Sporadic Nomadic

2011-10-07T15:38:00.000-07:00

In the pasture

On the first day of snow, when the white curtain of winter began to stream down,

the house where i lived grew distant

and at first it seemed imperative to hurry home.

But later, not much later, I began to see

that soft snowbound house as i would always remember it,

and i would linger a long time in the pasture,

turning in circles, staring

at all the crisp, exciting, snow filled roads

that led away.

Mary Oliver

~~~

The seasons are changing. One can feel it on the crisp bike ride to work, as the sun rises and the breath hangs as solitary souvenirs along the path. One can see it in the leaves that change from vibrant green, to bright yellow, then dull orange, and finally a deep red. A day later they spiral towards the earth reaching the ground that they will become.

Whether walking through a forest of leaves crunching underfoot, surfing a wave in the fading sunlight, or clearing the mind through meditation, there are moments when the divide between the mundane and the sacred falls to the ground. In those moments are spirits can breathe.

At these blessed moments, may we find the time to not hurry home...

Heading home

Pic of the day

2011-10-03T18:43:00.000-07:00

Ethiopia

2011-10-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

Before you look through these photos click on this link to listen to a great song from Gigi of Ethiopia.

Gigi - Guramayle

[10 days in Ethiopia]

Girls selling scarves on the muddy path up to the Blue Nile waterfalls. "Mister, my name is Tadese. Beautiful scarves. You remember me. Mister, my name is Tadese..."

Coffee. Black, strong, and rich with flavor. Incense burns and allures the senses. It is difficult to resist as one walks by a little coffee house tucked away from traffic. Coffee beans are freshly roasted on a charcoal fire. Small china cups line the table. Soon our hands wrap around the tiny cups as we sip at the "kaffa." Ethiopia is where a shepherd first brewed the drink and managed to stay awake roaming the hills.

Don't forget the popcorn!

Dancing: we went to a few different traditional houses where a dance troupe would throw their necks and wiggle their shoulders in ways impossible for a lanky dutchman to replicate. It is worth trying though.

Then there were the tailors. I visited with a group of tailors on the outskirts of Addis Ababa. We shared a laugh as they let me have a go on their looms. The end product was not for sale that much was understood. We shared a laugh over coffee and roasted barley. To share the moment is to share life. I am grateful to have shared it with these good people

A lovely time with new friends in the fields and the traditional houses:

Finally, there was the change we can believe in. Obama is alive and well in the heartland of Ethiopia.

Aishee!

Nouwen

2010-12-05T12:41:00.000-08:00

Here is a quote from Henri Nouwen that speaks to many of us:

"You feel it safer to cling to a sorry past than to trust in a new future."

To Feel Alive Again

2010-12-05T10:40:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning with a sense of expectation for possibilities. I had been trapped inside a bubble, weakened by a stomach running with bugs of African persuasion. I dare not ask why they entered my body or what gave them reason to hold on for so long, but needless to say I spent all of Saturday in bed. On this bright sunday morn I persuaded my weakened body to go to the pool and embrace the moment. It took some convincing, but i succumbed to ambition and headed towards the lucid waters.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, breath: there is something moving about rhythm and ritual. For in those spaces, our actions reflect the persuasion of the medulla oblongata: those automatic functions that require no conscious thought. The rhythms of the heart are matched by the cadence of the stroke from the swimmer. The times in life when our minds are not consciously engaged in "active thinking" is when the deeper level of thinking can take place. Dreams and values surface as we daydream about situations and conversations. This is the "time between times" when our subconscious breaks to the surface and showers us with insights inconceivable during higher level rationalizing.

I lounged in the pool with my arms stretched out on the hot tiles and observed the world around me. The breeze blew through the leafy trees with unregulated movements. The trees seemed to move with a natural bending and twisting, as if the wind was rubbing their backs and hitting just the right places. A small lizard sauntered past and pounced upon a potted lemongrass plant. He shimmied up to the edge and propped his arms onto the rim, supported by his skinny legs on the body of the planter below. Was he mimicking me? We looked at each other for a moment, both content in that moment to just be. After warming in the sun he was off. "Life is as it is," I thought. Just then, a butterfly, yellow as a lemon, floated by on tiny parcels of air. Buoyed by determination and luck it found its way to some destination. I was pleased with this good omen and decided to embrace the moment as this butterfly showed me how.

I jumped on the Yamaha Bronco and opened up the 225cc.s worth of pep for a ride into aburi hills, just north of Accra. The dark clouds over the hills were threatening, but the need to feel alive caused caution in the backseat (or in this case, tossed out all together). The rain drove hard as i climbed the hill up to Aburi. Those first few drops felt great as the road smelled fresh from the rain and I reminisced of times growing up in the wet town of Chilliwack. The sky grew dark and the light dim as I rode on to an unknown destination. My only goal: to feel alive.

I stopped in a town a little further past aburi and pulled out a book of poetry. The poem that resonated was this:

A sketch for a modern love poem

And yet whiteness

can be best described by greyness

a bird by a stone

sunflowers

in december

love poems of old

used to be descriptions of flesh

they described this and that

for instance eyelashes

and yet redness

should be described

by greyness the sun by rain

the poppies in november

the lips at night

the most palpable

description of bread

is that of hunger

there is in it

a humid porous core

a warm inside

sunflowers at night

the breasts the belly the thighs of Cybele

a transparent

source-like description

of water is that of thirst

of ash

of desert

it provokes a mirage

clouds and trees enter

a mirror of water

lack hunger

absence

of flesh

is a description of love

in a modern love poem.

By: Tadeusz Rozewicz

---

As I sat on the motorbike soaked to the bone with giant towering cumulonimbus clouds stretching to the troposphere I thought about art. There is such beauty in the diversity of interpretation. Perhaps the greatest personal transformation that one undergoes as a person is when interpretation becomes one's own, rather than prescribed by cultural influences (parental, societal, and religious.) I thought of my childhood and religion. Could the Bible be considered a work of art? Could there be several interpretations accepted without one denomination claiming the corner on the market of sacred absolutes?

In my languid state I observed the clouds so full of movement showing off their variations of tone and shade. Subtle hints of blue swirled in the threatening mass of sombre greys and void blacks. The light was electric. Purple splashes of colour pasted in the form of delicate flowers on a shade tree. My mind turned to the poem. Can the best description of bread be hunger itself? Can love be described only with loneliness being central to its exposition? I played with thoughts as the tarmac passed beneath my feet. Can someone truly appreciate warmth without being exposed to the biting cold of a mid winters night? Perhaps love is best formed in the forge of bitter moments alone with oneself, left with only the choice to either walk away or into the pain of the past and the feeble hopes of the future - to sit in that present moment and embrace that which is.

I road on straight into a full force African rain squall. My body was beaten with driving rain chilled by the icy downdrafts of the giant storm cloud. After shivering for 15 minutes I pulled the bike over to find shelter under an awning. I opened the book of poetry. Another Polish poet touched my soul while my pants dripped to the same tempo of the falling rain.

The Same Inside

Walking to your place for a love feast

I saw at a street corner

an old beggar woman.

I took her hand,

kissed her delicate cheek,

we talked, she was

the same inside as I am,

from the same kind,

I sensed this instantly

as a dog knows by scent

another dog.

I gave her money,

I could not part from her.

After all, one needs someone who is close.

And then I no longer knew

why i was walking to your place.

By: Anna Swir

----

I have been pondering compassion lately. In the moments of disconnect I ask myself: what is it to move with empathy? For compassion to be a first reaction and response or better yet, a proaction? What is possible in this world dictated by selfish desire?

The rains abated and I took the bike slowly down the steep incline happy for the chance to embrace the elements. As I shivered I laughed, for it felt good to be alive again.

Ghana

2010-01-15T15:19:00.000-08:00

On the road to Ghana today. Updates will be coming shortly (the time frame is relative).

marcel

A quote from Persia

2010-01-15T15:17:00.000-08:00

This is what Xerxes stated in a moment of ravished delight at what he had acheived:

"I am Xerxes, the great king, king of kings, king of countries containing all kinds of men, king of this great far and wide, and son of Darius the Achaemenid."

I hope I never get to the point of saying something with such bravado.

Quotes from Iranian newspaper

2009-12-12T03:05:00.000-08:00

I picked this up in Esfahan and found the quotes interesting:

"Meanwhile, after three decades (since the 79 revolution), it has been observed that the US is still the main bullying power and still has an arrogant spirit." Parliament speaker, Ali Larijani.

----

"Following the victory of the Islamic Revolution, the hands of the plundering colonial powers was cut short and their ominous interests were threatened. The courageous and liberated Iranian nation resorted to Almighty." Ayatollah Khamanei, Supreme Leader of Iran

----

"A few girls think they can secure their marriage through promiscuous relations, which is not correct." Police Chief General, Ismail Ahmadi-Moqaddam

Pakistani Taxi Driver

2009-12-12T02:50:00.000-08:00

I got into the cab with my oversized backpack and smaller daybag. "Ap kaisa hai?" I asked the cabbie. He looked over to me as we sped down the road in his pint sized suzuki, "First Class boss!" I was impressed. I felt more like I was in the back of economy class with my legs indenting the dashboard. We chatted a little and he asked in Urdu/English: "Canada or Pakistan - what is better?" I smiled and said, "America!" He laughed and gave me the South Asia head nod: "Ji (yes), Osama!" It was my turn to laugh, "I think you mean Obama." His eyes got wide, "O-bomb-ah! Bomb!" We both chuckled a nervous laughter for we both were aware that with the surge of new troops to Afghanistan the conditions in Pakistan will worsen before they brighten. The fear is palpable.

Gilgit

2009-12-11T06:32:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I will take a bus ride up to the town of Gilgit, nestled nicely in the Karakoram mountain range. Depending on who you believe it can be a 17 / 24 / or 32 hour bus ride on the KKH (Karakoram Highway), a road notorious for never being quite finished. I am hoping for the 17 hour option, overnight version. That way my fear of heights will not get in the way.

Why am I going you may ask? Many reasons as per usual. I want to see if my new $7 boots can handle the snowbound peaks. I also want to realize my lifelong dream of finding a yeti. A yak would also suffice as I am not too picky in December. I would like to see the people of Hunza again, the land where mountains and culture meet.

My goal on the road is to sit by the window just in case things go awry.

En route

2009-12-11T02:27:00.000-08:00

The train left Damascus at 8am on Monday morning. I was ready to go - my mind was full of thoughts gleaned from times of reflection and warm memories received from generous and quite random hospitality. I had seen dead cities, stark on a lonely hill and lived in vibrant places, hubs of trade and connection. I had witnessed the orb of the setting sun casting a hue of molten lead on the river Euphrates. I had listened to the cries of muezzins from a hundred minarets stretching across the marketplaces of Aleppo as I sat perched on the citadel that no crusader was able to conquer. Whispered prayers uttered in Mar Musa, smoke and incense wafting to the heights at St. Thecla's convent. I was ready to venture into the lands of the East.

Sweet rice breakfast

Delight

View over Aleppo from citadel heights.

Men of the old city, Damascus.

The faithful at prayers, Imam Reza Shrine in Damascus.

The tired at prayers, Imam Reza Shrine in Damascus

Faithful in contrast.

Hubbly Bubbly, Nargileh, Sheesha, Qeylan, Water Pipe...a pleasure with many names.

Ummayid Mosque, Old City, Damscus

Lights of the time, Old City, Damascus.

I found my berth and settled in for the long journey. The two person berth was actually quite comfortable, but the toilets left something to be desired, namely a paint job.

Is it possible to avoid the toilet for 70 hours? I was going to try.

We continued on into Turkey and I enjoyed the company of a young Iranian couple from the next room. They taught me Farsi using sign language and sound effects (charades is the favourite game of the traveler); they also shared food and laughs with me as we made our way slowly across landscapes where human civilizations stretched out even before the time of the ancient civilizations, such as the Hittites. Crossing into Turkey was a quick stamp in the cold night air and after many an hour and a some shut eye we were well into Southeastern Turkey. A train ride is a great place to review the days and experiences that culminate into a determining shaping force. I thought back to one such experience weeks before in the town of Urfa, Turkey.

I was walking out of the park after a day of relaxing when a man stopped me and asked where I was from. Truly, I was getting a little tired of this question by this point since it was asked by everyone immediately. For me, one's source of origin does not seem to be such an important determining factor in the quality of a person's characater. I told the man that I was from Canada. He smiled suspiciously and asked if I was a "real" Canadian. I burst out laughing. I told him I was one of those pesky fake Canadians. He had apparently met them before. "Name a town that starts with an 'n'" he demanded. "Nelson, of the pot smoking variety," I replied. I was wrong. "A different one...that's not it." My second attempt was better than my first and he was satisfied that I was indeed valid.

I wondered after all that if he actually liked Canada. His expression said it all, "No!" he replied. I smiled, realizing this could become quite an interesting conversation. I was not disappointed. The conversation meandered from Israeli politics to American realpolitiking in the Middle East before settling on the Genocide of the Armenians in the 20th Century. According to my doubting Thomas, the forced expulsion of Armenians of Southeastern Turkey that resulted in more than one million deaths never actually occurred. The West has been misinformed by a smear campaign on Turkey. He did agree that the Armenians did leave their homes en masse but he stressed that it was strictly voluntary. "Yes, some people did die on the way, but that was to be expected when people leave their area as they did." Most countries around the world have officially acknowledged that the removal of Armenians from their homes and the wide-scale massacres were in fact genocide. There are only three countries of diplomatic prominence that have avoided such language; these include the USA, Israel and the UK.

There are bold authors within Turkey (and some outside) who have spoken publicly about the genocide. In 2005, Orhan Pamuk was charged under Article 301, which states: "A person who, being a Turk, explicitly insults the Republic or Turkish Grand National Assembly, shall be punishable by imprisonment of between six months to three years." The charges were dropped on a technicality, but the topic remains a sensitive one across Turkey. Pamuk's books were burned as a sign of protest to his statements. Pamuk stated simply that "Thirty thousand Kurds have been killed here, and a million Armenians. And almost nobody dares to mention that. So I do." (Daz Magazin, February 2005).

As the sun went down over the rolling hills of Turkey's bucolic southern corner my heart was sad for the people who had suffered and for those who accept their facts based on prejudice. As the train rolled on further East I wondered, "Are we not all like that man in the park, holding onto our prejudices as truth?" My heart was heavy. I slept without dreaming.

A handful of almonds, two mandarin oranges, a five hour ferry ride across the lake and we reached Iran. The steam poured from the vents of the train and gave the station platform the feeling of a 1940's Humphrey Bogart film. "Sing it again sweetheart" were my thoughts as my passport was stamped by the surgical mask wearing immigration official. In Iran I was to learn that H1N1 was a big deal. (Sidenote: at a bank I was asked if I have swine flu after sneezing in front of an audience of bank tellers).

The train is always on time in Turkey. Mmmmm...yes right of course.

These were the thoughts taken from my journal while looking at the scenes that slowly passed us by:

The valleys are filled with trees burning with the colourful tremors of late Autumn, as winter shakes the branches with its icy breeze. Streams are trickling along to find their rivers. Tractors ply the fields in search of one more potatoe to harvest before the snows bury life like a secret. Tunnels and darkness. Syrian men talking of long lost romances. Iranians happy to be home or at least close. Children happy to see their mothers and fathers happy. We walk the halls of the train with a "salaam" and a smile. I am in Iran, the land that was once was known for its towering gardens, exquisite carpets and poets ahead of their time. Today it has the unfortunate media labels (in the West) of being a backwards nation that is hellbent on nuclear arsenal and willfully supporting terrorism. In 2002 it was vilified that famous cowboy from Texas as being somewhere in the middle of the "axis of evil." After many years of questioning media representation, I was finally here in a country under threat of future attack and the present weight of sanctions. What will I see, what will I feel? More importantly, what is daily life like for the father in Tehran or the mother in Qazvin? I was bound to find out.

One word: bucolic.

One word: Delicious. Labneh in the morning is always a welcome sight.

You know you are in Eastern Turkey when...

The trip was filled with scenes of serenity and a whole lot of army personnel

Faisal Mosque

2009-12-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

The sun was setting. I bowed to pray. To my left a Muslim eyed me with
wonder at seeing this foreigner getting everything wrong in position and form.
I sensed my spirit connecting beyond our material world as I sought answers or maybe some assurance that I was asking the right questions. After several minutes and prostrations later, I left my prayer carpet. I walked around in wonderment at the large minaret towering above us, dwarfing the faithful in a sense of seeming insignificance. I continued around the bend and was met with the dazzling spectacle in the West. The sun was crashing into the horizon with clouds awash in a sea of flames. It was then that I understood. The Divine exists, yes true, but more than that, He finds pleasure each late afternoon in seeing the wonder in the eyes of us, his children.

I listened to a song entitled, "Emerald minarets in a sea of stars" as the clouds chased the colour from the sky. The muezzin came on the PA system with a crackle and a laboured breath before he sang out that Allah is great. I could not help but agree as I walked down the stairs, away from the masjid and the prayers of the faithful, those with enough audacity left to believe that God still does answer their prayers.

More to come

2009-12-09T02:39:00.000-08:00

To my two readers: the blog is going to be updated soon with my thoughts from Iran and more recently Pakistan. Inshallah I will update tomorrow.

Petra by Night, the unguided tour

2009-11-05T11:29:00.000-08:00

The air is cool and the town quiet as we make our way down the deserted streets to the ruins of Petra below. The ancient city of Petra was inhabitated by the Nabataeans, a Semitic Tribe that were the forerunners of modern arabic and the designers of vast tomb structures hewn from the sandstone cliffs. The height of their "empire" (more a region of influence) came at the 1st century AD when they controlled trade routes through Arabia. Their main source of revenue came from spices such as frankincence and myrrh and with their wealth they built lavish tombs where their kings and influential citizens could be laid to rest. Xabi and I spent two days exploring the colours, details, and design of the tombs as the sunlight life to the now abandoned city. It was on the second day of our visit that we slipped off the well worn tourist path and discovered the hidden beauty of area surrounding Petra.

At seven am Xabi and I sat sipping our nescafes from the cool damp of the cave that doubled as a cafe. As we looked out over the theatre we began chatting with Khalid and Ahmed, two bedouins running the friendly coffee cave. Khalid, whom we've dubbed "Johnny Depp" for his uncanny resemblance to the actor's portrayal of Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean, is quiet and hospitable. Ahmed, his cousin is more assertive and has that ability to work the tourist scene. Both are incredibly friendly and open as we talk of the bedouins of Petra.

The situation of the Petra Bedouins is a tale that resonantes with many of the indigenous cultures the world over. In the past there were many thousands of bedouins who would stay within Petra, but now there are only forty families that remain. Ini the 1980s the government relocated them to a village outside of the tourist attraction. The bedouins never wanted to move but were forced to do so under central planning. The conditions in the village are less than acceptable and as the bedouin way of life is threatened so are ageless traditions such as hospitality. As we talked with the bedouins we began to understand some of the prejudices they face.

The bedouins have a tainted reputation in Wadi Musa (the town up the road that is filled with dozens of hotels and cheap tourist trinkets.) The group of backpackers I was traveling with were warned repeatedly by hotel staff of the danger of associating with the bedouins: "they are not trustworthy...they will rob you...they are lazy...they only want money..." These complaints sounded typical of a racial / class majority operating within the constraints of fear.

The bedouins we spoke to throughout Petra had a different perspective on life. On route to the monastery we stopped to talk with a bedouin family. The conversation soon turned to the contrasting of our cultures: "In your country you work and work and for what?" the father related as we watched his three year old daughter teasing the donkeys a short distance from us. "Here we relate to people; we work and relax at the same time." Another bedouin spoke of understanding each other. "Many tourists come and go, but few speak with us really wanting to learn." From my brief time observing the bedouins it seemed to me that they are a minority relegated to selling trinkets and giving rich tourist kids camel rides.

The coffee cups were emptied as the sun filled the canyon with light. Khalid and Ahmed invited us to spend time with them and learn more about their lives. We eagerly took up the invitation to spend a night with them in their caves up in the mountains of Petra. We retrieved our bags from our hotel and stashed them inside the cave. We promised our new friends that we would be back by 5pm after exploring some new corners of Petra. Xabi, Claire, her Irish friend and I headed up to the high place of sacrifice for lunch. After a stiff twenty minute climb you are welcomed with a scene that stirs the imagination. Two obelisks framed a raised altar with drainage canals perched over a cliff with stunning views over the royal tombs and the ancient city tucked in the valley below. How many sheep and goats walked the steep hand carved stone step way to their final moments as curious children and royalty gazed up from the city below. The wind blew with a sudden chill as we sought shelter a rock outcropping.

After lunch Xabi and I headed for wadi (river valley) that looked very inviting. We passed by olive groves and farmers coaxing their donkeys weighed down with succulent fruit of the valley, which they shared with a smile. We continued on ascending the steep valley walls up the sandstone pathway until we reached a vantage point where the view drew us in and refused to release us from its enticement. A strip of green ran the length of the valley floor as sandstone rose from the Earth's bowels in a flux of colours: dusty brown, salmon red and soft purples swirled their way up the cliffside. At the end of the valley the rock changed to a deep, dark shale, the colour of coal - ominous and strangely inviting. We could not resist the pull of this scene that resembled the dark flanks of Tolkien's Mordor. We traveled based on the assumption that we could easily veer back over to Petra and beyond to the cave cafe to meet our friends. Well, you know what they say about assumptions. We definitely proved the rule on this one.

As we passed over the ridge we ran headlong down into the valley over loose scree as the sun began its heavy descent to its habitual horizon of resting. Xabi and I contemplated our route in the fading light. We had gone too far to go back the way we came and so we pressed on. But which way: up or down? When in doubt go up. We did just that and it proved to be quite an adventurous route. As the sun went down the moon came up to light our way up the steep slopes. Soon the clouds danced with the moonlight as we came to a dead end. A cliff blocked our way and once again, and in our near infinite wisdom, we decided to go up once again. Climbing cliffs at night is not recommended by Jordan's ministry of Tourism and Antiquities. On the back of the ticket it reads: "ATTENTION: for safety reasons visitors to Petra are kindly requested to leave the site premises before sunset." Unknowingly, we may have wandered off the site premises by then.

For some reason it was in those moments that I felt alive.The moonlight threw our shadows down into the valley as the handholds presented themselves to our greedy fingers. The cold breeze blew the sweat from our foreheads that were creased with concentration. Alone with our thoughts nature gave us her undelible gift of life.

Several more uphll pushes and we reached a crest. To our disbelief we found tire marks in the sand and we became ecstatic. We stopped to snap pictures. We were home free or so we thought. After 45 minutes of following tire tracks in the sand we reacheda bedouin cave where men were lounging and cooking up some chicken. They invited us to join them but we felt an obligation to get back to our friends at Petra since we were far outside Petra's boundary.

After saying our "masalaamas" we followed a dirt path to the tarmac road. We felt that we had to sneak back into Petra to meet our friends and collect our bags if nothing else. Our walk down the road was filled with finding dead ends and barking dogs that in our imaginations were vicious savage beasts. Unsuccessfully we walked down the road and finally at 9:30pm a passing police vehicle stopped to pick us up. At the police station we were met by ten anxious tourist police, their commander, Claire and her friend. After twenty minutes filled with questioning, chai and furtive glances we parted ways and walked up the hill back to the town filled with hotels and tourists. We wrapped up the evening apologizing to our very upset bedouin friends who were sending text messages from their cave.

Random signs and posters in Jordan

2009-11-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

There were three signs / posters that stood out for me as I hitchhiked and caught buses around Southern Jordan:

1. One signboard at the side of the road (about 20km from Saudi Border): "Hajj congregating place."

2. Another signboard with an arrow pointing to an alternative highway: "trucks and tanks mandatory"

3. In a minibus the driver had a poster of a young Saddam Hussein on the back of the sun visor. Political messages are all the rage.

Photos of Jordan

2009-11-05T10:58:00.000-08:00

The Monastery, Petra

Zen on the sand dunes, Wadi Rum
The night sky, Wadi Rum
Running Man
The overshot sunset photo
Tomb 371 at Petra
"We came from there somewhere"

The view coming out of Rakhabat Canyon, Wadi Rum
The classic sand dune shot
Wadi Rum
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun..."More light painting at Wadi Rum

More photos of Jordan

2009-11-05T07:48:00.000-08:00

The uphill road

The kids of Petra

Bedouin children of Petra
Child
Wadi Rum
The Lions of Petra
Jordan's Old Glory
The treasury at 6:30am. Indy?
I have finally found what I am looking for
Xabi: Spanish rock skipping champion showing his skills at the Dead Sea

The donkey that thought he could, but really couldn't
Moses' mountain view of the promised land (I prefer trees and lakes with life, but milk and honey isn't bad)

Chillin'
Nnnnnyes?

Sunset

2009-10-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

Here is a poem from the Chinese poet, Tu Fu (713-770):

Sunset
Sunset glitters on the beads
Of the curtains. Spring flowers
Bloom in the valley. The gardens
Along the river are filled
With perfume. Smoke of cooking
Fires drifts over the slow barges.
Sparrows hop and tumble in
The branches. Whirling insects
Swarm in the air. Who discovered
That one cup of thick wine
Will dispel a thousand cares?

Urfa

2009-10-16T09:10:00.000-07:00

My mind is calm. After having spent the journey contemplating the journey thus far I decided to explore the park where families have gathered to spend their day off. Fathers walk with toddlers in their arms as they share smiles wide with life. Young women, who don colourful head dresses and ankle length designer trench coats, walk arm in arm giggling as they share secrets - perhaps of the boys they have their eye on. Grandfathers with Kurdish head wraps and thick mustaches gently ply their prayer beads as they talk of former glories. Tim and again it is the children who capture my attention. They point excitedly at the pools and canals yelling with delight: "Balak!!" (fish).

The carp, numbering in the thousands, thrive in their unique situation as the recipients of Urfa's great legend. I pieced the story of the legend together from several accounts, some in broken Turkish and German. Long, long ago a prophet was born in a cave. His name was Abraham. Unfortunately for Abraham the cave in which he was born was at the foot of a mountain belonging to Nimrod, the great hunter. Abraham was hidden in the cave, but not for long. Nimrod caught wind of the news of his birth and tracked him down as only a legendary hunter could do. He took the baby up to the top of the mountain and flung him down from the pillars of the acropolis. His goal was to send Abraham hurtling down to the furnaces in the valley below. As Abraham flew threw the air God then entered the scene. He saw what was happening and realized his plan for humanity was in jeopardy. So, he turned the furnaces into pools of carp that gently caught Abraham and ferried him to shore. After having been miraculously saved Abraham vowed that anyone who eats one of the fish will go blind. For thousands of years the fish have multiplied without hindrance.

The antiquity of the story is quite fascinating. This may be the oldest surviving legend that we know of. According to William Dalrymple in his book "From the Holy Mountain," the legend predates Muslim and Christian traditions. The roots are found in the one of the most ancient cults of the Middle East, that of the Syrian fertility goddess, Attargatis. It is not surprising that the cult centered its worship around water; the fish being the beneficiary of worshipers who performed bizarre erotic ceremonies at Attargatis' altar in the middle of the pools.

The main pond now sits with a mosque and a row of mesmerizing arches painted with the hues of honey in the fading sunlight. The pond is a calm blue, but as pellets are dropped from the gentle hands of children, the fish surge in an apocalyptic thrashing of fin, wide eyes and gaping mouths. Several of the carp have wounds now whitened with festering infection, yet they are relentless as they compete for survival. Some of the fish are inadvertently hoisted onto the backs of the others as the individual fish become a surge of bodies - a pulsating mass of greys and greens, competition and survival.

Urfa (formely Edessa) has succumbed to one vanquishing invader after another from the Hittites to the Crusaders, yet one constant remains: the gaping mouths of the protected carp and the wide eyes of the children feeding them.

The pinky

2009-10-16T01:18:00.000-07:00

Why is it that in nearly all countries I have visited outside of
Europe and North America do men always have an extremely long pinky
fingernail? I suppose the answer is obvious...

A proverb

2009-10-16T00:05:00.000-07:00

" It's the space between the bars that holds the tiger; and the silence between the notes that makes the music." Proverb

A digression of regression

2009-10-15T09:28:00.000-07:00

We were lost on the streets of Hama looking for a restaurant that boasted stunning views of the magnificent water wheels, which dated back to the 13th century AD. All we were finding were shops selling items of vague interest: hookah pipes, stationary, and cheap sunglasses. All of these I needed, but not as much as a cup of tea while gazing out over the wooden water wheels that moaned sorrowfully at their ceaseless labouring.

A middle aged man with full beard and jalaba stopped us to offer a helping hand. His english was flawless; he was a syrian emigrant from Santa Barbara, California. After several attempts of directing us to our beloved cups of tea he asked us where we were from. When I told him Canada he seemed pleased: "My wife is from Canada." His wife, who was dressed in a full niqab with only a slit from which to study the world, hesitantly stepped out from behind her husband. She greeted us, which surprised both Bernard and myself. In Syria that just doesn't happen.

What shocked us even more was that her accent was fully Canadian. She was a native Canadian from Vancouver. She grew up an hour down the road from me. When I asked further questions she reverted to her husband. The conversation quickly finished and Bernard and I were left to make sense of our thoughts as we continued to look for the tea with the stunning views.

In Canada (or any other "Western" nation for that matter) you did not have to major in feminist thought of the the 20th century to have been exposed to such concepts as the equality and emancipation of women within society. We absorb culture through media, school, family, friends, Hollywood, and literature. It is umavoidable (unless living in an isolated religious or other colony) to not be fully exposed and influenced by the continual exposure to liberal ideology. I simply could not understand how a woman in her 20s lets go of a lifetime of progress to don a full covering. Yet it is more than the dress code. She is giving up what brave women of the 19th and 20th centuries fought so hard to realize, namely equality.

As I journey through the Middle East I will continue to seek to understand, particularly at this juncture when the questions outweigh the answers. Despite the unease I am content. For it is through this incongruity that I will come to a place of understanding. And true understanding can only come through friendship and dialogue. True friendship is based in love. I wonder, as I watch the turning of these faithful water wheels, what kind of world would this be if we all had
a little more love to give?

"I Smoke to Forget"

2009-10-05T10:33:00.000-07:00

"Iraq? That sounds safe enough." These were my thoughts as I faced a delay in gettıng my visa to Syria at the consulate ın Gaziantep, Turkey. I quickly made up my mind that Kurdistan, the region in northern Iraq, would be a good place to be a tourist for a while. I was not dısappointed.

After an eleven hour bus ride that hugged the border of Turkey and Sryia my mind drifted to the armies that had conquered or been conquered on these plains of Mesopotamia. From the Hitittes to the Crusaders many have fallen by the sword of invading armies. In present day the scene was filled with bucolic images: three young shepherd boys were perched on different branches of one gnarled lonesome tree as their donkeys waited patiently for their masters. Yet these pleasant pasture scenes were filled with decisive moments in history. To the East there was one such battle; in 331 BC Alexander the Great defeated Darius III at the battle of Gaugamela. As I headed closer to that battle that set the stage for Alexander's future domination i thought of the country to whıch I was headed. The land renowned as the cradle of civilizatıon continue to be plagued by one of man's most ancient of failings - unjustified war.

The border crossing went smoothly. I don't know what made me feel more welcome to Iraq - the large sign that read- "Welcome to Kurdistan!" or the border guard who asked me "Why are you here?" Perhaps in the end it was the US military presence that had the greatest affect in welcoming me to "the other Iraq" (as Kurdistan is being called). As we stood at the border waiting for stamp number 4 in our passports I heard a stealth fly-by of apache choppers on border patrol. Later as we drove in a taxi towards a border town in Kurdistan we passed an armoured convoy. Having lived ın Liberia I saw many tanks and APCs during the election year, but i had never seen ones with such bravado. The driver put on his cabin lights as timidly drove past.

On the outset Kurdistan is a country (or technically part of a country) in the rebuilding phase. The electricity poles are a bırd's nest of wires criss crossıng every which way to a thousand illegal outlets. The military has a strong presence wıth pershmagon (security forces) seemingly at every corner and then some. What surprised me was the amount of wealth I found ın the larger towns i visited. Touch phones were all the rage. Hummer H3s passed me by kicking up dust and exhaust. Buildings were going up in every corner of town. Yet there was a hidden side of Kurdistan that I saw through a random encounter wıth a baker named Murad.

As I walked through the picturesque vıllage of Amadya in the mountains I stopped by one shop to ask about restaurants in the town. That one random question led to several interesting conversations and even a night's stay at the house of the sheik ın a neighboring vıllage. Murad and I discussed many aspects of Middle Eastern politics and interference in recent hıstory, but it was his story that intrigued me. Murad used to live in the city of Mosul. Every time i mentioned the name Mosul to a taxi drıver or store owner he would put his hand to his throat and make the ominous sign of death. I decided to take their advice and stay away. For Iraqis this isn't always an option. Murad related a story of working as a translator for the CIA and other US military forces in Mosul. Normally I would write that off as fanciful imagination, but i had to remember that this was Iraq. He worked for them for one year when tragedy struck. Hıs father, who worked as a contractor for the US mılıtary was gunned down near his house on his way home from work. He was considered "the enemy" and was eliminated. Murad moved to Kurdistan with his family in search of safety.

As Murad and I traveled to the canyon ofGali Ali beg I noticed that he seemed distant, even distracted. During the course of the day he smoked cigarette after cigarette. Finally, near the end of the day I put the question out there for the sake of my curiosity. "How many packs do you smoke per day?" He looked up after stamping out his cigarette. "Three packs a day usually." He spotted my surprised expression and then with a half smile that couldn't quite break free, pointed out the underlying cause: "I smoke to forget."

