The Start, and the Second Start

First off, thanks to everyone for being so patient. It's tough collecting all my notes and trying to bang out something coherent. I know that's small consolation for you guys, who are here by your own choice. I really do appreciate it. And don't forget: you can like the blog on Facebook and follow me on Twitter! If you want to tell your friends, that'd be awesome. Thanks again for reading, and for waiting.

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When I was in London at the beginning of last summer I met a bunch of people in the hostel. Palmer’s Lodge Swiss Cottage is an old Victorian mansion converted at some point into a hostel at some point in the past. It’s grand and stately, situated on a quiet side street. It looks, in fact, so unlike most hostels that I walked past it three times before I figured out what the hell I was looking for. Granted, that bit may be due to the fact that I’d been up for about twenty hours at that point, dealt with Toronto and London airport security, the flight, the madness that is Victoria Station, the Tube, and, obviously low vision. Taking my time to find the place might be more understandable, looking back. 

Palmer's Lodge Swiss Cottage,
London. It's not haunted.

Anyway, the first part of the trip was extremely tough. Luckily, I’d been to London before, so at least I had that going for me. I’m very serious when I say a history of playing video games has helped me develop a good sense of place and direction. I’m not kidding. I could likely draw you the full overworld maps for five Zelda games alone, with Heart Container and Empty Bottle locations detailed. In the same way, I can get around a city after having spent a few days there, and I don’t forget the map. London, Paris, Marseille, Munich, Dublin, Edinburgh...when I go back to these places I’ll have a decent head-start on a lot of people. I’m told by lots of people that this is an impressive fact, biut the truth is, I can’t comprehend how someone wouldn’t have a good sense of direction. You’re moving around in a 3D space, you’ve moved from point A to point B, and you can’t get back? What were you doing in the time between points? 

If your answer is “I was blindfolded and kidnapped,” then you’re exempt. 

Anyway, so, London. It was tough for a few reasons. First, maybe understandably, it was a bit of an emotional thing. Without going too deeply into it since it’s not what this blog is about, I’d been there before with someone and this time I was alone. Places we’d stayed at, seen together, laughed at, drank in, and explored together were all too jarring for me at the start. But, I had to do it, for some reason that I’m still unsure of, exactly. 

The gong show that is
London's Victoria Station.

What was even harder was coping for the first week alone.  When I was finally checked into my room at Palmer’s (I’d arrived well before check-in and crashed hard on a couch in the common room) I sat on my bed, my bag stuffed and locked away in my locker. It suddenly became very apparent that I was well and truly alone. Over 5700 kilometres away from my family, I sat, listening to the light rain tick away on the window. I wasn’t homesick - I’d lost a sense of the word “home” anyhow - it was more of a cross between exhilaration and dread. I suddenly had no one to answer to but myself, no obligations to be anywhere in particular, no real commitments of any kind. I had pure, unemcumbered, terrifying freedom.

For the first week of the trip I was basically living out Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Much like the prisoners I had (mentally) trapped myself in a situation that I accepted as the status quo. (Note: I’m saying I was a prisoner of my own mind, not in any other respect). I wasn’t necessarily happy, but I was taking things day-by-day and I accepted my lot. Arriving in London, then, was like being released from Plato’s cave, my reality thrown out the window. Suddenly I was seeing the world in a whole different light: one with acceptance, accessibility, and decent public transit. But my senses were overloaded and I was terrified. See, back in Canada I’d become complacent with my situation, unknowingly “accepting my fate,” as it were. After getting some insight when my world fell apart I came to learn that by living that way it was hurting those around me. It ruined my relationship, that. I didn’t mean to come off that way, and truth be told, I had no idea I was dragging everyone down. 

What had happened is I became a very insular person. I had a small safety net, but a lot of the onus fell to one person. Losing any sort of sense, limb, or other major life event really messes with you in a lot of ways. I was depressed and angry. I learned to control and redirect the anger, but the depression hung around. It faded and presented itself in new ways, but it was still there. And that’s the part that’s the worst, really. When you honest-to-God have no idea that something is even happening, affecting the ones you love. The depression was (and, if I’m honest, still is) compounded by the job search. 

