Descending into Bemanda the bus pulls around and to the left a waterfall dropping unimpeded for about 60 metres, a slow white arc against the green of the mountainside. On the right the city spreads out up to the hills ringing it.
Like many bus stations we've been to recently the "driveway' is dirt and mud. After exiting the bus we  carefully retrieve our belongings. I take on my backpack and Joshua's in front (actually nicely balanced) while he finds us a cab. I'm lost immediately as the driver takes left turns, right turns and proceeds along streets towards our destination.
 From the balcony later I spot the waterfall and determine it is to the south and east of our present location. A thunderstorm erupts off in the distance, immense black clouds crossed with a rainbow.
That evening we are led down a narrow alley in the dark to be welcomed officially by the Board of Better World Cameroon. They called us brother and sister, many hugs and handshakes, new names and introductions.
  Prayers had been said to assure our safe arrival as we came through the air and overland by bus. A short speech of welcome, and then the meal. Being the guests of honour we're served first. Rice with vegetables, fried plantain in strips, greens with little white flecks (ground melon seed)and chicken.
The host and Board chair brings out a bottle of ...  German style beer brewed here in Cameroon (since 1759 it says on the bottle) and then everyone else fills their plates. A major grace spoken with much reference to Jesus and then the toasts. We are told the tradition of serving the patriarch the chicken's gizzard and yes I ate every morsel. 
Energized by a delicious meal  Elke speaks, introducing herself and her work. My turn and I speak about education, men's work and my role working with Elke. How our intention is to support the creation of a Better World.
Aware that we have been traveling for the last three days our hosts encourage a short evening and we head back to the apartment proceeding flashlight in hand to fall asleep to the sounds of the nightclub below, the honking of taxis and motorcycles from the street out front.

Travelers

I'm sitting in the Istanbul airport, drinking a Turkish beer, when a fellow takes the seat beside us. A burly hunk of a guy, he wants to know where we are from. When we ask, he's Turkish and on his way to  a kickboxing competition in Thailand.
Across from me at another table  I watch an older Oriental lady sipping beer and fanning herself. There is something quite elegant or regal about who she might be. The airport is full of milling,  shopping people of all descriptions. We blend in easily, two more travelers bound for somewhere else with no desire to visit or actually purchase anything in the "Duty Free"
No, we have enough stuff already.
In the lounge for our flight a young couple, white, among all the black faces, each speak to us. They are Cameroonian residents, working in a school in Yaounde, both born in Africa, she speaks with an Illinois accent. Super friendly and offering much info about Cameroon I'm struck again by the reality of actually being somewhere as opposed to  reading the warnings from the state department on the net.
My experience of people everywhere is that they are friendly.  A stern or seemingly unfriendly stare or gaze is often disarmed with a simple hello. And, placing oneself in challenging or compromising situations puts you at risk . Obviously.
On the bus to Bamenda I take a seat at the back so I can sit more comfortably. The guy beside me is huge and intimidating looking. I offer my hand to shake and he shares his trouble sitting in the cramped seats. His two boys perched beside him stare unashamedly at me for most of the trip.

The terrain is a visual feast; dense jungle looks like a lot of trees and undergrowth, the occasional plantation of banana, oil palm or coconut completely engulfed by the vines and miscellaneous greenery that seems to take about a week to reassert itself. Along the road to Yaounde there were smashed (usually front end) abandoned cars about every 5 km interspersed occasionally with trucks like dead animals, their wheels in the air, in the ditches and rolled down the banks. No buses thankfully.
Many of the towns along the way have speed bumps along with disrepair and considerable gaps in the road (pot hole does not begin to describe them) which, depending on how adroitly our driver swerves, has me airborn or looking down at the ground. That and the near misses of passing vehicles drives me to reading my e reader. That is when I'm able to focus on the jerking screen.
When we stop halfway (maybe!)  the food vendors are all over us  Most can speak some English, pidgin and French so we are able to understand... mostly.  Cassava in a long sausage shape, roasted plantain,
a peanut or pistachio paste wrapped in a banana leaf with hot spices and a  small purple eggplant looking fruit I saw in the trees that's roasted then eaten cold. Try and find that at home!

