Louis Pasteur and Image Hipocrisy

"What type of engineer are you?"

Air Canada 30,000 ft, the gregarious flight attendant chirps me out of my fore brain's self induced comatose state. We all have our ways of coping. 

"Mining," I really do like when I'm identified as an engineer, it softened the annoyance of spurious conversation. Would never have imagined myself the pinky ring type. 

The French Canadian accent unmaskable. Not 12 hours ago at a Brick Lane curry house, I was sharing views on the humble origins of Canada's French population and how that was probably responsible for their form of French despised by France Francophiles. 

I appreciate humble origins. 

"I've never met one of those before," he shares. 

I murmur "oh really". The Toronto bound flight enroute from Heathrow, is filled with mining luminaries returning from the London Mines and Money Show. I guess he wasn't working business class.

I own my humble origins. 

He has the slightly oiled Latin look that many French Canadian men have, that sometimes works, sometimes doesn't. For fly guy it's working. His heavy goatee and outsized side burns are both out of place on his face and completely explainable. French. 

His heavy charm and outsized smile, blusters forward into a clearly pointless conversation. "I am an inventor, I have a book of engineers" his hands gesture to convey the size of the Engineers directory. "I have the ideas and I work with all types of engineers," he lists a range of specialized unrelated sub-disciplines. 

Both out of politeness and honest interest I serve up appropriate questions. Sharing nothing of myself, getting to know me I presume is not the objective of this gregarious blusterer. 

"You see I just work here for the travel and the great contacts I make ..."

The point. Whoop there it is. 

Objective achieved, he has conveyed that he is more than a humble flight attendant. The conversation ends as abruptly as it started. 

We all have our ways of coping. Coping with the discomfort of human shell, our feelings of inadequacy or the disconnect between who we are and who we want to be. 

I return to my coping coma and my mind tumbles through a range of thoughts. Retreating into a Bose quiet comfort personal universe, Frank Ocean moans "your lost, lost in the heat of it all". My mind settles on a distinct thought, I hope that my coping is less obvious. It's a human condition. Not even clear what my coping look likes I'm sure it's there we all do it. Little superficial things we do to amend how we feel the world sees us. 

Nelson Mandela died last night, the world mourns him, he changed it with humility and forgiveness. I wonder what he coped with? What he had to mask. Revenge, Fear? Wonder what his coping looked like.

My chatty flight attendant is hunched down beside a dark haired dangerously curvy fellow passenger a few rows ahead. His well rehearsed banter flows effortlessly through his perma grin. I feel honored, what is it that I project that prompted the blustering French Inventor, let's call him Louis, to share his personal sales pitch. Raising his profile in the eyes of Miss Curvy, offers benefits I do not have on the offer. My honor fades to dismay as my mind crashes on the idea that I must project judgement. Could this modern day Louis Pasteur, sense the judging eye with which I view the world, and felt the need to remove room for misconception. If true, who else could see it. The horror!

The point, whoop there it is!

Just like inventor Louis I struggle with how people perceive me. I don't want people to see my arrogant, condescending, judgmental heart. My cope looks very different than Mr Pasteur. 

I wear my humble origins. 

Miss curvy gets up and straightens her close fitting dress over her leggings. She breaks into stride swaying her hips slightly more than the plane's tight aisle will allow. Working up enough speed to get her hair to lift gently in the self generated breeze. It all translates into a padded hip check as she passes by. To the Attendants galley enroute from 25H. 

Calling it coping, exposes my snooty heart, it's image manipulation and it has become part of how we humans relate. Smoke screens, veneers, masks, a sinful perversion obscuring an inborn desire to be truly known. 

Last night, I learned of Mandela's death from the security guy at a pop up restaurant in a cold car park in London's edgey gentrified upper east. Seconds before I teased a Czech friend of friend for sounding South African. The Ghanaian accented words deepened my chill as I realized the gravity. 

As the group of friends discussed venues to extend our evening excursion, I loudly expressed my displeasure at the option of going to a trendy sophisticated upscale club. Preferring we stick to grimier venues, avoiding the 'pretentious'. Perhaps aided by the few gin and tonics I had consumed, in jest I outed my own hypocrisy, "I don't want to hang around a bunch of Porsche driving, flashy Swiss watch wearing sophisticats." On recollection, was I kidding or was I prompting for others to peak under my humble veneer?

I appreciate humble origins 

I really do like when I am identified. Would never have imagined myself the pinky ring type.

Our Ghana ... Life out of the box.

