Life, and death, and life on the farm

Baryshnikov is one confused water buffalo. On Tuesday he watched his "brother" SnowStar be taken down by a single shot, then hung up from the strong arm of a big blue tractor to bleed and be skinned and cut apart. He snuggled up to 5 kids and me, pushing his hard head and horns affectionately and powerfully into our small bodies as we dug a big hole to bury SnowStar's inedibles. And he moaned and bleated louder than any time since he was weaned when we all left and he found himself alone in the big pasture for the first time in his entire life.

Two days later those bleats were curious and excited as he smelled then saw his new baby brother entering the pasture. Baryshnikov has quickly become used to affectionate full-tongue kissing, constant following and leaning against, and attempts to suckle by this two-week-old buffalo newcomer.

We've all been as excited, or more, by this new flow of life on our farm. SnowStar will become months worth of meals for 7 families. 25 chicks were 2-weeks into their journey to the freezer of another couple-dozen families, and the 25 big chickens were supplying 4 families with all the eggnog we can conjure. WildSide Farm felt alive, even with the death of a cow we'd raised from 4-days-old.

Then this morning, one blood-thirsty mink reminded us that death is as much a part of the farm as life. One mink, one night, 49 dead chickens. We spent the day in shock, in mourning, in anger at a creature doing what - for some unknown reason - comes as naturally for him as killing a big cow does for us.

So it was that I entered our land partner's birthday party with a wheelbarrow full of beheaded carcasses (minks are as vicious as they are deadly efficient). His urban friends from Victoria all helped build a 10-foot funeral pyre with the last of my year's burn pile, reverently placing dead chickens and chicks on higher and higher levels. A bit of gas, straw and a blow-torch later, the huge hot blaze was a beautiful cremation and a Burning-Man-style purging of our sorrow.

A big reason we moved to the country was so that our children, as well as us, could understand where food comes from, where life comes from. And where death comes from, how it follows and precedes life. In this week our 8-year-old came home from school to witness the cow slaughter ("His soul will just go back into the herd, so it's OK"), and 5 boys helped with the burial. Eleven children so far have helped bottle-feed a new born buffalo, and console Baryshnikov in his grieving. Seven boys and five little ones helped with the chickens' funeral pyre, watching "their souls going up into the sky and heaven." And in the single most redeeming, beautiful moment of this hard day, we came home from morning soccer to find a note from our 9-year-old neighbour taped to our door (in reference to the one chicken who miraculously survived the carnage):

I brang your last chicken to my house becose I thot it was lonly. I hope you donte mind. :)

The children get it, and teach it, and just live it naturally. Life, and death, and life again - it's all one. You can't embrace one without embracing the other.

Demolition

The longer you’ve been in a tree fort, the harder it is to take down.

You put your whole self into building that castle in the sky. Straightened out dad’s bent nails, salvaged planks from the neighbour’s fence, stolen supplies at night from the construction site across the street. You chose just the right tree(s), agonized over triangle vs. rectangle designs, and negotiated with the parents for how high up the rope ladder could go. You pounded and bruised and bent and re-nailed till it all miraculously hung together.

Then you stood back and looked at what you’d created. A little off-centre, a few headless nails smashed in sideways, a gap here or there to let some light in. It wasn’t what you dreamed, but it was your creation and it was Real.

The first day after finishing a tree fort is the best. You throw the tools in a bucket and convince mom to let you haul up some popcorn and lemonade. You sit inside with your buddies and just glow in the achievement. “This is the BEST fort ever!” You believe is was IT.

Then a few more days pass and it’s not so new anymore. The one thing you forgot when designing and building it was what you’d do once you moved in. Turns out that reading magazines by a stolen flashing-orange traffic light isn’t so awesome. You start to notice those cracks, realize it’s a bit too small, wish you’d put in a bigger window. And before you know it, the talk is about the next fort, or the addition.

When we’re ten, the new fort planning begins about day 3. When we’re ten, we’re fearless in our unattachment, and it frees us to break-down and re-create ourselves and our world endlessly. Taking down that fort, careful to not splinter wood or lose nails, is every bit as creative and energizing as putting it up, because even during the destruction we are seeing the raw materials of the re-creation.

When we Grow Up, we stay in that fort longer. We get used to its creaks and smells, and very good at DIY patch jobs over its faults. If that support beam is cracking, we can just attach a second one alongside to shore it up. We build extra rooms and skylights on our soul and believe it will all hold together.

But now and then we need a Re-Do. We need to take that fort down all the way and start over. And if we don’t, life may just do it for us. More often than not we keep trying to patch up that fort until some out-of-our-hands “Act of God” not-covered-by-insurance earthquake shakes us right down to ground zero. Or the foundation wasn't built strong enough for all these additions and it finally just gives way. Either way, we wake up in a pile of rubble knowing it’s time to pick up the hammer again.

