Last night I was walking under an umbrella from Lydia’s place to my room at Keur Saloum. The rain was angling down. Although there were occasional street lights on the red road, it was pretty dark.

From out of the raindrops came a line of soldiers, holding their rifles, walking silently except for their boots. My guess is that there were 200 of them. It was surreal.

***

This morning I headed off to say hi and goodbye to a family that had hosted me for a noontime meal eighteen months ago. This visit I had talked briefly with them but didn’t linger. Today I lingered. We remember each other well … the kindness that went in both directions.

I made out from a daughter’s French words that they wanted to see the photo I took of mom and newborn. I tried to explain that my phone was stolen a few weeks ago and that I had lost all my pictures. I couldn’t remember the word for “steal” and there was no Internet for Google Translate to help me. (Sigh) Soon we smiled our goodbyes.

***

This evening we leave Toubacouta for Belgium. Our travel time is 24 hours, including a six-hour layover in Casablanca, Morocco. It’s been a bittersweet trip for me – some marvelous conversations and other shining moments with people AND being physically overwhelmed with the heat. Once I was delirious, sputtering out nonsense words. And now I’m just plain wasted, so little left to give.

I’m staying in the aircool today during the hottest hours, conserving energy for the going home. I pray that I’ll be okay when I get to Belgium.

Here are a few final photos:

The regular group of guys playing checkers in the shade, moving beyond the heat of the afternoon. This is a daily ritual and I could see the huge joy and competitive spirit it brought to the players

Africa caring for Europe … Gnima braiding Olivia’s hair

Sunset over the river at Toubacouta

***

Thank you for accompanying me on the journey. It’s been a privilege to share this time with you

Youssoupha and I went to the mosque in Toubacouta yesterday. I wanted to experience the Muslim religion while surrounded by believers. The prayers were in one of the native languages – perhaps Wolof.

I arrived before Youssoupha and sat under a tree facing the cement walls of the mosque. The first photo shows the tower, where the imam calls the faithful to worship. One of the boys in the shade is carrying a prayer mat on his head. The blue door is to the mosque, inside of which men and boys sit. Women sit in the building with the windows.

It was just about time for prayers to start and I hadn’t seen Youssoupha so I left my tree and walked through the gate. My long white robe was topped off with grey hair and many eyes were on me.

In the second photo you see a group of worshippers who chose to be together outside of the walls. On the right is a large tree, a mango I think. As I entered the grounds, at least fifty men and boys had spread their prayer mats under the tree in several long left-to-right lines. I joined the end of the last line.

The man to my left gestured for me to spread my orange yoga mat flush with his mat. Soon I was joined on the right by a young fellow who snuggled his mat against mine. There were no smiles but there were nods. The presence of the white guy was being accepted.

The imam started chanting over the loudspeaker. It was a staccato voice … short bursts of words. Often a rising in volume. Sometimes it felt like more yelling than singing. The men’s heads were bowed. There were call-and-response sections, when the people would reply in what seemed to be a low collective groan but eventually I could hear unknown words in there.

The parishioners before me sat in their coloured robes (no shorts allowed) with their legs splayed in different directions. Everyone needed to take off their sandals before praying and I got to see the sight of many bare, upside down feet. Never before have I seen such a display of one big toe and four little ones. It was a broad span of digital art.

Suddenly everyone was standing so I stood too. There were motions of the arms that I didn’t try to repeat. Then we were down on all fours. The Muslim worshippers often had their foreheads to their mats. I didn’t do that. I followed just the basics.

There was a huge reverence in the space. Often the man to my left had his hands straight in front, and he seemed to be speaking to them.

Basically I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew no words. I was the subject of some folks’ attention. And I felt at home. We were together in the contemplation of something bigger than the daily round.

It is good

We went to the mangroves today, delayed from yesterday.  After I said a few words, Baziel, Lore and Lydia walked to the river and scattered Jo’s ashes on the water, just as he wanted.  Solemn, sacred and sad.

Here’s pretty much what I said:

This is a special place.  Jo and Lydia used to come here a lot, searching for hyena tracks.  Jo asked that his ashes be scattered on the river by Toubacouta … and the river is right over there.

