Monthly Archives: December 2018

Day Sixteen Some More: Fear and Love

Lydia met an old friend of hers in the market yesterday. Nabou is married to Ja Ja and they own a restaurant in Toubacouta. We were invited there for an early afternoon drink of bissap, a pure sweetness made from the flowers we picked a few days ago. It went down just fine in the shade.

Lydia wanted us to experience another village in the afternoon, where people don’t speak French and kids don’t go to school. Unless things change, the children will not leave the walls of their compound to live. How sad. Lydia often says that she can only do so much, can only help so many people. It’s time for other people to step up … such as me.

I was on the back of Yusefa’s moto as we rolled over the dirt roads. We stopped at a grocery store to pick up some suckers for the kids we’d meet along the way. Lydia packed them in a plastic jar and we were off again.

Soon we were off-road on a sandy track across the dry land. The sand became deep in places, at least to my eyes. Yusefa clearly was confident on the moto, so much so that he was tailgating Mamadou ahead. I froze. All that basic trust went out the window as I imagined falling off the bike and recovering in a Senegalese hospital for a year or so.

At a rest stop, I asked Lydia how much farther. “What’s wrong?” she replied. And then … I lied. “I’m tired.” Lydia looked at me like she knew I was telling tales. So now the truth: “I’m scared.” Ahh, the truth works. We talked about how everyone is afraid of something. For her, it’s flying. For me, right now in general, it’s riding my bicycle. Right now in specific, it’s little mounds of sand, and Yusefa often putting his feet down to keep us upright. Yikes!

After we walked for a bit, I felt better. On the moto again, I was able once more to look around, to drink in the parched land and its goats and cows.

At the edge of one village out in the middle of nowhere, we stopped. Kids came running. Lydia pulled out the jar and was quickly surrounded. Such happy faces and full mouths.

We came to an extended family’s homes, surrounded by a fence of long vertical sticks. Cement houses and, according to Lydia, a bleak future. Many eyes met mine, and many smiles. The queen of them all was a tiny girl, all dressed up in orange and red. What a sweetie, and we spent a few moments with each other’s eyes.

Farther on, we came to the highway. Our convoy stopped for awhile, and I never did find out why. I looked across the street and saw a little girl in a pink dress gazing at me from her yard. I raised both arms high above my head … and so did she. I swept my hands to the right and she mirrored me. To the left. Arm circles. Hanging from a tree. Twisting and shouting. All repeated by the girl and soon five or six of her friends. I couldn’t read their faces from our distance but I bet everyone was smiling.

And now, next. I crossed the road and walked up to the barbed wire fence. The kids stayed back some but they were curious. And I just loved the beaming smile of my young pink friend. One of the kids threw an empty jar at me and I tossed it right back, to a flurry of giggles. Then it was an old rubber strap. I wore it around me like a necklace. More giggles. Hands came closer and fingertips touched. Two women in the background smiled.

Then it was time to go. Motos revved up. The young ones smiled at me and I returned the favour. I bowed in my best Buddhist manner and they bowed back. We waved goodbye and the asphalt took me away.

It was of the most remarkable times of my life. I was in love. Sadly, I forgot to take their picture. Lydia said we’ll go back into the area again and I hope to see the kids, this time with my phone at the ready.

Goodnight, dear ones.

Day Sixteen: A Market Like No Other

Lydia promised us something special yesterday morning. We would go by bus or moto to an authentic Senegalese market, in a village that rarely sees white people. Bring it on … give me the real deal.

We gathered at Lydia’s house. I sat across from Aziz in the open air, both of us in living room chairs with wooden arms. He did a bit of drumming and I repeated his rhythm. Then I started a new one, and the young fellow followed my lead. Soon we set up a frantic pace. I leaned across the coffee table to him, reaching with my arms. Our hands touched and then released. And on we went – Aziz forward and me back, Aziz back and me forward … a dance.

We were off. Some of us in a little bus and six of us on motos. I was on the back of Curd’s bike. We rolled through the streets of Toubacouta and then onto the highway. Way ahead a monkey scampered across the road, but I wanted more. I scanned left and right for the big red fellows. And I thought back almost fifty years, when I worked at a hotel in the Canadian Rockies. Deer were everywhere in the townsite and we employees loved laughing at the tourists who got all giddy when they saw one. Now I was the tourist and I wondered what my new Senegalese friends thought about the Canadian who went ga-ga over monkeys. Ha! What a good lesson.

