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Friday, December 31, 2010
This Moment: Friday ritual.
.{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
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Thursday, December 30, 2010
Violence Against Women: Female Genital Mutilation.
I've just read a photo essay on Matador -''Photo Essay From Mexico City: No More Violence Against Women." written by Julie Schwietert Collazo, and came away lost for words apart from one word ringing in my mind- Powerful. Why? Because that essay dragged something to the forefront of my mind.
That word described the photos, and it described the effect on me. In asking why it struck me as it did, I have to say that for some months now I've been wanting to place this photo on my blog, but haven't found the right frame of mind to do so. It needs to be there, and it needs to be written about, and it needs you, the reader to look carefully at the scene depicted, and wonder why so much violence occurs towards women. This picture is of artwork I photographed in the Ethiopian National Museum, Addis Ababa, last August.
Battling an ancient tradition: Female genital mutilation in Ethiopia
FAFFAN, Ethiopia, 10 July 2006 – These days, Asmah, 6, and her friends Deca, Ferhia and Hassina are secluded from their community. Their legs are tied together and they are told to sleep as much as possible and not to wash; it will help heal their wounds, adults say.
Testimony from women and girls
Hodan, 20, has never gone through the procedure but said she does not consider herself lucky. “All the girls of my age are married. Only I remain single, because people say that I am open,” she complained at the community forum. “If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she is cut and sealed.”
But another young woman, Kauser, 18, had a different view. “Since the time I was cut I kept bleeding all the time. I am afraid of getting married because I will have to be cut again,” she said.
After hearing testimonies from many women and girls, Fateeh Mohammed Yassin, a single man in his early twenties, remained committed to the tradition. “I do not want a wife who has not been cut at all,” he declared.
Mr. Yassin’s comments illustrate the immense challenge of ending female genital mutilation and cutting in Ethiopia. It will be up to communities themselves to reach consensus on the harm being inflicted on their daughters and ultimately make the collective decision to abandon the practice.
The question is though, with so much violence against women in our cultures, how can we expect Ethiopian men to change, unless we change also?
That word described the photos, and it described the effect on me. In asking why it struck me as it did, I have to say that for some months now I've been wanting to place this photo on my blog, but haven't found the right frame of mind to do so. It needs to be there, and it needs to be written about, and it needs you, the reader to look carefully at the scene depicted, and wonder why so much violence occurs towards women. This picture is of artwork I photographed in the Ethiopian National Museum, Addis Ababa, last August.
Like most visitors, we had gone there seeking 'Lucy', the 3.18 million year old skeleton of one of the earliest hominids so far discovered. Recent discoveries elsewhere have been dated back to 4.4 million years, but 'Lucy' remains the most well known early hominid find, and Ethiopia's draw card. The museum has a range of other cultural and historical artefacts, and some contemporary art on display also.
Walking through the museum I came upon a large painting, viewed it briefly, moved on by... turned and went back. Taking another look, my mind couldn't make sense of the jumble of angles and colours. So I walked away again, only to turn and walk back again.
It was the child's face, in the top left, that had reached out and grabbed me and would not let me walk on by without telling me her pain.
This time I had to know what I was seeing, so I stopped and read the sign. The painting is an interpretation of the violence and pain inflicted on a young girl through Female Genital Mutilation. The practice of removing the clitoris, and cutting away parts of the external female genitalia.
Take a careful look at the child, restrained by her own mother, legs held by relatives, while another does the cutting.
Powerful.
I took a note of the artist and title but have mislaid them. But the picture speaks enough for the over 70% of women in Ethiopia who undergo this assault as a child. A practice that will continue until Ethiopian men's attitudes change.
FAFFAN, Ethiopia, 10 July 2006 – These days, Asmah, 6, and her friends Deca, Ferhia and Hassina are secluded from their community. Their legs are tied together and they are told to sleep as much as possible and not to wash; it will help heal their wounds, adults say.
Testimony from women and girls
Hodan, 20, has never gone through the procedure but said she does not consider herself lucky. “All the girls of my age are married. Only I remain single, because people say that I am open,” she complained at the community forum. “If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she is cut and sealed.”
But another young woman, Kauser, 18, had a different view. “Since the time I was cut I kept bleeding all the time. I am afraid of getting married because I will have to be cut again,” she said.
