Welcome.....
This "blog" is really a Journal that will become a Book and a Movie of one
woman who, at 50, after raising her three sons, sells her property in Santa
Cruz, with two legal cob buildings and a treehouse, buys a Bike Friday and
takes off for three years around the planet fueled by her passion for sharing
cob building (earthen construction) everywhere she goes. She organizes
workshops and building projects in every country she visits, and thus creates
a worldwide team (Global C.O.B. or Community of Builders) to change the
face of standard construction and replace concrete and cement with cob, the
most natural, freeform and sustainable building material on the planet. Her
journey is also a deeply spiritual personal growth opportunity, due to all the
people she connects with and international events she runs, which require
her to look into her own capacity to love, respect and honor herself on the
road. Meanwhile, her three sons are having their own spiritual growth
experiences back in Santa Cruz as they deepen their brotherly bonds and
bond with their Dad and discover who they are. In the end, Claudine is
discovering that her cob workshops and projects are truly a context for World
Peace as people from different cultures and languages come together to
build...and as they do, hearts open, feelings flow, separateness dissolves
into Oneness and a Global Community is born. This is her true mission. I hope you enjoy these inner and outer adventures!
The Journey Has Begun in Málaga, España Nine Days in....fast forward to Órgiva Thursday December 18th, 2014
It’s 12:29 am and for the 9th night in a row I can’t seem to kick the time change adjustment. Tonight I am in my brand new never opened $285 Tarptent made in Nevada City, CA. Top-of-the-line 2 lb. one piece tent for two. Friedl, my just-encountered East German penpal of the last 2 months and potential bike partner set it up for me in a few minutes. As I began to read him the instructions in detail, he had already knocked it out before I had finished Step 1. Love the German engineer type...especially when combined with Earth-loving man.
I don’t know how well I will sleep tonight under the olive tree where Friedl placed me in darkness, as there is a mule that has been munching intensely on the grass, peeing and digging around ten feet from my ear for two hours now. Friedl assured me he was tied to a stake and could not come closer however I wonder....do mules sleep at night? Well for one thing I have my trusty ear plugs and for another they help me hear my breath better so I can use my handy Vipassana meditation technique. This morning, before setting off for Órgiva to meet Friedl, I completed my first hour-long sit in a month by the way. About time. On the sun-filled white-washed rooftop of my Hostal in Nerja I sat as the roofers working next door stared on with wonder.
The Journey Has Begun in Málaga, España Nine Days in....fast forward to Órgiva Thursday December 18th, 2014
It’s 12:29 am and for the 9th night in a row I can’t seem to kick the time change adjustment. Tonight I am in my brand new never opened $285 Tarptent made in Nevada City, CA. Top-of-the-line 2 lb. one piece tent for two. Friedl, my just-encountered East German penpal of the last 2 months and potential bike partner set it up for me in a few minutes. As I began to read him the instructions in detail, he had already knocked it out before I had finished Step 1. Love the German engineer type...especially when combined with Earth-loving man.
I don’t know how well I will sleep tonight under the olive tree where Friedl placed me in darkness, as there is a mule that has been munching intensely on the grass, peeing and digging around ten feet from my ear for two hours now. Friedl assured me he was tied to a stake and could not come closer however I wonder....do mules sleep at night? Well for one thing I have my trusty ear plugs and for another they help me hear my breath better so I can use my handy Vipassana meditation technique. This morning, before setting off for Órgiva to meet Friedl, I completed my first hour-long sit in a month by the way. About time. On the sun-filled white-washed rooftop of my Hostal in Nerja I sat as the roofers working next door stared on with wonder.
Malaga, Spain is where I landed on the 10th of December. American Airlines
and Air Berlin got me here in 3 flights. What a contrast in flight experience.
Needless to say, take Air Berlin if you can. A brand new airline, all the
gorgeous Germanic stewardesses make a huge effort , the food is good, and
everyone had three seats to sleep in. The plane was imbued with calm
mature European energy as opposed to the over-filled frenetic foodless AA
flight. Ahhhhhhh. Finally. I am home with my people. Interestingly, I got
through American security with a jacknife, 6 oz of toothpaste and scissors
(forgot I had them with me) but was blocked by the Berlin security which took
my knife and let the other two go through. The only thing the US security had
a problem with were some metal clips I had for hanging my solar panels. After
ransacking through my backpack while my plane was boarding and
complimenting me on the healthy foods I had packed, the Security lady
apologised for her inconvenient and fruitless search for weapons.
The 3rd leg from Berlin to Malaga was as packed as my San Jose to Chicago leg, except that my planemates were now elder well-preserved Germans retired from a long life of productivity and their Russian counterparts, a little heavier and more showy with their fur vests and big gold watches, all headed south for the winter. The energy was happy, relieved and festive as opposed to that of the stressed and workaholic Silicon Valley geeks. Both I imagine had similar means but oh so different cultural contexts. After everyone got their luggage, I was left standing with a Polish couple looking despondent as we prayed more bags would push through the door. Darn. All seemed to be flowing until now...But yes, still flowing...the Spanish “lost luggage” agent assuredly pointed me to another carousel for international luggage. And there they were, intact, my poorly packed mini (48 pound) bike box and large soft (50 pound) duffel bag, both thrown together with the stuffing technique at 2am the morning of my departure. Trying to get the dimensions perfect so I would not be charged for oversize bags...it worked. Not only that but the $150 I was supposed to pay for a second bag (really?) came in at $35. Whatever. The angels were blessing me off to a positive start.
Relieved to see that the box had not been broken or punctured after all the crazy warnings by Bike Friday (the makers of my bike) that I really should purchase their $150 hard-shell suitcase or my bike would definitely be ruined......I situated myself in a spacious outdoor spot and proceeded to open my luggage and assemble it all together in as tidy and efficient a way as possible only to realize, three hours later, there was NO WAY IN H___ I could ride with all this stuff. I even had to wear the backpack that was destined for my sleep paraphernalia, filled to the brim with other
“necessary stuff”. I had never really put it ALL together before leaving but did a rough estimate. Too much!!!! Well what do you expect when packing for three years for every continent and climate. Really.
The 3rd leg from Berlin to Malaga was as packed as my San Jose to Chicago leg, except that my planemates were now elder well-preserved Germans retired from a long life of productivity and their Russian counterparts, a little heavier and more showy with their fur vests and big gold watches, all headed south for the winter. The energy was happy, relieved and festive as opposed to that of the stressed and workaholic Silicon Valley geeks. Both I imagine had similar means but oh so different cultural contexts. After everyone got their luggage, I was left standing with a Polish couple looking despondent as we prayed more bags would push through the door. Darn. All seemed to be flowing until now...But yes, still flowing...the Spanish “lost luggage” agent assuredly pointed me to another carousel for international luggage. And there they were, intact, my poorly packed mini (48 pound) bike box and large soft (50 pound) duffel bag, both thrown together with the stuffing technique at 2am the morning of my departure. Trying to get the dimensions perfect so I would not be charged for oversize bags...it worked. Not only that but the $150 I was supposed to pay for a second bag (really?) came in at $35. Whatever. The angels were blessing me off to a positive start.
Relieved to see that the box had not been broken or punctured after all the crazy warnings by Bike Friday (the makers of my bike) that I really should purchase their $150 hard-shell suitcase or my bike would definitely be ruined......I situated myself in a spacious outdoor spot and proceeded to open my luggage and assemble it all together in as tidy and efficient a way as possible only to realize, three hours later, there was NO WAY IN H___ I could ride with all this stuff. I even had to wear the backpack that was destined for my sleep paraphernalia, filled to the brim with other
“necessary stuff”. I had never really put it ALL together before leaving but did a rough estimate. Too much!!!! Well what do you expect when packing for three years for every continent and climate. Really.
I had no choice but to go now....except it was dark out and my AirBnB host
and all the taxi drivers highly disrecommended my intent to ride into town.
“Crazy Spanish drivers! Narrow road! Bridge is closed!” and on and on.
Exhausted and quickly convinced, I got to roll my bike onto a bus after a
second plea and a mostly empty bus. I felt like a circus act. Huge pile of stuff
bungeed down on the back, overflowing panniers, giant water bottles, and me
wearing a backpacker pack solid full. I tried to load myself on as graciously as
possible, smoothly placing my bike in a stable spot and looking like I knew
exactly what I was doing and where I was going. Why? I don't know. Maybe
because I am 50 and not some reckless unorganised 25 year-old on her first
spontaneous world bike tour. Besides there were two other passengers on
the bus staring.
Trying not to draw more attention, I subtly asked the driver to tell me when we were at the stop I needed to get to, but Arlette, a drop-dead gorgeous Venezuelan/Martiniquan film star (I would later find out) on her way back from a month-long Yoga Teacher Training course in India, heard me and intervened. “Oh I’m getting off there, I can tell you. Where are you going?” With her yoga mat strapped to a minute backpack as her only luggage neatly attached to her back, I felt ridiculous in comparison. Well hey, the girl went to tropical India to study yoga every day. What did she really need anyway? A mat, toiletries, a water bottle, 2-3 changes of yoga wear.... I wished I was her in that moment.
(I think the mule went to sleep. I dare not look but will take the opportunity to try and get some shuteye myself...1:18am! To be continued mañana.)
Backtracking....Hot Málaga Nights!
December 19th, 2014:
Where was I? Oh yes, Arlette Torres, the Venezuelan film star who saved my exhausted butt by accompanying me to the door of my AirBnB house in half the time or less it would have otherwise taken me seeing as I would have had to ask around continuously until I’d arrived. Poor Fali, my host, had been expecting me around 6:30-7, my typical optimistic underestimate for putting my bike and bags together in about an hour and riding into town in half an hour. Try three hours for step 1 and another hour for step 2, including bus stops and asking for directions once. He had come and left twice, and when we finally got to his place he was pulling up in his moped for the third time that evening, his light irritation quickly assuaged by the 30-something hot film star and a potentially (after sleeping for 2 days) hot 50 year-old ecogypsyglobalbikerider. His pleasure shown by the very in-depth 45-minute Welcome Tour we were given of the standard Malagan three-story house/ apartment with big smiles and offers of food and drink even though I was the
Trying not to draw more attention, I subtly asked the driver to tell me when we were at the stop I needed to get to, but Arlette, a drop-dead gorgeous Venezuelan/Martiniquan film star (I would later find out) on her way back from a month-long Yoga Teacher Training course in India, heard me and intervened. “Oh I’m getting off there, I can tell you. Where are you going?” With her yoga mat strapped to a minute backpack as her only luggage neatly attached to her back, I felt ridiculous in comparison. Well hey, the girl went to tropical India to study yoga every day. What did she really need anyway? A mat, toiletries, a water bottle, 2-3 changes of yoga wear.... I wished I was her in that moment.
(I think the mule went to sleep. I dare not look but will take the opportunity to try and get some shuteye myself...1:18am! To be continued mañana.)
Backtracking....Hot Málaga Nights!
December 19th, 2014:
Where was I? Oh yes, Arlette Torres, the Venezuelan film star who saved my exhausted butt by accompanying me to the door of my AirBnB house in half the time or less it would have otherwise taken me seeing as I would have had to ask around continuously until I’d arrived. Poor Fali, my host, had been expecting me around 6:30-7, my typical optimistic underestimate for putting my bike and bags together in about an hour and riding into town in half an hour. Try three hours for step 1 and another hour for step 2, including bus stops and asking for directions once. He had come and left twice, and when we finally got to his place he was pulling up in his moped for the third time that evening, his light irritation quickly assuaged by the 30-something hot film star and a potentially (after sleeping for 2 days) hot 50 year-old ecogypsyglobalbikerider. His pleasure shown by the very in-depth 45-minute Welcome Tour we were given of the standard Malagan three-story house/ apartment with big smiles and offers of food and drink even though I was the
only one staying and only in one of the 5 bedrooms for only two nights
enriching him by a measly $32.
Trying to be as polite as my Body could handle after 26.5 hours of travel with questionable minor sleep interludes and going up three flights of stairs 4 times to bring my ridiculous pile of bags up while Fali and Arlette flirted Latino-style, I finally shut down. Happy that I had made these two a little happier after their excessive caretaking efforts, I could let go of all responsibilities and sleep to my heart’s desire anonymously on Calle de la Cruz Verde behind closed shutters lost to time and place.
The next day, Thursday, December 11th, began my new sleep-in schedule which has become a decadent addiction, reminding me of my youth in NYC when my Mom would still be in bed when I would return home from school at 4pm. I became conscious to the world at 3pm. So what? Who cares? I can do whatever-the-heck-I- want was/is my new mantra. THAT is what I struggled, suffered, worked, paid, lost sleep, cried, and waited for since the ill-fated date of September 5, 2012, the day the City of Santa Cruz blasted me with 3 copies of their proud Notice of Violation, condemning all the most well-loved parts of my property for code violations that would take the
next two years to clean up and, thankfully, sell, to be free of ridiculous toxic people, regulations and wastes of time and money for the rest of my life. A lesson well-learned.
Thus, my day began at 3pm. Don’t think I’ve ever woken up at 3pm in my life before. Felt good. Like I was gettin’ mine. Yes. Making my statement. Ok, so 3pm is 6am California time...so still not sleeping in for my body, but for my mind yes. And for Spain, so so. Fali had already made my plans for the evening, with Arlette and he. We were going to go listen to live Flamenco in his favourite bar “El Gallo Ronco” (The Hoarse Cock (the Rooster variety that is)). Arlette cancelled and the other AirBnB guest he had to check in was running late, so the altered plan was that he walked me to the bar and left me there. Great! After a moment of adjustment and scoping out the place, I sat myself down at the bar and with confidence ordered four tapas and a beer. There was a 9 Euro special. What else do you do in Spain? Noone cared what I was doing and all the drunken attention was on the chunky Flamenco crooner holding his guitar up in the air like a lover he sang to. People sang, clapped and danced and even took over and improvised with their own songs of love, pain and desires. Awesome night!
My 4 tapas for $11 arrived to my great excitement. This would be my first tastebud experience in Málaga. Sautéed padrón peppers (hey just like in SC!), gambas, calamari marinated in pil pil (like Mexican salsa) and cured hard local sheep cheese drizzled with olive oil. The real thing. No California wanna-be imitation. I wondered how I looked ordering four tapas for myself. A
Trying to be as polite as my Body could handle after 26.5 hours of travel with questionable minor sleep interludes and going up three flights of stairs 4 times to bring my ridiculous pile of bags up while Fali and Arlette flirted Latino-style, I finally shut down. Happy that I had made these two a little happier after their excessive caretaking efforts, I could let go of all responsibilities and sleep to my heart’s desire anonymously on Calle de la Cruz Verde behind closed shutters lost to time and place.
The next day, Thursday, December 11th, began my new sleep-in schedule which has become a decadent addiction, reminding me of my youth in NYC when my Mom would still be in bed when I would return home from school at 4pm. I became conscious to the world at 3pm. So what? Who cares? I can do whatever-the-heck-I- want was/is my new mantra. THAT is what I struggled, suffered, worked, paid, lost sleep, cried, and waited for since the ill-fated date of September 5, 2012, the day the City of Santa Cruz blasted me with 3 copies of their proud Notice of Violation, condemning all the most well-loved parts of my property for code violations that would take the
next two years to clean up and, thankfully, sell, to be free of ridiculous toxic people, regulations and wastes of time and money for the rest of my life. A lesson well-learned.
Thus, my day began at 3pm. Don’t think I’ve ever woken up at 3pm in my life before. Felt good. Like I was gettin’ mine. Yes. Making my statement. Ok, so 3pm is 6am California time...so still not sleeping in for my body, but for my mind yes. And for Spain, so so. Fali had already made my plans for the evening, with Arlette and he. We were going to go listen to live Flamenco in his favourite bar “El Gallo Ronco” (The Hoarse Cock (the Rooster variety that is)). Arlette cancelled and the other AirBnB guest he had to check in was running late, so the altered plan was that he walked me to the bar and left me there. Great! After a moment of adjustment and scoping out the place, I sat myself down at the bar and with confidence ordered four tapas and a beer. There was a 9 Euro special. What else do you do in Spain? Noone cared what I was doing and all the drunken attention was on the chunky Flamenco crooner holding his guitar up in the air like a lover he sang to. People sang, clapped and danced and even took over and improvised with their own songs of love, pain and desires. Awesome night!
My 4 tapas for $11 arrived to my great excitement. This would be my first tastebud experience in Málaga. Sautéed padrón peppers (hey just like in SC!), gambas, calamari marinated in pil pil (like Mexican salsa) and cured hard local sheep cheese drizzled with olive oil. The real thing. No California wanna-be imitation. I wondered how I looked ordering four tapas for myself. A
couple of merry drunken men helped themselves to some of my bounty
thankfully, one of which, David, a tall non-Spanish looking Spaniard, would
become my first Spanish kiss! Woowie. Go mama! First night out and scoring
with a 34-year old delectably handsome, interesting and seemingly intelligent
nice guy. He took control of my attention with kisses, caresses, words, hugs. I
didn’t mind too much ‘cause he didn’t have much competition in there. Well
there was this one tall well-built hunky Scotsman who kept eyeing me, but
there was no way out. Oh well.
The Flamenco singing was so passionate for everyone in there, those that understood and those that didn’t. I had never been in such a setting and was so excited to be thrown into the deep music culture my first night to really FEEL gone from the US. Beautiful melodies and chants descended from the Rom people, the Moors and the Spaniards to become the hallmark of Andalusian life and revered globally. The equivalent of the African-American blues on this continent, accompanied by rhythmic clapping and foot-stomping to some kind of inbred irregular tempo that immediately captivated the newcomer. Another example of the power of music to transcend the intellect and unite us deeply where we are one.
Making my move at 2am, I was enthralled to see the streets teeming with folks on a weeknight in the dead of “winter”. All the bars were active and joyful. Loud emotional exchanges poured through the narrow ancient alleyways lined with wine barrel tabletops each one encircled by 4 stools occupied equally by both men and women with cañas in hand and fingering endless varieties of artfully-presented tapas in their small white dishes. Both sidewalks and streets have been paved with tiles or cobblestones for millennia, such a precious personal touch completely unseen in the US. The mark of Europe. The pride of Europeans.
Both David and his terribly inebriated older gay male compatriot, whose name I can’t recall for the life of me, followed me out. Hmmm, now what? Well at least I would be escorted back to my place which was more than I could do for myself seeing as I had not paid attention to how I had gotten there. His friend was so pissed drunk that he forgot all about his tiny skittish and devoted Terrier that had been stuck in the crook of his bent arm the whole night as he pranced around dancing and singing Flamenco. Now the poor minuscule thing was left to its own devices to keep a tab on its foolish owner wavering through the streets of Málaga and keep itself from getting lost in the shuffle of unknown legs. That little guy did a great job, clearly not the first episode. Unlike a trained German shepherd might be, he was of no use to his owner when he had his first fall, but just stood trembling and trusting he would start walking again.We found my place as I had noted the Teatro Cervantes as the closest landmark. By that time I had also been pondering what decision I would take regarding David, especially in light of his friend and the other guests staying in the house.
The Flamenco singing was so passionate for everyone in there, those that understood and those that didn’t. I had never been in such a setting and was so excited to be thrown into the deep music culture my first night to really FEEL gone from the US. Beautiful melodies and chants descended from the Rom people, the Moors and the Spaniards to become the hallmark of Andalusian life and revered globally. The equivalent of the African-American blues on this continent, accompanied by rhythmic clapping and foot-stomping to some kind of inbred irregular tempo that immediately captivated the newcomer. Another example of the power of music to transcend the intellect and unite us deeply where we are one.
Making my move at 2am, I was enthralled to see the streets teeming with folks on a weeknight in the dead of “winter”. All the bars were active and joyful. Loud emotional exchanges poured through the narrow ancient alleyways lined with wine barrel tabletops each one encircled by 4 stools occupied equally by both men and women with cañas in hand and fingering endless varieties of artfully-presented tapas in their small white dishes. Both sidewalks and streets have been paved with tiles or cobblestones for millennia, such a precious personal touch completely unseen in the US. The mark of Europe. The pride of Europeans.
Both David and his terribly inebriated older gay male compatriot, whose name I can’t recall for the life of me, followed me out. Hmmm, now what? Well at least I would be escorted back to my place which was more than I could do for myself seeing as I had not paid attention to how I had gotten there. His friend was so pissed drunk that he forgot all about his tiny skittish and devoted Terrier that had been stuck in the crook of his bent arm the whole night as he pranced around dancing and singing Flamenco. Now the poor minuscule thing was left to its own devices to keep a tab on its foolish owner wavering through the streets of Málaga and keep itself from getting lost in the shuffle of unknown legs. That little guy did a great job, clearly not the first episode. Unlike a trained German shepherd might be, he was of no use to his owner when he had his first fall, but just stood trembling and trusting he would start walking again.We found my place as I had noted the Teatro Cervantes as the closest landmark. By that time I had also been pondering what decision I would take regarding David, especially in light of his friend and the other guests staying in the house.
Honestly, I was honored to be desired by this young handsome Spaniard, it
was my first night out, and one of my main goals on my journey, though I
would never tell my kids, is lots of multicultural romance, sex and love. My
friend Brent who travelled extensively had once shared with me the story of a
woman he had met while on the road who was touring the planet in pursuit of
the country which produced the best lovers. I won’t tell you the outcome
because I want to see if I agree with her. To that end, I plan at least one tryst
or relationship per country or culture, which will of course contribute to my
making up for lost time. So far so good. I am ready to experience lovers of all
lands, races, languages, sizes, ages, etc. That and the whole Ecovillage tour
and the discovery of and total relaxation in beautiful places on Earth... are my
focal points. This journal, film and a book will be the outcomes. Not sure who
the star will be. Probably some hot and adventurous French actress.
Well David and I could have had a hot bangin’ night as he trailed behind me in heat trying to get into my pants while I surveyed his friend on the 1st floor for house rule violations. Poor David, at the second sign of his pitiful friend’s misbehavior, notably smoking in the house and talking to himself loudly, I had to nix the love night. There was a nice Oregonian woman on floor 2 and I didn’t want her to freak out and call Fali and get me kicked out...not to mention jeopardize my upcoming date with him. Wow was I gettin’ off to an active start. See, something about me in the US just doesn’t calculate on the sex/relationship level. Take me out and it’s like Instant Action Mamacita every time.
The next two days my wake-up time got later rather than earlier. On Saturday I was sure it was no later than 11am when I finally decided to raise the shutters and connect with the outside world. The light seemed a bit low but I owed it to the weather. When my iPhone shown 16:16 I was incredulous. Sure that it must be needing a date and time reset, I checked my laptop to confirm the reality of things. Four friggin’pm!!! I have never ever woken up at 4pm in my life. I found it quite funny though and rather enjoyed this drastic change of lifestyle I was leading here so far in Spain. Like one of those nightlife jet setters I was indeed starting my day at sunset and ending in the wee hours, as I am doing right now by the way. It’s 1:04am and I am sleepless in my tent grateful for my mobile solar panel keeping my battery alive.
The next two nights were more explorations of Málaga nightlife, including a stint with Arlette and Fali at the “Microteatro” followed by hefty greasy tapas. Arlette arrived in typical starlette mode stylishly late after cancelling on me for three straight days! Bopping up the street in curve- enhancing jeans with her wild short multi-shades of blonde mane of mulatta tight curls, clearly one hour’s worth of work, she agitatedly pulled us down the street to the Microteatro, where one of the 15-minute plays was about to start. I had no clue at that point yet that these were all her posse and that she too had acted
Well David and I could have had a hot bangin’ night as he trailed behind me in heat trying to get into my pants while I surveyed his friend on the 1st floor for house rule violations. Poor David, at the second sign of his pitiful friend’s misbehavior, notably smoking in the house and talking to himself loudly, I had to nix the love night. There was a nice Oregonian woman on floor 2 and I didn’t want her to freak out and call Fali and get me kicked out...not to mention jeopardize my upcoming date with him. Wow was I gettin’ off to an active start. See, something about me in the US just doesn’t calculate on the sex/relationship level. Take me out and it’s like Instant Action Mamacita every time.
The next two days my wake-up time got later rather than earlier. On Saturday I was sure it was no later than 11am when I finally decided to raise the shutters and connect with the outside world. The light seemed a bit low but I owed it to the weather. When my iPhone shown 16:16 I was incredulous. Sure that it must be needing a date and time reset, I checked my laptop to confirm the reality of things. Four friggin’pm!!! I have never ever woken up at 4pm in my life. I found it quite funny though and rather enjoyed this drastic change of lifestyle I was leading here so far in Spain. Like one of those nightlife jet setters I was indeed starting my day at sunset and ending in the wee hours, as I am doing right now by the way. It’s 1:04am and I am sleepless in my tent grateful for my mobile solar panel keeping my battery alive.
The next two nights were more explorations of Málaga nightlife, including a stint with Arlette and Fali at the “Microteatro” followed by hefty greasy tapas. Arlette arrived in typical starlette mode stylishly late after cancelling on me for three straight days! Bopping up the street in curve- enhancing jeans with her wild short multi-shades of blonde mane of mulatta tight curls, clearly one hour’s worth of work, she agitatedly pulled us down the street to the Microteatro, where one of the 15-minute plays was about to start. I had no clue at that point yet that these were all her posse and that she too had acted
in one of these plays. There were four “salas” each one set up with 10 little
stools for the microaudience. We were led down two flights of grungy stairs to
the microrooms where the show immediately began once we took to our
stools. Like a “petit four” we were entertained in little intense complete
morsels of delight, each a different theme. Fali had never been to the theatre
and was opened to a new world of “cultura”, he admittedly had never
developed an interest in. His days revolved around weight-lifting at the gym,
managing his AirBnB business and his beloved pseudo-partner Mo, the
shaggy golden retriever, who would regularly spring 4 feet in the air when
verbally stimulated by words like “el parque” and “la playa”.
We were briefly entertained with two micro shows, one a comedic very emotionally-performed marathon speedtalk encounter of a divorcing couple in the ends of their limbo dance. Northern Spanish Spanish must be one of the fastest languages I have ever heard, rivalling Chinese. The couple were both very adept with their timing, facial gestural flow and changes in body position which, together with their well-engrained script all done in record time, made for a very full and satisfying 15 minutes. The second “show” took us into another more depressing and fearful world of the unknown darkness within as two young girls expressed their inner baggage at each other from within the confines of a juvenile hall. The energy was completely different and the homicidal
ending with pillow suffocation, as the dark dark side of one of the girls shown its face, left the audience a bit ruffled.
It was again a blast for me to be immersed in the “new”. Málaga is not Madrid or Barcelona but comes in sixth size-wise and is a very very action-packed place especially when the rest of the country is complaining about the cold. What struck me immediately was the human buzz going on day and night in the streets of the old town, which were a circular maze of narrow intimate Moorish- style Calles that lead to joyous bubbly square Plazas lined with tapas bars and restaurants that host giant assemblages of families, friends, tourists and beautiful elderly men in their ubiquitous Mediterranean caps. Bottom line: everyone likes to be outside and walk the streets with family and friends, especially during the social hours from 4 to 8. From the fashion parade appearance of all ages, it seems they prepare for this “happy” hour every day. Maybe that’s where the term originated. I wonder if there actually is a term for this daily activity in their vocabulary.
I could not tell my mind enough to drop into slumber until 4:30am. Was it the greasy tapas at 11pm? The third play start time of 12:30am (the funniest one), the computer use until 3am or once again the 9 hour time change. Am I ever going to get it together to wake up at dawn again to start meditating with the beginning of daylight? Or will it take leaving the only country I know of that eats dinner after 10pm? Maybe I just need to not worry, after the last two
We were briefly entertained with two micro shows, one a comedic very emotionally-performed marathon speedtalk encounter of a divorcing couple in the ends of their limbo dance. Northern Spanish Spanish must be one of the fastest languages I have ever heard, rivalling Chinese. The couple were both very adept with their timing, facial gestural flow and changes in body position which, together with their well-engrained script all done in record time, made for a very full and satisfying 15 minutes. The second “show” took us into another more depressing and fearful world of the unknown darkness within as two young girls expressed their inner baggage at each other from within the confines of a juvenile hall. The energy was completely different and the homicidal
ending with pillow suffocation, as the dark dark side of one of the girls shown its face, left the audience a bit ruffled.
It was again a blast for me to be immersed in the “new”. Málaga is not Madrid or Barcelona but comes in sixth size-wise and is a very very action-packed place especially when the rest of the country is complaining about the cold. What struck me immediately was the human buzz going on day and night in the streets of the old town, which were a circular maze of narrow intimate Moorish- style Calles that lead to joyous bubbly square Plazas lined with tapas bars and restaurants that host giant assemblages of families, friends, tourists and beautiful elderly men in their ubiquitous Mediterranean caps. Bottom line: everyone likes to be outside and walk the streets with family and friends, especially during the social hours from 4 to 8. From the fashion parade appearance of all ages, it seems they prepare for this “happy” hour every day. Maybe that’s where the term originated. I wonder if there actually is a term for this daily activity in their vocabulary.
I could not tell my mind enough to drop into slumber until 4:30am. Was it the greasy tapas at 11pm? The third play start time of 12:30am (the funniest one), the computer use until 3am or once again the 9 hour time change. Am I ever going to get it together to wake up at dawn again to start meditating with the beginning of daylight? Or will it take leaving the only country I know of that eats dinner after 10pm? Maybe I just need to not worry, after the last two
years of constant worrying about the legalisation issues of my poor beloved
property in Santa Cruz, it’s time to relearn a new mental/emotional paradigm:
Have fun, be present, flow and trust. Now or never.
The challenge of making this the theme of this journey, transformation into “what is”, as we are all taught in the great spiritual scriptures, BE HERE NOW, is to balance scheduling activities, appointments, events with following my personal intuitive desires. I don’t remember the last time I was totally schedule-less, I mean totally. I’d like to try that. Currently I have my Mum awaiting me in Tangier, a cob workshop to prepare for and teach in Senegal in March and a Wild Women Journey to co-lead in July in southern Spain. They are already organising my timing and my flow. Oh my, what to do?
Flamenco Lover
Sunday I flowed in slumber till 11am, progress. A rainy day, good excuse to stay in and take care of business. Again. All this computer-related activity really takes a chunk of time. (Just like now. I woke up in my tent at 11am and started up writing as I want to catch up to the present moment. I realize it is impinging on full-on immersion however the desire to record and share has a higher purpose of inspiration and change. So I will continue thus...)
Fali invited me to dinner and I decided I wanted to try a Malaguenian vegetarian restaurant. Probably won’t do it again. I guess when you are spoiled by the serious variety of California vegetarian fare, not much can live up to that. Seemed like the menu was a non-meat version of a regular restaurant’s menu, so that we were eating all side dishes, missing the excitement. And Fali’s face reflected that. He wanted to please me but this was clearly not his thing. The cheap and abundantly greasy tapas bar from the previous night was his meal of preference. This place was pretty pathetic, overpriced, and a poor excuse for vegetarian dining. The veggie juice was ok. The Greek salad with iceberg lettuce, bland tomatoes and supermarket chunks of feta was terrible. The only highlight for me were the free olives at the start. I ate them all as Fali hates olives. We ordered a mushroom risotto, it was good, but again not an entree feeling for an entree price. Fali was definitely on a mission. I could feel it. Walking through the streets arm in arm was fun. I felt I had the beginnings of an Andalusian lover. Young (38, a Dragon like me) and cute, long hair in a pony tail, well-built, dark, very sweet, easy on the intellect, high on the kindness and care, and, I
was soon to discover, high on the sensuality and pleasure-giving. Needless to say, we ended up in his bed, giving his other lover, Mo, the boot to go to his “sitio” which he clearly was not accustomed to and took many tries to accept. The smell of dog on my side of the bed was most unappealing I have to say, and the 2 small raggedy pillows available for myself were also usually Mo’s and really challenged my comfort level.
Have fun, be present, flow and trust. Now or never.
The challenge of making this the theme of this journey, transformation into “what is”, as we are all taught in the great spiritual scriptures, BE HERE NOW, is to balance scheduling activities, appointments, events with following my personal intuitive desires. I don’t remember the last time I was totally schedule-less, I mean totally. I’d like to try that. Currently I have my Mum awaiting me in Tangier, a cob workshop to prepare for and teach in Senegal in March and a Wild Women Journey to co-lead in July in southern Spain. They are already organising my timing and my flow. Oh my, what to do?
Flamenco Lover
Sunday I flowed in slumber till 11am, progress. A rainy day, good excuse to stay in and take care of business. Again. All this computer-related activity really takes a chunk of time. (Just like now. I woke up in my tent at 11am and started up writing as I want to catch up to the present moment. I realize it is impinging on full-on immersion however the desire to record and share has a higher purpose of inspiration and change. So I will continue thus...)
Fali invited me to dinner and I decided I wanted to try a Malaguenian vegetarian restaurant. Probably won’t do it again. I guess when you are spoiled by the serious variety of California vegetarian fare, not much can live up to that. Seemed like the menu was a non-meat version of a regular restaurant’s menu, so that we were eating all side dishes, missing the excitement. And Fali’s face reflected that. He wanted to please me but this was clearly not his thing. The cheap and abundantly greasy tapas bar from the previous night was his meal of preference. This place was pretty pathetic, overpriced, and a poor excuse for vegetarian dining. The veggie juice was ok. The Greek salad with iceberg lettuce, bland tomatoes and supermarket chunks of feta was terrible. The only highlight for me were the free olives at the start. I ate them all as Fali hates olives. We ordered a mushroom risotto, it was good, but again not an entree feeling for an entree price. Fali was definitely on a mission. I could feel it. Walking through the streets arm in arm was fun. I felt I had the beginnings of an Andalusian lover. Young (38, a Dragon like me) and cute, long hair in a pony tail, well-built, dark, very sweet, easy on the intellect, high on the kindness and care, and, I
was soon to discover, high on the sensuality and pleasure-giving. Needless to say, we ended up in his bed, giving his other lover, Mo, the boot to go to his “sitio” which he clearly was not accustomed to and took many tries to accept. The smell of dog on my side of the bed was most unappealing I have to say, and the 2 small raggedy pillows available for myself were also usually Mo’s and really challenged my comfort level.
My beautiful Flamenco lover was a really awesome first sexual encounter of
my journey and for that I am so grateful. Three orgasms in one night was a
record for me. Not sure if it was his energy, the appropriate sizes of our
complementary pleasure organs, that it had been a while for me or that it
would clearly be a short fling....but I took the new experience wholeheartedly.
While my body glowed, I had to put a stop to it after 3 hours. Possibly the
qualm of the older Goddess with the young stallion. At least this Goddess
needs to get back into a regular sustainable practice. After battling with Mo for
the spot next to Fali on the bed through the rest of the night, I surrendered to
my never-ending insomnia battles and went to the living room to await
daylight.
Winter sunrise in Málaga is now at 8:30am and sunset at 6:07pm. I guess it is more northerly than I thought. Walking back to my place along the empty Paseo Marítimo bordering the beach and Port allowed me to be part of the few morning runners’ path. The Spaniards are, like Californians, pretty into their shape as witnessed by the many “gymnasios”. The people I’ve met so far all see their regular Gymnasio attendance as a conscience-freeing ticket to nightly tapas and cañas (cheap glasses of draft beer). Beach life is very big and present from May to October though I don’t understand why there aren’t people swimming now. The water temperature here would be considered warm in Santa Cruz, probably high 50’s. No sharks and no wildlife either. Pretty tame water. If my friend Beach Johnny were here we’d be all over these waters.
Walking back to my place I stopped at the Mercado Central. I have to say I am truly a Mediterranean gal. Just give me local goat and sheep cheeses, country breads, olives, avocadoes, olive oil, almonds, cherimoyas, figs, oranges, lemons and fresh-grilled sardines and I’m happy. Don’t need much more. The variety of olives offered I have seen before at Zabar’s in NYC but this is the real thing here. This is the source. And at half the price. I got a mixture of all 15 varieties, some firm unidentified bright orange mushrooms with a big cap, padrón peppers, little breaded “croquettes” with various creamy fillings to fry up, an economical goat cheese and some incredibly attractive cucumbers. Not sure if the prices are higher in this market because I am in tourist mecca. I later discover the more “local’s” markets in the dingier parts of town that have more for less. There’s always a learning curve when entering a new country.
Well 6 days into my new world journey and all I can do is chill out it seems. I think I’m decompressing from two years of extreme stress and mild depression stuck in the vortex of Santa Cruz negative bureaucratic grip. Yes there is a jet lag of 9 hours, true, and yes, the evening meal usually starts around 9:30-10pm and yes I am as open as ever to experiencing the NEW and am luxuriating in the bliss of not having an obligation to wake up to so my days start anywhere form 11am to 4pm.
Winter sunrise in Málaga is now at 8:30am and sunset at 6:07pm. I guess it is more northerly than I thought. Walking back to my place along the empty Paseo Marítimo bordering the beach and Port allowed me to be part of the few morning runners’ path. The Spaniards are, like Californians, pretty into their shape as witnessed by the many “gymnasios”. The people I’ve met so far all see their regular Gymnasio attendance as a conscience-freeing ticket to nightly tapas and cañas (cheap glasses of draft beer). Beach life is very big and present from May to October though I don’t understand why there aren’t people swimming now. The water temperature here would be considered warm in Santa Cruz, probably high 50’s. No sharks and no wildlife either. Pretty tame water. If my friend Beach Johnny were here we’d be all over these waters.
Walking back to my place I stopped at the Mercado Central. I have to say I am truly a Mediterranean gal. Just give me local goat and sheep cheeses, country breads, olives, avocadoes, olive oil, almonds, cherimoyas, figs, oranges, lemons and fresh-grilled sardines and I’m happy. Don’t need much more. The variety of olives offered I have seen before at Zabar’s in NYC but this is the real thing here. This is the source. And at half the price. I got a mixture of all 15 varieties, some firm unidentified bright orange mushrooms with a big cap, padrón peppers, little breaded “croquettes” with various creamy fillings to fry up, an economical goat cheese and some incredibly attractive cucumbers. Not sure if the prices are higher in this market because I am in tourist mecca. I later discover the more “local’s” markets in the dingier parts of town that have more for less. There’s always a learning curve when entering a new country.
Well 6 days into my new world journey and all I can do is chill out it seems. I think I’m decompressing from two years of extreme stress and mild depression stuck in the vortex of Santa Cruz negative bureaucratic grip. Yes there is a jet lag of 9 hours, true, and yes, the evening meal usually starts around 9:30-10pm and yes I am as open as ever to experiencing the NEW and am luxuriating in the bliss of not having an obligation to wake up to so my days start anywhere form 11am to 4pm.
Hammam and Massage...Andalusian-style
It’s Monday morning and after the market I have scheduled a Hammam and massage appointment. I am cringing possible disappointment after being accustomed to high California massage standards. The Hammam is a complex of Arab-style steam rooms where people sit around and lie on the hot stone benches to sweat and then cool themselves off with splashes of cold water and showers. While the air does not feel very intense at first, the direct contact with the hot stones definitely accelerates the sweating process dramatically. I was informed it was “nudist day” when I entered, which I was obviously fine with. Curious as to what that would mean here in Málaga (relative to Santa Cruz), I soon found out: only one other female, and she was sprawled Goddess-like on the octagonal marble pad. I lay near her. There was one other oversized hairy male. My initial reaction was: “So this is it?” I mean, I appreciated being given special flip flops, a
towel and a free soap, but I didn’t see myself getting therapeutically hot in this temperature setting. Was their heat tolerance especially low here? I mean after Esalen, Kiva, sweat lodges and my own Sauna, this was child’s play. Anyway, little by little as I lay supine on the hot marble pad I started drifting off into peaceful no-thoughts land, comfortably warmed by the stone. I easily lost consciousness of my surroundings, akin to Shavasana after a strenuous yoga practice, a welcome gift after my sleepless and agitated night of love-making.
When I came to, my female compatriot had left and I was now being ogled by a man on each side. One, a tanned hair-free 30-something with firm athletic build and an unusually small penis. The other, another fattish hairy 50- something of no particular attraction. Time to drop into my strong disinterested woman as I lounged in the bubble of peaceful relaxation I had come for. I was curious about the “nudist day” thing. Did this mean a bunch of males coming to look at naked women, or a bunch of people that were mellow about other bodies floating around and just preferred to be naked in the “baths”. By the way “baths” seems inappropriate, more like “rooms”. There were no baths to be seen, just showers for cooling off.
From the depths of another drop into semi-consciousness came a woman’s voice calling me for my massage. Quickly scanning my masseuse I was already questioning her abilities. Thin, a bit nervous, and scurrying me along, I sensed insecurity. I had asked the front desk for a deep strong practitioner. They had insisted on one of their 2 males, but I would have to wait until they were done, or go with the woman who was available now. I always waiver in these situations in which I need to decide between unknown massage therapists: the male or the female, John or Sue, young or old, Swedish or DeepTissue... because I have been surprised many a time to find the softer- looking female masseuse’s work acceptingly deeper and more effective while
It’s Monday morning and after the market I have scheduled a Hammam and massage appointment. I am cringing possible disappointment after being accustomed to high California massage standards. The Hammam is a complex of Arab-style steam rooms where people sit around and lie on the hot stone benches to sweat and then cool themselves off with splashes of cold water and showers. While the air does not feel very intense at first, the direct contact with the hot stones definitely accelerates the sweating process dramatically. I was informed it was “nudist day” when I entered, which I was obviously fine with. Curious as to what that would mean here in Málaga (relative to Santa Cruz), I soon found out: only one other female, and she was sprawled Goddess-like on the octagonal marble pad. I lay near her. There was one other oversized hairy male. My initial reaction was: “So this is it?” I mean, I appreciated being given special flip flops, a
towel and a free soap, but I didn’t see myself getting therapeutically hot in this temperature setting. Was their heat tolerance especially low here? I mean after Esalen, Kiva, sweat lodges and my own Sauna, this was child’s play. Anyway, little by little as I lay supine on the hot marble pad I started drifting off into peaceful no-thoughts land, comfortably warmed by the stone. I easily lost consciousness of my surroundings, akin to Shavasana after a strenuous yoga practice, a welcome gift after my sleepless and agitated night of love-making.
When I came to, my female compatriot had left and I was now being ogled by a man on each side. One, a tanned hair-free 30-something with firm athletic build and an unusually small penis. The other, another fattish hairy 50- something of no particular attraction. Time to drop into my strong disinterested woman as I lounged in the bubble of peaceful relaxation I had come for. I was curious about the “nudist day” thing. Did this mean a bunch of males coming to look at naked women, or a bunch of people that were mellow about other bodies floating around and just preferred to be naked in the “baths”. By the way “baths” seems inappropriate, more like “rooms”. There were no baths to be seen, just showers for cooling off.
From the depths of another drop into semi-consciousness came a woman’s voice calling me for my massage. Quickly scanning my masseuse I was already questioning her abilities. Thin, a bit nervous, and scurrying me along, I sensed insecurity. I had asked the front desk for a deep strong practitioner. They had insisted on one of their 2 males, but I would have to wait until they were done, or go with the woman who was available now. I always waiver in these situations in which I need to decide between unknown massage therapists: the male or the female, John or Sue, young or old, Swedish or DeepTissue... because I have been surprised many a time to find the softer- looking female masseuse’s work acceptingly deeper and more effective while
the male’s work is more painfully pointed and intense but not necessarily
intuitive and flowing and thus harder to receive.
I decided to give this woman a chance....which lasted fifteen completely wasted minutes. Terrible. Worse than worse. Absolutely no training as far as I could tell. Caressing me with tons of oil everywhere over and over. I could barely feel her hands. People pay for this? People want this? Not sure what the deal was with her success at this Hammam but I could not in any possible way surrender and accept even if I was only paying $30. For inexperienced massage receivers, men or women that needed soft touch, this might be just what worked for them. Not me.
So I waited for a pause and took my cue to as kindly as possible say: “No more, thank you. This is not what I wanted. I need deeper work”. Her answer? “Well I can’t do deep work for an hour. That’s too much. I have to warm you up first.” I asked her to show me what her idea of deep work was. She proceeded to quickly rub her fingers back and forth across my muscle, intending to create a shaking effect. All I felt was fingertips smoothing over skin. No way, sorry sweetheart.
The line was drawn. We walked downstairs and I put it clearly to the front desk. Within 15 minutes of trying to let go of this annoying experience on the hot stone pad came the second try. A twenty- four year old beefy but not muscular and slightly more confident young male awoke me from my third slumber. His large hairy calves overwhelmed the dainty white Japanese-style flip-flops he wore with his sarong skirt, a funny contrast.
I don’t know that I can describe this massage in any way. Yes it was more physically stimulating because it hurt. The technique was not recognizable and so I tried to let go of trying to name it and understand it into surrender and acceptance. Repetition was the keyword. He went over and over the spots with the same move. He worked very hard. I felt the drops of sweat on my back that accompanied the intense panting that revealed his young and inexperienced unnecessary efforts. Oh well. At least I felt something. This was hundreds of thousands of miles away from what I knew to be a good massage. Thirty dollars out and they don’t tip here....another lesson learned.
The Initiation of my Bike Friday and My First Fall...So soon?
Tuesday morning arrived, D Day. I felt I could just hang out here for another week resting, sleeping, playing, being. Alas, Friedl awaited me on the mountain and apparently was starting to give up on me. He had little idea of what I was going through in this major life transition as I dropped into Málaga with bike and concentration of my life possessions into 4 panniers, a handlebar bag and a backpack for my sleep gear. I was in recovery. Nonetheless I HAD to make the move as I also planned to visit El Valle de Sensaciones, where I was invited to lead a group of international goddesses
I decided to give this woman a chance....which lasted fifteen completely wasted minutes. Terrible. Worse than worse. Absolutely no training as far as I could tell. Caressing me with tons of oil everywhere over and over. I could barely feel her hands. People pay for this? People want this? Not sure what the deal was with her success at this Hammam but I could not in any possible way surrender and accept even if I was only paying $30. For inexperienced massage receivers, men or women that needed soft touch, this might be just what worked for them. Not me.
So I waited for a pause and took my cue to as kindly as possible say: “No more, thank you. This is not what I wanted. I need deeper work”. Her answer? “Well I can’t do deep work for an hour. That’s too much. I have to warm you up first.” I asked her to show me what her idea of deep work was. She proceeded to quickly rub her fingers back and forth across my muscle, intending to create a shaking effect. All I felt was fingertips smoothing over skin. No way, sorry sweetheart.
The line was drawn. We walked downstairs and I put it clearly to the front desk. Within 15 minutes of trying to let go of this annoying experience on the hot stone pad came the second try. A twenty- four year old beefy but not muscular and slightly more confident young male awoke me from my third slumber. His large hairy calves overwhelmed the dainty white Japanese-style flip-flops he wore with his sarong skirt, a funny contrast.
I don’t know that I can describe this massage in any way. Yes it was more physically stimulating because it hurt. The technique was not recognizable and so I tried to let go of trying to name it and understand it into surrender and acceptance. Repetition was the keyword. He went over and over the spots with the same move. He worked very hard. I felt the drops of sweat on my back that accompanied the intense panting that revealed his young and inexperienced unnecessary efforts. Oh well. At least I felt something. This was hundreds of thousands of miles away from what I knew to be a good massage. Thirty dollars out and they don’t tip here....another lesson learned.
The Initiation of my Bike Friday and My First Fall...So soon?
Tuesday morning arrived, D Day. I felt I could just hang out here for another week resting, sleeping, playing, being. Alas, Friedl awaited me on the mountain and apparently was starting to give up on me. He had little idea of what I was going through in this major life transition as I dropped into Málaga with bike and concentration of my life possessions into 4 panniers, a handlebar bag and a backpack for my sleep gear. I was in recovery. Nonetheless I HAD to make the move as I also planned to visit El Valle de Sensaciones, where I was invited to lead a group of international goddesses
in building a cob temple next summer. They were in the same general area of
Órgiva and Friedl’s building project would close on Friday. I had a mission to
accomplish and a deadline, the only thing that could rustle me out of the slow
Andalusian rhythm I had effortlessly adopted.
Departure time: 2:30pm. Damn. I generously gave myself a 10 mile an hour rate of travel with my fully loaded (50 lbs) New World Tourist model Bike Friday. At this point it would take 3.5 hours, which allowed me to arrive just before sunset, of course assuming I made no stops and held that rate. I bid my awed hostess Elisabeth and co-guest Norwegian Per adieu and confidently walked my bike to the bakery by foot to get a feel of the whole animal. Not too bad. As long as I was rolling on flat ground, pretty manageable to push. I got my whole wheat loaf for $.50, clipped my helmet on and at the surprised stares of a few pedestrians, started downhill towards the beach. Easy. I took the Paseo Picasso for the first stretch, a pedestrian/ bike walkway along the ocean. Perfect. No cars. Not too many people (winter). A nice sunny day. I was rockin’!
I decided to experiment with clipping my feet into the clipless pedals now that I was rollin’. In and out, I struggled a bit with the “out” part. It required a strong push down and a quick twist to the left or right. My confidence was definitely not high. I have to say the benefits of riding clipped in are good on long stretches, giving you much more pedal pushing power as your feet don’t slip and slide and all the energy goes into pushing down and pulling up on the pedal. As I rode along the quiet coast, I passed several Senegalese jewelery and sunglass vendors, a taste of what was to come I thought. I bid them “Salaam Aleykum” and “Bonjour” to their surprise. Yeah! Can’t wait for Africa, my true brethren. My first day and all was so sweet. I wondered how long the Paseo would go for. All the way to Nerja, my destination for the night?
Half an hour into my ride I decided to slow down and lean my right foot on a short stem wall to photograph the oceanview. I unclipped my right foot as the bike slowed down and extended it towards the wall when unexpectedly my right back fully-packed pannier hit the wall before my foot got there and pushed my bike over to the left where my foot was still clipped in and suddenly it was one of those “Fuuuuuuck!” moments of letting go to fate as my bike and I fell helplessly to the ground. Shit. I took a quick reconnaissance of my body: elbow and wrist took the hit as I braced myself with the left arm. My panoply of handlebar bag contents were strewn on the dirty tiled ground. A 50-something Spanish cyclist jumped off his bike and ran to me. The Senegalese guys looked and stayed away. Maybe the Muslim customs? I was bummed. Already? I looked for my trusty Arnica pills and popped 5 under my tongue and spread the gel over my wrist and hand. I was sure nothing was broken. The Spaniard wanted to clear his conscience and make sure I was ok by helping me up before he took off. How embarrassing. I need to
Departure time: 2:30pm. Damn. I generously gave myself a 10 mile an hour rate of travel with my fully loaded (50 lbs) New World Tourist model Bike Friday. At this point it would take 3.5 hours, which allowed me to arrive just before sunset, of course assuming I made no stops and held that rate. I bid my awed hostess Elisabeth and co-guest Norwegian Per adieu and confidently walked my bike to the bakery by foot to get a feel of the whole animal. Not too bad. As long as I was rolling on flat ground, pretty manageable to push. I got my whole wheat loaf for $.50, clipped my helmet on and at the surprised stares of a few pedestrians, started downhill towards the beach. Easy. I took the Paseo Picasso for the first stretch, a pedestrian/ bike walkway along the ocean. Perfect. No cars. Not too many people (winter). A nice sunny day. I was rockin’!
