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

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.

***

Home in Senegal

So different from Ghent

But in one way the same … cool people

Photos that I couldn’t send yesterday:

Football match

Lore holding hands with Gnima holding hands with a friend

The market

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).

And then to sleep …

I’ll see you after I wake up

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!