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!

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!

Just a figure of speech

See you tomorrow

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.

Gosh, I miss the photos. Next time.

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 ticket for The Royal Box. Who can I talk to about 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 … The Crown 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.

The ecstasy and the agony: Maria and Samsung.

I’m not a careful person. I was having a beer last night in the Crown and Anchor pub. I was still in the glow of Maria Duenas and I had nearly finished a blog post about her. The couple from Minnesota at the table next door were so friendly. I set my phone down next to the glass of Belgian beer and leaned over to engage in our stories.

A man wearing a crazy hat bursts into the bar and starts yelling at the three of us. He slams a piece of paper down on my table and demands that I buy whatever he’s selling. All three of us tell him to go away and he sprints for the door, having picked up the paper … and my phone beneath.

Gone. But it took me five minutes to realize that. I sank through the floor. Everything was on that phone.

I couldn’t think straight. I rushed to the bar to tell the bartender that a guy just took my phone. Another staff member rushed to a back room to see what the security footage showed. Other staff members and the folks from Minnesota sounded genuinely crushed by this act of evil. Me too.

The first thing that hit me was that all my photos from over the years had left my life. (Huge exhale) Next was the reality of my Airbnb. The lodging had a passcode for the building, another for the apartment and a third for my room. All that was on my phone. Where exactly was I going to sleep tonight? I figured I could access the Airbnb info with my laptop but it was safely hidden behind three locked doors.

So began an hour-and-a-half of trying to get the codes from Airbnb UK. A waiter graciously allowed me to use his phone for all that time. I talked to three Airbnb reps and was put on hold five times. They did all these security checks on me. FInally I was given the codes, by a person with a thick accent, whose first language wasn’t English. I struggled to understand the numbers. We confirmed them over and over. Plus I had been standing on the sidewalk all this time, since the bar was so noisy. London traffic continued on its merry way as I extended my ear deep into the phone.

But I had the codes! And the generous phone lender’s shift ended one minute after I hung up with AIrbnb. Life works (mostly).

The final accommodation chapter of the day happened towards midnight as I sat safe in my room. I had forgotten to ask the rep to give me the WiFi password. I sat in front of a laptop that was just a hunk of metal. “Oh, please … not another endless phone call tomorrow!”

It was 11:30. Three other rooms in the apartment were rented. I walked into the hall. A bit of music filtered through one door. Girding my loins, I knocked on that door. To my amazement, I heard “Just a moment.” And Will actually opened the door. And sat with frazzled me in my room as I entered the password. Connected at last!

I don’t have the energy to keep writing. There’s much more to say, and many hours before I slept. Should I regale you with tales of Eurostar, Beobank, the London Police and Proximus? Maybe I’ll just skip all that.

***

Tomorrow is no doubt another day

NEWS FLASH: Below you’ll find a post which I wrote on my phone today. I was sitting in a bar writing and talking to folks at the next table. Then someone started yelling at us. Five minutes later I realized he’d stolen my phone!

Yuck. I’ll use this laptop tomorrow to tell you more.

***

Yesterday I was at an Evolutionary Collective retreat on Zoom. It lasted from 5:00 pm till midnight. Most of our members are in North America so the times are more friendly over there.

I had a responsibility to be at the meeting. The timing, however, was bad. Today at 2:00 pm Belgian time, I sat down in Wigmore Hall in London, England. I was going to see and hear Maria Duenas from Spain, one of the world’s most brilliant violinists.

So it was a late night and early morning in Ghent. Two trains and a lot of walking later, I was sitting dead centre in the fourth row.

Maria came onstage wearing a gorgeous cream dress that touched the floor. The fellow accompanying her on the piano wore black. Three violin sonatas – by Beethoven, Schubert and Debussy – filled the afternoon. And Maria animated every minute.

She threw her head and body around. Sometimes she ended a musical phrase with a giant upbow, the tip of the bow finishing up way above her head. There were fierce passages with her fingers moving on the strings at the speed of light. And tender flowings that lifted our hearts to the sky.

I was in awe … and often on the edge of sleep. So what? I had signed for both the EC and Maria. It was time to suck it up.

There were moments when it seemed Maria was whispering to her violin. During others she was blowing it a kiss.

What a privilege to be in the audience. As the last note of the concert hung in the air, I soared my body and yelled “Bravo!” Magnifique. Strangely, very few of us stood. Was this the stereotypical British reserve? It didn’t matter. Maria’s playing was beyond … everything. And I got to be there.

Here’s a YouTube video of Maria dazzling the world: