Formerly known as Annapolis Highland Winery, the operation ​is owned by Brendan & Karen Enright and Piers Greenwood. Casa Nova is currently crafting wine, cider and cello with ingredients sourced from some of the oldest orchards in ​all of Nova Scotia.

This is no empty boast, as the early French settlers in this province, the Acadians, have been planting orchards and growing fruit since, well 1606, not coincidentally the name of the 1606 Good Cheer Cider.

Over the Labour Day Weekend we were lucky enough to find ourselves visiting the Casa Nova property on the way back from a weekend of watching whales cavort in the nearby Bay of Fundy. Casa Nova’s representative, the amiable Bob Bojarski, gave us a tour of the facility and then sat us down on a terrace shaded by Nova Scotia’s oldest tulip tree to try some of the “fruits” of their labour.

Buddy’s Craft Cider is their flagship beverage and is available on site as well as in many Nova Scotia Liquor Commission shops. Made from a blend of rare valley apples with no preservatives or added flavouring agents the first sip was like biting into a crisp, juicy apple. This cider won a bronze medal in the 2018 WineAlign National Wine Awards of Canada, beating many competitors, including those of some of the oldest established cideries in British Columbia’s Okanagan Valley.

On site you can get it in reasonably priced one- and two-litre containers, perfect for picnics. The 1606 Good Cheer Cider has one additional apple in the blend. Named for the Order of Good Cheer founded by Samuel Champlain and his men in 1606 at nearby Port Royal (now Annapolis Royal), this beverage is steeped in history with a more formal and traditional savour.

We also sampled the Buddy’s blueberry cider, loaded not only with flavour but also with the potent antioxidants found in local blueberries.

Finally we tried the Baron’s Red, a fruity red wine meant, like a Beaujolais, to be enjoyed young and slightly chilled.

Located on the Clementsvale Road in Bear River, Casa Nova should be on your destination list when you travel through Nova Scotia.

If you go…

Case Nova Fine Beverages

(902) 467-0363

​​2635 Clementsvale Rd,
Bear River, Nova Scotia
​BOS 1BO

Photo credits

Article by George Burden and Stella Burden-van der Lugt
Photos by Stella Burden-van der Lugt—All rights reserved.

And then the skirt
I am wearing moves
too as if the music
and words express
my femininity and
I sing and my eyes
close and my soul bleeds

The door opens to my inner
sensuality and my hair
falls over the face of
passionate peace
and I turn it up louder
to block out the noise
from the world trying to know me

Then Etta James fills me
and yes, “I’d rather go blind too,
I love you so much,
I don’t want to see you leave me baby”
closing my eyes again the music
touches my poetic sensibility
and my inspiration hits me

The lines drift and the
sun, it shines down on me
and the lines free
from me, then the music
comes to an end
and I turn it on again
so I can start and begin again
the painful ache in me
to live the song twisted
in my veins for expressive
love in me

And it ain’t over, ever for me
the lines keep comin’
and my heart, it bleeds me
in every word and line
all in the beat, rhythm and rhyme

Photo Credits

Photo from flickr – some rights reserved 

When I was a young woman working as a secretary for a large newspaper company, my office was in a building in London’s renowned Fleet Street. I felt very lucky to have a job that I enjoyed so much. My best friend there was named Dorothy. We liked each other’s company and therefore often met for lunch to eat our sandwiches and talk for a while. Our favorite spot was in the gardens which surrounded St. Paul’s Cathedral, just a short walk up Ludgate Hill from our offices. We both worked under pressure and the lunch time break was ideal to chat about such things as clothes, hair-do’s, film stars, etc., and the kinds of interests that girls of our age liked to do.

There was a lot about Dorothy that I admired. She and her younger brother lived and cared for their elderly, widowed mother. Dorothy had two older sisters who were married and lived away. She was a tall, thin young woman with the most gorgeous hair I had ever seen. It was so blonde that it almost looked to be silver. I had met her younger brother just once and he, too, had the same coloring. Dorothy had a fine dusting of the same shade of hair on her face and arms. This never seemed to bother her and I found it rather fascinating. Like me, she attended Evening Classes to widen her education. Her home was north of London and mine was in east London.

During one of our many chats together I had told her of my life-time fears of anything ghostly, spiritual, or spooky. As a child I was very much afraid of the dark and my mother always left a small light on in my bedroom before she went to bed. This did help a bit but I often could not sleep and kept looking for anything creepy in the room. Eventually, I did grow out of that fear, but could never watch a movie or even read a story about anything that had a ghostly theme to it.

