Monthly Archives: January 2020

Day Twenty-Seven: Bus Load and a Ball

My phone is taking a rest today and happily I’ve been able to make my laptop work.  An unexpected solution, given the ups and downs of the Internet here. The dust of Senegal has found its way into my phone ports, and my friend Nano has taken it away for a hoped for cleaning.

Wow … here comes a smile. It doesn’t matter if my phone gets fixed in Senegal. It doesn’t matter if my phone gets fixed in San Francisco. And it doesn’t matter if my phone gets fixed! What kind of strange universe am I living in?

***

There’s a lovely story to tell, and the lovely pictures won’t be accompanying the words. They’re on my phone.  No problemo.

I wanted to tuck myself into the end of the tiny patio of Chez Boum.  Blessed by a Flag, I would read more from The White Giraffe, a marvelous book about the adventures of 12-year-old Martine in South Africa. The beer went down easily, as did the story.

And then the bus, a luxury one full to the brim with white-skinned tourists.  They seemed to skip off the vehicle for a first touch of Toubacouta earth.  I heard French and, I think, German. The tour guide came towards me as the folks were occupying two long tables. I asked him if he needed mine, and he nodded yes, without a smile.  I took my chair and rested it near the “Chex Boum” sign painted on a wall.  Shade was still mon ami.

I interspersed reading about Martine with glances over to the arrivals. They seemed to be a happy bunch. I made eye contact with a few of them.  My smiles were not returned. Oh well. I can live with that.

After the group had finished eating, some of them walked around.  They stayed together in pairs or little groups except for a woman with her camera. She knelt down and talked to three local kids. I’m glad someone did.

As Martine made eye contact with a young giraffe, I could feel a presence off to the side. Then those same three children moved right in front of me. They were each saying the same word, which I didn’t recognize. It came clear that they wanted me to give them something.

I arrived in Senegal with five deflated beach balls, the idea of a girl named Sophie back in Belmont.  Trying to blow up the first one, I ripped a tiny hole in the plastic. Tiny was plenty big enough because the ball would no longer hold air. The next three balls went to various gloms of Senegalese kids.  So there was one left, conveniently deposited in my backpack.  I took it out and started blowing.  The young ones stared.

So did many of the tourists. A few of them laughed at my lengthy efforts to make a flat thing spherical. I laughed back, feigning exhaustion.  After several minutes, I had a real ball, splashed with colours. (I think they were red, white and blue, but the evidence is in my newly departed phone.)

The deed being done, I lofted the ball over the girl facing me. She turned and watched it fall to the ground, and didn’t go to chase it. Eventually a boy picked it up and brought it back to me. I threw it over his head. Soon the ball was flying through the air among three kids, and I was forgotten. Many of the bus riders were watching the action closely.  We smiled together.

The kids disappeared down the street with their treasure. The bus filled and backed up. As it pulled away, there were many waves between the riding Germans and French and the standing Canadian.

Day Twenty-Six: Vive La Différence

It was so simple … my great friend Lydia wanted me to taste my favourite flavour. So Marie-paule and Fatou whipped up some penne for lunch, to be adorned with pesto. Ahh … the only thing better than pesto pasta is love.

The family sat down to share the blessed feast with me. Lydia remarked that it’s so unusual for Senegalese folks to eat pasta in the middle of the day. The tradition is rice. And so my friends with their forks were being jolted, while for me it was a natural event.

The previous day, at dinner, pasta also made an appearance, along with a sauce full of unknown goodies. I put a spoonful on my plate. Fatou drew in her breath as she saw my move. I mixed the sauce in with the noodles and got my fork in action. Yum – lots of flavour. Twenty seconds later the burn went deep. I reached for the glass in front of me. “Water won’t help,” offered Lydia. She was right. Grin and bear it for a few minutes … Woh. No more of that. However, lots more of that for Moustapha and Fatou. They yummed their way through plates of fire.

Hmm. A bit different, you and me. And isn’t that what makes the world go ’round?

Sometimes on the patio, I hum opera or Beatles songs. Eyes travel my way. I also love flourishes aloft with my hands, and a pirouette or two. The audience pauses to wonder.

Coming towards me from most every person approaching is “Ça va?” (How’s it going?). It’s expected that my response will be “Ça va” (I’m well), perhaps augmented by “Très bien” (Very well). It’s considered impolite to not give a verbal response. A smile and a wave is not enough.