It’s annoying, finding a job. Everyone has to and I don’t have to explain why it’s annoying. However, throw a disability into the equation and things get much more complicated. First of all, you’re automatically different (if, that is, your disability is a visible one). If I walk into an interview wielding my cane, I know there’s a point where the hiring manager thinks “oh, he’s blind, I wonder how he even got here?” or something along those lines. I’m not saying everyone thinks exactly that, but we’re human. You’d think different of me as anyone would. It’s not a bad thing, though, it just simply points out that everyone carries questions, fears, or (in extreme cases) prejudices against something out of the ordinary. I mean, I know I’m smart. My resume is alright. But easily a huge defining note to any job interview is the disability. Sure, people can’t openly judge against me or turn me down for a position - and I don’t think that happens on purpose, either. Or with malice, at the very least. 

But think about it. Say I’m applying for an everyday retail gig. Nothing fancy. Here’s me, nearly a decade of customer service experience, solid communication and customer service skills, and I’m generally a nice guy all around. However, there’s the cane. Next, we’ve got some kid, nice enough guy, worked a few retail gigs before, but, maybe he’s nervous around customers or isn’t good with attachment ratios or something. 

The common room at Palmer's Lodge
Swiss Cottage

The sad reality, that generally the other applicant. The thinking isn’t along any cruel or offensive lines (I’d hope), but I think there’s a feeling of trepidation - though that may be too strong a word. I figure the line of thinking is roughly “well, he’s got experience, but what’s up with the cane?” It’s a matter of them being unsure of how the cane and the disability. I explain up front as best I can that it won’t be a hindrance to my work life, but, it’s a strange thing for them. And I understand that. But it does really start to drag you down.

I went off a bit there, but really, it’s relevant. Let’s go back to London.

So, in London I spent nearly a full week in silence. That feeling of being shot down and passed over for jobs and the like was really taking its toll. I grew very insular and I was afraid to talk to people. I can’t tell what someone is necessarily up to, so I was afraid to interrupt people. And so I sat there, on a couch in the hostel, prodding away at my iPad, just wishing someone would talk to me. 

Beer and chips: not a real
substitute for friends.

After another day of wandering the city alone I decided to have a pint in the hostel’s basement pub. I made (very) small talk with the bartender and ate a thing of fries. A second pint of liquid confidence in my belly I began to scold myself (internally, I wasn’t shouting at myself like a crazy). I thought “man, you’ve been sitting here a week, not talking to anyone, worrying ‘oh, no one will want to talk to the blind guy.’” I realized that may have been because maybe they don’t know how to approach me, not the other way around. That understanding took a while to grasp fully, but in time it made more and more sense.

So, I hopped off the bar chair and moseyed over to the couch area. I flopped down and eavesdropped on a few Americans talking about “getting soooo drunk in Ibiza,” a few Australians talking about rugby, and, suddenly, I heard someone pronounce “out” properly. Well, the same way I do, anyhow. The girl’s voice mentioned that she was from Edmonton. I saw my chance and took it. 

“I’m...I’m from Toronto...” my voice cracked.

“What?” she asked, turning to look at me.

“I’m from Toronto. Sorry.”

I explained that I’m not actually from Toronto, but rather “a small town that no one has ever heard of” north of the city (I actually had to make this distinction a lot, most Canadians don’t seem to like Toronto, but I’ll cover that some other time). The conversation spread to other travellers, and they sat, listening to my story and asked questions about the vision. Rachel (the Edmontonian) went on to tip me off on what would later be possibly the best hostel I’ve ever stayed at (Vagabonds, in Belfast).

So, for inadvertently helping me get my head out of the sand, thanks, Rachel. 

Moving on up

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Bonus content

(This bit didn't really have much place in the last post, so I chopped it out and gave it its own home.)

Before I left Canada, I jailbroke my iPhone. 

I know, naughty me. I’m not really down with the whole jailbreak thing, but I was pretty well forced into it. What it is, if you’re unfamiliar with the concept, is jailbreaking lets you do things Apple doesn’t want you to do. Usually it’s simple things like cosmetic changes or getting old Nintendo games on there. But I don’t care about any of that, I wanted to unlock my phone.

See, I’m in a contract with my carrier, who will not let me unlock my phone to use it on other networks. So I called Apple. They told me they couldn’t do it, and that I should ask my carrier. They tell me to ask Apple. It’s like when your parents are telling you “go ask your mother,” “go ask your father.” Except with Apple and my carrier you can’t just say “mom said it’s fine.”

