A post mostly of pictures, I hope. But then there was last night’s storm.
It was maybe 4:00 am. The ooing of wind. The slashing of rain. And the sound of water pouring in! Electricity gone. Air conditioning off (and the outside temperature was 28 degrees Celsius). It felt like a disaster movie.
Somehow I got back to sleep. At 8:00 the pouring sound was merely a dribble but I wondered if my bedroom floor was under an inch of water. And in the spirit of Stephen King, I imagined the water had poured through the tiny screened window in the bathroom, depositing a slew of “wee, timorous beasties” on the floor.
Happily, all was dry. The pouring was off the roof.
***
Here are some photos from my day:
The morning aftermath of a nighttime deluge
Visiting Moustapha’s almost completed home. He was so proud
Delivering 50-kg bags of rice to the 20 families we serve
The mother in red thanking us
The local guys
Two lovely members of another family
Daily stuff
Our donkey driver and his steed on a Toubacouta street
Accompanying four jewelry seekers
My friend Ali. I help him out for his education. Maybe he’ll move to Ghent someday
So many images but you may have to rely on my words. We’ll see.
***
Last evening we sat having drinks beside the pool of the Keur Saloum hotel. Then the rainy season showed us its stuff. We were under a roof but two metres away the heavens erupted. Droplets from the sky bounced on the water. A pouring from the roof filled a big bucket in less than a minute, flowing onto the deck. Lore, Curd, Baziel and Olivia did what came naturally … jump in! So many laughs. The pool water was warm and the rain cool.
***
Mamadou and his family wanted to host the eleven of us for lunch today and we were thrilled to accept. CroCro came by with his car and gave lots of us a ride. I chose to walk with the young people. I let them go ahead and smiled to hear the energy of their words. Those words were in Flemish so I didn’t understand.
We were welcomed by Mamadou’s father and his three wives. All were clearly pleased to see us. Then several of Mamadou’s fourteen sibs came by. The tradition for people visiting is to walk around the circle, shaking each person’s hand or giving a kiss on the cheek.
Here’s the group of us, about to enjoy cashews and slices of mango. Fingers crossed that the photo works.
Later we went inside the building you see behind. We sat on the floor (shoes off) in a big circle and enjoyed the contents of four circular pans: fish, rice, manioc, onions, an unknown veggie and two delicious sauces. We each dipped in with a spoon. On the surface, the food was the reason for the meal but the aura of togetherness was far sweeter.
I sat next to Lydia. She told me about a Turkish man she knows in Belgium. He said that in Turkey, when you knock on someone’s door, the host’s first question is “Are you hungry?” Then “Do you have a problem I can help you with?” Sounds like Senegal.
***
As we were walking back to Auberge La Praline, we approached an old man with a grey beard, holding what looked to be prayer beads. Our eyes met. I stopped. We exchanged greetings in French, with our eyes still together. It was timeless.
The thought of taking his picture felt like an intrusion so I didn’t. May I have the privilege of meeting him again.
***
From the spiritual to the mundane (but could they be the same?) The sole of my right running shoe was dislocating from the rest. At Lydia’s home, I asked if she had any tape > No. CroCro was visiting and Lydia suggested that he drive me to the shoemaker in Toubacouta. I said no. I’ll just head off to write my blog.
Hmm … I totally misread the situation. CroCro wanted to help. Me saying no was a diminishment of the spiritual “space”. So I then said yes. CroCro smiled.
Here’s the inside of the shoemaker’s shop:
Imagine the bleating of goats out the window, along with the roar of motos and an occasional “Ça va?” from folks passing by.
Another world. Bright orange flowers. And bright dark-skinned people, some wearing contrasting yellow.
I’m sitting in my friend Lydia’s outdoor living room, in the shade. And the sweat pours down.
Yesterday was the first time I’d seen rain in Senegal … and it sure knows how to pour down in rainy season! Huge puddles sometimes took up half the dirt road.
I’m home here in the smiles, in the constant “Ça va?” greetings. “How are you?” The heat is foreign. The welcomes are lovely.
I walked towards the football (soccer) field that I know well. I’ve seen many a spirited match here, full of exquisite touches, long passes and powerful shots on goal. But yesterday …
NEWS FLASH: At least for today, the Internet isn’t strong enough to send photos. But tomorrow is another adventure!
(Photo of goats sitting on the field)
It must have been half time.
***
This morning a few of us went to the market for veggies. Through the dirt streets of Toubacouta we wandered, Lore holding hands with Gnima, who held hands with her friend. Sweet.
I roamed the market, saying hi to the stall hosts in French but not able to engage in full conversations. But I did come across three young guys selling clothes who understood me. Eventually along came Anja and Sabrine. Sitting on the front step, I pounced:
“Ah, mesdames! J’ai des vêtements beaux pour vous. Et des prixes excellentes”
(Buy my clothes cheap)
No sale but two smiles. Guess I’ll have to work on my pitch
We eleven flew yesterday from Brussels to Dakar, Senegal by way of Casablanca, Morocco. We landed in Dakar today at 1:00 am. There were already twelve hours of travelling and waiting behind us. Fatigue was accumulating.
