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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

Day Twenty-Two: The Tree

We went riding on motos yesterday – onto the dirt roads, out into the country. Women carrying loads on their heads, kids running after us, a few individual men strolling along – many of them waved. So did we. Through the dryness of it all, under the beaming sun, we rode beside fields spotted with African trees and goats. Past a couple of turquoise mosques surrounded by walls … and finally to the edge of Missirah.

We pulled over in the centre of downtown. In a shop, I lusted over a green, yellow and red Senegalese soccer jersey. Sadly the only sizes in stock started at XXL and went up from there.

A smiling old fellow was to be our guide this morning. He was a fishmonger who recognized me from a week ago. I felt badly that I didn’t recognize him. It makes me pause to realize that I have far more distinctions about the facial structure of white people than I do about black folks.

The gentleman led us to the fish farm he tends – three rectangular pools covered with netting. As he continued along, I moved away from the group to linger with several cows on a large expanse of dusty land. Then there were mangrove trees to visit, with their exposed roots reaching down under the water. A quiet time, as I renewed my wondering about whether I could live in Senegal.

It felt like time again to be with my friends. The glom of us returned to village streets. A twist here and a turn there began to reveal a hugeness ahead.

I stopped. I stared. Before me was a gigantic tree … in height, in the circumference of its trunk, in the massive biceps of its main branches. Our leader said don’t go close: the bees will attack you. So I kept the distance in my body. My soul, however, was reaching towards the immense one.

The group was moving on and I was standing still. I was in the presence of vibrant life, a wooden symbol of transcendence, of gathering in, of coming together.

We returned soon to the other side of the tree, where apparently there were no bees, since we were invited to come close. The tree is a fromager, so named because its soft wood made perfect boxes for the transport of cheese. Facing me was the largest fromager in West Africa, approximately 1000 years old. Its bark folded in marvelous ways. One exposed root many metres from the trunk was named Croco by the residents, due to it resembling a crocodile.

As our guide spoke in French, the reverence in his voice was clear. Lydia sidled over to me and began translating. This fromager is the mother of Missirah. Its leaves speak of the turning of the seasons. Crops are planted when the fromager says yes. When there’s a problem in the village, the women dress up as men, and the men as women. Sacred milk is poured on the roots and the fromager receives the supplication, offering its wisdom in turn. Infertile women visit the trunk, asking for a child. Lovers are married within the folds of the sacred one. Anyone and perhaps everyone touches the wood and feels the communion.

I take the dear fromager with me, not only in photos but also in my travelling being. Perhaps the next person I meet will have an inner fromager … to be honoured, to be loved, and to receive love from.

Day Twenty-One: La Fête

The party was a lunch, a dance and a gift-giving for the kids who we Belgians and Canadian are sponsoring in Toubacouta. Balloons were hung, streamers were streamed, fancy tablecloths and napkins graced the tables, and joyous music was bipbopping out of the speaker.

Girls did their hair in magical ways. They wore the brightest dresses and shirts. One boy even wore a bow tie!

For awhile I made faces with some of the kids and played the game where we’d hide behind someone sitting between us and then poke our heads out. Such fun. Some children were nicely shy while others bubbled over in their eyes. Some danced in the middle of the circle for maybe a minute. Others were pushed in there by friends and quickly scooted back to the edge of things. Mr. Bow Tie really rocked and rolled as we all cheered him on.

There was lots of lunch prep and I loved joining in. I was the only guy to do so but who cares? I sat with some girls and women and peeled onions. And there were no tears! So different from home. Next were cloves of garlic and I got to experience the impact of arthritis on my fine motor skills. I was slow and clumsy but again all of that was irrelevant. I finished with beans. Many hands made for light work as the sounds of Warlof and Flemish filled the space.

Several women distributed the various yummy food on plates in the kitchen. I got to be one of the lucky ones who presented the meal to individual kids. The whole idea was that the day would be special for the children. We served them. Before the meal we gave them the best seats on the patio. Here’s a pic I love:

After we ate, the balloons clearly needed to become soccer and volleyballs. The young’uns leapt in the air and in their hearts.

