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?

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!

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.