After hearing testimonies from many women and girls, Fateeh Mohammed Yassin, a single man in his early twenties, remained committed to the tradition. “I do not want a wife who has not been cut at all,” he declared.
Mr. Yassin’s comments illustrate the immense challenge of ending female genital mutilation and cutting in Ethiopia. It will be up to communities themselves to reach consensus on the harm being inflicted on their daughters and ultimately make the collective decision to abandon the practice.
The question is though, with so much violence against women in our cultures, how can we expect Ethiopian men to change, unless we change also?
This practice is not confined to Ethiopia, nor restricted to any religion but is wide spread in many countries in Africa, Middle East and Asia. FGM may even persist in immigrant communities in Western countries. Most countries have outlawed the practice.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
My Christmas Present : A Special Place- Cille Choirill.
My Christmas present from my wife Kay is this- a photo we took in Scotland, mounted for hanging on our wall. A special photo of a special place for our family.
Cold, wet, hungry and exhausted the small party picked their way through the rocks in the dark and the rain, travelling at night down the long glen, and hiding by day from the marauding parties of Redcoats intent on punishing the rebellious Clans. Lashed by fierce gales, the fugitives struggled to maintain their footing in the mud and shale, unable to risk a light to see their way, relying only on pale moonlight where it seeped weakly through the storm clouds. The stocky mountain pony carried a bloodied body across its back.
Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair, a Mackintosh, died on this journey, his legs shredded and his wounds too severe to be staunched. Struck by grapeshot during the Clans charge upon the Duke of Cumberland's troops at Culloden, 16 April 1746, clansmen loyal to their local chief carried him from the battlefield and made their way south back to the family home in Glen Spean. In the killing time of Culloden...that scant desperate hour...over 1200 clansmen were slaughtered in a valiant but futile charge to break the English lines. For loyal kin to risk their lives under fire to carry the mortally wounded Eoghunn from the field, then to dodge the cavalry attack, and spirit him away, all the while avoiding the snapping hyenas of Redcoat pursuers, and carry his body so far home, must speak of how those clansmen regarded Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair.
From him are descended our family.
It has long been a dream to travel back to our ancestral lands, and to seek out Cille Choirill where the body of Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair ( Red Haired Ewen of Culloden ) was buried under the floor just inside the door. How strange it would be, if he could ever see that over two centuries later his descendants would pilgrimage to his resting place....
In September 2010, we travelled up route 82 from Luss on Loch Lomond, exploring Glencoe on our way, and taking walks in the glen and forests of this vast and magnificent valley. Purple flowering heather still draped the lower slopes, and the first touches of Autumn's golds tinted the forests bringing the deep greens of Scot's pines into contrast. There is a visitor's centre on the main highway, and in the village itself a very interesting museum. At both we spent time reading up more of the history of the area, and of the massacre of MacDonalds by Campbell lead English troops, that occurred in the early morning of February 13th, 1692. It was a very full, interesting and enjoyable day for us, and although we had not hurried, arrival at Fort William was mid afternoon, spurring a last minute decision to head on through to Glen Spean. Cille Choirill was a powerful magnet...something pulled us there...a very strong sense of anticipation.
You could easily miss Cille Choirill, being high above the road, and masked by hedgerows and trees from passing motorists. That but enhances it's mystique and character...it welcomes those who have travelled to seek it out, and those loyal residents of the area who now lovingly tend and care for it, and worship there. The 15th century church was built in honour of Saint Cairell, who preached Christianity in the area around 600AD, and is named after him, in Gaelic
Cille Choirill attracts its own, as it has over the centuries, the wee graveyard full of generations of clan, parish worshippers, and Chiefs of Keppoch buried within it's walls under the floor. During the latter 1800's the church fell into disrepair, but was renovated and rededicated Sunday July 10, 1932, and its living spirit has been maintained since. A key may be obtained at the dwelling on the A86 Glen Spean road, 2 km from Roy Bridge, just opposite the turn off for the narrow road that winds uphill to a small parking area beside Cille Choirill.
The sky was overcast, lending an eerily dark and foreboding atmosphere to our arrival, but at the same time welcoming, as if the whole presence of the church and host of sleeping persons there would awake if they deemed our visit of worth or import. The interior of Cille Choirill is basic with very little ornamentation, just a functional Catholic Church. Around the walls, a few plaques and crosses marking the graves of those buried within.
Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair remains unmarked where he lies just inside the doorway. I stood for a while there, soaking up the atmosphere of the interior, a place of peace and reverence, where for centuries people have sought solace and salvation, prayed, married, and christened their newborn. Ancient churches like this are not just stone buildings, but living repositories of the history of countless lives: each generation setting another stone in place, another tombstone outside, another entry counter-signed in the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. We stuffed 10 pounds into the donation box taking the Cillie Choirill history brochure in return, then walked out to explore the dimly lit graveyard.
By the time we reached the rear, to look back down on Cille Choirill, we noticed a circle of light upon the hills the other side of the glen, as old Sol managed to fight through the cloud banks and follow us up the glen. The light was coming our way, and in a fitting welcome finally it threw down upon us its full brilliance and warmth, and the whole setting upon that quiet hillside awoke to receive us...accepting us as more of its own...we had returned...we descendants of the Great Scottish Diaspora of the '45, and the Clearances, were home...reclaiming kinship, and being welcomed back into the clan.
The fugitives, joined by other relatives and kins-people, worked in the dim mutton-tallow lamplight to lever up the heavy flagstones of Cille Choirill's floor. Digging out a narrow pit, they lay their revered clan leader within, wrapped in the the plaids and sheepskins gathered from his croft, then covered him with dirt, and relaid the stone above him. The weeping of his wife and young son accompanied the prayers as the little grave was filled in. No sign of disturbance of the floor was left as tell-tale for Redcoats to seek excuse to wreak vengeance upon the inhabitants of the village in the heart of the area where rebellion had been strongest.
Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair lies undisturbed at Cille Choirill.
Cille Choirill now hangs upon our wall at home. A pilgrimage home completed.
A special photo of a special place.
As a footnote: Chatting with my visiting brother a few weeks before Christmas, and we talked of his wish to also travel to Scotland and do much as we did - research our heritage, and of our visiting Cille Choirill. We looked through the score and more of photos we had taken. Shortly afterwards, we and our wives settled in to watch a DVD, and we thought the most appropriate with Christmas coming upon us was "Joyeaux Noel", a film about the impromptu Christmas truce of 1914 between Scots, French and German troops in the front-line trenches. During the first part of the film, the young men of each side are shown signing up and leaving their home villages to head off to war. At the start of the Scottish home scenes is a clip of a young boy cycling down a shingle track towards a wee stone church and its graveyard...Cille Choirill is that church used for that scene.
Coincidence surely, but strange as 10 minutes before we'd been in conversation about it.
Cille Choirill calls its own....
 |
| Cille Choirill, Glen Spean, Brae Lochaber, Inverness-shire. |
Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair, a Mackintosh, died on this journey, his legs shredded and his wounds too severe to be staunched. Struck by grapeshot during the Clans charge upon the Duke of Cumberland's troops at Culloden, 16 April 1746, clansmen loyal to their local chief carried him from the battlefield and made their way south back to the family home in Glen Spean. In the killing time of Culloden...that scant desperate hour...over 1200 clansmen were slaughtered in a valiant but futile charge to break the English lines. For loyal kin to risk their lives under fire to carry the mortally wounded Eoghunn from the field, then to dodge the cavalry attack, and spirit him away, all the while avoiding the snapping hyenas of Redcoat pursuers, and carry his body so far home, must speak of how those clansmen regarded Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair.
From him are descended our family.
It has long been a dream to travel back to our ancestral lands, and to seek out Cille Choirill where the body of Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair ( Red Haired Ewen of Culloden ) was buried under the floor just inside the door. How strange it would be, if he could ever see that over two centuries later his descendants would pilgrimage to his resting place....
You could easily miss Cille Choirill, being high above the road, and masked by hedgerows and trees from passing motorists. That but enhances it's mystique and character...it welcomes those who have travelled to seek it out, and those loyal residents of the area who now lovingly tend and care for it, and worship there. The 15th century church was built in honour of Saint Cairell, who preached Christianity in the area around 600AD, and is named after him, in Gaelic
The sky was overcast, lending an eerily dark and foreboding atmosphere to our arrival, but at the same time welcoming, as if the whole presence of the church and host of sleeping persons there would awake if they deemed our visit of worth or import. The interior of Cille Choirill is basic with very little ornamentation, just a functional Catholic Church. Around the walls, a few plaques and crosses marking the graves of those buried within.