Jo grew up in Oudenaarde.  I imagine him goofing around with his friends just like Lore and Baziel do with theirs.

Jo could have had a local life, centred on Oudenaarde, Ronse and Ghent, but somewhere along the line, he must have realized that he was a man of the world. 

Jo fell in love with Lydia, who grew up in the Congo.  Together they fell in love with Senegal.  When Lore came along, he fell in love with her.  Then he fell in love with Baziel.

One of Jo’s favourite spots was the round bar at Keur Saloum in Toubacouta.  He knew that‘s where people come to order drinks and no doubt he had many fine conversations there.

Jo also welcomed everyone to the outdoor living room at home.  Everyone showed up at his and Lydia’s place.

It‘s usual to think of someone who has died in the past tense.  Jo’s body is dead but I say his soul lives on.  We can be with Jo by just thinking of him.

But if we want a special time with Jo, whether it’s Lydia (Jo’s wife) Lore and Baziel (Jo’s children) Marie-paule (Jo’s mother-in-law) or we friends of Jo …

We can come

right

here

There are eight of us who eat breakfast together at Auberge La Praline.  It’s often a special time of laughing.  But today was my last one.  I’m moving to the Keur Saloum hotel.

I value togetherness, connection.  And yet I’m saying no to my friends at breakfast.  Keur Saloum has a generator, so I won’t have to worry about the electricity (and air conditioning) dying.  I won’t repeat the pain of a few nights ago.

My adult life has been about service … you first, then me.  Not this time.  As I get older, what I can handle physically gets less in some situations.  Extreme heat and humidity is certainly one of those.  So hello, Keur …  I will see my dear friends in the cooler parts of the day and in the evening.

***

I was sitting on the terrace of the Keur Saloum this morning, looking over the river at Toubacouta. A young black man comes by, wearing a flowing yellow robe. He extends his arms towards the water and begins speaking. There’s a lovely flow to his words, in a language I don’t know.

After a few minutes he stops and looks back at me. We smile.

“Tu pries?” I ask. (Are you praying?)

He smiles again and seems to shake his head.

A bit later he returns to his posture and speaking, this time accompanied by a cameraman. After the session is complete, he takes off the robe and dons another one, full of vertical blue, yellow and orange stripes. And then the two of them walk away.

Soon I too stand at the rail. I think I hear the same voice … far away. Down at the dock there’s a young man in a blue, yellow and orange robe being filmed.

Sometimes I get it right

Sometimes I get it wrong

***

Today we’ll go to the mangroves near Toubacouta. Jo’s wish was that his ashes be spread in Senegal, on the waters of the river. Today Lydia, Lore and Baziel will do that, accompanied by some dear Belgian friends. I will tell you tomorrow of the beauty we discover.

Yesterday was the lunch and party for the twenty kids whom we Belgian folks sponsor.

I was in bed trying to sleep and locate my head when the festivities started. I expected to be absent from it all. But Lydia knocked on my door, unwilling to have me miss an event that I’ve loved. And she promised that I could lie down when I needed to in Baziel and Lore’s well air-conditioned room. Hard to resist!

It was just as I remembered: girls in bright dresses, boys wearing that extra-special something, some women of the village preparing a delicious meal of beef, seasoned rice, manioc, carrots … Kids were colouring in cartoon characters and having their art displayed on a wall of honour. Balloons were being bounced from child to child. A celebration!

Due to a certain dullness of mind, I never thought to take pictures. C’est dommage. (That’s a pity) But two grand photos were taken – of all of us. Senegalese kids and their families, Senegalese teachers, Senegalese cooks and Belgian visitors.

I especially enjoyed the sparkling eyes of a young girl when they met mine. And such a smile. Apparently she has a mental disability but she’s a champion of connection. I can’t remember her name … but I will not forget her.