After WWII a large number of British people turned to visiting clairvoyants in the hope they could find more details about the death of their loved ones. Dorothy had told me many times of her worry regarding her mother’s health and I often thought it might have something to do with the death of her oldest son, Dorothy’s brother, in Burma. However, on this occasion she admitted that her mother believed that her son was visiting her at night, begging her to accept the fact that he was dead and that he wanted her to leave him in peace and let him rest.

I wondered why she had told me more about her family’s concern and was not too surprised when she said “Mary, I have a favor to ask of you.” She then said that she had heard of a famous clairvoyant named Sammy Cohen and that he had helped a lot of people who were in distress. I held my breath as she looked at me and asked if I would accompany her if she managed to get an appointment with him. She then told me that he lived in a place called “Limehouse.”

“Dorothy,” I said, “Limehouse is an area which was once a large Chinatown. This is where the notorious Opium Dens were. It is not an area where anyone gets off the bus to look around. There are many hair-raising stories about Chinatown and people keep away from it!”

To my deep concern my friend looked as if she was going to cry, so I asked, “Well, where exactly does he live?” She answered, “In a disused Monastery in the center of Limehouse”. My heart plopped and I started to shake and shiver.

After a while, I said “Would I have to go inside with you?” Her answer was positive. “No, and I am sure there will be a waiting room. He is a very busy man and much sought after. There is the chance that he could help us save my mother’s sanity.” I could understand Dorothy’s angst as I had lost my own mother previously and still missed her dearly.

After much thought, I agreed to accompany her on her mission. Shortly afterwards, Dorothy managed to get an appointment with Mr. Cohen for 6.30 p.m. in two weeks time. I told my fiancé of Dorothy’s plans and he said that his mother had been to meetings where Mr. Cohen had spoken to huge audiences. She had been very impressed with him and insisted that he was not a fake. This made me feel less nervous of our upcoming mission.

Finally, the day of the appointment arrived and we left our offices promptly, walked to the bus-stop, and started our journey to Limehouse. We didn’t try to talk on the way, as I guess we were both feeling somewhat uptight.

Walking towards Mr. Cohen’s address, we found the roads still had bomb damage and a lot of buildings were missing. It was obvious that the old Chinatown no longer existed. We arrived in good time, thus giving us the opportunity to have a serious look at the Monastery. It was very old and carried many scars from the war. Dorothy knocked on an old-fashioned door and it was quickly opened by a man of medium height, with dark curly hair, a swarthy skin and bright inquisitive eyes. He immediately invited us in. His welcome was warm and kind. Dorothy quickly followed him in. I cautiously joined her, peering around for – what? I didn’t know.

To my surprise the waiting room was very large, with an extremely high ceiling and an imposing number of mismatched chairs all around the gray stone walls. I quickly picked a chair that was as close to the exit as I could find. I had the feeling that my friend had told Mr. Cohen that I would not be going with her for the interview because he immediately waved her towards a door to another room.

I sat on the edge of my chair with my heart in my mouth. I wasn’t sure what scared me and there were no unexpected noises, not even the tick of a clock. I looked around and noted on the wooden floor there was a very large carpet that obviously had once been extremely expensive, but now it was well worn and in some places almost thread-bare. On one wall there were two water color paintings, both of small ships and, perhaps, tugs. One corner held a dried up potted fern on a small table. After about 15 minutes had passed, I finally sat further back into the chair, relaxing a little. I could hear my heart beating and I swallowed to relieve the dryness of my mouth. Another 10 minutes went by, then Dorothy and Mr. Cohen walked towards me. Much to my relief I noted they were both smiling. I leapt to my feet and hurried towards the main door but before my hand could grab the knob, Mr. Cohen said “Mary?” I froze, turning to look daggers at Dorothy. She shook her head firmly and I knew she had kept her word of not talking about me.

Sammy Cohen then said to me “I have a message for you from your mother.” I stood rooted to the spot and he continued saying, “She asks me to tell you that she is fine and so happy to be with little Georgie again.” Georgie was my mother’s first born child. He died at the age of five, many years before I was born.

Some weeks later, my friend Dorothy told me that her mother had finally accepted the fact that her son had died with many other thousands of soldiers whilst working on building roads in Burma under the Japanese rule.