I decided to experiment with clipping my feet into the clipless pedals now that I was rollin’. In and out, I struggled a bit with the “out” part. It required a strong push down and a quick twist to the left or right. My confidence was definitely not high. I have to say the benefits of riding clipped in are good on long stretches, giving you much more pedal pushing power as your feet don’t slip and slide and all the energy goes into pushing down and pulling up on the pedal. As I rode along the quiet coast, I passed several Senegalese jewelery and sunglass vendors, a taste of what was to come I thought. I bid them “Salaam Aleykum” and “Bonjour” to their surprise. Yeah! Can’t wait for Africa, my true brethren. My first day and all was so sweet. I wondered how long the Paseo would go for. All the way to Nerja, my destination for the night?
Half an hour into my ride I decided to slow down and lean my right foot on a short stem wall to photograph the oceanview. I unclipped my right foot as the bike slowed down and extended it towards the wall when unexpectedly my right back fully-packed pannier hit the wall before my foot got there and pushed my bike over to the left where my foot was still clipped in and suddenly it was one of those “Fuuuuuuck!” moments of letting go to fate as my bike and I fell helplessly to the ground. Shit. I took a quick reconnaissance of my body: elbow and wrist took the hit as I braced myself with the left arm. My panoply of handlebar bag contents were strewn on the dirty tiled ground. A 50-something Spanish cyclist jumped off his bike and ran to me. The Senegalese guys looked and stayed away. Maybe the Muslim customs? I was bummed. Already? I looked for my trusty Arnica pills and popped 5 under my tongue and spread the gel over my wrist and hand. I was sure nothing was broken. The Spaniard wanted to clear his conscience and make sure I was ok by helping me up before he took off. How embarrassing. I need to
Google: “How to fall gracefully and softly when you are clipped in...”. Luckily I
was not on the road.
I collected my stuff that had fallen and all seemed fine. I decided to change to my yellow calf-high hand-made boots I had brought for fancier dressing as well as hiking and warmth. They slipped and slid unfortunately but I did my best. For the next 5 hours I biked mostly on a series of changing bike paths: tile, dirt, sand, asphalt. It was a most enjoyable ride with the sun going down on my right, the quiet little white-washed beach villages in between the more grandiose tourist towns with large buildings and cafes and restaurants catering to the German retirees. Signs were in Spanish,
German and English. Menus were in German and offered Kaffee and Kuchen. Many Germans were clearly spending the last quarter of their lives as expats in Spain, enjoying each other far from their families. It made me think about my choices.
My favourite part of the ride was passing by the little palapas where fishermen were building wood fires to grill their catches of the day, mostly sardines, mackerel and other local Mediterranean fish I did not recognise. For $10 they served a full healthy meal by the beach. Looked yummy. Unfortunately it was not in line with my schedule and I was committed to my containers of sautéed padrón peppers, orange mushrooms and croquettes I had prepared that morning. One of the best items I have brought along on this trip is the triple stack of metal containers clipped together to hold prepared food items. It is made in India and sold as an “eco lunchbox” in California. I can make food in the morning for the day, I can bring food back from restaurants, protect avocadoes and tomatoes from being smushed, etc. It takes up room but if it is filled with food it doesn’t make a difference.
The ride seemed endless though it was only 35 miles. Everyone I asked gave me a different estimate of distance and time I had left to go. What I needed was a cyclist and they were all zipping by me at 40 miles an hour. Bike touring is a mind trip. You have this destination, you have your ETA to the markers along the way, but unless you have already travelled the route, you have no idea of the detailed topography, the ground surface, the non-road options, and how you will feel that day, let alone fall that day. Therefore, you never know how long it will actually take from start to destination. Everyone you ask has a different perspective, literally. It reminds me of the course I took in Graduate School on Mental Maps with Reginald Golledge at UCSB. We took a survey of people’s mental maps from point A to point B relative to reality and it was the rare Soul that was accurate. In the end, I think the lesson is to just go and don’t ask anyone unless I really need help. Besides, it only serves to annoy me as my underestimation constantly bumps up against reality.
I collected my stuff that had fallen and all seemed fine. I decided to change to my yellow calf-high hand-made boots I had brought for fancier dressing as well as hiking and warmth. They slipped and slid unfortunately but I did my best. For the next 5 hours I biked mostly on a series of changing bike paths: tile, dirt, sand, asphalt. It was a most enjoyable ride with the sun going down on my right, the quiet little white-washed beach villages in between the more grandiose tourist towns with large buildings and cafes and restaurants catering to the German retirees. Signs were in Spanish,
German and English. Menus were in German and offered Kaffee and Kuchen. Many Germans were clearly spending the last quarter of their lives as expats in Spain, enjoying each other far from their families. It made me think about my choices.
My favourite part of the ride was passing by the little palapas where fishermen were building wood fires to grill their catches of the day, mostly sardines, mackerel and other local Mediterranean fish I did not recognise. For $10 they served a full healthy meal by the beach. Looked yummy. Unfortunately it was not in line with my schedule and I was committed to my containers of sautéed padrón peppers, orange mushrooms and croquettes I had prepared that morning. One of the best items I have brought along on this trip is the triple stack of metal containers clipped together to hold prepared food items. It is made in India and sold as an “eco lunchbox” in California. I can make food in the morning for the day, I can bring food back from restaurants, protect avocadoes and tomatoes from being smushed, etc. It takes up room but if it is filled with food it doesn’t make a difference.
The ride seemed endless though it was only 35 miles. Everyone I asked gave me a different estimate of distance and time I had left to go. What I needed was a cyclist and they were all zipping by me at 40 miles an hour. Bike touring is a mind trip. You have this destination, you have your ETA to the markers along the way, but unless you have already travelled the route, you have no idea of the detailed topography, the ground surface, the non-road options, and how you will feel that day, let alone fall that day. Therefore, you never know how long it will actually take from start to destination. Everyone you ask has a different perspective, literally. It reminds me of the course I took in Graduate School on Mental Maps with Reginald Golledge at UCSB. We took a survey of people’s mental maps from point A to point B relative to reality and it was the rare Soul that was accurate. In the end, I think the lesson is to just go and don’t ask anyone unless I really need help. Besides, it only serves to annoy me as my underestimation constantly bumps up against reality.
I eventually arrived in Nerja in the dark at 8:30pm after a long ice cream
break in Torre del Mar surrounded by old Germans having a good time. Poor
Eduardo the hostel manager had been going back and forth from his home to
the hostel, as Fali had done, triggered by my guesstimates. An adorable little
hostel with my private room for $15 a night. Spain rocks! The moment I
settled in and my body knew it was safe and sound....my wrist began to
explode in barely bearable amounts of throbbing pain. It was clearly not
happy that I had subjected it to 30 more miles of riding after the impact. I
didn’t know what was going on. Had I broken or fractured or sprained it? Any
position I put it in felt like a torture. I was trying to breathe through it and
thought of my ear acupuncture mustard seed bandaids that Mariposa had
given me once with the ear chart. I looked on the very well-worn chart for the
elbow and wrist points that were nestled into the inner channel of the upper
ear fold and applied the seeds desperately. I also took some swigs of
Traumeel, which I had forgotten about. My wrist had barely spoken after the
fall, I was surprised.
Amazingly enough, after a lot of ear massaging and breathing, the pain began to subside. Wow! Grateful for my Santa Cruz years of health knowledge and tools I had brought, my body finally began to rest after its first day of PUSH. A big first day. I have not ridden more than 20 miles in a long time, and that was with NO baggage. As an Aries I tend to do the ALL OUT thing with my body to test its resilience and allow me to feel it. At 50, maybe it’s time for humble and respectful approaches.
The next day I had to suck it up and just to be totally respectful to myself, went for x-rays at a private clinic where it would all be done in one place immediately to the tune of $100. The public clinic had no x-ray machine available on site and I had no French health card yet. I was relieved at the $100 cost for x-rays and visit actually, but didn’t want to show it. The Princeton-trained Spanish doctor smiled when I asked him what the x-rays revealed. “Nada roto, nada fracturado.” “Y entonces hay algo?” I asked him. “Sí.” “Qué?” “Algo.” “Qué?” “Something old. An old injury.” Ahhhh yes. The old repetitive use COB BUILDING arthritic issue with my poor left wrist had gotten reactivated. And in a big way too. I was going to need to use wrist braces or some kind of protection from hereon in because there would probably be more falls. My poor wrist. As I left the
clinic, they wanted to charge me another $100 for the “treatment” which consisted of wrapping my wrist with an ace bandage. I was pissed and refused to pay. They finally backed down and that was that, wishing me a Merry Christmas for their kind gesture.
The upside of my incredibly friendly open personality is that I make friends wherever I go and then people are happy to help me. I had noticed the menorah and Bible on Eduardo’s shelf when checking in the night before.
Amazingly enough, after a lot of ear massaging and breathing, the pain began to subside. Wow! Grateful for my Santa Cruz years of health knowledge and tools I had brought, my body finally began to rest after its first day of PUSH. A big first day. I have not ridden more than 20 miles in a long time, and that was with NO baggage. As an Aries I tend to do the ALL OUT thing with my body to test its resilience and allow me to feel it. At 50, maybe it’s time for humble and respectful approaches.
The next day I had to suck it up and just to be totally respectful to myself, went for x-rays at a private clinic where it would all be done in one place immediately to the tune of $100. The public clinic had no x-ray machine available on site and I had no French health card yet. I was relieved at the $100 cost for x-rays and visit actually, but didn’t want to show it. The Princeton-trained Spanish doctor smiled when I asked him what the x-rays revealed. “Nada roto, nada fracturado.” “Y entonces hay algo?” I asked him. “Sí.” “Qué?” “Algo.” “Qué?” “Something old. An old injury.” Ahhhh yes. The old repetitive use COB BUILDING arthritic issue with my poor left wrist had gotten reactivated. And in a big way too. I was going to need to use wrist braces or some kind of protection from hereon in because there would probably be more falls. My poor wrist. As I left the
clinic, they wanted to charge me another $100 for the “treatment” which consisted of wrapping my wrist with an ace bandage. I was pissed and refused to pay. They finally backed down and that was that, wishing me a Merry Christmas for their kind gesture.
The upside of my incredibly friendly open personality is that I make friends wherever I go and then people are happy to help me. I had noticed the menorah and Bible on Eduardo’s shelf when checking in the night before.
Hmmmm. “Are you Jewish?” I asked the next day. “Well yes but I don’t
practice. And you?” “Yes. Same.” I had felt I would need to leave the bike for
a few days as I bussed myself over to Órgiva. Eduardo was happy to
concede...especially now that we were of the same stock. Hahaha. Feels
good to be taken care of as you travel freely on the planet. There is family
everywhere....and they don’t need to be Jewish.
The next day my wrist was dramatically improved by the continued Traumeel and acupressure. The MD had prescribed painkillers and the public clinic had just given them to me. Maybe for the next event. I went for a run to a beach and dipped into the Mediterranean for the first time in 27 years I think. Not even cold. July temperature in Santa Cruz. Felt good on the wrist. This little cove was visited only by some ganja smokers and “street people”, a familiar breed that did not turn me on much. I decided not to stay and had to catch my $10 bus to Orgiva anyway, hoping Friedl would be there to greet me, as his directions were vague and I would be arriving at dusk.
To Expat Hippy Land: Órgiva
I had sent him a text, but knowing he was disconnected and did not check his phone much, I wondered what would await me. The bus ride was a sunset view of all the towns east of Málaga, winding up and down, side to side. On the one hand I was glad I decided to bus it, on the other it was a beautiful bike ride as most cars were on the fast highway and the old road was empty. Above Motril, we started to climb and wind simultaneously towards Órgiva. Finally a new landscape awaited me. I love when I am going into new lands and discovering unknown territory. The Aries explorer forever. The bus wound along the narrow road, the landscape turning a vibrant burning red, and the WIFI on the bus began to fade. Motion sickness overcame me and I had to sink into my breath. I was excited for what lay ahead. More unknown. Excited to put a live person to the entertaining and energetic emails I had been receiving for 2 months from my East German cob builder penpal Friedl, alias Friederich Augustus Bielenstein.
As we passed the Órgiva sign I looked around to locate the famous river I’d have to walk along to find the third hippy camp after crossing a small creek, where they were building the reciprocal roofed Da-A-Luz Midwifery School building. I was ready for anything though overloaded with camping stuff and would need help for sure. As I peeped out the window while the bus approached the stop, I saw him. I recognised him immediately, especially after the short poorly- connected Skype video chat we’d had a few days previously in which he giggled the whole time. I excitedly gathered my things and jumped off the bus. The excitement was high. A quick strong hug detected significant hippy fumes from endless unbathed work days I imagined. He was clearly a high energy guy as I had guessed, a do-it-all guy who you could travel with safely and securely knowing everything would be
The next day my wrist was dramatically improved by the continued Traumeel and acupressure. The MD had prescribed painkillers and the public clinic had just given them to me. Maybe for the next event. I went for a run to a beach and dipped into the Mediterranean for the first time in 27 years I think. Not even cold. July temperature in Santa Cruz. Felt good on the wrist. This little cove was visited only by some ganja smokers and “street people”, a familiar breed that did not turn me on much. I decided not to stay and had to catch my $10 bus to Orgiva anyway, hoping Friedl would be there to greet me, as his directions were vague and I would be arriving at dusk.
To Expat Hippy Land: Órgiva
I had sent him a text, but knowing he was disconnected and did not check his phone much, I wondered what would await me. The bus ride was a sunset view of all the towns east of Málaga, winding up and down, side to side. On the one hand I was glad I decided to bus it, on the other it was a beautiful bike ride as most cars were on the fast highway and the old road was empty. Above Motril, we started to climb and wind simultaneously towards Órgiva. Finally a new landscape awaited me. I love when I am going into new lands and discovering unknown territory. The Aries explorer forever. The bus wound along the narrow road, the landscape turning a vibrant burning red, and the WIFI on the bus began to fade. Motion sickness overcame me and I had to sink into my breath. I was excited for what lay ahead. More unknown. Excited to put a live person to the entertaining and energetic emails I had been receiving for 2 months from my East German cob builder penpal Friedl, alias Friederich Augustus Bielenstein.
As we passed the Órgiva sign I looked around to locate the famous river I’d have to walk along to find the third hippy camp after crossing a small creek, where they were building the reciprocal roofed Da-A-Luz Midwifery School building. I was ready for anything though overloaded with camping stuff and would need help for sure. As I peeped out the window while the bus approached the stop, I saw him. I recognised him immediately, especially after the short poorly- connected Skype video chat we’d had a few days previously in which he giggled the whole time. I excitedly gathered my things and jumped off the bus. The excitement was high. A quick strong hug detected significant hippy fumes from endless unbathed work days I imagined. He was clearly a high energy guy as I had guessed, a do-it-all guy who you could travel with safely and securely knowing everything would be
taken care of from bicycle mechanics to health issues to emotional ruts to
food and fire and shelter preparation and especially directions. Expecting I
was showing up with my bike he quickly recalibrated the plan and stuffed all
my things somewhere on his bike and plopped me right on the frame old-
fashioned style. I completely got his energy in that one moment. We glided
down a steep road challenging me to accept full trust in his abilities and let go
of all precaution. Were he to slam on the brakes, I would be first to fly off and
take the hit. After about 3 miles, the smooth road evolved into a rocky dirt off-
road bike/hike for the next 1/2 mile or so with all my stuff bumping around
wildly. I trusted Friedl right away. Eventually the trust in this know- everything
guy would become irritation with his know-it-all attitude. But not yet. We
arrived just in time for dinner.
The place I had landed in was a piece of land caretaken by Vanessa, an activist midwife who had relocated to the Rio Guadalfeo Valley 20 years ago fleeing the grey skies and rigid home birth
politics of the UK. She was one of the many hippy expats that would find their way to this isolated river valley of travellers and eco-spiritual communities where you could find four fully-stocked health food stores and all styles of yoga, chi gong and meditation classes in a small Spanish mountain town. Half of the population was expat/non-local and they had learned to co- habitate peacefully and support each other. There was a tale of the expats and locals bonding over fighting the Spanish government’s intent to blast the mountaintop for resources for cement production. Together they dug giant holes along the riverbed to block the entrance and passage of unwanted vehicles. Like guerrillas in the mountains, they fiercely protected their habitat from destruction. The people I met here LOVED this place. Like Santa Cruz, California, it was an addiction, a hideaway, easy livin’, high on pleasure. Community. Lots of ganja.
I spent the next 3 days with the eco worker community that came together spontaneously to move this build forward. Most of them were in their 20’s, from East and West Germany, Sweden, Italy, France, and the UK. They all happened upon this place mostly penniless for one reason or another, and offered up 8 hours a day of labor in exchange for camping and food. Hard labor. They dragged humongous rocks from the riverbed to build the drystack walls, they mixed limecrete with local clays to seal the outer wall, they cut and moved 20 foot long tree poles for the reciprocal roof rafters and even thicker poles for the standing posts. All was made using the local materials and led by Steve, a long and white-locked do-it-yourself Scotsman who’d been down many roads of experience in his lifetime and was now pleasantly fulfilled with his present occupation as natural builder.
Vanessa had decided to build a Midwifery School and Birthing Centre on her land where she lived with the comings and goings of family and friends in a
The place I had landed in was a piece of land caretaken by Vanessa, an activist midwife who had relocated to the Rio Guadalfeo Valley 20 years ago fleeing the grey skies and rigid home birth
politics of the UK. She was one of the many hippy expats that would find their way to this isolated river valley of travellers and eco-spiritual communities where you could find four fully-stocked health food stores and all styles of yoga, chi gong and meditation classes in a small Spanish mountain town. Half of the population was expat/non-local and they had learned to co- habitate peacefully and support each other. There was a tale of the expats and locals bonding over fighting the Spanish government’s intent to blast the mountaintop for resources for cement production. Together they dug giant holes along the riverbed to block the entrance and passage of unwanted vehicles. Like guerrillas in the mountains, they fiercely protected their habitat from destruction. The people I met here LOVED this place. Like Santa Cruz, California, it was an addiction, a hideaway, easy livin’, high on pleasure. Community. Lots of ganja.
I spent the next 3 days with the eco worker community that came together spontaneously to move this build forward. Most of them were in their 20’s, from East and West Germany, Sweden, Italy, France, and the UK. They all happened upon this place mostly penniless for one reason or another, and offered up 8 hours a day of labor in exchange for camping and food. Hard labor. They dragged humongous rocks from the riverbed to build the drystack walls, they mixed limecrete with local clays to seal the outer wall, they cut and moved 20 foot long tree poles for the reciprocal roof rafters and even thicker poles for the standing posts. All was made using the local materials and led by Steve, a long and white-locked do-it-yourself Scotsman who’d been down many roads of experience in his lifetime and was now pleasantly fulfilled with his present occupation as natural builder.
Vanessa had decided to build a Midwifery School and Birthing Centre on her land where she lived with the comings and goings of family and friends in a
variety of vans, trailers, campers, tents, yurts, tipis, etc. It was an easy-goin’
life though the summer temperatures were barely tolerable, especially as the
river ran dry. In winter the sun shone from 10am to 5pm and life was great. At
night the temperatures went down to freezing but only until 10am the next
morn. So all was good.
During the time I spent there the building site was coming to a close. Vanessa had run out of funds and neither the workers nor Steve had been paid for a month. The food was getting worse and that was the limit for these laborers. Steve had agreed to be the foreman and the designer/builder for a very small salary because it was such an attractive proposition to add to his resume. He thoroughly enjoyed the last month where he was supported by a strong and steady crew of young muscle. The building's walls were halfway up and the roof frame was up. There were festivities every night as Solstice drew near. It was a strange environment for me, the choice to set up camp here for the long haul, hidden from the world somehow, without much meaningful interaction with the native people. The hippies would have their rituals, their fires and singing circles, in English and Spanish, to honor the change in seasons, the longest night, and their “culture”. The funny thing is that wherever you go in the world you find these simple Earth-honoring lifestyle communities that are the basis of the change to come as long as they can stay connected to the rest of the planet. If not it is nice for them, but doesn’t make a big difference in the larger picture. Vanessa’s intention is to train more midwives well, to go out into the world and do their thing producing more strong mammas and more powerful happy babes. The building with its round shape, spiral open-to-the-sky roof, heavy earthy walls, and central stone birthing bathtub will stand for a long time, to honour the sacred and strong feminine lineage of birthing rituals. Everyone there, all the young folk, realize the importance of this work they are a part of, and for this have offered their time and energy willingly. They are the future parents and birthers. They will be welcome here or wherever they bring new life onto the Planet, for they have given to a worthy important cause which has the potential to alter the balance of Feminine and Masculine energies in our lives. These are people who are fearless, not dependent on the outside economy, trust in abundance, are fulfilled by friendship and communing, are givers and know how to live with a minuscule if not negative footprint.
The most important factor I see is in the need for good communication skills between people and between the worlds. There is too much negativity and judgmentalism, even within these communities. I heard it while I was there. People talking badly about each other, almost like a
necessary relief from being so positive and good. That does not seem healthy. Things need to come out as part of this way of life, into the open, freely and truthfully, for the good of all. It is not often you find a community of people living together authentically in harmony. This is one of the biggest
During the time I spent there the building site was coming to a close. Vanessa had run out of funds and neither the workers nor Steve had been paid for a month. The food was getting worse and that was the limit for these laborers. Steve had agreed to be the foreman and the designer/builder for a very small salary because it was such an attractive proposition to add to his resume. He thoroughly enjoyed the last month where he was supported by a strong and steady crew of young muscle. The building's walls were halfway up and the roof frame was up. There were festivities every night as Solstice drew near. It was a strange environment for me, the choice to set up camp here for the long haul, hidden from the world somehow, without much meaningful interaction with the native people. The hippies would have their rituals, their fires and singing circles, in English and Spanish, to honor the change in seasons, the longest night, and their “culture”. The funny thing is that wherever you go in the world you find these simple Earth-honoring lifestyle communities that are the basis of the change to come as long as they can stay connected to the rest of the planet. If not it is nice for them, but doesn’t make a big difference in the larger picture. Vanessa’s intention is to train more midwives well, to go out into the world and do their thing producing more strong mammas and more powerful happy babes. The building with its round shape, spiral open-to-the-sky roof, heavy earthy walls, and central stone birthing bathtub will stand for a long time, to honour the sacred and strong feminine lineage of birthing rituals. Everyone there, all the young folk, realize the importance of this work they are a part of, and for this have offered their time and energy willingly. They are the future parents and birthers. They will be welcome here or wherever they bring new life onto the Planet, for they have given to a worthy important cause which has the potential to alter the balance of Feminine and Masculine energies in our lives. These are people who are fearless, not dependent on the outside economy, trust in abundance, are fulfilled by friendship and communing, are givers and know how to live with a minuscule if not negative footprint.
The most important factor I see is in the need for good communication skills between people and between the worlds. There is too much negativity and judgmentalism, even within these communities. I heard it while I was there. People talking badly about each other, almost like a
necessary relief from being so positive and good. That does not seem healthy. Things need to come out as part of this way of life, into the open, freely and truthfully, for the good of all. It is not often you find a community of people living together authentically in harmony. This is one of the biggest
obstacles to sustainable communities. For this, I respect all the people
teaching Compassionate Communication and other such “techniques” based
on true love. Perhaps this is where I can focus my learning in the years to
come, as it has also been my nemesis. You can see it right away in people’s
faces when you have offended them, you feel people pull away.
Final Málaga Heat
Back in Málaga for several more days, having returned from Nerja by bike successfully on the 23rd, still taking a darn long time, like 5 hours of cycling for 32 miles. It’s hard to leave Fali’s red rosy room with the sun streaming in through the French doors in the morning. He offered me a free stay in the largest and prettiest room he has. I’m so grateful. He calls me his friend and not his guest. He is a sweet man who I have spent more and more time with and as I have gotten to know him I have seen more interesting traits. We have spent several more nights together, well, that is until it’s time for him to go home and walk his dog at 3am. Whatever. To each his own. But I have truly enjoyed walking arm in arm or hand in hand through the streets of his cherished Málaga as he talks about the Gitanos and the Morros, and the economy and his AirBnB business and his failed relationship. I watch him listening intently to the English conversations, trying to pick up every detail, which he does successfully, and adding his comments. He is more wise than I first saw, and perhaps this is how it goes from one night stand to multiple nights and days of chatting and hanging out. This is why I want to take my time. There is Steve, the Scottish natural builder, waiting for me in Jimena de la Frontera, tucked away in some little paradise cottage, offering me everything to come and visit him, which would require a significant (bike-wise) detour but oh so enticing. He is someone I can talk with endlessly, kind and strong, a well-developed feminine side with a strong and musical Leo base.
For now, I have been typing for 6 hours plus trying to catch up to today, when I did nothing outside of the house. These writings mean a lot to me because they may support another person in going off into the world on a bike and meeting the world face to face. Tomorrow I begin to head to Tarifa or Algeciras alone again. Friedl and the Circus of ten other home-made bike riders are crossing into Melilla today and tomorrow to begin the ride through Morocco and somehow somewhere we will meet after I have spent a long- awaited undetermined period of time with my Mother in Tangier. I hope I can last more than a few days, she is quite the challenge! I am sure you will be hearing about it. I wish I could be less scheduled but I am not sure if that will be possible as I am also wanting to organize courses and workshops along the way. All in all, this is the good life for me for now.
Slow Cyclin’ on the Paseos Maritimos
Final Málaga Heat
Back in Málaga for several more days, having returned from Nerja by bike successfully on the 23rd, still taking a darn long time, like 5 hours of cycling for 32 miles. It’s hard to leave Fali’s red rosy room with the sun streaming in through the French doors in the morning. He offered me a free stay in the largest and prettiest room he has. I’m so grateful. He calls me his friend and not his guest. He is a sweet man who I have spent more and more time with and as I have gotten to know him I have seen more interesting traits. We have spent several more nights together, well, that is until it’s time for him to go home and walk his dog at 3am. Whatever. To each his own. But I have truly enjoyed walking arm in arm or hand in hand through the streets of his cherished Málaga as he talks about the Gitanos and the Morros, and the economy and his AirBnB business and his failed relationship. I watch him listening intently to the English conversations, trying to pick up every detail, which he does successfully, and adding his comments. He is more wise than I first saw, and perhaps this is how it goes from one night stand to multiple nights and days of chatting and hanging out. This is why I want to take my time. There is Steve, the Scottish natural builder, waiting for me in Jimena de la Frontera, tucked away in some little paradise cottage, offering me everything to come and visit him, which would require a significant (bike-wise) detour but oh so enticing. He is someone I can talk with endlessly, kind and strong, a well-developed feminine side with a strong and musical Leo base.
For now, I have been typing for 6 hours plus trying to catch up to today, when I did nothing outside of the house. These writings mean a lot to me because they may support another person in going off into the world on a bike and meeting the world face to face. Tomorrow I begin to head to Tarifa or Algeciras alone again. Friedl and the Circus of ten other home-made bike riders are crossing into Melilla today and tomorrow to begin the ride through Morocco and somehow somewhere we will meet after I have spent a long- awaited undetermined period of time with my Mother in Tangier. I hope I can last more than a few days, she is quite the challenge! I am sure you will be hearing about it. I wish I could be less scheduled but I am not sure if that will be possible as I am also wanting to organize courses and workshops along the way. All in all, this is the good life for me for now.
Slow Cyclin’ on the Paseos Maritimos
Either I am just getting slower, my Bike Friday 20” wheels are slower, I have
too much luggage on my bike or riding the ocean-lined Paseos is so
enjoyable that I’m goin’ really f_____’ slow (like 5 miles an hour). Once again
I am struggling with my idea that my conservative movement rate is 10 miles
an hour and that I can probably up that soon, and the reality thus far that I’m
cruisin’ at a Grandmammy rate of 5-6 miles an hour and it’s workin’ me. What
the f____? Everytime I stop and ask someone semi knowledgeable-looking
for the distance to my destination it seems to increase or stay the same from
when I started. Spaniards exaggerate. Anyway, the ride was definitely
pleasurable the whole way. As I left Málaga I was happy to find that there was
a bike trail the whole way out, beautifully finished in red and following the
coastline of course until it evolved into a dirt slope which, if I hadn’t seen
another biker ahead, would have left me wondering: “What’s next?” So far I
have to admit I have not been well-prepared with super detailed maps and a
phone with data so I can look at my Googlemaps map the whole way. And
honestly, I don’t really want to be looking at my phone every half hour. I just
figured I’m following the coastline and Spaniards
love to “pasear” along their coasts and there’s gotta be a nice Paseo walkway the whole way to Marbella, which is what it looked to be on Googlemaps when I zoomed in.
Well the end of the bike path took me into a dirt road along the river I would have to cross somehow. I was doing anything to avoid the highway when a tall, handsome, slightly pudgy and very kind Carlos, in his all-black Saturday afternoon mountain biking allure decided I was worth guiding along and across the river, even if it did take him back 45 minutes from his playtime in the mountains behind Torremolinos. I am sure I looked pathetic with my over- packed small-wheeled bike but then don’t all the Bike Friday travellers? So far I like my Bike Friday. It handles well even though I have to really get used to managing the heavy front end, which was what Tim in Service recommended: “Put most of your weight in the front and the volume in the back”. I forget exactly the reason why but it had something to do with...well honestly I don’t remember. It’s definitely tricky but I assume I will get the “swing” of it soon, before Morocco.
So Carlos led me over hill and dale, rocks, dips, and previous muddy tracks hardened stiff into alternating grooves and craters challenging my balance greatly. I thoroughly enjoyed the off-road trail and tried to disguise my panting to keep up with him by spurts of meaningful conversation. He was so sweet as he offered to time my rate and encouraged me as the numbers crept up: “10km/ hr....13km/hr...16km/hr and even 18km/hr!” Woohoo! Like a sprinter I gave it my all but knew this was not yet sustainable. Suddenly there appeared the Torremolinos sign. Wow. Already! According to my Googlemaps study it was 10 miles away from Málaga. Didn’t feel like 10 already. Maybe I was already going faster. All I know is that the rest of the 4 hours I biked and 1.5
love to “pasear” along their coasts and there’s gotta be a nice Paseo walkway the whole way to Marbella, which is what it looked to be on Googlemaps when I zoomed in.
Well the end of the bike path took me into a dirt road along the river I would have to cross somehow. I was doing anything to avoid the highway when a tall, handsome, slightly pudgy and very kind Carlos, in his all-black Saturday afternoon mountain biking allure decided I was worth guiding along and across the river, even if it did take him back 45 minutes from his playtime in the mountains behind Torremolinos. I am sure I looked pathetic with my over- packed small-wheeled bike but then don’t all the Bike Friday travellers? So far I like my Bike Friday. It handles well even though I have to really get used to managing the heavy front end, which was what Tim in Service recommended: “Put most of your weight in the front and the volume in the back”. I forget exactly the reason why but it had something to do with...well honestly I don’t remember. It’s definitely tricky but I assume I will get the “swing” of it soon, before Morocco.
So Carlos led me over hill and dale, rocks, dips, and previous muddy tracks hardened stiff into alternating grooves and craters challenging my balance greatly. I thoroughly enjoyed the off-road trail and tried to disguise my panting to keep up with him by spurts of meaningful conversation. He was so sweet as he offered to time my rate and encouraged me as the numbers crept up: “10km/ hr....13km/hr...16km/hr and even 18km/hr!” Woohoo! Like a sprinter I gave it my all but knew this was not yet sustainable. Suddenly there appeared the Torremolinos sign. Wow. Already! According to my Googlemaps study it was 10 miles away from Málaga. Didn’t feel like 10 already. Maybe I was already going faster. All I know is that the rest of the 4 hours I biked and 1.5
hours I didn’t felt like forever. Starting at 2pm did not help a bit. I bid Carlos
adieu knowing I would never see this angel again. There will be many more
angels among my journey. I am grateful.
After a food pause, I biked from one touristy town into another with no clearly- defined boundaries or signage. They all just blended into each other with the same cafes, heladerias, chiringuitos, bars, beach chairs, palm trees, etc. It felt awesome. I think that’s why I was going so slow, just watching people, fantasizing about food, the man I had left behind, the one that was coming up, the wonderful exercise I was getting and how good that ocean looked right now. I even impulsively stopped for gelato but could not get myself to cough up double the price I’d paid farther east. I was gettin’ into the thick of La Costa del Sol now. The tourism was changing into full-on commercial and beach hotels, less sophisticated than Málaga. More Sacramento Valley types coming to the beaches of California during their breaks, substitute red-faced Brits, Dutchies and Krauts.
Dusk was setting in and I hadn’t even reached the halfway point, Fuengirola. I pulled into a gas station to inflate my sad-looking tires a bit and was stumped to find the air machine asking me for how many “bars” I wanted to put in. Not taking any chances here. So I went in to ask an even less likely respondent and settled for a nice crusty but substantial-looking baguette and 3 Rochers Ferrero. I was in desperate mode now. My reserved room for the night was 40km away and it was getting dark and I was “done”. I scanned the drivers of the small European cars pulling up for gas for any hospitable faces and decent-sized trunks. An older tight-lipped abuela with granddaughter...no...a middle-aged interesting couple that looked self-absorbed...no...then a hippy type who clearly felt my lost energy and procrastinated in his car at the pump trying to catch my eye, which he did twice, but I just couldn’t get myself to ask just yet. I needed to ride a little farther to feel fulfilled for today before I could resort to begging.
The chocolates and bread gave me my last burst of “go get ‘em” thigh energy and off I went with a new determination to make it farther, though 25 more miles looked very daunting as darkness was settling in. I even suicidally stayed on the road giving my life to my Ortlieb reflectors, the red blinking taillight and my large girth. I know I give space to poor pumping over-loaded bike travellers racing next to me when I’m driving. Was it time for karmic payoff? The sky was turning a vibrant red and during one carless moment I recklessly pulled out my iPhone to one-handedly photograph the sunset. Superwoman!!!! Or super stupid!!!!
Pumping up and down the rolling hills passing all these weird American-style hotel resorts like “Holiday World”, “Polynesia Planet” and “Safari Zone” I was focused and moving closer, that’s all that mattered. “One, two, one, two, one,
After a food pause, I biked from one touristy town into another with no clearly- defined boundaries or signage. They all just blended into each other with the same cafes, heladerias, chiringuitos, bars, beach chairs, palm trees, etc. It felt awesome. I think that’s why I was going so slow, just watching people, fantasizing about food, the man I had left behind, the one that was coming up, the wonderful exercise I was getting and how good that ocean looked right now. I even impulsively stopped for gelato but could not get myself to cough up double the price I’d paid farther east. I was gettin’ into the thick of La Costa del Sol now. The tourism was changing into full-on commercial and beach hotels, less sophisticated than Málaga. More Sacramento Valley types coming to the beaches of California during their breaks, substitute red-faced Brits, Dutchies and Krauts.
Dusk was setting in and I hadn’t even reached the halfway point, Fuengirola. I pulled into a gas station to inflate my sad-looking tires a bit and was stumped to find the air machine asking me for how many “bars” I wanted to put in. Not taking any chances here. So I went in to ask an even less likely respondent and settled for a nice crusty but substantial-looking baguette and 3 Rochers Ferrero. I was in desperate mode now. My reserved room for the night was 40km away and it was getting dark and I was “done”. I scanned the drivers of the small European cars pulling up for gas for any hospitable faces and decent-sized trunks. An older tight-lipped abuela with granddaughter...no...a middle-aged interesting couple that looked self-absorbed...no...then a hippy type who clearly felt my lost energy and procrastinated in his car at the pump trying to catch my eye, which he did twice, but I just couldn’t get myself to ask just yet. I needed to ride a little farther to feel fulfilled for today before I could resort to begging.
The chocolates and bread gave me my last burst of “go get ‘em” thigh energy and off I went with a new determination to make it farther, though 25 more miles looked very daunting as darkness was settling in. I even suicidally stayed on the road giving my life to my Ortlieb reflectors, the red blinking taillight and my large girth. I know I give space to poor pumping over-loaded bike travellers racing next to me when I’m driving. Was it time for karmic payoff? The sky was turning a vibrant red and during one carless moment I recklessly pulled out my iPhone to one-handedly photograph the sunset. Superwoman!!!! Or super stupid!!!!
Pumping up and down the rolling hills passing all these weird American-style hotel resorts like “Holiday World”, “Polynesia Planet” and “Safari Zone” I was focused and moving closer, that’s all that mattered. “One, two, one, two, one,
two...” the mantra helped me up the climbs and then down I coasted holding
onto my trembling handlebars...woooohoooo!
Eventually I made it to the bus station and had my first experience of gracefully “undoing” my bike accoutrements to shove them and it under a bus that would take me the rest of the 20 miles for only $4, the cost of a couple of tapas and a cana (draft beer) I would not have that night. What a wonderful feeling to be covering 20 miles while sitting and resting. The giant 2-part bus was a local, stopping every few minutes at turnouts along the highway. What a weird bus stop setup, right on the highway. Those are the oddities I find worth travelling for. Things that are not mentioned in guide books nor seen on photographs but that represent the culture somehow. Hmmm, the cultural significance of bus stop design.
Amazingly, the bus stopped at the exact street I needed to turn up to get to my Inhouse Guesthouse. That was a gift. The bus driver liked me I could tell. This was not a sanctioned bus stop and he was kind of in the middle of an intersection with his extended caterpillar bus and there I was pulling all my odds and ends from out of the deep storage space under the bus. I think his Spanish blood preferred watching my butt as I crawled into the hutch each time rather than actually helping. Whatever it takes. I love being a woman and having that kind of advantage, and I am gonna use it very well on this journey while I still can.
Marbella Decadence
Today, Sunday, was all about relaxing in the sun on the beach. Walked down from the hostel, along the promenade, down to the first sweet sandy spot behind one of the dunes they build to make sure they have sand for the summer, and lay for 5 hours. Stripped down to just a bottom, slathered in coconut oil, and touching the seeds of joy and bliss, as Thich Nat Hanh suggested in his “Teachings on Love”, I practiced my “Love Meditation”. I am loving life. I am loving myself. Peace. Equanimity. Compassion. Joy. Nothing else. The water was cool for here but not for Cowell’s, so I did a “back at Cowell’s” meditation and jumped in with ease.
The day ended with an overly-salted and spiced Paella 2 for 1. It was very loving treating myself to a giant paella and 2 canas. I figured I had to try a paella before leaving Espana and went all the way, of course checking first if they had a doggie bag for tomorrow’s lunch. I must admit I was disappointed. I chose this place because it was crowded and people looked happy. When the paella arrived, the rice was partially cooked and the spices and salt were excessive. All I felt OK to complain about was the raw rice. I am sure they do not eat it like that but checked with the waitress first. Anyway for $30 I could not get myself to swallow raw rice. Luckily my kids were not with me as it is their worst nightmare, me complaining about food in a restaurant. I have bred
Eventually I made it to the bus station and had my first experience of gracefully “undoing” my bike accoutrements to shove them and it under a bus that would take me the rest of the 20 miles for only $4, the cost of a couple of tapas and a cana (draft beer) I would not have that night. What a wonderful feeling to be covering 20 miles while sitting and resting. The giant 2-part bus was a local, stopping every few minutes at turnouts along the highway. What a weird bus stop setup, right on the highway. Those are the oddities I find worth travelling for. Things that are not mentioned in guide books nor seen on photographs but that represent the culture somehow. Hmmm, the cultural significance of bus stop design.
Amazingly, the bus stopped at the exact street I needed to turn up to get to my Inhouse Guesthouse. That was a gift. The bus driver liked me I could tell. This was not a sanctioned bus stop and he was kind of in the middle of an intersection with his extended caterpillar bus and there I was pulling all my odds and ends from out of the deep storage space under the bus. I think his Spanish blood preferred watching my butt as I crawled into the hutch each time rather than actually helping. Whatever it takes. I love being a woman and having that kind of advantage, and I am gonna use it very well on this journey while I still can.
Marbella Decadence
Today, Sunday, was all about relaxing in the sun on the beach. Walked down from the hostel, along the promenade, down to the first sweet sandy spot behind one of the dunes they build to make sure they have sand for the summer, and lay for 5 hours. Stripped down to just a bottom, slathered in coconut oil, and touching the seeds of joy and bliss, as Thich Nat Hanh suggested in his “Teachings on Love”, I practiced my “Love Meditation”. I am loving life. I am loving myself. Peace. Equanimity. Compassion. Joy. Nothing else. The water was cool for here but not for Cowell’s, so I did a “back at Cowell’s” meditation and jumped in with ease.
The day ended with an overly-salted and spiced Paella 2 for 1. It was very loving treating myself to a giant paella and 2 canas. I figured I had to try a paella before leaving Espana and went all the way, of course checking first if they had a doggie bag for tomorrow’s lunch. I must admit I was disappointed. I chose this place because it was crowded and people looked happy. When the paella arrived, the rice was partially cooked and the spices and salt were excessive. All I felt OK to complain about was the raw rice. I am sure they do not eat it like that but checked with the waitress first. Anyway for $30 I could not get myself to swallow raw rice. Luckily my kids were not with me as it is their worst nightmare, me complaining about food in a restaurant. I have bred
two restaurant servers and they have trained me on tipping and being utterly
cordial no matter how bad the food is. No kids, and I cordially returned the
paella. It took half an hour to get the new version back. The rice had been
cooked but the exaggerated salt/spice was unchanged The waiters here don’t
get more than a Euro tip as a token of good measure, so they definitely don’t
suck up to customers like in the US. Its truly just a job and there’s nothing
personal about it.
I am now, many hours later, once again up at 11:30, 2 hours past my pledged bedtime, typing away. Will I ever get back to a normal bedtime of 9pm, the time at which everyone arises from their siestas to start their nightlife here? Maybe being in Muslim country with the prayer call at 5am will set me straight. Or maybe this is the life here. It’s kind of growing on me anyway. Soon it will be three weeks and I have been sleeping about 11 hours a night and waking up usually no earlier than 10am. I am happy. A long way from Santa Cruz. Buenas noches!!!!
Ok so now that I have been bunked up (literally in a bottom bunk bed with no roommates) going out only for a 30 minute run yesterday and a late night chocolate-something run last night
(mmmmm, I found a lava muffin that they heated and poured whipping cream and hot chocolate on top of and lost myself through the mazes of the old City discovering pop-up bistros and restaurants in the most surprising corners while slurping it down)...my writing is more internal.
Family Comparisons
The Spaniards are a most interesting lot. They looooove family and friends time to the max. Here too they seem to have all flown down to visit los abuelitos in Marbella (the Palm Beach of Spain/ Europe) for the Holidays. All generations walking and talking along the Paseo, dressed to the nines of course (to show off or just because?), stopping for churros y chocolate or a paella or cañas and tapas. They seem to be so happy all together. It really makes me wonder about my family spread out on almost all continents: sister in Stockholm, brother and niece in NYC, Father in the sky, Mother in Tangier, Morocco, one Son in Longquan Monastery in China, two Sons and their Dad in Santa Cruz, California and me in Marbella, Spain. My youth was definitely one of lots of Family Time centered around the Belgian Jewish grandparents who lived across Central Park from us. Every Sunday was Family Brunch in some posh NYC restaurant after Hebrew School, and family dinners were always scheduled by my mother for one reason or another, so she could show off her couscous, braised endives, paella and other standards. My Mother really tried hard to hold the Family together and when I was in town with my boys would rangle my Father uptown back into the old
I am now, many hours later, once again up at 11:30, 2 hours past my pledged bedtime, typing away. Will I ever get back to a normal bedtime of 9pm, the time at which everyone arises from their siestas to start their nightlife here? Maybe being in Muslim country with the prayer call at 5am will set me straight. Or maybe this is the life here. It’s kind of growing on me anyway. Soon it will be three weeks and I have been sleeping about 11 hours a night and waking up usually no earlier than 10am. I am happy. A long way from Santa Cruz. Buenas noches!!!!
Ok so now that I have been bunked up (literally in a bottom bunk bed with no roommates) going out only for a 30 minute run yesterday and a late night chocolate-something run last night
(mmmmm, I found a lava muffin that they heated and poured whipping cream and hot chocolate on top of and lost myself through the mazes of the old City discovering pop-up bistros and restaurants in the most surprising corners while slurping it down)...my writing is more internal.
Family Comparisons
The Spaniards are a most interesting lot. They looooove family and friends time to the max. Here too they seem to have all flown down to visit los abuelitos in Marbella (the Palm Beach of Spain/ Europe) for the Holidays. All generations walking and talking along the Paseo, dressed to the nines of course (to show off or just because?), stopping for churros y chocolate or a paella or cañas and tapas. They seem to be so happy all together. It really makes me wonder about my family spread out on almost all continents: sister in Stockholm, brother and niece in NYC, Father in the sky, Mother in Tangier, Morocco, one Son in Longquan Monastery in China, two Sons and their Dad in Santa Cruz, California and me in Marbella, Spain. My youth was definitely one of lots of Family Time centered around the Belgian Jewish grandparents who lived across Central Park from us. Every Sunday was Family Brunch in some posh NYC restaurant after Hebrew School, and family dinners were always scheduled by my mother for one reason or another, so she could show off her couscous, braised endives, paella and other standards. My Mother really tried hard to hold the Family together and when I was in town with my boys would rangle my Father uptown back into the old
neighbourhood of my youth, 72nd and Central Park West, for a Family
Dinner.
As far as my created Family, the boys and I have had a tight Family and, similar to my Mom, I have always made a lot of effort to have many together occasions. I even reached out to their Dad regularly, even though he seems to prefer being estranged, to keep the connection going. But my kids slowly became estranged from their grandparents, aunt and uncle with distance and time. This would not have happened had I stayed in NYC and repeated my parent’s process but...alas... very unattractive proposition....NYC for raising kids, that is. But hats off to the Spaniards for maintaining solid family bonds. I look forward to being close to my grandkids in space and time and wish that we all have the desire and ability to make that happen.
I have been gone now for almost three weeks and have decided to take the natural rhythm pace for sure, extending my time on the Spanish coastline to enjoy its beauty and uniqueness. Also, I am slowly preparing myself energetically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually for being in the presence of my Mother. Already as I approach, the repetitive extensive exhausting mostly unread emails are gathering momentum, the few phone calls reveal an emotional maturity unchanged since my teen years, and my fantasy of staying in her place for a week being a pleasant and lovely experience shrinks by the day. Yesterday I used my precious phone “saldo” to attempt to share with her my genius idea of spending a few days in Tarifa with her (on the Spanish side) both to help her with immigration requirements to leave Morocco every three months and to have a “special” Mom and Daughter reunion vacation in Spain. As soon as she heard the word Tarifa she began bellowing across the poor phone circuit in her raspy (unchanged) fearful torrent of aggression that I only know too well and was unfortunately expecting. Insisting that I wanted to hurt her and had no compassion for her sciatica condition as she was stuck in bed, and that I was selfish as ever, and didn’t even have to come see her anyway, and maybe it would be better if I didn’t and that I was a control freak and that I should just forget her and, by the way, could I Western Union her $200 by today for an MRI and food.....and on and on. My siblings and I have definitely gotten scarred badly by this Romanian Jewish Gypsy Wild Mama of all times. What’s the name of the Russian bitchy witch who lives in the forest? She reminds me of her, and more.
I have decided, as this will be one of the few times I will “visit” my Mother again I am sure (how sad to say), that I will, for the first time, try out my NVC skills appropriated in Santa Cruz, on HER. I have already written her an NVC- based letter, after remembering I had the option of using a new approach to throw her rantings and ravings off balance, that is, after shouting back at her a few times. This is my CHALLENGE. After living in SC for 16 years, with a lot of external travels to keep my sanity, I did choicelessly pick up a lot of
As far as my created Family, the boys and I have had a tight Family and, similar to my Mom, I have always made a lot of effort to have many together occasions. I even reached out to their Dad regularly, even though he seems to prefer being estranged, to keep the connection going. But my kids slowly became estranged from their grandparents, aunt and uncle with distance and time. This would not have happened had I stayed in NYC and repeated my parent’s process but...alas... very unattractive proposition....NYC for raising kids, that is. But hats off to the Spaniards for maintaining solid family bonds. I look forward to being close to my grandkids in space and time and wish that we all have the desire and ability to make that happen.
I have been gone now for almost three weeks and have decided to take the natural rhythm pace for sure, extending my time on the Spanish coastline to enjoy its beauty and uniqueness. Also, I am slowly preparing myself energetically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually for being in the presence of my Mother. Already as I approach, the repetitive extensive exhausting mostly unread emails are gathering momentum, the few phone calls reveal an emotional maturity unchanged since my teen years, and my fantasy of staying in her place for a week being a pleasant and lovely experience shrinks by the day. Yesterday I used my precious phone “saldo” to attempt to share with her my genius idea of spending a few days in Tarifa with her (on the Spanish side) both to help her with immigration requirements to leave Morocco every three months and to have a “special” Mom and Daughter reunion vacation in Spain. As soon as she heard the word Tarifa she began bellowing across the poor phone circuit in her raspy (unchanged) fearful torrent of aggression that I only know too well and was unfortunately expecting. Insisting that I wanted to hurt her and had no compassion for her sciatica condition as she was stuck in bed, and that I was selfish as ever, and didn’t even have to come see her anyway, and maybe it would be better if I didn’t and that I was a control freak and that I should just forget her and, by the way, could I Western Union her $200 by today for an MRI and food.....and on and on. My siblings and I have definitely gotten scarred badly by this Romanian Jewish Gypsy Wild Mama of all times. What’s the name of the Russian bitchy witch who lives in the forest? She reminds me of her, and more.
I have decided, as this will be one of the few times I will “visit” my Mother again I am sure (how sad to say), that I will, for the first time, try out my NVC skills appropriated in Santa Cruz, on HER. I have already written her an NVC- based letter, after remembering I had the option of using a new approach to throw her rantings and ravings off balance, that is, after shouting back at her a few times. This is my CHALLENGE. After living in SC for 16 years, with a lot of external travels to keep my sanity, I did choicelessly pick up a lot of
knowledge and skills on “spiritual development” and “personal growth”. It’s
either that or you are a raging addict in SC. Or both ends of the
spectrum continuously. The intense Earth vortex swirling around the poor residents of SC, in particular downtown, in particular around City Hall (haha), is impossible to fend off. You have to deal with it one way or another. You either “check out” , and there are many many ways in which that is demonstrated, too many to go into here and I don’t want to spend any more energy on that, OR “check in” and don’t take any breaks from doing so. Meaning you stay fully present every day at the risk of losing your mind. Hard work but the consequence is in your face every day.
