were doing the damnedest to get inside the vehicle. Many of them. Their bite is rather vicious, I felt one through my sock. They were maintaining speed with the vehicle, landing on the windows, the hood of the Landrover and searching out all the openings we hadn’t been able to plug with tape or cardboard. Once inside they buzzed around the driver especially but I had my share. The women in the back were swatting them as they landed on us, against the windows and whenever they landed.
Today we returned to the edge of their range and drove up through a burnt landscape, the trees scorched, the grass gone and soot and ashes among the fallen leaves swirling in little whirlwinds as we picked our way towards some grand looking rocky outcrops. Earlier we had collected a Ranger from the Game Reserve office to accompany us. He carried an automatic carbine rifle for our safety inside the Swagaswaga reserve.

 Eventually he directed us onto a side road then up the slope to where a few examples of Rock Art were visible on the massive boulders perched there.
 Red ochre paintings of humanistic figures stretching the imagination as to why and when.
 The local residents, Hyrax, apparently appreciate the spot as the ground was deeply littered with their ‘berries’. An occasional fly managed to make itself known  as we made our way back to the vehicle but they were hardly a concern, until we began driving. Did they think the vehicle was an elephant? Although we were in the game reserve all we saw were a number of exotic looking birds a family of baboons, a few monkeys, and one Hyrax up on a branch as we drove by underneath.

Arusha and then south

Back with friends at their property staying in their guest house, well off the road. It will be a pleasant place to rest, write and visit among the trees in the heat of the afternoons. After unloading all the luggage that evening we walk out to a local bar for  beers and chipsi mayai (French fried potatoes in an omelette) , a common meal around here.
The pikipiki(motorcycle) drivers open up as they race up and down the road making for difficult conversation. The daladala’s (minibus) choked with passengers returning from town, dropping one or two in front of us, all turning to stare at the sight of wazungu’s (white people) in the neighbourhood. And a constant stream of people walking both ways either side of the road.
Morning comes with the call to prayer and cocks crowing, a bucket ‘shower’ wash-up and discussion of what the day might bring. As it turns out, a lot of bureaucratic negotiations and waiting. Over the next few days things do get sorted out, we visit a few restaurants, buy some supplies  from an amazing store downtown Arusha - Gohils  and separate our luggage for the trip to SwagaSwaga.
Looming above us to the north Mt Meru influences the weather dramatically. Each morning the sky overcast and cool, by noon warming up enough to remove our shukas or sweaters and venture out to explore the neighbourhood.
The main roads are paved but in between there are dirt tracks winding their way through the neighbourhoods. Rutted and narrow they are “shortcuts” and have tiny businesses selling notions, fruit and what the locals might need instead of making their way out to a main road. Our host takes us on a bumpy tour of them in his attempts to avoid the chaos on the paved roads. The daladalas backed up, dropping off and picking up along the roads with pikipikis racing both ways on both sides of the road and in between. Along with taxis, safari vehicles, big beer trucks and delivery trucks.
Most things sorted we head out early one morning to Amarula Camp in Kondoa district. There is now a bypass road avoiding the crazy traffic downtown Arusha which takes us south and west through new development expanding the city. To my right  I spot a hill  with half it’s side being excavated. I imagine in a few months it will cease to exist. Below it there are caves being formed by the removal of soil. And below that large chunks of what appears to be the surface above having fallen once undermined. Not exactly the safest work environment.
These new roads make the journey smooth, we are waved through all but one police check and even that one takes only moments. Along the road, Maasai boys stand at attention as their herds wait to cross to water, women washing clothes, colourfully draped on the surrounding bushes, palm frond rug weavings hung from trees to attract buyers and miles and miles of open plain dotted with acacia. Corn and cassava, sunflowers and pigeon pea beside the shambas and bomas, cement constructions in the towns and metal roofs glinting in the distance.
We stop in Babati for lunch and then  drive up into the hills. The swathe taken away on either side of the road makes for better views as we proceed, black rubber all over the road from tires skidding on descent with warnings of the steep slope and tight corners. I miss the old red road although not the bumping and swerving. Some settlements have not changed much, others have grown although it's hard to say. At one point we leave all the settlements behind and are in a wild forest, densely packed trees climbing up the hillsides on both side of the road. Later we pass women sitting beside their clay pots for sale and frequently bicycles with water jugs slung across both sides.
Coming out of the mountains we have a great view of the valley and then the plains beyond the hills. The descent is steep, lined with candelabra cactus, some in bloom their tips yellow like they’ve been lit up, the road black with skid marks and signs indicating runaway lanes.
At Kolo we turn left onto the red clay road, dusty, familiar. I’m anticipating our destination. To the right  through the trees below the mountain, the river bed, dry of course and we descend  through a switchback that allows a view of the camp still green after the rainy season.
It’s anti-climatic. So familiar, but changed over the last couple of years, the Terminalia trees losing leaves, their seeds a bright red, the acacia dropping green bits in a circle around itself. The cottage comfortable in it’s familiarity but damaged by the weather.

