For years I’ve seen myself as a Buddhist.  These days that label is fraying at the edges.  Perhaps I’m no longer a Buddhist, and that would be fine.

The Buddha said many marvelous things.  Here are four expressions of kindness:

May you be free from danger

May you be happy

May you be healthy

May you live with ease

Yesterday and today, I’ve sent these wishes to the folks who have come close to my life.  First at Café Come Back:

Older men watching a football game on TV … a young woman busy with her phone … a 30-something fellow with eyes only for his video terminal … and on the edge a man thinking, accompanied by his glass of water.  They’re all deserving of my care.  I spoke silently the four phrases to each person in turn.

No one noticed.

***

This morning at Izy Coffee the outside world presented itself.  I welcomed them as the Buddha would:

Did the guy looking at me feel the wave of energy breaking on his shore?  Probably not.

The fellow on the tram wearing a light green sweater is disappearing down the road.  Was there a twinge in his soul for an instant?

Many more people sauntered by Izy’s window as I sat pondering and sipping.  They were all bathed by me in safety, happiness, health and comfort.

***

And now my landing spot is the terrace of Planet Pasta. Here they all come:

Young families; arm-in-arm couples, solitary couples, hand-holding couples; a driver backing towards Herbacos with stuff to unload; wee kids checking out the evening action; black, white and brown beings; bodybuilders; stooped old women and men; Uber moto drivers; speakers of Spanish, Dutch and French; a fat man overflowing his bicycle; pink hair, grey hair, no hair; smiles, frowns, vacant faces; clothes of orange, white, red and of course black; cyclists zooming by or tenderly easing past pedestrians; fast and slow folks; tall and tiny …

Human beings all

I’m glad you’re on the planet, dear ones

How do we make each other happy?

Number one, I think, is to spend time with the other person – good time, with no cell phones in the way.  Just you and me … talking a bit, talking a lot, talking about things that are important to us.

And we can smile – real ones that ooze appreciation of the other. Smiles that Stephen King was fond of saying in his novels reach the eyes of the smiler.

We can touch each other – a hug, a hand on the shoulder. Simple human warmth, so far beyond the comfy temperature in the room.

Or … we can be this man:

It doesn’t take much equipment to light up the eyes of children, and sometimes adults: a bucket of soapy water, two long sticks, a rope attached to both sticks with tied loops in the middle, and lots of open space. Korenmarkt in Ghent does nicely.

The bubbles shine as they fly high, sometimes breaking on the face of a little one. The kids bounce in delight. The adults smile. All is right with the world. Sure, the gentleman has a tiny metal bowl for receiving euros, and tips are important for his survival, but there is so much more.

He sees the eyes wide open along with the mouths. He knows he has created miracle soap bubbles that soar by the ancient buildings and finally pop into disappearance. He invites little kids to hold the sticks and share in the creation. He too smiles.

***

And now …

How will you curve other mouths upward?

One thing I’ve learned in life is simple: when I’m with people, say something.

Today I was enjoying my cappuccino on a sofa in Izy Coffee.  At the other end was a young man.  Another young fellow and an older man sat on chairs nearby.  They were speaking a language I didn’t know.

“What language are you speaking?”

I didn’t know if they spoke English or if they’d ignore my question.  They smiled!

“Spanish” from one of the young ones. 

And so it began …

I wanted to know about their lives and they wanted to know about mine. Perfect. Con and Juan are the sons of William, who lives in Argentina. The two boys grew up there but now Juan lives in Australia and Con in Italy. They were on a multi-month worldwide reunion.

They had spent several weeks in Marrakesh, Morocco, immersing themselves in a culture where bartering was the way to get things done.

They had spent time in Spain, the origin of their mother tongue, visiting friends and family.

Closer to me, my new friends went to Tomorrowland, the techno music festival in eastern Belgium. “We danced our asses off!” Good for them.

Last weekend, they indulged their passion for the speed and noise of Formula One racing at a track near Brussels.

And there was other stuff that I can’t remember. Wow.

The three guys were so open with me. We all laughed easily. In maybe forty minutes together, we were friends.

I told them that I was Canada’s first astronaut. When I saw wide eyes coming back at me, I swiftly added “I lied.” More smiles.