The people of Kurdistan are grateful for the intervention of the US in Iraq. Saddam's legacy in their region is dark. His gassing of the Kurds will never be forgotten. Yet the cost to human lives, whether counted in the number of dead, injured, displaced or traumatized over the nearly twenty years of American intervention in Iraq tally to a number that cannot be discounted. The first Gulf War, the sanctions, the 2003 invasion, followed by the sectarian violence has left Iraq a crippled version of it's past.

One of the stated reasons for intervention in both wars ('91 and '03) was freedom for the Iraqi people. A basic assumption of freedom is justice, without it there can be no freedom. The question for Iraqis remain paramount: when will true justice be served?

It seems that the south has

Photos of the Yazidis

2009-09-30T10:24:00.000-07:00

A collection of photos from my visit to Lallish. A write to follow at some point.

Birkeah, my guide for the day. He loved listening to Celine Dion and Aqua. When talking about different foods we both enjoyed he said he didn't love too many foods. I asked him: "then what do you love?" He replied: "My girlfriend. I love her very much!" His smile was brimming.

The temple to the god of the sun.

The temple of sheik Adi. A highly revered reformer in the Yazidi religion.

Some lovely Yazidi girls near the tomb of Sheik Adi.

I don't know if this man is a chief, but he sure looked like one.

More random photos

2009-09-29T13:16:00.000-07:00

The cats of Meteora.

Ah Greece. Opa!

Greece again.

More Greece. Always ring the bell. It's customary (or so we assumed).

A Greek wedding - opa!

Random photos from the trip

2009-09-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

An Iraqi man showing us truly why he is a woman's man or so he claims.

I stared at this mosaic in Antep, Turkey until i was released from this woman's stare. It took quite a while.

This god of the river is saying: "hey why don't we head to my favourite picnic spot." The woman female goddess is saying: "Phsh! Whateva!" and the snake / demon creature is saying: "Ha! Told you the beard just wasn't doing it anymore." That was my interpretation. (I have no idea what the upside down fish are meant to represent.)

Finally the sun came out in Cappadocia, Turkey

Frescoe of Jesus Christ.

Incredible paintings from the 10th century. Even though this photo looks incredibly saturated it isn't. The paintings have been touched up and they took my breath away. Good place to sing a hymn.

The mountains of Kurdistan, Northern Iraq.

The taxi driver on the right drove like a bat out of hell, but he did play some very entertaining Kurdish music. I think he just wanted a cup of tea with his cigarette.

Orientation

2009-09-04T14:50:00.000-07:00

"Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the
world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the
infinite extent of our relations." Henry David Thoreau

I am on a ferry on the way to Crete after a slight change of plans.
The next two weeks are planned out and it looks to be incredible with
islands, monasteries, and mediterranean food. Yet as my mind travels
along into the future I cannot help but get a sense that I am moving
into the unknown. That was when thoreau's quote spoke to me from
walden's pond.

In our youth we can be forgiven for wanting to find ourselves. After
our early twenties it is expected that we know who we are and move
forward to become productive members of soceity. Well what happens if
life is a continual journey of being lost and every so often we "find"
aspects of ourselves that truly resonate with who we are intrinsically?

Perhaps truly being lost, the kind of lost that must preclude a deeper
sense of self discovery, requires a total disorientation. We must
connect to our values, our dreams, our joys, and our passions if we
want to make a difference in this world. By "making a difference" I
imply that we better the world in a way that connects with our true
self (as discovered through self awareness, not societal expectations.)

As we grow and develop we begin to understand the interconnectedness
of our relationships. A kind word or an appropriate encouragement can
impact a friend and change their way of thinking. They in turn will
respond to others through renewed perspective , and so the world
slowly changes from within. In that place of being centered we can
walk a constant push and pull of being lost and found.

Seb

To the gods

2009-09-03T13:16:00.000-07:00

The acropolis, the Parthenon, the agora...athens is truly a place to
stir the imagination. So much to say but the 5am alarm is coming soon.
Off to santorini tomorrow. Cheers.
Seb

The legend of Table Mountain

2009-08-13T17:58:00.000-07:00

Tixo, the god of the Sun, and Jobela, the Earth goddess, made love and conceived Qamata.

When Qamata created the world, he was attacked by the Great Dragon of the Sea, who was very jealous and wanted to stop the work of creation. In the battle with the Great Dragon, Qamata was crippled. In order to help Qamata, Jobela created a number of mighty giants to guard the world. She positioned one at each of the four corners of the world - in the East, the West, the NOrth and the biggest giant in the South.

After many, many angry battles with the Great Dragon of the Sea, the giants were killed, one by one, but they asked Djobela, the Great Earth Mother, to turn them into mountains so that even in death they could guard the world.

And so, the greatest giant of all - Umlindi Weningizimu - became Table mountain, the Watcher of the South.

Credo Mutwa.

A prayer of ecology

2009-08-04T19:03:00.000-07:00

O God, we thank you for the universe, our great home; for its vastness and its riches, and for the manifoldness of the life which teems upon it and of which we are a part. We praise you for the arching sky and the blessed winds, for the driving clouds and the constellations on high. We praise you for the salt sea and the running water, for the everlasting hills, for the trees and for the grass under our feet. We thank you for our senses by which we can see the splendor of the morning and hear the jubilant songs of love, and smell the breath of the springtime. Grant us, we pray you, a heart wide open to all this joy and beauty , and save our souls from being so steeped in care or so darkened by passion that we pass heedless and unseeing when even the thorn bush by the wayside is aflame with the glory of God.

Walter Rauschenbusch

Music

2009-08-01T17:55:00.000-07:00

What is love without compromise?

Dreams without ambition?

A coffee shop, guitars, and wine

Talk to me about the disparity of the soul.

Do we truly feel the heart within us?

Music and passion in voice and strum

Love comes undone in the depths

Unravels in the summer's wind.

Tell me who you are and I will listen.

Solos of melody and conversations in duet

Brazen, bold, embers in the night's sky.

Draw me into your thoughts,

your heart,

and somehow,

your desire.

Written in baltimore in a coffee shop with live music...drums, guitar, and wine. A mighty fine time.

The shallow rights of the Canadian Farmer

2009-07-21T20:29:00.000-07:00

Canadians recently broke out the BBQs and frisbees, gulped down some Tim Horton’s coffee and plastered maple leafs on t-shirts, hats and car windows to celebrate Canada’s 142nd year as a nation. As I sat in the Glenmore Resevoir Park in Calgary, Alberta I admired the families from far-off cultures and the freedoms we all share as Canadians in this indelibly beautiful country. Yet for all of the freedoms we enjoy there is a significant responsibility we have abdicated. We speak of having a progressive or democratic nation yet it is based on a limited definition. We have handed over the decision-making power to an elite political class and relegated our duty as true democrats. An example from the fields of Alberta come to mind.

A place to have interesting discussions and find delicious food is typically the farmer’s market and Edmonton was no exception. My brother recommended that I read the “Farmer’s News” at the stand for First Nature Farms where organic meats and produce were being sold. The white board next to the stand indicated the trials of dry spring experienced by Albertan farmers and a few other odds and ends, but the statement at the bottom caught my attention. A corporate entity was flexing its muscle to get its own way at the expense of a tax paying, law abiding citizen. We struck up a conversation with the farm operator, Jerry Kitt.

First Nature Farms owns a large section of land near the BC / Alberta border. On their property lies a 30 acre section of forested land. This rare private forest is now under threat, even though it is on private property and property taxes have been paid for over 30 years. Unfortunately for farmers, private property only goes as deep as six inches of soil; the resources further below are owned by the Crown. This regulation had dire implications for First Nature Farms when natural gas was discovered below their property.

ConocoPhillips, the third largest integrated energy company in the USA, has an immense scope and thirst for expanding their natural gas supplies. Under Mr. Kitt’s farm lies an untapped natural gas resevoir and that means his land is threatened. ConocoPhillips approached the Government of Alberta and procured the rights to the lucrative resources below the ground; the provincial government was all too quick to agree to the prospect of increased tax revenue. One of the largest companies in Canada approached a small rural organic farmer with an offer to compensate for the cutting down of the forested section of land on the Nature First Farm. Mr. Kitt was not interested; instead he made a simple request to the company. His two part request included that ConocoPhillips plant the 15 truckloads of timber that would be felled on his property in a tree farm of their choosing. He was also aware of the heavy machinery that would be required to dig and insert the piping necessary to extract the natural gas. He requested that ConocoPhillips buy carbon credits equal to the emissions generated.

Mr. Kitt is concerned for the environment and lives within a framework of deep rooted values.

This fair request that was denied by the Corporation and by the Albertan Government raised an interesting question in my mind:

Who actually owns the land? What does it mean to be the rightful owner of the property?

Perhaps this is just a case of a simple law that has been in place since Canada’s inception, yet it does make me wonder about the control of the corporations on Canadian governmental decisions. A citizen who pays both provincial and federal taxes has no suitable recompense for the land he has loved and protected for decades.

[Side note: Another example of democracy’s demise is being felt in my hometown of Chilliwack, BC. The City of Chilliwack is building a new arts center with a one time cost of CDN$30 million and an annual running cost of $500,000. There was no referendum to seek the insight or approval of the tax-paying citizenship. With such a large purchase and annual commitment (for a municipality) is it not a responsibility of the government to hear the voice of the people regarding such a significant project impacting the future of the community?]

I do not have the answers to any questions here, but I do wonder what a different style, a more honest and engaging form of democracy would look like.

Quote from an unknown author

2009-07-14T14:04:00.001-07:00

"may God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships so that you may live deep within your heart. may God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people so that you may wish for justice, freedom and peace. may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world; so that you can do what others claim cannot be done"

Disappear

2009-07-07T06:47:00.000-07:00

I was in Golden Gate National Park at the northern tip of the Drakensburg mountains while traveling through South Africa during the month of May. On my hike up sandstone canyons and windy meadows I wrote the following poem as a reflection of my time in Johannesburg and the wilds of Southern Africa.

Disappear

O prism rivulets

Sailing in canyon wind

Touching a cairn, shimmering

The shadow of birds on pale sandstone

Perhaps this is life stripped to its essence.

Should you pity a man with nothing?

His fashions outdated

His beard untrimmed

His hair uncombed, unkempt

His wallet without swagger or persuasion

But did you see his smile, wide with life?

The present is all we have.

Did you notice the way of

The green bush leaves dancing in the sunlight

Contrasted with earthen tones of carved canyon walls?

You chase and you chase

Your technologies are effigies

Towering over soul and body

You cannot escape the vacuum of fear

That all you have will one day

Disappear.

The Wayfarer

2009-06-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

Below is an interesting poem that was sent by a friend from Ethiopia. She was deeply moved by the plight of the mountain farmers and concerned that where they reap may in fact be closer to the "gate of heaven." I thought of the farmers in the mountain kingdom of Lesotho...the vibrant blue sky, the chill in the air, the colours dropping with Autumn - still and pensive, and the farmer guiding his sheep past the now-dead stalks of corn to the steep mountain sides to graze. A simple and beautiful life fraught with temperamental skies. I hope the poem speaks...