Willow weaving

When I left Canada/Vancouver Island I had recently begun to investigate and embrace basket weaving. An encounter with Cedar and the Sacred Grandmother left me wishing for more... instruction, knowledge and understanding.

I created, with help, (Thank you Maria and Sacred Grandmother Cedar) a basket from the branches and bark of one of the last tipi poles I ever harvested. It felt right to be utilizing all of her, working the branches into a usable if primitive carrier.


My research determined that there were still Basketry schools in Germany and France, plus a number of museums and a culture in Europe that supported the artisans who grow, harvest and create with willow.

Willow is the historic and quintessential material here, from the ubiquitous shopping basket to wood carriers, baby carriages, bread holders, fishing creels, laundry baskets and the beach basket chairs lining the seashore and beaches all over Germany. From fencing to hats and split for the finest of work, willow works well.

So I wanted an immersion, an introduction and download of as much information as I could assimilate. The museums unfortunately were closed all winter and I wondered "How was I going to get it?"
In the spring the local castle in Blankenhain hosts a basketry display and plant sale where the numerous examples of utility and whimsy excited my passion again.
A flyer from the Deutsches Fletchwerk Association had me surfing the net, writing to contacts and somewhat excited about German weaving terms: more vocabulary!  Then I got onto the British weaving websites and things really began to move for me. I contacted Mary Butcher to purchase her book Willow Work.
In response to my request for an English speaking instructor Hansgert and Ursula Butterwerk invited me to spend 3 days at their home and workshop.
I knew I was truly and completely there when on arrival I saw many bundles or 'bolts' of willow withes or 'rods' leaning up beside the back door, willow soaking in long tubs and green willow upright in water, roots formed and leaves sprouting.

 Inside a chaotic (to me) assembly of power tools, started projects, bending jigs and more willow along with cane, rattan and likely a whole lot of material I didn't recognize. 

The Butterwerks also manage a basketry museum including a a studio/workshop and gallery where local artists display their works and create cultural events. A former weaver's residence,  the museum documents the rise and fall of basketry in Dalhausen village. Old photographs and small dioramas illustrate how the people lived and worked with willow. The tools, benches and pictures, along with many examples of the types of baskets they produced, are spread throughout the building. The journey through is well organized and with Hansgert guiding I received an incredible amount of relevant information in the short time we were there.



For the next three days I was immersed in the culture of willow; talking, working and examining as I made  willow circles, then bottoms: the base or 'slath' of a basket in brown (with bark) and white (without). The smell of those wet rods took me back ... I don't know where, but it was familiar, very familiar from long ago.


One evening we piled into the car and headed north to Rheder (Brakel) where the locals had harvested willow into bundles and under the direction of a Swiss architect created an outdoor willow "building" or pavilion earlier that spring. I had dreamed of someday doing something like that.
Each day I managed to create a number of samples under Hansgert's able and friendly direction. He was generous with advice, and happily described his work and projects he was engaged in creating. Ursula popped in and out daily, working her shift at the Museum as well as producing gourmet meals for us. She and Hansgert met at the Basketry College in Lichtenfels.
By the last day I was close to full. I completed a simple yet complex bread basket in white willow that one starts upside down then turns inside out, slowly tightening the rods together in threes.
Still excited, still committed to learning more, I filled my cup. I'll have room for more at another time.