Photo Credits

Clairvoyant Man –  possibly taken by William Hope around 1920 – National Media Museum

Brown Lady Ghost photo – Wikipedia – Fair Use
 

Guest Author Bio

Mary Piggott
Mary was born in London, England, the youngest of four children. Her Mother was widowed when Mary was only one year old. This led to her Mother working long, hard hours at whatever she had the opportunity to do. A lifetime of “making do” and scraping was the only life the family knew and this also resulted in each child having to leave school early to find work. Mary always had the ambition to travel and has visited over fifty countries. In 1967 Mary and her husband Colin emigrated to Canada with their little daughter. Mary is a talented artist who enjoys painting, writing and the challenge of crossword puzzles.

Birch bark biting turtle by Odawa-Ojibwe artist Kelly Church

Every culture and tradition has its version of creation stories. According to my tradition, the Odawa-Ojibwe, the universe was created by Kitchi-Manitou with the express purpose of the ability to vision, to dream all that was possible – of manifesting everything we know and those unseen things and then birth it into being. Each part of Manitou’s creation supported the other and maintained balance: the four leggeds – the animals, those beings that lived in the sea and the winged ones of the air.

Manitou decided to create a special creature like himself, one who could dream. But to do this he had to pass his spiritual essence in a direct way. The male Manitou created was not capable or competent; he was not a whole person.

So it was that Manitou rose upward to Geezhigo-Quae (Sky Woman) – ascended to her because she lived on the moon. Though he was the Great Spirit, and greatest of all spirits, he had to ask a woman for help. He asked if she would join with him in bringing into being an image of himself by having his children and nourishing and nurturing them. She agreed. They joined and then he disappeared so Sky Woman had to go to earth and prepare for the birth herself. Word spread that she had joined with Manitou and that she was carrying his children. The animals were happy, but not everyone was.

The Water Manitous who controlled the water were outraged and jealous because every life form that lived on Mother Earth needed water. They knew Manitou was the most powerful, but if his children descended to the earth then the Water Manitous’ power would be diminished. To retaliate they used their powers in a destructive and negative way to cause a great flood. It destroyed Sky Woman’s camp and she had to return to the moon. She was left to handle the chaos herself and her man was gone. Does this sound familiar?

She saw that not all the animals were under the control of the Water Manitous. There were those who could swim so she enlisted the help of a giant turtle and she sat on his back. Some stories say she fell from the sky and landed on his back. The animals answered her call for help and the loon, the beaver and the little muskrat came to her aid. She told them she did not have all the powers of Manitou, but she said “I am a woman with a special gift; I have the power to re-create” and that she needed their help.

Sky Woman asked for a handful of the original soil Manitou created so she could re-create the Earth. But none of the animals were successful in bringing Sky Woman the handful of dirt and the only one who didn’t try was the muskrat because he couldn’t dive deep. Still he volunteered since no one else could do it. He took some deep breaths and dove into the deep waters. Everyone waited all night for his return. At sunrise and the beginning of a new day they saw him floating on the water. He was dead, but he had the handful of dirt in his hand. To show her thanks and honor the muskrat Sky Woman breathed life into him. This is why we still have muskrats today.

She took the soil from the muskrat’s hand and breathed life into it as well so that it would provide nourishment and shelter. Sky Woman gave a gift of teachings and instructions to the earth beings and while she moved the soil around in circles the turtle began to take shape. Thus the earth was created and it is why Native Americans call North America Turtle Island.

Just as the muskrat there are times in your life when you have to give up the story about what you can and cannot do and grow into more of a capable person; Spirit is simply a possibility; there is jealousy in the world; the female spirit prevails; the proper relationship between male and female; and there is always the dawn of a new day. Manitou eventually returned and gave Sky Woman a new name – Nokomis – the great Mother, creator of the Anishinabeg, the Good Beings, sometimes known as Ojibwe, Chippewa, Ottawa, Pottawaatomi and Mississauga, and eventually the people were known as Canadians.

All tribes have a similar creation story…stories so old they were born before the advent of the Bible.

Photo Credits

Wikimedia Commons

Guest Author Bio

Wilika Matchweta Asimont
Ms. Asimont, sole proprietor Native American Travel Company, MBA, PhD candidate is a survivor of Canada’s First Nations boarding school legacy and foster care system. In her upcoming publication, Ms. Asimont will share her journey to self respect and empowerment. This quest is for all women – she will teach you principles of exploration, introspection, courage, fortitude, endurance, and honesty for inner peace and a delicious soulful journey in this world.

Visit her website, Going Home. Going Home is a soulful journey to self for abused women; who are survivors but continue to be used.