I got nowhere with the corporations, so I had to go the shady route and jailbreak my phone. It’s not really that shady, I’m just not much of a warranty-breaking badass like that. But I did it anyhow. I went through all the steps, rebooted the phone, and it was fine. The jailbreak took. I did all my checks and, as far as I knew, I was well and unlocked.

So I went to a shop in Dublin. An Irish phone carrier called 3. I spoke with this one girl and explained what I needed. I told her I needed a pay-as-you-go plan with as close to unlimited data as I could get (GPS is incredibly important to me, as you can probably appreciate). What luck! I could get a plan that worked in Ireland and a large portion of the continent! It was €20 per month, which was more than relevant to my interests!

“I will purchase this SIM card,” I told her, “and I accept your terms and conditions in a most grateful manner!” Maybe not my exact words, but, well, I bought it. She asked me, multiple times, if I was sure the phone was jailbroken. “Oh sure. Did it myself.” She was impressed at this king of nerds before her and she questioned me no further. I shut off my phone, removed my Bell SIM, replaced it with the magical 3 SIM, turned the phone back on and…

Nothing. “No Service” blinked at me, unchanging. “You mad, bro?” it seemed to sneer at me.

I could sense the shop girl was becoming swiftly less and less enamoured of me and my presence (Irish girls, pff). I took a brief respite in the corner where the Nokias linger. I went online to seek a fix.

No fix was ever found, though. I’d borked everything and I’d bricked my phone. I’d essentially turned my iPhone 4 into a fat iPod Touch, and so it remained for the rest of the journey. Not until I updated it to iOS 6 did I have a functional phone.

The takeaway here is that my next iPhone will be a factory unlocked one, and I will also jailbreak again. 

Unless there's something really cool I can do. Then, maybe.

Por favor consulta el manual.

What do we take away from travel? I can list the material things, easily. I bought two t-shirts at two breweries (Guinness and Heineken); a sweater (H&M in Lyon, because I’m frugal and fashion-conscious); a Baker Street magnet from London...uh…I think that's it, really. 

Sure, I've got all your standard travel detritus: maps, ticket stubs, coasters. You know, all the crap you think you'll need or want, and they just sit in a box under your bed. 

I guess I bought a few things that aren’t necessarily souvenirs. Stuff I needed, like an umbrella. What a piss-off that was. Do you know, it rains up in Scotland! Like a schmuck I neglected to bring an umbrella with me, and this particular day I’d left my rain jacket at the hostel by mistake. So, just near Edinburgh’s Royal Mile (their main tourist area and shopping street), I was huddled under an awning as it pissed down cold, fat drops. People inside the shop across the street were laughing at me, I'm sure of it. 

God damn it. It was worse than it looks.

I had a peek at my phone and found some touch-and-go Wifi from a nearby Starbucks. I managed to pinpoint a nearby Boots (basically a Shoppers Drug Mart or CVS-like shop). When the rain let up a bit I tore off in the general direction. Seeing the blue-and-white blur of a sign, I burst in, shaking off the wet.

There I was, “that guy.” The unprepared tourist. I hate that feeling. I have a look about the store – surely, there must be umbrellas there.

Right at the front, they were. I picked one up, black, light, compact. I didn’t even think of looking at the price. I just wanted to buy it and leave.

£14. For Christ’s sake.

The lady at the counter was sympathetic, but I could tell there was a bit of schadenfreude in her smile.

After doing a shame-walk out of Boots, I immediately discovered an entirely new problem: how the hell am I supposed to use both my cane and the umbrella? I pretty much need a free hand when I’m getting around. Finding railings, hitting the button to cross the street, whatever. I like having a free hand. 

How did I take the picture? I will never reveal the Wu-Tang Secret.

Behold, my fresh hell of what I call the Edinburgh Dual-Wield. Cane to the ground, umbrella to the sky. God help me if there’s a light breeze.

Eventually I’d resort to almost wearing the umbrella as a hat. I’d prop the umbrella on my shoulder, like a soldier presenting arms. I felt like Dark Helmet from Spaceballs. You never want to feel like Rick Moranis, I assure you. When’s the last time you’ve seen him in anything? Exactly.

So, that’s what I mean about souvenirs of necessity. Well, I’m lying. In Berlin I let someone use it, being a nice guy. Then someone never gave it back. Then someone accidentally took it back to Australia.

You owe me an umbrella.

But, anyway, as the cliché goes, the true souvenirs are the memories. I came back with around three thousand photos. Many were shit, sure. Lots of pictures of store signs and train departure boards. But there they are, souvenirs in their own right.

Aside from the obvious memories and photos, there is one souvenir that stands out.

A lot changed for me up in Edinburgh. I won’t go into what, or why. Not really the time or the place. But suffice it to say, Edinburgh is where my year started to get a lot better. I met a ton of truly unique people and it was the first place that was unknown territory for me at that point.

I’d met a few people at Caledonian Backpackers. As it happened, one of them I’d end up traveling with for extended periods, the poor bastard. But this isn’t about him – I could, and may, write an entire post about Tim.

No, some of the most memorable meetings are the fleeting ones. This one afternoon I’d been introduced to a few different folks: Alex, a clever engineer from California; Christian, a rather jovial guy living in Montreal; and Kokichi, a young and happy traveler from Japan.

The reserved and smiling Kokichi was in my room, two bunks away from mine. Thanks to some Australians also in the dorm, we were all duly introduced as loud and happily as only an Aussie can. At one point it came out that Kokichi did origami, and he showed us some. He had this beautiful, colourful origami paper with him, and I suppose he’d had it for something to do on trains, whiling away the slow hours.

It was decided that a bunch of us would go for dinner. So, Kokichi, Alex, Christian, and myself went across the road to Ryan’s Bar, at the crux of Queensferry and Hope (not “Hoop”) streets. We shared conversation over pints and heavy meals of lamb, potatoes, and all manner of steamed vegetables.

We had a grand old time. We decided to keep it going. Since Edinburgh is relatively far north, the sun told us that it was still early, a fine time to head out for more pints! We wandered Edinburgh in search of a particular pub, known to Alex and Christian. Turns out the pub, BrewDog, is a craft brewery in of itself. They’ve got a small string of pubs across the UK, and they make an insane variety of beer. We each of us picking something different.

To be a beer ponce for a second, I had the Libertine Black Ale. It was incredibly hoppy, slightly smoky, and smoothly malted. It was like chocolate milk that hated being in your mouth, and that’s a good thing. Maybe not my best description ever, but I’m sure they’d call it apt.

As a group we shared one glass of a particular beer. “Sink The Bismarck” is a 41% ABV (Alcohol by Volume) India Pale Ale. Forty-one percent alcohol. They sell it by the dram, which means you get maybe three ounces in a brandy snifter. It is, in fact, currently the world’s strongest beer (named in retaliation of the Germans’ previous world record at 40% ABV). It tastes more like a wildly hoppy scotch. It’s hot and holds onto your tongue as you swallow. It’s incredible.

So, we all shared a glass of it. I recall snippets from the rest of the evening, but perhaps understandably, not so clearly.

Sink The Bismarck (middle) at BrewDogs.

We all went back to our respective places that night. Oh, damn…I remember what happened with the rest of that night for me. I recall putting on an English accent and called everyone “Arthur,” damned if I can remember why. Different post. Anyway, as I said, we all went back to where we started, and we crashed.

I dimly remember Kokichi saying he was heading out the next morning. He was great fun, and the four of us had a great night together. It was my first fully awesome night out in a very, very long time. I owe the four of them a lot more than I can explain to them, because I can’t really explain myself exactly what it did for me. It just…it just worked, you know? Whatever it was, it worked.

The next morning I woke early. I used a small wooden chair as a sort of bedside table. I reached over to it for my glasses and I knocked something off the chair. I found my glasses and had a look for what I’d dropped. It was still dark in the room, so I didn’t have much luck seeing it. I groped around on the floor, when my hand grazed a bit of paper. It was stiff, textured paper. Folded, angular…it clearly wasn’t a receipt (of which I’d had a small collection from the previous night). I pulled my phone out of my pillowcase and flipped on the flashlight app.