Adventure

Adventure
It has a nice ring to it, images of slogging through lush grass across a wide vista, entering a darkly dense forest following barely discernible trails and scaling some rocky crag.
 Or fill in the blanks from your own memory banks!
I was brought up thinking adventure involved chasing some dream or illusive entity across varied landscapes with or without companions...The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings and numerous manifestations of travelogue and fantasy tale have kept me "armchaired" for years. I hardly imagined I could participate in such endeavors, until I met Elke. She was living it, with little fanfare, no corporate sponsorship and humility that awed me. My first thoughts? "I want to do that!"
On reflection I realize that my life has always been an adventure, one's definition of what is important, valuable and relevant determines the path chosen, who we associate with and the choices we make day to day. I chose a long time ago to "not be normal" whatever that was. It is who I am today, a character, enigmatic and predictable, both in my moral sense and commitment to truth, my desire to create and support change and consciousness transformation towards  community based (tribal) reality. To me that sounds like adventure.
So here we go again or really still. A continued procession toward whatever end is in store for me/us down that road of time and experience. Next stops; Hamburg, Berlin then Cameroon.
I read somewhere long ago that once the nest is empty and the work is done our role is to move to service, to forgo the material pleasures of permanent residency, puttering in the back 40 and acquisition of goods. I cannot claim much success in this but I am moving in that direction. My bell collection quietly stored with books and kitchenware back in Canada as I move toward a nomadic, minimalist existence providing service how ever, when ever and where ever possible.
 I feel a tremendous need to have a good memory here, to have access to the collected knowledge distilled to wisdom through years of experience. I judge I am woefully unprepared! And in the moment what works, where we are, is what needs to happen. Living in the moment, now that is adventure!

Thoughts on clothing from the bus

The polyester leisure suit is alive and well in Tanzania. Well maybe thread worn and stained, but holding it's own among the more well to do in the rural population at least. On the bus to Kondoa our conductor looks dignified and official in his faded lime green affair. Numerous older men step on, wedging themselves in deeper, immaculately dressed in matching jacket and trousers. Any wonder? The dust and dirt here is enough to get a Maytag salesman drooling. Too bad electricity is in such short supply although they've put up the power poles into the village (Mnenia) recently...

The women seem committed to the maximum visual effect, colourful kangas and kitenges draped over their shoulders, covering their hair and of course in layers as skirts. The one exception to my generalized observation would be the Maasai. The men mostly (we only occasionally see the women) dress in layers of shukas, brightly patterned woven fabric in plaids of  blue and red, green and yellow and flourescent orange and red...(yes!) or all of the above, together. Which cannot  begin to describe what it looks like.  

These Maasai herdsmen stand at the side of the road, seemingly miles from anywhere in blue and red plaids with their ever present staff/stick/cane, watching their livestock eke out some sustenance from the (what looks like) non existent vegetation. But this year is an initiation year and many of those young herdsmen are dressed in black. Completely in black, every item of clothing black. Except their faces, white foreheads with various permutations of design and expression on the cheeks in white face paint, ash likely or flour. A few have ostrich feathers shooting up from behind their heads, black of course. As we drive by they stare more intently than I dare to. Out of respect for their process I took no pictures.

Meanwhile in the cities their elder brothers walk up and down the streets, cell phone in hand decked out in colours many women would be challenged wearing.  On their feet the famous Maasai sandal; a chunk of motorcycle tire with a piece coming up between the toes; a beaded fringe waving saucily in the air. Although the ubiquitous running shoe/sneaker/training shoe  (I'll name no brands) seems to be making inroads, pardon the pun.

Back on the bus in rural Tanzania, if you can get a seat, there will likely be someone sitting beside you. If a woman,  she'll be constantly fiddling with her head scarf, tucking it here, pulling it out there, occasionally disappearing from view. Possibly to sleep or at least avoid any eye contact with this heathen infidel. The men are usually more friendly, their suits staining sweat right through to their jackets. Asking in their best English where I'm from and for how long, and expressing incredulous surprise at where I'm living.  Almost every man wears the Islamic hat called taqiyah or kofia. Occasionally a ball cap and rarely a fedora. 

 The availability of western clothing is remarkable (at least to my naive mind) For 10,000 Tanzanian shillings one can purchase a bale of clothing, jam packed into a metric cube that when opened -stand back!- will overwhelm one with such a variety of shirts, pants and underwear to possibly jade one forever from ever wanting to wear the stuff. T-shirts with every imaginable slogan, endorsement or "witty" saying, adorning folks who have no English,  no idea what it says. Cheap though, thanks to the folks who donated these dated, discarded derelicts of a disintegrating culture to the land of all our ancestors.

 This is globalization in action,  the few folks  still wearing traditional clothing fast becoming anomalies in a rapidly moving, corporate driven, pathological push towards  uniformity.