“I love you,” he whispered, and that was the moment he knew what he was going to do. When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own. No matter how inconceivable those needs were; no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.” ~ Jodi Picoult, The Pact

The light vacated her eyes and left a dull black, dull like wet rocks dried in the sun. I saw it, and ran to stay clear of that magic, only the most vile of curses could pull the life from the eyes of wizards. Hurrying to my home in the tangled roots and quickly pulling my herbs and potions from the cellar, I began making a remedy against this foe, glancing out the window at the dark eyes as the wizard became the witch. I knew she smelled my cure, her nose in the wind as the ears of the night prowlers pushed out beside her once beautiful face.

How does this happen? Can purity be so easily chased from the soul? Crushing the ingredients, small clouds of dust surrounded the bowl as I poured in the cure. She crouched on all fours now, all innocence gone, the grimace of hunger replacing her kind and gentle smile. I poured in the oils of remedy and brought them to a rolling boil. She gazed intently at my door, the instincts from another world directed her to my haven. Picking up the pot from the fire, a sudden slam at the door almost made me drop the concoction, that and a frantic clawing and growling made my task all the more urgent as the sweat of my concentration dripped down my nose and into my brew.

The door splintered under her assault, just as I filled a small bottle, and ran, tripping over my feet and stumbling into the cellar. The door here was made for protection and had a spell on it to prevent entry but I knew no incantation would keep me safe now. She saved me not so long ago, as I endured a moment with with wicked things of the night and now I would die for the chance to repay that kindness. Shadows crept around the entrance as the smoky tendrils flung open my last refuge. I knew she would kill me, though she loved me, and with that impetus, I swallowed the cure. The potion ripped through me like freezing water, taking my breath and leaving me helpless before her mauling fangs. As the life slipped from me, I saw that the flesh she bit off allowed more of the cure to repel the evil that overcame her. With my last breath, I saw the light come back to her, and as she stood, beautiful and glorious, her lovely eyes glistened with the tears of my death.

Photo Credit

Magic Circle – By John William Waterhouse 1886 – Wikipedia Public Domain

First published in opinionsofeye.com

Guest Author Bio

Drew Sager
Words. Deep thoughts. Eccentric. Madness. Lover. Dark. Music. Melancholic. Beaches. Guitars. Addict. Primal. Curious.

I’m an apologist and an apostate. I’ve been knocked down, way down, and fought my way back up, way up. I’ve been an advocate of peace and a destroyer of the same, in a word, I am dichotomy. A battle of polar opposites.

Blog / Website: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/

The old tires were spares for the second-hand lawnmower her husband had just inherited. She did not know if they were even usable, but then that was Jack’s problem.

Finally the urn, well it was the perfect size and shape to fill that empty spot on her bookshelf which had been mocking her for a long stretch now. However, if it cleaned up nicely it might be just the thing for the fireplace mantel in her bedroom.

“Tea,” she exclaimed loudly as she walked into the kitchen. “I need a nice cuppa to fortify me after today.”

Jack’s voice mumbled from behind the softly rustling newspaper; she could see his half-moons sitting just on the tip of his nose as he peered at the print. “Who’s that come in with you then?” he asked vaguely.

Dara looked at Jack, then behind her at the door, to see as if someone had actually followed her in. “No one’s come in with me,” she said.

Jack went back to his paper grumbling, “Ah, how am I to know that eh?”

Dara shook her head, and thought, my man’s going daft, he is. She poured herself a full cup of tea from her mother’s large biscuit-coloured pot which forever sat ready on the table. The dark brown tea was warm, not hot, perfect for drinking. She took a good swallow, then another and sighed. “Oh that’s just what a body needs.”

Oh, it had been so good to see the look on that Magda Sullivan’s face when Dara had beaten her to the table and snatched up the urn first. The old biddy had become almost apoplectic with rage at having been bested. Dara swore she could see hairpins popping out of that tightly trapped mane. Well it was about time someone put Mrs. High Falootin’ in her place.

“Who’s that now?” she asked swinging back in her chair. But when she looked around, the door was closed, and no one stood on the mat. I’m getting as bad as that man, she thought. “Jack, I swear someone was standing right behind me.”

Jack just rustled his papers and gave a small, “harrumph.”

“Well I’ll be needing my loop,” she announced after the tea had been drunk. “I thought I saw some marks on this urn. Oh and won’t that Magda Sullivan be some mad if it turns out to be stamped silver.” She smiled at the very thought.