At one point, I just sat back and took it all in. Two years from now, will I be bilingual? Will I be spending a few months each year in Toubacouta, teaching these very kids how to speak English? I don’t know … but the possibility is real.

Who knows what journeys lie ahead … in my life, and in yours. Let us embrace the mystery.

Day Twenty: Discovering If Home Could Be Everywhere

The broom riders

The military base

The game: Baziel, a fellow from Soucouta, Mariama, another guy from Soucouta, Youssoupha and Ansou

***

I knew that Mamadou and Youssoupha had invited me to watch them play basketball at 5:00 pm in Soucouta. Far earlier than that, I set off from Eddy’s bed-and-breakfast to explore the village just north of here. I knew the route: walk five minutes west and then turn north on the red road (Main Street). But something happened on the way to the plan. A narrow dirt stretch beckoned me to the right. I stopped. I felt my body tighten. And I turned.

It seemed to be the moment I was letting go of the tourist label. I could saunter aimlessly on the highways and biways, at ease with the heat, the dry earth and the goats. There were a few twists and turns, a few cement walls with voices behind, a few pedestrians and motos. The newness was letting go into usualness. There was an ease to my step as the dirt rose into dust.

Onto the red road and looking for the site of the wrestling competition that ended a few days ago. It wasn’t there, except for the power pole around which the competitors ran in their warmups, flexing and shining. The arena had been only netting and poles shoved into the ground. How brief our stays in the events of our lives.

I continued on, and soon saw the basketball court near the entrance to the military centre. I noted that there were cement bleachers. and that there were swatches of shade up there.

There was a cart of watermelons ahead on the left. Sitting in the shade nearby were three elderly men, rolling cigarettes. They all smiled widely at me, showing a lot of gaps in the teeth. I told them (as best I could) that I was going to the basketball game at 5:00. They nodded approval. I then made dribbling and slam dunk motions, threatening to do a demo with a melon. When I tried to convince them that I was playing in the game, they rolled over laughing. Hrumph! Guess they were having trouble sensing a professional athlete when they see one.

Off on a side street, past more cement walls and a couple made out of vertical sticks, I saw the opening to a dirt yard. Adults were sitting around talking and kids were jumping together. Then five of the young ones came at me. They seemed to be tied to something. The kids roared to a halt right beside me, and I saw they were riding a broom. Making pretty good speed on it too!

I started creating some dicey French phrases, and even though they didn’t know what I was talking about, they were happy to smile and stroll along with me. We had fun. Four blocks later, they scurried back home, with waves held high.

Ahh … the sound of the imam, calling the Muslim faithful to prayer at the mosque. I followed the wailing … left here, right there. In a little clearing behind houses, there it was – a tiny white and turquoise place of worship. Even from a distance, I could see kneeling worshippers in the shadows inside. I lingered. I felt into another religion, another way of being.

On the main road again, I headed towards the basketball court. But first the military centre. I gave it a wide berth, perhaps because of the two soldiers in camouflage, guarding the front gate. They looked severe so I was not ready to tell them a Canadian joke. Let’s go to the game.

Turns out it wasn’t a game at all … just six guys who wanted to play 3 on 3. The crowd was spectacular; Mariama, Lydia, Jo, Marie-paule, Gnima and me. We cheered a lot, especially for the Belgium guy. Actually we roared at each person’s great shots. Everybody played hard.

Sport, religion, broom riding, cigarette rolling, shuffling in the sand. Alone, with five kids, with worshippers, and with eleven basketball fanatics. Such a recipe for living.

Day Nineteen: Just Sitting

The span of three photos … left to right. I brightened the middle one so hopefully you can see the woman in the shade.