Curd and I turned off the highway onto a sand road, which often narrowed to a strip of beach between two tracks. Lydia had told me that I needed to stay very still on the back because balance was essential. We could fall if the front tire dug deep into the sand.

I let go. I trusted the universe to care for me. I trusted Curd to be the best moto driver. It was one big exhale as we streamed through villages and across dry flats. I told myself not to look ahead, to just focus on the back of Curd’s ball cap, but I’ve never been good at following my own advice. So I watched the ruts ahead, the sidehill dips, the imaginary sand castles looming high. And the universe said “Thank you.”

In the little villages, kids would come rocketing out from behind walls made of branches or concrete blocks. They all seemed to be waving and screaming “Bonjour!” Occasionally I heard the word that sounds like “hallal”, which means money, but mostly the kids seemed to be waving just for the fun of it.

The market was completely, radically, new to me. Imagine a very narrow dirt street packed with human beings, with the women wearing outrageously colourful dresses. Donkey masters sat on top of loaded carts urging their beasts on with whips, and motioning wildly to get us out of the way. Live chickens, vegetables, jewelry, brightly coloured fabric, Islamic books, clothing – all were on offer.

I took three photos, two of a family and one of the street scene. Then Lydia came over and told me not to take pictures. The people don’t like it. So I put my phone away.

Everyone was black except us. Some responded to my “Bonjour”s with a smile and a “Ça va?” (How’s it going?) Others stared. People were jostling into me. Suddenly Yo stopped and Iced Tea was beside him in a flash. Someone had picked Jo’s pocket and his wallet was gone. Red alert zapped through our group and I moved my backpack over my chest, with cell phone and wallet inside. Iced Tea confronted the thief. The fellow dropped the wallet and ran. Nothing was missing except a few hundred heartbeats.

We slowed again as life for us in the street turned gentle once more. I went into a stall with Lydia and a few others to purchase some fabric for a tablecloth. I found an explosion of red and green circles on a blue background that shouted “Senegal!” to me. Eva coached me on being vigilant at every moment as I dipped inside the backpack for some francs CFAs. Bill out of wallet while wallet is inside backpack. Wallet stuffed back in. Bill out of backpack in a closed hand. Other hand zips up the pack. Piece of cake.

Now we were in a long line through tiny passages, ducking under hanging clothes and passing close by hanging carcasses. I hardly noticed for awhile but our friends Yusefa and Mamadou were always bringing up the rear, watching for thieves and making sure none of us got separated from the group. I told Louisa that I loved being in massive crowds. She smiled and said she felt the same.

The energy of the market was intense. All those voices crying out in languages I didn’t understand. Local folks moving fast when there was space – on foot or on donkey carts. The squeal of chickens who were tight together in large mesh bags. The tooting of moto horns. The braying of donkeys. The dust blowing over our faces. The sun doing its job. Wow! A world beyond my life, and yet I was a vital part of it all.

I rode home in the bus so that others could experience the wind on the bikes. I sat beside Yusefa. “Merci pour me protéger dans le marché.” (Thank you for protecting me in the market) He smiled. It was a fine moment of communion.

More to come …

Day Fifteen: On the Water to Paradise Island

We started early this morning – two small boats carrying about twenty human beings down the river to the ocean. I sat with Lieselot, Sabrine and Jan. Normal conversations were punctuated with vistas of biabab trees, broad expanses of smooth water, and birds flying high. Other boats passed us by, mostly local folks out fishing. We waved and they waved.

Far, far away was Jackson Island, home of a lonely and all-encompassing white sand beach. Several of us began strolling by the water’s edge. The softness under my feet was a caress. The invitation was so clear – slow right down and feel the moments drip away. It was just me and my Speedo, a clothing choice that’s inspired quite a few giggles, and truth be told I wish I could have been nude. I realize, though, that ultimate freedom is an inside job. Paradise Island is just one more external thing … it’s not where the action is.