There was a visitor at Lydia’s today whom I remember well. Eddy was a bartender at Keur Saloum before he retired. He was famous for making excellent Pelicans (an exotic form of gin-and-tonic). His son, in his 20s, is battling a life-threatening disease. “Je prie pour ton fils” I told him. (I am praying for your son)

I wandered a bit before retiring to my aircool in the heat of the afternoon. (It works!) How about a football game on a patch of bare earth between houses? The price was right. The kids were giving their all. What could be better? And I didn’t need to know the score.

I’ve been to matches in Toronto and Vancouver surrounded by 25,000 fans. Even though the energy of the cheering (and singing!) human beings was immense, I prefer the Toubacouta flow of the game.

***

That feels like enough for today

See you when we’re older

Once again, there’s an elephant in the room.  It’s essentially the same elephant and I don’t want to bore you with repetition.  However, it is real.

I could tell you about my pretty wallpaper, or the latest piece of furniture I’ve bought, but neither of those sing.  And I want to be full volume.  You may like the music … or maybe not.

So here goes …

I went to bed around 11:00 and immediately fell asleep.  At midnight the electricity failed … and stayed that way all night.  No air conditioning.

The fear returned, that I wouldn’t sleep, that I might even die.  (I’m so creative in my tormenting thoughts.)

The sweat poured. The hands shook. I saw the overwhelm coming and I couldn’t stop it. But I had an idea. I had packed one pair of jeans and the accompanying underwear. I went to the bathroom and soaked the Jockeys under the sink’s tap. Then I laid it on my forehead and let the water drip. There followed copious rubbing of the face and neck. I’d guess I did this at least twenty times throughout the night.

Panic came and subsided … again and again. Partway through the night, I realized that my breathing was laboured. The air was “close”. The only ventilation was a small window way up high in the room with the toilet, and another for the shower room. I took the chair and moved it into the toilet room. The breathing was easier. I thought of standing on the chair to be closer to the window but I realized I was too woozy to do that safely.

Then back to bed and underwear … then chair …

In the wee hours, I saw that my mind was going to some strange place. Clear thinking was morphing into spurts of phrases. I was lost somewhere.

About 6:00 am, I heard a human noise outside. I pulled on some clothes and rushed out. An elderly fellow was sweeping. I heard my voice saying something about “aircool” in French, the words slurring. His response was rapid and I couldn’t understand a word. His face shimmered.

Eventually another employee, who speaks English, said he’d phone the air conditioning technician > no answer. My body twisted away and wobbled to my room. Bed, underwear, chair.

Finally the manager said the technician was on his way. As muddled as I was, I decided not to stay here anymore. I’d walk to the Keur Saloum hotel to get a room for the remainder of our stay. The Keur has far more dependable electricity and aircool.

Half-an-hour later, one of the managers at the Keur told me they were totally booked for Tuesday and Wednesday nights but I could have a room starting on Thursday.

Back to the Auberge, increasingly unsteady. The technician had fixed the aircool. (Sadly, the fix only lasted two hours.)

Anja and Curd, two Belgian friends, came to the room and heard the slurring, saw the no doubt glazed eyes, heard me yelling.

I was crazy. (There’s a word for that that I’m not currently remembering!) Ahh … delirious.

“Where’s my key?!” Curd was the kind recipient. They gave me more water and something to help me sleep and put me to bed … with love.

Later the aircool failed again … and fixed again.

I could go on and on but I’m sure the story is clear:

It was one of the worst nights of my life

To be followed by, I’m sure …

By many of the best nights of my life!

I love talking to people, finding out what’s important to them.  I love being out and about, wandering around, wondering about what I see.

However …

Right now I’m alone.  I’m in my room.  It’s 2:00 pm.  Just me and the air conditioning.

This morning around 1:00, the air conditioner stopped.  No electricity.  A minute later it restarted.  This process repeated five times, with different timings, over the next hour.

I was scared … relieved … scared …  However irrational the fear was, it was there.  If the rest of my night was attempting to sleep in a 28 degrees Celsius room, I would survive.  I’d drink lots of water.