And then the moment of reveal. One by one they showed me their identical tattoos:

The Evangelistis off on an adventure. Three pointed individuals united within the circle of family. The image is so simple and so profound.

***

I grew today in the presence of three other human beings

I’m happy for all of us

On Monday we eleven Belgians were flying from Dakar, Senegal to Brussels, Belgium.  We had a six-hour layover in Casablanca, Morocco – 7:00 am till 1:00 pm.

I started the journey weak from the accumulated African heat, and the four-hour bus ride from Toubacouta to Dakar sent me sliding further downhill.  When our plane landed in Casablanca, I was desperate for sleep.

What we faced in the terminal were rows of chairs with metal armrests between each seat.  I saw Camille adjust her body to lie down without armrest pain but I wasn’t able to duplicate her feat.  My hip bones refused to get comfy.

Lore lay down on the floor but I immediately said no when I saw her.

I needed to do something so I wandered the airport looking for more pleasant seating.  None was to be found.  (Sigh)

At the very end I saw a sign: “VIP Lounge”.  That looked promising.  The fellow at the desk pointed to the armchairs inside but no place to sleep.  He mentioned, however, that there was a free lounge in Terminal Two with lots of beds!

I went back to my friends and told them I was setting off to find the beds for us.  They were dozing.

I followed what I thought were the directions but a ten-minute walk led to no beds.

Back to my VIP friend who seemed upset that I hadn’t found the Oasis Lounge.  “Ask people!”

Back to Terminal Two and Gate 25 with tweaked directions.  Seeing no oasis, I did ask an employee.  I had taken the wrong stairs before.  Finally there I was, entering the lounge.  I found two big rooms, full of sleeping humans.  The beds were more like individual sofas but they would do nicely.  There were at least eleven empty ones.

Back to my uncomfortable friends.  Four came with me and four others joined later.  At first not everyone had a bed.  Three folks went for some food but I found a spot and adjusted my physical life to approach sleep.  By now it was about 9:45.

As I laid down my weary head, the darkness around was a blessing.  My mind wavered, slowly taking in the symphony of sound that came and went:

A baby crying on and on with an exhausted mom doing her best to quiet him

The far-off beating of a drum

Feeding padding on the floor, back and forth

Kids talking in fast bursts, being mellowed by mom

Cell phones ringing, most with the usual series of tones

I came and went in consciousness for an hour or two. There was some sleep. My alarm roused me at 11:45 since our boarding time was 12:15. Soon we nine were gathered near the entrance of the lounge, still off-kilter but thankful for a bit of stretched-out slumber.

***

We dozed with other citizens of the world

We were together with them

And off we flew to our many destinations

What an amazing thing.  I cherish it.  And I’ve had lots lately.

On our 24-hour trip from Toubacouta, Senegal to Maarkedal, Belgium, I got maybe an hour.  And I was already dealing with an immense deficit of energy as a result of the intense heat.

That’s just the way it was.  The physical demise was there and I was determined not to add “Ain’t it awful?”  Except for the time I was lost in space, delirious.

I hit the Maarkedal pillow at 10:00 pm on Monday night.  I woke up at noon on Tuesday.  Late that afternoon I succumbed to slumber once again, for maybe two hours.

Tuesday night was ten hours of sleep, plus another two during the daytime Wednesday.  Last night … ten more hours.

What to make of this prolonged unconsciousness?  Not much, I’d say.  Just the basics: I’m 74, my body couldn’t handle the heat, I wasn’t able to sleep on the planes.

My recovery to energy will take as long as it does.  Already there’s more of me to give to life.

For the last year or so, I’ve sensed the events of my life (“positive” and “negative”) being embraced by something soft above – the feeling that all is well.  This knowing has mostly come easily, and pretty much immediately when brought to mind.

Not now.  The wellness is farther away and not effortlessly accessible.  Oh well.  I trust that the easy flow will return.

***

It felt strange to not write for three days but it was necessary

I had little to give

But here I go again

Last night I was walking under an umbrella from Lydia’s place to my room at Keur Saloum. The rain was angling down. Although there were occasional street lights on the red road, it was pretty dark.

From out of the raindrops came a line of soldiers, holding their rifles, walking silently except for their boots. My guess is that there were 200 of them. It was surreal.