***

Within the flurry of fast French and many people around, it’s too easy to forget the lingering, the silence within, the abiding in place. Yesterday I made room for the quiet. Some of us were out walking in Toubacouta and I saw cement steps in the shade. I sat down … and I stayed there for an hour. My friends continued on their journey.

How will I know a country and a people? Part of it is focus, study. And part of it is simply “being” in the environment – seeing what’s there and who’s there. Not interacting, not judging, just watching. No hurry at all. Here’s the world that came by:

1. Seeing the boutique across the street where my friends were. Letting them be there, letting them leave, staying put.

2. A very tall black fellow, dressed all in white. Even his pointed hat was white. He walked slowly. Sadly, he reminded me of the Klu Klux Klan but of course the skin was different. And his bearing spoke of the spiritual.

3. Chickens and roosters scurrying in the dirt, across the way and then almost at my feet, pecking here and there. The moving was jerky, almost frantic, and then they were gone.

4. A large water bottle seemed to have a life of its own until I spied a young boy continually launching it down the playing field that was the road.

5. For a few minutes, Mariama sat with me on the step, watching me write the moments on white index cards. I wondered what she was thinking as my black scribbles hit the paper.

6. Above the metal rooves and thatched huts, large black birds soared against the blue sky. Were they vultures? The question didn’t need to be answered … they were simply artists of the air.

7. A young boy rode by on a bicycle, probably his sister hanging on the back. Clearly they had places to go, for the street to the right soon swallowed them.

8. Perhaps twenty white goats came into view, managed into rows by an old man wielding a long stick. Bleats abounded but there was a casualness to it all as the family headed down a narrow alley.

9. What? A dark blue Honda CRV blasted past me from the left. Dark faces looked over through tinted glass. This does not compute. But still I smiled with the mystery of it all.

10. Over the hour several women in bright dresses strolled by, their arms at their sides and baskets comfortably riding on their heads. They moved with grace, and some shifted their eyes to me with a smile when I greeted them with “Bonjour.”

11. Five goats wandered over curious and a baby’s eyes came within two feet of mine. Neither of us felt the need to say anything.

12. Teens with a ragged volleyball played soccer in front of me. A long kick from the left split Main Street and landed on the instep of the receiving fellow. He brought the ball softly to the ground and arched it back to his friend. Such grace of movement.

13. Along came a fragile-looking wooden cart, occupied by two donkeys and six kids. No stop and go … just the languid pace needed under a burning sun.

14. Over the way, there stood a huge shade tree, brilliantly emerald and lemon, with long strands of leaves fluttering in the breeze. “Hey, it looks like a maple tree back home.” But it wasn’t.

15. A woman in a pink dress had set up shop under the tree before I arrived. As the heat climbed, she packed up her shiny coloured objects for sale and walked away, complete with basket, tiny table and plastic chair. Maybe it was time for a nap.

16. Apparently not too hot for running. A young black fellow sped by. Above his eyes were blond locks – logically out of place, but actually not.

17. Three young boys and a bicycle joined me in the shade. After the ritual “Ça va?”s, they launched into conversation with each other, not minding my presence in the least. Shade is meant to be shared and words need not be understood.

18. A clearly strong 20-year-old walks close, scoops up the youngest kid, and starts away. The adult fellow looks back at me, smiling. Once the young one is upright again, his mouth also curls into a smile.

19. As the earth bakes, the street empties. No human beings to the left or to the right. The woman managing “Chez Sadio Demba” behind me has just locked her door. The world is quiet.

***

The melodies are soft but they’re still here
Toubacouta reposes
Bruce wanders away, the dirt sliding under his feet
All is well

Day Eighteen: Newcomers Welcoming

New to me. The couple sat on the patio of Keur Saloum, one table away. We Belgians, Senegalese and Canadian crammed together nearby, laughing in three languages. I said several silly things, such as one comment aimed at Marie-paule, Lydia’s mom. We were both taking up residence for a few days at Eddy’s bed-and-breakfast. “Marie-paule est dans la chambre cinq. Je suis dans la chambre … cinq.” (Marie-paule will be in room 5. I’ll be in room … 5.”) Much laughter erupted, and as I glanced over to the next table, the woman was smiling.