One time when the air conditioner said goodbye, I gave it the finger.  How nasty of me.  Another time, a minute after the “21” light went out, I pointed to the unit near the ceiling.  Ten seconds later I had aircool again!  I decided that I’ll try this with human beings.  I’ll just point at them and they’ll do what I want them to do.  Easy peasy.

During the day yesterday, I decided to leave the air conditioning on when I was out … at 27.  “I’ll be kind to the Auberge owners, cut down on their electricity bill.”  I was forgetting about one part of the human equation – me!  I’d guess, even without the wee hours interruption, it takes 4-6 hours to bring the temperature down from 27 to 21.  That’s a chunk of time offering sporadic sleep. 

I hereby declare to take better care of myself.

***

I imagine this is of marginal interest to you but mild diarrhea is my current companion.  Another good reason to be in my room.  This is far better than the pain of constipation, my usual bedfellow when I travel to Africa.  How strange this roaming life is.

***

The electricity just went out again, along with the coolness.  What’s there to be done?  Niet.  On I go into the mysteries.

An hour ago, I looked up The Weather Network, to see if the predicted storm was really coming.  The radar map precipitation function wasn’t working but what I saw on my phone was this:

Sometimes the obvious escapes me

I’m in Africa!  I’m a long ways from what I know.  And I am fine

***

And then, just when I thought the whole world was hot and dry, this happens:

Life sends us miracles

We are together.  I can feel it in Senegal.  Race, language, country, gender, age … no matter.  And last night I witnessed a vivid example.  Lore (a Belgian woman) sharing her phone with two Senegalese girls (Gnima and Sow-ya-too).  (I don’t know how to spell her name.)  Three bright faces, united in delight.

Later someone cranked up the music – and there was dancing!

Not a toe touching the floor.  The three were joined by Lydia, then Marie-paule … but not by me.  (Sigh)  I was exhausted.  Wiggling a few fingers would have been too much.  I sat, watching the exploding bodies.  And I was sad.  “Bruce dances.”  Except not then.  This morning, as I lay in bed, I smiled about all this.  I can declare “I am A” all I want but sometimes “I am B.”

The Desiderata advises us to “gracefully surrender the things of youth”.  Yes.  But I surrender dancing only in moments for the time being.  When I’m 90, may I still be moving and grooving … with my walker!

***

I had lunch yesterday by myself at Chez Boom.  Spaghetti Bolognese.  The cheese especially was magnificent.  Boom’s terrace is perfect for watching the world go by on the red road.

No one seems to be in a hurry, even on the motos.  There’s usually room for a “Ça va?”

Animals roam wild in Toubacouta.  Here are two donkeys doing what’s most important: eating grass.  At other times, cows, chickens, goats or sheep may wander along.  And by the way, the white paint is to prevent ants from eating the wooden poles.

***

A few of us walked to the market this morning, before the heat started blasting our eyeballs.  On a quiet street there came the sound of music from afar.  I just had to stop at the crescendo – this building of corrugated metal:

Through the open window came a woman’s song.  It was call-and-response, and the responses were more yelling than singing.  Lots of kids gave it their all, over and over again.  I listened in wonder for five minutes, imagining the sweating faces, the wide-open mouths, and I hope the smiles.  It was mesmerizing.

Arriving at the market, my body had discovered its full sweat-creating abilities.  I sat on a low wall in the shade, watching the panorama of colourful dresses, the displays of veggies, the virtually universal blackness of skin.  Another home for me.

A little boy, maybe 5, came close.  He did what very few adults are willing to do.  His eyes met mine for a long time.  We were silent together. He reached out his small hand and I put my large one under it. He walked away, to be with his three sisters, and to no doubt talk about the white guy. I waved. They waved back.

My friend returned. Our hands and our eyes came together again. Silence once more. And then back to his family.

I was ready to find my Belgian friends. I walked over to the four young Senegalese folks and smiled. We waved goodbye.

Contact

It was only 11:00 am, sitting in Lydia’s outdoor living room.  Here’s my view:

The heat took me.  I was overwhelmed.  Lydia offered me a reclining piece of lawn furniture.  I took off my glasses, lay back and closed my eyes.  The dark world spun.