We need to honour the raw materials as they come down, knowing that they’re the starting place for the new structure. And we need the courage and vision of our ten-year-old selves to believe that this growing pile of rubble is still the foundation for a new castle in the sky. And believe that while much of the good character of the old fort can be preserved, this will be an even better one, this time with a deck on the roof and a secret entrance and maybe, just maybe, a bigger window that lets in a bit more sun.

Best U-Pick Strawberries

I'm a better man when I pick my own strawberries.

A favourite childhood memory is the annual trip way out to the country (Langley, when it was country) to the U-Pick strawberry fields. We'd put on our special old clothes, search around to find some old buckets, and starve ourselves to make room for the feast to come. Once there we'd have eating contests, and one notorious strawberry fight that included squashing juicy berries in each other's blond hair. We'd jump into the off-limits rows to get the larger commercial berries, and mercilessly pick just the biggest berries, leaving the smaller stuff and under/over-ripe berries on the bush or strewn on the ground. Only slightly embarrassed at their "boys-will-be-boys" boys, our parents would pay for the few buckets we managed to actually collect, and we'd be off home for an afternoon of jam-making and freezing.

This morning I wake up at 5:30 and wander a full 20 yards back to our three rows of strawberries. I'm wearing the same clothes I'd taken off last night (my closet has three sections: Farmer Ricky, Consultant Ricky, and - the most colourful - Ricky Ricky). I hose down one of the many buckets we use for almost everything and start in on row one. No hopping rows, I work methodically and slowly and peacefully along each plant, knowing I'll be out here until every plant was cared for.

I pick every berry that's ready, regardless of size (the small ones are often better anyways). Some look so tantalizingly close to perfect, but I observe a bit of lightness at the tip and leave them, knowing that when I come back in a day or two they'll be even better. The ones that the slugs have taken a chunk out of get picked too - when I go back in to sort, they'll go into the jam pot, while the "perfect" ones will be flash frozen on pizza trays. Not a berry is wasted.

I also care for the plants as I go. Rogue weeds are removed. I observe the health of the soil, and rearrange the drip-irrigation tubes. A few full strawberry plants are removed where they've become too dense to allow enough sun in. And an entire planting pot is filled with slugs (it's a bad year for those little friends) to dump into a big garbage can of water at the end. Slugs are much more agile than you'd expect - every minute I have to push back down the ones that have ambitiously crawled up to the lip of the planter looking for freedom.

As we'd drive away from our childhood U-Pick adventure, in our haste to gather a year's worth of berries in one morning we'd leave behind a path of destruction that some poor Langley farmer would have to remedy. Here on my own farm I've improved the health of my plants, making space for more berries to grow and ripen.

The slow ritual, repeated every few days throughout the season, gives room for contemplation. I remember the woman in Saanich who sold us the starter plants, and how patiently Sarah has been dividing the runners and growing our plot each year. I reminisce about the hundreds of hours we spent with Joe and Nathalie creating these garden beds, and the dreams we had of Someday having enough strawberries and blueberries and other perennials to get us through a full year. Three years later, I'm living that Someday every day.

As the sun rises above the treeline, I reverently drown the slugs and carry a full bucket of organic, zero-mile berries back to the kitchen. I realize that I've picked over 500 berries and eaten exactly two. There was no need to gorge on someone else's free berries. These are ours, and eating will happen all year - frozen, jam, syrup - and later today in a fresh pie or shortcake or homemade icecream for my Farmer Wife's birthday.

I was blessed to grow up knowing where strawberries come from, but never really appreciating or respecting where they come from. Now that I'm even more blessed to know who they come from and how they grow, I don't pillage anymore. I'm part of a symbiotic, give-and-take relationship with my strawberry plants, and the berries taste that much sweeter from the exchange.

Oh (sigh) Canada

We tried to be patriotic at dinnertime, listing things we like about Canada. A kids kazoo band buzzing out "Oh Canada" at The Hub should inspire optimism in our big little country, right? So why do I feel like the core things I'm proud of about Canada are slowly (or not so slowly) being eroded away?

Canada cares for the environment.
Canada is a Peace-loving, Peace-promoting nation.
Canada believes in reformation, not just incarceration.
Canada is deeply committed to free universal health care.
Canada has a great public education system.
Canada contributes significantly and effectively to international development.
Canada doesn't have the huge disparity between rich and poor.
Canada promotes and honours its cultural identity.
Canadians are willing to sacrifice personal wealth and comfort to help others.
Canada is a model of democracy.

Regardless of whether Harper is the architect or just the symbol, every one of those statements is becoming less true. We are a nation going backwards, reneging on our commitments and our beliefs and our values, losing what has truly made us special and unique and respected and valued in the world. We are increasingly ruled by fear instead of hope, self-interest instead of love, growth instead of prosperity.