I sat on the sand for awhile, just drinking it all in. Ansou, one of our young Senegalese friends, probably was wondering if I needed assistance and lingered near me till I set off again. We walked along side by side, him apparently asking questions about Canada and me getting lost in his fast French. None of that mattered. We were together.

Our captains went out fishing, along with Jo and Curd. The group of them came back with several barracuda, which a Senegalese woman accompanying us prepared beautifully.

I had two beer, and that combined with the intense heat just did me in. I nibbled on the barracuda and spiced potatoes but my stomach wasn’t in it. Sabrine worried that I wasn’t well, and I tried to tell her that I was fine. It seems that I have a lot of mothers on this trip, as old as 55 and as young as 16. Although I bug them about it, it’s very cool that people care about me.

After lunch, six of us lay down in the shade. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Just friends resting, and occasionally snoring. It was lovely. Out in the sun, the seven teens were working on a fancy sand castle. Sometimes they’re verging on adulthood, and at other times they’re just little kids trying to build something pretty.

Before I lay down with my friends, Sabrine warned me that there were little twigs in the sand, with big thorns. “You should put on your shoes, Bruce.” I didn’t. I got up at one point to take a photo of the long beach and was thoroughly impaled. Ali was near me, saw what my face did, knelt down and pulled the thorn out. I thought of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples as I smiled my thanks to the young man. We help each other.

On the way home, our two boats were often beside each other. Eva was looking over at her kids, and I asked her to share what she was thinking. “They look so happy.” And they did. Eva went on to tell me that Louisa, Jean and Giraud all hug her before they go to school and when they come back home. So wonderful. Plus they tell her their problems (most of the time). Even the kids’ friends trust Eva with their issues. She sounds like Super Mom to me.

We arrived back in Toubacouta just before sunset, in time to watch lines of birds heading to the big tree for a safe sleep together.

And may we too have a safe sleep within the spiritual presence of each other. Wherever we are in the world, our wings touch.

Day Fourteen: Connections

We set off today to give some clothing to the two-month-old son of a young Senegalese woman who’s the sister of my new friends Ali, Aziz and Ansou. Ali led the way through the Toubacouta streets. Paths and side streets brought us past waving local folks (walking or on motos), goats, donkeys and chickens. Many of tbe humans said hi to Ali.

Holding that young man’s hand is a miracle for me. Once in awhile, he’ll come up beside me and slowly let his hand embrace mine. It’s a soft touch and I make sure to adjust my pace to his, and to pause when he’s greeting a friend. Sooner or later, Ali will leat go, and isn’t that just like life? “I love you. I don’t possess you. Go in peace when you need to go.”

In Ali’s home, we were greeted by his mother, his sister and his dog. Mom made quiet requests of him, and Ali responded with grace, without complaint. The star of the show, naturally, was the baby boy. Adult after adult held him, and I finally asked for a turn. There sat the bundle of humanity in my lap, his tiny fingers wrapped around one of mine. His back was so cozy against my chest and I mourned not having been a dad. In an instant, though, the heaviness drifted away and I was left with love.

Later we were welcomed into another home. A grandma in a bright blue dress held a young boy. Mom chatted with us with such a sweet smile on her face but I was drawn back to the child. He and I locked eyes and kept the gaze for maybe a minute. It was just him and me in the whole world. He was inside me and I was inside him. Communion.

Mom showed us the room where she sleeps. On the floor was a small carpet for daily prayer. I asked her how many times a day Muslims kneel down to pray. The answer was four, starting at 6:00 am. The peace on the woman’s face was all I needed to know.

Late this afternoon, about ten of us went to the bissap fields to pick the flowers. The petals are made into a drink high in vitamin C, and into jam. Picking the flowers is deemed to be women’s work, and in the one to two months of the season, they spend five hours a day picking the blossoms and avoiding the thorns. An hour out there in the sun was definitely enough for me. Our hands were stained bright red by the end and I know my back was feeling the effort. I tried to talk to a woman of perhaps 80 who was picking with us but she spoke very little French … just like me.

Lovely human beings are crossing my path every day here in Senegal. Thank you for saying “Hi”, dear ones.