After a quick search the loop had been located, the silver polish and rags had been retrieved, and the day’s task had been sorted. Dara spread the thick polish over the metal and began to rub away years of tarnish.

“Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she exclaimed. “It’s stamped with the castle and the mark of the Bucks. Five hundred years old it is. Silver it is for sure,” she chortled and giggled as she continued to rub.

“Tell your friend to stop casting shadows,” Jack said. “I can hardly see to read the print.”

Dara looked at her husband and raised an eyebrow. “Jack Ryan, I do believe you are losing your senses. Don’t be daft man, there is no one here.”

Then suddenly, as if the idea had occurred to both the Ryans at the same time, they stared at the urn. “Well don’t just stare at it woman, pull the stopper and let a body see in,” Jack said.

Dara’s hands shook as she struggled to get the stopper out. And sure as potatoes grow in the rich Irish ground it was full of the ash of a dearly departed. Dara and Jack both crossed themselves at the same time. It looked as if Dara had brought home more than just a good buy.

Image Credits

Image #1: “Urn 2,” by FlickrDelusions. Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved.

Image #2: “Gramody’s Ghost,” by Gramody.  Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved.

Once in the car, I turned on the local gospel station and listened to Yolanda Adams sing “Be Blessed.” I smiled and thought, “I AM blessed.” I hummed the melody as I merged onto the interstate. My thoughts then turned to EJ, the love of my life. I always enjoyed my time with him because he always made me laugh and feel loved. I have been seeing EJ for about three years now and I always hated when our time together would end and he would return home to his wife and four kids. Yes, I was seeing a married man.

I pulled onto the street where the church was located and thought I was early, yet the street was already lined with cars and the parking lot was full. As I walked into church, I eased into one of the back pews as the choir was singing. After a few more selections from the choir, the offering was taken up and the preacher began his sermon. He spoke on repentance from the book of Luke, Chapter 13; “The door to heaven is narrow. Try hard to enter it. Many people will want to enter there, but they will not be able to get in.” (Easy Read Version [ERV])

Occasionally my eyes would get heavy but I tried to refocus to help keep from falling asleep. Then all of a sudden I saw something out of the corner of my eye — it was white and on my shoulder. I tried to brush it away but it did not disappear. So I turned my head directly to the right and gasped as I saw a little white angel sitting on my shoulder. She smiled and pointed to my left side. I turned my head and to the left I saw a little red devil sitting on my left shoulder waving at me.

I must be hallucinating or asleep, I thought. Then the little she-devil said to me, “Why are you here?”

Before I could answer, the angel replied, “Leave her alone!” What?” I replied. “I am supposed to be here.”

Then the she-devil spoke directly to me, “You are a sinner. Surely you know that you are going to hell!” I just looked at her. She was spewing devilish words to get my blood pressure up, and it was working. I wanted to yell so badly “Shut the H@!! Up!” but I knew I was in church and thought this must be a vivid nightmare. I turned to the angel and asked her why she wasn’t protecting me. She replied, “Just be quiet.”

Puzzled, I just stared at her as my eyes began to swell with tears. I knew seeing EJ was wrong. I am no dummy but it was like I was addicted to him and he was my habit. It wasn’t just physical, we connected emotionally as well. We fit like a hand to a glove and I needed him under his terms. We shared our deepest fears and desires with each other. I truly loved EJ, but it is wrong no matter how much I tried to rationalize it.

The she-devil was right!

The preacher then began to offer the invitation to the discipleship and people began to walk toward the front of the church. And then it was like I was quietly swept up and carried to the front of the congregation. No more she-devil and no more angel. I approached the preacher and my mouth uttered, “I repent.”

Photo Credit

“Devil inside”  © Some rights reserved by mia3mom on Flickr

Let me take you out on a date, Death. We could go have a drink or see a movie, bowl or do any other thing that catches your fancy. We could even go clubbing. Yes. I figure yours is such a boring life. I mean, who exists just to bring sadness? You must be one hell of a sad fellow. Allow me then to pop up some happiness in your life and while we are at it, could you kindly suspend your activities? For just a minute or an hour, perhaps even for a whole day. Can we be sure that there is no death anywhere on earth? You certainly can do this for me, won’t you?