If it’s in the morning, most Senegalese humans will also ask “Bien dormi?” (Did you sleep well?) I’m not sure how much of that is a true concern for me and how much a ritual. After so many a.m. conversations that went this way, I got really bored with it and replied “Non, je n’avais pas dormi depuis huit nuits.” (No, I haven’t slept for eight nights) Now that was impolite, but I couldn’t resist.

I love periods of silence. I love meditating. As I mentioned yesterday (or was it two days ago? No matter), here in Africa what mostly happens is large gatherings of virtually non-stop conversation, in languages I don’t understand. Maybe I’m exaggerating this contrast, but there’s definitely a difference.

There’s no “better and worse” in all this. Our life experiences and perspectives are sometimes foreign to the other. I figure that’s as it should be.

The world doesn’t need a whole bunch of Bruce’s around every corner. We need large portions of Zidane, Youssoupha, Mariama, Bakerie, Gnima, Nano, Ousmane, Abdul, Luc, Arlette, Anja, Revi, Camille, Pascal, Liesbet, Jo, Lydia, Lore, Baziel, Pil, Jo Jo, Iddy, Kebas, Astou …

… as well

Day Twenty-Five: No Deficit

Sometimes you need to protect yourself from the heat of the sun.

I was sitting in the Jean-Jacques pub yesterday, off in a corner, writing a blog post. My only companion was a very large beer. I had said bonjour to a big table of Senegalese men and women when I walked in but I knew I wanted to be alone. A few of them returned my greeting with some fast French. I smiled and placed a chair under the shade of a mango tree.

For the next hour-and-a-half, I tapped my screen and found photos. In the background was a non-stop conversation en français and Warlof. Really … nobody seemed to come up for air! I didn’t understand any of it. There was a tall and imposing fellow in a long robe and a hat that reminded me of a woven basket. He spoke loudly, authoritatively, with his index finger poised for emphasis. Others replied to him just as sharply. Were people excited? Angry? In love? I couldn’t tell.

Here I am in the beginning stages of learning a foreign language, with ancient years of high school French, and I didn’t recognize anything these folks were saying. It was so tempting to fall into badness. I’ve done so many a time on this trip – not being able to find the noun, adjective or verb that fits; having no idea how to conjugate a verb so that people know whether I’m talking about the future or the past; leaning unsuccessfully into the kind efforts of a native speaker to go slowly. But not this time.

As I sat there with my double-sized Flag, I saw some truths:

1. I’m surrounded by Senegalese human beings who speak French, Warlof and Serai but only a soupçon of English, if any.

2. I’m doing my best to speak and understand sentences that fly towards me, usually at supersonic speed.

3. With the exception of Lydia (now) and Jo (earlier), there is no one here with whom I can carry on a nuanced conversation.

4. I love talking to people about important things, especially what their lives are like, what they’re experiencing, what visions they hold. With the Senegalese, and with almost all the tourists I’ve met, that’s not available here. I miss the depth of talking.

5. At home, my life feels balanced among being alone, being with one other person, and being in a small group. Here what dominates is groups (large and small) – family, friends. Of course those are marvelous opportunities for togetherness but my balance is way off.

6. I need to spend some time in the shade, away from the intensity of group conversation in French.

7. Rather than feeling “less than”, the opportunity for me is to allow in words such as “courage”, “pioneer” and “sufficiency”. Yes, I can do that.

8. I can also laugh at my mistakes. “J’ai chaud” literally means “I have heat”. More conversationally, it’s “I’m hot”. However, “Je suis chaud” tells my companion that “I’m sexy”. Perhaps I should stick with “J’ai chaud”!

***

Now there is a lightness
Now there is a smile
Now there is peace

Day Twenty-Four: Longing

The Evolutionary Collective welcomed 125 people from near and far to its New Year’s Day Internet call. Patricia Albere, the founder of the organization, led us in exploring the topic of “longing”. Part of our time together was in groups of two and three. We looked at what aspects of society we’d like to say goodbye to. Later, what were our visions for the world we’d love to inhabit?

I felt into the questions and stayed open to the images that wanted to emerge. There was no “figuring it out”.

Here’s what I’m saying no to:

1. So rarely do we physically touch each other.

2. Kids respond rather than initiate. Their ideas are not as important as those of adults.

3. We are afraid of each other. Our tendency is to move away rather than go towards.

4. I’m right and you’re wrong.

5. “Home” is our own needs and wants.