Day Thirteen: A Little Sick, A Lot Happy

My day started with breakfast at the B&B. The group of us had the chance to taste baguettes with onions and potatoes, or with beans. I had one of each. They were both yummy. When in Rome …

Lydia wanted us to experience a far older village than Toubacouta. Secouna (I think) was eighteen kilometres away, and we doubled up on four motos. I was sitting behind Eddy, our B&B host, and was thrilled to see carts pulled by donkeys, crowds of folks seeking shade under wide-spreading trees, and even a couple of large red monkeys bounding across the road.

At one point, Eddy and I passed a fellow carrying a load of wood on his back. Eddy gave him a toot and the guy raised a couple of fingers in response. Beautiful. It reminded me of Ellwood Irwin, my former father-in-law. He was a wheat farmer on the vast Canadian prairie. When Ellwood was driving his truck and another farmer was approaching, he also would lift a couple of fingers in salute. Senegal … Alberta … just folks.

We were about halfway to Secouna when the urge to upchuck rose within me. Oh, no. Surely I wasn’t going to puke all over Eddy’s back! Oh, God, please help me here. I was also getting dizzy, and holding on to the bar behind me for all I was worth. “I can do this!” And I did.

We finally reached the village and stopped at a store. I ungracefully lurched off the bike and rested my head against the doorjamb of the entrance. The next thing I knew, there was a chair underneath my butt and a little container of water was in my hand. My friends were there in a flash to take care of me. Love lives.

As we sat on the patio of a restaurant with a big bottle of water, I looked across the street to see four fellows working on a bicycle. They were all so intent on the task and were chatting together, I suppose about what needed to be done. One guy worked for at least ten minutes, trying to get a tire off the rim. He didn’t have the right tool but no matter.

On the way back to Toubacouta, I felt much better. Eddy and I rolled past twenty or thirty monkeys who were running full out across the dry land. What athletes! We went through two tiny villages and I waved to the folks gathered under trees. Most people waved right back. I thought of the ride to Secouna, where I didn’t wave to anybody. Yes, I wasn’t feeling well, but it’s so strange to not be friendly.

Lydia and Jo invited me to have lunch with the family at their home. And she had a surprise for me: a large bowl of pasta was placed on the table accompanied by … a jar of pesto! My favourite flavour in the world. Mareama, the woman who made sure I got Senegalese pantaloons, was wearing a gorgeous pair of gold heart-shaped glasses. I asked her if I could wear them, and she tried mine on. We looked great, as you’ll see from the nearby photos.

A large group of us went for a walk later on a flat stretch of land that reveals itself at low tide. We felt the mud under our feet and walked into a watery area where snails lay on the intertidal floor. We could see the tracks they made in the sand. Partway, Lydia took my arm as we strolled along. We reflected on love and the beauty of the land. She is truly at home in Senegal. I can see myself feeling the same way.

Thank you for accompanying me on my journey.

Day Twelve Some More: Les Oiseaux

Let’s start with Iced Tea. Yesterday afternoon, I sat behind Lydia on her motorbike as we went over to the site of his home. Four sweating Senegalese men (including my hero) were setting concrete blocks in place and slathering on the mortar. And it was hot. Three walls were climbing and Iced Tea was smiling. Home ownership is a blessing.

My young friend in Canada has helped build those walls with his gift and I will join him in contributing. So richly deserved.

Late in the day, a friend named Ja Ja took Jo, Lore, Jean, Sabrine and me on his little boat. We headed out on the river to the mangroves, trees that grow in the water. We navigated narrow passages and saw oysters clinging from the roots. And then a dead end … roots hanging down in a semi-circular wall of silence. Truly a place to meditate.

Then it was back out on the open water, skimming across the surface and waving “Bonjour!” to folks in other boats. We were heading towards an island where Jo says people have lived for millions (!) of years, up until about a hundred years ago. For all those eternities, the people ate shellfish, and dropped the shells on the ground. Now there is a long and tall hill, about 100 feet high, composed entirely of shells. Grasses and bushes have grown over the remains of many centuries. The biabab trees stand way above the surface of the land. I crawled inside one and looked out at my friends. It was a sacred space.