I'm still proud to be Canadian. Proud of our history, proud of our identity, awed by our potential. I just wish I could feel hopeful and proud of the direction we're going.

Co-operatives - Cradle-to-Grave Sustainable Development

My international world has always been divided into two streams: aid and development. Aid looks like emergency shelters and bags of rice and bottled water, the stuff of helping people immediately after a disaster. Development is what follows, the longer-term hand-back-up to livelihood and stability. I first fell in love with Oxfam because of their ability to do both – to be there before the disaster, mobilize those networks immediately after, then stick around for the long haul.

Now suddenly I’m facing a delightful third way, that of multi-sector co-operatives. Here in Sri Lanka I’m working with SANASA, the biggest co-operative organization in the country. They are engaged in micro-credit and savings, insurance, housing, training… they even have a travel agency for short get-aways, and a funeral co-op for that final destination. If they have a birthing co-op, which wouldn’t surprise me, they’re literally a cradle-to-grave organization.

The goal of international development, I’d always understood, is to work yourself out of a job. To extend that hand-up of solidarity only until the partner is back on their feet again and able to do it for themselves. Every good development project should have a built-in exit strategy that represents success.

With SANASA, I’m with a member-owned, member-operated co-op that has no intention of going away. Their goal is to provide a lifetime of services for/with their members. I’m now faced with the challenge of building in strategies to increase involvement, not end it.

For example, the program I’m with is helping post-tsunami victims start up new businesses. In traditional development, our goal would be to provide training, credit and support until the family has a stable and sufficient income to carry on by themselves. With the co-op, the goal is to continue to support the new entrepreneur to grow their business, start employing other members, and have a bigger impact on the local and national economy. That member will also hopefully be a repeat user of the co-op’s loan program, take out co-op insurance, grow their savings in the co-op’s credit union, build a house with the co-op’s construction company, and eventually be embalmed on the co-op’s cold hard slab table with a drainage hole leading down to a trench in the cement floor leading to a hole going somewhere I don’t want to know (but that’s a different story). All of this increased business strengthens not only the individual, but also the co-op. Everyone wins.

SANASA may have received some valuable Canadian funding and technical assistance (including me, hopefully valuable), but it is 100% owned and operated by its members –the very people benefitting from all the projects and work. That, my friends, is sustainable development.

Apologies to Cricket

Inspired by Jason (George from Seignfeld) Alexander’s eloquent and deep apology to the world about his gay cricket jokes, I would also like to offer my heartfelt apologies to the world of Cricket. It not only is a real sport, it’s a rather manly one, and surprisingly interesting.

Like the Salvation Army in Major Barbara or trying bbq turkey tails in Ghana, it started out as a lark. I’m here in this former British colony where one of the best legacies has been one of the best cricket teams in the world. So one night at the hotel I sit with Somasiri and let him enthusiastically explain the game, pretending to care more than in a cultural-museum kind of way. But by the end of 4 wickets I’m not only getting it, but am genuinely cheering for the boys in blue (and yellow, looking much more Swedish than British).

Just like the mighty last-second alley-oop in an NCAA championship that taught me to appreciate basketball, it took just one amazing fielding play to win me over. The 130km ball was smashed even faster from the canoe-paddle of the Pakistani batsman, far out into left field. Our outfielder read it perfectly, sprinted halfway across the world and dove full out to catch it inches from the ground. The nation rose as one and roared in unison.

Can I add that he caught it bare-handed? How padded are baseball gloves? How much padding does our macho North American hockey or football player hide behind?

Throughout the month we’ve caught more of this two-month visit by Pakistan, watching multiple-matches by carefully choosing restaurants and roadside snack bars with the game on TV. I’ve seen way more diving, close plays, quick reactions and drama than in any baseball game. And action happens at every pitch (“bowl”). The bowler is changed out every 6 or 12 bowls, so there’s plenty of variety. And the bewildering (at first) talk about the number of wickets and overs and strike rates would make any TV announcer deliriously happy (isn’t that the main reason soccer isn’t popular on American TV – the lack of stats?)

The culmination was going to the big stadium for one of the international matches. We bought the cheap zone tickets from a scalper, putting us in festival seating on cement benches packed with men (mostly) singing, dancing, raising flags, fighting, cheering – nothing unusual there except the dancing. After the first two hours we were treated to 70 minutes of watching the tarps quickly pulled out to protect the turf from the rains, then pulled off again while a cricket zamboni (a steam roller with giant sponges) did its rounds. I was ready to leave, but over the next 2 hours watched as the rhythm changed, two batters got into a groove, different tactics employed by each team at various phases of the match. By watching all of Sri Lanka’s 3,000 pitches (60 overs) I came to a much deeper understanding of the nature of the sport. Then back on the hotel I watched much of Pakistan’s turn and their historic collapse. True drama.

Of the many lessons and wonders I’ve experienced in Sri Lanka, perhaps the most surprising is an appreciation of cricket as a real sport – and a really interesting one at that.

Sri Lanka's Slow and Rich Roads

Why did a 115 km trip from Kandy to Colombo take 8 hours?

First stop was the Temple of the Tooth Relic - a sacred place where Buddha's tooth is kept safe. The tooth miraculously survived the burning of his body, escaped destruction by one King's hammer by turning into light and becoming a star for a while, and was smuggled into Sri Lanka hidden in the hair of a young woman. In not-too-long-ago times it was a symbol of power - whoever held the tooth was ruler of the country. The tooth has been moved to various new temples built in its honour and to protect it from invaders who recognize its power.

For lunch we randomly chose one of the hundreds of buffets lining the entire route. In addition to the usual rice (red and white), curry dahl, chicken curry, "ladyfinger" veggies and papadum, this place also sported pumpkin, chinese fried rice, and chinese veggies. All you can eat with your fingers for $2.

Next stop was a co-op store that our country director Somasiri helped start during his last job with Oxfam. Various small-scale producers have come together to open this roadside store to collectively market their goods - one of many ideas we are considering with my current project. I was able to support them and hopefully please my wife by purchasing $8 worth of: caraway seed, black pepper, cumin seed, mustard seed, heritage red rice, dried jackfruit, palm syrup (for the boys' pancakes.)

By now we'd run out of money, due to having to pay cash for our fancy hotel last night. Instead of the $156/night, we were given the local $50 rate as long as Somasiri officially paid as our "travel agent." Which meant cash. So we stopped in a bigger town for the first of several unsuccessful attempts to use my international debit card. Somasiri also couldn't access his account, so our super-driver Nishantha managed to withdraw enough to bankroll us the final 80 km, which included:

The Cashew Capital of Sri Lanka - a place where about 50 small stands and shops line both sides of the road selling roasted cashews - plain, salted and spicy. Ironicaly, this isn't even a cashew-growing region - they're brought in from the north - but since Somasiri was a boy they've even learned in school that this is the place to buy cashews. Yes Sarah, at $15/kg, there are some coming home.

Another 10 km brought us to the pineapple-growing and selling region, with prices ranging from 10 cents for a fist-sized pineapple to $1.20 for a feed-the-family variety. Across the street we bought three humungous avocado for 75 cents. I'll take these stands over a McDonald's drive-through for any road trip.

I finally found single razor blades at a little shop, but caused confusion by trying to buy a whole package. They only sell them individually - most people buy just enough razors, soap, salt, etc to get them through the next shave or meal or wash. Buying in bulk is either a luxury they can't afford or just a consumption pattern they haven't adopted. So we had to open the little box and count them out (5, if you're curious), then multiply the unit price. Nearby, Nishantha also found a place for me to buy a "Rice-Hopper" press so I can make my own little rice-pasta pucks like I've been enjoying each breakfast time.

The final - or perhaps first - reason for the long trip is the road. Not the condition - Sri Lankan roads are incredibly well-maintained, smooth, painted. But this second-busiest highway in the country is still 2-lane with a 2-foot shoulder on each side. Shared by (in reverse pecking order) sleeping dogs, pedestrians, 3-wheeled rickshaws, local busses, trucks, express busses, cars, and fancy SUV's like ours. A good average speed for a skilled SUV driver is 40 km/hour. There's never an open road to hit the 70/km speed limit; instead, an endless parade of slower vehicles to successively pass. Passing is accomplished when the traffic coming the other way is single-or double-file only, and not any big fat busses. Then we pull out into right over the centre-line, the vehicle we're passing pulls over a bit, the oncoming traffic all squeezes over, and we go straight down the middle, usually cutting back in just before an oncoming vehicle also pulls in from his own passing. Just like I observed in Chennai, everybody does their part, acknowledges their place in the pecking order and exactly what they have to do to allow this system of continual near-accidents to flow smoothly.

Not to be outdone by the rural highway's adventures and attractions, Colombo showed its true big-city colours by throwing Rush Hour in our path. The first afternoon rush hour starts at 1:00, when every child in the city (it seems) is picked up by his/her parent who wait in their cars 3-abreast, blocking as much of the streets as possible. Just as this eases up, the usual end-of-work rush hour kicks in. So our pain-staking 40 km/hour now seems like a luxury as we sit and crawl our way to a few more unyielding bank machines then finally back to the welcome arms of our beautiful guest house.

So, that's the report on traffic, shopping, history, religion and much more that one can learn about Sri Lanka on a simple 115 km drive from the Buddhist capital in the hills to the modern capital metropolis by the sea.