Elke makes us dinner, we sit by a fire and later when our hosts return from visiting in the village I  sauna Finnish style, then sit out under the stars.

Crossings

The trains and track infrastructure in Germany make it possible to travel across the country with ease. Almost every small city connects with the rest of the country, the track itself designed for high speed with cement ties; a few wooden ones in the more obscure and less populated communities.
The countryside slips by  fast at 221 kmh from the flat landscape south of Berlin through long tunnels emerging into rolling terrain; farms and forests, villages and always near the cities, klein gardens beside the tracks,
Efficient, timely and orderly we reach our destinations and make our connections with time in between to find the correct platform, then haul our unwieldy baggage aboard, stowing it occasionally in the aisles when the train has no accommodation; regional trains ferrying commuters, the trains filling at one stop then emptying two stops later.
Sometimes there is old rolling stock sitting idle in the yards of stations, inspiring thoughts of restaurants, mini villages and other possibilities for the utilization of these long narrow well roofed ‘structures’. Shipping them negates any advantage…
Done with the train we take a taxi; up, around and over  Stuttgart to a hotel near the airport. In the morning we are ferried to the plane after being corralled with our fellow fliers, then on to Zurich where the observation deck provided  a brief respite from the ferrying and corralling.
On the plane most of folks sleep in between meals on the flight to Nairobi. The monitor on the bulkhead shows our progress in a revolving sequence including elevation, speed and times. Out the window we follow the coast of Greece then over the Mediterranean making landsight over Libya with  Tunisia way off to the right, a line of sand along the coast stretching back to mountains in the deep distance.
Cloud cover soon takes over and Elke spots a ginormous thunderhead building.  We’re at 33,000 feet or meters (hardly matters this high). This is the beginning of the dry season and those clouds are likely sucking moisture, not dropping it. Turbulence soon appears.
Stamped passports, luggage collected. Our driver holds up a sign with Elke Cole and away we go along with a couple of women who are staying out in Karen at a backpackers. They appreciate our assistance in getting there.
Downtown Nairobi, breakfast and wander through the market, a smoothie in a high end coffee bar, more exploring .
Luggage up on the roof of the bus, waiting, and then into the traffic. At one point I spot old (in this case) decrepit looking passenger railcars lined up waiting for trains that will likely never come. The Chinese have taken charge and built new lines and brought in their own rolling stock, making obsolete the existing infrastructure which looks unmaintained. We cross various lines  on our way out of Nairobi, the ties obscured with accumulations of debris growing all manner of weeds, the rusty rails all that’s visible except where the constant traffic shines them up.
 Arriving at the border a fellow on the bus, the only other mzungu skips the leaving Kenya line and goes directly to Enter Tanzania. We follow the pattern standing with the rest of the passengers wanting to get this over with and on to Arusha and beyond. He ends up being the least of our time restraints as the bus that arrived behind us, loads and leaves.The sun setting across the horizon red in the dust. Maasai ladies attempting to interest anyone in their wares, elaborate beaded jewelrysome of which is elaborate and beautiful. Darkness falls and our driver enters the vehicle with much body language and guns the bus down the hill not waiting for the guards at the gate to open it fully, giv’ener through goats and folks lining the road to make up for the lost time… Or maybe the traffic laws are different in Tanzania?

Workshopping

Back to a semblance of normal. A couple of good nights sleep and I’m waking at the usual 5 am, creeping out of bed and upstairs to boil ginger and write my morning reflections on the night’s journeys and the previous day’s events. Not exactly profound but occasionally useful. The dreams are possibly insightful, a rehash of the highlights from my unconscious perspective. Juxtaposing numerous events or enigmatic input in some conceivably metaphoric  result to entertain my brain and cause me to consider if or what has any significance.
Mostly I consider it filed away once written out and get on with morning meditation and preparing something for breakfast.
Our hostess has assembled a varied crew of workers both young and mature, and it’s been entertaining. Yesterday a long ditch dug to lay in an electric cable was  disrupting passage somewhat, piles of the sandy earth showing the layers of history. By mid morning a machine arrived to fill it back in after the electricians, who showed up much earlier, have done their job.
 Halfway through the machine operator makes a miscalculation and it falls over sideways smashing one of the glass doors. He jumps out safely but now we have a major problem. They spend the rest of the day employing the cobbing plaster crew propping it up with posts and firewood, levering it up in increments until finally it falls back upright.
During all this the sounds of an alpenhorn drift across the lake below, apparently the locals enjoy a good concert whilst rafting about. The applause is enthusiastic.
Earlier the crew had been chewing away at the excess cob on the walls and filling in holes preparing for the actual start of this workshop. Arriving a couple days early is good for smoothing the rough edges and getting grounded. The opportunity for swimming in the lake also looms temptingly now that most of the clouds (and cooler temperatures) have evaporated with the sun. Muddy cobbers will be availing themselves of the newly refurbished dock by days end and possibly entertaining the small flock of ducks who appeared  stridently paddling our way last evening.  They hung about paddling back and forth within arms reach to our amusement, then suddenly with no warning burst out of the water back across the lake.