As the sun declined, we were back on the boat, destined for a tiny island in the river. And then the birds began to gather on the branches – huge white cranes, large black ones and pelicans. For a half hour, we saw them soar in from all directions, over the low trees. Many hundreds of flying beings were settling down for the night. And we puny human beings got to watch, mostly in silence. Reverence.

There’s much more to come but soon we’ll be walking together to the next village. À bientot!

Day Twelve: It’s All About the Kids

When I’ll remember this trip to Senegal, it’s possible that the overwhelming image in my mind will be looking deep into the eyes of the children. Such as today. Lieselot, Sabrine, Anja, Curd, Camille, Olivia and I are staying at the bed and breakfast, and this morning we walked over to Lydia and Jo’s home. As we came through the gate, Iced Tea’s daughter Nima was sweeping grass off the dirt of the front yard. The broom was so much bigger than her, but she was brushing for all she was worth.

The big group of us walked over to the store. In front stood an old man named Moustafa and his donkey Black. On the cart behind were many bags of rice, to be distributed by us to fifteen families whose children Lydia and Jo sponsor.

We set off to the first home. I said hi to lots of people throughout the morning, some of whom spoke only French and a Senegalese dialect, and others who only knew the local language. No matter. We made meaning.

Aziz, one of Jo and Lydia’s kids, took my hand as we walked and held on for half an hour or more. Father and son in my mind. Wow. Aziz’s older brother Ansou walked with us for awhile, often flashing a wide smile.

In front of one home, the family had a darling little girl. Several of us took turns holding her. Me too. What a treasure in my arms.

Mareama helped me yesterday to have a pair of Senagalese pantaloons made, and today she and I picked them up from the tailor. As you’ll see from the pic, I’m basically a handsome African fellow.

We’ll talk again soon.

Day Eleven Some More: Hands

So simple this. A group of us were walking to a store that sells rice. Lydia wants to give good quality rice to the families of the kids she supports. We deliver it tomorrow morning, and it will be much appreciated.

We were strolling down the back streets of Toubacouta. And two of Lydia’s kids were with us. I was struggling to learn their names and suddenly the boys stopped. One of them picked up a stick and drew “Ali” in the sand. Then the other fellow grabbed the stick and drew “Aziz”. So there we have it … the names of my new friends.

As we walked on, Ali took my left hand and Aziz the right. For the first time in my life, I believe, I felt like “dad”. Words cannot express the joy that flooded through me. An astonishing experience. I know I would have been a good dad and today, for a few minutes, I got to live beyond the yearning for fatherhood. Such a fortunate man I am.

Back at Lydia’s home, Aziz sat beside me at the table and let his arm touch mine. Oh my. Time stood still.

There’s something astonishing happening in Toubacouta. A Canadian fellow is experiencing love flowing, from within and from without. It’s a gift beyond my dreams.

What does this all mean? I feel a supreme opening of the heart – beyond language, beyond skin colour, beyond environment. I am blessed.

Goodnight, my friends. I await the drums.

Day Eleven: Transcendent Moments

I woke up this morning at 6:00 am to two strains of music. A lone Muslim singer started a prayer and a group responded in kind. Again and again. At the same time roosters were greeting the day, calling to each other across the village. Melody and harmony taking turns in the embrace of life. Oh my … where am I on my planet and in my heart?

We shared a community dinner last night at the B&B – all sixteen of us. Eddy and his staff prepared a delicious meal featuring chicken, pork and some veggies I didn’t know. But the real deliciousness was the people, each one with two shining eyes. I was at a table for nine and at one point there were three Flemish conversations going on. I sat back and listened to the music. My friends balanced beautifully their need to chat with family in their own language and their care for me, sometimes venturing into the world of English. Very sweet to be loving the teeter totter.

Twice during the evening, there was sadness. A young woman who was our server suddenly turned from us in tears. She walked away. Lydia got up immediately, followed our Senegalese friend and put her arm around her. Lydia told me later that a fellow had recently died in the woman’s arms. Oh my … something I’ve never experienced.

Then one member of our three families also walked away and sat down on the other side of the courtyard. The head dropped. A loved one went over and they spent a few minutes together. Love lives.