I’m not so sure what your drink taste is. Something strong, something smooth or just soft? I imagine you’re some kind of drunkard. Perpetually tipsy. Drunk not of wine but of tears. The tears that ensue the moment your job is done. Those trickles that form a cesspit in the hearts and memories of the bereaved. You relish the drink from this pool I believe. But it does not quench your thirst. No, I figure it increases it, like a shark at the sight of blood. As petrol is to fire. That pool of tears never runs dry, because you are perpetually thirsty. Well, today, you can’t draw from that pool, you shouldn’t I really should say. I would mix you a drink, and get you drunk on the drink of the living.

I plan to get you sufficiently drunk to reveal yourself to me. What are you Death? Some call you an angel. Angel of Death. I try to imagine what you look like. An Angel with dark wings and long blood-smeared claws. Seems really ugly to me. Really ugly. Little wonder everyone on earth is scared of you. We do everything we can; research new cures to diseases, develop new safety standards for just about everything, pray and scream to the Heavens to keep us safe daily. Yet, you have your way whenever you wish. You must have rib-cracking bouts of laughter while you watch us make efforts to evade you. You must think us foolish or is it ignorant or both?

So yes, we try but we fail. We, all humans, walk around with an expiry date engraved into our foreheads. You can see it I believe. Perhaps that’s how you identify who next to cut down. As we tag along tonight, perhaps you will let me see with your eyes? Perhaps I will view the Best Before on the forehead of the people we meet…the taxi man, the bar man, the children hawking in the traffic, the faces in the newspaper. Perhaps I could view mine too. My expiry date. Perhaps you could tell me how it would happen. What will make it happen? Would it be a pothole on the road the government has failed to repair or an adulterated drug imported by one of my greedy country men?

Really, I marvel at how always in a hurry you are to take away the good men? Why do you allow evil men reign, their reign boosted by longevity? Is there something special they do for you? Do they share some of the spoils of their evil with you? You don’t seem to me like one who would accept bribes. Yet your mode of operation smacks of foul play. Why then do you happily visit helpless innocent people and leave their oppressors? Or are you some puppet with no control of your own will?

You must be ecstatic each time another senseless war breaks out. Thrilled you must be, to take away a large number at a go, like one single night of madness in Rwanda between Hutus and Tutsis, or on September 11th when some characters turned the World Trade Center into rubble of dust. You were excited right? Or were you overwhelmed by the volume of work you had to do… like a teenager would grumble at the sight of the heap of dishes to be washed after a family lunch? Well, most times you don’t even have to do it yourself. You possess people…that’s what you do right? You fill them up and they become harbingers of death while you sit back and get drunk from the cesspit of blood and tears. You possessed the Germans when extinguishing Jews in gas chambers was a favourite pastime. Just like you possess the religious bigots in my native Nigeria who raid villages at night and leave in their wake women and infants with butchered arms and heads in the name of some God. Or don’t you?

Your victims, do they know? Do you give them a sign? Like some silent alarm bell in their brains? Can they resist you albeit unconsciously? Would the victim of a car crash for example have remained alive if he had remained home? Or would you have caste your shadow over him even in the safety of his bedroom, if by your schedule his time was up? And at that defined moment, do they feel life leaving them? Like a battery draining out or a clocking ticking down to a halt? Do they plead with you, cry and struggle to hang on? Or is the attraction to go so much that they leave willingly? And when your job is done, do they really go on a journey…like on a space cruise to the other side? Or do they hover around and watch us cry and bury them?

Is there indeed an ‘other side’ or is it one big fallacy successfully handed down from generation to generation? Just wondering if you pluck people here only to plant them somewhere else, the way you uproot vegetables from a nursery bed and plant them on a ridge. The nursery, the earth; the ridge, the other place — heaven, hell, or someplace in between. So on this other side (assuming there is one), are they alive there? Do people die here, and then come alive again there? Do they eat, sleep, dance and make love there? Is there another death at some point in the other side as well or does your job description end here?

O, Death, hasten, let’s get going for the evening is far spent. You don’t know how proud I am to be walking with you, side by side. What celebrity status among the living. Fear transformed into reverence. They don’t fear their creator half as much as they fear you. Indeed they still worship a creator because of you. I am not scared of you though. I ceased being scared of you a long while ago. After watching scores — siblings, relatives and friends — fall at your feet, I have decided it was clearly a waste of my emotions…to haunt myself over a mystery I too will be consumed by. But I am curious. I want to know why. Why? Why you would pluck a healthy person suddenly while scores with terminal illnesses lie begging for you to end their miseries. Why? So many Whys?