Rural and urban reflections

Cock a doodle doo! or uuur, uuur, uuur, depending on translation. I crawl out to do my morning writing into a rainy grey day and a typical German breakfast. Boiled egg, rolls, lotsa jam and cheese.
Walking to the bus the sidewalk and road are hosting a migration of tiny frogs…unseen by the large tractor and cars whizzing past.
We board the ‘Bürger Bus’ driven by volunteers, it takes a very roundabout route through the hamlets and minuscule farming communities that dot the landscape here. The massive brick barns  roofed in thatch or occasionally tiles, the houses to match; steeply roofed, all brick, some more elaborate than others but all maintaining the same profile.Again a train, a smooth ride full of holiday goers, commuters and shoppers some from as far away as  Cuxhaven on the coast.
I continue to be impressed by the old brick buildings; (missing my camera! relying on a less than photographic memory for details)  many have the original date of completion, 1339 and quite a few from  the 1650’s, funky and all dressed standing side by side, hair salons and high end clothing stores, restored or needing attention. In the bank a gigantic, bright red stylized pig.
This town Stade has a variety of architectural styles, mostly old to ancient with a number of moderns  intruding. And bakeries. Most corners have one, an advantage or asset of pedestrian focused urban environments. Paved with brick and cobble, slick with rain and peopled with locals and tourists in spite of the weather. The sun does come out, smiling faces, old men sitting out front of the  numerous bakery/cafes smoking and watching the parade of mothers and children, shoppers and a continuous but intermittent stream of males entering what turns out to be a mosque.
Returning I doze lightly on the bus and then pass out for 20 back at the house, the clouds allow the sun through and I manage to get online, although the immediate is more compelling than whatever turns up on Facebook.

A few days later we're in Ahrensberg.  So many naps. I catch myself nodding off as the conversations (in Deutsch) go on and on, me understanding the occasional word or phrase… especially the ones with English expressions…

Assuming the heatwave would last we brought mostly summer clothes, now I’m wearing 3 layers.
In this more urban environment, the houses here are like museums and art galleries, Massive structures in brick with large windows, grand entrances and large trees among the landscaped surroundings. Germans drive fast, luckily the sound of the tires on the cobblestones alerts us when crossing the street.
My ability to express meaningfully is greatly diminished today. It is so tempting to nap, Elke’s shoulder/headache still bothering her, she is currently lying on the floor with her feet up and deeply asleep.
Yesterday a  drive through apple orchards, cherries and pears, along a very winding road diked against the flooding river Elbe. Not at the moment. The previous month dropped  water levels across the continent, although the heavy rainfall the day before caused flooding locally here outside Hamburg. Catching up on our correspondence, sleep and revisiting German cuisine. I may have to buy more, larger waisted pants. Or fast more frequently.

Our Next Excellent Adventure...

Starts with choosing to take the Malahat after much last minute cleaning, garbage in the bin and waaay too early for the Mill Bay Brentwood ferry… meant to be a relaxed exit. Instead I get a speeding ticket. He gives me a break, I don’t do this frequently.
I’m unsurprised but disappointed with my anxiety, I hate to be late, 2 hours early at YYJ is the result. Relatively mellow  now that we’ve checked our bags finished my yogurt and visited the toilet.
15 minutes in the air through the clouds, nothing to see, I was doing my morning meditation when we ‘touched’ down jerking me right out of it.
Walking with my sticks from one end of the terminal to the other, then a bus ride out to the plane  standing alone, a temporary metal and covered  three level ramp to board. The terminal expansion in full swing adjacent.

Back in the air the turbulence gave me pause, then I settled into  my book and Elke began  a series of movies. I watched other peoples’ movies; 5 different screens visible. We had champagne!
 a meal , an extremely frozen ice cream bar in the dark and a continental style breakfast once we were close to arriving.
Then a long hike, lineups and waiting in a generic airport atmosphere, in spite of the welcoming signs to Paris, I experience little of its ’charm’. Elke has a 15 minute massage then falls asleep. We board another plane and land smoothly in Hamburg.
Where we wait an interminably long time for our luggage, Elke chases after someone taking a similar bag, but ours arrives. With nothing to declare we exit to where sister Sabine is waiting. She leads us to the train.
At Hamburg Bahnhof the train security arrives with us on the platform; must be a shift change. Six of them, looking somewhat menacing and official.  A school group parades by greeting them with friendly comments disarming their gruff demeanour. We take the regional train and Elke falls asleep again so I chat with Sabine as we roll through ripe fields of barley, oats and wheat, woodlots, allotment gardens, (schreber gartens) and small towns where all the houses are steeply roofed in tiles.
That evening we have dinner out to celebrate at a converted, renovated windmill restaurant, after I manage a 45 min nap. Not bad considering I hadn’t slept for 26 hours.