This morning several of us walked to the market. Fresh fish, vegetables, clothing … so much was available. I roamed around and greeted the people who were selling. Very little French on my part, no English on theirs. No matter. Eyes will do nicely.

Jo showed me his Senegalese pantaloons this morning – so colourful- and I wanted a pair. Lydia knew a woman who could make one for me so Lore and the seamstress set off with me to find material. Red, blue and green beckoned me and soon a metre was mine. Tomorrow or the day after, I can look just like Jo! As soon as I can send photos again by Facebook, I’ll do a fashion show for you.

Our travels took us past.the home of a woman Lydia knew. We went inside. A tiny girl was lying in her mother’s arms, gasping. After we left, I asked Lydia what could be done for the little girl. “Nothing. May she die soon.” When a member of a typical village Senegalese family gets very sick, there are no medical services available. So intensely sad.

As we walked the streets, saying hi to this person and that, I saw an old woman coming towards us. She was stooped over and was carrying two buckets. She dropped slowly into a chair and started spreading her vegetables on a table. We talked, most non-verbally. Rancine is (Are you ready for this?) 100 years old. With the smile of a child. Next to us sat her great great great great (!) grandson. The three of us just hung out together. Then Rancine’s great great great granddaughter came to be with us. Amazingly, I was home. And then we waved goodbye.

The last image I’ll leave with you came to me as a small group of us sat outside a tiny bar, each sipping their favourite beverage. Across the way, a girl in a blue dress sat on a chair. Between her legs sat a young kid, most likely her sister. The older was braiding the younger’s hair. I looked over for thirty seconds or so and the older girl seemed to be making eye contact with me. I waved. She waved. It was so beautiful. Such grace just doesn’t happen in Canada, as far as I know.

That’s enough for now. Transcendent moments indeed. And more to come.

Day Ten: Toubacouta Tour

I slept till noon and it could have been far more. The kids were lounging by the pool and there were no adults in sight. I had the thought that they were still sleeping but I found out they’d all gone over to Jo and Lydia’s house. After breakfast, they had decided to let me sleep. I got about five hours of shuteye – their total must have been two or three. And how exactly did they manage that?

I put my Speedo on (!) and sat by the pool a bit. My slow brain finally figured out that the kids needed to be with their friends – no adults please. By this time Jan, the father of another clan, had dropped by. He offered to walk me over to the house because I didn’t know where it was.

Outside of the B&B, I saw the real Toubacouta. Small cement homes, lots of folks walking, the occasional goat or chicken, dirt streets, a few stalls for selling things. Not at all what I experience on the other side of the world.

As Jan and I walked into the house, Lydia was there to greet us, dressed in a flowing African robe of many colours. We all had slept well. She had asked Iced Tea to drive me around the village on his motorbike. The smiling man was clearly happy to do so.

We visited some neighbours of his, often folks who were standing outside of a business. Everyone seemed to be happy. On one stop, we met his mother and a young woman peeling some vegetable. Instant smiles came my way. Mom-in-law especially glowed. After we set off again, me holding Iced Tea’s waist from the rear, he told me “I like you. I will do anything to have you be happy here.” And he absolutely meant it.

Iced Tea took me to see his house under construction. It was basically just a foundation. He stood in each room, proudly pointing to bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room. He held up a concrete brick as I snapped his picture, so proud of his future.

I told Iced Tea that the boy I tutor wanted to contribute to the village, and that I had decided to put the money into his home. His eyes widened and he surrounded me in a hug. Thank you never felt so good.

Later on the ride, Iced Tea stopped at a neighbour’s, and a 3-year-old girl bounced toward him. She settled in front of her dad with tiny hands on the handlebars. We were three for awhile. So sweet.

Iced Tea took me to the local hotel where several of our group were sitting at the bar, enjoying a drink. A few cheek kisses later, we were laughing. I paid for Iced Tea’s Coca -Cola when he wasn’t looking.

***

It’s now many hours later, almost midnight, and I’m writing this in bed. Out in the distance there’s the sound of drums. A soloist sings a line and then a chorus responds. It’s a goodnight that I’ve never experienced. May it come my way again, both on this trip and many times in the future.