Anyway, it is time for me to use my skills with my 75-year old looney mother who has scared off all her children spread around the world as far away from her as possible. I will break the pattern. I will rise to my highest spiritual potential and beat the heavy odds. I will not be beaten down by her demons. I will not react. I will stay in my strong CHI of peace and tranquility. I will stay in my dignity and grace. I will ONLY be kind and loving in words, thoughts and deeds. I will see through her demonic behaviour. I will blind her with the Light of Unconditional Love. Now, I need to go meditate on all this. And, by the way, I have buttressed myself with 3 days in Jimena de la Frontera, a mountainside rural southern Spanish village, with Steve, the Scottish natural builder man-of-all-abilties, on one end.....and reserved an AirBnB room in a beautiful natural eco- compound 2 km from my Mom’s place to nurture my Equanimity and build my daily CHI reserves before facing my TEACHER every day. Still not the Dalai Lama....not in this lifetime.
Bike Friday Rebirthed (IM HERE!!!)
Today’s bike ride was a BLISS index rating of 100 (on a scale of 1-100). First off, Tim from Bike Friday luckily set me straight on Day 4 of riding by suggesting I inflate my tires to 80psi. I actually had no idea where my tires were at and was shocked to find them at around 20psi when I started pumping them with a floor pump! No wonder......OK so basically the bike flew today, with the wind behind me, and the properly inflated tires moved me along twice as fast as on the previous days, when I felt like I was going nowhere. Then the first hour and a half of my ride was all Paseo Marítimo, this beautiful compacted yellow dirt surface that I shared with pedestrians and bikers winding endlessly along the beach. The Spaniards take their Paseos Marítimos very seriously and I heard they are striving to connect all of them from Málaga to Algeciras. This is clearly of benefit to bike tourists. One section would lead into another, sometimes changing to tile, stone, wood but always bikeable. At one point I found myself entering the famed Puerto Banús, the Spanish Saint Tropez, and was entertained by all the ogling shoppers scoring deals at duty-free Dior, Michael Kors, Gucci, St Laurent, and on and on. I passed a sleek red Ferrari driven by an insecure-looking
spectrum continuously. The intense Earth vortex swirling around the poor residents of SC, in particular downtown, in particular around City Hall (haha), is impossible to fend off. You have to deal with it one way or another. You either “check out” , and there are many many ways in which that is demonstrated, too many to go into here and I don’t want to spend any more energy on that, OR “check in” and don’t take any breaks from doing so. Meaning you stay fully present every day at the risk of losing your mind. Hard work but the consequence is in your face every day.
Anyway, it is time for me to use my skills with my 75-year old looney mother who has scared off all her children spread around the world as far away from her as possible. I will break the pattern. I will rise to my highest spiritual potential and beat the heavy odds. I will not be beaten down by her demons. I will not react. I will stay in my strong CHI of peace and tranquility. I will stay in my dignity and grace. I will ONLY be kind and loving in words, thoughts and deeds. I will see through her demonic behaviour. I will blind her with the Light of Unconditional Love. Now, I need to go meditate on all this. And, by the way, I have buttressed myself with 3 days in Jimena de la Frontera, a mountainside rural southern Spanish village, with Steve, the Scottish natural builder man-of-all-abilties, on one end.....and reserved an AirBnB room in a beautiful natural eco- compound 2 km from my Mom’s place to nurture my Equanimity and build my daily CHI reserves before facing my TEACHER every day. Still not the Dalai Lama....not in this lifetime.
Bike Friday Rebirthed (IM HERE!!!)
Today’s bike ride was a BLISS index rating of 100 (on a scale of 1-100). First off, Tim from Bike Friday luckily set me straight on Day 4 of riding by suggesting I inflate my tires to 80psi. I actually had no idea where my tires were at and was shocked to find them at around 20psi when I started pumping them with a floor pump! No wonder......OK so basically the bike flew today, with the wind behind me, and the properly inflated tires moved me along twice as fast as on the previous days, when I felt like I was going nowhere. Then the first hour and a half of my ride was all Paseo Marítimo, this beautiful compacted yellow dirt surface that I shared with pedestrians and bikers winding endlessly along the beach. The Spaniards take their Paseos Marítimos very seriously and I heard they are striving to connect all of them from Málaga to Algeciras. This is clearly of benefit to bike tourists. One section would lead into another, sometimes changing to tile, stone, wood but always bikeable. At one point I found myself entering the famed Puerto Banús, the Spanish Saint Tropez, and was entertained by all the ogling shoppers scoring deals at duty-free Dior, Michael Kors, Gucci, St Laurent, and on and on. I passed a sleek red Ferrari driven by an insecure-looking
young man, a super shiny black Porsche with Arabic license plates, lines
waiting to sit at the posh eateries on the harbor, and an endless array of large
top-of-the-line yachts of every nationality. A funny little world of money-driven
activity and self-importance...
Today I did not get tired or worn out. I actually had an easy day physically, maybe because of my minimized pressure to get somewhere too far. What was fun after the Paseo ended was improvising the rest of the ride from one side road into another through “Urbanizaciones”, private complexes, golf courses, cutting across creeks, under bridges, through grassy trails, and even some fancy Presidential development with a security guard who didn't stop me. I just kept following the general direction using the ocean as my reference and there always seemed to be a way, even if sometimes that meant risking my life cycling on the narrow cement path on the other side of the highway’s metal railing. This is Europe. It’s been around for so long. There are trails or roads to everywhere. It’s a fun game but definitely added significantly to my new 10miles/hr pace.
Retreat in the Cork Oaklands with Steve
Woke up in Jimena to another sun-filled but very gusty morning overlooking the Parque de los Alcornoques, a very long word for “cork” oak trees. I’ve been a guest of Steve’s , the Scottish- English long white-haired and bespectacled natural builder responsible for leading the Da-a-Luz Midwifery School project in Órgiva. And Steve is a guest of Sebastian’s, whose mother’s house he
is staying in for the month of January, recuperating from the chaotic build site with its endless vibrant young hippy energy. Sebastian’s mom was a single mother of three closely-aged boys, like me, except that she descended from noble British blood and as a result of her divorce and rebellious artsy antics, was disowned and excommunicated from the upper crusts of British nobility as were her sons. Being in the little Spanish house that she chose to buy in Jimena de la Frontera, nestled in between two other white-washed old village abodes, has been illuminating.
First off, as I sit here on the narrow red-tiled upper floor sun-filled terrace with a view of only green, listening to the birds, the neighbour's sheep below (I didn’t know sheep had long tails!) and the winds blowing through the river valley, I can get a feel of what life would be like were I to invest in a small village house in France or Portugal, my countries of choice. Spain is wonderful too, of course, and perhaps at some point I can invest in several homes. It’s a sweet hideaway and I assume I would get to know all of my neighbours quickly and exchange produce, ideas, conversation, meals. Life would be slow. I would need some land for a garden, fruit trees, chickens, goats, sheep, cob houses, sauna, hot tub, etc. Sebastian’s mom was an artist
Today I did not get tired or worn out. I actually had an easy day physically, maybe because of my minimized pressure to get somewhere too far. What was fun after the Paseo ended was improvising the rest of the ride from one side road into another through “Urbanizaciones”, private complexes, golf courses, cutting across creeks, under bridges, through grassy trails, and even some fancy Presidential development with a security guard who didn't stop me. I just kept following the general direction using the ocean as my reference and there always seemed to be a way, even if sometimes that meant risking my life cycling on the narrow cement path on the other side of the highway’s metal railing. This is Europe. It’s been around for so long. There are trails or roads to everywhere. It’s a fun game but definitely added significantly to my new 10miles/hr pace.
Retreat in the Cork Oaklands with Steve
Woke up in Jimena to another sun-filled but very gusty morning overlooking the Parque de los Alcornoques, a very long word for “cork” oak trees. I’ve been a guest of Steve’s , the Scottish- English long white-haired and bespectacled natural builder responsible for leading the Da-a-Luz Midwifery School project in Órgiva. And Steve is a guest of Sebastian’s, whose mother’s house he
is staying in for the month of January, recuperating from the chaotic build site with its endless vibrant young hippy energy. Sebastian’s mom was a single mother of three closely-aged boys, like me, except that she descended from noble British blood and as a result of her divorce and rebellious artsy antics, was disowned and excommunicated from the upper crusts of British nobility as were her sons. Being in the little Spanish house that she chose to buy in Jimena de la Frontera, nestled in between two other white-washed old village abodes, has been illuminating.
First off, as I sit here on the narrow red-tiled upper floor sun-filled terrace with a view of only green, listening to the birds, the neighbour's sheep below (I didn’t know sheep had long tails!) and the winds blowing through the river valley, I can get a feel of what life would be like were I to invest in a small village house in France or Portugal, my countries of choice. Spain is wonderful too, of course, and perhaps at some point I can invest in several homes. It’s a sweet hideaway and I assume I would get to know all of my neighbours quickly and exchange produce, ideas, conversation, meals. Life would be slow. I would need some land for a garden, fruit trees, chickens, goats, sheep, cob houses, sauna, hot tub, etc. Sebastian’s mom was an artist
(she passed away a few months ago in her mid-80’s) as are all her sons
apparently. Seeing photos of her surrounded by her three loving sons on
adventures around the world, her sons getting older with their families, the
grandchildren with grandma...takes me into the future. She was in this
wonderful cozy home doing her art work, reading, walking, socializing while
her sons were spread out over Europe. I imagine they came to see her a lot,
and vice versa, but they were not regular physical presences in each others’
lives as a result of personal geographical preferences.
Growing up, my Father’s parents lived a 20 minute walk across Central Park from my apartment building. I saw my Grandparents Denise and Alex, Belgian Jewish emigrants, once or twice a week, sometimes more, rarely less. They took me to dinner every Wednesday night, we had our family brunch every Sunday, and I confided in them when things got rough at home. I even spent several summers with them at the very fancy Hotel Royal in Evian, France, with the upper class Europeans, eating 3 gorgeous 5-star meals a day on the large relaxed terrace overlooking the Lac Léman that divides France from Switzerland. They were a big part of my youth and spoiled and loved me, providing stability and tranquility in contrast to the hectic energy at 15 West 72nd Street. The ambiance in our childhood apartment overlooking Central Park was the inevitable outcome of my Mom’s Romanian Sephardic Jewish roots trying to co-habitate with the French-Belgian Ashkenazi Jewish strain. Sometimes quite traumatizing.
Nonetheless, I really appreciated having Denise and Alex nearby and I imagine they clearly made it a priority to live close to my Dad, Claude, and his offspring. After the consequences of WWII had died down, I am sure they would have liked to return to live in their country of origin, Belgium, and instead settled for a yearly summer trek there. I absolutely want to live close to all my boys and their families and be an active part of their lives and vice versa, with big family dinners and outings and vacations. This journey I am on has the important purpose of scoping out my next nesting and building ground, somewhere that will draw my kids effortlessly to the environs. In addition I want to have a cob house in a number of my thus-far favourite hot spots: France, Portugal, Cuba or Les Saintes, Brazil, Tahiti....With my Father’s passing this year, I felt sadness at the sight of a man who did not want to go. He still had dreams, desires, ideas, his eyes would brighten up as I shared my latest adventures. He surrendered to the reality of his immobility with the rough hold of Parkinson’s, and focused on getting the most out of NYC with his shuffling gait completing the city blocks one by one to get to his political meetings, therapy appointments, favourite coffee and danish hangouts, and once in a while, the old restaurant haunts he once visited regularly as a revered immigration attorney and wizard.
So, as a result, I am continuing to actively follow my dreams, a role model for my kids, who seem to already get it. “Yes it would be nice if we had a stable
Growing up, my Father’s parents lived a 20 minute walk across Central Park from my apartment building. I saw my Grandparents Denise and Alex, Belgian Jewish emigrants, once or twice a week, sometimes more, rarely less. They took me to dinner every Wednesday night, we had our family brunch every Sunday, and I confided in them when things got rough at home. I even spent several summers with them at the very fancy Hotel Royal in Evian, France, with the upper class Europeans, eating 3 gorgeous 5-star meals a day on the large relaxed terrace overlooking the Lac Léman that divides France from Switzerland. They were a big part of my youth and spoiled and loved me, providing stability and tranquility in contrast to the hectic energy at 15 West 72nd Street. The ambiance in our childhood apartment overlooking Central Park was the inevitable outcome of my Mom’s Romanian Sephardic Jewish roots trying to co-habitate with the French-Belgian Ashkenazi Jewish strain. Sometimes quite traumatizing.
Nonetheless, I really appreciated having Denise and Alex nearby and I imagine they clearly made it a priority to live close to my Dad, Claude, and his offspring. After the consequences of WWII had died down, I am sure they would have liked to return to live in their country of origin, Belgium, and instead settled for a yearly summer trek there. I absolutely want to live close to all my boys and their families and be an active part of their lives and vice versa, with big family dinners and outings and vacations. This journey I am on has the important purpose of scoping out my next nesting and building ground, somewhere that will draw my kids effortlessly to the environs. In addition I want to have a cob house in a number of my thus-far favourite hot spots: France, Portugal, Cuba or Les Saintes, Brazil, Tahiti....With my Father’s passing this year, I felt sadness at the sight of a man who did not want to go. He still had dreams, desires, ideas, his eyes would brighten up as I shared my latest adventures. He surrendered to the reality of his immobility with the rough hold of Parkinson’s, and focused on getting the most out of NYC with his shuffling gait completing the city blocks one by one to get to his political meetings, therapy appointments, favourite coffee and danish hangouts, and once in a while, the old restaurant haunts he once visited regularly as a revered immigration attorney and wizard.
So, as a result, I am continuing to actively follow my dreams, a role model for my kids, who seem to already get it. “Yes it would be nice if we had a stable
mom in a stable house cooking Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners and
always there for us ready with our favorite meals, pies, hospitality, healing
wisdom, etc,” I imagine them thinking sometimes...but not for long. I am sure
they prefer the wild gypsy Mamacita encouraging them to use their frequent
flyer miles and fly out to the Canary Islands, Cabo Verde, or the Azores to
meet her and have a big family get-together.
Today, my last full day in Jimena de la Frontera, I wandered up to the expansive fortress castle at the top of the town overlooking the 360 degrees of surrounding clusters of houses and Parque Natural. I assume it’s a few hundreds of years old, 3-foot thick sandstone rock fortified walls lined with tiny 4”x4” windows that encircled the whole wall. Within were all kinds of channels, narrow cuts, a tall tower and arched doorways. It felt cold and scary to live up there, constantly on the lookout for the enemy. Later I wound downhill through the maze of tiny narrow cobblestone streets with short wooden doors, a variety of metal door knocks, old wooden headers, some fancier than others. It felt very Arab, a lot like Morocco. I guess the Moorish influence. People hanging out on the front doorstep, kids playing soccer in the narrow passages, old women selling vegetables out of their homes, and amazingly enough, miniature vehicles knowingly making their way up the zig- zag of historic streets with ease.
I walked down very steep cobblestone streets endlessly until I got to my goal, the river path which followed the moat that encircled the town. A 20-foot deep moat that would be impossible to get out of if you fell in, was the obstacle for attackers but also, I learned, provided water for the artillery factory in this area. The path went from stone, to sand, to smooth steps carved out of the sandstone from use, back to sand, passing two beaches (cold!!!) and then wound me back up into the town dropping me off at my front door! I could definitely hang out here for another week, but I am finding the 3-day rhythm after a full day of biking fits me quite nicely, so I have time to discover, get a feel for the place, write, read, and then move on. I do have to cover the whole world in three years, you know.
My time with Steve was very nurturing. While we barely “knew” each other, there was a sweetly simple natural understanding that I imagine happens between mature 50-something adults, an allowance for space and a subtle division of labor according to needs and strengths, without explicit communication. We each took our much-appreciated alone time for as long as we needed, while leaving space for batches of together time, he cooked dinners, I washed dishes, and it was all in all a pretty relaxing stay. After being clear with myself and him from the get go that I was not going to go the sexual route, having felt his interest and desire burning, we were both released from playing the game and he could just be himself. Phew! I find it much more attractive when men are themselves. I found him most appealing when he took off his glasses and peered intently at my cracked ukulele
Today, my last full day in Jimena de la Frontera, I wandered up to the expansive fortress castle at the top of the town overlooking the 360 degrees of surrounding clusters of houses and Parque Natural. I assume it’s a few hundreds of years old, 3-foot thick sandstone rock fortified walls lined with tiny 4”x4” windows that encircled the whole wall. Within were all kinds of channels, narrow cuts, a tall tower and arched doorways. It felt cold and scary to live up there, constantly on the lookout for the enemy. Later I wound downhill through the maze of tiny narrow cobblestone streets with short wooden doors, a variety of metal door knocks, old wooden headers, some fancier than others. It felt very Arab, a lot like Morocco. I guess the Moorish influence. People hanging out on the front doorstep, kids playing soccer in the narrow passages, old women selling vegetables out of their homes, and amazingly enough, miniature vehicles knowingly making their way up the zig- zag of historic streets with ease.
I walked down very steep cobblestone streets endlessly until I got to my goal, the river path which followed the moat that encircled the town. A 20-foot deep moat that would be impossible to get out of if you fell in, was the obstacle for attackers but also, I learned, provided water for the artillery factory in this area. The path went from stone, to sand, to smooth steps carved out of the sandstone from use, back to sand, passing two beaches (cold!!!) and then wound me back up into the town dropping me off at my front door! I could definitely hang out here for another week, but I am finding the 3-day rhythm after a full day of biking fits me quite nicely, so I have time to discover, get a feel for the place, write, read, and then move on. I do have to cover the whole world in three years, you know.
My time with Steve was very nurturing. While we barely “knew” each other, there was a sweetly simple natural understanding that I imagine happens between mature 50-something adults, an allowance for space and a subtle division of labor according to needs and strengths, without explicit communication. We each took our much-appreciated alone time for as long as we needed, while leaving space for batches of together time, he cooked dinners, I washed dishes, and it was all in all a pretty relaxing stay. After being clear with myself and him from the get go that I was not going to go the sexual route, having felt his interest and desire burning, we were both released from playing the game and he could just be himself. Phew! I find it much more attractive when men are themselves. I found him most appealing when he took off his glasses and peered intently at my cracked ukulele
exhibiting his fine woodworker acumen and passion. I could watch him one-
way as he did his thing un-self-consciously and see through the Leo veneer
he wore otherwise.
I definitely enjoyed being “cared for”, Leos are quite generous when they feel it, and thus begins my apprenticeship into being “mothered” for a change.
The Push to Africa
On Friday, January 2nd, I gathered and packed my travel gear into the 2 large white Ortlieb back panniers and the 2 small black front panniers, the backpack and the handlebar bag. I’m starting to get the hang of it now and it seems I have less stuff each time and the bags close more easily. For five minutes I tried to find a piece of level cobblestone outside the old Spanish Dutch door to park my bike for loading. I confidently attached all the bags under Steve’s regretful eye, took one goodbye selfie with him, and headed down down down the roller coaster ride to the bridge I had spotted from the castle the day before. Using Googlemaps as our guide, Steve and I had decided I should take the alternative smaller road that mirrored the main A-405 on the other side of the river until it ended. As I crossed the bridge I saw a dirt road in front of me and the asphalt road turning uphill as a natural continuation from the bridge. Clearly it was the asphalt road, as why would a dirt road show up on a large scale map. Honestly though I have a hard time trusting my GPS intuition anymore. It is so embarrassing to have 2 Geography degrees to my name and regularly take the “wrong” road when I have a choice. I guess that’s what I get for “studying” Geography rather than “living” it. Following my best guess I started uphill, assuming this way would soon level out along the river. No. I pedalled up for half an hour with no downhill in sight, even dismounting a few times during the helluva cardio warm up to a 5-hour ride. Somehow, I was still stubbornly convinced that
this was just a temporary ascent that would then level out to parallel the river before descending again. After all, it looked windy on the map which would indicate a climb. Right?
It took 2 concerned Spanish men who, without even being asked, put an end to my irrational madness and set me straight back down to that initially disregarded dirt road...”recto, recto, recto”. Straight, straight, straight all the way. Fine, I’ll take it, a quiet carless country dirt road with its dips and rocky outcroppings that slowed my pace and quieted my Soul. The inner struggle began between making up for lost time, since I had a 5pm ferry to make 40 miles away with one serious climb from Algeciras to Tarifa that I had been warned about a few times already, or enjoying the rural ride. At one point I had to stop and pick the juiciest-looking oranges I’d ever seen and to my immense pleasure they were as tasty as they looked and much appreciated as my only snacks during the 5 hour ride ahead. The one car I saw on this dirt
I definitely enjoyed being “cared for”, Leos are quite generous when they feel it, and thus begins my apprenticeship into being “mothered” for a change.
The Push to Africa
On Friday, January 2nd, I gathered and packed my travel gear into the 2 large white Ortlieb back panniers and the 2 small black front panniers, the backpack and the handlebar bag. I’m starting to get the hang of it now and it seems I have less stuff each time and the bags close more easily. For five minutes I tried to find a piece of level cobblestone outside the old Spanish Dutch door to park my bike for loading. I confidently attached all the bags under Steve’s regretful eye, took one goodbye selfie with him, and headed down down down the roller coaster ride to the bridge I had spotted from the castle the day before. Using Googlemaps as our guide, Steve and I had decided I should take the alternative smaller road that mirrored the main A-405 on the other side of the river until it ended. As I crossed the bridge I saw a dirt road in front of me and the asphalt road turning uphill as a natural continuation from the bridge. Clearly it was the asphalt road, as why would a dirt road show up on a large scale map. Honestly though I have a hard time trusting my GPS intuition anymore. It is so embarrassing to have 2 Geography degrees to my name and regularly take the “wrong” road when I have a choice. I guess that’s what I get for “studying” Geography rather than “living” it. Following my best guess I started uphill, assuming this way would soon level out along the river. No. I pedalled up for half an hour with no downhill in sight, even dismounting a few times during the helluva cardio warm up to a 5-hour ride. Somehow, I was still stubbornly convinced that
this was just a temporary ascent that would then level out to parallel the river before descending again. After all, it looked windy on the map which would indicate a climb. Right?
It took 2 concerned Spanish men who, without even being asked, put an end to my irrational madness and set me straight back down to that initially disregarded dirt road...”recto, recto, recto”. Straight, straight, straight all the way. Fine, I’ll take it, a quiet carless country dirt road with its dips and rocky outcroppings that slowed my pace and quieted my Soul. The inner struggle began between making up for lost time, since I had a 5pm ferry to make 40 miles away with one serious climb from Algeciras to Tarifa that I had been warned about a few times already, or enjoying the rural ride. At one point I had to stop and pick the juiciest-looking oranges I’d ever seen and to my immense pleasure they were as tasty as they looked and much appreciated as my only snacks during the 5 hour ride ahead. The one car I saw on this dirt
road let me know it would be rough- going for my bike farther up. I accepted
the local’s words unchallengingly and took my cue to cross the river to the
A-405, ready for a smoother road surface.
It’s funny how you have an image of a road from a map and then you get to experience it live. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes worse, sometimes just as you’d imagined. This one was the same or better. Most of it was level but even the climbs were the kind that you could keep pedalling on and at the moment you’d had enough it levelled out or went downhill. On one of the steeper uphills two slim, colourful and young Spanish road cyclists whizzed by asking me where I was from while I was completely encased in my breathing. Why didn’t they help me up like Javier did a few weeks ago, riding his mountain bike one-handed and giving me a push with the other hand? Instead they just dissolved into the distance never to be seen again, and probably thanking the gods they were not me. I really enjoyed this first part of the ride to the coast. Not only did I not stop for more than three orange breaks, but it was relatively pain-free. Was I gettin’ in shape now? Were all the conditions just perfect for me? Was it unapparently downhill the whole way?
Then....the torture began. I decided to just keep going and merged into a highway of sorts, biking in the “emergency lane” for probably ten miles. Obviously in the U.S. I would get arrested for biking on the highway. I wasn’t sure if it was illegal here and none of the maps showed much of a continuous alternative and I had a ferry to catch so I just did it. The shoulder was a decent 5 feet wide most of the time and I hugged the edge praying. Sometimes on a world bike tour you have moments or days of suicidal riding when there is no choice if you are trying to get somewhere faster. You just go for it, pray and ride and pray and ride and give thanks big time when you are out of the war zone of giant trucks and buses and 80 mph dragsters. It’s like a killer moving meditation because if you stop focusing for an instant, you could be fucked very quickly, just another piece of roadkill and recyclable steel for the highway cleanup crew. Riding through a continuous belt of broken windshield glass in the shoulder was my constant reminder and focal point.
Needless to say I am here writing so you know I made it through. Eventually the hell of the Algeciras highway turned into a slightly different energy of people going to Tarifa and after that Cádiz. Algeciras is the huge industrial port with mega-cranes and miles of waterfront shipping corporations and several huge ships coming and going at all times. Tarifa is a windsurf/kitesurf mecca and houses only passenger ferries to Tangier. Several people had warned me to be ready for the “large uphill” to Tarifa. I had scoped it out on Googlemaps and saw the rough topography and the road cutting through. As I set uphill with confidence I felt strong and steady. The cars had died out a bit and the scenery was greening. “I can handle this,” I thought. I got to the top and smirked hoping that this was the “big” uphill Mandy, the Englishwoman
It’s funny how you have an image of a road from a map and then you get to experience it live. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes worse, sometimes just as you’d imagined. This one was the same or better. Most of it was level but even the climbs were the kind that you could keep pedalling on and at the moment you’d had enough it levelled out or went downhill. On one of the steeper uphills two slim, colourful and young Spanish road cyclists whizzed by asking me where I was from while I was completely encased in my breathing. Why didn’t they help me up like Javier did a few weeks ago, riding his mountain bike one-handed and giving me a push with the other hand? Instead they just dissolved into the distance never to be seen again, and probably thanking the gods they were not me. I really enjoyed this first part of the ride to the coast. Not only did I not stop for more than three orange breaks, but it was relatively pain-free. Was I gettin’ in shape now? Were all the conditions just perfect for me? Was it unapparently downhill the whole way?
Then....the torture began. I decided to just keep going and merged into a highway of sorts, biking in the “emergency lane” for probably ten miles. Obviously in the U.S. I would get arrested for biking on the highway. I wasn’t sure if it was illegal here and none of the maps showed much of a continuous alternative and I had a ferry to catch so I just did it. The shoulder was a decent 5 feet wide most of the time and I hugged the edge praying. Sometimes on a world bike tour you have moments or days of suicidal riding when there is no choice if you are trying to get somewhere faster. You just go for it, pray and ride and pray and ride and give thanks big time when you are out of the war zone of giant trucks and buses and 80 mph dragsters. It’s like a killer moving meditation because if you stop focusing for an instant, you could be fucked very quickly, just another piece of roadkill and recyclable steel for the highway cleanup crew. Riding through a continuous belt of broken windshield glass in the shoulder was my constant reminder and focal point.
Needless to say I am here writing so you know I made it through. Eventually the hell of the Algeciras highway turned into a slightly different energy of people going to Tarifa and after that Cádiz. Algeciras is the huge industrial port with mega-cranes and miles of waterfront shipping corporations and several huge ships coming and going at all times. Tarifa is a windsurf/kitesurf mecca and houses only passenger ferries to Tangier. Several people had warned me to be ready for the “large uphill” to Tarifa. I had scoped it out on Googlemaps and saw the rough topography and the road cutting through. As I set uphill with confidence I felt strong and steady. The cars had died out a bit and the scenery was greening. “I can handle this,” I thought. I got to the top and smirked hoping that this was the “big” uphill Mandy, the Englishwoman
from Warmshowers, was talking about. “Ha! Either she’s weak or I’m amazing
or this wasn’t all...” It was #3...This was not all. What continued was the most
gruesome uphill I have ever ridden, at least as far as my menopausal
memory cells will allow me to remember. Endless. Curvy. Non-stop. Torturous
and tortuous. Forever. I actually descended from my bike 3 times because my
thighs were ready to rip open and die. I mean I have willpower and I gave
birth three times and I know how to push myself. Every blind turn was another
km of ascent. Every kilometer felt like two...or three. Scanning the
surroundings I was sure several times that we were at the summit, only to find
more uphill around
the corner. The mindfuck was huge. Climbing uphill on a bike, especially with 50 lbs of gear on it, is always a mind game. I was looking at my watch, had an idea of the kilometers I had completed and could not believe I was still going up.
Finally, finally finally I reached a summit, where I could see Morocco and the ocean below, still looking a ways off. My watch showed 4:45pm. I had 15 minutes until the boat would pull out and the wild curvaceous descent lined with windmills began. I did see a boat coming from Morocco, still out at sea, and smiled, thanking the gods that the ferry might have been delayed in coming. I had no choice and there was nothing I could do but make my way down and arrive in one piece. I relaxed my body into the effortless descent, notwithstanding the vicious Gibraltar Strait winds that tried to knock my bike and I out of the narrow bike shoulder every 5 seconds. A few very unwelcome ascents snuck in that really worked me hard and got in the way of my time crunch. Mentally your thighs are “done” for the day when you know it’s all downhill from here and even a 15 second uphill brings you immediately to the breaking point. For the most part the descent really did take only 15 minutes and assuming that the tardy boat was mine I took advantage of a quick LIDL stop for my favorite doughy Portuguese loaf and more chocolate for mom, knowing that when I finally stopped, ravenous appetite would set in.
When I finally found the correct passenger ferry dock and thankfully asked both companies their rates, I got my bike on for free avoiding the $18 charge the first company wanted from me. I was so happy to make the next boat and only be an hour late for my mom who was waiting impatiently on the other side, praying for her her long-lost eldest daughter’s appearance with the funky red bike among the fulfilled Moroccans back from their Spanish shopping sprees . I sat down in one of the ferry’s basic burgundy vinyl- upholstered armchairs and delected in ripping into my Portuguese bread, hand-cutting it open while slipping in slices of soft goaty camembert that dripped down my fingers. I didn’t give one inkling of care about what I looked like. After a 5-hour non-stop pumping bike ride from start to end...you are queen! Anything goes. People looked on with perplexed facial expressions. I was at peace.
the corner. The mindfuck was huge. Climbing uphill on a bike, especially with 50 lbs of gear on it, is always a mind game. I was looking at my watch, had an idea of the kilometers I had completed and could not believe I was still going up.
Finally, finally finally I reached a summit, where I could see Morocco and the ocean below, still looking a ways off. My watch showed 4:45pm. I had 15 minutes until the boat would pull out and the wild curvaceous descent lined with windmills began. I did see a boat coming from Morocco, still out at sea, and smiled, thanking the gods that the ferry might have been delayed in coming. I had no choice and there was nothing I could do but make my way down and arrive in one piece. I relaxed my body into the effortless descent, notwithstanding the vicious Gibraltar Strait winds that tried to knock my bike and I out of the narrow bike shoulder every 5 seconds. A few very unwelcome ascents snuck in that really worked me hard and got in the way of my time crunch. Mentally your thighs are “done” for the day when you know it’s all downhill from here and even a 15 second uphill brings you immediately to the breaking point. For the most part the descent really did take only 15 minutes and assuming that the tardy boat was mine I took advantage of a quick LIDL stop for my favorite doughy Portuguese loaf and more chocolate for mom, knowing that when I finally stopped, ravenous appetite would set in.
When I finally found the correct passenger ferry dock and thankfully asked both companies their rates, I got my bike on for free avoiding the $18 charge the first company wanted from me. I was so happy to make the next boat and only be an hour late for my mom who was waiting impatiently on the other side, praying for her her long-lost eldest daughter’s appearance with the funky red bike among the fulfilled Moroccans back from their Spanish shopping sprees . I sat down in one of the ferry’s basic burgundy vinyl- upholstered armchairs and delected in ripping into my Portuguese bread, hand-cutting it open while slipping in slices of soft goaty camembert that dripped down my fingers. I didn’t give one inkling of care about what I looked like. After a 5-hour non-stop pumping bike ride from start to end...you are queen! Anything goes. People looked on with perplexed facial expressions. I was at peace.
MOROCCO: My Mother, My Teacher
The next section becomes more of a psychological exploration of my mom, one of the most difficult subjects, I am sure, on the planet. I never cease to be surprised at how all the spiritual, meditative, lovingkindness, NVC, yoga and breathwork become moot once her energy field takes hold of yours. At 75, with a sciatic condition, walking with a single grey crutch that doubles as a taxi waver, she rules the world that lets itself be touched by her energy field. Poor hapless victims, so innocent and peaceful, see a nice generous old lady reaching out to help. Her past victims, including myself, look on in helpless surrender. There is nothing you can do short of extricating yourself from her presence. My MO this visit is surrender, flow and hold onto my chi ball. There is not a second of her daily waking moments that she is still. As a matter of fact tomorrow I will secretly analyse moment-by-moment Yvonne. Maybe even secretly film her. It’s actually interesting and funny and will make for some good “You Tube” segments. I have never in my life seen someone like that unless they were on meth. It is quite scary and has gotten worse. The good side is that she is clearly still very alive, despite her physical issues. She’s not going anytime soon, unless it’s an accidental situation. That relieves me, as I have miles to go, countries to see, adventures to have, and don’t want to feel guilt that I should be caring for her. As a matter of fact she has two “house boys”, as she calls them, Yacine and Hamid, and a chauffeur, Mohammed. Yacine is a neighbour. A young 20 or 30- something who has the key to her house and basically comes in at her beck and call and does whatever is needed from feeding the cat to looking for lost items to carrying her bags in to accompanying her to the doctor to cooking dinner to sitting and watching a movie to consoling her to being yelled at to making sure I don’t drown in the ocean. He has a toothy shy smile plastered to his red face at all times. He speaks a smattering of Spanish blended in to his Arabic and my mom’s childhood Arabic has come back after 50 years in NYC and together they communicate fine. He joyfully follows her ride every day and personally I would like to know what this man is thinking under that toothy smile...or not.
Hamid is a 40 or 50-something Moroccan male with an eternal toothless smile plastered on to his face. With his curly brown hair, mustache, lean physique and artsy Fedora hat...he, like Yacine, does whatever is needed in Yvonne’s world once he has dared to step in, though he is rewarded for his patient surrender with 100 Dirhams each time. Washing her laundry and hanging it to dry, looking for the black adopted street cat Minou, drawing for her, sweeping, folding, cooking, sitting, all for a grand $10 a day. With her two house boys and the other old male neighbours standing outside in the alleyway a lot of the day...she is covered. Everyone knows Yvonne. And that’s the way she likes it. Full-blown 100% center of everyone’s world. She has made sure that if something happens to her or if she needs help, everyone will know and be
The next section becomes more of a psychological exploration of my mom, one of the most difficult subjects, I am sure, on the planet. I never cease to be surprised at how all the spiritual, meditative, lovingkindness, NVC, yoga and breathwork become moot once her energy field takes hold of yours. At 75, with a sciatic condition, walking with a single grey crutch that doubles as a taxi waver, she rules the world that lets itself be touched by her energy field. Poor hapless victims, so innocent and peaceful, see a nice generous old lady reaching out to help. Her past victims, including myself, look on in helpless surrender. There is nothing you can do short of extricating yourself from her presence. My MO this visit is surrender, flow and hold onto my chi ball. There is not a second of her daily waking moments that she is still. As a matter of fact tomorrow I will secretly analyse moment-by-moment Yvonne. Maybe even secretly film her. It’s actually interesting and funny and will make for some good “You Tube” segments. I have never in my life seen someone like that unless they were on meth. It is quite scary and has gotten worse. The good side is that she is clearly still very alive, despite her physical issues. She’s not going anytime soon, unless it’s an accidental situation. That relieves me, as I have miles to go, countries to see, adventures to have, and don’t want to feel guilt that I should be caring for her. As a matter of fact she has two “house boys”, as she calls them, Yacine and Hamid, and a chauffeur, Mohammed. Yacine is a neighbour. A young 20 or 30- something who has the key to her house and basically comes in at her beck and call and does whatever is needed from feeding the cat to looking for lost items to carrying her bags in to accompanying her to the doctor to cooking dinner to sitting and watching a movie to consoling her to being yelled at to making sure I don’t drown in the ocean. He has a toothy shy smile plastered to his red face at all times. He speaks a smattering of Spanish blended in to his Arabic and my mom’s childhood Arabic has come back after 50 years in NYC and together they communicate fine. He joyfully follows her ride every day and personally I would like to know what this man is thinking under that toothy smile...or not.
Hamid is a 40 or 50-something Moroccan male with an eternal toothless smile plastered on to his face. With his curly brown hair, mustache, lean physique and artsy Fedora hat...he, like Yacine, does whatever is needed in Yvonne’s world once he has dared to step in, though he is rewarded for his patient surrender with 100 Dirhams each time. Washing her laundry and hanging it to dry, looking for the black adopted street cat Minou, drawing for her, sweeping, folding, cooking, sitting, all for a grand $10 a day. With her two house boys and the other old male neighbours standing outside in the alleyway a lot of the day...she is covered. Everyone knows Yvonne. And that’s the way she likes it. Full-blown 100% center of everyone’s world. She has made sure that if something happens to her or if she needs help, everyone will know and be
there. One day she will pass, although hard to imagine, and these random
participants in her life will all be there with my siblings and I. It will be an
interesting and unconventional service, and perhaps quite funny as we share
our stories about Yvonne’s life. Being her daughter, my only wish at this time
is to detach, observe, and not be viscerally affected. To even appreciate,
enjoy, and delect in her cute eccentricities, akin to the response of other
newly-vaccinated unsuspecting passers-by. My sister has moved to
Stockholm and basically not seen my mother for ten years. She flew down for
a 3- day weekend to celebrate her 75th and quickly flew back, lest she be
caught in the whirlwind, and had her partner there as buffer and support. My
brother is immersed in deep recovery from her erratic crazy-making
mothering, suffering from obesity, diabetes, 2 hernias, various benign tutors
and a mysterious growth near his pancreas, not to mention delusions of
grandeur and limitless wealth. Did I make out the best I wonder???
The cool thing is that I feel so evolved in comparison on the one hand, and on the other I can feel the seeds of craziness within that, if not consciously kept dried and sterile, could erupt into another wild old Romanian gypsy Jewish yenta on the loose, no holds barred. Can the world actually carry two? Or will she be the last of the species, gone from the face of the Earth forevermore, and blessing my children with a “sane-er” docile Mom to care for in her crone years?
More Psycho Adventures with Mother
I don’t know if I actually have the skills to verbally portray the reality that is being in the energy field of Yvonne. Everyone deals with it differently. But no matter who it is that she interacts with, she takes from their energy and leaves a little or big tornado of disturbance in her wake. She disturbs the peace. I guess she feels alive that way. She is hardly able to sit and listen to others passively. My kids say that I have trouble with that too. I guess I’m a step ahead as my body can handle being still, and I do focus and listen, it’s just that I may not have the empathic skills they long for, when you really get into someone’s world, curiously asking a lot of questions to know more.
The experience of people in her trajectory is surprise, harassment, fear, sorrow, compassion and polite surrender. Those who know her better have their own behaviour and attitude of preference in response, of which many I know have opted for minimal and very controlled opening of the gates to allow her in for clearly delineated periods of time. Boundaries must be clear and firm. No emotions gettin’ in the way. Firm tough love.
Bewildering Arab Mores
Moroccan culture honestly does not turn me on. I don’t feel at home here at all. Many people rave about living in Tangier, about visiting Fez, Marrakesh, Meknes, Agadir and say how much they love Morocco. It does sound exotic
The cool thing is that I feel so evolved in comparison on the one hand, and on the other I can feel the seeds of craziness within that, if not consciously kept dried and sterile, could erupt into another wild old Romanian gypsy Jewish yenta on the loose, no holds barred. Can the world actually carry two? Or will she be the last of the species, gone from the face of the Earth forevermore, and blessing my children with a “sane-er” docile Mom to care for in her crone years?
More Psycho Adventures with Mother
I don’t know if I actually have the skills to verbally portray the reality that is being in the energy field of Yvonne. Everyone deals with it differently. But no matter who it is that she interacts with, she takes from their energy and leaves a little or big tornado of disturbance in her wake. She disturbs the peace. I guess she feels alive that way. She is hardly able to sit and listen to others passively. My kids say that I have trouble with that too. I guess I’m a step ahead as my body can handle being still, and I do focus and listen, it’s just that I may not have the empathic skills they long for, when you really get into someone’s world, curiously asking a lot of questions to know more.
The experience of people in her trajectory is surprise, harassment, fear, sorrow, compassion and polite surrender. Those who know her better have their own behaviour and attitude of preference in response, of which many I know have opted for minimal and very controlled opening of the gates to allow her in for clearly delineated periods of time. Boundaries must be clear and firm. No emotions gettin’ in the way. Firm tough love.
Bewildering Arab Mores
Moroccan culture honestly does not turn me on. I don’t feel at home here at all. Many people rave about living in Tangier, about visiting Fez, Marrakesh, Meknes, Agadir and say how much they love Morocco. It does sound exotic
and magical, but the reality of it for me is that it is a disjointed populace bound
by a collage of Muslim modalities. I don’t like the language or the culture
much, just the food and the land. I can’t relate to the Arab lifestyle, especially
the gender issue with the women covered up in unflattering scarves and
robes. What’s up with that? How do all these gradations of allowable culture
co-exist? Yesterday an older surfer was taking off his wetsuit at a beachfront
restaurant to sit and eat and got yelled at by a Moroccan man eating with his
wife and friend for being disrespectful by showing his bare torso. “We are at
the beach! This is a beach!” he yelled. I don’t care myself and am flaunting
my tattoos and was the only bikini-clad female on the beach yesterday under
the googoogaga eyes of many males, including my mother’s helper Yacine,
who she aptly sent to observe me in case I was drowning. I wonder what he
could/would do seeing as he would not even stick his toes in let alone know
how to swim I imagined.
The other male who had his eyes closely examining the outline of my legs and buttocks was Taoufik, an acquaintance she had surrreptitiously manipulated into driving all of us, Yacine, Yvonne and I, to the beach for lunch promising him (I can just hear it) he would not regret it as she had this gorgeous hot divorced daughter he just had to meet. Both of us, in our 50’s, did not really know how to gracefully undo her manipulative web and make the encounter our own. She repeatedly mentioned the words sex, love, relationship and while this has been going on for a long time, the matchmaking prowess, in these her later years with her powers waning...I just don’t care that much anymore. I think that is the key. Not to give up my power to her by getting angry and reacting but rather just not care and, as I have seen many others do, laugh at the oddities of it all.
The peak moment of the day was sneaking in to the Mirage Hotel, the finest in Tangier, and her favourite bathroom stop, to ogle at the magnificent view of the Moroccan coastline extending to infinity southwards. Long sets of waves of clear blue Atlantic waters lined by perfect sand beaches and not a Soul to be seen on them. Yvonne is excited. Her plan to match me up with Taoufik seems to be working as we have a spark and get along. He is one of those well-educated extremely humorous and cynical intellectual French Moroccans that’s been everywhere done everything and knows both cultures well and beyond. He is an Aquarius, interesting and open- minded and curious about what I do, a good sign. I am intrigued and drawn in by his mental acuity and social know-how, the adaptability I see in him as he deftly navigates between my mother’s ever-present neuroses and gossip with carefree humour, my California outdoorsy free-flowin’ life and choices, and high-level global business networking, all within the context of the Mirage terrace. He seems about my age, is a divorced father of 3, and has a nice personality which I am curious to explore, but am a bit turned off and surprised by the precocious (even for me) sexual comments on Day 1. Way too quick, especially in this setting. What is he trying to show me? Sometimes air signs are a bit
The other male who had his eyes closely examining the outline of my legs and buttocks was Taoufik, an acquaintance she had surrreptitiously manipulated into driving all of us, Yacine, Yvonne and I, to the beach for lunch promising him (I can just hear it) he would not regret it as she had this gorgeous hot divorced daughter he just had to meet. Both of us, in our 50’s, did not really know how to gracefully undo her manipulative web and make the encounter our own. She repeatedly mentioned the words sex, love, relationship and while this has been going on for a long time, the matchmaking prowess, in these her later years with her powers waning...I just don’t care that much anymore. I think that is the key. Not to give up my power to her by getting angry and reacting but rather just not care and, as I have seen many others do, laugh at the oddities of it all.
The peak moment of the day was sneaking in to the Mirage Hotel, the finest in Tangier, and her favourite bathroom stop, to ogle at the magnificent view of the Moroccan coastline extending to infinity southwards. Long sets of waves of clear blue Atlantic waters lined by perfect sand beaches and not a Soul to be seen on them. Yvonne is excited. Her plan to match me up with Taoufik seems to be working as we have a spark and get along. He is one of those well-educated extremely humorous and cynical intellectual French Moroccans that’s been everywhere done everything and knows both cultures well and beyond. He is an Aquarius, interesting and open- minded and curious about what I do, a good sign. I am intrigued and drawn in by his mental acuity and social know-how, the adaptability I see in him as he deftly navigates between my mother’s ever-present neuroses and gossip with carefree humour, my California outdoorsy free-flowin’ life and choices, and high-level global business networking, all within the context of the Mirage terrace. He seems about my age, is a divorced father of 3, and has a nice personality which I am curious to explore, but am a bit turned off and surprised by the precocious (even for me) sexual comments on Day 1. Way too quick, especially in this setting. What is he trying to show me? Sometimes air signs are a bit
maladroit in expressing their sexual attraction, either totally speechless or
awkwardly direct.
Pleased with the apparent success of her primary motive and plan for this beach adventure, and feeling a bit restless with no attention on her though she has poor Yacine hooked to her side... Yvonne’s second plan starts to take form as she spots a very gorgeous young Bangladeshi jet-set looking couple that has appeared on the same veranda with their two minute daughters dressed to kill in bright coloured satin bouffant dresses with little mini jackets, colourful tights and patent leather dress shoes. She has now spotted her next prey and the afternoon excitement will continue. How can she feel important and needed and in control with these new strangers? What essential service that only she can provide for them can she pull out of this encounter? Aha!!!! Her little overactive brain has come up with a need to satisfy: a Moroccan nanny!!!! After an initial uninvited entry into their private family moment she has learned that they have just moved here and are renting Yves St. Laurent’s house in the Kasbah. She senses their wealth, innocence to Morocco, new parent chaos and immediately tells them that what they need is a Moroccan nanny and that she has just the person....her Senegalese friend Isabelle, who Taoufik has just accused of theft and fired. The gorgeous young rich couple, she with a perfect sexpot face marked with blotches of out-of- place mascara and lipstick and wearing a very unusual matching outfit with large black white checkers and a furry Chanel bag... and he with greased back hair in a ponytail, aviator sunglasses and an oddly undersized white suit that enhances his large girth, eagerly take in her suggestions with gratitude. They will interview the highly recommended nanny tomorrow. Yes! Plan #2 has worked as well. Success! A great day for Yvonne! She remarks that as well in an email that night. I am happy that she is happy. Or is she? Maybe just satisfied to have made things happen, to have been the Creatrix, played Goddess, brought people together that needed each other? Helped? True, and in such a crude and rough way, childlike, direct and cut to the chase. She sets it up and leaves people helpless. With her age it seems to get more intense, like she needs to make as much happen in as little time as possible to feel seen, appreciated and loved lest she be forgotten. I am learning every day what I do NOT want to behave like and what I DO want to leave in my wake.
A 44-hour Mental/Emotional/Spiritual Health Break?
After three days and a 15 hour dose, I announce I will take the day “off” and stay at my mountain country refuge on top of a hill overlooking the only “nature reserve” in Tangier. Excited for my day of free flow and a planned “possible cob job” talk with the owner of the property, who has pinned me down as her long-awaited Saviour, clearly part of Allah’s plan, I move slowly. I have been gone every day thus far, at least from 11 to 6, and today I will get my money’s worth.
Pleased with the apparent success of her primary motive and plan for this beach adventure, and feeling a bit restless with no attention on her though she has poor Yacine hooked to her side... Yvonne’s second plan starts to take form as she spots a very gorgeous young Bangladeshi jet-set looking couple that has appeared on the same veranda with their two minute daughters dressed to kill in bright coloured satin bouffant dresses with little mini jackets, colourful tights and patent leather dress shoes. She has now spotted her next prey and the afternoon excitement will continue. How can she feel important and needed and in control with these new strangers? What essential service that only she can provide for them can she pull out of this encounter? Aha!!!! Her little overactive brain has come up with a need to satisfy: a Moroccan nanny!!!! After an initial uninvited entry into their private family moment she has learned that they have just moved here and are renting Yves St. Laurent’s house in the Kasbah. She senses their wealth, innocence to Morocco, new parent chaos and immediately tells them that what they need is a Moroccan nanny and that she has just the person....her Senegalese friend Isabelle, who Taoufik has just accused of theft and fired. The gorgeous young rich couple, she with a perfect sexpot face marked with blotches of out-of- place mascara and lipstick and wearing a very unusual matching outfit with large black white checkers and a furry Chanel bag... and he with greased back hair in a ponytail, aviator sunglasses and an oddly undersized white suit that enhances his large girth, eagerly take in her suggestions with gratitude. They will interview the highly recommended nanny tomorrow. Yes! Plan #2 has worked as well. Success! A great day for Yvonne! She remarks that as well in an email that night. I am happy that she is happy. Or is she? Maybe just satisfied to have made things happen, to have been the Creatrix, played Goddess, brought people together that needed each other? Helped? True, and in such a crude and rough way, childlike, direct and cut to the chase. She sets it up and leaves people helpless. With her age it seems to get more intense, like she needs to make as much happen in as little time as possible to feel seen, appreciated and loved lest she be forgotten. I am learning every day what I do NOT want to behave like and what I DO want to leave in my wake.
A 44-hour Mental/Emotional/Spiritual Health Break?
After three days and a 15 hour dose, I announce I will take the day “off” and stay at my mountain country refuge on top of a hill overlooking the only “nature reserve” in Tangier. Excited for my day of free flow and a planned “possible cob job” talk with the owner of the property, who has pinned me down as her long-awaited Saviour, clearly part of Allah’s plan, I move slowly. I have been gone every day thus far, at least from 11 to 6, and today I will get my money’s worth.