We were bringing bags of stuff for the kids in Toubacouta as well as our luggage. We trooped out of the airport pushing five very full carts. Our friend Ousmane was waiting for us with a large van that featured a roof rack which was ready for everything.
Another friend – Mamadou – welcomed us at the airport. As I walked outside, here comes a guy introducing himself as “Mamadou’s brother” with a hand that was trying to replace mine on my suitcase handle. I yelled out “No!” and the fellow retreated into the shadows.
Another local man sidled up to me and asked for money, citing all the invaluable help he was giving us. As far as I could tell he had nothing to do with Ousmane. I yelled “No!” again.
It was a huge job for Ousmane and Mamadou to load all our stuff on the roof rack and then tie a tarp down over it. But eventually we were off.
It’s a four-hour ride from Dakar Airport to Toubacouta and we didn’t get going until at least 2:00. My eyes were sinking slowly.
Soon we were stopped by a roadside police officer. The man spoke with some urgency in a language I didn’t know, but Ousmane handled it like a pro … so calm.
Would you believe that four more officers stopped us further along? That is, four more stops. Ousmane had just been the main person hauling heavy containers to the van’s roof and here he was fending off (and sometimes paying off) a crew of uniformed police. I was impressed, even as my body was drifting into nothingness.
Just before 6:00 am, Ousmane felt the luggage shifting. He stopped the van and got to work, with a little help from his friends. I got out for a much needed walk-around. My legs had started to cramp.
6:00 am is the first of five prayer times in the Muslim day. Just down the street behind the van was a well-lit mosque. And a wavering voice sang to eleven tourists from on high. The tones were surreal in the darkness. I took another photo of the street ahead. It was eerie in a sweet way.
We rolled into Toubacouta around 8:00. There’s more to say but my eyes are closing.
Tomorrow will no doubt be another event in the history of mankind
Yesterday Marketa Vondrousova from the Czech Republic won Wimbledon. I’ve long admired her game. She plays left-handed with a flowing grace, mixing in slices and drop shots with her power. There’s a dance.
I read an article this morning about Marketa’s tattoos. There are lots of them. I’m enthralled with one:
No rain … no flowers
I love it when the world’s wisdom comes in small packages. Having my phone stolen turns out to be a minor interruption in the sweetness of my life. The first 48 hours were impaling but now I can sit back and reflect. I see that, although the rain poured down, the shafts of sun now break through the clouds. I found a level of determination that I didn’t know was in me. I refuse to let a thief dictate my happiness. Nor will losing all my photos.
Do you realize how beautiful a rose is?
***
It’s 12:45 pm in Maarkedal, Belgium. At 3:00 we head to the Brussels Airport. We fly to Morocco around 7:00. After a two-hour layover, it’s on to Dakar, Senegal. Then a four-hour bus ride to Toubacouta. We’ll probably arrive around 6:00 am local time (8:00 in Europe).
This is a photo (taken today, with a brand new phone!) of the chef de village of Ghent. He looks rather extinguished, I’d say.
The last time I was in Senegal, a family in Toubacouta gave me this robe. I wore it as I walked the streets … and local folks called out “Chef de village!” I doubt if they were mistaking me for Toubacouta’s imam (a Muslim priest) but it was fun to pretend. I waved a lot.
We leave tomorrow for Senegal. Six hours in the air, four hours in a bus, and probably arriving as the roosters crow at dawn. We have two weeks to be with people – young, old and medium. My French is rusty but my eyes are in good shape. We will connect.
I want to celebrate life with Senegalese folks – to eat together, to dance together, to laugh together. You and you and you and you and me.
There are about ten of us Belgians going. It would have been eleven if my dear friend Jo was still alive. He wanted his ashes scattered on the river by Toubacouta and his wife Lydia is making it happen. It will be a profound family moment for Lydia and her children Lore and Baziel.
***
Yesterday I mentioned Francesca and Katherine. They were the servers at London’s MXO restaurant. They were so kind to me. I wasn’t just “another customer”. Francesca gave me ideas of cool London neighbourhoods to visit: lovely names such as Crouch End and Stoke Newington. Next time … and there definitely will be one of them.
I love the taste of good food, gracefully presented. I love the ambiance, the feeling of sanctuary, in some dining rooms. The romance of candlelight. But even more I love being welcomed, being seen as a valuable human being. I’m “from away”. Katherine and Francesca said “Come over here”.
***
I’ve been recovering my apps today – some success and some disappointment. But you know, I’m alive and healthy. Life is good. And once more I have a red phone case!
I can’t see into your living room, dear reader, but I bet you’re happier than me. I got back to Ghent in the early afternoon and have spent north of five hours making my communication life work again.
I’ve had it with the one in a thousand human beings who rip people off … most especially their cell phones.
Leaning on the counter of my internet service provider as the rep gave me my phone options and tried to encourage me about whether I’d lost everything.
Almost two hours on a phone call with Google, with a most dedicated human being stretching her mind to do all she could for me.
Working on my own to reinstall and recover apps that I need and love.
Here’s the bottom line: we recovered all my contacts and e-mails, and my WhatsApp chats up till mid-June. But all my photos are lost on the wind.