And then there’s the vision of what is yet to be:

1. We laugh together at how silly life is.

2. We look deeply into each other’s eyes. We linger there … and feel the beauty.

3. We value ideas from whomever they spring, regardless of age, gender, status or what your peers think.

4. We go slow, seeing the moments of the world unfold before us, and we smile at what is revealed.

5. We hug, easily and often, including all in our positive regard.

It was a lovely two hours together. With Zoom technology, we could see 25 folks at once on our laptop screens. A simple click and there were 25 more faces. The infinite variety and grace of human beings was on full display. It was a privilege to come together like this.

***

Earlier, I sat in a comfy chair near Keur Saloum’s pool. To my left was a black family: mom, dad, son and yappy little dog. They were talking in English, and clearly enjoying each other’s presence. I decided to let them be. My vision for the future revolves around reaching out to new humans but it didn’t seem right to be intruding into their joy. The power of contact, however, was initiated by an unexpected being – the little doglet came close and really turned up the barking.

Mom apologized for “Simba”. I smiled and said it was fine. And then it came to me: tell Simba that my name was Mufasa (Simba’s father in The Lion King). So I did. Mom and dad laughed … and we were off to the races.

Where do you live? > For the next year – in Dakar [the capital of Senegal]. After that, back in the United States.

Where in the States > In California

Where in California? > Near San Francisco

Where? > Berkeley

In eight days, I’ll arrive in Berkeley. I’ll be staying for a week > (!)

Oh my. What can be created, what can emerge, when we simply move closer to each other? I think it’s called magic.

I told Penda and Solomon that I volunteer in a Grade 5/6 class in Canada, and that months ago three girls asked me if I would bring them something back from San Francisco. I said yes, in the spirit of rewarding kids who speak up. It turns out that they all wanted a necklace. Actually the very same design: the tree of life.

Do.you know where I could find “tree of life” pendants in Berkeley? > Yes. Your conference site [The David Brower Center] is only a few blocks away from a bunch of street vendors who carry stuff like this. Walk east on Allston Way to Oxford Street. South on Oxford to Bancroft Way. Three blocks east to Telegraph Avenue … et voilà.

So there!
From Toubacouta, Senegal
across the world to Berkeley, California
There is really no distance between us

Day Twenty-Three: Potpourri

Gnima and Baziel

Shells near the water

Nescafé coffee

***

Three things drew me yesterday:

1. The Leaving

We all knew it. At 2:30 pm, a van would give us a honk at the gate and then whisk away Jo, Lore and Baziel back to Belgium. There would be a hole in our family in the sense of physical proximity, certainly not when it comes to love. The day before, I asked Jo how he was feeling about the coming separation and he quite rightly said he didn’t want to talk about it.

We sat on Lydia and Jo’s patio in the early afternoon and talked about this, that and the other thing … not about what was coming next. Baziel, Lore and Lydia were here and there, chatting and doing the last minute packing. I looked at the teens and realized I didn’t know when I’d see them again. But it will definitely happen. I’m part of a Belgian and Senegalese family now. There will be reunions.

Jo and I have shared many fine conversations over the past two weeks. There’ll be another opportunity at Brussels Airport early in the morning of January 9.

The honk did come, and we all turned to each other. There were gentle and lingering hugs between the three human beings and me. The sweetest moment was the farewell of Lydia and Jo … companions in love, with the glistening eyes. As the van pulled away, we moved to the centre of the dirt street to watch it fade to the east and then disappear into a left turn. Goodbye for now, dear friends.

2. So Different … So Much the Same

There are seven million of us across the world. Almost all of us have two arms and two legs. We have skin. We have internal organs. On the other view, we have different languages, personality, culture, skin colour, facial structure, hairstyle, willingness to express ourselves, age, attitude, inclusiveness/exclusiveness. And here we are on Planet Earth, cuddling together, forming a wondrous mosaic. What a privilege to be here with you.

3. Just a Little Package

The coffee here is instant. It comes in tiny packages that mostly don’t respond to my efforts to open them. There’s sometimes a little line that indicates a perforation, but not always. The arthritis in my right thumb seems to be laughing at me as I twist and turn in search of caffeine. The staff have kindly offered me a pair of scissors. Friends across the table don’t seem to need them. In five seconds they’re pouring the contents into their cup. Today I let go and cut the end off the package. Yesterday I grunted. How can a little bit of instant coffee be such a teacher for me? I don’t know … but now it’s me who’s laughing.

On we go