One thing that is always a surprising environmental change when travelling in
a Muslim country I imagine is the 5 daily Prayer calls from the Mosque towers
that each merge with the others on the airwaves to create this cacophony of
male Arab voices chanting. I have of course no idea what they are saying but
I regard it as a reminder to stop and be with Spirit...5 times a day. It’s a pretty
cool way of staying connected to your Higher Power as a whole country, but
honestly I have not seen anyone stop and run to their prayer rugs yet here.
One major frustration I am feeling here is my inability to communicate in the local idiom. It gets in the way of humorous icebreakers, connecting meaningfully, learning about the culture and lifestyle, picking up skills, recipes, different ways of doing things and their reasons, and basically sharing. That is why language learning has been one of my most important and fun pastimes. I did study Arabic at Cal for a few quarters and enjoyed the new alphabet and right to left writing and of course excelled in my class....but then, no chance to use it live. And no Arab boyfriend. A Turk, yes, but Turkish is a whole different animal, despite average Americans’ thinking otherwise. Turkish is quite beautiful, a Middle Eastern Italian. Fluid, gentle, soft. Each language makes me feel different. I feel fortunate to have acquired ease in language learning. It’s a rare gene and when I meet another such-talented Soul, the closeness is immediate. To be able to flow in and out of multiple languages with someone is very intimacy-deepening. There was one particular man in my past, Brent Wexler, with whom I could do that. From French to Spanish to Italian to English, our
relationship danced and the sensual/sexual attraction danced as well. Our connection was very family-like, as I had grown up in a multilingual home and Brent felt like home to me.
Make that 3 days.....
My comfort on this isolated hilltop with a forest green view is tremendous, to the point that apart from food needs, I have no need to descend for now. Finally, I have the mental focus to write about it. It is a small but very full piece of land with 15 fruit trees: pomegranate, orange, lemon, passion fruit, cherimoya, olive are the ones I recognise in the winter. It is a non- developable site but then so is this whole area of houses. I guess the inspectors don’t leave their offices much because Amina, the owner, has two houses on it and is re-building a small studio in the corner of the lot. She loves earthen construction (how appropriate!) and last year had some French couple build her a “cob” studio that fell in the first rain. What do you know...the roof was cob too!!! A deep Marrakesh red clay soil was imported to the site and hand-made into large blocks with straw, dried, and from what I can conclude seeing remainders of wall... piled on top of each other with no mortar. But to top it off, literally, they laid the blocks on a bamboo-reinforced
One major frustration I am feeling here is my inability to communicate in the local idiom. It gets in the way of humorous icebreakers, connecting meaningfully, learning about the culture and lifestyle, picking up skills, recipes, different ways of doing things and their reasons, and basically sharing. That is why language learning has been one of my most important and fun pastimes. I did study Arabic at Cal for a few quarters and enjoyed the new alphabet and right to left writing and of course excelled in my class....but then, no chance to use it live. And no Arab boyfriend. A Turk, yes, but Turkish is a whole different animal, despite average Americans’ thinking otherwise. Turkish is quite beautiful, a Middle Eastern Italian. Fluid, gentle, soft. Each language makes me feel different. I feel fortunate to have acquired ease in language learning. It’s a rare gene and when I meet another such-talented Soul, the closeness is immediate. To be able to flow in and out of multiple languages with someone is very intimacy-deepening. There was one particular man in my past, Brent Wexler, with whom I could do that. From French to Spanish to Italian to English, our
relationship danced and the sensual/sexual attraction danced as well. Our connection was very family-like, as I had grown up in a multilingual home and Brent felt like home to me.
Make that 3 days.....
My comfort on this isolated hilltop with a forest green view is tremendous, to the point that apart from food needs, I have no need to descend for now. Finally, I have the mental focus to write about it. It is a small but very full piece of land with 15 fruit trees: pomegranate, orange, lemon, passion fruit, cherimoya, olive are the ones I recognise in the winter. It is a non- developable site but then so is this whole area of houses. I guess the inspectors don’t leave their offices much because Amina, the owner, has two houses on it and is re-building a small studio in the corner of the lot. She loves earthen construction (how appropriate!) and last year had some French couple build her a “cob” studio that fell in the first rain. What do you know...the roof was cob too!!! A deep Marrakesh red clay soil was imported to the site and hand-made into large blocks with straw, dried, and from what I can conclude seeing remainders of wall... piled on top of each other with no mortar. But to top it off, literally, they laid the blocks on a bamboo-reinforced
lattice as the roofing material. Tangier has Santa Cruz weather and seasons,
it is not the desert. Hellooooo!
Amina’s dark-skinned 48-year old friendly brother-in-law Zakaria and his young bright-eyed, smiling, robust Fez-born spouse Touria, 33 are hungry to produce a baby. She spends her days in the kitchen happily making food while he watches and assists Hussein, the mason. They are the caretakers and the AirBnB hosts of the property. He speaks a basic Spanish and an even more basic French, and she understands French. He explains to me how they are going to rebuild the collapsed structure but not with the earth this time. They will use standard bricks with mortar and then plaster with the red clay to create a small rectangular habitation with concrete blocks for columns. The only attractive parts in my opinion are that they are building without a level so the red-brick walls are wavy and there is a tree growing in the middle of it. Hussein is the 55-year old short, strong and shy devout Muslim mason single- handedly building the brick wall while Zakaria wheelbarrows the bricks over every half hour and looks on hoping to learn by watching. Hussein is clearly experienced from the way he spreads the exact right amount of mortar on each brick the first time, then taps them knowingly into place, and, with his trowel, scores the bricks with just 3 or 4 taps in the right spots while turning them, to create a continuous crack which breaks them just as planned. He is either shy to talk to me or doesn’t like my comments about earthen construction being better, stronger, and more beautiful...but he rarely looks up when I talk. He is close to my age and a colleague I would say...once again I wish I had the language under my belt.
Hussein works 8+ hours a day, clearly likes it, stops for a 15 minute lunch break, a la Mexican worker in California, but only gets paid $25 a day. I am calculating what that means I can ask for as project manager/cob contractor...I was thinking half of my usual fee would be appropriate but if he, an experienced mason, is making $3 and hour....where does that leave me? Perhaps at $10 an hour? But Amina the psychologist apparently makes $40 a session and works full time. I need to do a little more research before our business meeting tomorrow.
Eating Styles
Touria has invited her 65-year old toothless and adorable mother Rachma from Fez for a few days. Rachma has borne and raised 9 children and is now solo in the world and seems very pleased and self-sufficient with her new freedom. We have something in common. Her smattering of French from her schooldays allows us to communicate meaningfully beyond smiles and sign language. Her teeth fell out when she was 27 as a result of some country local medicine she put on her gums, if I understood correctly. Wow. Rachma’s facial skin is utterly smooth and silky with barely a significant wrinkle. She exudes peace, love and serenity. For a feisty Sagittarius that is quite an
Amina’s dark-skinned 48-year old friendly brother-in-law Zakaria and his young bright-eyed, smiling, robust Fez-born spouse Touria, 33 are hungry to produce a baby. She spends her days in the kitchen happily making food while he watches and assists Hussein, the mason. They are the caretakers and the AirBnB hosts of the property. He speaks a basic Spanish and an even more basic French, and she understands French. He explains to me how they are going to rebuild the collapsed structure but not with the earth this time. They will use standard bricks with mortar and then plaster with the red clay to create a small rectangular habitation with concrete blocks for columns. The only attractive parts in my opinion are that they are building without a level so the red-brick walls are wavy and there is a tree growing in the middle of it. Hussein is the 55-year old short, strong and shy devout Muslim mason single- handedly building the brick wall while Zakaria wheelbarrows the bricks over every half hour and looks on hoping to learn by watching. Hussein is clearly experienced from the way he spreads the exact right amount of mortar on each brick the first time, then taps them knowingly into place, and, with his trowel, scores the bricks with just 3 or 4 taps in the right spots while turning them, to create a continuous crack which breaks them just as planned. He is either shy to talk to me or doesn’t like my comments about earthen construction being better, stronger, and more beautiful...but he rarely looks up when I talk. He is close to my age and a colleague I would say...once again I wish I had the language under my belt.
Hussein works 8+ hours a day, clearly likes it, stops for a 15 minute lunch break, a la Mexican worker in California, but only gets paid $25 a day. I am calculating what that means I can ask for as project manager/cob contractor...I was thinking half of my usual fee would be appropriate but if he, an experienced mason, is making $3 and hour....where does that leave me? Perhaps at $10 an hour? But Amina the psychologist apparently makes $40 a session and works full time. I need to do a little more research before our business meeting tomorrow.
Eating Styles
Touria has invited her 65-year old toothless and adorable mother Rachma from Fez for a few days. Rachma has borne and raised 9 children and is now solo in the world and seems very pleased and self-sufficient with her new freedom. We have something in common. Her smattering of French from her schooldays allows us to communicate meaningfully beyond smiles and sign language. Her teeth fell out when she was 27 as a result of some country local medicine she put on her gums, if I understood correctly. Wow. Rachma’s facial skin is utterly smooth and silky with barely a significant wrinkle. She exudes peace, love and serenity. For a feisty Sagittarius that is quite an
accomplishment. She spends her visit walking, collecting plants for the
kitchen, helping and being so pleasant with everyone. Like a visiting angel,
she creates an ambiance of bliss and calm.
Today is the day that they have invited me for the Friday Couscous Ritual. Friday is the Holy Day of the week for Muslims. People take off work and go to the Mosque in the morning and then all come together for a big meal. After 4pm stores open up again. Growing up with a Moroccan-bred mother I ate many many couscous’ in my childhood but have never actually eaten a “real” Moroccan couscous in Morocco made by lay people. I was excited to watch Touria, her sister Khadija and her mother all hustle around in the kitchen tending to different parts of the meal before I left to meet with my mother. Touria washed and massaged the grain with oil, her sister browned the chicken, Rachma cut vegetables and harvested herbs. I was excited to see what the result would look like and taste with regard to my mother’s style.
The Angels are Singing
Before the couscous, I have a mission to accomplish. I have decided that I am going to sit my mother down for a minimum of one hour and make one last solid attempt to create an NVC (non- violent communication) ambiance and communicate successfully. If she resists, I’m done and gone. I have something she wants very badly and I will use that as my leverage. We have been invited to her best friend of 60+ years’ gorgeous property for a celebratory couscous luncheon on Saturday, apparently in my honor, and if things are not opened up and cleared out between us, one of us will not be there. In the past I would just ditch. However I have travelled 3500 miles to visit her and don’t know when the next time will be so I just stuff the ego and call her with utter regality and, with no emotions, Capricorn-style, state that if she wants her money she will need to sit with me for an hour and listen to what I have to share without interrupting at all until I am done. To my surprise, she simply answers: “OK.” I am speechless. I was ready for some kind of raspy emotional deafening reaction, but no. Just “OK.” I am done. Elated but trying to continue the regal energy so keeping a lid on it.
I complete my morning practice which consists, ideally, of a one-hour Vipassana-style meditation, half an hour of yoga and a run. I dig deep into my best intentions of peace, love and deep honesty. At 11:30am on the dot I show up at her little eclectic ryad, full of family memories and her favourite cartoons, businesses and photos plastered all over the walls. She is in bed watching the French terrorist report on TV. Within a short moment I surrender to sitting on a stool while she stays lying down, because her back hurts, etc. I plunge into a love-filled space within, close my eyes, take a deep breath and align with the Divine as I begin to share my feelings calmly. She also closes her eyes to be able to “listen” better and/or surrender her ego as well. I am quite amazed at the kind manner of my words. Dealing with my mother for the
Today is the day that they have invited me for the Friday Couscous Ritual. Friday is the Holy Day of the week for Muslims. People take off work and go to the Mosque in the morning and then all come together for a big meal. After 4pm stores open up again. Growing up with a Moroccan-bred mother I ate many many couscous’ in my childhood but have never actually eaten a “real” Moroccan couscous in Morocco made by lay people. I was excited to watch Touria, her sister Khadija and her mother all hustle around in the kitchen tending to different parts of the meal before I left to meet with my mother. Touria washed and massaged the grain with oil, her sister browned the chicken, Rachma cut vegetables and harvested herbs. I was excited to see what the result would look like and taste with regard to my mother’s style.
The Angels are Singing
Before the couscous, I have a mission to accomplish. I have decided that I am going to sit my mother down for a minimum of one hour and make one last solid attempt to create an NVC (non- violent communication) ambiance and communicate successfully. If she resists, I’m done and gone. I have something she wants very badly and I will use that as my leverage. We have been invited to her best friend of 60+ years’ gorgeous property for a celebratory couscous luncheon on Saturday, apparently in my honor, and if things are not opened up and cleared out between us, one of us will not be there. In the past I would just ditch. However I have travelled 3500 miles to visit her and don’t know when the next time will be so I just stuff the ego and call her with utter regality and, with no emotions, Capricorn-style, state that if she wants her money she will need to sit with me for an hour and listen to what I have to share without interrupting at all until I am done. To my surprise, she simply answers: “OK.” I am speechless. I was ready for some kind of raspy emotional deafening reaction, but no. Just “OK.” I am done. Elated but trying to continue the regal energy so keeping a lid on it.
I complete my morning practice which consists, ideally, of a one-hour Vipassana-style meditation, half an hour of yoga and a run. I dig deep into my best intentions of peace, love and deep honesty. At 11:30am on the dot I show up at her little eclectic ryad, full of family memories and her favourite cartoons, businesses and photos plastered all over the walls. She is in bed watching the French terrorist report on TV. Within a short moment I surrender to sitting on a stool while she stays lying down, because her back hurts, etc. I plunge into a love-filled space within, close my eyes, take a deep breath and align with the Divine as I begin to share my feelings calmly. She also closes her eyes to be able to “listen” better and/or surrender her ego as well. I am quite amazed at the kind manner of my words. Dealing with my mother for the
last 35 years has never been a calm affair for anyone anywhere, and an
absolute nightmare for my siblings and I. I have nothing to lose. I have the
spiritual know-how. Comparing myself as mother to her by talking about my
imperfect relationship with my boys, is a new entry point. Showing the
similarities I have inherited in my dynamic with my children opens her ears up
wider and makes my monologue more palpable. Sharing what I have done to
improve myself is an indirect way of giving her pointers which is also more
acceptable. She is scrunching her eyes now as if to better understand, to
bring it on home, to, maybe this time, get it for more than this moment. Maybe
this time it will stick and make a difference?
After thirty minutes I feel complete. Amazing. It is the first time she has not uttered a reactive word for any period of time longer than a few moments. At one point, I use the word “sleeping” to talk about waking up from unconscious behaviour and she immediately jumps defensively spouting “I’m NOT sleeping!”. Those were in effect the only words spoken. I feel heard. I feel satisfied. She has nothing to say, except: “We are very much the same. You said everything I was feeling in my heart. I love you very much. Come here and hug me.” With my head on her large 75-year old breasts, remembering her familiar cologne smell, she begins to weep apologetically. We both reiterated our love for each other, for the first time, in person. This is a rare moment. There have been a few others, but this one feels bigger. The feeling is changed between us. More respect, more care, more friendliness. I wonder for how long...
Back to Boubana for the Couscous
One characteristic of my family, at least from my Mom’s side, is quick shifts in emotions based on short moments of demonstrative heartful closeness. It’s not healthy because it creates patterns of ups and downs that, after years of repetition, cause ingrained dysfunctional relationships and mental affliction. It has affected all my relationships outside of my family of origin including with myself. It is what the Buddha aimed to heal in humanity in order to help people have lives based on sustainable inner peace. With that awareness, I tried to not get too excited about this culminating moment but did decide to invite my Mother to the couscous to take advantage of the present wave.
My mother arrived literally 10 minutes after I invited her. She must have been expecting it on some level. I was at peace for the moment, and unworried about any disturbances because I knew she was on a “good” wave. I let go. I felt that Rachma’s peaceful vibe would wash off on Yvonne and nullify her negativities like being in the presence of a saintly evolved being quiets the Soul and brings sudden clarity. They hit it off right away on some visceral level and I was not surprised to find later that they were both Sagitarrius’. Ha.
After thirty minutes I feel complete. Amazing. It is the first time she has not uttered a reactive word for any period of time longer than a few moments. At one point, I use the word “sleeping” to talk about waking up from unconscious behaviour and she immediately jumps defensively spouting “I’m NOT sleeping!”. Those were in effect the only words spoken. I feel heard. I feel satisfied. She has nothing to say, except: “We are very much the same. You said everything I was feeling in my heart. I love you very much. Come here and hug me.” With my head on her large 75-year old breasts, remembering her familiar cologne smell, she begins to weep apologetically. We both reiterated our love for each other, for the first time, in person. This is a rare moment. There have been a few others, but this one feels bigger. The feeling is changed between us. More respect, more care, more friendliness. I wonder for how long...
Back to Boubana for the Couscous
One characteristic of my family, at least from my Mom’s side, is quick shifts in emotions based on short moments of demonstrative heartful closeness. It’s not healthy because it creates patterns of ups and downs that, after years of repetition, cause ingrained dysfunctional relationships and mental affliction. It has affected all my relationships outside of my family of origin including with myself. It is what the Buddha aimed to heal in humanity in order to help people have lives based on sustainable inner peace. With that awareness, I tried to not get too excited about this culminating moment but did decide to invite my Mother to the couscous to take advantage of the present wave.
My mother arrived literally 10 minutes after I invited her. She must have been expecting it on some level. I was at peace for the moment, and unworried about any disturbances because I knew she was on a “good” wave. I let go. I felt that Rachma’s peaceful vibe would wash off on Yvonne and nullify her negativities like being in the presence of a saintly evolved being quiets the Soul and brings sudden clarity. They hit it off right away on some visceral level and I was not surprised to find later that they were both Sagitarrius’. Ha.
The couscous arrived in a mound on a large round serving platter. It was
covered by large steamed chunks of cabbage, whole baby zucchinis and
turnips, chunks of carrot, chickpeas and chicken parts all sitting precariously
on the sloping mound of saffron-infused semolina grains, one of the main
sources of cooked carbohydrates in the Moroccan diet. I had not eaten since
breakfast to fully enjoy the meal we had been looking forward to sharing. The
cultural clash began as I awaited plates and silverware and expected a
moment of Grace before savouring the result of the morning’s kitchen activity.
Nothing. Within seconds Rachma, with her washed bare hands, plunged in
from her side. Fishing for a large steamed chunk of cabbage, she tore into it
with her gums. “Are we all eating with our hands?” I was concerned about
hygiene and technique. How would one get the slippery rolling grains from
plate to mouth in significant cohesive amounts to even taste it, let alone enjoy
the unity of vegetables, chicken and couscous in one bite? And what about
the juices? I didn’t even notice any recognizable broth that the “stew” would
be bathing, per my own recipe. There was a separate bowl of chicken broth to
be poured over “our” section of the dish.
Rachma continued avidly rolling up balls of couscous with speed and shooting them into her mouth before they fell apart. The debris that did not make into her mouth was shaken off of her hands into the communal dish. Seriously? I mean I’ll take the shared dish concept, each of us eating from our own side as cleanly as possible, but this last piece was a turn off. Even my Mom was speechless. I was torn between my excitement to be participating in authentic traditional ways and not wanting to eat her leftovers. To my relief, Touria brought out small dishes and even silverware and noone else used their hands. And Yvonne even made a polite comment to Rachma, with a chuckle for good measure (she actually made an effort to be polite), suggesting she stay in her section. They liked each other I could tell, and no offense was taken. Sag’s are rarely offended anyway.
The couscous was good, yes, but didn’t have much spice to it, much flavour. Mine was much more flavorful, probably because I cooked the veggies with almonds and raisins and chicken in the broth for half an hour. I chalked this one up more to a cultural social experience than a culinary delight.
Couscous #2...already
The next day I had my second local couscous, prepared by Desiree’s cook of 20 plus years, Aisha. The ambiance was Euro-Moroccan. The table was set and when the couscous was ready it arrived in the same manner. On one main communal serving platter the semolina grains were mounded, with the veggies and chicken parts plastered to the sides. However this presentation included a topping of thin caramelized onion rings with sautéed blanched almonds. After oohing and ahhing the couscous platter was passed around to the new guests first. Apparently it was in
Rachma continued avidly rolling up balls of couscous with speed and shooting them into her mouth before they fell apart. The debris that did not make into her mouth was shaken off of her hands into the communal dish. Seriously? I mean I’ll take the shared dish concept, each of us eating from our own side as cleanly as possible, but this last piece was a turn off. Even my Mom was speechless. I was torn between my excitement to be participating in authentic traditional ways and not wanting to eat her leftovers. To my relief, Touria brought out small dishes and even silverware and noone else used their hands. And Yvonne even made a polite comment to Rachma, with a chuckle for good measure (she actually made an effort to be polite), suggesting she stay in her section. They liked each other I could tell, and no offense was taken. Sag’s are rarely offended anyway.
The couscous was good, yes, but didn’t have much spice to it, much flavour. Mine was much more flavorful, probably because I cooked the veggies with almonds and raisins and chicken in the broth for half an hour. I chalked this one up more to a cultural social experience than a culinary delight.
Couscous #2...already
The next day I had my second local couscous, prepared by Desiree’s cook of 20 plus years, Aisha. The ambiance was Euro-Moroccan. The table was set and when the couscous was ready it arrived in the same manner. On one main communal serving platter the semolina grains were mounded, with the veggies and chicken parts plastered to the sides. However this presentation included a topping of thin caramelized onion rings with sautéed blanched almonds. After oohing and ahhing the couscous platter was passed around to the new guests first. Apparently it was in
my honor. I served myself a sizeable portion, there was plenty to go around. I
had prepared my appetite.
Instantly, upon the first bite I was pleased to find that the taste of this couscous matched its superior appearance. The topping of onion and almonds, I learned, was a specific style. It added a nice touch to the rest. It was clearly prepared with more detail. Everyone was delighted. In fact the delightful taste caused excessive portions to be eaten, all with the knowing that the “chai bnaynay” or mint tea would follow, aiding in the digestive process.
There was much appreciation all around, however the culinary chef remained anonymous in the kitchen throughout the whole meal. I knew how much work this took, for it was no ordinary couscous. In Morocco the grains are washed, oiled, massaged and steamed for hours so that they are not sticky. Each part was prepared independently. I made sure to go in and show my gratitude. I know how much I appreciate having my kitchen hours recognized with compliments. Aisha, the Moroccan cook, in her scarf and layers of coverings, nodded humbly as I raved about the couscous. It was really delicious. It was to be my last Moroccan couscous this time around.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in Desiree’s parlour room, where we gathered around the ritual way over-sweetened mint/green tea digestif. A roaring fireplace created ambiance and some random heat waves. Desiree’s family has been one of the mainstays of the British/American expat community in Tangier since the mid 20th century, when the UK, Spain and France all took their turns colonizing Morocco. I remember her Mom Ellen, a very flamboyant, beautiful, stylish, and always positive energy on their precious piece of property overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. Her parents had settled in Tangier to raise their six children and became the beginning of an American cultural presence. The five sisters and one brother now each live in different countries spread throughout the world, with only Desiree having remained in the original family house. While property prices have skyrocketed here, she holds onto the memory-filled homestead that teeters on the edge of “the old mountain” making up the wild Atlantic coastal end of Tangier. I am sure many prospectors have their eyes on one of the few remaining original homes in the most sought- after spot of the “mountain”.
Acupuncture Adventure
My mother surprised me by doing the research to find the lone acupuncture practitioner of Tangier and setting up an appointment for herself. Fouad Naji studied in Paris and London and is actually a full-fledged MD as well. He decided to return to his homeland to take it easy and focus now on a niche field, introducing acupuncture medicine to this part of the world. One advantage of living in the “cheaper” countries of the world, for “Westerners”,
Instantly, upon the first bite I was pleased to find that the taste of this couscous matched its superior appearance. The topping of onion and almonds, I learned, was a specific style. It added a nice touch to the rest. It was clearly prepared with more detail. Everyone was delighted. In fact the delightful taste caused excessive portions to be eaten, all with the knowing that the “chai bnaynay” or mint tea would follow, aiding in the digestive process.
There was much appreciation all around, however the culinary chef remained anonymous in the kitchen throughout the whole meal. I knew how much work this took, for it was no ordinary couscous. In Morocco the grains are washed, oiled, massaged and steamed for hours so that they are not sticky. Each part was prepared independently. I made sure to go in and show my gratitude. I know how much I appreciate having my kitchen hours recognized with compliments. Aisha, the Moroccan cook, in her scarf and layers of coverings, nodded humbly as I raved about the couscous. It was really delicious. It was to be my last Moroccan couscous this time around.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in Desiree’s parlour room, where we gathered around the ritual way over-sweetened mint/green tea digestif. A roaring fireplace created ambiance and some random heat waves. Desiree’s family has been one of the mainstays of the British/American expat community in Tangier since the mid 20th century, when the UK, Spain and France all took their turns colonizing Morocco. I remember her Mom Ellen, a very flamboyant, beautiful, stylish, and always positive energy on their precious piece of property overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. Her parents had settled in Tangier to raise their six children and became the beginning of an American cultural presence. The five sisters and one brother now each live in different countries spread throughout the world, with only Desiree having remained in the original family house. While property prices have skyrocketed here, she holds onto the memory-filled homestead that teeters on the edge of “the old mountain” making up the wild Atlantic coastal end of Tangier. I am sure many prospectors have their eyes on one of the few remaining original homes in the most sought- after spot of the “mountain”.
Acupuncture Adventure
My mother surprised me by doing the research to find the lone acupuncture practitioner of Tangier and setting up an appointment for herself. Fouad Naji studied in Paris and London and is actually a full-fledged MD as well. He decided to return to his homeland to take it easy and focus now on a niche field, introducing acupuncture medicine to this part of the world. One advantage of living in the “cheaper” countries of the world, for “Westerners”,
is the very affordable health care. His visits cost $25 for an hour session and
he even offers “cosmetic” acupuncture in a series of ten visits in which he
covers the wrinkle-prone areas of one’s face and neck with many small 2-inch
needles, which apparently activates the production of collagen filling in the
wrinkles and “removing” them.
I accompanied my mother and as I’ve already expounded ad nauseum, wherever she goes, she makes her presence known in a dramatic way. As soon as we walk into the office, she begins to disrobe, walk around, befriend the receptionist, talk loudly asking personal questions and making random comments. She then imposes herself on the the dignified 3-generation triad of village Berber women who walk in after us. The “grandma” was probably my mother’s age, but to her she was an “old” lady. They both, my mother and her, walked with a cane. It’s funny how as we age we start comparing ourselves to others in youthfulness and health, hoping to be ahead. I thought it was pretty cool that these country ladies had heard of acupuncture and chosen it for their family matriarch’s issues.
There is not much I can do when in Yvonne’s presence beyond working to stay calm, cool and collect. Stay centered and hold on to my chi. Here it is between her and the new innocent “victim”, the acupuncture/doctor Fouad. I watch the interview and wonder how long until her “best behaviour” slips and he starts noticing the dysfunctions. Probably about 5 minutes. She has
already repeated herself a few times talking about her father who studied dentistry in Bordeaux when she hears Fouad mention his studies there. Then going on about her parents settling in Tangier. He is clearly interested which inspires her to go on. I am looking at the time.
What am I feeling? My mother has gotten smaller, sloppier in her appearance, helpless in self- care, teeth missing, hearing and eyesight going, and most of all, memory and aggressive ADD symptoms worsening. She is still a friggin’ huge pain in the ass in general for everyone that is with her for more than a few minutes. Blurting things out, interrupting, screaming, manipulating, controlling, lying and creating conflict. Goddess help me that those qualities end with her. May the long years of meditation, yoga, personal growth and introspection show themselves in this second half of my life. May all the positive light-filled qualities I see in others continue to grow and blossom in me with each crone year. May I incorporate the position of leader and wise elder in these upcoming years with grace and dignity wherever I am. May this Journey I am taking on all levels be the transition into a successful Cronehood in which I bless and give and support to enhance the environment I am in selflessly. Daily meditation is key for keeping my mind strong, healthy, clear and calm. May I make the time morning and night for my self- preservation practice. May I LOVE myself deeply.
I accompanied my mother and as I’ve already expounded ad nauseum, wherever she goes, she makes her presence known in a dramatic way. As soon as we walk into the office, she begins to disrobe, walk around, befriend the receptionist, talk loudly asking personal questions and making random comments. She then imposes herself on the the dignified 3-generation triad of village Berber women who walk in after us. The “grandma” was probably my mother’s age, but to her she was an “old” lady. They both, my mother and her, walked with a cane. It’s funny how as we age we start comparing ourselves to others in youthfulness and health, hoping to be ahead. I thought it was pretty cool that these country ladies had heard of acupuncture and chosen it for their family matriarch’s issues.
There is not much I can do when in Yvonne’s presence beyond working to stay calm, cool and collect. Stay centered and hold on to my chi. Here it is between her and the new innocent “victim”, the acupuncture/doctor Fouad. I watch the interview and wonder how long until her “best behaviour” slips and he starts noticing the dysfunctions. Probably about 5 minutes. She has
already repeated herself a few times talking about her father who studied dentistry in Bordeaux when she hears Fouad mention his studies there. Then going on about her parents settling in Tangier. He is clearly interested which inspires her to go on. I am looking at the time.
What am I feeling? My mother has gotten smaller, sloppier in her appearance, helpless in self- care, teeth missing, hearing and eyesight going, and most of all, memory and aggressive ADD symptoms worsening. She is still a friggin’ huge pain in the ass in general for everyone that is with her for more than a few minutes. Blurting things out, interrupting, screaming, manipulating, controlling, lying and creating conflict. Goddess help me that those qualities end with her. May the long years of meditation, yoga, personal growth and introspection show themselves in this second half of my life. May all the positive light-filled qualities I see in others continue to grow and blossom in me with each crone year. May I incorporate the position of leader and wise elder in these upcoming years with grace and dignity wherever I am. May this Journey I am taking on all levels be the transition into a successful Cronehood in which I bless and give and support to enhance the environment I am in selflessly. Daily meditation is key for keeping my mind strong, healthy, clear and calm. May I make the time morning and night for my self- preservation practice. May I LOVE myself deeply.
Needless to say, the appointment was stressful for everyone. I felt sorry for
the poor patient trying to relax with her needles in on the other side of the red
curtain from my mother. Immediately, the doctor inserted ten small needles
into her ear. First and foremost, the “reset” point, and then the “shenmen”
point. Both key in dropping you down into your center. Would it even have an
effect on her? She definitely needs the shish kebab skewer-sized needles like
they use in China. With each needle came an “Ow!” accompanied by a
contorted wrinkled single-toothed facial expression. The doc was ultra cool in
dealing with her. Well he is getting paid. When it was time to needle the legs
and back he asked her to disrobe to her undies, which she had forgotten to
put on, so she kept her PJ’s on and he did it that way. There I was, the silent
energy coach, sitting quietly in support and holding space as they say in
California. Each time she appeared to have dropped into the zone, I was
surprised by a comment like: “What is the doctor doing?” and “Claudine are
you still there?” and “Can you get him and tell him I’m done?” I don’t think she
ever dropped, unfortunately. I was envious of her spot, needing a good
treatment myself. I could only hope the repetition would have some effect.
A 4-Wheel Drive Romp in Kif Country
Today I committed to going on an adventure with Desiree, my mom’s best childhood friend and the source of my middle name, her eldest son Georgie, 56, his two adorable dark-featured trilingual boys Ryan, 10, and IAd, 5, and Alex, Dizzy’s other grandchild, who is also 10. We are going to visit Chaouen, the well-loved aesthetically-preserved Berber town in the Rif mountains about 2 hours southeast of Tangier. We take the slow Mediterranean coastal route which winds in and out along the mountainside and spot adorable seaside villages with their trademark blue wooden fishing skiffs nestled into the small horseshoe-shaped enclaves between mountain and ocean.
The road is beautiful, quiet and totally bike-worthy. I had recently considered this route as it looked flatter and less busy on the map. It was perfect. We followed the Oued Lau river from the ocean inland and overlooked one National Geographic-style village made up of just 6 earthen buildings with corrugated metal roofing grouped along the river valley. The houses were recessed from the river and the land was partitioned into endless multicoloured irregularly-shaped fields for cultivation of a variety of crops as detectable from our cliffside viewpoint. A path wound up the mountainside above the village for the livestock and resource-gathering treks, and the setting was truly ideal. Like a little self-sufficient Paradise. I am sure their environs provided most of what they needed to live, such a peaceful feeling.
The road continued, lined with cabbage plantations and other groupings of houses, and every once in a while we came through a bigger centre with its shops and standard “bacals” (corner store) and produce vendors. The highlight of the season were the tangerines and oranges. The local specialty
A 4-Wheel Drive Romp in Kif Country
Today I committed to going on an adventure with Desiree, my mom’s best childhood friend and the source of my middle name, her eldest son Georgie, 56, his two adorable dark-featured trilingual boys Ryan, 10, and IAd, 5, and Alex, Dizzy’s other grandchild, who is also 10. We are going to visit Chaouen, the well-loved aesthetically-preserved Berber town in the Rif mountains about 2 hours southeast of Tangier. We take the slow Mediterranean coastal route which winds in and out along the mountainside and spot adorable seaside villages with their trademark blue wooden fishing skiffs nestled into the small horseshoe-shaped enclaves between mountain and ocean.
The road is beautiful, quiet and totally bike-worthy. I had recently considered this route as it looked flatter and less busy on the map. It was perfect. We followed the Oued Lau river from the ocean inland and overlooked one National Geographic-style village made up of just 6 earthen buildings with corrugated metal roofing grouped along the river valley. The houses were recessed from the river and the land was partitioned into endless multicoloured irregularly-shaped fields for cultivation of a variety of crops as detectable from our cliffside viewpoint. A path wound up the mountainside above the village for the livestock and resource-gathering treks, and the setting was truly ideal. Like a little self-sufficient Paradise. I am sure their environs provided most of what they needed to live, such a peaceful feeling.
The road continued, lined with cabbage plantations and other groupings of houses, and every once in a while we came through a bigger centre with its shops and standard “bacals” (corner store) and produce vendors. The highlight of the season were the tangerines and oranges. The local specialty
of clay pots for tagines and couscous were on display every few kilometres.
The road
rose slowly in elevation, an ideal bike ride, with, eventually, a view of snow- capped mountains. I am surprised at how quiet the rural roads are. Also, there is almost always a gravelly bike path on each side making Morocco quite biker-welcoming.
Our destination today is the outer banks of Chaouen, rural kif country where “cannabis tourism” reigns supreme. This is a first for me. Georgie was born and raised in Tangier, is Harvard- educated, speaks the local dialect, French, Spanish and English fluently, and has just come into a chunk of prime real estate in this region for about $10K. He is an avid hashish smoker and proponent of medical hash oil for cancer and all illnesses. His main mission on this journey is to visit his land and make hash oil. We make a quick food stop in Bab Taza, a crowded lively bustly village, to buy meat, bread and fruit for lunch preparations. The moment I step out I am offered hash. I make a face, stick my tongue out and say “Yuck, no thanks!” Letting them know that not every foreigner comes here for that. As usual it is a male-dominated scene. I am so tired of that. It’s offensive, really. That and the scarf-covered female heads just does not sit well with me. Those scarves do NOT in any way enhance beauty, as Georgie defends, in my opinion. It is the equivalent of “dumbing down” for female beauty.
We head to the home that will host us, bumping along a treacherous rocky road into the midst of kif country. The rhythmical tapping associated with each household is the process by which the hash powder is released from the leaves and drops down into a cloth that catches it below the large canvas that holds the dried plant. Two teen-aged thin and very stoned-looking boys are taking turns whacking the canvas with long wooden sticks. Moroccan top 20 hits keep them distracted from the monotony. Being stoned helps. Out from the main house come several twenty-something lively young women, clothed in the traditional Berber red and white striped cloth skirt, a long- sleeved top, and heads wrapped in colorful cotton scarves. They are eyeing me and one is very forward and approaches me to hold my hand, with a big friendly smile. Once again language difference is the barrier. We could go far with understanding each others’ ways and lives but we are left with smiles, eye contact, and basic energy exchanges. We leave them with the meat to prepare our lunch, which we will come back for in a few hours, and off we go to see Georgie’s “land”.
Luckily we are in a Mitsubushi 4 wheel mini SUV that just returned from the shop. Almost the whole 3 days were spent at 5 miles an hour on terrible roads in the outback. For the boys it was the norm. For Georgie, it was heaven. For his mother and I, we bore it. I knew this would be my only field trip in Morocco for this time around, and needed some more stories to tell. Off we drove to
rose slowly in elevation, an ideal bike ride, with, eventually, a view of snow- capped mountains. I am surprised at how quiet the rural roads are. Also, there is almost always a gravelly bike path on each side making Morocco quite biker-welcoming.
Our destination today is the outer banks of Chaouen, rural kif country where “cannabis tourism” reigns supreme. This is a first for me. Georgie was born and raised in Tangier, is Harvard- educated, speaks the local dialect, French, Spanish and English fluently, and has just come into a chunk of prime real estate in this region for about $10K. He is an avid hashish smoker and proponent of medical hash oil for cancer and all illnesses. His main mission on this journey is to visit his land and make hash oil. We make a quick food stop in Bab Taza, a crowded lively bustly village, to buy meat, bread and fruit for lunch preparations. The moment I step out I am offered hash. I make a face, stick my tongue out and say “Yuck, no thanks!” Letting them know that not every foreigner comes here for that. As usual it is a male-dominated scene. I am so tired of that. It’s offensive, really. That and the scarf-covered female heads just does not sit well with me. Those scarves do NOT in any way enhance beauty, as Georgie defends, in my opinion. It is the equivalent of “dumbing down” for female beauty.
We head to the home that will host us, bumping along a treacherous rocky road into the midst of kif country. The rhythmical tapping associated with each household is the process by which the hash powder is released from the leaves and drops down into a cloth that catches it below the large canvas that holds the dried plant. Two teen-aged thin and very stoned-looking boys are taking turns whacking the canvas with long wooden sticks. Moroccan top 20 hits keep them distracted from the monotony. Being stoned helps. Out from the main house come several twenty-something lively young women, clothed in the traditional Berber red and white striped cloth skirt, a long- sleeved top, and heads wrapped in colorful cotton scarves. They are eyeing me and one is very forward and approaches me to hold my hand, with a big friendly smile. Once again language difference is the barrier. We could go far with understanding each others’ ways and lives but we are left with smiles, eye contact, and basic energy exchanges. We leave them with the meat to prepare our lunch, which we will come back for in a few hours, and off we go to see Georgie’s “land”.
Luckily we are in a Mitsubushi 4 wheel mini SUV that just returned from the shop. Almost the whole 3 days were spent at 5 miles an hour on terrible roads in the outback. For the boys it was the norm. For Georgie, it was heaven. For his mother and I, we bore it. I knew this would be my only field trip in Morocco for this time around, and needed some more stories to tell. Off we drove to
the upper elevations as Georgie explained all he knew about the politics,
ecology, economy, agriculture and culture of the area. This is his favourite
area of Morocco. We are surrounded by snow-capped mountains that each
have a story or a saint buried at the top. Some are pilgrimage destinations.
The people here grow and live from cannabis. There are also wild medicinal
herbs and wild honey. Orange trees and tangerine trees are in full harvest
mode. There are walking trails everywhere and few vehicles. As we start our
trek to the top of his land, the Mitsubishi drives off to meet us at the bottom, at
Mohammed’s house. We had picked his brother up so he could take the car
while Mohammed, a local landowner and friend, walked the land with us.
Climbing to the top of the ridge, we scan the outline of the land, marked by a random rock here and there and then begin bushwhacking down along the goat trails through the public forest that he would also be able to “use” since his lower land butts up to it. We exit onto a large open expanse of grass with a gorgeous panoramic view of the village below bisected by a winding river. On this land he plans to create a medicinal hash oil retreat centre for cancer and other patients from all over the world. An eco-spiritual village of sorts. It is bound by oak forest and looks towards the sacred mountains of the region, the pilgrimage sites where the saints were buried. After his ritual hashish cigarette with Mohammed, we take off by foot to his place on an easier open trail with the vehicle in sight, once we have exited the forest.
We arrive at his family’s compound, which consists of a few old cob and adobe houses in need of replastering, a multitude of colourful free-ranging chickens and the alpha rooster which mounts a
hen every minute, a cob oven, and an outdoor sitting area facing the lowland view. Three adorable little girls in pink stand in the doorway checking us out and vice versa. Noses running, shoeless, undersized clothes and with healthy pink cheeks...they are the National Geographic pinup models for a special report on the Rif Country tribes of Morocco. Curious to see the inside setup I ask Mohammed if I can go in. The entranceway is short, requiring one to bow to Allah when entering. It is an earthen adobe block building plastered with cold, hard lime. Earthen plasters are warmer, temperature wise, to the touch and colorwise, which is why I prefer them. They are easily repaired and altered. The first room is the kitchen, toasty and lively. The alpha female, a robust busty Berber/Rif matron, with a beautiful kind round face and a continuous giggle, wears the standard striped cloth sarong over her layers. She is making the tea whose leaves she has collected for us. We are spoiled with a round inch-thick one foot diameter Moroccan bread that has just come out of the cob oven. To go with the warm bread, we get fresh-pressed homemade olive oil, a multitude of black, green, purple and yellow olives and cold sardine bodies that have been fried in a delicious spice mixture which veils the fish taste completely. This is teatime, at 6pm. I am not sure how to
Climbing to the top of the ridge, we scan the outline of the land, marked by a random rock here and there and then begin bushwhacking down along the goat trails through the public forest that he would also be able to “use” since his lower land butts up to it. We exit onto a large open expanse of grass with a gorgeous panoramic view of the village below bisected by a winding river. On this land he plans to create a medicinal hash oil retreat centre for cancer and other patients from all over the world. An eco-spiritual village of sorts. It is bound by oak forest and looks towards the sacred mountains of the region, the pilgrimage sites where the saints were buried. After his ritual hashish cigarette with Mohammed, we take off by foot to his place on an easier open trail with the vehicle in sight, once we have exited the forest.
We arrive at his family’s compound, which consists of a few old cob and adobe houses in need of replastering, a multitude of colourful free-ranging chickens and the alpha rooster which mounts a
hen every minute, a cob oven, and an outdoor sitting area facing the lowland view. Three adorable little girls in pink stand in the doorway checking us out and vice versa. Noses running, shoeless, undersized clothes and with healthy pink cheeks...they are the National Geographic pinup models for a special report on the Rif Country tribes of Morocco. Curious to see the inside setup I ask Mohammed if I can go in. The entranceway is short, requiring one to bow to Allah when entering. It is an earthen adobe block building plastered with cold, hard lime. Earthen plasters are warmer, temperature wise, to the touch and colorwise, which is why I prefer them. They are easily repaired and altered. The first room is the kitchen, toasty and lively. The alpha female, a robust busty Berber/Rif matron, with a beautiful kind round face and a continuous giggle, wears the standard striped cloth sarong over her layers. She is making the tea whose leaves she has collected for us. We are spoiled with a round inch-thick one foot diameter Moroccan bread that has just come out of the cob oven. To go with the warm bread, we get fresh-pressed homemade olive oil, a multitude of black, green, purple and yellow olives and cold sardine bodies that have been fried in a delicious spice mixture which veils the fish taste completely. This is teatime, at 6pm. I am not sure how to
gauge the quantity I eat because I could really go far now, but I know there is
a prepared dinner awaiting us, or so they say.
We all offer the family and kids some form of money discreetly, in gratitude for teatime. Clearly they can use it to buy staples they can’t grow or make like sugar for the tea, flour, salt, cooking oil, fish, grains, etc. The code of conduct when one travels in rural areas is to bring the raw ingredients for a meal and have them cook it and everyone eats and shares the food. At the finale of our incredibly challenging off-road rollercoaster ride back, just as we got to the main paved road, the Mitsubishi would not leave the mud. Immediately, a Spanish rock mover and wall builder who had clearly gotten himself out of many a ditch and become an expert, detected a helpless victim. He jumped into the driver’s seat and proceeded to confidently rock and roll the Mitsubishi out of the muddy slump.
Within minutes we were back on the road with only the rear plastic bumper having taken a hit. It was getting dark and I was excited to get to our indigenous sleeping quarters and see what the ladies had cooked up for dinner. I expected a tribal feast with the four hours of prep time! After a few more hours of sittin’ around, with the kids excited about the evening plan of making medicinal hash oil with Dad and Mohammed, in came one of the young scarfed females with a broiling bubbling clay dish of köfte meatballs, ground beef mixed with spices and herbs, accompanied by bread. The liquid that had bubbled off of the meatballs was instantly cooled and sponged up with with torn fingerfuls of homemade cob oven bread. We all shared hungrily and it was very very tasty. My need for salad, veggies, rice to balance out the elements was irrelevant now. Like the natives. I relished the love and time put into every mouthful.
I realized I was fortunate to have this opportunity to quickly be immersed in a rural homestead and let go of all other mental obstacles to being fully present. I had a mattress, my personal pillow, a warm blanket and place to pee. All six of us bedded down on floor mattresses, cozy and warm in Mohammed’s 60 square feet of old lime-plastered thick and short cob walls. There was one small window that opened at the top of one wall and a few built-in shelves that held his hidden egg stash under a sweatshirt, a large bag of homegrown and cured olives of all different sorts and another bag with homegrown and dried figs. These were to be his going-away gifts to us. As I prepared for sleep, it was clear that the boys, Dad and Mohammed were just getting ready for the evening’s activity. With 15 bottles of rubbing alcohol transported from the trunk of the Mitsubishi, a large pile of dried cannabis on stalks and a big pot...the 5-year old Iad led the way imitating Mohammed as they began pulling off the cannabis buds and dropping them into the pot. They were going to make healing hash oil which apparently is a cure-all for every malady including cancer. It would take a good chunk of the night. By morning the long hours and large pile of cannabis were transformed into half an inch of oil in a
We all offer the family and kids some form of money discreetly, in gratitude for teatime. Clearly they can use it to buy staples they can’t grow or make like sugar for the tea, flour, salt, cooking oil, fish, grains, etc. The code of conduct when one travels in rural areas is to bring the raw ingredients for a meal and have them cook it and everyone eats and shares the food. At the finale of our incredibly challenging off-road rollercoaster ride back, just as we got to the main paved road, the Mitsubishi would not leave the mud. Immediately, a Spanish rock mover and wall builder who had clearly gotten himself out of many a ditch and become an expert, detected a helpless victim. He jumped into the driver’s seat and proceeded to confidently rock and roll the Mitsubishi out of the muddy slump.
Within minutes we were back on the road with only the rear plastic bumper having taken a hit. It was getting dark and I was excited to get to our indigenous sleeping quarters and see what the ladies had cooked up for dinner. I expected a tribal feast with the four hours of prep time! After a few more hours of sittin’ around, with the kids excited about the evening plan of making medicinal hash oil with Dad and Mohammed, in came one of the young scarfed females with a broiling bubbling clay dish of köfte meatballs, ground beef mixed with spices and herbs, accompanied by bread. The liquid that had bubbled off of the meatballs was instantly cooled and sponged up with with torn fingerfuls of homemade cob oven bread. We all shared hungrily and it was very very tasty. My need for salad, veggies, rice to balance out the elements was irrelevant now. Like the natives. I relished the love and time put into every mouthful.
I realized I was fortunate to have this opportunity to quickly be immersed in a rural homestead and let go of all other mental obstacles to being fully present. I had a mattress, my personal pillow, a warm blanket and place to pee. All six of us bedded down on floor mattresses, cozy and warm in Mohammed’s 60 square feet of old lime-plastered thick and short cob walls. There was one small window that opened at the top of one wall and a few built-in shelves that held his hidden egg stash under a sweatshirt, a large bag of homegrown and cured olives of all different sorts and another bag with homegrown and dried figs. These were to be his going-away gifts to us. As I prepared for sleep, it was clear that the boys, Dad and Mohammed were just getting ready for the evening’s activity. With 15 bottles of rubbing alcohol transported from the trunk of the Mitsubishi, a large pile of dried cannabis on stalks and a big pot...the 5-year old Iad led the way imitating Mohammed as they began pulling off the cannabis buds and dropping them into the pot. They were going to make healing hash oil which apparently is a cure-all for every malady including cancer. It would take a good chunk of the night. By morning the long hours and large pile of cannabis were transformed into half an inch of oil in a
small 2” diameter jar. A rice-grain sized dose daily would do the trick
according to Georgie. He was a firm believer and self-medicates daily with
hash cigarettes and, when needed, the hash oil. He is a very bright well-
educated American Moroccan who spends all his free time researching the
“truth” behind the news on the planet. Listening to him talk, one hears
confident knowledge and theories about everything. When it comes to the
hash though, I
have enough experience to know an addict when I see one. Lots of talk, little action is one of the biggest signs. At least he was willing to acknowledge that.
Chaouen
Chaouen is the “capital” city of the Rif country. Driving towards Chaouen one sees the old city perched on the side of the mountain, enclosed by old fortress walls. The most striking characteristic that meets the eye upon first sight is the strong sky blue color of many of the buildings. It is a very beloved Moroccan town by the nationals and tourists. As we approached we wound our way towards the entrance of the small blue and white old town. A fortress welcomed us as did the familiar cobblestone walkways. After the initial touristy sales stops, marked by the Berber coloured striped cloths, the straw hats with colored pompoms, art work, leather slippers, colourful pants, and leather bags of all sizes and styles...I made my way up and through the maze of blue and white limestone-washed stairs that passed by endless homes announced by short and unique wooden doors with brass fists or ring knockers in an array of styles and hardware. I decided to get lost and I had fun. I just kept walking and turning and climbing this way, that way, it didn’t matter where, it was a constant discovery and surprise. Like a child I was so happy at the beauty and soulfulness of this well-preserved and well-loved town. The “bacals” or corner stores would suddenly show themselves tucked into a small space between homes. I happened upon a baker pulling fresh warm bread rounds out of his below-ground wood-fired oven, along with all sorts of 1 Dirham pastries. A team of friendly Tangier researchers arrived at the same time and all stopped for a treat. I continued my adventure, excited for more treats. The children I walked by were open, unshy and giggly. Two ten-year old girls eyed my tattoos and rings and showed off their English. There was a self-love in this town among the locals. Even the store vendors were different. They remained quiet, stood back, kept talking to their friends, giving me space to look without interfering. Perhaps the beauty of the place created a peaceful energy. People were happy, unstressed and unworried. I will keep Chaouen in my heart and memory, as many do, as a blessed place on Earth.
Olive Oil: The Real Thing
have enough experience to know an addict when I see one. Lots of talk, little action is one of the biggest signs. At least he was willing to acknowledge that.