By the time we reached the rear, to look back down on Cille Choirill, we noticed a circle of light upon the hills the other side of the glen, as old Sol managed to fight through the cloud banks and follow us up the glen. The light was coming our way, and in a fitting welcome finally it threw down upon us its full brilliance and warmth, and the whole setting upon that quiet hillside awoke to receive us...accepting us as more of its own...we had returned...we descendants of the Great Scottish Diaspora of the '45, and the Clearances, were home...reclaiming kinship, and being welcomed back into the clan.
Eoghunn Ruad Chulodair lies undisturbed at Cille Choirill.
Cille Choirill now hangs upon our wall at home. A pilgrimage home completed.
A special photo of a special place.
As a footnote: Chatting with my visiting brother a few weeks before Christmas, and we talked of his wish to also travel to Scotland and do much as we did - research our heritage, and of our visiting Cille Choirill. We looked through the score and more of photos we had taken. Shortly afterwards, we and our wives settled in to watch a DVD, and we thought the most appropriate with Christmas coming upon us was "Joyeaux Noel", a film about the impromptu Christmas truce of 1914 between Scots, French and German troops in the front-line trenches. During the first part of the film, the young men of each side are shown signing up and leaving their home villages to head off to war. At the start of the Scottish home scenes is a clip of a young boy cycling down a shingle track towards a wee stone church and its graveyard...Cille Choirill is that church used for that scene.
Coincidence surely, but strange as 10 minutes before we'd been in conversation about it.
Cille Choirill calls its own....
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Friday photo for Travel Thursday
Over here is Travel Thursday at Budget Traveller's Sandbox , but since it's already Friday here, I'm putting this photo up as they show a Cathedral in Malacca.
The organs of Saint Giles' Cathedral in the Royal Mile, Edinburgh.
Very lucky to get such a good shot as Cathedral interiors can be gloomy and a flash may not always give enough depth of illumination. But the light from the top of the organ dome added enough back lighting to bring the pipes in to clarity.
Here's a shot of the exterior, on the usual sort of overcast Scottish day. A foreboding presence...?
Brilliance and beauty inside, but gloomy and grimy outside... what a contrast.
The organs of Saint Giles' Cathedral in the Royal Mile, Edinburgh.
Very lucky to get such a good shot as Cathedral interiors can be gloomy and a flash may not always give enough depth of illumination. But the light from the top of the organ dome added enough back lighting to bring the pipes in to clarity.
Here's a shot of the exterior, on the usual sort of overcast Scottish day. A foreboding presence...?
Brilliance and beauty inside, but gloomy and grimy outside... what a contrast.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
'Twas the Night Before Christmas ' Africa style!
Gap Adventures Watering Hole travel forum is a fun place to hang out, help new travellers, and chat about tours, places and travel tips. It's a great forum with a helpful welcoming ambience, and you'll find me there as Jimshu. The Christmas spirit has obviously infected another Moderator, JaliscoJudy or she's been tippling at it, because when I checked in this morning, here is what was waitng for us!
Thank you Judy for writing this fun prose.
I added a few pics.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all around GAP
Not a creature was stirring (Bruce was taking a nap)
The daypacks were hung by the work desks with care
In hopes that St. Jimshu soon would be there.
CEOs were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of border crossings danced in their heads.
And Red at the Base Camp and Meg in Halifax,
Had just settled down for Canadian naps.
But an overland truck and eight Na’ankuse orphans.
With a little old driver, so lively and trim
He knew in a minute it must be St. Jim.
More rapid than rhinos his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now Tano! Now Kibo! Now Erik and Chemi!
On Neena! On Murka! On Judy and Wendi!
To the top of Base Camp to the top of the wall
A bundle of shoes he had flung on his back
And he looked like a cobbler just opening his pack.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work
And filled all the daypacks, then turned with a jerk
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And using his iPhone, blogged the whole episode.
He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a call
And away they sped to a refuge in Nepal.
But Red heard him exclaim ‘ere he drove out of sight
Happy voluntourism to all—let’s go make it right!
Thank you Judy for writing this fun prose.
I added a few pics.
 |
| Now where did I park that overland truck? |
Not a creature was stirring (Bruce was taking a nap)
The daypacks were hung by the work desks with care
In hopes that St. Jimshu soon would be there.
CEOs were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of border crossings danced in their heads.