As our conversation continued, the couple talked together – in French I believe. Once in awhile, she’d look over to us as our words spilled out. Smiling again.

Lydia brings people together. As our group got up to leave, she bubbled over to our neighbours en français. The conversation among us all sped up and I was left in the dust. Fast French means no French for me. After awhile I walked over to the flowering bushes to watch the sunset on the river. As the disc fell behind the trees, leaving its pink glow, I returned to our tables. All the Lydiaists were standing and inching towards the exit ramp.

It felt like the woman next door was looking straight at me but she may have been taking us all in: “Would you like to stay for a drink?” I looked at the barely receding feet around me and responded “No, I want to get to dinner.” The woman across seemed to lower her head. Then somehow words kept falling out of people’s mouths. I stood there, passive on the outside and churning on the inside.

The movie Dead Poets Society came through – the one where Robin Williams teaches a bunch of high school students about life. “Carpe diem” he would say … seize the day. “And Bruce, isn’t this a perfectly good day to seize?”

As feet really did move one after the other in farewell, I reached down to the nearest chair and pulled it over to the couple. Yes, let’s talk.

We did so for three hours. In another seizing moment, I said yes to having dinner with Julie and Luc. Happily we talked about our lives – rehabilitating elephants, working in the Belgian embassy in Dakar, seeing big white birds land on an island at sunset so they could be together overnight, living with cancer loss, volunteering with 11-year-olds, eating a delcious meal in Keur Saloum … just everything.

There was communion at our evening table … three discovering friends savouring the flavours of relationship. It was all so cozy.

We hugged and shook hands goodbye. Will this be the end of it or will there be a friendship which endures? Using Lydia and Jo as an example, there may be many more dinners to come.

Day Seventeen: Réunion

A few days ago, a great spirit died. Thousands of us, if not millions, have been touched by the wisdom of Ram Dass. He was an American (Richard Alpert) until he came upon a Hindu spiritual master and became his devotée.

Ram Dass spoke many words in his life. Here are my favourites:

When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.

The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgment mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.

Jo and I have been in Senegal for eleven days. It’s the longest he’s ever been away from his dear wife Lydia and he’s missed her so much. Yesterday Lydia, Lore, Baziel and Marie-paule (Lydia’s mom) awoke at 5:00 am so they could catch their late morning flight from Brussels, Belgium to Dakar, Senegal. The loved ones would be reunited by 11:00 pm. So many different trees would come together in the darkness of the Toubacouta night.

At 10:10 we heard a honk. Jo jumped up. So did Moustapha. I was a bit slower but we all were drawn towards the arrivals pulling up in the van. The headlights blocked all else but a moment later there was Lydia’s smile in the front passenger seat. Tired faces spilled out of the vehicle, still full of the sweetness of connection. There were many soft hugs.

After we had unloaded the van of luggage and food, we all sat together, some on padded seats and some on the arms of chairs. Here we were: Jo, Ousmane, Baziel, Fatou, Ansou, Marie-paule, Lydia, Lore, Ali, Moustapha and me. Plus the little one Nima asleep in her bed. We were young and old, male and female, black and white, shy and outgoing. From three countries, speaking French, Flemish, Warlof and English. I looked around at all the trees – the curves of their trunks, the fluttering of their leaves, the colours of their bark. Our forest contained it all.

Each of us had their place
Each of us brought a uniqueness into the world
Each of us mattered

Day Sixteen: Rambles

Wild goats seem to be everywhere

Mariama on the edge of Soucouta

Laundry day

Home

***

Soucouta is a small village only a kilometre away from Toubacouta. Mamadou, Youssoupha and Mariama wanted me to see it. Since it was during the biggest heat of the day, they insisted I ride on the back of a moto, rather than walking.