Chaouen
Chaouen is the “capital” city of the Rif country. Driving towards Chaouen one sees the old city perched on the side of the mountain, enclosed by old fortress walls. The most striking characteristic that meets the eye upon first sight is the strong sky blue color of many of the buildings. It is a very beloved Moroccan town by the nationals and tourists. As we approached we wound our way towards the entrance of the small blue and white old town. A fortress welcomed us as did the familiar cobblestone walkways. After the initial touristy sales stops, marked by the Berber coloured striped cloths, the straw hats with colored pompoms, art work, leather slippers, colourful pants, and leather bags of all sizes and styles...I made my way up and through the maze of blue and white limestone-washed stairs that passed by endless homes announced by short and unique wooden doors with brass fists or ring knockers in an array of styles and hardware. I decided to get lost and I had fun. I just kept walking and turning and climbing this way, that way, it didn’t matter where, it was a constant discovery and surprise. Like a child I was so happy at the beauty and soulfulness of this well-preserved and well-loved town. The “bacals” or corner stores would suddenly show themselves tucked into a small space between homes. I happened upon a baker pulling fresh warm bread rounds out of his below-ground wood-fired oven, along with all sorts of 1 Dirham pastries. A team of friendly Tangier researchers arrived at the same time and all stopped for a treat. I continued my adventure, excited for more treats. The children I walked by were open, unshy and giggly. Two ten-year old girls eyed my tattoos and rings and showed off their English. There was a self-love in this town among the locals. Even the store vendors were different. They remained quiet, stood back, kept talking to their friends, giving me space to look without interfering. Perhaps the beauty of the place created a peaceful energy. People were happy, unstressed and unworried. I will keep Chaouen in my heart and memory, as many do, as a blessed place on Earth.
Olive Oil: The Real Thing
Little 5-year old Iad was intent on seeing olive oil made the old-fashioned
way. Leaving Chaouen and heading west, we headed into olive country. We
drove by olive groves craning our heads to look for the large carved rock
wheel standing in a big basin that was the sign of a traditional olive press. If it
is active, a mule would be hooked up to the rock wheel and as it walks
around and around all day, the olives are crushed under the weight of the
rock. The olive “tapenade” is then gathered into circular reed baskets which
are piled on top of each other and then pressed down with a huge vice little
by little to squeeze out the oil which drips down the sides and gets channeled
into a gutter which leads to a first chamber where it is then filtered into the
second chamber, which holds the final familiar green-colored product. The
manager was a very smooth olive-skinned tall Moroccan who could have
passed for a Cuban. He wore the Che cap, little dark sunglasses and had a
goatee. He was very friendly and happy. He informed us that all of the olive
oil produced here was spoken for. Wealthy Moroccan families subsidized the
operation so they could reap the benefits of the pure extra virgin naturally-
pressed olives. The manager said he slathered his whole body with it every
day. His skin showed it. With my $2.50 half liter I was prepared to do the
same.
Everyday Islam
I have not been here very long, it’s true, but I am learning and feeling the lifestyle, at least the Moroccan version. I am the only female bike rider in this town I am sure. I ride through the streets looking straight ahead, doin’ my thing. I don’t feel judged, but I am stared at, or the opposite, looked away from. I don’t feel comfortable here, where one has to be covered up to not draw attention. I go running fully clothed and even cover my head with my hood. Everyone looks. I wonder what they are thinking. What a contrast with Cuba, where you can walk practically naked in the streets, showing off your booty, your boobs, making love with your neighbour loudly at any time of the day. Apparently my 75-year old mother’s neighbors are troubled by her male visitors. I hear you cannot be indoors alone with a male who is not your husband or family, let alone have
intimate relations. This clearly does not work for me. And many others I presume. I met this cute Senegalese young male a few days ago, who works up the street from my mother’s place. He came to visit and told me the first time he saw me he knew I was the one and that there was something special between us. He offered me his black and white leather braided bracelet. We had exchanged a 3 second glance through the crack of a doorway he was holding open for his employer who was showing me his house. I did notice him for sure, as I do all black men. But being Morocco, and he is Muslim, I let it go. I wonder what his policy is regarding sleeping with someone who is not your wife. How does the Islamic code get transformed between cultures? Well nonetheless I can see how the Western and Islamic ways are at odds. They
Everyday Islam
I have not been here very long, it’s true, but I am learning and feeling the lifestyle, at least the Moroccan version. I am the only female bike rider in this town I am sure. I ride through the streets looking straight ahead, doin’ my thing. I don’t feel judged, but I am stared at, or the opposite, looked away from. I don’t feel comfortable here, where one has to be covered up to not draw attention. I go running fully clothed and even cover my head with my hood. Everyone looks. I wonder what they are thinking. What a contrast with Cuba, where you can walk practically naked in the streets, showing off your booty, your boobs, making love with your neighbour loudly at any time of the day. Apparently my 75-year old mother’s neighbors are troubled by her male visitors. I hear you cannot be indoors alone with a male who is not your husband or family, let alone have
intimate relations. This clearly does not work for me. And many others I presume. I met this cute Senegalese young male a few days ago, who works up the street from my mother’s place. He came to visit and told me the first time he saw me he knew I was the one and that there was something special between us. He offered me his black and white leather braided bracelet. We had exchanged a 3 second glance through the crack of a doorway he was holding open for his employer who was showing me his house. I did notice him for sure, as I do all black men. But being Morocco, and he is Muslim, I let it go. I wonder what his policy is regarding sleeping with someone who is not your wife. How does the Islamic code get transformed between cultures? Well nonetheless I can see how the Western and Islamic ways are at odds. They
threaten each other. They scare each other. They turn each other off. They
don’t understand each other. In brief, they cannot co-habitate integratively,
but rather side by side, and with tension.
My Mother My Self
I chose to initiate my three-year journey with an extended stay with my mother, Yvonne, for a reason. I landed in Spain because it was the closest I could get to Morocco, her residence, using the minimum amount of frequent flyer miles. Seeing my mother after three plus years and spending time with the hardest person I know to spend time with, successfully, is my goal. Healing our rift by changing the only person I can change, myself, is the prize. Creatively maneuvering a workable path between two fiery egos that have solidified in their reactive patterns over half a century...is, as my son Viva calls it, no less than “the great work”. Distance and lack of contact have supported the status quo, like they do in most families when the work is the last thing one wants to deal with. Still, I know enough from my Santa Cruz background to know that the biggest pain in the ass in your life is always your greatest teacher. The person you avoid whose presence and voice incite a more rapid heartbeat and who triggers you into an immature reactive shrew (for women) and tyrant (for men) is your mentor. Just don’t tell them, rather let it be a secret plan between you and God. She gives you the work and you accept it graciously, and when you know you have cleared the hurdle a few times, you say: “Waddaya got for me now?...Come on....bring it on!” The Spiritual Warrior is ready for the next “guru”.
From living a few miles away in an AirBnB room rental for the first 9 days, to accepting to continue my stay for a few more days with the Great Teacher, cautiously, in a tent, on her blue lime plastered square terrace overlooking Tangier...here I am now sleeping in a bed 15 feet away from her wall-shaking snores for the 11th night in a row . This is the closest quarters we have simultaneously inhabited for more than 2 days that I can remember, if ever. Since arriving, I have been ready to give up and leave every few days and yet something higher and bigger is pulling me along, holding my hand, and whispering from behind: “Not time yet. Not time yet.” From feeling hopeless in breaking through her well-entrenched thick-walled bubble to make any kind of sensible connection, I am now not allowing anything dysfunctional between us to pass unaddressed. I have succeeded through Divine intervention filling me with Love, to show my determination and stay the course. As a result, I have pierced the bubble and the hole gets bigger each time I sit her down to “talk”. Luckily she is willing to talk each time, and seems to want it, the work, but it is nonetheless all me pulling teeth, and there aren’t too many left to pull. I am proactively using my NVC skills to dance with her steps forward and backward, side to side. My lesson, always the same one: kindness, patience, compassion. For the first time in my life there is change in the air because there was a sliver of mutual willingness which, with Divine support, has grown
My Mother My Self
I chose to initiate my three-year journey with an extended stay with my mother, Yvonne, for a reason. I landed in Spain because it was the closest I could get to Morocco, her residence, using the minimum amount of frequent flyer miles. Seeing my mother after three plus years and spending time with the hardest person I know to spend time with, successfully, is my goal. Healing our rift by changing the only person I can change, myself, is the prize. Creatively maneuvering a workable path between two fiery egos that have solidified in their reactive patterns over half a century...is, as my son Viva calls it, no less than “the great work”. Distance and lack of contact have supported the status quo, like they do in most families when the work is the last thing one wants to deal with. Still, I know enough from my Santa Cruz background to know that the biggest pain in the ass in your life is always your greatest teacher. The person you avoid whose presence and voice incite a more rapid heartbeat and who triggers you into an immature reactive shrew (for women) and tyrant (for men) is your mentor. Just don’t tell them, rather let it be a secret plan between you and God. She gives you the work and you accept it graciously, and when you know you have cleared the hurdle a few times, you say: “Waddaya got for me now?...Come on....bring it on!” The Spiritual Warrior is ready for the next “guru”.
From living a few miles away in an AirBnB room rental for the first 9 days, to accepting to continue my stay for a few more days with the Great Teacher, cautiously, in a tent, on her blue lime plastered square terrace overlooking Tangier...here I am now sleeping in a bed 15 feet away from her wall-shaking snores for the 11th night in a row . This is the closest quarters we have simultaneously inhabited for more than 2 days that I can remember, if ever. Since arriving, I have been ready to give up and leave every few days and yet something higher and bigger is pulling me along, holding my hand, and whispering from behind: “Not time yet. Not time yet.” From feeling hopeless in breaking through her well-entrenched thick-walled bubble to make any kind of sensible connection, I am now not allowing anything dysfunctional between us to pass unaddressed. I have succeeded through Divine intervention filling me with Love, to show my determination and stay the course. As a result, I have pierced the bubble and the hole gets bigger each time I sit her down to “talk”. Luckily she is willing to talk each time, and seems to want it, the work, but it is nonetheless all me pulling teeth, and there aren’t too many left to pull. I am proactively using my NVC skills to dance with her steps forward and backward, side to side. My lesson, always the same one: kindness, patience, compassion. For the first time in my life there is change in the air because there was a sliver of mutual willingness which, with Divine support, has grown
as we feel the positive results of each piece of work. Where I used to walk
away, give up...I say “No, stay with it, listen, be in love, speak from the
Heart...” The interesting parallel is that she is suffering greatly of a painful hip/
leg/lower back condition, HER Teacher. I am using Thai Massage, Yoga, Chi
Gong and Meditation to help her be present with the “pain” and the discomfort
and not run away from it, medicate it or numb it, which has been her life path.
Pain is such an incredible master, pulling our attention in immediately, holding
our focus. If we can stay in the observer role and not react or name it, we are
home free. In the exact same way, she is my “pain”. If I can be present with
her as she acts in ways that cause me discomfort and dis-ease, and not run
away, not take it personally into my body, not react, stay the observer....peace
comes. So this is why we are both here now, why I came here first, and why I
have stayed. I have started this work with my boys last
summer and in a very similar way, am turning around and doing it with my mother now. As a result I am gaining a clearer understanding of and compassion for both my children and my mother. How utterly perfect. But then isn’t the Universal Plan always perfect, if we take the cotton out of our ears, shut up and listen as they say in the Twelve Steps. Get out of the way and align with God. It is so crystal clear to me now that as I explore my obstacles to loving her in action, why it is so hard for me to show her true affection and love, the thing she wants most, I gain a better understanding of the same obstacles in my children. As I push through my fears of loving her, I am learning to love myself and receive love and supporting the same process in my children. And...these family wounds and patterns handed down the line are healed and terminated, all in the name of LOVE. More LOVE here, more LOVE everywhere. So simple and so friggin’ hard. LOVE and TRUST trumps fear and doubt. The desire for more LOVE and LIGHT is what keeps the human race moving forward.
The Only Woman on a Bike and Cultural Quirks
That would be me. I still, after three weeks, have yet to see another woman biker and have seen one woman runner in the whole time I have been here. She was layered from head to toe and looking straight ahead of her as she ran mechanically on the street alongside the traffic. I was almost unsure of her sex and I wondered if that was intentional. It makes me angry and want to flaunt myself more. Here I am with my bright red flashy Bike Friday with the little wheels drawing a lot of attention, in different ways. The men straight out stare in what would be considered a very rude fashion in the US. No smiles, no hellos, no connection. Huffing and puffing up the steep hill to my mother’s place daily, I get really annoyed at their violating eyes, and wake them up out of their blank stupor with an abrupt “Salaam Aleykum” and forced smile. They are unaware of themselves. I am tired of it.
summer and in a very similar way, am turning around and doing it with my mother now. As a result I am gaining a clearer understanding of and compassion for both my children and my mother. How utterly perfect. But then isn’t the Universal Plan always perfect, if we take the cotton out of our ears, shut up and listen as they say in the Twelve Steps. Get out of the way and align with God. It is so crystal clear to me now that as I explore my obstacles to loving her in action, why it is so hard for me to show her true affection and love, the thing she wants most, I gain a better understanding of the same obstacles in my children. As I push through my fears of loving her, I am learning to love myself and receive love and supporting the same process in my children. And...these family wounds and patterns handed down the line are healed and terminated, all in the name of LOVE. More LOVE here, more LOVE everywhere. So simple and so friggin’ hard. LOVE and TRUST trumps fear and doubt. The desire for more LOVE and LIGHT is what keeps the human race moving forward.
The Only Woman on a Bike and Cultural Quirks
That would be me. I still, after three weeks, have yet to see another woman biker and have seen one woman runner in the whole time I have been here. She was layered from head to toe and looking straight ahead of her as she ran mechanically on the street alongside the traffic. I was almost unsure of her sex and I wondered if that was intentional. It makes me angry and want to flaunt myself more. Here I am with my bright red flashy Bike Friday with the little wheels drawing a lot of attention, in different ways. The men straight out stare in what would be considered a very rude fashion in the US. No smiles, no hellos, no connection. Huffing and puffing up the steep hill to my mother’s place daily, I get really annoyed at their violating eyes, and wake them up out of their blank stupor with an abrupt “Salaam Aleykum” and forced smile. They are unaware of themselves. I am tired of it.
On another note, I am enjoying the lack of an alcohol presence, drunkards
and drug addicts here. No decisions to make. It’s just not in the air. The
wailing anonymous mosque callers every few hours are what’s in the air. And
if you are so lucky as to be situated at a confluence of several mosques with
speakers directed at you, it’s triple dose. So the reminders hit you 5 times a
day whether you adhere to the prayer ritual or not. I still need to find out
exactly WHAT they are wailing. The only word I can detect is “Allah”...what do
you know.
Yesterday, I paused in a modern-looking “creamery” which strives to emulate the California- inspired health culture with its smoothie and sandwich menu, and glass cases filled with all the fresh fruits available at the market now. It did in fact catch my eye and draw me in because of the alternative non- Moroccan look. This is the quirky thing I find in this country. People open sushi restaurants, pizzerias and ice cream cafes in an effort to bring a European feel here and sometimes they miss the mark and you remember where you are. While the sushi my Mother brought home for me the other night looked authentic, the rice was hard standard rice, the soy sauce was a syrupy over-sweetened teriyaki sauce and the wasabi was dry and crumbly. Knowing what it should all taste like and that I love it had a higher impact on my enjoyment than the mishaps. On the other hand, the Patisserie chocolate ganache cake she bought for a couscous lunch dessert was outrageously delicious by all standards, with a perfectly-textured smooth chocolate filling enrobed in a thin wafer of chocolate cake. On another night, the black squid ink spaghetti with seafood dressed in garlic olive oil, while not full-on Moroccan fare, was very deliciously prepared and well worth the $10.
Is Racism Really Racism?
The Spanish are in my experience the most racist of the European countries. Perhaps it is because they did not colonize any African countries, at least not for a meaningful time (they were in Morocco for a short period) and so are not familiar with them, or perhaps because they are the closest geographical point in Europe (I believe) to Afric and most susceptible to flows of immigrants and contact. My experience in the south of Spain, where the Andalucian Arab culture is most present, preserved and appreciated in Europe, is that they separate it from the present-day
immigrants trying to make a better life there. There is total disregard and condescension towards the Moors as they call them, isolating them in “ghettos” and “neighborhoods” deemed unsafe. Maybe it is because they are actually so close to them culturally, but one continent is Europe and one is Africa, and the present-day lifestyles are quite different, mostly due to religion, that they do not integrate at all. Spanish racism towards blacks is even worse. I don’t think they even regard them as humans. That is pretty
Yesterday, I paused in a modern-looking “creamery” which strives to emulate the California- inspired health culture with its smoothie and sandwich menu, and glass cases filled with all the fresh fruits available at the market now. It did in fact catch my eye and draw me in because of the alternative non- Moroccan look. This is the quirky thing I find in this country. People open sushi restaurants, pizzerias and ice cream cafes in an effort to bring a European feel here and sometimes they miss the mark and you remember where you are. While the sushi my Mother brought home for me the other night looked authentic, the rice was hard standard rice, the soy sauce was a syrupy over-sweetened teriyaki sauce and the wasabi was dry and crumbly. Knowing what it should all taste like and that I love it had a higher impact on my enjoyment than the mishaps. On the other hand, the Patisserie chocolate ganache cake she bought for a couscous lunch dessert was outrageously delicious by all standards, with a perfectly-textured smooth chocolate filling enrobed in a thin wafer of chocolate cake. On another night, the black squid ink spaghetti with seafood dressed in garlic olive oil, while not full-on Moroccan fare, was very deliciously prepared and well worth the $10.
Is Racism Really Racism?
The Spanish are in my experience the most racist of the European countries. Perhaps it is because they did not colonize any African countries, at least not for a meaningful time (they were in Morocco for a short period) and so are not familiar with them, or perhaps because they are the closest geographical point in Europe (I believe) to Afric and most susceptible to flows of immigrants and contact. My experience in the south of Spain, where the Andalucian Arab culture is most present, preserved and appreciated in Europe, is that they separate it from the present-day
immigrants trying to make a better life there. There is total disregard and condescension towards the Moors as they call them, isolating them in “ghettos” and “neighborhoods” deemed unsafe. Maybe it is because they are actually so close to them culturally, but one continent is Europe and one is Africa, and the present-day lifestyles are quite different, mostly due to religion, that they do not integrate at all. Spanish racism towards blacks is even worse. I don’t think they even regard them as humans. That is pretty
hard for me to take. I think the Spaniards of today are still in their
conquistador mentality, detached from reality.
Crossing over into Morocco, while the locals do not jive with the Spanish workers who take their jobs, the racism is now geared towards Black Africans only. Senegal and Morocco have some kind of pact made by their leaders many years ago in which citizens of both countries are free to travel into each others’ countries and work with no visas or other paperwork requirements. There is a strong Senegalese presence here, which I see at the markets and also on the streets selling all sorts of attractive things, notably electronics. Not one Moroccan I have conversed with, including the “white” non-Arabs, speaks positively about “les Blacks”, as they call them. Well, actually, I did meet one Moroccan, an old store vendor, who surprisingly had no qualms. As I did business with him I was approached by two lovely Malian young women carrying their 3 year-old boys on their backs in cloths. They were cute and not very seasoned at asking for money. Each time one started to and I laughed she giggled shyly and nuzzled her face into her friend’s arm. They had a beautiful positive happy energy. With scarves on their heads and a smooth mulatto complexion, I detected pride and peace. There was a mutual human interest between us. Me, a sister with a fancy funny-looking red bike, African bracelets, interesting rings on each finger with colourful gems, an unusual tribal tattoo, and a genuine African-friendly smile. They, Vivian and Esther, mothers of boys, beautiful self-confident faces, laughter, curiosity, Malian citizens, the country of the Dogon villages, Timbuktu, Bámbara and Ali Farka Touré. I wanted to know their country and they mine. We inhabited a heartful bubble of space and time for fifteen minutes on the Medina street of Tangier, concluded when I offered them 20 Dirhams, which they blessed me for, and quickly headed to the bakery with for treats. I wanted to know more, as they did I am sure. There is nowhere to “hang out” comfortably, a white tourist woman and two Malian women with babies, in this town. For days I have been pondering where I could go to spend time with a Senegalese man who offered me his bracelet in a declaration of love. I want to get to know him a little, maybe take a walk, sit on a bench, bring him to Mom’s place. Apparently people would stare disapprovingly. I don’t really care and yet I don’t like the stares, not for me not for him. Only the old store vendor, Abedellatif, really walked his talk of one people, one love, one God. His gestures, expressions, smile and willingness to hang out with the women and I, play with their kids, get me change so I could give them something, revealed his true nature.
What is racism then really? Honestly I don’t think it exists. I think the real ism that causes separation and condescension on the one hand and love and admiration on the other hand is “materialism”, money, riches. A Black African in Morocco driving a Mercedes, laden in gold, and well-dressed, whether he is well-educated or not, gets color-blind respect. That same African walking around the market in dishevelled worn-out clothing asking to help you carry your groceries for a few Dirhams is ignored, looked down on and
Crossing over into Morocco, while the locals do not jive with the Spanish workers who take their jobs, the racism is now geared towards Black Africans only. Senegal and Morocco have some kind of pact made by their leaders many years ago in which citizens of both countries are free to travel into each others’ countries and work with no visas or other paperwork requirements. There is a strong Senegalese presence here, which I see at the markets and also on the streets selling all sorts of attractive things, notably electronics. Not one Moroccan I have conversed with, including the “white” non-Arabs, speaks positively about “les Blacks”, as they call them. Well, actually, I did meet one Moroccan, an old store vendor, who surprisingly had no qualms. As I did business with him I was approached by two lovely Malian young women carrying their 3 year-old boys on their backs in cloths. They were cute and not very seasoned at asking for money. Each time one started to and I laughed she giggled shyly and nuzzled her face into her friend’s arm. They had a beautiful positive happy energy. With scarves on their heads and a smooth mulatto complexion, I detected pride and peace. There was a mutual human interest between us. Me, a sister with a fancy funny-looking red bike, African bracelets, interesting rings on each finger with colourful gems, an unusual tribal tattoo, and a genuine African-friendly smile. They, Vivian and Esther, mothers of boys, beautiful self-confident faces, laughter, curiosity, Malian citizens, the country of the Dogon villages, Timbuktu, Bámbara and Ali Farka Touré. I wanted to know their country and they mine. We inhabited a heartful bubble of space and time for fifteen minutes on the Medina street of Tangier, concluded when I offered them 20 Dirhams, which they blessed me for, and quickly headed to the bakery with for treats. I wanted to know more, as they did I am sure. There is nowhere to “hang out” comfortably, a white tourist woman and two Malian women with babies, in this town. For days I have been pondering where I could go to spend time with a Senegalese man who offered me his bracelet in a declaration of love. I want to get to know him a little, maybe take a walk, sit on a bench, bring him to Mom’s place. Apparently people would stare disapprovingly. I don’t really care and yet I don’t like the stares, not for me not for him. Only the old store vendor, Abedellatif, really walked his talk of one people, one love, one God. His gestures, expressions, smile and willingness to hang out with the women and I, play with their kids, get me change so I could give them something, revealed his true nature.
What is racism then really? Honestly I don’t think it exists. I think the real ism that causes separation and condescension on the one hand and love and admiration on the other hand is “materialism”, money, riches. A Black African in Morocco driving a Mercedes, laden in gold, and well-dressed, whether he is well-educated or not, gets color-blind respect. That same African walking around the market in dishevelled worn-out clothing asking to help you carry your groceries for a few Dirhams is ignored, looked down on and
disrespected. Is it a wonder that money and riches is the goal in and of itself
for them and everyone on the planet? To be respected and “seen”. It is the
“quick fix” and it works. When I first got to Morocco my mom took me to the
fanciest hotel in Tangier to relish the ocean view from their terrace. She
immediately spotted a young well-dressed modern good-looking Bangladeshi
couple and smelled “money”. We learned they had three apartments around
the world and decided to settle here in Morocco, a Muslim land with ocean
view, to try something new. They had just rented one of the most desirable
houses in the Kasbah complete with driver, cook, maids, guardian, etc.
Immediately my mother, and I, I must admit, were intrigued. Those same
individuals on the street in Bangladesh dressed humbly and begging, with a
“smaller” energy worn down from a hard life, would barely draw attention.
For me, the elements that intrigue and garner admiration are spiritual intelligence, natural intelligence and lastly academic intelligence. These can be had with no material wealth. These are a combination of natural gifts and family support and environment, though the latter is optional.
These characteristics attract me to someone, period. Material wealth is irrelevant. If it is there as a result, but not the main motivator, so be it. Our world will be a more peaceful place when more of us “see” each other. May my journey play a role in this change.
Mom and Minou: Never too Late to Learn How to Love and Be Loved
Each day I am here I am touched by the monogamous love between Yvonne and her green-eyed black male Moroccan feline she adopted from the street life. He still hangs with his posse daily to remember his roots and who he is, but the love between them is pure, unconditional and non- penetrable. I have been here for almost a month and he is just now willing to be still while I walk by and not flee. I have always had a good rapport with cats, in fact we also had a green-eyed black Mimi for 16 years who was my connection to the animal world. She was also very loyal and would defend our garage sales viciously from wandering dogs even on leashes or in their owners’ arms. My sister had one too, Sophia, who hated everyone except my sister. Perhaps there is a trend of intense commitment to owner in the black cat species.
This morning I had to chuckle waking up to Minou and Mom both snoring through their stuffy noses. The way she talks to him is unlike any tone of voice I have ever heard uttered from her mouth. So soft, so gentle, so loving, so kind, so compassionate. She does not even say “Yuck!” or complain about cleaning up his puke. She feeds him sushi, fresh raw ground beef, sardines, cheese (a delicacy in Morocco), chicken from her dinner, milk, cold cuts, the best of the best. When she awakens in the morning, the first thing on her mind is Minou. Does he need to go out? Come in? Eat? Drink? Poop? A few days ago a conflict arose with another elder in the corner neighbourhood they
For me, the elements that intrigue and garner admiration are spiritual intelligence, natural intelligence and lastly academic intelligence. These can be had with no material wealth. These are a combination of natural gifts and family support and environment, though the latter is optional.
These characteristics attract me to someone, period. Material wealth is irrelevant. If it is there as a result, but not the main motivator, so be it. Our world will be a more peaceful place when more of us “see” each other. May my journey play a role in this change.
Mom and Minou: Never too Late to Learn How to Love and Be Loved
Each day I am here I am touched by the monogamous love between Yvonne and her green-eyed black male Moroccan feline she adopted from the street life. He still hangs with his posse daily to remember his roots and who he is, but the love between them is pure, unconditional and non- penetrable. I have been here for almost a month and he is just now willing to be still while I walk by and not flee. I have always had a good rapport with cats, in fact we also had a green-eyed black Mimi for 16 years who was my connection to the animal world. She was also very loyal and would defend our garage sales viciously from wandering dogs even on leashes or in their owners’ arms. My sister had one too, Sophia, who hated everyone except my sister. Perhaps there is a trend of intense commitment to owner in the black cat species.
This morning I had to chuckle waking up to Minou and Mom both snoring through their stuffy noses. The way she talks to him is unlike any tone of voice I have ever heard uttered from her mouth. So soft, so gentle, so loving, so kind, so compassionate. She does not even say “Yuck!” or complain about cleaning up his puke. She feeds him sushi, fresh raw ground beef, sardines, cheese (a delicacy in Morocco), chicken from her dinner, milk, cold cuts, the best of the best. When she awakens in the morning, the first thing on her mind is Minou. Does he need to go out? Come in? Eat? Drink? Poop? A few days ago a conflict arose with another elder in the corner neighbourhood they
both inhabit. Mustafa is a 60-something grey-bearded, thin, intelligent and
kind chain-smoking native Tangerian who patrols the alleyway night and day
as his excuse to smoke and take a break from his ancient mom who I only
spotted once through the small, barred window above my head. Sick of
hearing my mother shrewishly belting out “MINOU! MINOU! MINOU!” for the
millionth time, in her grating fishwife chords, he reacted emotionally and told
her to “SHUT UP NOW!” A heated verbal altercation broke out between them
and their habitations, to which my mother childishly reacted by screaming
louder and louder for her “lover”. His imprisoned mother opened up her
connection to the world, the small barred window above the fight, and, as if
deaf-mute, signaled with her hands that someone was crazy. I never found
out who she meant as my Arabic is not at that level. She clearly wanted the
argument to stop and disappeared. I will never know what goes on in
Mustapha’s house. He is his mother’s caretaker and guardian, that is all I
know.
In that moment I saw the intense love my mother has for Minou, willing to fight with neighbours and bother them in defense of her relationship with him. I hadn’t seen her so upset and out of herself in a long time. She feared Mustapha would kill him, as she mentioned he had killed four other cats recently, and was putting her foot down strongly. The next day when he excused himself to me I asked him about his cat-killer rep, which he denied. He said it was poison from a dumpster they had been raiding and that if he had wanted to kill the local cats which he did not like around, including Minou, he would have killed them too. I guess I believe him. I gently told him my mother would lower her voice and that Minou was her best friend and that he should not even think about interfering in their relationship, after he had suggested I encourage her to get rid of him. Wishful thinking! Moroccans definitely do not regard cats as pets but rather pests. Oh well. At least they don’t serve them up with couscous on Friday when the money’s low.
Last Observations on Tangier
I am quite ready to leave the hustle and bustle of Tangier, the car pollution and dirt and litter, mostly plastic, and sadly typical of most Third World countries I imagine. I made an effort to make a difference and leave a mark by loudly stating “PAS DE PLASTIQUE!” everywhere I purchased.
People accepted it, some commended me, and then the usual excuse: “Moroccans are not so advanced yet. We will get there...” How sad that the world’s addiction to plastic, only 50 years old, has now become an embedded thoughtless cultural norm that it needs to work hard to evolve out of. Technological developments need to be monitored by ethical/ecological assessors who work for a “good” government, like Bhutan’s, to make sure they are aligned with long-term environmental health, before being launched recklessly and blindly. The short-term U.S.-type vision which is based on
In that moment I saw the intense love my mother has for Minou, willing to fight with neighbours and bother them in defense of her relationship with him. I hadn’t seen her so upset and out of herself in a long time. She feared Mustapha would kill him, as she mentioned he had killed four other cats recently, and was putting her foot down strongly. The next day when he excused himself to me I asked him about his cat-killer rep, which he denied. He said it was poison from a dumpster they had been raiding and that if he had wanted to kill the local cats which he did not like around, including Minou, he would have killed them too. I guess I believe him. I gently told him my mother would lower her voice and that Minou was her best friend and that he should not even think about interfering in their relationship, after he had suggested I encourage her to get rid of him. Wishful thinking! Moroccans definitely do not regard cats as pets but rather pests. Oh well. At least they don’t serve them up with couscous on Friday when the money’s low.
Last Observations on Tangier
I am quite ready to leave the hustle and bustle of Tangier, the car pollution and dirt and litter, mostly plastic, and sadly typical of most Third World countries I imagine. I made an effort to make a difference and leave a mark by loudly stating “PAS DE PLASTIQUE!” everywhere I purchased.
People accepted it, some commended me, and then the usual excuse: “Moroccans are not so advanced yet. We will get there...” How sad that the world’s addiction to plastic, only 50 years old, has now become an embedded thoughtless cultural norm that it needs to work hard to evolve out of. Technological developments need to be monitored by ethical/ecological assessors who work for a “good” government, like Bhutan’s, to make sure they are aligned with long-term environmental health, before being launched recklessly and blindly. The short-term U.S.-type vision which is based on
profit at all costs is usually lethal within a short period of time and by then, the
addiction has set in, making the withdrawal powerless against the onward
momentum fueled by a new voracious desire. Germany sets the example of a
healthy middle ground/transition system where many price signals direct
economic activity in support of environmental health and sustainable
practices. The ecological and economic markets are beginning to align. This
is why the development of all kinds of ecovillages everywhere will make a
difference because they model an alternative economic system that works
and with expanding sizes and numbers can become more easily
mainstreamed.
Leaving Yvonne
I guess I am not the first daughter to leave her Mother not knowing if and when she will see her standing again. After several uplifting days in which I felt I could and was making a difference in her 75-year old life because she surrendered and let me lead her in an hour of Chi Gong, Meditation and Yoga...I was then faced with several more days of the old triggering behaviour I know so well but have not been present with in decades. Sleeping endlessly, head covered, and repeatedly uttering the well-remembered mantras of my childhood days: “Let me relax a bit more, I need to sleep a bit more, I feel nauseous, leave me alone...” Sitting up for a few minutes I saw yet another unhappy scrunched up face as my morning greeting...bummer. I wanted to share all my spiritual knowledge and tricks with her in the miraculous hope that she would feel happier and thus soothe her physical discomforts. But she did not want them. It was too much work for her to sustain. And I could not stay and try to make her do it every day, struggling against her weighty patterns of familiar inertia and lethargy. It felt like a struggle between the forces of LIGHT and DARK and I was the optimistic newcomer confidently trusting in the power of GOOD. I was so encouraged to see the changes in her after three days of morning practice, even secretly doing it on her own on day 3, that the letdown in the following days was hard to bear. I had to let go now, and take care of myself and move on. I would use energetic distance healing now.
ESPAÑA
Relief in Tarifa
Morocco is not my shtick and Islam is heavy. A big weight is lifted as I roll my bike onto the ferry, the last vehicle to make it on, and am greeted by English- speaking Filipinos. Ahhhhh. Feels like home, California home. They work on the ferry which I guess is a Filipino-run company, Inter- Shipping, the first competitors of FRS. They charge 50 cents less BUT also let bikes on free while FRS charges 15 Euros. Ridiculous. I leave my bike on the lower car
Leaving Yvonne
I guess I am not the first daughter to leave her Mother not knowing if and when she will see her standing again. After several uplifting days in which I felt I could and was making a difference in her 75-year old life because she surrendered and let me lead her in an hour of Chi Gong, Meditation and Yoga...I was then faced with several more days of the old triggering behaviour I know so well but have not been present with in decades. Sleeping endlessly, head covered, and repeatedly uttering the well-remembered mantras of my childhood days: “Let me relax a bit more, I need to sleep a bit more, I feel nauseous, leave me alone...” Sitting up for a few minutes I saw yet another unhappy scrunched up face as my morning greeting...bummer. I wanted to share all my spiritual knowledge and tricks with her in the miraculous hope that she would feel happier and thus soothe her physical discomforts. But she did not want them. It was too much work for her to sustain. And I could not stay and try to make her do it every day, struggling against her weighty patterns of familiar inertia and lethargy. It felt like a struggle between the forces of LIGHT and DARK and I was the optimistic newcomer confidently trusting in the power of GOOD. I was so encouraged to see the changes in her after three days of morning practice, even secretly doing it on her own on day 3, that the letdown in the following days was hard to bear. I had to let go now, and take care of myself and move on. I would use energetic distance healing now.
ESPAÑA
Relief in Tarifa
Morocco is not my shtick and Islam is heavy. A big weight is lifted as I roll my bike onto the ferry, the last vehicle to make it on, and am greeted by English- speaking Filipinos. Ahhhhh. Feels like home, California home. They work on the ferry which I guess is a Filipino-run company, Inter- Shipping, the first competitors of FRS. They charge 50 cents less BUT also let bikes on free while FRS charges 15 Euros. Ridiculous. I leave my bike on the lower car
level and make my way to the outdoor area 2 flights up. Moroccans,
Spaniards, French and me. I am sooooooo excited to get the h____ outta
there. I don’t feel good there and wonder if my mother feels the same
heaviness. It appears to be an aggressive culture, divisive between the
sexes, conservative, patriarchical and Islamaholic. The men stare a lot. The
women are mostly covered and I just don’t belong there in this lifetime.
On the other hand, Tarifa is an adorable chill place to hang out. There is the “old” town with narrow winding paths between whitewashed earthen buildings whose terraces are sometimes only a few feet apart from each other allowing neighbours to pass food and other objects to each other with ease. Every turn reveals a new line-up of cool cafes, bistros, bars and little specialty shops, most of which are closed for the slow winter months. There is definitely a water sports theme here as it is a windy mecca for kite and windsurfers. Germans, French, Brits, Scandinavians...come from all over to take advantage of the warmer climate and water to fly off the waves 10-20 feet into the air as they surf out to sea with 20 to 40 km/hr winds in their sails almost every day. There are a dozen plus kite surf schools and even more kite and windsurf stores, repair shops and rental outfits. Reminds me of the North Shore of Hawaii.
I lazily aimed for the Melting Pot Hostel which the effeminate and dramatic young man with braces in the Tourist Office who clearly loves his work pulled up first on his “cheap” list. It was half a block away and I had a splitting headache and needed to bed down and recover from Morocco. Run by a quartet of handsome young Moroccan lads from Asilah, a picturesque “blue” town like Chaouen about 30 miles south of Tangier on the Atlantic coast, it would do perfectly. It was interesting to now be in Spain meeting a new crop of Moroccans who were Europeanized in education and experience, spoke French, Spanish, English and Arabic and worked hard to keep the hostel in tip top condition. I enjoyed and appreciated getting to have the chance to “see” another side of Morocco here in Spain. Ouday was the most interesting of the lot. He had lived in London, studied in Granada, was a well-trained Flamenco guitarist, a good cook, cute as a button with his little groomed beard and moustache, Elvis Costello large horn-rimmed black spectacles and incredibly tight jeans that made is legs look super skinny, and I wondered how he thought they looked. I could tell this guy was super street smart and cultivated. With his multicultural experiences he had a lot to teach me with regard to Arab/Euro lifestyles. I was grateful to meet a new breed of Moroccan that I could relate to. Ouday took a liking to me immediately and set up a date to “have tea” after he showered. When he came knocking at my door an hour later, I was unfortunately done for the day.
I had also met a 6’4” well-built super male from Perth around dinner time in the hostel kitchen that evening. Michael was a swimmer/Aussie football player with sexy auburn just-out-of-the-shower hair, green cat eyes, a perfect
On the other hand, Tarifa is an adorable chill place to hang out. There is the “old” town with narrow winding paths between whitewashed earthen buildings whose terraces are sometimes only a few feet apart from each other allowing neighbours to pass food and other objects to each other with ease. Every turn reveals a new line-up of cool cafes, bistros, bars and little specialty shops, most of which are closed for the slow winter months. There is definitely a water sports theme here as it is a windy mecca for kite and windsurfers. Germans, French, Brits, Scandinavians...come from all over to take advantage of the warmer climate and water to fly off the waves 10-20 feet into the air as they surf out to sea with 20 to 40 km/hr winds in their sails almost every day. There are a dozen plus kite surf schools and even more kite and windsurf stores, repair shops and rental outfits. Reminds me of the North Shore of Hawaii.
I lazily aimed for the Melting Pot Hostel which the effeminate and dramatic young man with braces in the Tourist Office who clearly loves his work pulled up first on his “cheap” list. It was half a block away and I had a splitting headache and needed to bed down and recover from Morocco. Run by a quartet of handsome young Moroccan lads from Asilah, a picturesque “blue” town like Chaouen about 30 miles south of Tangier on the Atlantic coast, it would do perfectly. It was interesting to now be in Spain meeting a new crop of Moroccans who were Europeanized in education and experience, spoke French, Spanish, English and Arabic and worked hard to keep the hostel in tip top condition. I enjoyed and appreciated getting to have the chance to “see” another side of Morocco here in Spain. Ouday was the most interesting of the lot. He had lived in London, studied in Granada, was a well-trained Flamenco guitarist, a good cook, cute as a button with his little groomed beard and moustache, Elvis Costello large horn-rimmed black spectacles and incredibly tight jeans that made is legs look super skinny, and I wondered how he thought they looked. I could tell this guy was super street smart and cultivated. With his multicultural experiences he had a lot to teach me with regard to Arab/Euro lifestyles. I was grateful to meet a new breed of Moroccan that I could relate to. Ouday took a liking to me immediately and set up a date to “have tea” after he showered. When he came knocking at my door an hour later, I was unfortunately done for the day.
I had also met a 6’4” well-built super male from Perth around dinner time in the hostel kitchen that evening. Michael was a swimmer/Aussie football player with sexy auburn just-out-of-the-shower hair, green cat eyes, a perfect
set of large white teeth, and a healthy dose of macho energy that always stirs
my curiosity. He had been travelling through ALL of Europe for the last nine
months and would soon cross over to Morocco in search of the magical
hashish lands. I had one up on him as I had been there done that. There was
an immediate spark that, I think, was based on mutually athletic bods and eye
color. Of course who knows what the immediate sparks are based on really. I
always remember that movie “What the Bleep?” that tried to give a cell-based
explanation for “chemistry”. At 28 Michael would be my youngest lover for my
50 year old state of being. No problem. Well there was a problem actually.
Ouday wanted me too. What a contrast. The short cultured multi-faceted
musically-talented artsy and stylish Ouday, who felt like home... and tall
testosterone-heavy outdoorsy playmate Michael whose good looks had
clearly been an
obstacle to developing his lover etiquette, but could be forgiven. Well, as he said when I let him know he had competition: “Ya snooze ya lose” and so he won me by moving in first. The light- hearted playful tryst we had for 3 days was perfect. Me being the older woman meant no awkwardness whatsoever, rather easy-going banter and say it like it is. Ouday was not happy and decided to withdraw his initial friendliness and remained dry and business-like the whole rest of my stay, to my disappointment.
Polyamory is in Wikipedia now. I read it with Michael, a first for him. I had also shared it with Ouday earlier. Bottom line: Multiple simultaneous intimate love/ sexual relationships with total transparency and consensus by all parties involved. The problem here was that we were all in one spot initiating connection at the same time. How to manage this? It did not seem possible. Perhaps spending quality time with Michael on one day and Ouday on the next. Outdoor physical adventures and light playfulness to satisfy my need for environmental explorations and easy connection followed by more intense deep inner world explorations with a varied cultural background and in multiple languages, and so on. Would they accept this? Maybe. Would they themselves be willing to harmonise and interact happily? Could I pull it off myself? Set a new standard here and now despite the dominant paradigm norms? Just do it. Like the Nike ad which has always struck a chord with me. Michael was in a good mood seeing as he hadn’t gotten the short end. I felt badly for Ouday who had been “let down”. I wanted to maintain a friendship but he would initiate no verbal contact with me and stayed business-like. Michael the action-oriented oblivious Taurus and Ouday the sensitive delicate Pisces. I remained passive, mostly because Ouday was on-duty most of the day, and, well, it was simpler to focus on one while they were both in the environs. I do feel now in retrospect that I should have pushed myself beyond my comfort zone and in doing so pushed them and who knows, it could have worked out great and been a growing point for all three. At least I planted a seed for myself which may sprout more next opportunity.
obstacle to developing his lover etiquette, but could be forgiven. Well, as he said when I let him know he had competition: “Ya snooze ya lose” and so he won me by moving in first. The light- hearted playful tryst we had for 3 days was perfect. Me being the older woman meant no awkwardness whatsoever, rather easy-going banter and say it like it is. Ouday was not happy and decided to withdraw his initial friendliness and remained dry and business-like the whole rest of my stay, to my disappointment.
Polyamory is in Wikipedia now. I read it with Michael, a first for him. I had also shared it with Ouday earlier. Bottom line: Multiple simultaneous intimate love/ sexual relationships with total transparency and consensus by all parties involved. The problem here was that we were all in one spot initiating connection at the same time. How to manage this? It did not seem possible. Perhaps spending quality time with Michael on one day and Ouday on the next. Outdoor physical adventures and light playfulness to satisfy my need for environmental explorations and easy connection followed by more intense deep inner world explorations with a varied cultural background and in multiple languages, and so on. Would they accept this? Maybe. Would they themselves be willing to harmonise and interact happily? Could I pull it off myself? Set a new standard here and now despite the dominant paradigm norms? Just do it. Like the Nike ad which has always struck a chord with me. Michael was in a good mood seeing as he hadn’t gotten the short end. I felt badly for Ouday who had been “let down”. I wanted to maintain a friendship but he would initiate no verbal contact with me and stayed business-like. Michael the action-oriented oblivious Taurus and Ouday the sensitive delicate Pisces. I remained passive, mostly because Ouday was on-duty most of the day, and, well, it was simpler to focus on one while they were both in the environs. I do feel now in retrospect that I should have pushed myself beyond my comfort zone and in doing so pushed them and who knows, it could have worked out great and been a growing point for all three. At least I planted a seed for myself which may sprout more next opportunity.
La Semilla and the Sunshine Call me Back to the Road
After five days of “rest” in Tarifa, I felt my butt itching to get on the bike and work out again. Elena and Robi, founders of La Semilla Ecovillage in Bolonia, only 22km northwest, wanted to meet with me to discuss collaborating on a Cob and/or Thai Massage workshop. This is an established ecovillage that runs all kinds of workshops mostly focused on body, spirit and art. Near the beach yet fully surrounded by protected national forest, I was very excited and curious. Repacking my bags and loading my adorable Bike Friday drew much attention from my hostel mates. Patrick, the 68-year old short, pudgy blue-eyed, adorable Frenchman is on a quest to figure out the next phase of his life. Established for over a month at The Melting Pot as he awaits his retirement check, his days revolve around his very French meals and choice of red wine which I always enjoyed watching him prepare, and lizarding in the sun on the rooftop terrace. I had turned him onto the idea of a ten-day Vipassana course in Marrakech in April, the same one I did 4 years prior, as a way for him to find answers to his inner quest. While he showed interest, I am not sure he has the discipline to pull it off nor understands the value of doing the often uncomfortable “Great Work”. I felt that our meeting was to bring him this gift, however he may not be ready to accept it. And then there was Lucas, a 23-year old very tall blond German University student doing a year in Madrid and taking a quick tour of the south. Happy, positive, self-confident and a good Soul to have around the hostel where the others seemed to be involved in their “stuff”. Both bid me adieu and I was off!
Another blissful bike ride: hardly a car, along the ocean most of the way and mostly flat. This area of Spain is part of the province of Cádiz and is the greenest most-protected area of the country. Most of it is within a variety of National Parks and for that reason construction and development is very very limited. Robert, an older long white-haired German who owns the Health Food store in Tarifa told me he has been trying to buy buildable land for years here and it is almost impossible. He also informed me that Tesla electric cars are booming all over Europe and are the #1 selling car in Scandinavia. Tesla is building a super network of free solar charging stations all over Europe and with the sale of the larger more expensive models will finance the R & D for the production of
the affordable mainstream models which will take over the world! Just an aside but also an example of how travelling is an incredible way to get educated without “school”. If you are willing to socialize you can learn incredible amounts of information from each person you meet, on all different subjects, not to mention cultural aspects, simply by interacting with the person and observing their behavior, actions, personality, etc. The mealtime and post-mealtime conversations are always so vibrant, like a mini informal U.N. as each national reveals their perception and viewpoint on a subject, defending their “cultural” perspective unknowingly and thus opening windows
After five days of “rest” in Tarifa, I felt my butt itching to get on the bike and work out again. Elena and Robi, founders of La Semilla Ecovillage in Bolonia, only 22km northwest, wanted to meet with me to discuss collaborating on a Cob and/or Thai Massage workshop. This is an established ecovillage that runs all kinds of workshops mostly focused on body, spirit and art. Near the beach yet fully surrounded by protected national forest, I was very excited and curious. Repacking my bags and loading my adorable Bike Friday drew much attention from my hostel mates. Patrick, the 68-year old short, pudgy blue-eyed, adorable Frenchman is on a quest to figure out the next phase of his life. Established for over a month at The Melting Pot as he awaits his retirement check, his days revolve around his very French meals and choice of red wine which I always enjoyed watching him prepare, and lizarding in the sun on the rooftop terrace. I had turned him onto the idea of a ten-day Vipassana course in Marrakech in April, the same one I did 4 years prior, as a way for him to find answers to his inner quest. While he showed interest, I am not sure he has the discipline to pull it off nor understands the value of doing the often uncomfortable “Great Work”. I felt that our meeting was to bring him this gift, however he may not be ready to accept it. And then there was Lucas, a 23-year old very tall blond German University student doing a year in Madrid and taking a quick tour of the south. Happy, positive, self-confident and a good Soul to have around the hostel where the others seemed to be involved in their “stuff”. Both bid me adieu and I was off!
Another blissful bike ride: hardly a car, along the ocean most of the way and mostly flat. This area of Spain is part of the province of Cádiz and is the greenest most-protected area of the country. Most of it is within a variety of National Parks and for that reason construction and development is very very limited. Robert, an older long white-haired German who owns the Health Food store in Tarifa told me he has been trying to buy buildable land for years here and it is almost impossible. He also informed me that Tesla electric cars are booming all over Europe and are the #1 selling car in Scandinavia. Tesla is building a super network of free solar charging stations all over Europe and with the sale of the larger more expensive models will finance the R & D for the production of
the affordable mainstream models which will take over the world! Just an aside but also an example of how travelling is an incredible way to get educated without “school”. If you are willing to socialize you can learn incredible amounts of information from each person you meet, on all different subjects, not to mention cultural aspects, simply by interacting with the person and observing their behavior, actions, personality, etc. The mealtime and post-mealtime conversations are always so vibrant, like a mini informal U.N. as each national reveals their perception and viewpoint on a subject, defending their “cultural” perspective unknowingly and thus opening windows
to peace and global understanding one conversation at a time. A year of
travel for each high school and then college graduate should be mandatory,
and then every ten years or less. The more time I spend on the road the more
I value the “Non-Violent or Compassionate Communication” culture I was
exposed to in Santa Cruz. It is all the more essential in an intercultural
context, where there is so much more room for miscommunication and
misunderstanding, and can thus open doors to peace one interaction at a
time. I am definitely including NVC training on my to-do list.
Anyway, where was I? Biking to La Semilla along a mostly quiet road. I am not going to pay for accomodations anymore unless absolutely necessary due to weather or urgency. There are plenty of discrete patches of land just off the road in the woods, behind bushes, on the beach and all I need to do is start looking around dusk and plant myself till dawn. That is what I did a few years ago on my first leg from Findhorn to Morocco and it was quite easy and saved mucho dinero which I could then splurge on yummy food and drink items. I will also take advantage of Warmshowers compatriots, fellow bikers who are at home and want to host the ones who are on the road in mutual support. I hosted a dozen before leaving SC and I know how enjoyable it is for all. Workaway is another program I am using in which you are hosted and fed in exchange for a half day of work 5 days a week at an array of amazing peoples’ places or businesses all over the world doing every possible kind of work from reception in a surf hostel to crushing grapes and making wine, to creating permaculture gardens, building eco-buildings and childcare. I also just got turned on to thepoosh.org to help on natural building sites. And finally there is always the original crowdhosting site, Couchsurfing. But my favorite is just exploring at dusk for a sweet hidden spot in the woods, sleeping soundly away from wifi, electricity, moldy walls, noise and people sounds. My budget thus far has averaged around $20 a day or $600 a month. I much rather waiver around the $10 a day mark and can if I am not paying for lodging, Santa Cruz-style.
Well there I went again, digressing and off to another tangent of the travellin’ life. So after the flattish 10km very enjoyable stretch, it was time to turn off to the left, as I had previewed and was told, up up up and then down down down to Bolonia, a quiet and isolated beach town known for its 2000 year-old Roman ruins right on the beach. With the same name as its Italian sister city Bologna, this one is much less well-known. As I climbed by bike and foot to the top of the large green hill, passing cows, horses, goats and sheep, I had a good feeling. How to describe why some stretches of land give you a good feeling, make you want to hang out there, create an inner calm and bliss, feel peaceful. I am looking for such a place as my ultimate resting and building point. As I sped and wound down the green bowl-like slope towards this one long sandy beach town isolated from its neighboring beaches by small mountains and with a full view of my mom’s place across the Strait, I liked it immediately. When I got to the bottom, there was a very quaint mellow town
Anyway, where was I? Biking to La Semilla along a mostly quiet road. I am not going to pay for accomodations anymore unless absolutely necessary due to weather or urgency. There are plenty of discrete patches of land just off the road in the woods, behind bushes, on the beach and all I need to do is start looking around dusk and plant myself till dawn. That is what I did a few years ago on my first leg from Findhorn to Morocco and it was quite easy and saved mucho dinero which I could then splurge on yummy food and drink items. I will also take advantage of Warmshowers compatriots, fellow bikers who are at home and want to host the ones who are on the road in mutual support. I hosted a dozen before leaving SC and I know how enjoyable it is for all. Workaway is another program I am using in which you are hosted and fed in exchange for a half day of work 5 days a week at an array of amazing peoples’ places or businesses all over the world doing every possible kind of work from reception in a surf hostel to crushing grapes and making wine, to creating permaculture gardens, building eco-buildings and childcare. I also just got turned on to thepoosh.org to help on natural building sites. And finally there is always the original crowdhosting site, Couchsurfing. But my favorite is just exploring at dusk for a sweet hidden spot in the woods, sleeping soundly away from wifi, electricity, moldy walls, noise and people sounds. My budget thus far has averaged around $20 a day or $600 a month. I much rather waiver around the $10 a day mark and can if I am not paying for lodging, Santa Cruz-style.
Well there I went again, digressing and off to another tangent of the travellin’ life. So after the flattish 10km very enjoyable stretch, it was time to turn off to the left, as I had previewed and was told, up up up and then down down down to Bolonia, a quiet and isolated beach town known for its 2000 year-old Roman ruins right on the beach. With the same name as its Italian sister city Bologna, this one is much less well-known. As I climbed by bike and foot to the top of the large green hill, passing cows, horses, goats and sheep, I had a good feeling. How to describe why some stretches of land give you a good feeling, make you want to hang out there, create an inner calm and bliss, feel peaceful. I am looking for such a place as my ultimate resting and building point. As I sped and wound down the green bowl-like slope towards this one long sandy beach town isolated from its neighboring beaches by small mountains and with a full view of my mom’s place across the Strait, I liked it immediately. When I got to the bottom, there was a very quaint mellow town
to the left which I imagine is bustly in the summer months, however I was
heading west to reach my destination, La Semilla, by dusk. I had 5km to go
and no idea of the topgraphy that awaited me though I knew it would start
with another climb. At this point my legs were revealing to me that their last 5
days of “rest” were too much and I would pay for it now with premature
muscular lactic acid build up. My small wheels suddenly felt quite small as my
smallest gear advanced me only a couple of inches per rotation. The weight
of my bike became significant. Each rise felt like an Alpine climb causing me
to dismount regularly. Only 5km or 3 miles that were going by much slower
than earlier. A drizzle cooled me down and the sun was high enough that I
would definitely arrive before dark. Only 3km now. Off onto a smaller pot-
holed country road with a gorgeous ocean view to the right, I wound along the
side of the National Park forest, passing healthy polite cows on the road who
kindly made space, and ultimately, my Spanish hostess Elena who had
become tired of waiting for me since 4pm (it was now 6pm) and was driving to
her new
!
solo “home” to take a break from her single-parent duties, with a warm bath and a glass of wine. Her Italian co-parent Robi had the kids and would welcome me pointing me towards a bed and a warm shower.
The bike ride ended with a steep downhill passing their neighbor “El Cabrero de Bolonia” who made super organic goat milk products and sold their neighbors’ organic wines and beauty products made from the local algaes. I was in my heaven. I rang the bell and was let in to their store in which I purchased one of almost everything. One goat milk kefir spread, one semi- cured goat cheese, one bottle of organic red wine, one mold-encrusted goat camembert, an algae-based moisturizer, a gorgeous-smelling eco-deodorant and some miracle eye bag dissappearing gel also algae-based with collagen and caffeine! I easily forked over my 60 Euros for such fine products hand- crafted with care and attention and good for the Animals, the Planet and the People (producers and consumers). A win-win for everyone. So grateful, so happy, so excited to try them all at the end of my grueling bike/walk climb to the final destination: La Semilla (The Seed) tucked away at the bottom of the descent. I arrived just in time to “see” the layout and choose my room.
Ecovillages. Home sweet home. You can always know you will find cool and unique eco- structures, a large communal kitchen with the best spices, organic produce, carefully-chosen utensils and cookware, inspiring artwork and words, an international library of cool books all of which you want to peruse through, a large wooden table, a shoe shelf and a homey caring energy. The fridge will always be stocked with the best products: organic, clean, local, home-made, fermented, soaked, labelled and life-enhancing. Large stovetops, lots of dishes and silverware, endless teas and all kinds of mysterious yummies to discover. Ocean view compost toilets that each have
!
solo “home” to take a break from her single-parent duties, with a warm bath and a glass of wine. Her Italian co-parent Robi had the kids and would welcome me pointing me towards a bed and a warm shower.
The bike ride ended with a steep downhill passing their neighbor “El Cabrero de Bolonia” who made super organic goat milk products and sold their neighbors’ organic wines and beauty products made from the local algaes. I was in my heaven. I rang the bell and was let in to their store in which I purchased one of almost everything. One goat milk kefir spread, one semi- cured goat cheese, one bottle of organic red wine, one mold-encrusted goat camembert, an algae-based moisturizer, a gorgeous-smelling eco-deodorant and some miracle eye bag dissappearing gel also algae-based with collagen and caffeine! I easily forked over my 60 Euros for such fine products hand- crafted with care and attention and good for the Animals, the Planet and the People (producers and consumers). A win-win for everyone. So grateful, so happy, so excited to try them all at the end of my grueling bike/walk climb to the final destination: La Semilla (The Seed) tucked away at the bottom of the descent. I arrived just in time to “see” the layout and choose my room.
Ecovillages. Home sweet home. You can always know you will find cool and unique eco- structures, a large communal kitchen with the best spices, organic produce, carefully-chosen utensils and cookware, inspiring artwork and words, an international library of cool books all of which you want to peruse through, a large wooden table, a shoe shelf and a homey caring energy. The fridge will always be stocked with the best products: organic, clean, local, home-made, fermented, soaked, labelled and life-enhancing. Large stovetops, lots of dishes and silverware, endless teas and all kinds of mysterious yummies to discover. Ocean view compost toilets that each have
their own style and format, this one offering one for pee and one for poop.
Two beautifully-tiled outdoor showers also with ocean view. Organic gardens,
compost piles, a teepee, caravans, palm-thatch roofed cabañas with original
pull-down ladders held up by heavy rocks, a gorgeous yoga studio with the
ever-present wood floor, a sweat lodge and several Mongolian-style yurts with
multiple beds for workshop students. A creek runs by and the goat bells ring
constantly in the distance as they munch on their National Forest wild greens.
I am home once again. Anywhere in the world, the ecovillages provide one
with the same comforts that we seek to live close to the Earth, with nary a
footprint, a peaceful vibe, healthy food and a common desire to spread the
Goodness. I am here at La Semilla to rest, see, learn and support Elena and
Robi in spreading the Goodness from their amazing ocean-view
mountainside-perched happy homestead on the southwestern Andalucian
coast of España. Give thanks!
This morning I awoke in my converted cozy caravan to a view of bushes and trees on all sides through the caravan windows. For me this is the ultimate life. I am getting ideas of how I would like to set up my own Ecovillage and making excellent desirable humbly and hand-made life-giving products will be one absolute for income production, education and modelling. The way I so easily shelled out big bucks for fine, healthy, well-intentioned products is a sign that others would too, knowing I’m not the most spendy of people. It feels good to support people who are doing the right thing. Easy. The “Cabrero Quesería” lady tells me they make 80% of their sales right on site, from people driving all the way into their production locale. The cheese goes for double its non-organic sister cheeses. I just figure I will eat it slowly and savour the quality taste.
After a whole morning happily cooped up in my caravan to catch up on my journal... meditation, yoga and chi gong by the wayside, Robi invites me to a delicious hot lentil soup with homemade bread, the standard olive oil instead of butter and a yellow saffron-colored brown rice. I pitch in my organic red wine and some Moroccan country olives which he enjoys. Robi lives with his two children in a 200 round foot yurt that includes kitchen, dining room, living room, loft bedroom, bunk beds, storage areas, and wood stove. It feels and looks like plenty of space. He is a master wood craftsman and has created natural wood railings and stairs and a cute second loft floor along with all the other unique wood structures on the property. The property has a great feel to it. The lived in area is small enough to get around quickly yet vegetated enough so that each of the 8 living areas has privacy along with views of the ocean and the wildlands. It is well-cared for. Organized. Yogic. Unlike other communal living properties which can feel too spread out, unorganized,
junkyard-like and disconnected. It feels as if they have succeeded here on the physical energetic plane.
This morning I awoke in my converted cozy caravan to a view of bushes and trees on all sides through the caravan windows. For me this is the ultimate life. I am getting ideas of how I would like to set up my own Ecovillage and making excellent desirable humbly and hand-made life-giving products will be one absolute for income production, education and modelling. The way I so easily shelled out big bucks for fine, healthy, well-intentioned products is a sign that others would too, knowing I’m not the most spendy of people. It feels good to support people who are doing the right thing. Easy. The “Cabrero Quesería” lady tells me they make 80% of their sales right on site, from people driving all the way into their production locale. The cheese goes for double its non-organic sister cheeses. I just figure I will eat it slowly and savour the quality taste.
After a whole morning happily cooped up in my caravan to catch up on my journal... meditation, yoga and chi gong by the wayside, Robi invites me to a delicious hot lentil soup with homemade bread, the standard olive oil instead of butter and a yellow saffron-colored brown rice. I pitch in my organic red wine and some Moroccan country olives which he enjoys. Robi lives with his two children in a 200 round foot yurt that includes kitchen, dining room, living room, loft bedroom, bunk beds, storage areas, and wood stove. It feels and looks like plenty of space. He is a master wood craftsman and has created natural wood railings and stairs and a cute second loft floor along with all the other unique wood structures on the property. The property has a great feel to it. The lived in area is small enough to get around quickly yet vegetated enough so that each of the 8 living areas has privacy along with views of the ocean and the wildlands. It is well-cared for. Organized. Yogic. Unlike other communal living properties which can feel too spread out, unorganized,
junkyard-like and disconnected. It feels as if they have succeeded here on the physical energetic plane.
On the social plane they have gone through a myriad of changes. He came
into this land twenty years ago before the surrounding areas became National
Parklands. You were still allowed to build structures then but a few years later,
in 2000, it became illegal. He has had to build the successive ones discreetly.
Neighbors and passers-by will denounce you. Just like in the States, people
seeing a new building go up, from as far away as Bolonia 5 km down, will turn
you in. That hasn’t stopped him from building behind bushes and trees, to the
point where he presently has the capacity to house 18 people for a workshop.
All in all, they have created a pleasant, homey, comfortable life that has
included up to 7 other co-habitants for the last few years. The other
community members have been single and thus the diverging interests have
caused conflict and disharmony so that today the community is dissolving and
returning back close to its original size of three with Elena, Robi and their two
children. They don’t want to deal with meetings, other peoples’ energies and
interests, mediation, and stress. So many communities fall apart due to socio-
human reasons. That’s why, once again, NVC is SO important in the world
today, especially in the realm of ecocommunities. The need to understand
each other’s differences with compassion is a primary necessity for
sustainable living. It should be required in elementary school and beyond. It
will also be a requirement in my Ecovillage and I will train to facilitate
workshops, encounters, meetings and I will also be beneficially transformed
as a result.
Heaven to the Top of the World
Wowee. I am “stuck” in a heavenly spot. My Flamenco lover Fali is coming to visit for 2 days tomorrow. He wants to bring his dog Mou. Jeez. I definitely do not want to deal with that competition again. And, he says he would rather rent a room somewhere else and have “normal” accomodations. Like a normal bath, normal bed, normal toilet. I have to laugh. The outdoor colorfully-tiled artistically-finished “hot” shower with ocean view here is way more attractive, enjoyable and hygienic than his dribbling, mold-infested, sewer-smelling shower. Indoor bathing and cooking and sealed-up living is so unhealthy period. Here the compost toilet is airy, smells like sawdust, stays in one spot and does not require scrub brushes, added drinking water or energy to “process”. It does not impact the ocean or earth negatively. It does not cost anything to “deal” with. One year’s worth of poop takes up 3 feet by 3 feet by 9 feet or 81 cubic feet or 3 cubic yards of volume and after sitting for another year, is integrated back into the earth bringing beneficial fertile nutrients to fruit trees and vegetable gardens. THAT is normal my friend. As is outdoor showering where the greywater is directed right back into the land with no need to be processed this way and that. And a NORMAL bed is one in which you can sleep soundly to the sounds of Nature, which in my case means I am aroused by the goat bells in the morning! I am in Paradise right now. All here is respectful, peaceful, harmonious, humane and slow. And Elena and Roberto and I are aligned energetically to create more GOODNESS in the
Heaven to the Top of the World
Wowee. I am “stuck” in a heavenly spot. My Flamenco lover Fali is coming to visit for 2 days tomorrow. He wants to bring his dog Mou. Jeez. I definitely do not want to deal with that competition again. And, he says he would rather rent a room somewhere else and have “normal” accomodations. Like a normal bath, normal bed, normal toilet. I have to laugh. The outdoor colorfully-tiled artistically-finished “hot” shower with ocean view here is way more attractive, enjoyable and hygienic than his dribbling, mold-infested, sewer-smelling shower. Indoor bathing and cooking and sealed-up living is so unhealthy period. Here the compost toilet is airy, smells like sawdust, stays in one spot and does not require scrub brushes, added drinking water or energy to “process”. It does not impact the ocean or earth negatively. It does not cost anything to “deal” with. One year’s worth of poop takes up 3 feet by 3 feet by 9 feet or 81 cubic feet or 3 cubic yards of volume and after sitting for another year, is integrated back into the earth bringing beneficial fertile nutrients to fruit trees and vegetable gardens. THAT is normal my friend. As is outdoor showering where the greywater is directed right back into the land with no need to be processed this way and that. And a NORMAL bed is one in which you can sleep soundly to the sounds of Nature, which in my case means I am aroused by the goat bells in the morning! I am in Paradise right now. All here is respectful, peaceful, harmonious, humane and slow. And Elena and Roberto and I are aligned energetically to create more GOODNESS in the
world. After a whole summer of yoga, meditation and tantra courses on their
land, we are organizing the first ever COB BUILDING workshop here and
they are excited and grateful to get a “free” building. In addition to
experiencing life in an ecovillage, this workshop will combine other local
specialty activities and thus be perfect for those who want to experience new
things on their vacation: yoga, chi gong, kundalini, rock climbing, horseback
riding, flamenco, goat cheese production, kite surfing, basket- making. We
are but 2.5 miles from the Atlantic Ocean and a small quaint beach town,
Bolonia, with its very own Roman ruins! While I could be here for an extended
period of time....I must go on soon and continue my quest to spread the
GOODNESS.
Hard to Leave...Again
Well I am on Day 10 of living in my very own “Caravana Holiday” (remember the movie “Bye Bye Brasil”?) I have been the laziest I’ve ever been with a couple of days doing no physical exercise and spending most of the day between the kitchen and the bed. The intense alternating big wind/ rain/sun climate regime here definitely keeps you on your toes and there’s never a dull moment. In fact, the Weather App seems to revise its forecasts daily, or perhaps hourly. I have given up trying
to decide my plans according to the Weather App because the forecast will change from full sun to full rain in one day. We are at a big cultural and natural crossroads geographically. As Mar Blanco, a basket-weaver and instructor who is one of the last residents to depart the community explains: “You have to be fully centered here. The land will work you as will the historical battleground energy. Lots of movement here.” Jeez, sounds familiar. She is a gorgeous dark-skinned brown- eyed 50-something authentic Andalusian woman touting a different colorful and patterend turban every day matching her exotic clothing. She is a fiery mutt mix of Gitana, Spanish and Moor blood who teaches indigenous basket-weaving for a living at the Tarifa Eco-Center. She, Oscar and Jaime came to live at La Semilla a year and a half ago after meeting Elena at a workshop for community conflict resolution. They and 5 or 6 others shared the property, the work, the workshop hosting and the income harmoniously...or so it seemed. Deducing from their diverging stories, I am gathering that the loving peaceful joyful community is, as are Elena and Robi, going through separation, due to irreconcilable differences, notwithtanding their “Conflict Resolution” skills. There is definitely strong resentment which I did not pick up on right away. I had heard in town that people were leaving and Elena told me that her and Robi wanted to regain a hold on the property to make it theirs again and possibly in the future find another family or two to share it with. The others feel wronged because of the time and energy they put in to upgrading everything, making it their home, learning how to host workshops, creating a “family” and now being asked to leave within 2 months. In the end, as they say, they want to feel “home” and
Hard to Leave...Again
Well I am on Day 10 of living in my very own “Caravana Holiday” (remember the movie “Bye Bye Brasil”?) I have been the laziest I’ve ever been with a couple of days doing no physical exercise and spending most of the day between the kitchen and the bed. The intense alternating big wind/ rain/sun climate regime here definitely keeps you on your toes and there’s never a dull moment. In fact, the Weather App seems to revise its forecasts daily, or perhaps hourly. I have given up trying
to decide my plans according to the Weather App because the forecast will change from full sun to full rain in one day. We are at a big cultural and natural crossroads geographically. As Mar Blanco, a basket-weaver and instructor who is one of the last residents to depart the community explains: “You have to be fully centered here. The land will work you as will the historical battleground energy. Lots of movement here.” Jeez, sounds familiar. She is a gorgeous dark-skinned brown- eyed 50-something authentic Andalusian woman touting a different colorful and patterend turban every day matching her exotic clothing. She is a fiery mutt mix of Gitana, Spanish and Moor blood who teaches indigenous basket-weaving for a living at the Tarifa Eco-Center. She, Oscar and Jaime came to live at La Semilla a year and a half ago after meeting Elena at a workshop for community conflict resolution. They and 5 or 6 others shared the property, the work, the workshop hosting and the income harmoniously...or so it seemed. Deducing from their diverging stories, I am gathering that the loving peaceful joyful community is, as are Elena and Robi, going through separation, due to irreconcilable differences, notwithtanding their “Conflict Resolution” skills. There is definitely strong resentment which I did not pick up on right away. I had heard in town that people were leaving and Elena told me that her and Robi wanted to regain a hold on the property to make it theirs again and possibly in the future find another family or two to share it with. The others feel wronged because of the time and energy they put in to upgrading everything, making it their home, learning how to host workshops, creating a “family” and now being asked to leave within 2 months. In the end, as they say, they want to feel “home” and
here they are on Robi’s land. It has been like a divided homestead with the
nuclear family on one side and the singles community on the other. They are
both tired of having long drawn-out meetings, of the tension, of the distance.
And here I arrive just as the change takes place. Hmmm, seems like I walked
into Graham’s life and home in FIndhorn 3.5 years ago on my last bike tour in
the same circumstances. His ex-wife was about to move out, slowly, limited
by her Parkinson’s condition. He was clearing her energy and about to regain
a hold on his “home” space. And there I was softening and soothing (I hope)
and bringing in the change. Clearly I have a role here too as they responded
to and welcomed my visit and proposal for a cob workshop to build them a
beautiful earthen building. It seems that perhaps I am drawn to locations of
change and movement as that is my calling. The changemaker, getting
people out of their ruts, opening their eyes and ears and hearts and spirits to
maximum potential. Showering my vibrant free Spirit on the land. Aries, new
Rebirthing Cleansing Cardinal Energy. Change. Out with the Old, In with the
New. That reminds me...my Tarot card this year is #13: Death. Same thing. I
wonder if it will be felt with a BANG or gently. My dear Brother Eddy got his a
year ago and boy did it hit hard. I think it is due to his need for a GIANT wake
up call from an unsustainable unskillful self-destructive lifestyle that was
damaging to everyone he touched. I wonder how mine will present itself. I will
soon know.
Surprise Guest
Ecovillages are warm, welcoming, easy places to land in...if it’s your lifestyle. The other evening Robi came home to his yurt the night before to find a long lean blond Croatian ragamuffin in a full- length old pea-green felt coat sitting on his wood floor in front of a candle. The young 20-year old had arrived at night on foot and slipped through the front gate to land in the warmest most inviting building...looking for grubs and a party. Someone in the town had directed him up to the land, as they apparently do most wandering hippy types. He had no food and no money, carried a didgeridoo, and taught yoga and meditation. With his shortish blond dishevelled hair and large blue marble eyes, ruddy complexion...yet another wandering Rainbow Gathering Soul looking for his tribe. He thought he would find them here, with some warm food, music, ganja, and free love. Oops, not here buddy, at least not at this time. I think that vibe is more of an in-town vibe where, as he said, it’s easier to make money and friends, find food and squat. The next morning he said he was going to walk into the forest and see if he felt comfortable there for camping. Apparently he did because he did not return until two days later. He had set up camp in an abandoned military lookout tower, made himself a fire, and tried to get comfortable without a tent. He returned because he had been scared and not strong enough yet to venture out farther. His 20 year old Piscean Soul needed safety, community and more comfort. Before he left he offered to lead us in a visualization meditation which noone was up for. I was curious but did not take him up on it. Oh well. Next time.
Surprise Guest
Ecovillages are warm, welcoming, easy places to land in...if it’s your lifestyle. The other evening Robi came home to his yurt the night before to find a long lean blond Croatian ragamuffin in a full- length old pea-green felt coat sitting on his wood floor in front of a candle. The young 20-year old had arrived at night on foot and slipped through the front gate to land in the warmest most inviting building...looking for grubs and a party. Someone in the town had directed him up to the land, as they apparently do most wandering hippy types. He had no food and no money, carried a didgeridoo, and taught yoga and meditation. With his shortish blond dishevelled hair and large blue marble eyes, ruddy complexion...yet another wandering Rainbow Gathering Soul looking for his tribe. He thought he would find them here, with some warm food, music, ganja, and free love. Oops, not here buddy, at least not at this time. I think that vibe is more of an in-town vibe where, as he said, it’s easier to make money and friends, find food and squat. The next morning he said he was going to walk into the forest and see if he felt comfortable there for camping. Apparently he did because he did not return until two days later. He had set up camp in an abandoned military lookout tower, made himself a fire, and tried to get comfortable without a tent. He returned because he had been scared and not strong enough yet to venture out farther. His 20 year old Piscean Soul needed safety, community and more comfort. Before he left he offered to lead us in a visualization meditation which noone was up for. I was curious but did not take him up on it. Oh well. Next time.
La Semilla Extended
My nights and days here in “La Caravana Holiday” are assuaged by the sound of the Payayo goat bells. A few nights there have been lost goat cries and I wondered if they’d made it through the night. I wondered if the goat farmer knew he was missing one. When I walked through the fields shortcutting my way to the ocean following the cow paths one day, I saw a goat skull with golden brown hair all over the ground. Clearly they have predators though the cheese lady said only dogs. Hard for me to imagine a dog taking a goat down. There was not a morsel of meat left and the skull was shiny white. The organic free range goat “quesería” established itself three years ago after a long struggle with the authorities. Because this is a “Natural Park” (the equivalent of a State or National Park) you cannot build anything here let alone establish a business. If you buy land that has existing houses it’s cool, and most people build hidden hovels behind trees and bushes and in recesses invisible from the road. To their good fortune, an activist “artisanal” farmer fought for and won the passing of a new law exempting the “Homestead or Homegrown or Homemade” foods produced in the traditional ways from having to be located in the industrial polygons. And they got to stay and live and work where their goats live and work. People come from all over to see their place and buy their cheeses. They have very large and visible billboards and a web presence. I am grateful for them.
One of the beauties of getting to stay at an ecovillage is you know you will find food around you just by walking around the property. Jumping the fence into their unkempt overgrown veggie and herb garden yesterday I was able to harvest chard, parsley, onions, a pepper, oregano and lemons. The results of hard work and then letting it go. Nature is so generous, it never stops giving.
On my hike/run down to Bolonia the other day, following on the heels of the cow runs, I adventured along the river in and out of forested areas with prickly vines daring me through and mud-sucking dips while the cows remained on the other side of the fence with the slow relaxed life they deserved. The path just kept going and going towards the ocean and I was grateful for the adventure. Eventually I came out and was met with a gale force windblown beach, which is the norm here alot of the time. Someone told me that this area had the highest suicide rate in Spain due to the winds. As I walked towards the beach looking for the one food store in town I noticed a potential fellow bike tourer. Spotting his black high quality-outfitted bike with only one bag on it but all the right hardware for more, I also spotted the nicely oufitted rider. We were the only ones there and I had no qualms to walk over and introduce myself as a fellow biker. Kuku was Basque. Kuku Durango. Already I was intrigued. The Basques are tough and fearless do-it-yourselfers. Kuku had ridden all the way to Senegal and beyond by himself a few years before. Passing by all the warnings and military outposts he biked the whole way from Morocco to Senegal, where water stops on this Saharan highway are
My nights and days here in “La Caravana Holiday” are assuaged by the sound of the Payayo goat bells. A few nights there have been lost goat cries and I wondered if they’d made it through the night. I wondered if the goat farmer knew he was missing one. When I walked through the fields shortcutting my way to the ocean following the cow paths one day, I saw a goat skull with golden brown hair all over the ground. Clearly they have predators though the cheese lady said only dogs. Hard for me to imagine a dog taking a goat down. There was not a morsel of meat left and the skull was shiny white. The organic free range goat “quesería” established itself three years ago after a long struggle with the authorities. Because this is a “Natural Park” (the equivalent of a State or National Park) you cannot build anything here let alone establish a business. If you buy land that has existing houses it’s cool, and most people build hidden hovels behind trees and bushes and in recesses invisible from the road. To their good fortune, an activist “artisanal” farmer fought for and won the passing of a new law exempting the “Homestead or Homegrown or Homemade” foods produced in the traditional ways from having to be located in the industrial polygons. And they got to stay and live and work where their goats live and work. People come from all over to see their place and buy their cheeses. They have very large and visible billboards and a web presence. I am grateful for them.
One of the beauties of getting to stay at an ecovillage is you know you will find food around you just by walking around the property. Jumping the fence into their unkempt overgrown veggie and herb garden yesterday I was able to harvest chard, parsley, onions, a pepper, oregano and lemons. The results of hard work and then letting it go. Nature is so generous, it never stops giving.
On my hike/run down to Bolonia the other day, following on the heels of the cow runs, I adventured along the river in and out of forested areas with prickly vines daring me through and mud-sucking dips while the cows remained on the other side of the fence with the slow relaxed life they deserved. The path just kept going and going towards the ocean and I was grateful for the adventure. Eventually I came out and was met with a gale force windblown beach, which is the norm here alot of the time. Someone told me that this area had the highest suicide rate in Spain due to the winds. As I walked towards the beach looking for the one food store in town I noticed a potential fellow bike tourer. Spotting his black high quality-outfitted bike with only one bag on it but all the right hardware for more, I also spotted the nicely oufitted rider. We were the only ones there and I had no qualms to walk over and introduce myself as a fellow biker. Kuku was Basque. Kuku Durango. Already I was intrigued. The Basques are tough and fearless do-it-yourselfers. Kuku had ridden all the way to Senegal and beyond by himself a few years before. Passing by all the warnings and military outposts he biked the whole way from Morocco to Senegal, where water stops on this Saharan highway are
every 300km. He quickly poo-pooed all my concerns and revived my own
fearless adventurer essence. He couldn’t wait to get back on his bike to finish
his journey that was interrupted by a sick Mother calling him back. Would my
kids do that? That’s the kind of man I need to bike through Africa with. Friedl
is out of commission, tucked away at an oasis in the deep Sahara, building
them a gnome house out of I have no idea what, having his sotries to tell. I
was thankful for meeting Kuku, I felt stronger and redetermined to visit and
stay in Africa, the original mission I’d had for my journey. I walked back along
the empty Sahara-like beach imagining myself there, just being myself,
strong, smiling, peaceful, friendly and trusting. So many fears in the world. I
just gotta go and be me. It always works out. And the stories are awesome.
That afternoon I surfed the Workaway site on my phone, looking at all the working options in the African countries that interested me and excitedly found Afidi Towo’s listing looking for someone to help her finish her Nubian Vaults in Toubab Dialaw on the coast of Senegal just an hour south of Dakar. Score. A 51 year old French-Cameroonian translator who grew up in NYC. Couldn’t be more perfect. I contacted her immediately and she responded immediately. That night through Skype we got to know each other as peers, divorcees and mothers of boys, did a quick history
scan, and boom another workshop in the making. Oh and I forgot to mention the Fuerteventura workshop set up for March 6-8 a few days ago with another female Goddess peer, Valeria, from Argentina, living with her two children on the volcanic Canary Island of strong winds. Another Workaway match in the field of “Bioconstrucción”. Next Tuesday I and my bike will be riding a large ferry for 39 hours to the Canary Islands located at 29 degrees Latitude, the Tradewind belt that sails you right to the Carribbean. It is the same latitude as Florida and northern Mexico.
There the temperatures are about ten degrees more than here, so in the mid-60’s, and Cap-Vert/ Senegal come in another ten degrees hotter in the mid-70’s. So I now have three workshops in the making, one ready to go in just 3 weeks where I will be posted all around little Fuerteventura on a professional flyer as the California Queen of Bioconstrucción. I love that term, more than COB. Bioconstruction. We don’t even have that in our English- speaking Natural Building Dictionary. Yeah for the Latin language-speakers! I’m so excited to see my dream of international cob building platforms manifesting with ease. It seems there is interest everywhere in building “naturally”, simply, economically, healthily, beautifully and joyfully. Of course!
My 38-year old bronzed and muscular Dragon Flamenco lover Fali actually drove the 2 1/2 hour ride from Málaga in the cold and rain, leaving his beloved Mo and AirBnB business for a whole 38 hours...just to see me and have a Festival del Sexo as he called it. He so sweetly took on my hint of bringin’ the fixins to make that Paella he promised me way back in December and never followed through on. He also bought his pillow, a heater in a
That afternoon I surfed the Workaway site on my phone, looking at all the working options in the African countries that interested me and excitedly found Afidi Towo’s listing looking for someone to help her finish her Nubian Vaults in Toubab Dialaw on the coast of Senegal just an hour south of Dakar. Score. A 51 year old French-Cameroonian translator who grew up in NYC. Couldn’t be more perfect. I contacted her immediately and she responded immediately. That night through Skype we got to know each other as peers, divorcees and mothers of boys, did a quick history
scan, and boom another workshop in the making. Oh and I forgot to mention the Fuerteventura workshop set up for March 6-8 a few days ago with another female Goddess peer, Valeria, from Argentina, living with her two children on the volcanic Canary Island of strong winds. Another Workaway match in the field of “Bioconstrucción”. Next Tuesday I and my bike will be riding a large ferry for 39 hours to the Canary Islands located at 29 degrees Latitude, the Tradewind belt that sails you right to the Carribbean. It is the same latitude as Florida and northern Mexico.
There the temperatures are about ten degrees more than here, so in the mid-60’s, and Cap-Vert/ Senegal come in another ten degrees hotter in the mid-70’s. So I now have three workshops in the making, one ready to go in just 3 weeks where I will be posted all around little Fuerteventura on a professional flyer as the California Queen of Bioconstrucción. I love that term, more than COB. Bioconstruction. We don’t even have that in our English- speaking Natural Building Dictionary. Yeah for the Latin language-speakers! I’m so excited to see my dream of international cob building platforms manifesting with ease. It seems there is interest everywhere in building “naturally”, simply, economically, healthily, beautifully and joyfully. Of course!
My 38-year old bronzed and muscular Dragon Flamenco lover Fali actually drove the 2 1/2 hour ride from Málaga in the cold and rain, leaving his beloved Mo and AirBnB business for a whole 38 hours...just to see me and have a Festival del Sexo as he called it. He so sweetly took on my hint of bringin’ the fixins to make that Paella he promised me way back in December and never followed through on. He also bought his pillow, a heater in a
suitcase, and some other Fali-tailored snacks that he knew he would not find
in this kitchen. He also gave in and stayed in the “Caravana Holiday” with me,
never going poop once in our compost toilets. While he seemed to really
admire the place, touting himself as a Nature Guy and befriending all the cats
and the one dog here, daydreaming about his own retreat center plans
outside of Málaga, he held his pee in all night rather than brave the dark night
outside the caravan. Then he munched reassuredly on his white bread with
plastic-wrapped turkey slices sandwich and drank his 0 calorie Pepsi-Cola,
followed by a whole package of chocolate chip cookies, which are biscotes
con pepitas de chocolate in Spanish. My Latin lover is adorable, sweet as a
tiramisú, generous, smarter with each conversation, easy, and....we got it
goin’ on between the covers. Dragon Fire, ouch, caliente! It’s also super chill
hangin’ out together ‘cause he’s got no ego, is interesting to listen to talk
about Spanish politics and society, has no weird hangups or emotional
baggage that gets in the way, and is a good communicator. He also cares.
Needless to say it was a sweet time and then he was off, with his heater :(,
back to his sunny routine and canine. No attachments, no dependency, no
sadness, no hanging on, no wondering, no expectations and no labelling.
Well...maybe one little misfire when he siestaed from 8pm to midnight and
was ready for action right as I dozed off. Our Festival was slightly shorter than
what he had hoped for while I thought we had the next morning. Turns out
Flamenco Boy doesn’t do morning sex. “No me apetece en la mañana.”
Sounds like “I don’t have the appetite in the morning.” That was a first for me.
Now I know...and he knows....for next time.
It’s a very wonderful feeling to travel to other countries and feel a connection and oneness with other Earthy womyn despite language and cultural differences and barriers. Just Womynness Love and Understanding. Meeting Womyn who are already in my world, loving what I love, valuing what I value, raising kids the way I did, caring about what I do, eating like I do, wanting what I want....an immediate global and powerful SISTERHOOD based on non-verbal knowingness.
This is my Sister. She gets me. We can change the world by doing our thing and making it BIG. Let us join forces rather than compete. Be attracted to the one who is like us rather than be repelled or competitive. WE can be sooo powerful together. Not anti-male just PRO-FEMME (and I don’t mean the dyke femme). Strong feminine. We are truly self-sufficient but we also enjoy playing with our men because some of us prefer men as sexual partners. I have been sexually intimate with a woman, a good friend, when we were done with our relationships with our abusive macho male partners. It was like loving myself, my body, my pleasure. Pretty cool knowing what I taste like, smell like, feel like down there. And I can be affectionate with a woman I like and am attracted to. But not sure I can get truly sexually turned on. I guess I’m just not gay, although I like to be wanted and flirted with by other womyn. And I can totally flirt back too. But it doesn’t feel
It’s a very wonderful feeling to travel to other countries and feel a connection and oneness with other Earthy womyn despite language and cultural differences and barriers. Just Womynness Love and Understanding. Meeting Womyn who are already in my world, loving what I love, valuing what I value, raising kids the way I did, caring about what I do, eating like I do, wanting what I want....an immediate global and powerful SISTERHOOD based on non-verbal knowingness.
This is my Sister. She gets me. We can change the world by doing our thing and making it BIG. Let us join forces rather than compete. Be attracted to the one who is like us rather than be repelled or competitive. WE can be sooo powerful together. Not anti-male just PRO-FEMME (and I don’t mean the dyke femme). Strong feminine. We are truly self-sufficient but we also enjoy playing with our men because some of us prefer men as sexual partners. I have been sexually intimate with a woman, a good friend, when we were done with our relationships with our abusive macho male partners. It was like loving myself, my body, my pleasure. Pretty cool knowing what I taste like, smell like, feel like down there. And I can be affectionate with a woman I like and am attracted to. But not sure I can get truly sexually turned on. I guess I’m just not gay, although I like to be wanted and flirted with by other womyn. And I can totally flirt back too. But it doesn’t feel
balanced to me and I definitely don’t want to be the dominant anything.
Enough of that. Need my Yang to be my Yin. And he needs to have a penis, a
real one.
On the Road Again and Finally Out of my “Caravana Holiday”
Today was another one of those everything-is-perfect and I-am-in-Heaven bike rides. A beautiful winter sunny day, windless, riding the southern Spanish coastline from “La Semilla” to the beach before Barbate. Nary a car to deal with all day. I started off on the mountain road from “La Semilla” after bidding the clan adieu with juicy hugs, kisses (lots of them) and happy photos. I learned something important that I believe will be the theme and lesson of my “Death” year...how to share, how to receive and give graciously, how to be love and share love easily and authentically. How to REALLY come from the Heart in words, deeds and energy. Fearlessly. How to talk about anything without fear. It was just a start but it worked and I feel myself “getting” it. I was met with SO much love and attraction from all 5 adults living there. It felt great. I am learning to be myself I think. FOR REAL.
As I climbed up the steep road from “La Semilla” I made one last stop at la Quesería del Cabrero de Bolonia for whom I had saved my last few Euros for my most favorite of their cheeses, the three-day old herb-encrusted baby round. In the 12 days staying next door, I had tried one of each of their cheeses and drank 3 bottles of their organic red as well as used 3 of their algae-based beauty products daily. I appreciate and respect the work they are doing. Today it ws Jesus who opened the gate for me from inside the sterilized cheese-making room. Dressed all in white with his cute little bald head and rectangular spectacles, a stocky well-built goat herder (is there an actual equivalent term for a shepherd who keeps goats???)...I watched through the window as he deftly gathered his long blocks of cheese that had coagulated and dropped them into plastic forms lined with cheese cloth. With his muscular farmer fingers he then pressed them down with some sort of plastic compression specialty “squeezers” to get all the whey out perhaps, and lined them up. That’s all I got to see. Jesus came out jovially to greet me and was surprised to see me return one of his Kefir bottles. I told him I wanted one last cheese with herbs and we had a short discussion about his passion. He wanted to run his whole place on renewable energy but had to wait to pay off his debt for the cheesery first. He was doing well, with the majority of his clients coming from outside Bolonia and many non-Spanish loyal customers who live in and out of the area. He is proud of his cheese of the highest quality and I know for a fact that those goats get out to different wild protected pastures daily and are super well-loved and taken care of by this beautiful family. HIs only dissappointments are that his own neigbors and Bolonia residents make up ony 2% of his sales, and that setting up solar and wind are so price-inhibiting. I encouraged him and told him his business can
On the Road Again and Finally Out of my “Caravana Holiday”
Today was another one of those everything-is-perfect and I-am-in-Heaven bike rides. A beautiful winter sunny day, windless, riding the southern Spanish coastline from “La Semilla” to the beach before Barbate. Nary a car to deal with all day. I started off on the mountain road from “La Semilla” after bidding the clan adieu with juicy hugs, kisses (lots of them) and happy photos. I learned something important that I believe will be the theme and lesson of my “Death” year...how to share, how to receive and give graciously, how to be love and share love easily and authentically. How to REALLY come from the Heart in words, deeds and energy. Fearlessly. How to talk about anything without fear. It was just a start but it worked and I feel myself “getting” it. I was met with SO much love and attraction from all 5 adults living there. It felt great. I am learning to be myself I think. FOR REAL.
As I climbed up the steep road from “La Semilla” I made one last stop at la Quesería del Cabrero de Bolonia for whom I had saved my last few Euros for my most favorite of their cheeses, the three-day old herb-encrusted baby round. In the 12 days staying next door, I had tried one of each of their cheeses and drank 3 bottles of their organic red as well as used 3 of their algae-based beauty products daily. I appreciate and respect the work they are doing. Today it ws Jesus who opened the gate for me from inside the sterilized cheese-making room. Dressed all in white with his cute little bald head and rectangular spectacles, a stocky well-built goat herder (is there an actual equivalent term for a shepherd who keeps goats???)...I watched through the window as he deftly gathered his long blocks of cheese that had coagulated and dropped them into plastic forms lined with cheese cloth. With his muscular farmer fingers he then pressed them down with some sort of plastic compression specialty “squeezers” to get all the whey out perhaps, and lined them up. That’s all I got to see. Jesus came out jovially to greet me and was surprised to see me return one of his Kefir bottles. I told him I wanted one last cheese with herbs and we had a short discussion about his passion. He wanted to run his whole place on renewable energy but had to wait to pay off his debt for the cheesery first. He was doing well, with the majority of his clients coming from outside Bolonia and many non-Spanish loyal customers who live in and out of the area. He is proud of his cheese of the highest quality and I know for a fact that those goats get out to different wild protected pastures daily and are super well-loved and taken care of by this beautiful family. HIs only dissappointments are that his own neigbors and Bolonia residents make up ony 2% of his sales, and that setting up solar and wind are so price-inhibiting. I encouraged him and told him his business can
only get better. He is the wave of the future and how grateful I am that he is
doing what he is doing.
The first leg of my ride today was on a reddish rocky dirt road that took me high above the ocean in the scrubland typical of this area. I passed a flock of lone sheep and then had to wait 15 minutes due to a goat road block farther on. A local goat herder, very Spanish and so local I didn’t get a word he said, was moving his herd along with strange calls and tweets. He must have spoken the old dialect. I love the old Spanish and European men in general. With their berets, wool sweaters, canes and tanned happy complexions, they are so sophisticated and youthful. This one black goat with piercing white sliver eyeballs would not leave me alone. She was determined to get to my recently-packed fresh goat cheese in a paper bag at the top of my front pannier, which was too full to close. I’m not familiar with goat habits and if they bite, so I tried to gently say NO as I pushed her stubborn head away repeatedly while her boss looked on without support. I need more time with farm animals. When I asked the old guy if he made cheese, he said he only sold the milk to others who made cheese. I guess that’s probably the norm.
When the goats finally cleared my path I wound downhill bumping along and slipping a few times too. Who cares? I was on a rural path getting to my destination. It took me to a very large 500- year old yellowed stone and mortar lighthouse tower that was built to scan the coast for the Turkish-Berber pirates that raided the towns. Here was the beginning of the Strait of Gibraltar. As
I looked to the left I saw the most beautiful wild beach that you could only hike to, perfect white sand, turquoise blue water that merged into the deeper dark blues. This was La Playa del Cañuelo, one of the few wild virgin beaches in southern Spain. As I continued on the now asphalt road towards my destination, I came into an area of the most gorgeous varied houses on the side of a small mountain and overlooking the ocean. All of them. Many had ruins on their property that were either preserved or restored. It looked like a hidden refuge of super wealthy people with their own wide and long gorgeous private beach. It was a very pleasant bike ride. Not one car and all flat. This is the life, yes it is.
As I came around the corner, it was the other extreme. Another super long gorgeous beach, but this one was lined with the unattractive vacation developments that were all empty and waiting for summer I guess. The energy was depressing. One big building after another with their rows of homogeneous apartments all in the same style. If all you want is warm beach then you got it. Not much else. Across the road from the developments on the right side of the road was grassland, cows and windmills. A funny contrast. Hopefully it will stay that way to preserve and honor the old. The ugly developments led into Zahara de los Atunes...Sahara of the Tuna Fish? A
The first leg of my ride today was on a reddish rocky dirt road that took me high above the ocean in the scrubland typical of this area. I passed a flock of lone sheep and then had to wait 15 minutes due to a goat road block farther on. A local goat herder, very Spanish and so local I didn’t get a word he said, was moving his herd along with strange calls and tweets. He must have spoken the old dialect. I love the old Spanish and European men in general. With their berets, wool sweaters, canes and tanned happy complexions, they are so sophisticated and youthful. This one black goat with piercing white sliver eyeballs would not leave me alone. She was determined to get to my recently-packed fresh goat cheese in a paper bag at the top of my front pannier, which was too full to close. I’m not familiar with goat habits and if they bite, so I tried to gently say NO as I pushed her stubborn head away repeatedly while her boss looked on without support. I need more time with farm animals. When I asked the old guy if he made cheese, he said he only sold the milk to others who made cheese. I guess that’s probably the norm.
When the goats finally cleared my path I wound downhill bumping along and slipping a few times too. Who cares? I was on a rural path getting to my destination. It took me to a very large 500- year old yellowed stone and mortar lighthouse tower that was built to scan the coast for the Turkish-Berber pirates that raided the towns. Here was the beginning of the Strait of Gibraltar. As
I looked to the left I saw the most beautiful wild beach that you could only hike to, perfect white sand, turquoise blue water that merged into the deeper dark blues. This was La Playa del Cañuelo, one of the few wild virgin beaches in southern Spain. As I continued on the now asphalt road towards my destination, I came into an area of the most gorgeous varied houses on the side of a small mountain and overlooking the ocean. All of them. Many had ruins on their property that were either preserved or restored. It looked like a hidden refuge of super wealthy people with their own wide and long gorgeous private beach. It was a very pleasant bike ride. Not one car and all flat. This is the life, yes it is.
As I came around the corner, it was the other extreme. Another super long gorgeous beach, but this one was lined with the unattractive vacation developments that were all empty and waiting for summer I guess. The energy was depressing. One big building after another with their rows of homogeneous apartments all in the same style. If all you want is warm beach then you got it. Not much else. Across the road from the developments on the right side of the road was grassland, cows and windmills. A funny contrast. Hopefully it will stay that way to preserve and honor the old. The ugly developments led into Zahara de los Atunes...Sahara of the Tuna Fish? A
quaintish old town that had more of a summer focus vibe but still had some
life in it. With its white 15th century whitewashed church and odd multi-
colored and patterned wool warmers wrapped around tree trunks and
lampposts, I didn’t get much of a feel for this town in my quick pass-through
but the setting again was beautiful.
From there I continued on an easy, straight, low challenge and low traffic road towards Barbate, where I am camping for free on the beach. It’s the first night of “wild” camping since the start of my trip. I am not scared. I am trusting and know that people don’t really care. They are well-behaved here and respectful. I wanted to set up camp, eat and enjoy the sunset. I rode and rode until I finally spotted a wooden walkway to the beach, a few miles before Barbate. Everything up to that point was Military Areas on both sides of the road. It felt cool, safe and looked beautiful. I sat and ate my well-deserved homemade sprouted lentil salad and the whole goat cheese i had bought today. It tasted awesome! I love doing a hard workout and then enjoying my grubs. Nothin better. A lone fisherman in military khakis was walking down the beach in my direction. He was spending a little too much time on his hooks while looking at me intermittently, rather than continuing to walk back to his car. I decided to fake call Fali and very loudly tell him I was on the beach waiting for him and to hurry before the sun went down. And then fake received a call from him speaking even louder. He left. It worked. So here am I in my tent on a beautiful beach in winter with easy temperatures. This is definitely the best time to travel in Spain, nobody’s here and the weather is mostly comfortable. I am cozy next to the sound of the waves, got all my stuff in the tent, and my beloved bike is wrapped up in a tarp outside. The best part is that I am going to bed early, finally, and will awaken early, I imagine, with nothing getting in the way of my meditation. People pay for the sound of ocean waves to meditate to. Not I. And hopefully the rain forecast of 11am will stay or be later, so that I can get on the road early and be at Richard’s by 11 and avoid the showers. Richard is a Warmshowers host from England who welcomes cyclists for a night or two in his Conil de la Frontera home in exchange for some garden work. I think I will be there for a few nights if it’s wet out. Then Cádiz. I hear it’s Carnaval there right now and I need to be wary of the drunken crowds. Can’t be worse than US drunks or British drunks. Well....another experience is always welcome.
Just Like Bein’ in Santa Cruz
While I love sleeping outdoors, especially to the sound of the ocean, and waking up hidden in my tent away from “civilization” sounds...my body and sleep always take a toll that I imagine the healthfulness of the experience makes up for. My “sleep” has become a bit of an obsession to the point where I wonder if I actually really ever sleep. Like the old way, before menopause, you just fall asleep to a movie or while reading or in the hammock. You wake up and realize you’ve been sleeping for hours, with dreams. When I went to
From there I continued on an easy, straight, low challenge and low traffic road towards Barbate, where I am camping for free on the beach. It’s the first night of “wild” camping since the start of my trip. I am not scared. I am trusting and know that people don’t really care. They are well-behaved here and respectful. I wanted to set up camp, eat and enjoy the sunset. I rode and rode until I finally spotted a wooden walkway to the beach, a few miles before Barbate. Everything up to that point was Military Areas on both sides of the road. It felt cool, safe and looked beautiful. I sat and ate my well-deserved homemade sprouted lentil salad and the whole goat cheese i had bought today. It tasted awesome! I love doing a hard workout and then enjoying my grubs. Nothin better. A lone fisherman in military khakis was walking down the beach in my direction. He was spending a little too much time on his hooks while looking at me intermittently, rather than continuing to walk back to his car. I decided to fake call Fali and very loudly tell him I was on the beach waiting for him and to hurry before the sun went down. And then fake received a call from him speaking even louder. He left. It worked. So here am I in my tent on a beautiful beach in winter with easy temperatures. This is definitely the best time to travel in Spain, nobody’s here and the weather is mostly comfortable. I am cozy next to the sound of the waves, got all my stuff in the tent, and my beloved bike is wrapped up in a tarp outside. The best part is that I am going to bed early, finally, and will awaken early, I imagine, with nothing getting in the way of my meditation. People pay for the sound of ocean waves to meditate to. Not I. And hopefully the rain forecast of 11am will stay or be later, so that I can get on the road early and be at Richard’s by 11 and avoid the showers. Richard is a Warmshowers host from England who welcomes cyclists for a night or two in his Conil de la Frontera home in exchange for some garden work. I think I will be there for a few nights if it’s wet out. Then Cádiz. I hear it’s Carnaval there right now and I need to be wary of the drunken crowds. Can’t be worse than US drunks or British drunks. Well....another experience is always welcome.
Just Like Bein’ in Santa Cruz
While I love sleeping outdoors, especially to the sound of the ocean, and waking up hidden in my tent away from “civilization” sounds...my body and sleep always take a toll that I imagine the healthfulness of the experience makes up for. My “sleep” has become a bit of an obsession to the point where I wonder if I actually really ever sleep. Like the old way, before menopause, you just fall asleep to a movie or while reading or in the hammock. You wake up and realize you’ve been sleeping for hours, with dreams. When I went to
the Sleep Center at Dominican last year to “sleep” there under observation by
people and computers all night, they said I fell asleep within twenty minutes
and slept deeply and “normally” for 7 hours. I have to say I was really
surprised. I may
have been on my best sleep behavior, trying to do well. At this point it goes like this most nights. I am really tired and read ‘till I see double and keep forgetting what I just read. Then I happily turn the lights off and prepare for sleep like a normie would do. Then I think about something and the somniferousness transforms into thoughtfulness and suddenly my brain is “on”. This happens within seconds of planning to fall asleep and when I am horizontal. Then it’s a matter of tossing and turning and vipassana exercises and sometimes masturbation though that can lead to an even more generally agitated awake state. To my big surprise, I felt like I was sleeping well when I was 8 feet away from my Mother sharing her room with obnoxious snores all night. My personal answer is that I was at peace next to her, helping her, knowing she was ok. I also knew my boys were OK and she is the only person I truly worry about now that she is 75 and less autonomous and my siblings are not stepping in for their own reasons. The other situation in which I slept well to my surprise was with Fali when he visited without Moe. I had his warm calm body next to me. Both Fali and Yvonne fall asleep quickly and snore, creating a “sleeping” environment. Hearing someone so relaxed and dozing next to you trains one to remember how to sleep, it’s contagious.
My morning in the tent started with an hour Vipassana sit, followed by leftover sprouted lentil salad from the day before. By the way, I am the test specimen proving that while cooked lentils in soup wreak havoc with your intestines, ie infinite gas all night long...sprouted lentils don’t. Not one disturbance. Pretty strong argument for raw foodism. SInce the Weather App had forecast rain for days I was prepared to get my stuff on the bike as fast as possible and book it to my Warmshowers’ host’s place 15 miles away which, I assumed, would be a quick 2 hours at the most. Wrong again. Never assume....Heading into Barbate, with its non-descript landscape and villagscape, kind of haphazardly assembled with no standouts of interest, I quickly continued out. I was given directions towards a supposed bike path through the woods to my next destination, Caños de Meca (Sugar Canes of Mecca? Joints of Mecca?). I knew this guy knew what he was talking about because he was clear, confident and looked athletic. And thanks to him I had one of the most delectable rides on a hard-packed dirt road through the regional pinion pine sandy “parque natural” (what else are they?) for at least an hour. I only saw 4 people the whole time and was miffed at the 3 cars that illegally sped through irregardless of the “rules” and the people who enjoyed its carlessness. When the joy ride had come to an end after alot of slow steady climbing that I was sure couldn’t get any higher, I had the pick of three signless roads to Caños de Meca. I stopped a car for directions asking him if the nice dirt road that continued across the asphalt road interruption would take me there. He said
have been on my best sleep behavior, trying to do well. At this point it goes like this most nights. I am really tired and read ‘till I see double and keep forgetting what I just read. Then I happily turn the lights off and prepare for sleep like a normie would do. Then I think about something and the somniferousness transforms into thoughtfulness and suddenly my brain is “on”. This happens within seconds of planning to fall asleep and when I am horizontal. Then it’s a matter of tossing and turning and vipassana exercises and sometimes masturbation though that can lead to an even more generally agitated awake state. To my big surprise, I felt like I was sleeping well when I was 8 feet away from my Mother sharing her room with obnoxious snores all night. My personal answer is that I was at peace next to her, helping her, knowing she was ok. I also knew my boys were OK and she is the only person I truly worry about now that she is 75 and less autonomous and my siblings are not stepping in for their own reasons. The other situation in which I slept well to my surprise was with Fali when he visited without Moe. I had his warm calm body next to me. Both Fali and Yvonne fall asleep quickly and snore, creating a “sleeping” environment. Hearing someone so relaxed and dozing next to you trains one to remember how to sleep, it’s contagious.
My morning in the tent started with an hour Vipassana sit, followed by leftover sprouted lentil salad from the day before. By the way, I am the test specimen proving that while cooked lentils in soup wreak havoc with your intestines, ie infinite gas all night long...sprouted lentils don’t. Not one disturbance. Pretty strong argument for raw foodism. SInce the Weather App had forecast rain for days I was prepared to get my stuff on the bike as fast as possible and book it to my Warmshowers’ host’s place 15 miles away which, I assumed, would be a quick 2 hours at the most. Wrong again. Never assume....Heading into Barbate, with its non-descript landscape and villagscape, kind of haphazardly assembled with no standouts of interest, I quickly continued out. I was given directions towards a supposed bike path through the woods to my next destination, Caños de Meca (Sugar Canes of Mecca? Joints of Mecca?). I knew this guy knew what he was talking about because he was clear, confident and looked athletic. And thanks to him I had one of the most delectable rides on a hard-packed dirt road through the regional pinion pine sandy “parque natural” (what else are they?) for at least an hour. I only saw 4 people the whole time and was miffed at the 3 cars that illegally sped through irregardless of the “rules” and the people who enjoyed its carlessness. When the joy ride had come to an end after alot of slow steady climbing that I was sure couldn’t get any higher, I had the pick of three signless roads to Caños de Meca. I stopped a car for directions asking him if the nice dirt road that continued across the asphalt road interruption would take me there. He said
no first, and then said yes that it would join the road that went off to the right a
few kilometers down. Right away the mixed messages should have been a
red flag. His confidence threw me off. The next mountain biker I saw coming
from that road was also interrogated. He said the road went only a little
farther and ended at a tower. He had just come from there. Who would you
believe? I could not believe how confident a person can be who doesn’t really
know. I mean not an ounce of self-doubt or possibility words like maybe, may,
I think, not sure, etc. Ask 3 times, ride once.
The “Sugarcanes of Mecca” Sweet Stop and Andalucian Carnaval
Cruising relaxedly down for the last 15 minutes compensated for all my hard work earlier on, I thrilled at the view before me of a sandy jetty with yet another “faro” or lighthouse, a beautiful turquoise-dark blue ocean with sandy beach, and the white limewashed housescape. While Caños de Meca is clearly a one-street hoppin’ summer town seen in all the closed cool cafes and stores, I actually lucked out and noticed a piece of European Santa Cruz hustle and bustle to the right in what is usually a Surf Cafe spot. Hippies, cooleos, awake-looking types all heading into this Saturday market melange of organic produce, delicious conscious desserts by a rasta lady, homemade lemon ginger marmalades and orange chutneys, pirogis, thrift clothing, artisan jewelry, Volkswagen silkscreen T-shirts, neoprene-based cell phone holders, crocheted caps, and herbs. Wouldn’t you know it? I landed in the earthy alternative milieu of this whole part of Spain on a sunny day and extended my 15 minute scan to a three hour schmooze thanks to Pascal, a 55-year old scruffy-faced good-looking long blond-haired French surfer who had “spotted” me.
Pascal was an adorable yenta of sorts. He noticed me as I pulled up on my ridiculously overloaded little bike and as soon as I entered the market beelined right into my space. While he couldn’t officially flirt with me, with his long and wavy hennaed German partner Angela by his side, he ended up networking me into every important connection I should have for this area. Rafael, the tall teddy bear bearded French straw bale builder, JP and Jowita, the French-Polish dynamo couple who design bike helmets called “Urge” and surf, and Vinnie, the German middle-aged inventor musician who was eyeing me like fresh meat...or veggies. The energy was enthralling and I felt myself different today. I was really fully present with everyone, kind, open, interested, REAL. It’s this last word REAL that I am working on at this time, possibly the theme of my “Death” work this year. Am I truly being REAL in every moment? Where do I stray from my authenticity? The very cool and rewarding thing is that the people you are with can actually let you know by the way they respond to you. And how attracted they are, and how real they are as well. How truly from the heart is the connection. How truly love is felt. Person to person love.
The “Sugarcanes of Mecca” Sweet Stop and Andalucian Carnaval
Cruising relaxedly down for the last 15 minutes compensated for all my hard work earlier on, I thrilled at the view before me of a sandy jetty with yet another “faro” or lighthouse, a beautiful turquoise-dark blue ocean with sandy beach, and the white limewashed housescape. While Caños de Meca is clearly a one-street hoppin’ summer town seen in all the closed cool cafes and stores, I actually lucked out and noticed a piece of European Santa Cruz hustle and bustle to the right in what is usually a Surf Cafe spot. Hippies, cooleos, awake-looking types all heading into this Saturday market melange of organic produce, delicious conscious desserts by a rasta lady, homemade lemon ginger marmalades and orange chutneys, pirogis, thrift clothing, artisan jewelry, Volkswagen silkscreen T-shirts, neoprene-based cell phone holders, crocheted caps, and herbs. Wouldn’t you know it? I landed in the earthy alternative milieu of this whole part of Spain on a sunny day and extended my 15 minute scan to a three hour schmooze thanks to Pascal, a 55-year old scruffy-faced good-looking long blond-haired French surfer who had “spotted” me.
Pascal was an adorable yenta of sorts. He noticed me as I pulled up on my ridiculously overloaded little bike and as soon as I entered the market beelined right into my space. While he couldn’t officially flirt with me, with his long and wavy hennaed German partner Angela by his side, he ended up networking me into every important connection I should have for this area. Rafael, the tall teddy bear bearded French straw bale builder, JP and Jowita, the French-Polish dynamo couple who design bike helmets called “Urge” and surf, and Vinnie, the German middle-aged inventor musician who was eyeing me like fresh meat...or veggies. The energy was enthralling and I felt myself different today. I was really fully present with everyone, kind, open, interested, REAL. It’s this last word REAL that I am working on at this time, possibly the theme of my “Death” work this year. Am I truly being REAL in every moment? Where do I stray from my authenticity? The very cool and rewarding thing is that the people you are with can actually let you know by the way they respond to you. And how attracted they are, and how real they are as well. How truly from the heart is the connection. How truly love is felt. Person to person love.
The market was a great networking opportunity and I am starting to
accumulate emails of amazing like-working people of different nationalities to
one day hold a GIANT ecovillage conference that takes over the world.
Hahaha. The Dutch lady’s giant organic oranges from her tree kept me going
the last 8 km to Conil de la Frontera on a pleasantly flat and winding road
through farms, fields and open areas. Seeing Conil’s white buildingscape on
a hill from afar made it look closer. The land here is very open and the energy
humble. Kitesurfers aound here too, and the beach is immensely wide and
white with endless expanse in both directions. It is Carnaval time right now
and all the children are in costumes and some adults too. After checking in to
Hotel Bari where I enjoy my first hot bath since the start of my trip...I decide to
treat myself to a nice local fish dinner on the beach to reward myself for all
the hard miles. for $30 I had a memorable meal of local seared tuna that will
keep me full for several days I think, with homemade fries and a little tomato,
onion and pepper picadillo. A mixed mini salade nicoise with a good roll, a
beer, a tiramisu from heaven and I left topped off to pull me through my fast
the next day. Hahahah. I could barely move.
To aid the digestive process I took a stroll over to the Carnaval tent where the all male “chirigotas” groups each one dressed in matching costumes were presenting their songs on stage.
The Carnival of Cádiz is most famous for these satirical groups of performers called chirigotas and comparsas, as well as the coros and romanceros that sing and tell stories with cynical commentary, like socio-political jesters. Their music and their lyrics are the center of the carnaval activity: songs of satire, truth, Spanish jokes, sex, historical and political issues. According to Wikipedia: the unique characteristic of the Cádiz Carnaval are the songs and tales of “acerbic criticisms, the droll plays on words, stinging sarcasm, and the irreverence of parody. While some carnavals, elsewhere in the world (like Rio, Tenerife and Venice), stress the spectacular, the glamorous, or the scandalous in costumes, Cádiz distinguishes itself with the cleverness and imagination of its carnaval attire. It is traditional to paint the face as a humble substitute for a mask”. Some songs have been sung for hundreds of years that most people know the words to and new songs are created each year in preparation for the annual competitions. Each group offers up a different style of presentation and a different theme that have become the standard structure for Carnaval in Spain. The unfortunate thing for all the outsiders is that you HAVE to be Spanish to get any of what they are singing or the punch lines of the stories they tell, being fluent doesn’t cut it. It is a very cultural pride-enhancing event.
Arriving in Cádiz the next day, I got to experience the full deal. Cádiz is the epicenter and mecca of Carnaval and the way it goes is that EVERYONE fills the cobblestoned streets of the old city at dusk, many in costumes and/or painted faces, starting on their first round of drinks and tapas and looking for fun. Bands of 5-8 males or females or mixed, in like costumes of all kinds, will
To aid the digestive process I took a stroll over to the Carnaval tent where the all male “chirigotas” groups each one dressed in matching costumes were presenting their songs on stage.
The Carnival of Cádiz is most famous for these satirical groups of performers called chirigotas and comparsas, as well as the coros and romanceros that sing and tell stories with cynical commentary, like socio-political jesters. Their music and their lyrics are the center of the carnaval activity: songs of satire, truth, Spanish jokes, sex, historical and political issues. According to Wikipedia: the unique characteristic of the Cádiz Carnaval are the songs and tales of “acerbic criticisms, the droll plays on words, stinging sarcasm, and the irreverence of parody. While some carnavals, elsewhere in the world (like Rio, Tenerife and Venice), stress the spectacular, the glamorous, or the scandalous in costumes, Cádiz distinguishes itself with the cleverness and imagination of its carnaval attire. It is traditional to paint the face as a humble substitute for a mask”. Some songs have been sung for hundreds of years that most people know the words to and new songs are created each year in preparation for the annual competitions. Each group offers up a different style of presentation and a different theme that have become the standard structure for Carnaval in Spain. The unfortunate thing for all the outsiders is that you HAVE to be Spanish to get any of what they are singing or the punch lines of the stories they tell, being fluent doesn’t cut it. It is a very cultural pride-enhancing event.
Arriving in Cádiz the next day, I got to experience the full deal. Cádiz is the epicenter and mecca of Carnaval and the way it goes is that EVERYONE fills the cobblestoned streets of the old city at dusk, many in costumes and/or painted faces, starting on their first round of drinks and tapas and looking for fun. Bands of 5-8 males or females or mixed, in like costumes of all kinds, will
stop somewhere and begin to sing and tell stories in sync. It lasts about 5-10
minutes and then they move on. As you walk through the streets you come
upon these small to medium gatherings of laughter and music. I wished I was
Spanish and belonged to such a tradition and understood it. It is a more
eloquent and sophisticated Halloween with a purpose, and creates a
solidarity among the Spanish who come from all over the country to enjoy the
good time in mid-February. The streets did stink of pee and the drinking was
out of control, but the next day when I walked around
it was as if nothing had happened. Some late night or early morning quiet work crew had magically cleaned it all up only to have it start all over again the next night. I think it is a way for the country to relax, have fun, and forget their problems... and so the government happily supports it, not to mention the large tourism revenues. It is very European in its combination of intellect and artistic creativity. I learned that all the regions that celebrate Carnaval do so because of their strong historical trade route connections as conduits for cultural influences.
My stay in Cádiz was short and sweet. I arrived after a long and fulfilling day (8 hours) on the road, blessed with yet another Andalucian bike angel near the end of the day. Paco, a 55-year young retired General Motors engineer who grew up here, encouraged me on for the last 8 miles of grueling pedaling through softish yellow sand inlaid with rocks alongside the railraod tracks, and then up the Paseo Marítimo with an unwelcome headwind the whole way. Felt like 20 miles. Alas I arrived just as dusk was setting in. Cádiz, like its previous family of towns west of Tarifa, has the same wide endless expanse of white sandy beach with good surf OR kitesurf conditions depending on what the wind is doing. However being that the old city itself sits on a hexagonal pad of land at the end of a long panhandle flat strip of land, it is like a large isolated geometric point under the exclamation. It has the same Moorish- style narrow cobblestoned streets all winding and turning into each other in a spider web design connected by large Plazas for gathering and celebrating, churches, the Grand Cathedral, walled ramparts and old lookout towers for the merchants and sentinels of old. The central market has more fish varieties than I have ever seen or know, including dozens of mini conch and snail varieties that you pick out with a needle. The fish merchants are proud of their very colorful and artfully presented fish displays, including the black ink-laden squids and calamari, which, to my surprise, also come in many edible species. Honestly it puts West Coast fish markets to shame. I think there are maybe a dozen kinds of fish you ever see up and down the West Coast of the US. My friend Paco tells me the Spanish had to really expand the repertoire of seafood they would eat during the lean times. This region of the meeting of the waters and continents, however, is very very fertile. And the Spanish take their fish seriously. Before I took my boat that afternoon, Paco invited me to the #1 “pesqueria” for a take away lunch (no tables available). A fight nearly broke out due to discrepancies about who was next in line for a paper cone of
it was as if nothing had happened. Some late night or early morning quiet work crew had magically cleaned it all up only to have it start all over again the next night. I think it is a way for the country to relax, have fun, and forget their problems... and so the government happily supports it, not to mention the large tourism revenues. It is very European in its combination of intellect and artistic creativity. I learned that all the regions that celebrate Carnaval do so because of their strong historical trade route connections as conduits for cultural influences.
My stay in Cádiz was short and sweet. I arrived after a long and fulfilling day (8 hours) on the road, blessed with yet another Andalucian bike angel near the end of the day. Paco, a 55-year young retired General Motors engineer who grew up here, encouraged me on for the last 8 miles of grueling pedaling through softish yellow sand inlaid with rocks alongside the railraod tracks, and then up the Paseo Marítimo with an unwelcome headwind the whole way. Felt like 20 miles. Alas I arrived just as dusk was setting in. Cádiz, like its previous family of towns west of Tarifa, has the same wide endless expanse of white sandy beach with good surf OR kitesurf conditions depending on what the wind is doing. However being that the old city itself sits on a hexagonal pad of land at the end of a long panhandle flat strip of land, it is like a large isolated geometric point under the exclamation. It has the same Moorish- style narrow cobblestoned streets all winding and turning into each other in a spider web design connected by large Plazas for gathering and celebrating, churches, the Grand Cathedral, walled ramparts and old lookout towers for the merchants and sentinels of old. The central market has more fish varieties than I have ever seen or know, including dozens of mini conch and snail varieties that you pick out with a needle. The fish merchants are proud of their very colorful and artfully presented fish displays, including the black ink-laden squids and calamari, which, to my surprise, also come in many edible species. Honestly it puts West Coast fish markets to shame. I think there are maybe a dozen kinds of fish you ever see up and down the West Coast of the US. My friend Paco tells me the Spanish had to really expand the repertoire of seafood they would eat during the lean times. This region of the meeting of the waters and continents, however, is very very fertile. And the Spanish take their fish seriously. Before I took my boat that afternoon, Paco invited me to the #1 “pesqueria” for a take away lunch (no tables available). A fight nearly broke out due to discrepancies about who was next in line for a paper cone of
greasy fried fish, shrimp, clam, calamari and croquettes. The poor server was
working so fast filling those cones as new piles of sizzling oil-drenched bite-
sized nuggets were brought out with the giant deep fryer baskets. The supply
could barely keep up with the locals’ demand for their bites of fried ocean
delights!
Rock the Boat
Right now I am on the Transmediterranea Ferry headed to Lanzarote, a 31 hour ride. I am excited to be moving on and off to new lands, especially is- lands. I love islands and am sure I will make my next home on one. I love boating too, although right now my stomach is feeling queazy as the boat does its slow side to side rocking. I will probably let it rock me to bed soon to avoid the discomfort. Plus I did not sleep for a minute last night in a ten- person hostel room with drunken fools entering at all hours talking and laughing, unaware that they were in a room of sleeping people. Last time I choose that economical option. As I gathered my bags off of my bike to go up onto the passenger levels to find my “butaca” for the next 31 hours, I noticed a hot long dark and curly pony-tailed able-bodied Italian stallion in the distance who was apparently noticing me too. He offered to help me and I pretended not to hear, lugging my stuff. He followed me and offered the elevator. I went up the stairs. I wanted to see how interested he really was and enjoyed playing the coy female, a rare event. Our twin Aries fires met up on top and danced for 2 hours in the hallway. Ivan, 38, is a Caterpillar mechanic who has worked the world over on big boats and other mega machinery, with a finca in Bologna, and a ten year old boy... I did not ask more. We will have 31 hours to talk and hang if that is what is supposed to happen. I always feel my light reactivate and shine, no matter how pooped I am, in the light of another shiny light. Attraction is so mysterious a source of energy. I am so grateful for the variety of people with whom your cells can interact in all different ways, but in particular the ones with whom the sexual brightness is mixed in. Two Aries Dragons are always, without a doubt, irresistibly magnetized.
As the boat left Cádiz, I saw the most amazing sunset, a big orange red ball of fire broken up by the clouds and burning through, creating a red outline in the distance over the ocean, calling me to the islands, and beyond. My heart is at Peace. I will sleep well tonight, rocked by the Albayzin and the hum of the motors below, greased and tuned by my new Italian friend.
This morning I awoke at 6:30 and knew I had a good sleep. I dreamed alot and felt tired each time I would momentarily come out of my sleep. Stretched out on three vinyl “butacas” or armchairs with my sleeping bag and a makeshift pillow...the rocking boat kept me lulled. I was ready for the day and looked around to see only myself awake. The boat does this trek principally for the cargo and less so for the passenger cars and passengers. They
Rock the Boat
Right now I am on the Transmediterranea Ferry headed to Lanzarote, a 31 hour ride. I am excited to be moving on and off to new lands, especially is- lands. I love islands and am sure I will make my next home on one. I love boating too, although right now my stomach is feeling queazy as the boat does its slow side to side rocking. I will probably let it rock me to bed soon to avoid the discomfort. Plus I did not sleep for a minute last night in a ten- person hostel room with drunken fools entering at all hours talking and laughing, unaware that they were in a room of sleeping people. Last time I choose that economical option. As I gathered my bags off of my bike to go up onto the passenger levels to find my “butaca” for the next 31 hours, I noticed a hot long dark and curly pony-tailed able-bodied Italian stallion in the distance who was apparently noticing me too. He offered to help me and I pretended not to hear, lugging my stuff. He followed me and offered the elevator. I went up the stairs. I wanted to see how interested he really was and enjoyed playing the coy female, a rare event. Our twin Aries fires met up on top and danced for 2 hours in the hallway. Ivan, 38, is a Caterpillar mechanic who has worked the world over on big boats and other mega machinery, with a finca in Bologna, and a ten year old boy... I did not ask more. We will have 31 hours to talk and hang if that is what is supposed to happen. I always feel my light reactivate and shine, no matter how pooped I am, in the light of another shiny light. Attraction is so mysterious a source of energy. I am so grateful for the variety of people with whom your cells can interact in all different ways, but in particular the ones with whom the sexual brightness is mixed in. Two Aries Dragons are always, without a doubt, irresistibly magnetized.
As the boat left Cádiz, I saw the most amazing sunset, a big orange red ball of fire broken up by the clouds and burning through, creating a red outline in the distance over the ocean, calling me to the islands, and beyond. My heart is at Peace. I will sleep well tonight, rocked by the Albayzin and the hum of the motors below, greased and tuned by my new Italian friend.
This morning I awoke at 6:30 and knew I had a good sleep. I dreamed alot and felt tired each time I would momentarily come out of my sleep. Stretched out on three vinyl “butacas” or armchairs with my sleeping bag and a makeshift pillow...the rocking boat kept me lulled. I was ready for the day and looked around to see only myself awake. The boat does this trek principally for the cargo and less so for the passenger cars and passengers. They
charge $170 for the 31 hour ride (cheaper and faster by plane!) and since so
few people take it we all have massive amounts of room to sleep. Of course
there are sleeping cabins for double the price. To my surprise the ticket
includes free meals which they don’t tell you about nor do they publicize it. A
fellow excited Dutch passenger to let me know. I had brought all my own
food, including two salmon steaks I had bought at the fish market. Never in
my life have I tasted such amazing salmon, like butter, melting in my mouth. I
seasoned it with some pepper and salt and the juices dripping off of it did the
rest. For culinary reasons alone I would live in Europe. I am soooo utterly
grateful to have this opportunity to eat such high quality and tasty food on my
journey.
Interestingly the boat was staffed by Hondurans of all types, sizes and shades. They work on it 8 months a year going back and forth between “la peninsula” and the islands. I immediately felt a “connection” with my homies from “America”. With the salsa music going in the kitchen, the easy- going affectionate flow, the laughter and playfulness, I was reminded of the California Latinos. I met a few other interesting characters on the boat, notably Klaus, an 80 year-old sporty and white- locked snazzy German who has spent his life looking for “home”. He has houses everywhere and while France was at the top of his “favorites” list, he said he was tired of trying to become an insider there for the last 20 years. “I even let them beat me in chess every once in a while to not be the ‘always winning German’ but I will always be “the German” and in France, that’s a very black mark.” I enjoyed hearing his analysis of France as the culture that had “figured it out”, meaning the balance of mind and heart. The Germans had the intellect down. The Spanish had the passion down. And the French had both. He also had residences in Canada, Thailand and Norway, where his daughter lived. In contrast to her nomadic upbringing, she was giving her children a stable home in the northern latitudes. Klaus’ latest venture was a new home on the island of Tenerife, in a village on the north coast, which he found “absolutely charming”. He was very excited about the change and his new garden. I found myself intrigued and even attracted to this 80-year young man who had clearly taken good care of himself, worked a laptop adeptly, was very intelligent, had seen the world, and was a very interesting conversationalist. What is age? A few extra wrinkles, a little slower pace, more wisdom, humor, savoir-faire....If you are still willing to flirt with a 50 year-old at 80, then you just might get her in bed!
On another note but with a similar journey, Gilles was a big teddy bear of a man with grey-white close-cropped hair, a beard and mustache and a very sweet innocent face. He wore a very colorful loose Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt and loose pants. He was constantly strolling throughout the boat in his canary yellow Moroccan babouches over and over like a Zen master doing his walking meditation. Stopping here and stopping there and observing. Near the end of the journey I initiated contact with his friendly energy. He too had
Interestingly the boat was staffed by Hondurans of all types, sizes and shades. They work on it 8 months a year going back and forth between “la peninsula” and the islands. I immediately felt a “connection” with my homies from “America”. With the salsa music going in the kitchen, the easy- going affectionate flow, the laughter and playfulness, I was reminded of the California Latinos. I met a few other interesting characters on the boat, notably Klaus, an 80 year-old sporty and white- locked snazzy German who has spent his life looking for “home”. He has houses everywhere and while France was at the top of his “favorites” list, he said he was tired of trying to become an insider there for the last 20 years. “I even let them beat me in chess every once in a while to not be the ‘always winning German’ but I will always be “the German” and in France, that’s a very black mark.” I enjoyed hearing his analysis of France as the culture that had “figured it out”, meaning the balance of mind and heart. The Germans had the intellect down. The Spanish had the passion down. And the French had both. He also had residences in Canada, Thailand and Norway, where his daughter lived. In contrast to her nomadic upbringing, she was giving her children a stable home in the northern latitudes. Klaus’ latest venture was a new home on the island of Tenerife, in a village on the north coast, which he found “absolutely charming”. He was very excited about the change and his new garden. I found myself intrigued and even attracted to this 80-year young man who had clearly taken good care of himself, worked a laptop adeptly, was very intelligent, had seen the world, and was a very interesting conversationalist. What is age? A few extra wrinkles, a little slower pace, more wisdom, humor, savoir-faire....If you are still willing to flirt with a 50 year-old at 80, then you just might get her in bed!
On another note but with a similar journey, Gilles was a big teddy bear of a man with grey-white close-cropped hair, a beard and mustache and a very sweet innocent face. He wore a very colorful loose Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt and loose pants. He was constantly strolling throughout the boat in his canary yellow Moroccan babouches over and over like a Zen master doing his walking meditation. Stopping here and stopping there and observing. Near the end of the journey I initiated contact with his friendly energy. He too had
sold and left everything, including two ex- wives, and was heading south for a
new life on Fuerteventura. He planned to open a small humble “cafeteria” with
lots of plants, nice music, a few good dishes on the menu and a low-stress
subsistence income.
I also met Jeromine, a young French hippy who was travelling to the Rainbow Gathering on La Palma. She travelled with the whole English collection of Tom Brown’s works on wilderness survival and vision quests, etc. She wore a long skirt and non-matching top and lay flat most of the time to avoid seasickness. She traded me her Tom Brown book “The Journey”, very apropos, for an invitation to join my cob workshop as a helper. Done deal. She could fit into Santa Cruz easily. Hippies and ecovillage types are one big international family that recognize each other and
can communicate despite language barriers. Two Spanish dread-locked men sitting farther back were most likely going to the Gathering as well. Maybe I should check it out too.
It is strange being out at sea with no land in sight. In the very middle of the ocean, So much water. So vast. I wonder if there was any sea life below, all the way out here. I meditated and did yoga on the deck. Such a perfect place, right? While others took their cigarette breaks, I did my own deep breathing. I kept seeing Ivan during his work breaks in the lounge. We talked in a jumble of Italian, Portuguese and Spanish. It was all over the place but we understood each other no problem. Ivan had worked and lived in Africa which I found interesting. Angola for 6 years to be exact. He travelled for his work, not to travel. He really enjoyed being home in Bolonia, where he owned a large chunk of land and a 17th century stone farmhouse with 2 foot wide walls. He also enjoyed being Papa to his 10 year old and the single life. He was absolutely uninterested in a partner and preferred the “young” women in their early 20’s who would be happy just to have sex with him. He was very clear about that. Luckily I fall into that same category.
Land Ho in Lanzarote at 11pm
Ivan helped me down with all my luggage and I nervously got it all hooked on and tied up to try and exit the ferry before the giant containers full of continental goods for the isolated residents started being pulled off. We hugged goodbye and made vague plans to travel together some time. I had absolutely no plans and no idea where I would sleep that night but felt safe on this smallish island. I rode off the ferry, got checked out by the Guardia Civil, and headed up the coast. I was alone on the road, with Googlemaps. It was absolutely lovely. No cars, a few lights on. I biked through a tiny village that was too close to the port to stop. I kept going and then saw the ugly giant condo complexes all lit up in the distance. I had no choice but to keep going
I also met Jeromine, a young French hippy who was travelling to the Rainbow Gathering on La Palma. She travelled with the whole English collection of Tom Brown’s works on wilderness survival and vision quests, etc. She wore a long skirt and non-matching top and lay flat most of the time to avoid seasickness. She traded me her Tom Brown book “The Journey”, very apropos, for an invitation to join my cob workshop as a helper. Done deal. She could fit into Santa Cruz easily. Hippies and ecovillage types are one big international family that recognize each other and
can communicate despite language barriers. Two Spanish dread-locked men sitting farther back were most likely going to the Gathering as well. Maybe I should check it out too.
It is strange being out at sea with no land in sight. In the very middle of the ocean, So much water. So vast. I wonder if there was any sea life below, all the way out here. I meditated and did yoga on the deck. Such a perfect place, right? While others took their cigarette breaks, I did my own deep breathing. I kept seeing Ivan during his work breaks in the lounge. We talked in a jumble of Italian, Portuguese and Spanish. It was all over the place but we understood each other no problem. Ivan had worked and lived in Africa which I found interesting. Angola for 6 years to be exact. He travelled for his work, not to travel. He really enjoyed being home in Bolonia, where he owned a large chunk of land and a 17th century stone farmhouse with 2 foot wide walls. He also enjoyed being Papa to his 10 year old and the single life. He was absolutely uninterested in a partner and preferred the “young” women in their early 20’s who would be happy just to have sex with him. He was very clear about that. Luckily I fall into that same category.
Land Ho in Lanzarote at 11pm
Ivan helped me down with all my luggage and I nervously got it all hooked on and tied up to try and exit the ferry before the giant containers full of continental goods for the isolated residents started being pulled off. We hugged goodbye and made vague plans to travel together some time. I had absolutely no plans and no idea where I would sleep that night but felt safe on this smallish island. I rode off the ferry, got checked out by the Guardia Civil, and headed up the coast. I was alone on the road, with Googlemaps. It was absolutely lovely. No cars, a few lights on. I biked through a tiny village that was too close to the port to stop. I kept going and then saw the ugly giant condo complexes all lit up in the distance. I had no choice but to keep going
on this lovely coastal road. My phone told me there was a dead end up ahead
and so I decided to set up camp on a large open field of lava and cacti with
no houses nearby. Not more than 5 minutes after setting up my tent, 4 young,
handsome local “policía” pulled up in their blue blinking lights with flashlights
in hand and began walking towards me through the lava. Already? Jeez. Must
have been a German in the one car that passed me while I was setting up
camp who called them. “Hola.” “Hola”. They had spotted me on their satellite
radar. Really? Apparently I was camped behind the King’s property, which
explains the dead end. They were intrigued by my bike tour, asked where I
was headed next and how long I’d be on the island, took my passport
number, my website, my phone number, and let me go as long as I left the
next morning. No problem. Thank God I can flirt in a few different langugages.
And act dumb. I wondered why they needed my number and website.
Perhaps el jefe was going to check me out...or invite me to dinner? “People
told me I could camp anywhere on the island.” “Noooo, solo en el camping
oficial.” “Pues, donde hay camping oficial?” “No hay aqui. Tienes que ir a
Fuerteventura.” So there were no official campgrounds on Lanzarote yet that
was the only place I was allowed to camp. However, they added, if you arrive
late and leave early and don’t stay for days, we don’t care. That’s what I
thought.
The wind on this island is horrific. At least right now and every day since I’ve been here. People say it’s not the norm at this time of year but it’s hard to believe. The whole island revolves around wind barriers made out of lava rocks. They are everywhere to shelter people and plants. All of the agriculture is designed to be low and hidden and out of the wind’s way. Even the fruit trees are trained to grow on flat horizontal trellises. Every single grapevine has its own private shelter. In terms of camping, my tent makes so much noise that it’s worse than the wind in terms of making it very difficult to get a goodnight’s sleep here. Something is definitely up with my eyes too. It’s like a déjà-vu of the poison oak in my eyes 5 or 6 years ago. Since then my eyes have never been the same. I was taking a yoga class at Esalen and stupidly put an anonymous eye pillow on my face during Savasana which, I soon found out, had someone’s poison oak on it. For one week I was blind. My kids did everything for me and for themselves. I sat on the bed humble and weepy. I had compassion for the blind. I finally surrendered to a steroid shot in the hospital and within hours the symptoms began fading away. Unbelieveable. And scary too. What the hell else was fading away I wondered? One positive symptom of the steroid shot was incredible physical flexibility. I was doing all the hardest yoga poses with ease. Anyway, my present condition started with some reddish bags under my eyes while in Conil. I thought...”Wow, am I that tired?” Even after a few good sleeps they were still there. And getting worse. On the boat I thought “How can this Ivan be attracted to me, lookin’ like such an old lady!” After my night in the King’s backyard, it was looking pretty bad, and the next two days I knew something was up besides lack of sleep.
The wind on this island is horrific. At least right now and every day since I’ve been here. People say it’s not the norm at this time of year but it’s hard to believe. The whole island revolves around wind barriers made out of lava rocks. They are everywhere to shelter people and plants. All of the agriculture is designed to be low and hidden and out of the wind’s way. Even the fruit trees are trained to grow on flat horizontal trellises. Every single grapevine has its own private shelter. In terms of camping, my tent makes so much noise that it’s worse than the wind in terms of making it very difficult to get a goodnight’s sleep here. Something is definitely up with my eyes too. It’s like a déjà-vu of the poison oak in my eyes 5 or 6 years ago. Since then my eyes have never been the same. I was taking a yoga class at Esalen and stupidly put an anonymous eye pillow on my face during Savasana which, I soon found out, had someone’s poison oak on it. For one week I was blind. My kids did everything for me and for themselves. I sat on the bed humble and weepy. I had compassion for the blind. I finally surrendered to a steroid shot in the hospital and within hours the symptoms began fading away. Unbelieveable. And scary too. What the hell else was fading away I wondered? One positive symptom of the steroid shot was incredible physical flexibility. I was doing all the hardest yoga poses with ease. Anyway, my present condition started with some reddish bags under my eyes while in Conil. I thought...”Wow, am I that tired?” Even after a few good sleeps they were still there. And getting worse. On the boat I thought “How can this Ivan be attracted to me, lookin’ like such an old lady!” After my night in the King’s backyard, it was looking pretty bad, and the next two days I knew something was up besides lack of sleep.
A wonderful super eco green couple I met through Maria who I met through
Valeria who is hosting my cob workshop in a few weeks invited me to stay in
their large house in Tahiche for a few nights. overlooking the capital Arrecife.
Arnoldo is an inventor and Playo is a teacher. Apart from 3 dogs and 2 cats,
their place is filled with “projects”, the life of the childless. Picking up all kinds
of unwanted and disposed of items to create a solar oven, a windmill, solar
hot water system, greywater system, rain-collection system and on and on,
they had everything you could need to create anything, pretty much. They
also, to my liking, had no garbage. Everything they used was recyclable or
compostable. It is the first house I have stepped into which has no “garbage
can”. I liked that. I was close to that in Santa Cruz despite living with 3 boys
and roommates. With 5 people we only used a half garbage can a week if
even. They also belonged to a “social money”
group on the island where people traded skills, produce, products, services, etc., to try and localize and de-monetize the island economy. The group started on Gran Canaria where it is 1000 strong. Playo is also getting involved in the new Spanish political party that is making strong headway in its presence on the local scene: it goes by the name of “Podemos!”. She has never been interested in politics until now and is working behind the scenes to grow the party here for the next elections. Apparently Lanzarote rates below 0 on the eco-conscious scale. Arnoldo told me he could be fined for putting solar panels on his house without permission which is pretty much impossible to get. Spain lags behind Germany and France and all of northern Europe in eco-friendly policies. This island should be energy autonomous just with windmills!
My eyes got worse and I had to stay an extra night to see if they got better. I am pretty good at knowing my body and so my diagnosis is either “too much heat” showing up as eczema, which I had on my fingers, and now spreading to my eyes. Perhaps the result of a fast and olive oil cleanse on Sunday in Conil since the eyes and liver are connected. Or, according to Arnoldo and Playo, maybe windburn. Between the south of Spain and these islands I have never experienced living in such wind-heavy locales. I also have had weepy eyes since the poison oak event. Basically my eyes were puffed up with red dry patches underneath. It made my already tired eyes look horrible with bright red deep creases . My energy is kind of low too. Perhaps some kind of food allergy? Maybe the fish was too good? Or had mercury?
I finally had to take off on Saturday to make some headway since I did want to visit the island for the week. I left a bunch of stuff with them and replaced it with food! I took off at 3pm and began a tortuous wind-beaten ride up the coast. I don’t know which is worse, a headwind or a sidewind. I thought I was going to crash into the metal railing to my right constantly, or head off the asphalt. Luckily I was on a secondary road that paralleled the highway the whole time. It was perfect. I made good mileage and came to the first village
group on the island where people traded skills, produce, products, services, etc., to try and localize and de-monetize the island economy. The group started on Gran Canaria where it is 1000 strong. Playo is also getting involved in the new Spanish political party that is making strong headway in its presence on the local scene: it goes by the name of “Podemos!”. She has never been interested in politics until now and is working behind the scenes to grow the party here for the next elections. Apparently Lanzarote rates below 0 on the eco-conscious scale. Arnoldo told me he could be fined for putting solar panels on his house without permission which is pretty much impossible to get. Spain lags behind Germany and France and all of northern Europe in eco-friendly policies. This island should be energy autonomous just with windmills!
My eyes got worse and I had to stay an extra night to see if they got better. I am pretty good at knowing my body and so my diagnosis is either “too much heat” showing up as eczema, which I had on my fingers, and now spreading to my eyes. Perhaps the result of a fast and olive oil cleanse on Sunday in Conil since the eyes and liver are connected. Or, according to Arnoldo and Playo, maybe windburn. Between the south of Spain and these islands I have never experienced living in such wind-heavy locales. I also have had weepy eyes since the poison oak event. Basically my eyes were puffed up with red dry patches underneath. It made my already tired eyes look horrible with bright red deep creases . My energy is kind of low too. Perhaps some kind of food allergy? Maybe the fish was too good? Or had mercury?
I finally had to take off on Saturday to make some headway since I did want to visit the island for the week. I left a bunch of stuff with them and replaced it with food! I took off at 3pm and began a tortuous wind-beaten ride up the coast. I don’t know which is worse, a headwind or a sidewind. I thought I was going to crash into the metal railing to my right constantly, or head off the asphalt. Luckily I was on a secondary road that paralleled the highway the whole time. It was perfect. I made good mileage and came to the first village
“Guatizá” in 90 minutes or so. I was pretty much solo the whole way save for
some muscly serious cyclists and a random lost vehicle. Big Nopal cacti
farms were the new norm. I had cut a paddle open and eaten it the first day,
and used it as a compress for my eyes. It felt right, bitter is good for liver and
aloe-type flesh good for burns and irritations. The village was white and
dainty and all the gardens were sown in red or black ground - up lava rock.
The small pores capture the drizzle water apparently, but there must be soil in
there too. I saw corn, tomatoes, beans, lettuce and some papaya trees.
That’s good that they can grow food here. I would be scared to live
somewhere where all the food comes from elsewhere, which must be mostly
the case here. It’s nice to see that people are making an effort to feed
themselves in this extreme geographic environment.
I decided to explore the backroads a bit and ended up taking one that left the town and headed towards the ocean, I hoped. I rode slowly and carefully through the beautiful patchworks of lava rock-walled parcels with their multiple plantations and colors. Little cones of rock piles signified the ownership of the parcel. Eventually, and to my happiness, the road came out just above “Charco del Palo”, the German nudist colony Arnoldo had told me about. I stayed and camped above it for the night, enjoying the quiet and the stars. Cussing my noisy tent, I decided to move out and sleepdirectly under the stars and had a much quieter time of it, though sleep was hard to come by, once again. Oh well. At least I don’t have to go to work...and I’m in the land of siestas.
The one constant on this island is the quickest weather changes I have ever experienced. The good thing, for the tourists anyway, is that the drizzles are absolutely harmless and last less than a minute. You cannot become attached to any momentary peek of sunshine in the least bit. Just enjoy it and let go ‘cause there are clouds pushing in for their turn to be frontline. The wind is a constant however and I have to say it’s getting old. There are professional cyclists circling the island combatting the wind every day, perhaps as part of their workout challenge. They come from cold rainy Europe to train down here in the winter as there is a nice asphalted circuit of “carreteras” taking you through a vast array of landscapes with little traffic. The island itself is about 40 miles long and maybe 15 miles wide. Like a big cycle track.
Sunday morning. Meditation. Yoga. View of the ocean. I packed it up after another German rye bread topped with avocado, tomato, goat cheese and olive oil breakfast. I can definitely live on that combo and it’s keeping me healthy and energized. I rolled down the hill into the famous nudist village, wondering if the northern Germans had taken it over or if there were locals that also indulged in the nude lifestyle. This is the kind of village where people walk around naked everywhere, including to and in the market. I headed for the beach, hungry to jump into the ocean which I had not even done yet. A
I decided to explore the backroads a bit and ended up taking one that left the town and headed towards the ocean, I hoped. I rode slowly and carefully through the beautiful patchworks of lava rock-walled parcels with their multiple plantations and colors. Little cones of rock piles signified the ownership of the parcel. Eventually, and to my happiness, the road came out just above “Charco del Palo”, the German nudist colony Arnoldo had told me about. I stayed and camped above it for the night, enjoying the quiet and the stars. Cussing my noisy tent, I decided to move out and sleepdirectly under the stars and had a much quieter time of it, though sleep was hard to come by, once again. Oh well. At least I don’t have to go to work...and I’m in the land of siestas.
The one constant on this island is the quickest weather changes I have ever experienced. The good thing, for the tourists anyway, is that the drizzles are absolutely harmless and last less than a minute. You cannot become attached to any momentary peek of sunshine in the least bit. Just enjoy it and let go ‘cause there are clouds pushing in for their turn to be frontline. The wind is a constant however and I have to say it’s getting old. There are professional cyclists circling the island combatting the wind every day, perhaps as part of their workout challenge. They come from cold rainy Europe to train down here in the winter as there is a nice asphalted circuit of “carreteras” taking you through a vast array of landscapes with little traffic. The island itself is about 40 miles long and maybe 15 miles wide. Like a big cycle track.
Sunday morning. Meditation. Yoga. View of the ocean. I packed it up after another German rye bread topped with avocado, tomato, goat cheese and olive oil breakfast. I can definitely live on that combo and it’s keeping me healthy and energized. I rolled down the hill into the famous nudist village, wondering if the northern Germans had taken it over or if there were locals that also indulged in the nude lifestyle. This is the kind of village where people walk around naked everywhere, including to and in the market. I headed for the beach, hungry to jump into the ocean which I had not even done yet. A
tall, thin, deep-voiced Croatian struck up a conversation and I inquired about
the existence of Canarians here. He said he did not know if there were
any...which answered my question. Damn Germans takin’ over again. I rolled
my bike towards the beautiful wind-protected grotto below where the
colonizers had created their own ocean water-fed turquoise swimming pool,
small sandy spots and lava-divided spaces to tan their hides privately yet
communally. There were about ten well-tanned bodies looking like cadavers,
motionless, in complete relaxation, and soaking up each fleeting moment of
sunshine with hunger. Ten adorable white-washed mini villas lined the beach,
front row seats to the beauty. A sagging volleyball net awaited the warmer
temperatures of March and April to be revived in this fun eclectic naked
community of international FKK (look it up!) adherents. I took off my clothes
with ease, as always, dipped my toes into the water to swim, and quickly
changed my plan, dissappointed in the cool temperature. I guess I expected
Florida, Cuba, Carribean temperatures. I am going to have to recalibrate and
use Santa Cruz as the reference if I’m going to take some serious swims
here.
I made my way back to the highway after realizing that the lava sand backroads were hidden danger zones for my Bike Friday and I. I fell twice within 15 minutes. The border between rideable and non-rideable black sand took absolute undivided attention to navigate successfully. I fell exactly the same way onto my poor left knee both times. Dang. No more clipped feet here. I hadn’t even tried to clip in and was totally caught off-guard. I calmed myself down, dabbed hydrogen peroxide on my bloody knee, rubbed Arnica in on the periphery, took 10 drops of Traumeel followed by Arnica pills, a few deep breaths for my helmeted head which had also hit the ground, and humbly walked my bike until I reached unquestionable hard ground.
Meandering through Mala, I noticed some sporadic bread ovens, veggie gardens in lava bedding and large cactus plantations. Mellow, dryland landscape. Perfect getaway for those fleeing the wet and cold. Lanzarote has no rain. Its only water comes from the desalinization plant that feeds the island. At least there’s an endless supply of it. I think it is a rare thing to have a truly desert island. Its latitude is that of the Sahara and the sands blow over the ocean apparently, only 40 miles away. To be surrounded by water and not to be able to benefit from rainwater or groundwater is a strange thirst- quenching existence. You gotta not be into lush, green and productive here.
What is nice here is that the distances are short. So if my daily ride is but ten miles I have covered 1/4 of the coast. Since I started at the center I am halfway to the top. Five miles of riding and I decided to stop in at my first tourist attraction, Jameos del Agua. I have no idea what that means or what I will find but only know it’s a big “archaeotectonic” site created by the most famous Lanzarotan the radical artist Cesar Manrique. The “archaeotectonic” interests the Geographer in me.
I made my way back to the highway after realizing that the lava sand backroads were hidden danger zones for my Bike Friday and I. I fell twice within 15 minutes. The border between rideable and non-rideable black sand took absolute undivided attention to navigate successfully. I fell exactly the same way onto my poor left knee both times. Dang. No more clipped feet here. I hadn’t even tried to clip in and was totally caught off-guard. I calmed myself down, dabbed hydrogen peroxide on my bloody knee, rubbed Arnica in on the periphery, took 10 drops of Traumeel followed by Arnica pills, a few deep breaths for my helmeted head which had also hit the ground, and humbly walked my bike until I reached unquestionable hard ground.
Meandering through Mala, I noticed some sporadic bread ovens, veggie gardens in lava bedding and large cactus plantations. Mellow, dryland landscape. Perfect getaway for those fleeing the wet and cold. Lanzarote has no rain. Its only water comes from the desalinization plant that feeds the island. At least there’s an endless supply of it. I think it is a rare thing to have a truly desert island. Its latitude is that of the Sahara and the sands blow over the ocean apparently, only 40 miles away. To be surrounded by water and not to be able to benefit from rainwater or groundwater is a strange thirst- quenching existence. You gotta not be into lush, green and productive here.
What is nice here is that the distances are short. So if my daily ride is but ten miles I have covered 1/4 of the coast. Since I started at the center I am halfway to the top. Five miles of riding and I decided to stop in at my first tourist attraction, Jameos del Agua. I have no idea what that means or what I will find but only know it’s a big “archaeotectonic” site created by the most famous Lanzarotan the radical artist Cesar Manrique. The “archaeotectonic” interests the Geographer in me.
I am quite astonished to find that this man has worked hard and long to take
an exposed lava tunnel, whose roof has caved in, and whose bottom is below
sea level and thus covered in a lake in which live a unique species of white
crab, and turned it gently and smilingly into a sanctuary of sorts. There are
soft meditative gongs and bells emanating from the speakers to create a
tranquil peaceful chamber as one walks around gazing at the unique nature-
based functional art installation. Twice a week this place turns into an
underground food and music/dance venue. Behind the restaurant is a non-
enterable downhill view of the 20-foot wide tunnel that continues towards the
ocean. Scary. I’ve never liked being underground in caves and tunnels. He
has even built an auditorium in one of the tunnel off shoots. It also slopes
down with all the light and sound fixtures attached to the lava ceiling and
walls. The sound must be amazing here. At $10 an
entrance fee, and $40 for the bi-weekly dinner and music night, this place must bring in a ton of money, thanks to Manrique.
It’s getting late and I need to find my home for the night. The ticketseller advises me to keep cycling north to a beach with windhshelters before I get into Orzola, which is 5 miles away. Luckily it’s a flat ride, more or less, and I just adjust to the wind ride and my slow pace. It is what it is and at least I am moving. Right? The landscape is red and black lava highlighted by small bushes of all types and bright-colored red and purple wildflowers. The beaches are rocky. The first sign of white sand will be my stop and thankfully someone has built a rideable “road” to the beach outcrop. Even more thankfully as I approach I realize that other angels have built lava rock enclosures as wind shelters with white sand floors. And someone has made a big lava heart on the ground to welcome me. And there is a beautiful little beach for swimming. Thank you thank you thank you is my mantra. I couldn’t be more grateful. I unload my camel and myself onto the windless sand floor and all I can do is smile, be happy, and eat. Tonight I’m really gonna sleep well.
