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.

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