THE WAYFARER

The beauty of the world hath made me sad

This beauty that will pass

Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy

To see a leaping squirrel in a tree

On a ladybird upon a stalk

Or little rabbits in a field at evening

Lit by a slanting sun

Or some green hill where shadows drifted by

Some quiet hill where mountainy men hath sown

And soon would reap near to the gate of Heaven

Or children with bare feet upon the sands

Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets

Of little towns in Connacht

(A province in the west of Ireland)

Things young and happy

And then my heart hath told me

These will pass

Will pass and change will die and be no more

Things bright and green, things young and happy

And I have gone upon my way, sorrowful.

By: Padraic Pearse (1879-1916) an Irish Freedom Fighter

Random Photos from Cape Town

2009-05-11T08:01:00.000-07:00

A Guiness with a brilliant view of Table Mountain. Could you ask for more?

A poser indeed.

A sign at the sky diving place. I laughed a good while at this one.

This photo is taken from the Cage Diving with the great white sharks. This was shark bait number one.

This is shark bait number two. Caption should read: "So let me get this straight. You want me to go in there with the 17ft Great Whites wearing this weight belt? Just checking."

Pics from the Jump

2009-05-11T06:50:00.000-07:00

Are you for real? We're jumping out of this rig? Oie!

I giggled like a school girl the entire ride down.

Enjoying the ride. That's Table mountain and Robben Island in the background. Robben Island is where Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in jail under the Apartheid rule.

Look mom - no hands!

What do you mean I have to pay full price if I want to go again?

Quick Update

2009-05-10T00:02:00.000-07:00

The last three days have been full of life. Thursday was cage diving with the great whites. The main event on Friday was sky diving over Table Mountain. On Saturday I stood at Cape Point with the wind in the curls at the confluence of two oceans. It was followed up by a Jazz Concert at University of Cape Town.

Pics will be posted at some point.

Keep well
Marcel

A great song by Sandra McCracken

2009-04-16T07:07:00.000-07:00

All the miles between us

they say that’s just the way it goes

time is no friend to lovers

stretched like the line that hangs the clothes

but we walk the distance another day

the rope is thin but does not give way

And I can hear the band of angels singing now

like a story from the page is read aloud

but this is not make believe

It grows up like wildflowers

free and restless with the wind

I don’t half recognize myself

in this condition that I’m in

cause it’s like a shelter above my head

and it turns the sky and moon to red

And I can hear the band of angels singing now

like a story from the page is read aloud

but this is not make believe

I’d rather have the mystery and the madness and the rains

cause hell’s the only place you can be free of all love’s pain

I have no claim on the future

so here I lay me down

and God is a friend to lovers

he makes the bone, the flesh, the ground

and he walks with us, make no mistake

and holds us when our hearts, they break

It's time to get on the road

2009-04-16T01:12:00.000-07:00

Hi good people,

It's time to hit the road. After four good and challenging years in Liberia, West Africa I have decided to put a few worldly belongings into a backpack and head down to the Southern Tip of this great continent.

Six weeks in the bushveld of Southern Africa.

Posts to follow.

Sebastian

"Back in the Wack"

2008-07-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

To the brave few who continue to check this blog in anticipation of a new posting:

I am back in Chilliwack and loving it. Fresh blueberries, cherries and gevuld speculaas from my mother. Here are some poems that I wrote in a semi-delirious state on the 30 hour trip back to Canada from Liberia. I wrote these sometime between my nap in the London starbucks and the smile at the touchdown in Calgary.

I wrote three poems, but i will only feature two on the blog. I hope you enjoy.

Poem1: The mystery of light at 30
Thoughts swirl in an eddy of darkness
The stars, electrons of light
Pulsating with the dreams of excited children.

The first light casts shadows across the sky
Clouds, a boiling mass
Hiding in the cool air of the endless night.

The light now alive, races across the studded landscape
A rider in full pursuit of his foe
Leaving no corner untouched by his radiant glow.

This fire spreads across the crisp morning
Life...a gift of perfect consideration
Rise! And let us go...
The inevitable pursuit of purpose.

Poem 2: Stubborn Hope
Tell me, what is love?
And I will tell you what is in my heart
Secrets buried, dreams long forgotten
In the busyness of the common man.

Yet I will arise and go now
To rediscover the source of my stubborn hope
That travels beyond fear and malicious insecurity
A journey of the two minds, one heart
Alive with love.

Mahe River (Part 2)

2008-02-13T11:30:00.000-08:00

The journey continues...

Daily Proverb

2008-02-09T09:32:00.000-08:00

Saturday is a double header (weekend bonus round):

"Hope is a good breakfast, but a bad supper."

"He who lives on hope dies fasting."

Mahe River (Part 1)

2008-02-08T09:13:00.001-08:00

SUBTITLE: Not all that begins well, ends well.

River Trip: Saturday, December 15

It was nearly two months ago when John Mark and I decided to tempt fate and match our might against the Mighty Mahe River. When pondering the trip today I concluded that time, not necessity, is the mother of invention. And so, I will retell this story with great restraint as I withhold my flair for the dramatic and present the tale as it occurred, or as best as my embellished memory can conjure up.

I had run the rapids just below “Sawmill Bridge” on Thursday and I knew it was time to go beyond the bend in the river and venture deep into the unknown. The urge to explore is found within the core of every human being, or perhaps only in some human beings with residual, unresolved childhood notions. I know that there are only a few destinations left undiscovered by humans, but that is of little importance to me. I find it necessary to go exploring, going beyond the mountain’s ridge, the river’s bend, or the trails meander. And so on that sunny Saturday in December we decided to go to places our eyes had never had the joy of witnessing: the mysterious waters of the Mahe River.

We set in at Sawmill Bridge with gusto. It took me 45 minutes to convince John Mark that even though I had fallen out on these rapids on the last river run, the river was safe. He nervously agreed to my sales pitch, when I exuberantly exclaimed: “This River is perfectly safe. It’s not like you can die on this river!” We set in and pushed off, paddling hard to hit the first rapid head on. We did exactly that, but things went a little awry when our boat decided to go backwards down the river. Even though we felt like true adventurers, we knew innately that the river was in control. Fortunately, we manoeuvred in a more comfortable direction (in other words the current turned our boat around) and we hit the last wave with a shout of relief and satisfaction.

John Mark was so satisfied with his maiden voyage that he quickly volunteered to a second run. The second attempt was carried out with textbook style and we ate a granola bar to celebrate the sense of victory. We pushed off from Sawmill Bridge at 12:51pm. [This is a key fact in this story. John Mark has printed off a map a few weeks before and we estimated the journey to take 5-6 hours (an approximate length of 30kms). With this time estimate we expected to reach the pick-up spot at around 6 -7pm. We were excited and eager as we paddled around the first bend.]

The wildlife that lived in and around the river ecosystem did not disappoint us. We spotted iridescent bee eaters, hornbills, ibises and large-bodied fruit bats, which swooped above the tree line in increasing numbers near dusk. The greatest encounter with wildlife happened close to the end of fifth hour on the journey. We had stopped on an island to quickly check out the next set of rapids. As we were getting back into the boat John Mark pointed at an 8inch long African Pike (Liberian Dog Fish) lying in the back of the boat. He wondered if we should toss it back into the water. I was proud of my catch. For me, it is not about the style in which the fish was caught, but in the fact that I had caught a fish (a very proud moment. It reminded me of the time I had caught a trout with a ski pole and 4 feet of fishing line in a creek behind hanging lake).

Around one of the bends in the river we met an unexpected site. There was a long “monkey bridge,” a type of bridge in Liberia that is made entirely of local materials (bamboo, stick, and country rope). Even though it was approaching 6pm we had to stop and explore this (almost) natural wonder. It was created with great care and gusto – who would have thought to have a bridge that spanned 100ft and used (almost*) exclusively local materials. We were testing the strength of the bridge by walking across the length when an old pappe (pronounced pap-eh) strode across toting a load of cassava stalks on his head. I asked him if he thought I would jump off the bridge to the waters below. He said, “What?! You can’t make it!” I smiled and jumped over the side. As I resurfaced I kindly asked the pappe to drop his load and come for a swim. He shook his head and quickly sauntered off.

*(there was one short length of wire to give partial support to the middle of the bridge)

To dwell solely on the wildlife and the encounter with the locals would paint the river in a beautiful light, but it would be a painting void of movement and the acrid taste of adrenaline. The stretches of calm water could only preclude one thing: there were rapids, holes (good spots to drown in) and rocks to manoeuvre through, over and around. There were moments when we ran the river in near flawless style and had a great time cutting some tight lines through the river that was the size of a creek in some spots. Then there were those other moments, when plans did not totally enter into the realm of reality.

It is those moments I wish to now focus on. Keep in mind, however, that as darkness set over the river the need to use “dramatic flair” in my writing is no longer necessary.

To be continued…

Proverb of the day

2008-02-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

"You can't share a seat with someone whose rear end is bigger than yours."

Random signboard

2008-02-07T10:27:00.000-08:00

I love this signboard. I think i may have posted this one earlier, but it is worth another honourable mention.

Something you need to know about this project. A total of 7,000 cement bags went missing during this project. Shortly before the road was to open the contractor opened his newly built apartments.

Yes, you are correct. The apartment used cement blocks.

An invitation you can't refuse

2008-02-07T10:05:00.000-08:00

This is an invitation to a wedding I received several months back and found it quite humourous. You may now call me Savant.

Dear Savant of God.

According to Proverb 1:7 so has the fear of God is now driven in x and y to holy matrimonially joint gether in marriage, having closely observed one another for some times most satisfactorily on [date].

In this regard, you have prayerfully been selected to serve as sponsor and you are further invited to attend their first wedding…[insert location details]

This divine task should kindly meet your approval in Jesus Name.

Proverb of the week

2008-02-05T06:24:00.000-08:00

"Give the man his flower while he is alive."

Nice. What does it mean to you? And more importantly, how will you apply the principle?

A tribute to David Hasselhoff

2008-01-25T12:14:00.001-08:00

That subject line should make you laugh. Why would anyone want to give a tribute to David Hasselhoff? Buddy Stora definitely did. These are some of the schenanagans that happen in our house (or used to when Buddy was around).

You definitely can't hassle the hoff!

Planet of the Apes

2008-01-25T09:11:00.000-08:00

There is a story behind this scene.

It has been proven - Rye Crackers are a great snack - they do not taste like cardboard. Wasa!

Bomi Lake on the weekend

2008-01-24T11:24:00.000-08:00

Our new pet

2008-01-24T11:17:00.001-08:00

This is our new pet. He has several names: One-eyed Jack, grasshoppa, and Karma. No one I know has only one name.

Any other cool names for this guy? (or girl...we won't know until another chameleon wanders into its hovel).

My New Friend

2008-01-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

Proverb of the week

2008-01-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

I missed a few weeks, but Wilson sent me a good one:

"The dead goat does not worry about the sharp knife."

Some may argue the validity of this proverb.

Proverb of the week

2008-01-08T01:18:00.001-08:00

If the blind man says, "I will stone you" he's already stepping on the stone.