So I hope that by the time this night is done, by the time I have treated you to everything that we the living live on and you have gotten drunk on wine…real wine not the mixture of blood and tears which you are accustomed to, perhaps I would have understood better this obviously boring job you do. Perhaps I would have demystified you and decolonised my sensibilities of you. But I wish. That’s what this is all about. Wishes. Fantasies. I imagine you mock me with your silence. Laughing at my ignorance. At what I don’t know. At what I would never know. At what I really wish I could get to know. But I persist, for this battle is not physical. It is of the mind. Yes, the mind. That’s all you leave us with when your job is done. Memories. The mind in rewind. And it is with the mind that I shall conquer you.

Photo Credit

“Dark Force Angel” h.koppdelaney @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

Guest Author Bio

Sylva Ifedigbo
Sylva Ifedigbo, a Nigerian creative writer and freelance journalist is the author of The Funeral Did Not End, a collection of short stories coming soon from DADA Books Nigeria. He lives in Lagos Nigeria.

Blog / Website: www.nzesylva.wordpress.com

The Spartans of ancient Greece knew a thing or two about hair. Lycurgus (800BC – 730BC), the founding father of Spartan society based on equality, fitness and austerity wrote: “A fine head of hair adds beauty to a good face, and terror to an ugly one.”

Just as the Spartans recognised a good “do” when they saw one, so do the Huli Wigmen of Papua New Guinea.

Huli Wigmen of New Guinea

The Huli Wigmen are a regular hit at the annual Mt Hagen Show in the Western Highlands, a Papua New Guinea (PNG) singsing and cultural festival which has attracted tens of thousands of tribesmen every year since the 1950s and more recently, adventurous tourists.

It is something of a multi-cultural miracle. PNG has a population of around 5.5 million people, with 850 tribes speaking 800 different languages.

Beyond Western influence and Christianisation, tribesmen are still potently proud of their cultural origins.

The Huli are the largest tribe in the Southern Highlands, with nearly 300,000 living in clan and family compounds, their vegetable patches and sweet potato fields separated by bamboo picket fences and trenches, which the roving pigs often ignore. In the enclosed gardens, women still do most of the work.

A Huli Wigman in full regalia.

Huli boys live in the women’s hut with their mothers until the age of eight, when they move into the men’s house to begin training for manhood.

At the age of 12, the boys are taught the secret men’s ways of the Huli by a wigmaster, who is paid for his tutelage in cash or pigs.

In their teens, the boys spend months at a time in the jungle with the wigmaster, learning the spells, diet and rituals of growing the perfect head of hair.

A Huli Wigmaster with his charges, New Guinea.

The young men must grow their wigs before they marry and may grow three or four before a bride is purchased. The wigs are highly prized, and can fetch hundreds of kina at the Tari market, which little more than a generation ago, had never been visited by a white man.

The PNG highlands were hidden from the world until 1933, when Australian gold prospecting brothers Mick and Danny Leahy trekked over a mountain ridge, expecting to find an inhospitable, rugged central mountain range with a few scattered villages.

What they saw was the subject of the famous documentary film First Contact — more than a million people living in huge, flat valleys of rich, volcanic soil who had never met a European. On first sight, they thought the Leahys were ghosts.

A Huli Wigmaster put the finishing touches on a wig, New Guinea.

Today, large areas of PNG are still unadulterated by the encroachment of tourism. And that’s the attraction of the Tari Valley.

The drive to Ambua Lodge, nestled on the mountainous rim of the huge valley, passes a tapestry of clan compounds. Villages have Christian churches, and traditional burial sites along the roadsides are marked by small, decorated huts, for the comfort of family spirits.  A woman walks along the side of the road carry a litter of piglets in a string bag on her back. A big, black sow follows obediently behind.

The view from Ambua over the Tari Valley is spectacular.

At dawn, shafts of light from the rising sun cut through the moving mist and glisten in the droplets of water clinging to the leaves. At 2,743m above sea level, the early morning air is chill and thin in the lungs.

The lodge, near Rondon Gap, is a bird-watcher’s paradise. There is no TV, radio, room phone or internet, just the gentle, wet rustle of tropical rain dropping on thatched roofs.

At night, Atlas moths as big as a man’s hand land on the wall around the lodge lights or flutter softly away into the jungle darkness.

Come back tomorrow night, Wednesday, May 26, for Part 2 of Vincent Ross’ fascinating story of the Huli Wigmen of Papua New Guinea.

Photo Credits

All photos © Vincent Ross, 2009.  All Rights Reserved.

