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

Castles... on the ground

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

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


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





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

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









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

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









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

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

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

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

December 25 2013

As  a traveler I am consistently challenged by my own limitations. Whether it be tolerances or accommodations my underlying internal structure has been determined  by the "slings and arrows" of my conditioning, misfortunate or otherwise. The stimulation of new and foreign, unfamiliar and extraordinary is certainly part of the draw. And yet, perhaps understandably, there is occasionally something missing. Especially on days like today.
Christmas has been a challenging one for years now. A number of conflicting contradictory messages have created confusion and occasional despair.
Beyond the local relevance of this "holiday" what I am missing most is friends, family, my tribe. Even nomads have consistent community. As I understand it, family or tribe is essential for the human social animal to thrive and succeed. Here, now, my community is ephemeral, if it exists at all.  I spend 9 months in this place or that place. I can find a few friends in most situations, we foster connection, but ultimately I am always just passing through.
  Thankfully the internet facilitates friendships and relationships no matter where we are (given access) but nothing beats face to face human contact. I am heartened by my personal correspondence and my affiliation to the ManKind Project (MKP) community.  I wouldn't be where I am now without the leadership, growth and maturity I gained there.
For this seasonal celebration, the gathering of friends and relatives trumps the gift giving (and receiving). The artificial trees, shiny decorations and annual church attendance have little meaning for me. I have yet to see any awareness or celebration of celestial events like the solstice. The daily passage of the sun is relatively consistent. The moon makes it's way from full to new,  the sun rising within a few degrees at the same time everyday. Those earth based, sky focused rituals or ceremonies have likely been stamped out or swallowed up by another set of parameters determining religious belief. The people here seem to have embraced the missionaries message. My beliefs are more aligned with the ancient indigenous than the introduced.
I have created this reality for myself, journeying beyond the frontiers of the familiar both physically and in spirit. The like minded, the sympathetic are with me in my heart. Although my tribe is on Vancouver Island, my family in Canada and, within MKP, a few honourary members throughout the planet,  I am grateful for all my connections, where ever I find community, as they are the very best gift one could receive. Ultimately all the belief systems, differences and arbitrary divisions are irrelevant. The message is, and always has been, about connecting at the heart level.

December 13  2013
I'm sitting here in Bamenda on a cool a grey morning looking out over the town below. The market as usual is busy with taxi's and motorcycles dropping off and picking up people loaded down with packages of things to sell or what they've purchased. From up here it's like watching an anthill peppered with tiny umbrellas, an occasional bus slowly working its way along the edge. Directly below us are houses, compounds mostly made of mud brick covered over with corrugated tin roofs. You can imagine what it sounds like when it rains. These buildings descend like steps, intermingled with bananas, papaya and mango trees down to the market. The sounds of people talking, yelling, banging away on metal, an occasional dog barking, children crying, laughing and playing mingled with loudly broadcast music and the ubiquitous honking goes on into the night daily.
Beyond the market the terrain rises slightly covered with concrete block buildings,  some apartments, but mostly business's. We walk that way frequently going downtown. One whole section is dedicated to car repair, parts and "service" the rusting hulks of cannibalized taxi's, vans and small trucks willy nilly lining the "roads". When it's been raining it is barely navigable on foot, rutted and potholed it turns into a quagmire with all the metal, broken glass and spilled oil unevenly distributed for blocks. The paved street two roads over to the right is like a racetrack, the taxis and motorcycles weaving up and down as the pedestrians squeeze between the parked cars and the live traffic, a constant stream of humanity walking back and forth with goods for sale on their heads, or delivering used car parts, business men in suits and women with babies.
 Not many tourists here, it's almost worth remarking when we see one. Ironically they seldom acknowledge me, some kind of denial that there could be anyone else having this unique experience, I know I've felt it myself, and read about others experiencing and describing it... Read any Pico Iyer? He nails a lot of the traveler's angst and dismay.
Beyond that commercial area up to the left a ridge with more apartment buildings rising up it's slopes and some open land at the top, likely a religious school or church grounds. Almost every educational facility here has Presbyterian or Catholic affiliations. And they seem to own most of the green space, beyond the individual garden plot everyone has to grow their sweet potato, corn or assorted yam varieties.


Behind all that there is more, and more of the same to the north and west but it's framed by cliffs that line the south east edge, houses and compounds climbing to the vertical limits.  We climbed up those slopes a few weeks ago to view one of the waterfalls.

I find it incredible how people can manage to capitalize on the slightest amount of barely level ground and punch in a garden. Although the gardens themselves are not visible from here, I recently saw fires and smoke so assume they are doing slash and burn as we approach the dry season.
Up top in Upstation, the government officials, high rollers and gentry of the place have massive properties with even more massive "houses" among the very old mansions built during and since the Germans were here 100 years ago. Apparently the view up there is spectacular. It was hard to see through all the hedges, walls and fences erected around their properties.
The view from here is pretty amazing, the mountains beyond blocking the sun's rise until 6:45, later lit up as it sets. It's a constantly changing panorama when the smog/mist clears.

I've been reading an old travel guide; this place has tripled in size in ten years; you can well imagine the infrastructure  challenges. The folks next door down below have an outside shower and biffy and put out buckets to collect their water or walk a few blocks to a seemingly public "tap" which I first thought was a leaking waterline. It may be, but recently some enterprising individual poured concrete around the outlet and installed a pipe. Everyday there are kids surrounding it waiting with their used plastic "jerry cans" to fill up and haul off.
The dry time is coming, when the Harmattan blows sand and dust off the Sahara, blocking the sun for days at a time and dropping the temperature.
Not enough for a white Christmas though.