When people ask me what it was like living and working in Ghana for two months with my young family, I describe it as a victory. Then usually, jokingly I make light of my own response and say the victory was we survived, and all made it home. In truth the victory was survival, but that means so much more than I let on. We survived, my family continued on and developed in a new environment, my children learned and grew, my wife developed professionally and re-energized relationships, and I was effective work wise and broke personal boundaries. Life went on and we were enriched by it. A vacation is to pause life, for relaxation or a new experience, this wasn't a vacation, our survival was we went away and we went on, life continued in earnest. I apologize in advance for my play with English language, but regardless here I go, our victory was not making it home, it was making it home.

We have all been told that as humans we use less than 10% of our brains, I can remember reading at some point that learning a new language was a way to expand on that 10% number and use more of our oversized brains. When I look at my family's experience living in a new place (albeit for a short time), I feel my capacity to live and to love has been expanded. I love Ghana more than I ever did before, I can tangibly imagine a life for me there, but I also love Toronto now more than I ever thought possible, I am now intimately aware of the city's genius, how it affords us special realities and how it has formed who I am. At the same time, our time away has built love for friends and family in Accra, and deepened love for friends and family in Toronto.

I spent much of my early school age years being tested for intelligence and being pulled in and out of classes shifted from school to school as the Peel Board of Education tried to determine what to do with nerdy and often troublesome kids like me. What I remember from all that testing was intelligence was not measured by how high I could count, what words I could spell or random facts I could remember. It was all based on pattern recognition. Number patterns, visual patterns and word associations that was how the school board quantified intelligence in young children. That stayed with me and now I train pattern recognition in my children with music, art and building connections in all they experience in life.

As the US war machine winds up for what looks like yet another conflict in the Middle East, we all recognize the pattern, it occurs to me that if recognizing the pattern is intelligence, breaking the pattern is genius. Like Jazz music, its genius is establishing patterns of rhythm, melody and harmony, systematically breaking the patterns but maintaining the fabric of the song. Two months in Ghana smashed some patterns, but its still the same song.

I have a saying that I try to make a manifesto, "... There is no box!", I added irony to the phrase and had it engraved on a small metal box as a reminder, its a joke that only I seem to find funny. I coined the phrase in response to being told by a fund manager they appreciated my out of the box thinking. I had quipped back thanking him for finding a nice way to say I had a crazy imagination. Recounting the conversation I realized the only thing imagined was the idea of the box, a construct of norms of life and thought we generally adhere to, and constrict ourselves too. An imaginary box, that doesn't exist.

Its my saying, its my little box its printed on, but usually its my wife that is that catalyst for breaking the imaginary box, I am miming my life within. The victory of two months in Ghana is passing through the imaginary walls of what I thought feasible, and recognizing the limitless potential of what is possible. To quote Dr. Seuss, "Oh, the places you will go..."

This is Us, This is Fresh, This is Nous

The Woman at the Well

Coming down a mountain side in a diesel powered Toyota Prado. I have just picked my way through a mineralized hillside discussing size potential and mining method of what appears to be a rich copper deposit. We stop in the campsite of the exploration team, greetings are exchanged in Arabic and Berber. The camp team expresses free flowing joy at the reunion with my host and travel companions. The men exchange cheek kisses, left to right to left to right... The kisses grow more numerous to add emphasis to the joy of the reunion. I am greeted with same exuberance, I mumble out a few "salaam's" lean close enough to pass for a hug, but stop short of the kiss. 

My Toronto aunties will attest to my ability to spurn kisses. The first born son to my mom and first born nephew to her sisters and my father's only sister in the city, I had ample opportunity to master the art of kiss dodging. Married 6 years, only now am I learning to appreciate a kiss as a communication of affection, and not just a form of foreplay. Kissing these dirty dudes, is too much for me, one of them is wearing a 'dress'.

Random thought; A few weeks ago Ahmeda and I were in a club in Accra, when mid song I could feel the energy of the place change. I looked up and did a quick analysis and it was like all the girls had gone to the washroom at once, and the dance floor as we would say in my high school days had become a 'hall of balls'. So I grabbed Ahmeda and headed for the door, we barely got to there when the first fight broke out, and glass breaking could be heard as we stepped out and bouncers rushed in. I wonder in a land where men kiss and wear long shirts with no pants, if you would have the same problem. 

My North American idiosyncrasies seem to go unnoticed as the greetings come to conclusion. We are welcomed into the mud and stone dwelling erected on the site to serve as the exploration office, then we are offered sweet Moroccan mint tea. My host pipes up and asks for fresh water, it's 40+ degrees Celsius, fresh water is more than just a good idea, but I know he has been eager to show off the sweetness of the well water. He's mentioned the abundance of fresh water a number of times during our visit. Not a trivial detail we are in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains on the western edge of the Sahara desert. The terrain is rocky outcrop and loose boulders, I haven't seen a tree, bush or blade of grass all afternoon. 