Reflections from the forest

Greetings from the forest in Kiambu Kenya
A number of thoughts and imaginings continue to entertain me as I proceed through life considering  what people think (in spite of repeated entreaties to abandon this habit) of my lifestyle choices and personal responsibilities.
So far what I’m doing is keeping me alive and positive in the face of so much destruction. From here the situation in North America seems more scary than what’s happening around me, although, who can say when I’m only aware of a smidgin of the reality both here and there. It’s definitely  warmer here though and cheaper to live, mostly.
 The political situation in Bamenda is sad and frightening, but the non-violent response by the people there gives me hope. I'm sad we had to leave so suddenly.
Just outside Nairobi we are living behind an electric fence next door to a supposed park that was logged by a relative of the previous/current president.  What we are surrounded by is quite parklike in terms of unbroken forest for many metres  along a small river where a golf course shares the other bank. It has not  been disturbed since it was logged over 100 years ago… Troops of monkeys pass by occasionally, upsetting the two dogs living here (more security features) or stealing any fruit left unmonitored for more than a minute. The cats are no help.

Stepping (or mostly driving) out of here through a housing development of monster houses built of cement blocks covered in tile with humoungus walls, gates and hedges gives me pause for 'who is going to live in them and what are they creating?' Little fiefdoms or enclaves, cameras and guards, fancy cars and flashy lifestyles. At the road; buses, 3 wheeled taxis and motorcycles (mattatus, tuk tuk's and, piki pikis)  along with private cars racing by interspersed with trucks. The construction continues of apartment blocks on side roads along  this main road through what used to be large coffee plantations. A few gates still, everyone seems to need some feeling of security, no doubt the after affects of rebellion and colonial control or keeping their livestock from wandering.
At Thindigwa fruit sellers line the road beside the more permanent commercial establishments. At the road junction there are a number of shelters, filled with the waiting piki-pikis mostly, as the Mattatus disgorge and pick-up,  often barely stopping.
Further into town the highway circles and criss-crosses the city, traffic inching along at various times of the day from one exit to the other. The infra structure has yet to catch up with it’s success. New roads under construction beside bumper to bumper vehicles the piki-pikis weaving in and out  while hawkers flog an amazing variety of items to the waiting motorists. Who knew they could sell pillows and towels ? Apples and bananas, potato crisps and tissues, fly swatters and solar flashlights.
It takes an inordinate amount of time to get to where ever we go, mostly due to the traffic, narrow streets and little courtesy. Should it be a mall, of which there are many, everyone must be checked with a wand and walk through the scanner. My nail clippers seldom fail to get a smile from the guards and the military are frequently found unobtrusively  tucked away in quiet corners regarding the scene.
In the grocery stores the variety is phenomenal, how many different types and brands of rice, hot sauce, dairy products and of course alcohol there are! Just like North America eh? However I’m shocked and disappointed by the lack of choice in chocolate. Looks a lot like a monopoly situation. I found one example of fair-trade in a health food store, and that company was purchased by a multi-national. Not naming names.
But out in the “suburbs”beyond the ring road, as the city slowly eats into the arable land there are fewer gates and walls. Mostly folks are crammed into cell blocks of apartments, stacked  here and there across the landscape. It looks like a building boom with so many under construction, with pole scaffolding suspended off the unfinished cement blocks. Or metal roofed one story ’sheds’ housing innumerable families, trash littering the landscape as far as the eye can see.
If anything it emphasises my deeply felt lack of interest in city living. The hustle and bustle certainly providing opportunities for the myriad people flocking to cities everywhere. Commerce and business providing incentives and, hopefully, inspiration, while more trees are cut down, more cement and pavement cover up the earth. But within this environment are many and varied items and restaurants…
I’m considering hiring a tour guide. I’m almost out of thread/string/twine for my weaving, it seems few here do any crochet, knitting or anything but rug weaving. My one successful foray into a mall scored me a colourful selection of some very fine mercerized cotton from France at more than double the price of what I was using previously, from Nigeria.
 I’ve been discouraged from entering the market where I’m sure Indian cotton of similar quality is available, hence the guide. But it appears we’ll be mobile again soon, nomadic so to speak, visiting and exploring more of Kenya, the coast and then back to Tanzania. I’ll park the loom and much of our library till we locate more permanent temporary accommodation.

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.