This is what I found, perched stoically in my hand:

This guy, this little crane, means so much to me. I don’t even know what, which may sound silly. There’s just so much power, or feeling, or something held in eight square inches of colourful heavy weight paper. I don’t believe in any higher power or binding force or anything, but I do believe in emotion and human feeling. This crane is a representation of that, of a sort of return to form for me.

It is fragile, sure, but it survived three and a half months longer in my backpack. It tucked neatly into the little pocket inside my Moleskine notebook. It rode along with me through heat, rain, cold, falls, airport security…tons of stuff. And when I’d get down on myself I’d eventually pull out the little crane. There it was, beautiful and proud. I’d gently tug its wings and it’d pop back into shape. I’d just sit there, looking at it. I’d fold it back up, slip it into the notebook, and I’d be on my way again. I still can’t explain exactly what it does to me, but I’m glad that it does whatever it does.

Kokichi, thanks man. I owe you more than a pint, but next time I see you, we’ll start with that. Cheers.

The Courtesy Call

I’ve been asked more than once to explain how I use technology to make my life easier. Well, it’s not exactly a simple answer, but I’ll do my best.

Back in 2009, a few months after I lost my vision, I was going a little bit nuts. I’d spent just over a solid month looking down - quite literally, as part of the healing process involved post-surgery required it. On top of that, I’d had an eye patch on my “good” eye, which effectively made me fully blind. I was home alone for around eight hours a day, in near silence. I sometimes found the CBC on TV, but one can only listen to “Coronation Street” repeats for so long.

Eventually, I was allowed to remove the eye patch, but to not much avail. My eye was so light sensitive, I couldn’t even look outside on a cloudy day at first. Eventually, my eye grew accustomed to the light – you know in “The Matrix” when Neo is picked up out of his little goopy prison pod, and he asks Morpheus “why do my eyes hurt?” Morpheus replies “Because you’ve never used them before.” It was pretty much like that, but with less goop and fewer flying squid robots.

In time I was able to squint for longer periods of time, but I still couldn’t see a dam thing with any clarity. Imagine my, well, anger. The stress and the anxiety. This is something I couldn’t explain even to those closest to me. It’s my nature to not want to bother anyone, to not be a nuisance, to not ask for help. It’s a weird mix of pride, arrogance, and, well, not wanting to be a bother. It truly is unfortunate that only now am I able to wrap my head around what I was feeling back then – I needlessly burnt a lot of bridges then, and I had no idea I was doing that.

But I digress. My point is, I was depressed, but tech saved me from getting worse. As I became less light sensitive I grew more determined to have more mental stimulation. So I dug out my (by then, quite dusty) MacBook. I booted it up and cranked down the brightness. Tears of strain poured down my cheeks as I struggled to read the tiny text on the screen. It was painful, but I’d made contact with the internet for the first time in about five months. I figured, though, “there must be an easier way to do this.” I began digging through the System Preferences pane and a little blue icon caught my eye. “Universal Access? What’s this all about?”

Freedom is what it was all about. Suddenly my then-three-year-old MacBook was talking to me. Reading Facebook statuses and blog posts. I could shut my eyes and type out emails. I could invert the colours; white-on-black text, rather than the normal, is far easier to read. Think night mode in iBooks or other e-reader software. But the biggest help – which I still use – is simply the zoom feature. I can sit at a reasonable distance and actually read text, look at pictures, whatever I want. I hold Control and wiggle my mouse’s scroll wheel. Looks awful to others (I’m told), but it’s a godsend.

And it’s built in. Right there. I’m writing this on the same old 2006 MacBook, chipped plastic casing, wonky fan and all. While I’m not a fan of the “Apple Tax” (wherein Apple stuff costs more simply because of the logo), this computer owes me nothing. It saved my life, in some respects.

Here’s the thing, though: why aren’t accessibility features available on all platforms, out of the box? I’m not going to sit here and gush about Apple – I’ve had plenty of little niggling issues since I “switched” from Windows XP to OSX. But really, riddle me this: why is it that my mom, who is totally blind, must pay upwards of $800* for the screen reader software she uses? I’m aware Microsoft is taking steps in becoming more accessible out of the box, but the software cost seems designed to capitalize on people with disabilities.