The people don’t speak any English. French, Warlof and Serai are the words I hear. (I don’t know how to spell the last two.)

Mamadou took me into his home and I met his grandmother. She was old and pretty in her flowered blue dress and head wrap. She smiled softly and extended her hand.

Folks young and old called out greetings to my friends as we walked the land and the streets. Kids ran and jumped in the 37 degree Celsius sun (98 Fahrenheit). I slogged with the young ones to the edge of the sea, which felt like a narrow river. Mud lay exposed in the low tide and we walked the less gooey parts. Ahead of us hundreds of crabs scurried away to their wetter holes in the sand. Sadly, I forgot to take a picture of this migration.

I stood on the moist earth and talked to the water in puddles to my left: “De l’eau … vient ici tout de suite! Je t’attends.” (Water … come here right away! I’m waiting for you.) I stood still with my arms crossed. The young Senegalese gaped at me, then burst out laughing. Dumb white guy, expecting the tide to come in since he told it to. It was great fun.

How incredibly dry Senegal is. The wind blows the sand. The sun bakes the earth. But at least there’s the river and the sea. And through it all the folks of Soucouta and Toubacouta adorn themselves with smiles and splashes of colour.

Before the wrestling competition – drummers on the left and the two female singers on the right

Wrestlers warming up and showing off their bods before the fights begin

Youssoupha, Mamadou, Mariama and Bruce

***

And then there’s the night, when I can breathe easy again and lounge around in t-shirt and shorts. The Senegalese, however, need longsleeved shirts and jeans to ward off the chill. I’ve even seen a down jacket or two.

It turns out that last night was the final session of the Soucouta wrestling competition. I’d thought it would continue to New Year’s Eve. Singing and drumming were scheduled to happen pretty much uninterrupted from 10:00 pm until 2:00 am. Towards midnight, the wrestling would start.

I wanted to go. The four of us walked to Soucouta in the dark, drawn by two female voices beaming from the sound system. They alternated lines of music … seemingly forever. The drums smashed out their beat as we approached the glare of the stadium lights. It was actually a very small space. Only about two hundred of us went inside to witness the spectacle, one white guy included.

Hypnotic … the rise and fall of the singing and the frenzied rhythms of the drumming. The spotlights shone into the darkness, and all around eyes in dark bodies turned towards me. There was no feeling of animosity, merely curiosity.

I sat in a chair at the edge of the wrestling ground. In a flash, Mamadou was at my side, telling me I couldn’t sit there because I hadn’t paid an extra fee. At least that’s what I thought he said, as the music blared and I tried to pick out French words from his quiet sentences. I moved to another side of the arena and sat down in the dirt. Worked for me.

Wrestlers were strutting their stuff in the middle of the open space. Some would pour water over their torsos – naked or clothed – and keep running (dancing?) in a circle. One fellow tossed dirt over himself. All this while the two female singers kept up the drone of the song, while the drummers pounded the skins. The event flowed out from loudspeakers to the world of Toubacouta and I suspect far beyond.

Around 11:30, the first two wrestlers stripped down to loincloths and came to the centre of the field. Judges gave instructions. They crouched towards each other as the drums started up again. Soft touches on each other, reaches to the ground to get dust on their hands, feet moving left and right … then the fierce grabbing, the hips engaged in a supreme effort to throw the other, feet pounding into the sand as the dance moved twenty feet from the centre point. One fellow flipped backwards and fell to the earth, his opponent pressing down. Somewhere a whistle sounded and the match was over. The victor stood above the vanquished, who clutched his knee in agony.

Woh … intense or what. Now I wanted my bed … 2:00 am was a bridge too far. The four of us returned on the black roads towards Toubacouta, with vague human shapes passing us by. Mariama and I walked. Youssoupha and Mamadou shared the moto. I wanted them to stay and enjoy more matches but they would have none of it. Jo had made it very clear to them beforehand: take care of Bruce.

Yes, indeed, I am being cared for in this country, and in this life. I’m in the middle of something big.