It was time to let go … of thinking I could be good at this.  It’s temperatures and humidity that I’ve never known.

For a long time I’ve been fascinated by how I can respond when I’m not good at something.  There’s a grace in loosening all the muscles and brain cells … and letting it all be.

After a few minutes of repose, I realized that I had to get back to the air conditioning of my room at Auberge La Praline.  It’s only a 300-metre walk and it was strange to wonder if I’d make it.  Lydia saw what was happening and accompanied me home.  I was unsteady.

Then it was sleep as 23 degrees Celsius wafted over me.

***

We ate at Chez Boum last night, a simple and loving ma and pop restaurant on Toubacouta’s main street – the “red road”.  Ten of us broke into two Flemish conversations – one for the adults and one for the teens/twenty-somethings.  The eleventh was me, sitting in the middle of flying words.

Lydia translated some of the adult stuff but I’ve learned to be happy with the glow of Dutch, such as when everyone busts a gut laughing at a joke while I sit there like a Buddha.

Last night my thoughts drifted away to two places.  One was a far away tree, similar to the one you see in the photo.  The breeze touched the highest branches and made them laugh.  I laughed too … just a tiny one.

The red road was fading to dark but for about two hours a tan-coloured dog lay sleeping at the edge.  Hardly a disturbing moment.

Past the doggie, motos and trucks rumbled by. On the near side, people walked close. No matter. It was time to snooze. I watched the long repose intently. May I be so relaxed in my human life.

***

That’s enough thinking for one day. And enough writing. Slow and easy for the rest of the hours …

À demain

Until tomorrow

Here in Senegal, French is the European language and then there are several native languages.  When I’m surrounded by French words flying every which way, I easily get exhausted.  I catch a few words in each sentence, but the meaning blows by me, especially if the speaking is fast.

Oh well.  It’s part of life … being with friends whose first language isn’t mine.  There’s a different flavour when my Belgian friends and I are sitting around the dinner table.  The language is Flemish, and since I know very few words, the conversation feels like music.  It rolls over me.  I’m not trying to understand anything.

***

It was 7:00 am this morning and a choir was coming by.  I heard the chant from far away … and then so close.  It was joyous.  It was crammed with energy.  It rose and fell and then rose again.  And softly faded from my reposing body.  Turns out that it was the military parading through Toubacouta.

***

Our neighbours in Auberge La Praline are also from Belgium.  They were leaving this morning for another town in Senegal.  One woman, whose name I never learned but who had a great smile, was laden down with two backpacks.  I had never seen anything like it:

I kidded her that those bags were just full of air but the strain on her face said otherwise.

***

Yesterday I found a marvelous painting of a baobob – the classic tree of Senegal.  I wanted it for my guest bedroom in Ghent, which has orange walls.  The question was whether it would fit in my luggage.  The owner of the jewelry shop didn’t have a tape measure but he gave me a length of wire.  We measured the length of the painting.  Back home at the Auberge, the length would just fit.  Then I measured the width of the suitcase.  Back at the shop today, the width of the painting was slightly less.  Yay!  A baobob will grow in Ghent.

***

And now the big questions:

Can I stay happy in this heat?

Can I stay kind in this heat?

Here’s me in today’s uniform:

The headband is not an adornment.  It’s essential.

I’m learning to rest in the afternoon.  To give myself the air conditioning when it’s working.  To slow right down.  My head often wavers in slowness of thought.  Sometimes I make bad decisions.  Here’s one:

My friend Boon-dow lives across the street from Lydia.  I don’t know how to spell her name but that’s how you say it.  I was walking by with my cherished baobob tree.  I thrust the painting into her arms and started walking away … a stunt I’ve done dozens of times.  Then I swirl back and run towards her with open arms.  She runs away!  I chase.  And around and around we go.

I stagger away, complete with laughs and a painting.  But this isn’t the moderate temperatures of Canada.  This is the searing heat of Senegal.  Soon I’m doubled over on the edge of a swoon.

Really dumb, Bruce!

I hereby declare my commitment to be careful in this heat.  It’s a word I’m not entirely familiar with

On we go