Out comes the well water from a darkened corner of the dwelling, in a yellow plastic container that appears better suited to carrying fuel. It is wrapped in rags that have been kept damp to maintain its cool. A pink plastic measuring cup is being filled and each person drinks its complete contents before passing it on to repeat the process to the next thirsty drinker. I suppress my hesitation, despite my stance on man kisses I have no fear of a shared cup, I've survived months of Jamaican Anglican communions which strangely feels analogous. My fear is the water. Now two months into the family adventure in West Africa, I can count my solid bowel movements on one hand. That approaching cup of cool well water looks like a oneway ticket to shitsville.  Peer pressure, I wasn't man enough to kiss, I can't be a pussy about the water now. Gulp!

We resume our descent out of the hills. I commit to use the power of positive thinking to conquer the new parasite army I've just introduced to my system. The driver exclaims "Bedouin", and gestures to a spot on the valley floor. Conversation in the truck has been a mixture of French (which I barely know), and Arabic (which I don't know at all), so my reaction is delayed until I see the distinctive black tents. Excitement. Not sure where I first learned of the Saharan nomadic people, but they hold a place mythic reverence in my mind for there complete mystery. We stop the truck, I pull out my camera and a telephoto lens, pausing to ask if I'm risking getting shot, if they see me ogling them with a camera. My Berber travel mate jokes in his heavy accent, "not from this distance." My first Bedouin encounter is disappointing the camp, just two tents, appears empty. 

Final stop, the well. We have to hurry out of the near desolate valley and get back to the paved road before darkness strands us. The valley is cut by a gorge that must fill with water seasonally, but now it is dry. Maybe four meters deep the walls of the gorge are shades of red and brown in flat lying beds, erosionally exposed by the on again off again river. 

The gorge floor predominantly the white and grey of the large boulders transported and discarded, by what must be a heavy seasonal flow. I am told many of the peaks are snow capped during the winter months, the big rocks collaborate that. 

Now out of the trucks we toddle down the gorge walls, gingerly I pick my steps through the boulders, aware that size is no indication of how firm they may sit. Over my left shoulder I spy two donkeys tied to the petrified root of a tree along the gorge wall. We are not alone.  Then I see her. In flash of peach, purple and golden embroidery.  Just ahead, a young Bedouin woman wraps her face and gathers two small children and a young teenage daughter and hustle out of view. It's seems all done in a rapid fluid movement and her retreat has the feel of a dance. It's not at all girly and could not be described as sexy, but it is unmistakably feminine.  My mind is instantly cluttered with a landslide of thoughts, but the idea of feminine surfs atop the intellectual and emotional wave. Her nomad lifestyle does not afford her any real contact with the outside world, she just lead two donkeys into a rocky gorge, yet there she is as lady as the queen of England. Unapologetically elegant, mysteriously beautiful. Feminine strength. 

We continue forward towards the well, it sits on the floor of the dry river bed. A cylindrical structure, it has high concrete walls to avoid being overwhelmed by the river flow when it comes, concrete stairs lead up to the simple crank and rope system that lift a soft walled rubber bucket, that holds the 'sweet' water. I climb the stairs, there is a pronounced gap between the stairs and the well structure to reduce drag against the irrepressible force of water, in anticipation of its annual flow. 

From the lip of the well the little Bedouin family comes back into view. The small boy and girl stare at our group inquisitively. The older daughter maybe 13, sheepishly steals glances. The woman covered face stares unperturbedly in the opposite direction, as if to defy our very presence. 

I fight my trained impulse to raise my camera, my digital capture of the meeting is clearly not wanted. My camera has already gotten me into trouble today. I snapped a phone picture of a police officer when he pulled us over speeding on a mountain road. He demanded my phone, passport and threatened imprisonment. I withheld both and stayed in the truck. The situation was defused by an equally angry tirade in arabic from my host, and a claim to be relative of Barack Obama. 

Camera in hand with the perfect lens, I studied the scene and committed to use words to memorialize the experience. 

It would appear our visit to the well, interrupted our lady nomad as she was using the well to satisfy the thirsts of her family, and her animals. My mind recalls a report from an employee in Mali that our exploration camp was completely undamaged, the community appreciated the extra wells we had drilled and protected our equipment during the conflict. Coincidentally, a conflict catalyzed by a regional destabilizing action, the killing of general Moumar Gaddafi, arguably modern times most famous Bedouin. 

Feminine strength, in some circles an oxymoron, in most circles completely misunderstood. I don't understand it, though I strain to recognize it, and admire it when it shows itself. I love it in my wife. Had I a daughter I would do all I could to nurture it. I have two sons and I will do all I can to encourage them to seek it and not fear it. 

