One of my tutees spoke in chapel today about his experience at the Round Square Conference held in Canada and in particular, the keynote speech by a chap called Wade Davis. I was so proud of the young man who spoke to the school as he was articulate, confident and it was clear that Davis's speech had made a real impact on him. the notion of cultural identity and celebrating diversity and our own differences as a crucial element in trying to understand what it is that makes us human was particularly insightful. I was so taken aback that I asked my student for a copy of his speech which he has allowed me to reproduce here. Enjoy... Wade Davis Keynote speaker - RSIC Chapel 2018 Mr Wade Davis, a famous anthropologist, writer, photographer and ethnobotanist who has devoted his life to exploring and immersing himself in indigenous cultures across world. He was the first of the keynote speakers we had the privilege of listening too. Through each of his expeditions, he focussed on the traditional uses and beliefs of psychoactive plants each culture uses and has access to. Mr Davis delved into the meaning of diversity and culture within our modern societies today, for which have seemed to disappear in the development of our urban jungles and busy lives. He posed us the question of why is diversity and culture so important and how can we ensure the survival of those diminishing. Mr Davis spoke of his many excursions across the world, from the rainforests of Borneo, to plains of Mongolia, to the dunes and sand of the Sahara and to the frozen lands of the Arctic, he discussed how each group of indigenous people from all parts of the globe had their own cultures just as we do sitting in chapel today. He labelled this, “the ethnosphere,” describing the diversity and knowledge each culture possess. Unfortunately, to our disbelief, he stated that cultures all over the world are becoming extinct. We are losing traditions, knowledge, languages and of course the cultures they are associated with. Every two weeks, a village elder passes away, with their knowledge being carried with them, not being passed on down to the next generation. We all as human beings come from the one common ancestor (a genetic cloth if you will). We are all related to one another, so why is it that we allow ourselves to witness the demise of cultures globally when each of us are related to one? When each cultural group does become extinct, we lose the answer of those people to the question of what it is to be human. Mr Davis urged us to protect and preserve not only our own culture but also those around us. Each culture group (especially traditional cultural groups) have a specific set of skills, talents and knowledge which simply cannot be replaced or learned easily today. For example, the people of the Amazon have used specific toxins which they put on the tip of their arrows which act as a muscle relaxant which has now revolutionised modern surgery. Mr Davis brought up the thought of what is threatening today’s traditional societies. The answer was not technology and technological advancements however, the true answer is power. Powerful men and women, cultures, cities and the ways of life modern day societies have over traditional cultures are causing their demise. We are the cause of cultural destruction however, we can be the facilitators of cultural sustainability and growth. Mr Davis stated that we need to find a way for cultures to survive in the modern world as they allows people to feel sensations and emotions. It is a set of morals and ethics for which a person is set to. When these morals and ethics die with a particular person, we lose traditions and knowledge which could be beneficial to the greater world. Mr Davis concluded by saying that we, as human beings, must strive to the preserve and promote cultural growth.
0 Comments
I am haunted by trees.
They anchor the ruffled feathers of my memories which would otherwise be swept away with the wind. The trees make my life bearable and envelop a simplicity for which I yearn. I can retreat into their canopy, away from my ensnaring self, to a comfort in the ripples of rings of trees. That was when it all made sense: some thirty years ago in the scattered breadcrumbs of my childhood. I close my eyes tightly, like a fist squeezing the juice from an orange, and the past returns. I remember the mottled sunlight exhaled between the leaves of a Baobab Tree. It was in the house where I grew up, Kambaku, named after one of the Great Tuskers that once lived in the area. Our home was a very rustic affair with a tall roof that extends beyond the walls of the house, providing extra shade. An antithesis of my father whose neat strong hands would whittle away words on his typewriter, always looking for perfection. The house was different, with a dishevelled rustic charm that I loved. It was built around that goliath Baobab that tip-toed upwards from an atrium in the centre of the house. A plethora of birds and reptiles called this tree their home and as a result the house seemed to change with the seasons. I loved that tree and would spend my afternoons blinking in the sunlight, lying on my back and staring through to the sky. The birds would migrate and arrive, with different sounds and calls accompanying them. I tried to match their shapes with sticky crayons on leaves of paper stolen from my father’s desk. It was as if the animals were the barometer of our house, matched in the oils of brown and red and green fingerprints scratched into my drawings. A deck ran around the entire house and was dotted with an array of wicker furniture of different styles, each one strategically placed to catch the sun or the view. Some had wooden side tables paired with them. My father tried to make up for my mother’s absence by keeping the table tops cluttered with flowers that peeked out of 5 cent glass coke bottles. They would wither too soon, and as the life leached out of their stems the shadow of her absence would grow. From the house the view dropped off from a buzz-cut hill down towards a valley. Here, a trickle of a river was dammed up by the shoulders of dark rocks to form some water frontage that was too big to be called a pond, but small enough not to be a dam. It was lined by enormous Weeping Boer Beans and Mashatu Trees whose startling fruits would drive startling variety of animals to join our meagre family of two. Secretive bushbuck were always hiding amongst the ticker bush at the base of the trees, and on the opposite banks a short muddy wall was home to families of bee eaters. On some days elephants came to drink and wallow in the stream and at night the resident leopard’s voice would saw its way through the darkness. Secluded from the main house and further on down the river was ‘The Hut’. This was where my father spent his days, mourning words on his typewriter in a failed attempt at producing a novel. I was never allowed inside, but sometimes, when he was attending to a broken fence somewhere else on the farm, I would steal my way through the one window that never closed properly. The Hut was a hide converted into a writing room, secluded by rocks from the main house. It had huge windows on all sides with railway sleepers as their sills that could more than support my weight as I explored inside. The view which engrossed my father’s ‘work’ looked onto the remnants of an old Leadwood Tree, splintered into shards of branches which the kingfishers would use as a perch before diving into the shattered mirror water in pursuit of a meal. He would sit on a brown leather sofa, cracked and weathered with shape of him. On his desk was a neat array of papers and envelopes with a square of green blotting leather at its centre. The shelves were cluttered with books and tiny treasures: a framed picture of our complete family standing in the spray of Vic Falls; a polished cricket ball; a feather from a lilac breasted roller – given to my mother when they were engaged. Kambaku: A Possible Title |
ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
March 2023
Categories
All
|