That said, there are programs available to help people out. In Ontario, for example, we have ADP (Assistive Devices Program). ADP’s purpose is to provide financial assistance for people with disabilities, and act as a venue in which those people can get their hands on these assistive products. Fair enough, I say. I’m affiliated with them, and I’m glad the service is there.

Here’s my issue, though: 90% of the products don’t need to exist – at least not in the form they do. Take, for example, a thing called the Victor Stream. It’s a great product for what it does. It’s essentially an MP3 player that can also play a proprietary file format (DAISY files). It’s designed as an audiobook reader for the blind. Fair play to them. It speaks, it’s got big, easy buttons, and it’s pretty sturdy. But we’re heading into 2013, and the best product on offer for the blind is something reminiscent of  Creative’s NOMAD Jukebox from 2000 crossed with an old Nokia. I understand simplicity is the name of the game here, and Humanware does a great job of that. But the product costs $250 and is reliant on SD cards for storage.

Yes, it works, and yes, it’s simple. But that’s one product doing one thing.

Blind people need to get around, right? GPS is everywhere. There are GPS units for the blind, which is fantastic. They’ll speak to you, they’re based on walking directions, and they give you a bit more help than, say, a Garmin or TomTom would in certain situations. Humanware, in fact, makes a Talking GPS, called the Trekker Breeze. Like the Victor Stream it has a nice small and simple form factor. Pop in some headphones and you’re set. I’ve had a go with one of these, briefly, and I was fairly impressed. Here’s the rub, though: it’s $700.

Then, let’s say someone’s totally blind and wants to read his or her mail. They’ve got book readers available. Some come in the form of flatbed scanners. Others can be more cumbersome; great big things that look not unlike overhead projectors. Slim and sleek, they’re not. But they do the job. They sit there on your desk, you plonk a book down into the chassis, and with its magic eye it scans the page and starts to read the text. The tech is amazing. But amazing comes at a cost, and now we’re talking $300 and up. Way up.

This needs to change.

The funding from ADP is a help, so a lot of this isn’t out of pocket for the user. But let’s say we want the Victor Stream, the GPS, and a flatbed reader. Let’s throw in the JAWS software, too, since very few of the other products are useful without it. You’re looking at north of $2000, at least. ADP will cover a portion of that, but there are many factors that go into how much you receive from them. And, oh, you wish to upgrade when the updated model comes around? Cool. You don’t get more funding for five years. Which is fine, I mean, it is free money, so you can’t complain too much. I’m just saying that if you want the latest-and-greatest, you’re in for a bit of a shock when the bill comes around.

Pat your pocket. Or look next to you on your desk, there. What’s likely there? Your phone. Odds are you’ve got an iOS, Android, or BlackBerry with you. Everyone has one. And they’re powerful, eh? If you sit back in think what this little thing of aluminum, glass, and copper bits can do, compared to what you had five years ago, it’s damn impressive.

So, nearly everyone has a phone, right? Right. Now, let’s look at what I can do with my phone.

I’ve got an iPhone 4. I use it for everything. I’ll describe it with a handy list.

With the level of vision I have, the screen width (when vertical) is perfect for me to browse web sites. I’ve got the font size increased a bit so it makes things easier. I can invert the colours, just like the MacBook. I can highlight a block of text and a little context list pops up, with an option to “Speak.” So the damn thing will read to me.

My vision is extremely short. I have to hold a novel around an inch away from my face. Not really an ideal method of reading things. So, I use the camera. Even though the 4’s camera is nowadays kind of weak, it does the job. For example, at a restaurant I’ll take a picture of a menu. I’ve got an app that will act like a scanner, which clears a picture of colour and little bits of detritus. What I’m left with is a lovely black-and-white zoomable menu. I can hold the phone at arm’s length and, at my leisure, browse the menu. I look like I’m messing around on my phone at the table, which may look rude at a glance, but it’s better than looking all secretive, hiding behind a menu like a bad spy.

With a three-fingered double-tap and swipe I can zoom in on anything. Web sites, photos, games…anything. It’s amazing the freedom a simple zoom can give you; being able to hold your phone away from you like a sighted person is…well, it’s nice.