The idea indeed. Is it possible that the Welsh – those Morris dancing British Isle cousins of the Scots – distill anything approaching the peaty “water of life” perfections with names as evocative as Lagavulin, Laphroaig, Ardbeg, Glenmorangie. Like our guide, I have my doubts a tiny company just a decade in could pull it off.

Tucked in the rolling hills inside Brecon Beacons National Park an hour north of Cardiff within sight of the slag heaps left from centuries of coal mining, the Penderyn micro-distillery sits on what it claims is the sweetest of springs. In fact, a small cheesemaker in nearby Blaenafon – a UNESCO World Heritage town – puts this whisky to use as a flavouring for one of its cheddars aged down the pit of an old coal mine. My expectations thus lowered in spite of the hyped water, we enter the new Visitor’s Centre.

Inside, manager Keith Tench begins our tour with the story of the last Welsh distillery. It closed over a century ago, an unequivocal failure. He says the swill produced at that distillery “was sought after by the paint industry as a thinner.” Keith passes around a bottle of malted barley wash, a cloudy 8% sludge prepared for Penderyn at the unappetizingly named Brains Brewery in Cardiff. “It doesn’t smell very nice,” says Keith. “A little like the carpet the morning after the spilling of a lot of beer.” Crash! go my expectations through the floor. If I wanted to sample world-class whisky, why didn’t I just go to the source – Scotland?

Keith leads us past a glass wall through which we witness the boxing up of bottles – not exactly a unique or otherwise remarkable experience. But through the glass we can see a unique combination pot and column still developed here on site. Penderyn is experimenting with age-old whisky making techniques. As we file through an exhibit that wouldn’t be out of place in a low-budget museum, we lift lids from wooden boxes and sniff at the ingredients that go into Penderyn’s Brecon Special Reserve Gin: lemon rind, liquorice root, cinnamon bark, nutmeg. At last we enter a room with sampling stations and a bar. Keith takes up his position behind the bar where he pours drams of the distillery’s three whiskies nicknamed Aur Cymru or Welsh gold – of course, the term Scotch can be neither legally nor accurately applied to these drinks. They are whiskies and while they share characteristics with their cousins, they are not Scotch as I am about to discover through my nose.

Following Keith’s lead, I swirl the golden Madeira single malt in the bowl of the nosing glass beneath a cupped hand. He calls this technique the Welsh cwtch or hug and demonstrates how bodily warmth releases the personality of the liquor by embracing his assistant, a stocky footballer who reminds his amourous colleague that both of them are already married. The shtick lightens my anxieties. I inhale the captured volatiles one nostril at a time as instructed… butterscotch from the bourbon barrels in which the whisky was matured. Then come the fruity vanilla notes reminiscent of fine port from the Madeira wine casks in which it was finished. Indeed nothing like the smoky Scotch I’m used to, there is nothing here to bring to mind a disapproving friend’s summation of Scotch that it smells of ashtrays spilling over with cold cigar butts. Rather, the taste is as pure and smooth as the spring waters beneath the distillery are alleged to be. Not Scotch, but what a whiskey.

It’s just gone 9:30 a.m., but I’m eager to sample the other two whiskies, one finished in Oloroso sherry casks, the other in peated scotch casks. They do not disappoint. The peated brings to mind the northern scotches, the sherried presents rich, dark caramel, but both give way to that Penderyn fresh fruitiness of melons, citrus and apple to finish with vanilla.

“Anyone for gin?” Keith Tench calls out. Perhaps the others fear they’ll require the services of AA upon returning home. At any rate, while there’s the odd call for Merlyn cream liquor, I’m the only one for gin. Nobody’s dares the vodka. Brecon Special Reserve Gin proves quite simply the finest of this family of drink I have ever come across. The sharp spice flavourings arrive early, but are balanced by the sweetness of the liquorice and soothed by the quintessence of orange and lemon citrus. I savour the last of it and head for the gift shop – a little wobbly with this early hour gold strike – in search of bottles of everything and to enquire whether or not Penderyn has yet hit the international market – it has, Canada and the USA among the lucky destinations.

Our Scottish-born guide rushes us onto the bus. A smile on my face and a heavy shopping bag in my hand, I oblige, contented in the knowledge that in Scotland, whisky is the water of life while in Wales, it’s a seam of gold.

Photo Credits

All photos © Darcy Rhyno

“Keith Tench of Penderyn Distillery in Wales.”

“A Penderyn exhibit interprets the ingredients in its Brecon Special Reserve Gin.”

“Blaenafon Cheddar Company.”