On Sunday we fly to Senegal and at least I have a phone. I can write blog posts and include pictures. Hopefully I can attend a few Evolutionary Collective Zoom meetings. I can e-mail.
Why are there thieves in the world and people who kill? Really in my life I’ve been touched so little by the bad stuff. This is bad but certainly not horrible. Still, I’m grumpy.
I wanted to tell you today about Katherine and Francesca, two marvelous servers at my breakfast place in London. But tight lips do not create sweet words.
There is a positive here: I’m one determined human being. I will make life work if it’s the death of me!
My dear friend Sarah visited me today. Her total travel time to and from London was eight hours. That’s friendship!
I love taking photos to accompany my words but there ain’t none of that till I get a new phone Friday or Saturday in Ghent. So I’ll paint a few pictures with words and you’ll get the idea.
Sarah took me to some big area (?) full of statues. I loved Nelson Mandela. I adjusted my location so he and I were making eye contact. Thank you, Nelson. Same with Winston Churchill. And a leader for women’s rights in Great Britain from the 1920s. I forget her name. My eyes and their eyes: no better no worse.
Then the drama of the huge fountains in Trafalgar Square … with so many people enjoying the world. A tall monument is capped off by a statue of Ricky Nelson, who sang “Hello, Mary Lou”. No, no … wrong guy! It was Lord Nelson.
A lush park full of trees with multi-coloured bark was so lovely. There was a cottage (perhaps from the 1600s) perched by a lake. Plus on an island just off the shore four huge pelicans spread their wings. And when they flew! Size matters.
The exterior of Buckingham Palace left me yawning … basically an immense rectangle with probably far too many bathrooms. But the old buildings downtown, many with faces embedded in the walls, opened my heart to history. And just like Ghent, I was thrilled to see so many folks on the terraces of restaurants, enjoying their friends or families.
As cool as much of the tour was, the real blessing was my tour guide Sarah. We had hours to say silly things and profound things. Both of us were spontaneous, bringing neighbouring human beings into conversation. We made more than a few of them laugh. I like doing that.
I loved Big Ben. It’s huge, and intricate in its brickwork. On my next visit I’m going to sit somewhere beneath it and look long and long.
Too soon, Sarah was on the bus back to northern England. Tonight, though, I ventured out again and worked on my tube navigation skills. The building lights in Piccadilly Circus had come on at twilight and the doubledecker buses were spinning around me in what I guess was a roundabout. Many of us sat on the steps under the statue of … somebody, and drank in the majesty of it all.
I woke up yesterday morning on the edge of moping. “No way … I’m going to Wimbledon.”
I got advice from people about how to get there. Conflicting advice, I may add. But so what? I’m going, even without the aid of Google Maps. I’d heard that people without tickets can get a day pass but they need to line up for the privilege. I also heard that some people queue overnight to get into the sacred tennis grounds. No way I was doing that. I needed my recovery sleep.
I figured that if I didn’t get into the tennis centre, I’d just walk around the perimeter, soaking in the atmosphere from a respectable distance. The energy would soar over the walls.
I did get in. One couple told me that the previous day they’d waited six hours for entry. Ouch! What was my waiting time, you ask? Zero hours, minutes and seconds! The gods were with me. And today the same thing. I was through the gates by 1:00. A fellow told me that he’d lined up at 8:00 am and got in at 11:00. I slept in, had a leisurely breakfast and wandered through the tube (subway) system. Et voilà … the doors opened for me immediately. Perhaps the universe is being kind to me after my phone debacle.
Everyone without a ticket has to walk about fifteen minutes through the grounds before reaching the entrance. This morning I decided to do a scientific experiment. I would say the same dumb thing to every volunteer I met and analyze the responses by gender. It sounded like fun, and it was. Here’s the question:
I’ve lost my ticketfor The Royal Box. Who can I talk toabout getting it reprinted? I’m supposed to meet my friend Kate there in an hour
For the uninitiated, The Royal Box is where Royal family members sit in Centre Court to watch the matches. Kate Middleton married Prince William, the son of King Charles.
I guess that I uttered the words to fifteen volunteers. “And the envelope please …”
Almost all of the men stared
Almost all of the women laughed
***
Over the past two days at Wimbledon, I’ve had so many good conversations with people from various parts of the world – guests, volunteers and staff. I can’t remember what I said to any of them but we sure had a good time. And I’m too tired to navigate my brain cells for specific examples. But let me tell you about this evening:
I decided to return to the scene of the crime … TheCrown and Anchor pub. None of the earlier staff members were on shift. I intended to sit at the exact table of thievery, but it and the one next door were crammed with revellers. So I sat across the way, with a good view of the site of previous festivities. Next to me was a young couple and I related my tale of woe from two nights before. “And if that yelling guy with the big hat comes back, I’ll tackle him!”
Yeah, right. Indiana Jones I am not. The couple nodded and smiled. Later I admitted the error of my thinking ways to them. “Okay, I’m really not brave enough to assault the thief if he shows.” But I helpfully suggested that they tackle him together after I leave.
No doubt I’ll read the police report in the morning.
Bruce's Blog 