I use the GPS, though I lament a native Google Maps app. When I had a full Google Maps app I’d use it pretty well the way everyone else uses them. What I found myself using a lot, however, was Street View. A map can only show you so much, so I’d get to the approximate area of my destination, then I’d switch to Street View. I’d see with clarity what I was looking for, then I’d switch to my camera. I’d compare what I was seeing in Street View and what I was seeing through the camera, and that’s how I’d find my destination. Reason being, I can’t see the signs or address all the time.

And back to the camera. When I was traveling I’d use it for everything. From photographing departure boards at train stations to taking pictures of meat in deli counters, I’d capture everything. I did this so I could move out of people’s way and look at what I’m trying to find, be it a 10:44 train to Lyon, or if I’m looking at garlic sausage or plain.

These are a few of the ways I’ve had to adapt using technology, some of them aren’t even intended by the developer.

I know people who are entirely blind who use smartphones. One uses an iPhone 4s, which, well, let that sink in. Here’s a lady who can see nothing at all, using a piece of technology with four buttons (only one of which has constant use within the OS). A blind person versus an entirely glass input? Doesn’t sound like it’d work, but it does. She drags her finger across the screen, and as she hovers over an app (laid out in a simple grid pattern), the phone will chime and tell her what she’s touching. “*Ding* Safari. *Ding* Notes. *Ding* Pages.” She wants to open Pages. She double-taps anywhere on the screen, and it opens. Siri takes notes for her, makes appointments, searches Google, etc. She’s even used an app for photographers, which senses light levels for shooting pictures. What she does is opens the app, and if it reacts, she knows a light’s been left on. Adapting existing technology for her own uses. Apple’s developed their software with accessibility in mind, and other companies are doing the same. I mean, you can use a Braille keyboard with a phone, if you want. The option’s there.

So with the rise of the smartphone, why are people with disabilities stuck with the products available through companies like Humanware and Freedom Scientific? Maybe “stuck” is too harsh a word, but what these companies have going for them is their software. Incredible work and care has gone into making a quality product, no one can deny that. But the age of proprietary devices is over. I don’t want to lug around a scanner, a handheld GPS, an MP3 player, a camera, and anything else I might need.

Let’s develop the Humanware software for the iPhone, or BlackBerry, or Android. Let’s get their GPS on there. Think JAWS is better than VoiceOver? It might be! But let’s get it onto the commercially available products and let the user have a choice.

Here’s a few ideas:

-       I understand that the GPS used by the talking GPS units may be more precise, since they’re generally for walkers. Maybe, if it’s necessary, make a dongle or a case for the phone with in-built refined GPS.

-       Let’s use the cameras for book reading. It wouldn’t be a replacement for a home-based page-turning unit, but if you’re out and about, a phone camera would do in a pinch. If a phone can recognize a face, surely it can tell a blind person what’s on a menu.

-       All phones have music players. Why I’d need a separate device to listen to Game of Thrones is beyond me. Develop an app that can play the DAISY format files on your mobile.

Sighted users can pick their OS, hardware, and everything, but blind users are fairly limited in their options. We’re generally bound to certain companies with their proprietary hardware and software, which is further limited (often to particular operating systems).

I’m not saying the companies should give away their products for free. Nor am I saying they should stop making hardware in all cases. But we’re an increasingly mobile society, and integration is extremely important. Clearly I’m passionate about the subject, and I could go on. I likely will. But for now we need change, and it has to happen soon.

I guess you might say that no matter which mobile platform you prefer, we need one device that does it all, one product to combine them. One phone to replace them all, with the software that defines them.

That just happened.

*While ADP covers some or all of the cost for her, this is not so in every case.

Press the button.

Hello there. I'm alive and well. I dearly hope the situation is the same for you.

If you're dead, you can't be reading this. It's not for ghosts.

If you're unwell, get some Buckley's and wipe your nose. You look terrible. And if other people use your computer, wipe down the keyboard, okay, Typhoid Mary?

If you're undead, shut up. Zombies are stupid.


Anyhow, hello. I'm sorry I've not updated recently. I truly appreciate the readership and support. But this blog was a test. A trial. I know how and what to do now. I'll still update - soon! - but I'm working towards a bigger goal, now. I can't explain what just yet, but I will drop that knowledge once I've got everything in place.

And no, the big surprise plan isn't to go out travelling again. That one goes without saying.

I'll be tweaking the blog and it may break here and there. If that happens, let me know! Cheers.

Thanks again for reading.

Dan