 No thanks! I had  a shuka made into a shirt and a kanga into pants. Bring on creative dressups!

We walk to Haubi

At Amarula campsite in Tanzania every once in a while someone would mention Haubi, a small town nestled in the mountains to the east and south of us. It had a lake! Amazing to consider in this dry environment. And a Sunday market!
Hamisi, one of our workers said he'd ridden his bike there to visit his father from the Pahi side, so I thought it couldn't be too far. One of our goals at the camp was to investigate possible day hikes around the vicinity for our visitors.  Our time at Amarula was rapidly coming to an end so we arranged with Hamisi and Daniel to guide us there one Sunday in September.
  Our host Seppo was visiting and drove us early to the turn, off the Kondoa road. As he drove away the numerous folks waiting for the bus to Haubi peppered Hamisi with questions. "Who are those white folks and why are you walking when you can take the bus?"

The road was rough; loose rock, steep and dusty from months without rain.  Soon we took a"shortcut" following a well worn path traversing a wild and undulating landscape. Off to the right and behind us a village  perched on a rise in the distance. Ahead brush, the odd tree and far away to the south as we climbed we could make out buildings in Kondoa.


When it rains here it is torrential. We descended a few times into canyons of eroded clay and stone, crossing narrow channels carved deep into the earth between hoodoo like columns of dried mud.

Then up and out through scrubby bush and herbage. Incredibly in the midst of this we passed a woman, just sitting, waiting. For what I know not, seemingly, in the middle of nowhere.

  Back on the road dump trucks filled with people passed us by on their way to the market. They all seemed pleased to see us, waving and calling out as the truck lumbered past swaying and straining up the hills. Not long after we walked across a wide sandy river, the tire tracks churned deeply into ruts. I wondered how they managed when the river was running.
Occasionally we'd pass or be passed by young women draped in layers of colourful cloth, Kangas and Kitenges flowing behind them, mist like, baskets in their hands.
Climbing still we passed through a small village, Hamisi again explaining  our purpose to the assembled men at the roadside.

 Not long after a few of those men caught up and walked with us awhile through more extreme looking landscapes till suddenly before us the lake appeared. Some settlement all around, the town visible at the far end at the foot of the hills.


 Walking on we found a fig tree loaded with fruit. Although apparently not so attractive to the locals, we nevertheless enjoyed a sweet treat and a break in the shade before continuing on.

 Down below to the left the lake was choked with weed and reeds so no swimming to cool our sweaty bodies. By this time the road had become quite crowded with people returning from the market. As we turned a corner near lakes end, there before us, a sea of people, booths and buses, trucks, donkeys, dogs, goats and chickens, coloured cloths, racks of western style clothing, pots and pans. I walked past a fellow sitting behind all manner of hardware, hinges, doorlocks, bolts and screws, car and bicycle parts spread out on the ground. And almost everyone there staring at us.
 The whole way we'd been anticipating some food and a place to sit to enjoy it. Where we finally ended up was more like a cave than a cafe and no chips mayai.
That brief interlude passed and we continued on around the lake walking back towards Pahi, passing a woman carrying an enormous clay pot on her head.
 Turns out Haubi is a source of homebrew, made in these giant pots. I wanted one! Sanity prevailed and we walked on.... and on... and on.
 The road continues into the hills but at the river Hamisi turned us right.

 Erosion has an amazing face, the steep walls of sandy clay cut by years of roaring river,  the bed wide and hard enough to drive on. We  walked down broad avenues, around corners into grottoes and canyons, past cliffs and islands eventually climbing onto a plateau up what looked like a driveway.
 On one side farmland stretched right up against the rising hills. On the left, steep drops into narrow canyons choked with vegetation.  Proceeding through this valley the path became narrower, the drops on either side more precipitous and I realized no one was driving in or out from this side!
Ahead the vast Masai steppe was visible from our vantage point in the hills. The trail, no longer a path, traversed one hillside to the other, up down and around loose rock and boulders through Miombo forest.

  It was remarkably red and green, the trees beginning to leaf out in anticipation of the coming rains.