The End of the Road

2008-01-06T06:55:00.000-08:00

The other day I was up at a field office talking with staff. One of the guys told me he was a poet. I had never read any Liberian poetry so I asked to read it. Here is what he gave me:

The End of the Road

On the end of the road
We have fought the good fight
Survival of poverty, unemployment, weeping,
And sorrow of tears.
Tears drop, eyes are becoming heavy.

Minds of suffocation on those who perished
Goes to the living, goes to the dead.
This earth, this durst!
New Year of 2008 has come
Old year of 2007 coming very closer,
Closely towards Christmas:
Christmas parties!!
Party time, dancing time!!
The world wait, comes 2008.
We also wait to see a new day dawn,
Dawning to make all things new: come 2008!!

Written by: Moses Zongola Kollie

-------------------

Moses, my hat goes off to you. May you bless the world with your poems.

Why I love Liberia

2008-01-06T05:47:00.000-08:00

-------------------------
I was driving back from church today and saw a slogan on a taxi that gave one reason to question the personal history of the cabbie.

"Man suffer woman enjoy"

----------------------

I was driving through some heavy traffic. It was a bit ridiculous; it took me 1.5 hours to travel 1.5kms. In Liberia (as in most parts of the world) there are drivers who try to create additional lanes and cut back in. There are few things that make my blood pressure rise - this is one of them. I was sitting there waiting when a stream of cars drove in the lane of oncoming traffic in an attempt to cut ahead. All of the drivers ahead of me (with myself included) made it our common goal to not allow such ignoramus-like behaviour. Our community of concerned citizens held the tide of do-no-gooders at bay.

I looked over at the SUV beside me. The driver was yelling something at me and motioning that I should let him in. It was time to converse; I rolled down my window. He said: "My man, I beg you. Let me in!" To which I adamantly replied: "No my man! I cannot." He retorted with astonishment: "Why is that? Is it because I am black?!" Inside I laughed at this ridiculous outburst, but I kept it together as I told him: "No my man...it because you drivin' like stupid man!!" I then laughed and he laughed as well. As we leap-frogged beside each other we both laughed at this strange encounter.

--------------------

Same traffic issue. Take 2. I was coming up to ELWA junction close to where I live. I couldn't take the shortcut home, so i was forced to sit in traffic. Once again, the four lanes formed. I sat there listening to some tunes and watching the little pekings (boys) running from car to car selling 5LD cold water, biscuits, Lebanese bread and cheap chocolate. One boy busted out in some dance moves. I rolled down the window: "Hey my man...where you learn to dance like dat?" He smiled shyly as I asked him to do it again.

Another peking passed by and I rolled down my window. He became excited as he thought he had a sale secured with "da white man." Instead I asked him to do what no person has ever done before. I asked him to go over to the car beside me and ask him why is he is "behaving so and passing in dat lane." I held out 5LD and his face lit up once again. He repeated my instructions and I nodded my approval. He carried out my request all the while pointing to my car and interrogating the people that cause these traffic nightmares. He ran back to the car. I asked him how it went. He excitedly told me that "dat man behavin so cause it can make him to reach soon." I nodded. I asked him if he could "help me out small." He was in. I held out some USD and asked him to ask five cars the same question. His eyes bulged at the prize money. He snatched it and set about the task. Another kid came up to me and said: "now where my own?"

Some people reading this may think that i am a bit crazy. In no way was I trying to exploit this child or make a fool of him. The children that sell on the streets are pretty brave little guys that can get in people's faces and they don't mind it. Besides the money I gave him was definitely worth his time.

------------------

Yesterday I had one of the best experiences since I came to Liberia on June 30, 2005. I was just near my office buying some scratchcards for my phone when I heard some music that sounded live and not too far away. I asked the peking selling where it was coming from. He told me that there were people practising. After the transaction i wandered into the neighbourhood. There was a flow of beats, voices and rhythms emanating from a house painted forest green. I was unwilling drawn.

There was a full band inside jamming. They were singing a reggae song that was causing a small crowd to gather round their session. The drummer was sporting a black dew rag with full shades and a tiny goatie clinging to his protruding chin. He was all about rhythm and showing his cool. There was a brass section complete with a saxophone, trumpet and trombone. They would sway to the beat in true Marley and the Wailers fashion. The guitarist with his left hand guitar,the bassist, along with the man on keys were strong support for the lead singer. In the middle of the song the dreaded lead singer would go on one of his rants, which is so definitive of reggae music and what makes it a powerful medium of persuasion.

He ranted: "Behind every man is a strong woman. And jah man...behind every strong nation is a powerful woman...jah jah...dat's right man. Can't you see it now...jah maaaan."

The two girls on BGVs would back him up with their soothing sounds flowing rich with sentiment. To my surprise the band manager came up and took the mic to do a little shaggy impression. It made all of the bystanders hoot and holler with delight. It was the audience that gave this moment a special flare.

When the bassist was groovin to the syncopated rhythms the youth beside me would make funny comments:

"Dat man...he can play-o."

"Dat man...you see it - his fingers! Dey not movin-jah! (click of the tongue). Dat witchcraft - you hearin it...but my man - his fingers dey not movin."

When the saxaphone player finished an incredible solo one of the guys exclaimed: "Dat something. I say my people...what! Damn it! Dat man frisky-o!"

------------------

There are so many reasons why I have made this place home for the past 2 1/2 years. What makes the place where you live unique? What are those experiences that can seem ordinary, but when you look at it twice it makes you laugh or pause with wonder.

Cheers on this spinning globe,
Cel

The beginning of the Epic

2007-12-13T10:37:00.000-08:00

The Optimism of Uncertainty

2007-12-11T11:47:00.001-08:00

Here is an interesting article that was passed on to me via the Good News Group. This is an eclectic mix of persons brought together by Kate Fiander who have one desire: to hear good news about the world and celebrate it.

This is an article that Kate passed on. I find the last paragraph particularly powerful. I hope you enjoy:

------------------------------------------------------------------------

by HOWARD ZINN

[posted online on September 2, 2004 ---- http://www.thenation.com/doc/20040920/zinn]

In this awful world where the efforts of caring people often pale in comparison to what is done by those who have power, how do I manage to stay involved and seemingly happy?

I am totally confident not that the world will get better, but that we should not give up the game before all the cards have been played. The metaphor is deliberate; life is a gamble. Not to play is to foreclose any chance of winning. To play, to act, is to create at least a possibility of changing the world.

There is a tendency to think that what we see in the present moment will continue. We forget how often we have been astonished by the sudden crumbling of institutions, by extraordinary changes in people's thoughts, by unexpected eruptions of rebellion against tyrannies, by the quick collapse of systems of power that seemed invincible.

What leaps out from the history of the past hundred years is its utter unpredictability. A revolution to overthrow the czar of Russia, in that most sluggish of semi-feudal empires, not only startled the most advanced imperial powers but took Lenin himself by surprise and sent him rushing by train to Petrograd. Who would have predicted the bizarre shifts of World War II--the Nazi-Soviet pact (those embarrassing photos of von Ribbentrop and Molotov shaking hands), and the German Army rolling through Russia, apparently invincible, causing colossal casualties, being turned back at the gates of Leningrad, on the western edge of Moscow, in the streets of Stalingrad, followed by the defeat of the German army, with Hitler huddled in his Berlin bunker, waiting to die?

And then the postwar world, taking a shape no one could have drawn in advance: The Chinese Communist revolution, the tumultuous and violent Cultural Revolution, and then another turnabout, with post-Mao China renouncing its most fervently held ideas and institutions, making overtures to the West, cuddling up to capitalist enterprise, perplexing everyone.

No one foresaw the disintegration of the old Western empires happening so quickly after the war, or the odd array of societies that would be created in the newly independent nations, from the benign village socialism of Nyerere's Tanzania to the madness of Idi Amin's adjacent Uganda. Spain became an astonishment. I recall a veteran of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade telling me that he could not imagine Spanish Fascism being overthrown without another bloody war. But after Franco was gone, a parliamentary democracy came into being, open to Socialists, Communists, anarchists, everyone.

The end of World War II left two superpowers with their respective spheres of influence and control, vying for military and political power. Yet they were unable to control events, even in those parts of the world considered to be their respective spheres of influence. The failure of the Soviet Union to have its way in Afghanistan, its decision to withdraw after almost a decade of ugly intervention, was the most striking evidence that even the possession of thermonuclear weapons does not guarantee domination over a determined population. The United States has faced the same reality. It waged a full-scale war in lndochina, conducting the most brutal bombardment of a tiny peninsula in world history, and yet was forced to withdraw. In the headlines every day we see other instances of the failure of the presumably powerful over the presumably powerless, as in Brazil, where a grassroots movement of workers and the poor elected a new president pledged to fight destructive corporate power.

Looking at this catalogue of huge surprises, it's clear that the struggle for justice should never be abandoned because of the apparent overwhelming power of those who have the guns and the money and who seem invincible in their determination to hold on to it. That apparent power has, again and again, proved vulnerable to human qualities less measurable than bombs and dollars: moral fervor, determination, unity, organization, sacrifice, wit, ingenuity, courage, patience--whether by blacks in Alabama and South Africa, peasants in El Salvador, Nicaragua and Vietnam, or workers and intellectuals in Poland, Hungary and the Soviet Union itself. No cold calculation of the balance of power need deter people who are persuaded that their cause is just.

I have tried hard to match my friends in their pessimism about the world (is it just my friends?), but I keep encountering people who, in spite of all the evidence of terrible things happening everywhere, give me hope. Especially young people, in whom the future rests. Wherever I go, I find such people. And beyond the handful of activists there seem to be hundreds, thousands, more who are open to unorthodox ideas. But they tend not to know of one another's existence, and so, while they persist, they do so with the desperate patience of Sisyphus endlessly pushing that boulder up the mountain. I try to tell each group that it is not alone, and that the very people who are disheartened by the absence of a national movement are themselves proof of the potential for such a movement.

Revolutionary change does not come as one cataclysmic moment (beware of such moments!) but as an endless succession of surprises, moving zigzag toward a more decent society. We don't have to engage in grand, heroic actions to participate in the process of change. Small acts, when multiplied by millions of people, can transform the world. Even when we don't "win," there is fun and fulfillment in the fact that we have been involved, with other good people, in something worthwhile. We need hope.

An optimist isn't necessarily a blithe, slightly sappy whistler in the dark of our time. To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places--and there are so many--where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction. And if we do act, in however small a way, we don't have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory

A Liberian Wedding

2007-12-07T12:12:00.001-08:00

I went to a coworker's wedding a few weeks ago. The boys in the groom's party were looking fine and I had to snap a few pics.

The couple receiving their blessing.

This is Kofa "Pimp my Ride" Swen. He showed up in this swank sweet suit and I had to snap a pic. No other words needed.

The boys are back in town...

The banana boat is here

2007-12-07T11:33:00.000-08:00

Yes people, the inflatable kayak has finally arrived and I have gone out four times already. It is a lot of fun and a bit dangerous, as you can attest to in the video below. The Mighty Mahe River, as I like to call it, has peeked my interest and challenged me every time i have driven by it in the past two years. I have always wanted to jump in a boat and ride the waves. Depending on the time of the year, this river can be a slow trickle (in March/April) or a roaring torrent (oct) with class 5+ rapids and 8 foot standing waves. Fortunately for me the kayak was not around at that time to tempt me to carry out some foolhardy plan of navigating the mighty Mahe. On Thursday the conditions were perfect! The water was quite low and the only risk was to hit the rocks that have recently poked their way to the surface in anticipation of the dry season.

So, on the way back from the field, (to check on some road and bridge projects in the bush of Liberia) I decided it was time for Benedict and myself to test out a theory of mine. I hypothesized that adrenaline is best experienced with the delicate balance of speed, flotation and the consumption of copious quantities of water. The theory proved flawlessly (as you can see on the video).

It took me an hour to drum up the courage and to stop thinking. This is key. In preperation, one cannot think too much; it can cause paralysis due to the overpowering force of logic that naturally take place in a healthy mind. With abandon, I committed myself to the avoidance of thought. I put on the motorbike helmet, fastened the life jacket one last time, practiced a quick paddle maneouveur and then pushed off into the swift current. The first rapid, just under the bridge, turned out to be bigger than I had anticipated. This proved another theory of mine - the theory of limited perspective. When viewing a rapid from the shore one has a limited view of the wave and it is in fact 50% larger when viewed from inside the turbulent force.

I tried to go into the wave on river right, but when the water wants you to travel to the left there is little that can be done in what has been termed: the banana boat. I was swallowed by the six foot "waterfall" wave. The next thing I knew I was swimming. The water was a pleasant temperature, the birds called from the forest in stacatoed intervals, and the sun shone brightly. "Wait! Get up!" I hit a rock and I was jostled back from my reverie into reality. I quickly jumped back into the inflatable and (hopefully) indestructible kayak. I narrowly missed a series of rocks and then I headed into the last rapid. I found myself in the very front of the boat and realized that I was going for another swim if I did not jump back. I did just that and held on nervously.

A big thanks to Benedict for heading up the film crew. My favourite part of the video was the falling out of the boat at the end. A true moment of triumph when I thanked God that I did not perish.

The interview before the (near fatal) Mahe River experience

2007-12-07T11:31:00.000-08:00

The running of the mighty Mahe River

2007-12-07T10:52:00.000-08:00

Proverb of the day

2007-11-27T06:00:00.001-08:00

"Do not try killing rat while it is sitting on the clay pot."

Interpretations? Post a comment.

Sweet Serenades in the South

2007-11-19T02:38:00.000-08:00

The other night Chantal, a South African friend here in Liberia, invited a group out to the beach for a bonfire. I was a little late for it as I ended up talking with another friend, Matthew "the white whale" Holden, after months of incommunicado. I began to think that he was returning to his former life as an international trapeze artist.

Once I reached the beach, it didn't take much to identify the site of the bonfire. The large orange flames licked the evening sky with ferocity. Out came the guitar and a few bottles of grape drink. The evening was memorable as we picked out constellations and galaxies from the sky and sand from our hair. The bamboo coals glowed rhythmically to the strum of Ryan's ballads. There was one moment that continues to capture my imagination. Late in the evening Ryan Schimdt pulled out one of my favourite songs, "Somewhere over the rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. He capo'd on the fifth fret and strummed away as we laid back and watched falling stars burst across the Southern skies. The light from Orien's Belt fell to the beach as the melody swirled in the wash of the waves.

Our eyes were caught by a flight of movement on the beach. As we shone our headlamps a crowd of crabs would prance along the shore like tap dancers attempting to choreograph without speaking. There was beauty in their skittish steps and we celebrated their sideways movements as children on the edge of a parade.

It was in that moment that we saw the beauty of God.

Marcel

Proverb of the week

2007-11-19T00:11:00.000-08:00

"The goat is sweating, but you can't see it."

Omega Tower - Liberia (Top of the World Platform)

2007-11-17T05:30:00.000-08:00

The Omega Tower of Liberia

2007-11-17T04:52:00.000-08:00

The Omega Tower is aptly named. It is high, really high. It is the king of Towers here in Liberia. At 1,450 fteet it is higher than the empire state building. For anyone into base jumping here in Liberia this would be the ultimate jump. Stay away from the guide wires.

The crew before the climb. All smiles before the blisters! Do not panic - the young boy in the pic did not climb higher than 50ft. He guarded our car from want to be rogues.

Here is the crew going to the second platform. There are 7 of these stages with
little protection. The hawks circling close to our heads gave the climb a dizzying feel.

Jordan taking a breather on platform 5.

THE JUICE BOX POSES.

Everyone needs a little Ceres in their life.

A shot for the ladies.

I will write next weekend about the close call with the police and how we escaped arrest in the land of Liberty.

A little Beastie Boys in Liberia

2007-11-15T13:05:00.000-08:00

Bong Mines

2007-11-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

The trip to Bong Mines was a great one.

This used to be a massive iron ore mine...

---------------------------------------------------------------
There is now some great cliff jumping into the
calm waters of the open pit mine.

Jordan protecting his progeny.

And the ride home was eventful and full of posers.

This billboard was almost too much to take. There are so many things wrong with it and on so many levels. (For long time readers of the blog you may recognize this from an earlier post. It's so incredible that i had to post it again.)

There is a silver lining on this cloud...or just the sun that will burn you, depending on how you see the world.

I heard that there is a train going to Bong Mines
that you can put your vehicle onto. I will hopefully
make it up there with some friends and bring an
inflatable kayak for kicks and giggles.

FRIDAY

2007-11-15T05:00:00.001-08:00

The road to Yangaya began with a cup of chai and a couple of stellar poses with my newly made friends at PakBatt3 thanks to a broken piston and a blown spark plug. We talked about mountains, adventure and politics. Irfan, the man in the picture on the right, was part of the special security forces in the Pakistani army. This unit does the job in Pakistan that nobody wants to do, i.e. parachuting onto a glacier or dropping into the danger zone in the Tribal Areas (land within Pakistan that is not under Pakistani control).

A few hours later the boys from Monrovia brought up a new bike and I was ready to go. The road was terribly long, since I took a wrong turn and went to the wrong village. The villagers looked at me and told me that the SP crew was in another village. I drove on along the bush road with some sketchy bridges and enjoyed every moment of it, especially when a yellow snake flew across the road. I nearly ran it over and cringed as the tail end slithered into the dense bush. I asked someone later if these were dangerous snakes. They told me they were quite lethal and particularly dangerous because they travel in threes. I asked why. They chuckled as they told me that they travel in threes when "sexing" (mating) and if you get between the female and the one that is next in line he thinks you are cutting in line. Enough said...I will ride even faster in the jungle.

This pic on the right is a cassava snake. Apparently, it is very poisonous. It is not lethal if you can find a bush doctor who can treat it. The whole idea of bush doctors fascinates me. I have a coworker who broke his ankle and he was walking on it like nothing had happened only two weeks after being treated by the bush doctor. The x-rays showed it be a severe break.

The project I visited was a road and bridge rehabilitation. The community works on fixing their roads (both the ministry of public works and the ministry of rural development have very limited funds as you could well imagine). Our NGO provides tools and USAID provides food for work, while the community provides the labour (and sometimes kills a snake as in the above picture.) We are just starting this project and I am excited to see how it will turn out. A lot of people showed up to work on their roads. There is nothing as rewarding than when a community is behind the project and pushing themselves to better their quality of life. The government cannot provide all of the necessary services; it is up to the people to make a go of it.

Proverb of the day

2007-11-11T07:41:00.000-08:00

"When the long toothed man is dying, you think he smiling."

The meaning? You be the judge ~ post a comment.

Day trip to Bomi Lake

2007-10-30T10:57:00.000-07:00

The day started with Crepes at the house and then it was time for Buddy and I to ride on the AG100s to Bomi Lake. The Lake was formed from an abandoned strip mine about an hour's drive from Monrovia. On the AG100 it takes about 1 hour 45 minutes. If only they made the AG200. No matter the number of CCs, you just can't beat the open road.

Upon arriving at the lake we knocked on the gate of the one facility at the lake - a water bottling factory. We wanted to ask them how we could get down to the palaver hut (like a gazebo). The Lebanese man (Ravi) recognized me and we were invited in to have a party with him and his friends. They were some cool guys.

Here is Hassan and Hissam puffing on the Arjeeli (the hubbly bubbly). This is very popular in Lebanon...and Bomi Lake.

And the food was superb! Just as the meat came off the bbq I asked buddy if we should bring out our small bag of tortilla chips in the ziploc bag. He looked at me with incredulity and replied, "It's just a drop in the bucket."

We went swimming in the lake in the pouring rain. The temperature was perfect and it was a surreal moment as the rain created a thin layer of fog on the lake. We then wrestled, as only guys can, on a air mattress on the lake. Here is Ravi posing:

While we were jostling for king of the hill one of the guys caught a fish. Ali contemplated eating it:

Probably the best part of the day was with this guy named Abdullah. He tried to talk Buddy and I into swimming across the lake to visit the Genie. He tried to convince us adamantly that it was the best kind of genie - a white genie. He would then break into a fit of laughter. It was so surreal that Buddy and I both pulled a cramp while swimming and listening to this guy.

While on the shore he wanted me to take a photo of him. He just stood there, so I asked him if he could do something. "strike a pose Abdullah!" I asked of him. "A vhat?" I made a motion with my arms and he understood. These are two of his poses at different times throughout the day:

He wanted a second photo. By this time he was getting the hang of the pose. I could barely take the pic I was laughing so hard. He spontaneously pointed and shouted: "GET OUTSIDE!!" then he would do it again: "GET OUTSIDE!!"

Overall it was a really great day. We made some new friends and Buddy and I promised to visit their bakery in Monrovia. I think they will have the best bagels in town...in fact I think they are the only bagels in town. To making new friends!

A great day for a ride!

BUDDY (and his poses)

2007-10-30T10:35:00.000-07:00

POSE #1: The beach is dat way!

Buddy striking a pose after being inspired by Abdullah, the Lebanese pro-poser.

2007-10-30T10:26:00.001-07:00

POSE #2: Tally-ho

A classic launch into Bomi Lake. Soon all the Lebanese were jumping!

2007-10-30T10:15:00.001-07:00

POSE #3: All leg

This is Buddy with some way-too-short-shorts (that's not what the division of women soldiers from India said as they drove by.)

2007-10-30T08:35:00.001-07:00

POSE #4: Total-ly Confused

Buddy is a little confused - his neurons no longer fire in response to subliminal advert messages

Thanksgiving

2007-10-29T10:39:00.001-07:00

These pics found below were from Turkey Day - or 3 chicken day in Liberia. And to all of my 2 American readers - A happy American thanksgiving on Thursday to y'all!

(Post Note: Sorry to all Americans out there - It is actually Liberian Thanksgiving on Thursday and American Thanksgiving on November 22. Here in Liberia we get to celebrate 3 thanksgivings and meals to boot. Sweet-o!)

2007-10-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

"Wax on, wax off"
Felix Kauffeldt - one cool kid

2007-10-29T10:10:00.000-07:00

A Classic Sunset at ELWA

Ping Pong - challenging the paradigm

2007-10-27T13:38:00.000-07:00

It used to be a while back that nearly every day I was stopped and “embarrassed” (Liberian English – being put in an awkward position) by someone wanting something: a job, a promotion, a few cents to survive, some cold water, something “small small for da weekend.” Interestingly it has subsided a little over the past few months and today my attitude was checked with a little intense game of ping pong.

Buddy and I drove up to Precinct #5 where there was a group of semi-professional ping pong players slamming shots on the an Olimpic Ping Pong Table. This guy Cooper was sweating and fanning the big slam shots. On every miss he would give himself a pep talk: "Come on Cooper! Why? You need to hit those shots."

Then there was this kid Landfrey who took on Cooper - his only strategy was to keep changing the score. "so it's 3-2?" Nope it's 4-1...good try though!

It was a great time just hanging out with some guys. In the end they didn't ask for anything. Instead they asked us to come back on Monday for some more humiliating table tennis.

Sounds good! Monday it is...
Cel

2007-10-27T10:06:00.001-07:00

"Hey Everybody..."

2007-10-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

2007-10-27T10:00:00.001-07:00

Crazy times in Calgary

The Blog is back

2007-10-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

It has been quite some time since I have written. Perhaps I need to focus on shorter blog entries to keep the thoughts flowing on the web. I was thinking lately about different items that I engage with on a weekly basis: from creatively written CVs to names of local NGOs.

My two favourite local NGO names: VODKA (Voice of Deaf Kids Advocacy) and a close second, perhaps next door to VODKA is LUSH (Liberians United in Stopping Hunger).

Here is a quote from a covering letter to a CV that I recently received:

A Liberian citizen and at the age of 31 years, I am seeking for said employment to enable me contribute my quota toward the socio-economic development of Liberia.

What is his quota? It raises an interesting issue - how do we contribute to the development of our countries that we call home? What is development? This question plagues me on a weekly basis. The economics of development can only bring a country so far, but as Bev has pointed out in inter-office theoretical discourses there is an element of social cohesion / capital / togetherness that is necessary for any economic program to be successful. More on this topic to come.

Another note on someone's covering letter:

I hereby apply for position of monitor. I am a high school drop out. I am capable of any job.

That's it for me today...keep in mind that if you are a high school drop out your employer doesn't want to hear about it on a covering letter, even though the honesty may be appreciated.

Keep on keeping on,

Marcel

PS - Suzi - the blog lives on...

Broadcast Team

2007-07-22T13:30:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we had a broadcast crew come through to film some of our projects in Monrovia and into the hinterlands as they like to say in Liberia. I went on the trip up to our project sites in Gbarpolu (a 3 hour drive from Monrovia). We filmed a community harvesting a fish pond, which turned out to be entertaining when the catfish escaped and a group of people decided to rescue it. They jumped into the drainage canal and got a hold of the bottom feeder. We also filmed some watsan, church reconstruction and animal projects. I will never forget the goat farmer who is holding his goat and saying: "Thank you for my goat." He would look away from the camera and he did not smile enough. So they did 10 takes of the poor man who was more confused than his bewildered animal. He did it so many times that 5 year old Felix was saying: "Thank you for the goat!" Somebody give Felix a goat...he's a natural actor (kind of...a bit hard to control, but when he hits his space watch out Spielberg!)

2007-07-22T13:18:00.000-07:00

Vannie posing with the catfish. He never thought he would be a movie star. "Action!"

I liked it when some catfish escaped into drainage canal and everyone jumped in looking for them. It was a successful catfish hunt. The good people of Louisiana would have been proud.

2007-07-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

Felix is getting ready for his SP film debut. Smile big and act like a local.

2007-07-22T12:45:00.000-07:00

Caroline thought this boom mike was for polishing shoes. I think it would work quite well as a shoe polisher.

The start of a song

2007-06-19T01:23:00.000-07:00

Stained coffee cups
Conversations that drank them up
Time ran fast in the shadow
You could see it in the afterglow.

Standing under the streetlight
Pure white snow fell from the dark night
Words spoken in a hushed whisper
Stars, thoughts and life poured from her.

A musing by CS Lewis

2007-06-15T03:37:00.000-07:00

I believe in Christianity as I believe the Sun has risen not just because I see it but by it I see everything else.

2007-06-14T09:05:00.000-07:00

We have trained Isaac at a young age. Someday his woman will be happy.

Why I stay above the 49

2007-06-10T14:07:00.000-07:00

There are those moments when traveling that produce a chemical reaction somewhere deep within the folds of our mind that fire off a synapses of electrical impulses. The reaction triggers a response in our nervous system producing symptoms including, but not limited to a dry mouth, a sweaty brow, and a twitch in the right eye. This is normally described as fear. That feeling came upon me not too long ago as I attempted to enter the USA on my way to the International Projects Meeting for Samaritan’s Purse. I mumbled to my boss as we were about to pass through US Customs in Atlanta: “I wonder if I’m going to make it.” He rolled his eyes incredulously at my inability to make it through borders. His premonitions were realized; I did not make it very far.

US Customs Officer: “Where are you going?”

MK: “Boone, North Carolina”

US CO: “Why? What brings you to this part of America?”

MK: “International Projects Meeting.”

US CO: “What do you do?”

MK: “Humanitarian Aid Work. I manage the agricultural program in Liberia.”

US CO: “Humana what?” [shoots me a look of disbelief] “Where are you staying?”

MK: “800 Bamboo Road, Boone, NC”

US CO: “Is that a hotel or what?”

MK: “Umm…it’s actually my organization’s HQ.”

US CO: “So you’re staying at the HQ?!” [At this point I could see that he was losing interest] Have you ever been to the States before?”

MK: “What? Yes, of course. I live in Canada! I have been to Washington, California, Oregon.”

US CO: “When? Which dates?”

MK: “Many times. Which days? I don’t exactly recall.” [At this point I was giving up hope of becoming friends.]

He placed my passport and declaration card in a black folder and orders: “Report to the office.” [I was on the black list.]

I entered the office. The room was filled with a racial cross-section of humanity. We all sat there tentatively, waiting for our individual interrogations. One man was told to sit back down and wait his turn like every other suspected criminal. Another man with a thick accent was told that his resident status was in jeopardy. He retorted with the honesty of a supplicating child, “What is wrong with smoking marijuana anyway?! It was only a small amount.” It took a great deal of discipline to avoid bursting out in laughter. It was at this point that I began mentally noting a list of “The top three things of what not to say to a US customs officer.”

Another gentleman also put on quite a show a few minutes later. This man was able to get all of the customs officers to look up from their workstations. It was a very impressive display. The man who was in his fifties with no time for seemingly unnecessary delays decided that he needed to let the officer know that he was going to miss his plane (this was after the officer had just told another man to sit down for the same reason. The officer gave a speech to the audience telling us that we would be served one at a time.) The man’s priority request was met with a negative response. The man walked away with curses falling from his mouth. This pushed the right buttons for the customs officer who stood up and stated in a voice echoing authority laced with a thin layer of passive aggressiveness: “Sir! SIR! You are coming with me. Right here. Into this room in the back. NOW SIR!”

We all rubbed our hands in eager expectation for what was surely to follow and we were not disappointed. The Customs Officer yelled at the man in the back room and this man yelled a few words back. In a few moments of mostly one sided engagement the man walked out of that room, his face a deep shade of crimson. As he was taking his seat he blurted out something that no one was expecting. It rocked the room like an explosion. “NAZI!” He threw it out in the direction of the officers. The crowd was hushed by the claim. The officers all looked up from their workstations. Even the pot smoking immigrant stopped talking about the reasons to legalize marijuana. The officer wheeled into view from behind the desk and aptly retorted: “Sir you would not know, you were not there!” The supervisor was called and we did not see him again.

My turn came for an interrogation. I was escorted into a room where they asked me the same questions six different times hoping to help me tell a lie. I was blacklisted for problems entering the US four years ago. I will not get into the details suffice to say “do not ever give false information to a US Customs Officer even if it is non-intentional.” Back in the room I was under questioning. I became a little more nervous thinking that I would not make my flight and after having been in the plane for nine hours I found myself with a growing sense of needing the washroom. They allowed me this courtesy. The interior decorating style of the washroom had a 1960’s stainless steel modern state penitentiary prison feel to it. It came complete with toilet paper, but no soap or running water. It also did not have a flushing lever for the toilet. I thought this would be problematic, but I noticed a camera looking down at me in the corner. He noticed me too for as I stood up and walked away the toilet flushed. I knocked three times on the door (as instructed) and we completed the interrogation. I was free to go and even made it onto the aircraft.

In summary here are my tips on what not to say to US Customs:

· “Consuming marijuana is ok.” or any other positive or negative reference to pot. It is not up for discussion with the US Customs.

· “Nazi.” Most people do not like the Nazis. Keep this in mind.

· “I like your toilet” or any other reference to non-essentials to getting out of the customs office.

Marcel

PS- On the way out of the US I was given the "SSSS" treatment, which means I got the pat-me-down search. In this instance however, the lads redeemed themselves. They were friendly and had personality.

The Donjek Route

2007-05-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we have a dream that seems impossible, yet it doesn't leave us alone. We stay up at night trying to figure out how to make it happen. Doubts linger, yet we persist in our hoping. The picture below is the epitome of the dream. It's a 10 day hike in Kluane. I tried a 7 day hike last summer and came down with some nasty blisters. My memory tells me it wasn't so bad and that I can do this. Maybe enough positive mental energy and it will happen. Anyone unemployed or underemployed in August and wanting to travel to the Yukon?

The Donjek Glacier

Picture courtesy of http://209.87.238.247/bart/Kluane.htm

The Belleh Forest

2007-05-22T12:13:00.001-07:00

We made it! The Belleh Forest was a superb trip to a people deep within the jungles of West Africa. The drive proved to be a challenge...14 hours of driving over palm log bridges, through creeks and muddy roads. In spots we couldn't see the vehicle ahead of us because of all of the brush. It was worth it. The Belleh Forest was beautiful.

We took a walk to villages within the district. We trekked through swamps and virgin rainforest. At one point one of the locals showed us what they can drink when the creeks dry up. He cut a 2 ft section of vine and tipped his head backwards. Out poured some Evian water with a hint of wood flavour. The thicker vines can drain out 2 litres of water. "Crickey!"

It was one of the most enjoyable trips I have taken in Liberia (other than a full day road trip singing Boney M Christmas for five hours with boisterous vigor).

2007-05-22T05:30:00.000-07:00

This boy was happy. The face of the monkey tells a different story.

2007-05-22T05:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the pick-ups just don't make it.

2007-05-22T05:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the bridges are "not so good."

2007-05-22T04:55:00.000-07:00

Kevin looking for the trail through the Belleh Forest

The Belleh Forest

2007-04-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

Ah yes, tomorrow Kevin (Fryatt) and I head out on a trip to a mystical place: the Belleh Forest. The name elicits images of untouched tropical forests with canopies acting as a biosphere for a rich diversity of life. Its thickets are filled with such curious creatures as the forest elephant, the leopard, the black deer and duikers. It is a 12 hour drive from Monrovia on roads that are more like foot paths and bridges that are more like open spaces over creeks. We are to cross 103 bridges and stop in a town called Fassama. From there we head out on foot to carry out some assessments of the area. It is always nice to take a walkabout in the thick jungles of

Liberia

. We are hoping to assess the quality of the drinking water, the roads and bridges (if they exist), agriculture in the area and other activities. This is what we hope to do, that is, if we make it.

We will come back with pics and stories to tell; hopefully, no scars though. (refer to previous post).

[Side note: Chad how do you pronounce Belleh River in the Blood Tribe again? Cheers!]