You can ask any club owner or party promoter about feminine strength and you will be told; all the security in the world does prevent trouble it can only prevent damage to property at an event, the only sure way to keep an evening conflict free is to have a good amount of women there. It's a civilizing force. As I walk away from 5 years of boardroom drama, that ended in name calling and bickering, I wonder if it all could have been averted with a civilizing force. Perhaps investors should learn what club owners have known for ages. 

My lady nomad, civilizes a life of two tents two donkeys and borrowed water. The startling lesson is I need to set aside concerns about threats to my masculine constructs, like cheek kisses and long shirts with no pants; and look to see where the absence of femininity is putting me at risk. Even big rocks can shift suddenly if they are not properly supported. 

Dancing Above the Sahara

Bouncing, somewhere above the Sahara I slip into an all too familiar state. Two movies in two hours to go, life's breeze whisks me from London to Accra. The heat from the desert below creates the usual turbulence. 

My ears are encased in noise cancelling ear phones and it allows me to transcend my present station. Second last row middle seat, British airways. Failure to check in early and BA's additional fee for seat selection, puts me in quite possibly the worst seat of the plane. Incidentally, it makes me the most likely to survive crash landing. 

The earphones are donned for the detachment they facilitate, but I take the opportunity to fill my head with the sounds of Nigerian artist KCee singing his Limpopo. 1 of only 2 songs on my iPhone. While traveling my retired iPhone 4 has been called back into full time service, as my travel phone. It had been wiped as I prepared to sell it, and only has a couple of the songs I've discovered  and been able to find on iTunes, during my month in Ghana. 

The song is littered with the pop gimmicks of modern house music, whispy crescendos and auto-tuned chorus, but I love it this moment. House music's emergence into pop, makes me nostalgic, for the polka dot shirt wearing, gumby cut having days of grade nine. Hearing this Nigerian utilize house music principles to make an African sound fills me with Toronto pride. A genre my city had a hand in crafting. I remember listening to Chris Shepard and Deadly Headley late nights on weekends, before I had a driver's license. I often walk home on king street wondering if anyone else remembers the history created in those warehouses before they were gentrified, before house music went to Europe for safe keeping and technofying. Knuckles and Vega replaced by high priced steaks, and bottle service.

My God, I want to dance tonight. 

The sun is setting. I must be over Mali now, a country of conflict and I pray opportunity. Incidentally the country I celebrated my thirtieth birthday in, in a club called Byblos making fast friends with would be dance partners. 

The sun is setting on my 30s, and I still crave crowded dark rooms and music too loud to hold conversation. If a DJ plays this tonight I may have to find a bartop or table to properly express what is in me. I remember my father, asking incredulously what was the attraction after catching me sneaking out one night. I had taken his Van to pick up a group of friends at a local party, we were headed to Spectrum an all ages venue on the east end. I had been to hasty in my departure, my Dad heard the car start in the driveway, standard practice was to let the car roll down the drive in neutral before starting it up on the street. He got up and followed me to the local party. He parked his car and took the Van home leaving a note preparing me for the punishment that would be meted on me in the morning. I came out with my friends discovered the Van gone but recognized the car, got behind the wheel read the note and mental math told me "enjoy tonight because tomorrow you will die". If that's not already a song chorus it should be. 

My wife waits for me when I land. 

I made a mad dash from a meeting in the House of Parliament to Paddington station for the Heathrow express, so I'm still in a suit and tie. The black Hugo boss suit I got married in, a white shirt and black tie, looking like an extra in "reservoir dogs". Incidentally, the man in front of me is watching Tarentino's follow up to the classic, "pulp fiction". 

Fittingly, despite knowing Ahmeda as my sisters friend for years our relationship took an abrupt turn towards the romantic on a dance floor.  I invited her to join me to cut some rug, she obliged, nestled in booty first and asked me to show her how to dance to Soca. 

"When I see you baby, I just like to happy"

My restlessness gets me out of my seat, I go to the rear galley do some exercises from high school track and field. The air hostess pretends to be impressed by my ability to raise my leg chin high. My claims of being 40, doesn't make the feat any more impressive in her eyes. Stretching it out, so I can shake it out at Twist tonight. A club owned by a cousin, not coincidentally the site of our Ghana wedding. 

I love house music's ability to separate mind from body. 

Soca, Hip Hop, House, but tonight we Azonto. 

When i think of the attraction of dance floors its the opportunity to be reckless, blissfully unscripted.  My father is probably even more mystified now by desire to be in night clubs, but i see an understanding in my mom's eyes when the topic comes up, and the discreet raising her hands when she starts to feel a tune playing.  I grew up proudly emulating my Dad, in my middle age it I've realized so much of what I love about me is from my mom.

The pilot is announcing our descent, no crash landing. I mentally prepare myself for the heat that awaits me when the plane doors open, with every intention to make it hotter as the night goes on. 

http://youtu.be/hJMsA59o7Ws