 Stopping to rest we were passed by parties of young men and women, then family groups from very old to young with a troop of donkeys, not impressed, veering off the trail to avoid us.

 

 Down, down through scrub and forest, sliding over rock faces, around more boulders then coming around a corner on the road,  way off in the distance, we spied Amarula camp. Elke called Seppo for a ride and as the land leveled off we walked into  Pahi.
Quite a spectacular walk, we decided next time we'd do it in two days. Maybe then we could try the homebrew?

Bad day for a bus ride

Here we've arrived off Babu Transport after shopping in Kondoa. Seems like they have concerns about the front tire.



Sometimes though the signs are there and I'm not paying attention.


Occasionally we would run low on cash. There's no international ATM in Kondoa, so we'd make the trip to Babati 3 hours and 80km away.

The bus is cheap, relatively speaking, 6,000 TS (about $3.C), runs once a day to Arusha and is scheduled to pass by our driveway at  5:30am.

That morning the bus never came. Babu Transport, our usual ride to Kondoa, happily carried us up the hill to Kolo where an eager fellow sold us tickets to Babati on the next bus. It arrived within minutes and away we went standing up front, swaying and holding on.
Within an hour we were stopped by some undetermined mechanical problem. The bus jockeys were back and forth from the tool box and two hours later had leaf springs unassembled under the bus and were then waiting themselves. This was a clear message to start walking.

It was pleasant walking, a few flowers on trees brightening the dry leafless landscape. An hour later we stopped at what appeared to be a bus stop. A group of local women and children were entertained to see us. When a bus roared past I waved it down.

This bus was already full. On the roof a large overstuffed chair, baggage/luggage and piled sacks with two or three men sitting on top. In order to get on we had to wedge ourselves onto the steps. We carried on for a few minutes when it stopped to pick up more passengers!
I was pushed and shoved further into the bus so more folks could get in. I had my head up against the ceiling. Elke, behind me, perched on the edges of a sack of rice. Both of us in full contact with the rest of the standees front and back.
 Unfortunately this is quite typical. Limited service, low wages and a large population mean the bus folks will take as many as they can to make the extra cash.

I'm watching as the bus slows down and the two bus jockeys standing in the doorway are thrown out as we lurch left. The bus tips over and slides sideways across the road. People are screaming, I'm thinking "is this my time?" and "no apparently not."  I search around for Elke who is now beneath me.

 I've braced myself against the wall maintaining a somewhat upright position. Folks are scrambling up and out the windows, crawling out through the doorway and the back window/exit. Elke has the presence of mind to grab our bags, I pass them up with her as she is pulled through the side windows and jumps down.

My turn, except I've lost my shoe as someone squeezed past my foot. I'm standing in kerosene, very slippery on a metal surface. I grab my shoe off the ground beneath the bus. I'm one of the last out. Helpful hands haul me up and over the edge, dropped into the arms of a fellow outside. Women are crying, yelling into their phones, limping and sitting alone shock and dismay on their faces. A group of men push the bus up and pull out the two who fell. People are running towards us from all directions.

Someone asks if we are ok? as we sit beside a young woman, Elke reassuring her, checking out her possibly injured hand. Other than shock we seem fine. There is not much we can do here, don't speak the language and folks are assisting where needed. Two motorcycles take some injured fellows away held in place by another sitting behind.

We start walking, stopping frequently to inform folks to the best of our ability what happened. I'm still amazed I've survived. The walking helps to ground me. Elke calls our friend in Babati who arranges a cab and after walking another hour we are picked up.
This experience is truly unsettling. We talk about the safety and security of life back in the developed world, how complacent and trusting we became. How risk makes things interesting and why we would choose to even get on a bus that full.

Back at camp a week or so later we hear the sounds of singing as a vehicle comes down the hill, then a crash and silence. We rush over to the overlook on the road where we see a large truck on it's side, people everywhere. 19 die returning from a wedding.

Here it is "the will of God" Certainly there is sadness and mourning but it seems accepted that these things happen. No blame and it seems no responsibility either. Is this the price, the risk I take to be here?