***

This morning I headed off to say hi and goodbye to a family that had hosted me for a noontime meal eighteen months ago. This visit I had talked briefly with them but didn’t linger. Today I lingered. We remember each other well … the kindness that went in both directions.

I made out from a daughter’s French words that they wanted to see the photo I took of mom and newborn. I tried to explain that my phone was stolen a few weeks ago and that I had lost all my pictures. I couldn’t remember the word for “steal” and there was no Internet for Google Translate to help me. (Sigh) Soon we smiled our goodbyes.

***

This evening we leave Toubacouta for Belgium. Our travel time is 24 hours, including a six-hour layover in Casablanca, Morocco. It’s been a bittersweet trip for me – some marvelous conversations and other shining moments with people AND being physically overwhelmed with the heat. Once I was delirious, sputtering out nonsense words. And now I’m just plain wasted, so little left to give.

I’m staying in the aircool today during the hottest hours, conserving energy for the going home. I pray that I’ll be okay when I get to Belgium.

Here are a few final photos:

The regular group of guys playing checkers in the shade, moving beyond the heat of the afternoon. This is a daily ritual and I could see the huge joy and competitive spirit it brought to the players

Africa caring for Europe … Gnima braiding Olivia’s hair

Sunset over the river at Toubacouta

***

Thank you for accompanying me on the journey. It’s been a privilege to share this time with you

Youssoupha and I went to the mosque in Toubacouta yesterday. I wanted to experience the Muslim religion while surrounded by believers. The prayers were in one of the native languages – perhaps Wolof.

I arrived before Youssoupha and sat under a tree facing the cement walls of the mosque. The first photo shows the tower, where the imam calls the faithful to worship. One of the boys in the shade is carrying a prayer mat on his head. The blue door is to the mosque, inside of which men and boys sit. Women sit in the building with the windows.

It was just about time for prayers to start and I hadn’t seen Youssoupha so I left my tree and walked through the gate. My long white robe was topped off with grey hair and many eyes were on me.

In the second photo you see a group of worshippers who chose to be together outside of the walls. On the right is a large tree, a mango I think. As I entered the grounds, at least fifty men and boys had spread their prayer mats under the tree in several long left-to-right lines. I joined the end of the last line.

The man to my left gestured for me to spread my orange yoga mat flush with his mat. Soon I was joined on the right by a young fellow who snuggled his mat against mine. There were no smiles but there were nods. The presence of the white guy was being accepted.

The imam started chanting over the loudspeaker. It was a staccato voice … short bursts of words. Often a rising in volume. Sometimes it felt like more yelling than singing. The men’s heads were bowed. There were call-and-response sections, when the people would reply in what seemed to be a low collective groan but eventually I could hear unknown words in there.

The parishioners before me sat in their coloured robes (no shorts allowed) with their legs splayed in different directions. Everyone needed to take off their sandals before praying and I got to see the sight of many bare, upside down feet. Never before have I seen such a display of one big toe and four little ones. It was a broad span of digital art.

Suddenly everyone was standing so I stood too. There were motions of the arms that I didn’t try to repeat. Then we were down on all fours. The Muslim worshippers often had their foreheads to their mats. I didn’t do that. I followed just the basics.

There was a huge reverence in the space. Often the man to my left had his hands straight in front, and he seemed to be speaking to them.

Basically I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew no words. I was the subject of some folks’ attention. And I felt at home. We were together in the contemplation of something bigger than the daily round.

It is good

We went to the mangroves today, delayed from yesterday.  After I said a few words, Baziel, Lore and Lydia walked to the river and scattered Jo’s ashes on the water, just as he wanted.  Solemn, sacred and sad.

Here’s pretty much what I said:

This is a special place.  Jo and Lydia used to come here a lot, searching for hyena tracks.  Jo asked that his ashes be scattered on the river by Toubacouta … and the river is right over there.

Jo grew up in Oudenaarde.  I imagine him goofing around with his friends just like Lore and Baziel do with theirs.

Jo could have had a local life, centred on Oudenaarde, Ronse and Ghent, but somewhere along the line, he must have realized that he was a man of the world. 

