What follows is the post scriptum for a facebook group I founded, entitled Future sustainable living village, a group I couldn't continue to be a member of for reasons explained below
This group was started by me a few months ago to seriously consider a future sustainable living group using a facebook "group".
But seems to be impossible.
"Social intelligence" is reduced to an absolute minimum in our days. Instead, we click on everything we think we like. We are not able to make use of these "social media"
This might sound like an impatient verdict. Please don't take it too seriously. You can go on and use this group - I can't because it is the opposite of what I would have liked it to be: the coordination of a group of people who want to build such a village. The majority of the members have not contributed anything.
I have tried. Created a series of websites and pages, not to replace personal contact, but to facilitate the same. It doesn't work at all. People "join" but it doesn't mean anything.
Showing posts with label village. Show all posts.
January 13-15. To the village.
An Irish priest is not necessarily a Samaritan.
We wake up in Talek and get a ride to Narok. But it is too late to hitch further to Kisumu and we are stuck for the night. A friendly guy, county clerk by profession, brings us to the house of an Irish priest. He is not there and upon hearing that there are strangers in his house he is outraged. "Throw them back on the streets!" we hear him shout through the phone. Long live Jesus Christ, Mr. Prissy Priest.
We make it to the village and spend the night at yet another cheap guesthouse. In the local bar a guy puts his leg in his neck and annoys HD. We know it is time to leave and we finish our beers in front of our room.
The next day we hitchhike to Kisumu and we have a great time. There are so many friendly Kenyans and the experience in the Maasai Mara is quickly forgotten. Philip welcomes us back home and we feel good being back in the village. The walls have been plastered and prepared for painting.
I remember taking the bike to the Kisian market to get some eggs and vegetables. Dirtroad with potholes, no light, no brakes. I am proud I only fall twice. We have omelettes.
We wake up in Talek and get a ride to Narok. But it is too late to hitch further to Kisumu and we are stuck for the night. A friendly guy, county clerk by profession, brings us to the house of an Irish priest. He is not there and upon hearing that there are strangers in his house he is outraged. "Throw them back on the streets!" we hear him shout through the phone. Long live Jesus Christ, Mr. Prissy Priest.
The next day we hitchhike to Kisumu and we have a great time. There are so many friendly Kenyans and the experience in the Maasai Mara is quickly forgotten. Philip welcomes us back home and we feel good being back in the village. The walls have been plastered and prepared for painting.
I remember taking the bike to the Kisian market to get some eggs and vegetables. Dirtroad with potholes, no light, no brakes. I am proud I only fall twice. We have omelettes.
April 13. Village life.
I wake up and I think it's late but it's not. It's only 9:30. I pay the old lady and go. Carolina will show me a traditional village, where ecotourism has become the main source of income. I am shown cocoa trees, and taste the sweet pulp. I chew a seed too but it doesn't taste like chocolate. There are friendly women braiding hats and small containers. There is a bamboo workplace where almost everything is made of bamboo: chairs, tables, wardrobes, the floor, the roof. I see different kinds of butterflies. Lunch: beef, lemonade, potatoes. In the afternoon I walk an interesting sendero and see trees of cacao, papaya, mango, tamarinde, and so on. Chewed a coffee bean straight from the plant - quite an experience for a city boy. So this is what an autonomous village looks like.
Say the word. The word is sycophancy. Enter the room. Come on, don't be shy. We won't bite you. You see the contours of people but the people don't move. Come on, throw yourself at their feet. This has nothing to do with you. These people will wake up when it's feeding time. Can't you wait another fifteen minutes? They won't move, they expect you. Don't be confused. It's all good. On my mark you may put your hand on their knees. Look them straight into their eyes, we'll make some light for you. Don't forget your pupils must be enormous. Now go away. Get them something to drink, anything, the expenses are yours. Forget about this.
At night, I take a taxi back to Santa Cruz because I have to pick up my backpack. The ride through the cool evening air is very comforting. Paying about three dollars for a hundred kilometer taxi ride, we rich Westerners are the gods of mobility here. Before lodging in the good old Oriente one more time, I eat a steak sandwich in restaurant Picolo in Calle Junin. The waiter with makeup on his eyes recognizes me. "Camilo, how is your writing?"
Say the word. The word is sycophancy. Enter the room. Come on, don't be shy. We won't bite you. You see the contours of people but the people don't move. Come on, throw yourself at their feet. This has nothing to do with you. These people will wake up when it's feeding time. Can't you wait another fifteen minutes? They won't move, they expect you. Don't be confused. It's all good. On my mark you may put your hand on their knees. Look them straight into their eyes, we'll make some light for you. Don't forget your pupils must be enormous. Now go away. Get them something to drink, anything, the expenses are yours. Forget about this.
At night, I take a taxi back to Santa Cruz because I have to pick up my backpack. The ride through the cool evening air is very comforting. Paying about three dollars for a hundred kilometer taxi ride, we rich Westerners are the gods of mobility here. Before lodging in the good old Oriente one more time, I eat a steak sandwich in restaurant Picolo in Calle Junin. The waiter with makeup on his eyes recognizes me. "Camilo, how is your writing?"
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