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.

Field trip on the Ring Road-Menchum Falls- Bafut to Befang and back

After some time the city, meetings, research and visits to the farm aren’t enough. We want to see some of this country so called a friendly taxi driver to take us on a tour.
 First stop the Bafut market to pick up a few snacks. Then to a nearby bar for some white mimbo or palm wine followed by a stop at a spring for some fresh water.
The road out of Bafut is dusty, clouds of it settling on the bananas turning their leaves red, Potholed and rough in places we swayed back and forth as Eric the driver negotiated each stretch and avoided oncoming trucks and minivans. The road twists and turns into valleys, around mountains,  past villages and farms. These smallholdings with minimalist rectangular redbrick buildings, unplastered and roofed with corrugated “zinc”line the road between sections of forest and  field. Often there were children and occasional adults staring as we drove past.  Upon spotting our faces the children would chant “whiteman, whiteman” to which I, as often as possible, waved in reply.
The road began to descend, briefly became paved and as we approached each corner Eric honked a warning. Often there were great holes, missing pavement, bone jarring drops and it wasn’t always possible to avoid them. But the terrain was spectacular, miles of mostly untouched tropical forest the mountains draped in shades of green punctuated with flashes of orange and red flowers. Valley and hill as far as the eyes could see without any evidence of cultivation.This is the sacred Bafut forest, protecting the watersheds and vegetal heritage of the kingdom. Unfortunately for the photographers it wasn’t possible to stop, although that narrow view seldom expresses the majesty and verdant fecundity of the scene.As the road again levelled out we crossed over the  Menchum river and  entered a broad valley.

Rice growing alluvial landscape, fields separated by ditches and flapping clothing suspended on sticks to scare away the birds. The elephant grass easily 3 metres tall where it wasn’t hacked down and piled beside the road. There were numerous highly rutted access roads down to the water where young men and boys poled their broad canoe shaped boats back and forth.

The boys dive down with buckets, scoop the sand into the boats then shovel it onto shore to be loaded later into trucks and transported to Bamenda. For a brief while we were tailed by one of the trucks, coming up behind us as we scraped our way out of one of the biggest potholes I’ve ever been in. The side of the road even with the windows of the taxi. Definitely don’t try this in the rainy season.
I attempted to take notes on this trip, writing the occasional undecipherable word as we careened and bumped along till pavement appeared again. Eric would then accelerate till the pavement gave way while I attempted to read the occasional sign naming each village.

It was quite warm in the car, the mimbo in the recycled soda bottles continuing to ferment, building up  pressure. We had the windows open but every passing vehicle would raise such clouds of dust we were rolling them up in  fruitless attempts to keep it out.

Crossing the river again we came into an area of grasslands, the rolling mountains denuded of trees except in the narrow clefts and valleys between hills.

 Then again beside the river and arrival at the falls.
  Just below the road is a small picnic area and viewing spot with a cement fence to keep folks back from the sheer drop.

 Impressive.
 A tremendous amount of water cascades down with incredible turbulence sending spray out  from top to bottom. Not much if anything would survive that fall. We stepped back and enjoyed our picnic, slowly releasing the pressure on the  warm mimbo  till we could drink it.
























Then a short drive down to the crossroads at Befang; north to Wum and west to Benakuma.

By this time we’d had enough of the driving and chose to turn around.

 Stopped at the top of the falls to wet our faces and watch the boys shovel sand from boat to shore.

And again at the bailey bridge to take pictures,  then caught a few views as we climbed out of the valley  on our way towards Bafut.

 The road was not any less bumpy on the return.

Homemade micro Hydro

While in Cameroon an opportunity came up to visit the site of a small hydro project in Kugwe near Batibo (the Palm Wine capitol of the world!).
Local engineer  Farmer Tantoh arranged the trip and we wedged ourselves into a crew cab. Elke and I sitting up front, Joram and Tantoh conversing behind us non stop.  Our driver, Divine, quietly   answered our questions; (mostly Elke's) names of towns, items for sale at the side of the road with a little about himself while enjoying his music as we passed through the inevitable checkpoints.
 The road was good, paved within the last 3 years, through rolling hills mostly deforested and covered with grass.  Occasionally we'd dip into a jungle like valley but the majority of terrain around the settlements and villages was small farms. At numerous junctions there would be clusters of motorcycles,  large plastic containers hanging off the back, stacked sideways; 20+litres each, blue and white, empty or filled with mimbo (palm wine) for sale elsewhere, the drivers waiting...

Turning off the pavement we spied a fellow climbing a palm beside the road, his palm stem belt allowing hands free action when trimming the fronds.
The road  began to deteriorate, narrow, more potholed and still we drove on turning eventually down a trail, wheels straddling the twists, turns and contours. Parking amongst a group of houses,  people emerge with great smiles on their faces extending hands to shake and even a few hugs. Adult men mostly, children shyly looking through doorways holding back.

After a few moments of greeting we are immediately underway walking along the path following a line of wire strung up on poles through trees past extensive gardens, swales running down hill, burnt over and in various stages of cultivation. The air is thick with moisture, it's warm and I'm immediately sweating.





The trail descends, crossing a stream, swampy and fetid with decomposing vegetation the air filled with the spicy smell of something blooming.

 It gets steeper, slippery and the men attempt to help me, to stop me from falling as I grasp this or that root, vine or branch.







 We  hear the waterfall and  then stand at the top where they have engineered a sluice-way to pipe the water to the turbine another 50 metres below.
No water runs now, the pipe is punctured. Unfortunately, rocks hurtling down inside have broken the plastic. But for 5 days they did have light in the village.


What effort it  must have taken to haul the pieces and parts down this steep and treacherous slope!

 We continue, handholds necessary as I negotiate the nearly vertical climb and descend onto another small outcropping.







Here they have installed their turbine using a used auto transmission and various mechanical and electrical components.
   It sits now waiting to be reengaged. Ingenious, resourceful and creative, these folks are still positive, hopeful and encouraging.
 Elke and Joram film and interview them standing proudly behind their creation, the waterfall roaring in the background.

Everyone then inches out onto the slippery rocks, another 70 or 100 metres above the last drop and we all pose for "snaps".

On the way back up my shoes seem to fall apart (velcro doesn't like mud), I'm exhausted, recalling in my youth bushwacking through the Devils Club and Salal above Sombrio on West Coast Vancouver Island. Thankfully I've seen nothing here like Devils Club, grabbing whatever I can to haul myself up. Reflecting on my age, I compare myself to these   30-40 year old "young" men who almost daily make their way through this landscape.

 Back at the village I learn that the women, missing from the meal, speeches and mimbo drinking session we enjoy later, are off working their farm/garden plots a 3 hour walk away...


They have big dreams here; to improve their children's chances of success by providing  light so they can study at night,  by creating fish ponds to supplement their diet,  building cabins for visitors to stay and of course to get their electrical system working again as model of what can be done with a little ingenuity and resources at hand.


This experience like many others, inspires me in my exploring, meeting people and assisting where possible as we continue to create a better world for all.