Jo fell in love with Lydia, who grew up in the Congo.  Together they fell in love with Senegal.  When Lore came along, he fell in love with her.  Then he fell in love with Baziel.

One of Jo’s favourite spots was the round bar at Keur Saloum in Toubacouta.  He knew that‘s where people come to order drinks and no doubt he had many fine conversations there.

Jo also welcomed everyone to the outdoor living room at home.  Everyone showed up at his and Lydia’s place.

It‘s usual to think of someone who has died in the past tense.  Jo’s body is dead but I say his soul lives on.  We can be with Jo by just thinking of him.

But if we want a special time with Jo, whether it’s Lydia (Jo’s wife) Lore and Baziel (Jo’s children) Marie-paule (Jo’s mother-in-law) or we friends of Jo …

We can come

right

here

There are eight of us who eat breakfast together at Auberge La Praline.  It’s often a special time of laughing.  But today was my last one.  I’m moving to the Keur Saloum hotel.

I value togetherness, connection.  And yet I’m saying no to my friends at breakfast.  Keur Saloum has a generator, so I won’t have to worry about the electricity (and air conditioning) dying.  I won’t repeat the pain of a few nights ago.

My adult life has been about service … you first, then me.  Not this time.  As I get older, what I can handle physically gets less in some situations.  Extreme heat and humidity is certainly one of those.  So hello, Keur …  I will see my dear friends in the cooler parts of the day and in the evening.

***

I was sitting on the terrace of the Keur Saloum this morning, looking over the river at Toubacouta. A young black man comes by, wearing a flowing yellow robe. He extends his arms towards the water and begins speaking. There’s a lovely flow to his words, in a language I don’t know.

After a few minutes he stops and looks back at me. We smile.

“Tu pries?” I ask. (Are you praying?)

He smiles again and seems to shake his head.

A bit later he returns to his posture and speaking, this time accompanied by a cameraman. After the session is complete, he takes off the robe and dons another one, full of vertical blue, yellow and orange stripes. And then the two of them walk away.

Soon I too stand at the rail. I think I hear the same voice … far away. Down at the dock there’s a young man in a blue, yellow and orange robe being filmed.

Sometimes I get it right

Sometimes I get it wrong

***

Today we’ll go to the mangroves near Toubacouta. Jo’s wish was that his ashes be spread in Senegal, on the waters of the river. Today Lydia, Lore and Baziel will do that, accompanied by some dear Belgian friends. I will tell you tomorrow of the beauty we discover.

Yesterday was the lunch and party for the twenty kids whom we Belgian folks sponsor.

I was in bed trying to sleep and locate my head when the festivities started. I expected to be absent from it all. But Lydia knocked on my door, unwilling to have me miss an event that I’ve loved. And she promised that I could lie down when I needed to in Baziel and Lore’s well air-conditioned room. Hard to resist!

It was just as I remembered: girls in bright dresses, boys wearing that extra-special something, some women of the village preparing a delicious meal of beef, seasoned rice, manioc, carrots … Kids were colouring in cartoon characters and having their art displayed on a wall of honour. Balloons were being bounced from child to child. A celebration!

Due to a certain dullness of mind, I never thought to take pictures. C’est dommage. (That’s a pity) But two grand photos were taken – of all of us. Senegalese kids and their families, Senegalese teachers, Senegalese cooks and Belgian visitors.

I especially enjoyed the sparkling eyes of a young girl when they met mine. And such a smile. Apparently she has a mental disability but she’s a champion of connection. I can’t remember her name … but I will not forget her.

There was a visitor at Lydia’s today whom I remember well. Eddy was a bartender at Keur Saloum before he retired. He was famous for making excellent Pelicans (an exotic form of gin-and-tonic). His son, in his 20s, is battling a life-threatening disease. “Je prie pour ton fils” I told him. (I am praying for your son)

I wandered a bit before retiring to my aircool in the heat of the afternoon. (It works!) How about a football game on a patch of bare earth between houses? The price was right. The kids were giving their all. What could be better? And I didn’t need to know the score.

I’ve been to matches in Toronto and Vancouver surrounded by 25,000 fans. Even though the energy of the cheering (and singing!) human beings was immense, I prefer the Toubacouta flow of the game.

***

That feels like enough for today

See you when we’re older