And Red at the Base Camp and Meg in Halifax,
Had just settled down for Canadian naps.
 |
| The Bushman kids at Na'ankuse |
When out in the street there arose such a clatter
Red sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
And what should appear through his nighttime Raybans,But an overland truck and eight Na’ankuse orphans.
With a little old driver, so lively and trim
He knew in a minute it must be St. Jim.
More rapid than rhinos his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now Tano! Now Kibo! Now Erik and Chemi!
On Neena! On Murka! On Judy and Wendi!
 |
| He better not poop on me! |
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
He was covered in deet from his head to his boots
And his clothes were all tarnished with elephant poopsA bundle of shoes he had flung on his back
And he looked like a cobbler just opening his pack.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work
And filled all the daypacks, then turned with a jerk
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And using his iPhone, blogged the whole episode.
He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a call
And away they sped to a refuge in Nepal.
But Red heard him exclaim ‘ere he drove out of sight
Happy voluntourism to all—let’s go make it right!
 |
| Merry Christmas and let's go make it right! |
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Footnotes for Tomorrow's Leopard : After effects, upside down cabinets, and leopards.
I have been asked about post TURP operation effects, the topic I wrote about here - Tomorrow's Leopard. I have many emails, two male friends of ours have had lengthy discussions with me, and what's really intriguing is all of our female friends have been very concerned to know how it has affected me. They're pretty cool with the operation, but are really interested about the ongoing physical effects upon myself. They are really concerned. We've got great friends for which we are very thrilled to have, so there has been some weird discussions and a lot of banter going on, particularly after we've all got together over dinner and the wine has been flowing. I can't blame them for being so intrigued because for we mere males, it can be a scary operation, but of course never as bad as having a baby I'm constantly reminded by all the females in my life. So let's run through the after effects.
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| Leopard at Naankuse awaiting release. |
New ideas include running other animals with herds to protect them. Read about the amazing programs introducing huge Kangal and Anatolian dogs from Turkey and Central Asia to protect farmers livestock from cheetah and leopard here-
Guarding dog_program
and on video here-
youtube Guard dog program
And there is even a program of training donkeys to run with the cattle. The female donkey will foal just before the cattle, and will not just guard her foal, but all the calves in the herd!
In concert with these programs, many farmers are beginning to farm small herds of gazelle, or springbok as a prey base buffer to ensure they don't attack the livestock. New methods, new ideas... invaluable to protect the last 12,000 cheetah in this world and the near threatened leopard.
Travel Africa magazine has an excellent article here which outlines the history of Africat and how they are developing strategies to minimize human-wildlife conflict. Naankuse just outside of Windhoek, Namibia, ( where Kay and I met up with our daughters Elissa and Emma for a volunteer period in July 2009, ) also operate a rehabilitation and release scheme. Naankuse have rehabilitated and released many large cats- leopard, cheetah and caracal as well as hyena into wilderness areas in the Namib Rand away from farms. GPS collars are fitted to track their ability to survive in their new ranges. Other cheetah, leopards and lions that are too human habituated to release are living their lives out in huge enclosures. It is sad to see them there, but better than them being shot as they would seek food near humans if released and be a danger.
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| Lions at Naankuse. The male is neutered to prevent breeding. |
I don't like to think of another wild creature being shot, when perhaps education, and new ideas can be used to intervene and perhaps deter leopard attacks on livestock, or have them captured and relocated. As a traveller, take the time to read more about these issues, and perhaps even consider a volunteer period at one of the wildlife sanctuaries. I'll list some below. Hopefully Hendrik or his village kids will never have to kill another leopard. They are magnificent creatures.
As to the other subject of "Tomorrow's Leopard", the operation, the after effects have been not so bad. Bored ( pun intended ) at sitting ( well not for very long...) around home, I toddled off to work the Wednesday after the op, and tenderly waddled around getting light duties done. Pain killers and Sachets of ural alkalinisers got me through, and 10 days after the op I'm off those and fully mobile and banging out those shoes at work. 18 days later, I'm almost completely over it. Gee, it's been pretty easy to get through. I probably shouldn't have said that because... it's not as bad as having a baby, you know! Occasionally, can't a man have a bit of mothering?
Oh and did I hear another woman ask about that other thing again?
I'm not telling but there's a clue here-
Oh and by the way, the bathroom cabinet has been bothering us both since I put it up...we just worked out that it's on the wall- upside down!
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