A Hard Day’s Ride
It was hard to leave my “home” for the night, where I had the best sleep ever! I slept 13 hours and kept dreaming and dreaming, evidently feeling fully relaxed in this protected public spot by Mother Ocean. A couple of voices in the shelter next door brought me to my senses, as did the 11am time on my watch. It was yet another day of sun/cloud dance. I absolutely had to get into the water and check it out. I reluctantly peeled the sleeping bag away and met the day with some light stretches and chi gong, taking large energizing breaths of wind, and then skinny-dipped into the quiet low tide bay. The salt water was so fresh, so clean, so light. Probably the cleanest ocean ever seeing as I’m in the middle of the Atlantic on the deserted northern tip of this small island. I even drank some water and brushed my teeth with it. I always
entrance fee, and $40 for the bi-weekly dinner and music night, this place must bring in a ton of money, thanks to Manrique.
It’s getting late and I need to find my home for the night. The ticketseller advises me to keep cycling north to a beach with windhshelters before I get into Orzola, which is 5 miles away. Luckily it’s a flat ride, more or less, and I just adjust to the wind ride and my slow pace. It is what it is and at least I am moving. Right? The landscape is red and black lava highlighted by small bushes of all types and bright-colored red and purple wildflowers. The beaches are rocky. The first sign of white sand will be my stop and thankfully someone has built a rideable “road” to the beach outcrop. Even more thankfully as I approach I realize that other angels have built lava rock enclosures as wind shelters with white sand floors. And someone has made a big lava heart on the ground to welcome me. And there is a beautiful little beach for swimming. Thank you thank you thank you is my mantra. I couldn’t be more grateful. I unload my camel and myself onto the windless sand floor and all I can do is smile, be happy, and eat. Tonight I’m really gonna sleep well.
A Hard Day’s Ride
It was hard to leave my “home” for the night, where I had the best sleep ever! I slept 13 hours and kept dreaming and dreaming, evidently feeling fully relaxed in this protected public spot by Mother Ocean. A couple of voices in the shelter next door brought me to my senses, as did the 11am time on my watch. It was yet another day of sun/cloud dance. I absolutely had to get into the water and check it out. I reluctantly peeled the sleeping bag away and met the day with some light stretches and chi gong, taking large energizing breaths of wind, and then skinny-dipped into the quiet low tide bay. The salt water was so fresh, so clean, so light. Probably the cleanest ocean ever seeing as I’m in the middle of the Atlantic on the deserted northern tip of this small island. I even drank some water and brushed my teeth with it. I always
remember David Wolfe expounding on the health benefits of drinking clean
ocean water full of minerals and amino acids.
After another meal of German rye with toppings and an update of my blog, I took off at 2pm heading for Orzola, the northernmost pueblito on Lanzarote. It was an easy ride, mostly flat, with the wind beginning to help me now. The road was quiet save for cyclists and random rental cars. There was not much in terms of sandy beaches which made the beautiful ocean not super accessible unfortunately. People nonetheless trekked out to the small bits of sand outcrops to enjoy their winter vacation as best they could.
I arrived in Orzola in 15 minutes and stocked up on sugarless chocolate, 2 bananas, 2 pears, a red pepper and a lemon-infused local Tropical beer. Very conscious of the uphill ride ahead into the mountains, I chose my added weight carefully in terms of pros and cons, and then started on my 5 miles to the Mirador. The viewpoint is another nature-art installation by Manrique with an altitudinous outlook onto the sheer cliffs of the northwestern side of Lanzarote and the island La Graciosa, which has gotten top billing from everyone. I must say it was quite impressive to gaze directly over the 1650 foot vertical cliff like a big slide into the ocean.
As I sat at one of the tables with a tea to check my email, a beautiful tall athletic blond Czech woman named Iva in bike gear appraoched me with a big smile. Apparently the green beanie bag froggie I had rescued from the side of the road as an excuse to pause during one of the gnarliest grades was hers. She was thrilled! She would not have to go back down and back up to find him. I had passed it and decided to save it thinking it might belong to a small child that had dropped it out of the car window, who might notice it on my bike farther up ahead. Well it was a big child’s and it was her mascot. It had helped me too getting up the steep climbs and for that I thanked her. She felt bad taking it from me. Funny. Iva and her partner were fast touring the whole island, climbing all the volcanoes, squatting in abandoned buildings and partly-built sites, and getting their money’s worth of Lanzarote for one week. She was astonished I was riding alone. I was astonished she could hang with someone day in and day out. The more I ride alone the more I know it would be hard for me to travel with someone for too long as I am so enjoying going at my own pace and riding slowly. My small wheels don’t give me much choice but I am grateful for how
they are slowing me down actually. I get to notice the tiniest things like wildflowers, greens, fruit trees, houses, etc in detail. And stop to take photos continuously. Iva and her partner planned to go back to the Cactus wine and liquor farm to keep them warm in their squat house and I decided to keep going south and down out of the drizzly cold fog to find my own squat for the night. Five downhill miles later, in Máguez, I got off my bike and started to scout for my wind-protected abandoned old building campsite. It wasn’t hard
After another meal of German rye with toppings and an update of my blog, I took off at 2pm heading for Orzola, the northernmost pueblito on Lanzarote. It was an easy ride, mostly flat, with the wind beginning to help me now. The road was quiet save for cyclists and random rental cars. There was not much in terms of sandy beaches which made the beautiful ocean not super accessible unfortunately. People nonetheless trekked out to the small bits of sand outcrops to enjoy their winter vacation as best they could.
I arrived in Orzola in 15 minutes and stocked up on sugarless chocolate, 2 bananas, 2 pears, a red pepper and a lemon-infused local Tropical beer. Very conscious of the uphill ride ahead into the mountains, I chose my added weight carefully in terms of pros and cons, and then started on my 5 miles to the Mirador. The viewpoint is another nature-art installation by Manrique with an altitudinous outlook onto the sheer cliffs of the northwestern side of Lanzarote and the island La Graciosa, which has gotten top billing from everyone. I must say it was quite impressive to gaze directly over the 1650 foot vertical cliff like a big slide into the ocean.
As I sat at one of the tables with a tea to check my email, a beautiful tall athletic blond Czech woman named Iva in bike gear appraoched me with a big smile. Apparently the green beanie bag froggie I had rescued from the side of the road as an excuse to pause during one of the gnarliest grades was hers. She was thrilled! She would not have to go back down and back up to find him. I had passed it and decided to save it thinking it might belong to a small child that had dropped it out of the car window, who might notice it on my bike farther up ahead. Well it was a big child’s and it was her mascot. It had helped me too getting up the steep climbs and for that I thanked her. She felt bad taking it from me. Funny. Iva and her partner were fast touring the whole island, climbing all the volcanoes, squatting in abandoned buildings and partly-built sites, and getting their money’s worth of Lanzarote for one week. She was astonished I was riding alone. I was astonished she could hang with someone day in and day out. The more I ride alone the more I know it would be hard for me to travel with someone for too long as I am so enjoying going at my own pace and riding slowly. My small wheels don’t give me much choice but I am grateful for how
they are slowing me down actually. I get to notice the tiniest things like wildflowers, greens, fruit trees, houses, etc in detail. And stop to take photos continuously. Iva and her partner planned to go back to the Cactus wine and liquor farm to keep them warm in their squat house and I decided to keep going south and down out of the drizzly cold fog to find my own squat for the night. Five downhill miles later, in Máguez, I got off my bike and started to scout for my wind-protected abandoned old building campsite. It wasn’t hard
to find. It seems the whole village is abandoned. Looking behind an old ruin
complex I found an alleyway that led me to a perfect spot between two large
buttresses and below the windline. I love Europe. So many options. On this
trip I have really let go of the fears I had the first time around as I camped in
hunting grounds, agricultural fields, on the side of the bike paths, on the
beach...not knowing if I was illegal or trespassing. Every potential human or
animal footstep sound, whether real or imagined, shook my heart into action.
This time around I have grown and opened my heart more into love and trust,
knowing that most likely noone would mind my discrete use of a small plot for
my tent for one night. Even the cops are cool with it. I sure would not mind at
all. And so this trip is different for me, at my mature 50. I see the world and
people as more new potential friends first. And my list is growing quickly and
widely.
An Even Harder Day’s Ride
I had been warned over and over about the topography that lay ahead. “Oh my! You are going to Haría? Watch out for those super steep hairpin turns leaving Haría. Better to go the other flat route to Teguise”. Problem is I already took that route up and there’s nothing I wantto do less than retrack my route. Besides, I love challenges. The only time my little tires really feel like annoying little tires is on nasty small rock-encrusted roads where my whole inner landscape gets shaken up, as does my bike hardware. It’s soooo annoying. Otherwise, they are kind of unnoticeable. Riding the steep hairpin turns was way easier than everyone had described. For some reason they are an optical illusion. Something with the way the landscape is cut relative to the grade makes the cars look much more sloped than the road they are on actually is. So with each hairpin I was pleasantly surprised with an “I can do this no problem” - positive thinking at it’s finest. I got up that grade in 15 minutes, swiftly passed by all the luggage-less pro cyclists and making them feel good I guess.
What followed was better than any drug-induced trip I am sure. I went downhill pedal-free for what seemed like a good 20 minutes. Soooo worth the struggles against the wind and uphill of the days before. I got to Teguise and, as a reward, treated myself to $30 worth of organic foods most of which I ate on the spot. A small German-owned “Bio” cafe had everything you could need for your food needs from bulk nuts and seeds to produce to local local fresh goat cheese to gluten-free homemade rice bread and homemade ready-to- eat polenta goat cheese tomato spinach tartlets, empanadas with mixed veggie filling and a sugar-free gluten-free everything bad for you-free vegan orange ginger tart that went for $3.50 for a 1-inch slice. I tried everything. Minuted later I was empty again.
I am meeting so many wonderful people on the road and they are all wanting to be added to my blog list. After this trip I will have readers on all continents
An Even Harder Day’s Ride
I had been warned over and over about the topography that lay ahead. “Oh my! You are going to Haría? Watch out for those super steep hairpin turns leaving Haría. Better to go the other flat route to Teguise”. Problem is I already took that route up and there’s nothing I wantto do less than retrack my route. Besides, I love challenges. The only time my little tires really feel like annoying little tires is on nasty small rock-encrusted roads where my whole inner landscape gets shaken up, as does my bike hardware. It’s soooo annoying. Otherwise, they are kind of unnoticeable. Riding the steep hairpin turns was way easier than everyone had described. For some reason they are an optical illusion. Something with the way the landscape is cut relative to the grade makes the cars look much more sloped than the road they are on actually is. So with each hairpin I was pleasantly surprised with an “I can do this no problem” - positive thinking at it’s finest. I got up that grade in 15 minutes, swiftly passed by all the luggage-less pro cyclists and making them feel good I guess.
What followed was better than any drug-induced trip I am sure. I went downhill pedal-free for what seemed like a good 20 minutes. Soooo worth the struggles against the wind and uphill of the days before. I got to Teguise and, as a reward, treated myself to $30 worth of organic foods most of which I ate on the spot. A small German-owned “Bio” cafe had everything you could need for your food needs from bulk nuts and seeds to produce to local local fresh goat cheese to gluten-free homemade rice bread and homemade ready-to- eat polenta goat cheese tomato spinach tartlets, empanadas with mixed veggie filling and a sugar-free gluten-free everything bad for you-free vegan orange ginger tart that went for $3.50 for a 1-inch slice. I tried everything. Minuted later I was empty again.
I am meeting so many wonderful people on the road and they are all wanting to be added to my blog list. After this trip I will have readers on all continents
and in all countries. By the time my book gets published...it will have already
been read by many.
Eventually I made it to Famara, after a long-ass bumpy secondary road ride from hell in the headwind. I saw the beach ahead but it never seemed to get closer. Famara is the kitesurf and surf mecca of the island. It is the epitome of a surfer town, with a small cluster of cool little terraced apartments, eateries, surf schools and bar/cafes as well as masseuses and yoga classes all in support of the surfers. It reminded me of Isla Vista in Santa Barbara where I went to college. Easy little informal town which lived for the surf. While I was there the wind was so horrific. I could not believe anyone would want to hang out in that, kitesurfing or not. The sand blew everywhere. The wind never stopped. There was even a red flag out forbidding entry into the water. Still, some daring adventurers crossed the flag and later that night, helicopters flew overhead looking for bodies that had apparently abandoned their kites and boards. Dang. Scary shit.
I got lucky and, while the only accomodations are surf houses for surf camp students in this town, J let me have a room for the night. I shared a very comfortable outfitted apartment with a Spanish couple who came down for the week to surf for $250 for classes and accomodations and unfortunately had been jipped by the wind. I also met this wild tattooed Austrian rave musician DJ with his hipster saggy jeans and red Hurley cap who spoke so loudly and enthusiastically. I wondered if that was the Austrian way or he was on something. Very friendly he was.
The next morning I took off to Tao, with “el viento en el culo” as J said. The wind at my butt. And the ride was quite enjoyable, one of the easiest, flat with tailwind. Life was lookin sweet. The only thing was that the sun was out for the first time in a while and my red sore flesh under my eyes that was slowly healing took another hit. At least that’s what it seems to be. I arrived in Tao at Kalindi Lanzarote, my home away from home, with Roy and Noehmi at the helm. They offered me 3 nights in exchange for my Cob course next week and I took it happily. They have a really sweet eco-spiritual rural hostal in which each room is decorated in a different element: fire, water, air, earth and metal. The guests have a giant kitchen and yoga class in the morning and an optional Nopal cactus detox program. They are a Spanish couple from Barcelona: she, a tall vibrant beautiful strong Aries, and he a small, lean and very easy-going healthy healer Cancer. They make an unusual couple at first but then it kind of makes sense. Roy is a Tantra massage therapist and goes down to the “Swingers’ Resorts” in Puerto del Carmen and teaches women how to spread their orgasmic energy into their hearts and grow their love. He has a very pleasant enlightened energy about him. For the detox guests Roy basically walks them through the day and schedules each moment and each juice, broth, smoothie taylored to the individual. The location is in the middle of the countryside with a big open view. The only odd thing about the place is
Eventually I made it to Famara, after a long-ass bumpy secondary road ride from hell in the headwind. I saw the beach ahead but it never seemed to get closer. Famara is the kitesurf and surf mecca of the island. It is the epitome of a surfer town, with a small cluster of cool little terraced apartments, eateries, surf schools and bar/cafes as well as masseuses and yoga classes all in support of the surfers. It reminded me of Isla Vista in Santa Barbara where I went to college. Easy little informal town which lived for the surf. While I was there the wind was so horrific. I could not believe anyone would want to hang out in that, kitesurfing or not. The sand blew everywhere. The wind never stopped. There was even a red flag out forbidding entry into the water. Still, some daring adventurers crossed the flag and later that night, helicopters flew overhead looking for bodies that had apparently abandoned their kites and boards. Dang. Scary shit.
I got lucky and, while the only accomodations are surf houses for surf camp students in this town, J let me have a room for the night. I shared a very comfortable outfitted apartment with a Spanish couple who came down for the week to surf for $250 for classes and accomodations and unfortunately had been jipped by the wind. I also met this wild tattooed Austrian rave musician DJ with his hipster saggy jeans and red Hurley cap who spoke so loudly and enthusiastically. I wondered if that was the Austrian way or he was on something. Very friendly he was.
The next morning I took off to Tao, with “el viento en el culo” as J said. The wind at my butt. And the ride was quite enjoyable, one of the easiest, flat with tailwind. Life was lookin sweet. The only thing was that the sun was out for the first time in a while and my red sore flesh under my eyes that was slowly healing took another hit. At least that’s what it seems to be. I arrived in Tao at Kalindi Lanzarote, my home away from home, with Roy and Noehmi at the helm. They offered me 3 nights in exchange for my Cob course next week and I took it happily. They have a really sweet eco-spiritual rural hostal in which each room is decorated in a different element: fire, water, air, earth and metal. The guests have a giant kitchen and yoga class in the morning and an optional Nopal cactus detox program. They are a Spanish couple from Barcelona: she, a tall vibrant beautiful strong Aries, and he a small, lean and very easy-going healthy healer Cancer. They make an unusual couple at first but then it kind of makes sense. Roy is a Tantra massage therapist and goes down to the “Swingers’ Resorts” in Puerto del Carmen and teaches women how to spread their orgasmic energy into their hearts and grow their love. He has a very pleasant enlightened energy about him. For the detox guests Roy basically walks them through the day and schedules each moment and each juice, broth, smoothie taylored to the individual. The location is in the middle of the countryside with a big open view. The only odd thing about the place is
the ever-present ongoing sickly grunt of some local goat mother the like of
which I have never heard before. When I asked them about it, they say she
just gave birth. It sounds as if she is still giving birth. I have met wonderful
people here and tomorrow have to pull myself out of the comfort of this bed I
have been sitting on for two days to face the wind and sun again on my sweet
little bike to head 20 miles southeast towards Playa Blanca where I will catch
the boat to Fuerteventura.
FUERTEVENTURA
Vacation Time
Today is my first official day of rest in 3 weeks. Clearly there was never a moment to write from the moment I stepped foot on Fuerteventura. This I should have expected upon arriving into the whirlwind environment of another single Aries mom with endless projects! I have sat all day in or around my tent, Vision Quest-style, nestled into a circular lava rock wind shelter on the “North Shore” of Fuerteventura near the quaint surfer mecca of El Cotillo. Elder, deeply-tanned, slow and well-worn northern European bodies circulate the beach and visit each others’ lava compounds. They arrive early in the morning as it’s first-come first-serve, and set up their windbreak tents, their clothes-drying line, their beach chairs, their snack bars, their nap zones and their activity centers, all within the confines of their 50 square foot lava-walled domains. When the sun comes out the layers begin to come off and the years of drinking, over-eating, lack of exercise and stress come to light. The deep uniform full-body tans help to camouflage the folds, bulges and dimples, making them more “European”. Here they are in Heaven. They walk up and down th beach all day, take short plunges into the “lagos” or ocean-fed swimming pools protected by the encirclements of lava rock, and basically just “be”. Like at home, they have their individual dwellings which they make their own for the day, and then enjoy visiting each others’ to see how they’ve decided to set them up. It is all very sweet.
As I awoke late this morning, huddled into my sleeping bag under the morning sky, I heard some Swedish-sounding banter in my surroundings. Little did I know I had usurped some couple’s favorite spot next to their friends. When I went over to the couple next door to advise them of being careful of the embers in the sand from our bonfire last night, the male glowered at me, his red face reddening, and spouted: “Did you know you are not allowed to make fires here and that you are not allowed to sleep here?” I retorted that my local friends had made the fire and did he
have a probem with me sleeping there? “Yes!” he said, “and I have a problem with you!” His beet red angry face was a foot from mine. I was taken aback that these usually nice cool Swedes could be so feisty, and so far from their frigid home. I asked him if he was Swedish to change the subject and to see if
FUERTEVENTURA
Vacation Time
Today is my first official day of rest in 3 weeks. Clearly there was never a moment to write from the moment I stepped foot on Fuerteventura. This I should have expected upon arriving into the whirlwind environment of another single Aries mom with endless projects! I have sat all day in or around my tent, Vision Quest-style, nestled into a circular lava rock wind shelter on the “North Shore” of Fuerteventura near the quaint surfer mecca of El Cotillo. Elder, deeply-tanned, slow and well-worn northern European bodies circulate the beach and visit each others’ lava compounds. They arrive early in the morning as it’s first-come first-serve, and set up their windbreak tents, their clothes-drying line, their beach chairs, their snack bars, their nap zones and their activity centers, all within the confines of their 50 square foot lava-walled domains. When the sun comes out the layers begin to come off and the years of drinking, over-eating, lack of exercise and stress come to light. The deep uniform full-body tans help to camouflage the folds, bulges and dimples, making them more “European”. Here they are in Heaven. They walk up and down th beach all day, take short plunges into the “lagos” or ocean-fed swimming pools protected by the encirclements of lava rock, and basically just “be”. Like at home, they have their individual dwellings which they make their own for the day, and then enjoy visiting each others’ to see how they’ve decided to set them up. It is all very sweet.
As I awoke late this morning, huddled into my sleeping bag under the morning sky, I heard some Swedish-sounding banter in my surroundings. Little did I know I had usurped some couple’s favorite spot next to their friends. When I went over to the couple next door to advise them of being careful of the embers in the sand from our bonfire last night, the male glowered at me, his red face reddening, and spouted: “Did you know you are not allowed to make fires here and that you are not allowed to sleep here?” I retorted that my local friends had made the fire and did he
have a probem with me sleeping there? “Yes!” he said, “and I have a problem with you!” His beet red angry face was a foot from mine. I was taken aback that these usually nice cool Swedes could be so feisty, and so far from their frigid home. I asked him if he was Swedish to change the subject and to see if
I had guessed correctly. He was temporarily distracted and perhaps
concerned about the significance of my inquiry and did not reply. With light
nonchalance I mentioned how we are all on this Planet together and now
enjoying this island together and why be so angry and besides it’s not even
your island let alone your country! He got quiet and cowered away under the
quiet vigilance of his more peaceful partner. Tomorrow I will post my secret
photo of their buttocks patroling their “territory” and organizing their lava
condo...
I have taken a vacation from my vacation. Haha. After 2 weeks of full-time cob labor which included a very productive 3-day workshop that brought in $1200 (1/3 of what I would make in the States but a big success for my first one on an island where I knew noone and the promotion started three weeks before) and three very delicious meals a day in a quaint village called Los Estancos, I am complete. I need to minimize my actual physical labor now that I am a Cob Master, and stay in the directing role. While I so enjoy the ultimate letdown at the end of a day of pure physical labor, my body fully relaxed of all tension, free to eat to my Heart’s desire, and so ready for a good sleep...my well-worn wrists and back prefer to stay in the teaching role these days. I guess after years of direct involvement between the Earth and a Building going up, or coming down, I can relish in my knowledge and experience and lead the way for others now. The Wise Elder role is new.
Valeria’s Homestead
Thus my first international cob workshop was a great success!!!! Twenty people showed up raring to go. That is more than I ever had in any of my U.S. workshops. Working with my fellow Aries sister and single mother, Valeria, could not have been more perfect for getting the job done. Valeria is, like me, mostly action. Nothing is too hard, nothing is impossible, we relish in figuring things out quickly, creatively, cheaply and organically. We especially get fired up when people say: “Not possible!” or “Can’t do it!” And even more if they are males, especially Alpha Male types, like her annoying boyfriend Javier. Our kinship across the cultural and idiomatic differences is phenomenal. Watching her parent her mixed Indian-Italian teenage kids is a blast from the past. And now here I sit in utter calmness, looking from without, and sharing words of wisdom while allowing myself to intervene when it is absolutely impossible not to. “MAAAAAA, the Internet.....MAAAAA the cell phone....MAAAAA I don’t want to eat.....MAAAAAA why not.....MAAAAAA come on.......”
Fabrizio, Jeromine and I do all we can to not slap Vijay in the face. Like a routine, the moment we sit down to eat our well-earned lunch with Valeria, the broken record starts. And to top it off, Valeria is unknowingly part of the darned routine too: a dysfunctional mother-son dynamic that goes back and forth every day on the clock right at lunchtime. The three of us sit tensely and
I have taken a vacation from my vacation. Haha. After 2 weeks of full-time cob labor which included a very productive 3-day workshop that brought in $1200 (1/3 of what I would make in the States but a big success for my first one on an island where I knew noone and the promotion started three weeks before) and three very delicious meals a day in a quaint village called Los Estancos, I am complete. I need to minimize my actual physical labor now that I am a Cob Master, and stay in the directing role. While I so enjoy the ultimate letdown at the end of a day of pure physical labor, my body fully relaxed of all tension, free to eat to my Heart’s desire, and so ready for a good sleep...my well-worn wrists and back prefer to stay in the teaching role these days. I guess after years of direct involvement between the Earth and a Building going up, or coming down, I can relish in my knowledge and experience and lead the way for others now. The Wise Elder role is new.
Valeria’s Homestead
Thus my first international cob workshop was a great success!!!! Twenty people showed up raring to go. That is more than I ever had in any of my U.S. workshops. Working with my fellow Aries sister and single mother, Valeria, could not have been more perfect for getting the job done. Valeria is, like me, mostly action. Nothing is too hard, nothing is impossible, we relish in figuring things out quickly, creatively, cheaply and organically. We especially get fired up when people say: “Not possible!” or “Can’t do it!” And even more if they are males, especially Alpha Male types, like her annoying boyfriend Javier. Our kinship across the cultural and idiomatic differences is phenomenal. Watching her parent her mixed Indian-Italian teenage kids is a blast from the past. And now here I sit in utter calmness, looking from without, and sharing words of wisdom while allowing myself to intervene when it is absolutely impossible not to. “MAAAAAA, the Internet.....MAAAAA the cell phone....MAAAAA I don’t want to eat.....MAAAAAA why not.....MAAAAAA come on.......”
Fabrizio, Jeromine and I do all we can to not slap Vijay in the face. Like a routine, the moment we sit down to eat our well-earned lunch with Valeria, the broken record starts. And to top it off, Valeria is unknowingly part of the darned routine too: a dysfunctional mother-son dynamic that goes back and forth every day on the clock right at lunchtime. The three of us sit tensely and
try not to say anything lest our digestion be hampered. Each day it gets
harder. Thirteen-year old Vijay wants to use the Internet and the cell phone.
He has just returned from school and will not eat lunch. “But MAAAAA, why
not? I’m not hungry. You saaaaiiid...” “Is your room clean?” “Yes, I cleaned my
room.” “Did you fold your laundry?” “Whaaaaat? You didn’t say I had to fold
my laundry! Where’s the justice here? There’s no justice in this house!” And
Valeria turns back to us with full apparent composure as if nothing has
happened. That’s a tough one. To me it’s clear as day now, in retrospect of
course. Sit down with your child, with full attention, and make a plan and stick
to it. Period. Be consistent with the rules and consistent with the
consequences. And that’s all there is to it.
At this point I am comfortable enough to sit her down, Mama to Mama, and set her straight. Valeria is a non-stop ball of Aries action and creation and getting things done with minimal necessary structure and time to think things through. Like me, in my younger days (haha), the stimulation is in the doing and seeing things happen and go up as soon as possible while single parenting 2 or 3 young people (no co-parent in sight), working outside of the house for money, and
being the sole manager of the household. Our Aries nature is not content with just being Mom.
Our identity needs to be fed with other activites and, more importantly, other challenges that fuel our need to accomplish what others see as the impossible. Our core need is to be the inspiration, to model pure connection between Source and Manifestation, and help others rise to their Personal Best....making the world full of Personal Bests. Bottom line is: If a single mom of three, solo parenting, can pull all this magic off...then anyone can. No excuses. At least that’s my take on it. We are here to show what is possible when one is determined and willing to do the footwork.
So the two of us have launched the workshop with a professional flyer and the Internet (how else?) with 3 weeks notice. Luckily, we have been blessed with the savvy unexpected help of an Italian radical powerhouse who has arrived on Fuerteventura to launch his custom version of problem- free Aquaponics on a thirsty island hungry for independence from the mainland. Fabrizzio humbly takes on the 8 hours a day of preparation for the workshop: moving rocks, clay, sand, screening dirt, building a rock foundation, building frames, cleaning an absolute chaotic mess of an artist’s studio, and helping to turn it into a clean and organized workshop site within a few days. The task seems huge however Fabrizzio is dealing with two middle-aged menopausal Aries SuperMoms and thus he will soon learn that NOTHING is impossible. Luckily he is an easy-going humorous Libra and takes nothing personally and will flow in any direction happily. However he is also a Dragon, like me, which makes us highly compatible and sparky together, which I would soon realize,
At this point I am comfortable enough to sit her down, Mama to Mama, and set her straight. Valeria is a non-stop ball of Aries action and creation and getting things done with minimal necessary structure and time to think things through. Like me, in my younger days (haha), the stimulation is in the doing and seeing things happen and go up as soon as possible while single parenting 2 or 3 young people (no co-parent in sight), working outside of the house for money, and
being the sole manager of the household. Our Aries nature is not content with just being Mom.
Our identity needs to be fed with other activites and, more importantly, other challenges that fuel our need to accomplish what others see as the impossible. Our core need is to be the inspiration, to model pure connection between Source and Manifestation, and help others rise to their Personal Best....making the world full of Personal Bests. Bottom line is: If a single mom of three, solo parenting, can pull all this magic off...then anyone can. No excuses. At least that’s my take on it. We are here to show what is possible when one is determined and willing to do the footwork.
So the two of us have launched the workshop with a professional flyer and the Internet (how else?) with 3 weeks notice. Luckily, we have been blessed with the savvy unexpected help of an Italian radical powerhouse who has arrived on Fuerteventura to launch his custom version of problem- free Aquaponics on a thirsty island hungry for independence from the mainland. Fabrizzio humbly takes on the 8 hours a day of preparation for the workshop: moving rocks, clay, sand, screening dirt, building a rock foundation, building frames, cleaning an absolute chaotic mess of an artist’s studio, and helping to turn it into a clean and organized workshop site within a few days. The task seems huge however Fabrizzio is dealing with two middle-aged menopausal Aries SuperMoms and thus he will soon learn that NOTHING is impossible. Luckily he is an easy-going humorous Libra and takes nothing personally and will flow in any direction happily. However he is also a Dragon, like me, which makes us highly compatible and sparky together, which I would soon realize,
making my whole experience on Fuerteventura that much more enjoyable
and interesting.
On Thursday we are joined by 25-year old Jeromine, a French Rainbow Gathering groupie who I met on the 32-hour boat ride from Cádiz. She is ready for the unexpected and motivated to learn to build her own house with mud and stone. She is travelling with the whole Tom Brown, Jr. library of survival skill literature in her pack and read one after the other during the boatride to distract from her seasickness. Jeromine is the epitome of the Santa Cruz Earth Child as we know them with a twist of south of France. She adds a gentle, shy and very quiet touch to our rambunctious original trio. She starts out with great difficulty unused to the heavy work of moving Earth, sifting it, mixing cob and building which takes getting used to for the average folk. Fortunately our Italian Stallion comes to the rescue with humor and companionship, easing the pain of the 8-hour days she has committed to in preparing for and supporting the workshop. Better yet, she finds her way into the kitchen prep activity and remains there for the 3 days of the workshop, helping to feed the voracious Earthworkers.
Fuerteventura Cob Workshop
While I know I am one of the rare multilingual Americans I know, in Europe I am not so special for my language skills, apart from being an American. To travel abroad and be able to connect and communicate meaningfully with the locals is what I’m about, hence the importance in my life of acquiring decent language skills for all the areas I want to visit. However, teaching a workshop in a foreign language that you feel fluent in really puts into question your fluency. Not only was I lecturing in Spanish but I had to also prepare all of my posters in Spanish. Thus I began to acquire a new cob vocabulary en Español which now prepares me to teach in Latin America and the Carribbean. Somehow the Angels were with me easing the flow from my innate storehouse of words needed to get the message across, and of course the students enjoyed participating in the charades. Needless to say I learned alot of new words in those three days.
Each workshop I teach is an adventure into the unkown. The materials are often different, the ground is different, the structure is different, the students are different and the hosts are different. Therefore on my end I need to pull it all together to make everyone get what they are there for and come out happy with their experience. I revel in this balancing act which requires quick thinking, quick decisions, felxibility, compassion, openness, positivism and trust. Mainly trust in the COB, which is ever forgiving, fortunately. Over and over I am impressed with the range of error COB permits. Cob building is made for people like me who don’t like unbreakable rules. With cob you have freedom as long as you “get” the basic principles and stay connected to the
On Thursday we are joined by 25-year old Jeromine, a French Rainbow Gathering groupie who I met on the 32-hour boat ride from Cádiz. She is ready for the unexpected and motivated to learn to build her own house with mud and stone. She is travelling with the whole Tom Brown, Jr. library of survival skill literature in her pack and read one after the other during the boatride to distract from her seasickness. Jeromine is the epitome of the Santa Cruz Earth Child as we know them with a twist of south of France. She adds a gentle, shy and very quiet touch to our rambunctious original trio. She starts out with great difficulty unused to the heavy work of moving Earth, sifting it, mixing cob and building which takes getting used to for the average folk. Fortunately our Italian Stallion comes to the rescue with humor and companionship, easing the pain of the 8-hour days she has committed to in preparing for and supporting the workshop. Better yet, she finds her way into the kitchen prep activity and remains there for the 3 days of the workshop, helping to feed the voracious Earthworkers.
Fuerteventura Cob Workshop
While I know I am one of the rare multilingual Americans I know, in Europe I am not so special for my language skills, apart from being an American. To travel abroad and be able to connect and communicate meaningfully with the locals is what I’m about, hence the importance in my life of acquiring decent language skills for all the areas I want to visit. However, teaching a workshop in a foreign language that you feel fluent in really puts into question your fluency. Not only was I lecturing in Spanish but I had to also prepare all of my posters in Spanish. Thus I began to acquire a new cob vocabulary en Español which now prepares me to teach in Latin America and the Carribbean. Somehow the Angels were with me easing the flow from my innate storehouse of words needed to get the message across, and of course the students enjoyed participating in the charades. Needless to say I learned alot of new words in those three days.
Each workshop I teach is an adventure into the unkown. The materials are often different, the ground is different, the structure is different, the students are different and the hosts are different. Therefore on my end I need to pull it all together to make everyone get what they are there for and come out happy with their experience. I revel in this balancing act which requires quick thinking, quick decisions, felxibility, compassion, openness, positivism and trust. Mainly trust in the COB, which is ever forgiving, fortunately. Over and over I am impressed with the range of error COB permits. Cob building is made for people like me who don’t like unbreakable rules. With cob you have freedom as long as you “get” the basic principles and stay connected to the
evolution of the materials through the building process. These can change
during a building process due to the
need to expand the source to new areas. Thus it is crucial that one begins his/her cob odyssey with a workshop to get the basics down. It does not take long, and once you do, your choices are limitless. For the rest of your life you will be free to build fo free. With only those boring building inspectors the same the world over to watch out for...lest they fuck your life up for many years.
The incredible gratitude I have to the Universe for bringing me so many students hungry to learn on this island in the middle of the Atlantic where I have never been fills me. Cobbing makes people happy. Laughter, movement, talking, playing, artistic meditation, fulfillment, pleasure, pride, and health are all the gifts one receives experiencing a workshop or being on a work site. I think that this as much as the benefit of spreading the beauty of cob buildings all over the planet, especially in the undeveloped “developed” world is why I keep doing this.I do however want more. Ecovillage trainings in the political, economic, social, spiritual realm is my direction. I do want to expnd my mental bilities as I move into the wise elder role. And do my work in this way.
Fuerteventura Freeflow
So I am off on the road again to spend My Birthday on the beaches of El Cotillo meditating with the Total Eclipse and honoring the Spring Equinox, all on March 20th for the first time since 1662. This island is utterly chill, relaxed, small, easy to get around on and, because of the big ships coming in weekly, has everything you need. It could never sustain the population on it as things are however. Tourism is the #1 income source. Most food comes from Tenerife and Gran Canaria and España of course. This is why Fabrizio has come, to support local growers in expanding their production and reducing water use, which is all desal water.
During my time on the North end of the island, which most cool people here concur is the best part of the island to live on, I met Melthiades, a one-man show organic grower who provides restaurants and food stores with his fresh lively produce that he mothers with care protecting it form the wind and intense heat of summer and providing the moisture drop by drop. He came here 20 years ago for the windsurfing and surfing and now never gets a chance to enjoy those sports anymore. He runs around as busily and energetically as if he were in the US, like my farmer friends in Santa Cruz. He cruises the whole island daily delivering his precious produce and manages the island-wide compost operation at the County Headquarters in Puerto del Rosario. Giant piles of steaming compost which are then sold to farmers! He too is ready for COB. He wants to finish his partially-built conventional house
need to expand the source to new areas. Thus it is crucial that one begins his/her cob odyssey with a workshop to get the basics down. It does not take long, and once you do, your choices are limitless. For the rest of your life you will be free to build fo free. With only those boring building inspectors the same the world over to watch out for...lest they fuck your life up for many years.
The incredible gratitude I have to the Universe for bringing me so many students hungry to learn on this island in the middle of the Atlantic where I have never been fills me. Cobbing makes people happy. Laughter, movement, talking, playing, artistic meditation, fulfillment, pleasure, pride, and health are all the gifts one receives experiencing a workshop or being on a work site. I think that this as much as the benefit of spreading the beauty of cob buildings all over the planet, especially in the undeveloped “developed” world is why I keep doing this.I do however want more. Ecovillage trainings in the political, economic, social, spiritual realm is my direction. I do want to expnd my mental bilities as I move into the wise elder role. And do my work in this way.
Fuerteventura Freeflow
So I am off on the road again to spend My Birthday on the beaches of El Cotillo meditating with the Total Eclipse and honoring the Spring Equinox, all on March 20th for the first time since 1662. This island is utterly chill, relaxed, small, easy to get around on and, because of the big ships coming in weekly, has everything you need. It could never sustain the population on it as things are however. Tourism is the #1 income source. Most food comes from Tenerife and Gran Canaria and España of course. This is why Fabrizio has come, to support local growers in expanding their production and reducing water use, which is all desal water.
During my time on the North end of the island, which most cool people here concur is the best part of the island to live on, I met Melthiades, a one-man show organic grower who provides restaurants and food stores with his fresh lively produce that he mothers with care protecting it form the wind and intense heat of summer and providing the moisture drop by drop. He came here 20 years ago for the windsurfing and surfing and now never gets a chance to enjoy those sports anymore. He runs around as busily and energetically as if he were in the US, like my farmer friends in Santa Cruz. He cruises the whole island daily delivering his precious produce and manages the island-wide compost operation at the County Headquarters in Puerto del Rosario. Giant piles of steaming compost which are then sold to farmers! He too is ready for COB. He wants to finish his partially-built conventional house
with COB! Within a few hours of business meeting on the nude beach (me not
him), we have concretized a plan for me to return in the summer and lead a
crew of ten for two weeks. Melthiades is a creative thinker and I like that. For
a Virgo, unusual. He suggests his giant rototiller mixer as the daily cob maker
easing the workload and reducing the construction time so that all the
volunteer builders will be ONLY building every day. And if things are as hot
and windy as they say it is in August, we will be putting on 2 feet a day I am
sure, thereby finishing up the job in record time! And for this I will be paid
$125 a day! Half of my US pay but hey, I have no expenses! $1500 over two
weeks with the plane ticket paid, fed and lodged. $1500 is 3 months of travel
expenses more or less. I will finish my journey with more money than what I
started with, for sure! I am most definitely in the flow of my Soul Purpose.
Blessed be, blessed be. And somewhere along the way, dear Goddess,
please bring me my next Soulmate Partner who is available and free to work
and travel together, someone with grown kids, someone international and
multilingual, someone sexy and sensual, someone healthy and fit, mentally
and physically, someone who can live in the Carribbean and Europe,
someone I have a deep connection with.
I am ready.
Lajares is the most highly-recommended and loved village in Fuerteventura where the artsy, eco- conscious, surfers from all over the world have taken hold. The one commercial street has a German bakery, several eateries with names like “Mana Cafe”, “Canela Cafe”, “Return”, “The Green Tomato”, and the eco store par excellence “Obvio” (obvious in English) run by Jason, an adorable short and peppy Englishman who has settled here with his family. There are several locally-sourced and unusual art stores, a recycled book store, a hand-made shoe store, three surf
shops, the standard pizzeria, and nothing in any kind of trendy touristy vein at all. There is however the one INPESCASA supermarket where everyone has to go for anything else and is thus a place to visit and catch up while shopping.
I spent 3 days housesitting at Gabriel’s place (a cob student) and living the Lajares state of mind. As simple as you can get, though the population is not so small, as many live here and commute to Corralejo to work. While going running one morning I got a peek at alot more houses hidden in the maze of roads behind the main thoroughfare from El Cotillo to Corralejo. Some were grandiose with full solar panel array but most were very comfortable standard white-washed block housing with drylands garden plants. While life is low- stress here, the island is completely dependent on imports from “La Peninsula” (Spain) and desalinized water. In contrast to Lanzarote however, there are many farming the land here and supplying the markets and restaurants and locals with good organic produce. Mass tourism is a great
I am ready.
Lajares is the most highly-recommended and loved village in Fuerteventura where the artsy, eco- conscious, surfers from all over the world have taken hold. The one commercial street has a German bakery, several eateries with names like “Mana Cafe”, “Canela Cafe”, “Return”, “The Green Tomato”, and the eco store par excellence “Obvio” (obvious in English) run by Jason, an adorable short and peppy Englishman who has settled here with his family. There are several locally-sourced and unusual art stores, a recycled book store, a hand-made shoe store, three surf
shops, the standard pizzeria, and nothing in any kind of trendy touristy vein at all. There is however the one INPESCASA supermarket where everyone has to go for anything else and is thus a place to visit and catch up while shopping.
I spent 3 days housesitting at Gabriel’s place (a cob student) and living the Lajares state of mind. As simple as you can get, though the population is not so small, as many live here and commute to Corralejo to work. While going running one morning I got a peek at alot more houses hidden in the maze of roads behind the main thoroughfare from El Cotillo to Corralejo. Some were grandiose with full solar panel array but most were very comfortable standard white-washed block housing with drylands garden plants. While life is low- stress here, the island is completely dependent on imports from “La Peninsula” (Spain) and desalinized water. In contrast to Lanzarote however, there are many farming the land here and supplying the markets and restaurants and locals with good organic produce. Mass tourism is a great
source of income here and luckily it is localized in 2 nuclei: Morro Jable and
Corralejo.
My last day of distance biking was phenomenal as I had the wind behind me on a relatively easy 15-mile nicely paved stretch along he East Coast of the island which was all dunes with sandy beaches for half the way and then rocky coastline for the second half. Either way there were waves and the water looked awesome. I didn’t want to stop as I was headed to visit my friend Juan Antonio in Puerto Lajas who awaited me with excitement. He is the founder of the only recycling company on the island and continuing to move forward with excitement negotiating with the authorities for a Biodiesel Plant now. He has an incredible spiritually humble energy about him grounded in strength and direction. It’s really the ideal balance for getting stuff accomplished with bureaucrats and investors too. Now that his recycling operation has successfully and stably been bringing the government money for the last 15 years, they trust him. He has a track record.
Juan Antonio adores me. He brings his partner Yaitza along because that is the only way we can hang out together kosherly. It is clear that their four-year relationship is stable, however the excitement that he has with me is based on something they do not share. And hopefully that is cool with her. He is the kind of man I need, who can swing between the two worlds and successfully maneuver the establishment of new policies and systems that are good for the Planet. I should learn from his ways, softening myself and staying clear in my direction.
The next day I make my way along a beautiful ocean-lined dirt path to Puerto del Rosario where I will mail my kids some cool T-shirts with VW bus faces on them and “Fuerte” underneath. Then I make my way uphill for the most seriously painful stretch since the Algeciras-Tarifa challenge. A steep 60 degree slope for 3 miles on a narrow rocky dirt road with dips and bumps. I walk my bike clearly and boost the volume of my newly-downloaded Salsa tunes to help me through this inferno of inhospitable terrain using the last bits of my daily energetic biking resources. It’s all good, just breathe and move forward step by step. At one point the runner who inspired me to get off the asphalt and onto this shortcut is running back down and offers me help after a quick 2-kiss introduction. He goes flying with my poor bumping Bike Friday leaving me behind. I can barely hang on to his pace and just pray that my tires and gear don’t go flying off. Luckily I was almost at the top. Thank you David!
Fuerteventura Cob Oven Workshop
Our four-day oven build was very different in that the student count was three! Scheduling at the start of Easter Break was a risk. Evidently not a good idea. That being said, we had a blast as we always do for every workshop no
My last day of distance biking was phenomenal as I had the wind behind me on a relatively easy 15-mile nicely paved stretch along he East Coast of the island which was all dunes with sandy beaches for half the way and then rocky coastline for the second half. Either way there were waves and the water looked awesome. I didn’t want to stop as I was headed to visit my friend Juan Antonio in Puerto Lajas who awaited me with excitement. He is the founder of the only recycling company on the island and continuing to move forward with excitement negotiating with the authorities for a Biodiesel Plant now. He has an incredible spiritually humble energy about him grounded in strength and direction. It’s really the ideal balance for getting stuff accomplished with bureaucrats and investors too. Now that his recycling operation has successfully and stably been bringing the government money for the last 15 years, they trust him. He has a track record.
Juan Antonio adores me. He brings his partner Yaitza along because that is the only way we can hang out together kosherly. It is clear that their four-year relationship is stable, however the excitement that he has with me is based on something they do not share. And hopefully that is cool with her. He is the kind of man I need, who can swing between the two worlds and successfully maneuver the establishment of new policies and systems that are good for the Planet. I should learn from his ways, softening myself and staying clear in my direction.
The next day I make my way along a beautiful ocean-lined dirt path to Puerto del Rosario where I will mail my kids some cool T-shirts with VW bus faces on them and “Fuerte” underneath. Then I make my way uphill for the most seriously painful stretch since the Algeciras-Tarifa challenge. A steep 60 degree slope for 3 miles on a narrow rocky dirt road with dips and bumps. I walk my bike clearly and boost the volume of my newly-downloaded Salsa tunes to help me through this inferno of inhospitable terrain using the last bits of my daily energetic biking resources. It’s all good, just breathe and move forward step by step. At one point the runner who inspired me to get off the asphalt and onto this shortcut is running back down and offers me help after a quick 2-kiss introduction. He goes flying with my poor bumping Bike Friday leaving me behind. I can barely hang on to his pace and just pray that my tires and gear don’t go flying off. Luckily I was almost at the top. Thank you David!
Fuerteventura Cob Oven Workshop
Our four-day oven build was very different in that the student count was three! Scheduling at the start of Easter Break was a risk. Evidently not a good idea. That being said, we had a blast as we always do for every workshop no
matter the size. The first was a tall sexy Venezuelan chef and “panadero”,
Eduardo, who cooked the meal I returned at the “Canela Cafe” in Lajares the
previous week. He remembered and asked me if the second version was
better. A pile of dry pasta encircled with sun-dried tomatoes and shrimp did
not turn me on and I could not get myself to eat let alone pay for it as such.
Plus it was missing the hot peppers. While I am not a big returner of food as
my Mother modeled for me growing up, when it’s really bad I don’t have any
qualms, and this time it was well worth it. Eduardo’s redo was delicious and I
told him. The second was Borja,
also a baker as well as a photographer and musician who brought much crazy enthusiasm to the course, especially during picture time at the end where he initiated us all letting loose. And finally Valentina, the epitome of the “girl” with delicate soles and hands and a low tolerance for physical work. Hailing from Venice and trained as a graphic designer , she was the one who would have the steepest learning curve this weekend and would gain and transform the most.
My threesome plus Fabrizio, Valeria and I worked very hard to complete the oven over the four half-days, into Saturday night. Becoming delirious from all the physical work, we pushed ourselves, supported by the delectable and odiferous Indian curry bubbling away on the other side of the window. Valeria had lived with an Indian chef (her children’s father) and, in addition to her other specialties, prepared us a 5-star dinner of curry, basmati rice, fermented cabbage salad, chutney, pappadums, etc. If the food is good, it basically makes the work all worth it.
My last day in Fuerteventura saw Fabrizio’s departure. Fabrizio and I connected on day one and had a multitude of wonderful blasts of laughter amidst many lengthy inspiring conversations. He was a brother, companion and colleague. We worked well together and as he described it so well, ours was a pure tantric love. Unconditional, non-sexual friendship. He, once again, was my teacher of this pure respectful form of love with a man, despite my desires flowing forth. He would clearly not succumb and held strongly to his wife. A step further for me in the right direction. He also supported me in seeing myself so that I could be aware of the heavy conrolling enegy and work to soften it. Thanks Fabrizio. Be well.
CABO VERDE
Black and Portuguese
Afrique ma chérie! Finally, I made it. Well not totally. Cabo Verde is Africa technically but not as intense and hardcore as the mainland. More like the Carribbean and Brazil, the EuroAfrican vibe. “No Stress” is the island-wide
also a baker as well as a photographer and musician who brought much crazy enthusiasm to the course, especially during picture time at the end where he initiated us all letting loose. And finally Valentina, the epitome of the “girl” with delicate soles and hands and a low tolerance for physical work. Hailing from Venice and trained as a graphic designer , she was the one who would have the steepest learning curve this weekend and would gain and transform the most.
My threesome plus Fabrizio, Valeria and I worked very hard to complete the oven over the four half-days, into Saturday night. Becoming delirious from all the physical work, we pushed ourselves, supported by the delectable and odiferous Indian curry bubbling away on the other side of the window. Valeria had lived with an Indian chef (her children’s father) and, in addition to her other specialties, prepared us a 5-star dinner of curry, basmati rice, fermented cabbage salad, chutney, pappadums, etc. If the food is good, it basically makes the work all worth it.
My last day in Fuerteventura saw Fabrizio’s departure. Fabrizio and I connected on day one and had a multitude of wonderful blasts of laughter amidst many lengthy inspiring conversations. He was a brother, companion and colleague. We worked well together and as he described it so well, ours was a pure tantric love. Unconditional, non-sexual friendship. He, once again, was my teacher of this pure respectful form of love with a man, despite my desires flowing forth. He would clearly not succumb and held strongly to his wife. A step further for me in the right direction. He also supported me in seeing myself so that I could be aware of the heavy conrolling enegy and work to soften it. Thanks Fabrizio. Be well.
CABO VERDE
Black and Portuguese
Afrique ma chérie! Finally, I made it. Well not totally. Cabo Verde is Africa technically but not as intense and hardcore as the mainland. More like the Carribbean and Brazil, the EuroAfrican vibe. “No Stress” is the island-wide
motto, just like “No problem” in Thailand. Enjoyable musical culture à la
Brazil, very hot men à la Cuba and so far a perfect climate and water
temperature....year- round. The water feels like 75 and the air is windy and in
the high 70’s, totally bearable for the subtropics. I feel like the hot Black and
African guys feel when they arrive in Santa Cruz, at the gropes and desire of
the many eligible hot white Goddesses. Sure feeds the self-esteem. As I stroll
down the street dark African eyes are burning through my skin and I love it.
Especially when their owners are well-built and good-looking, for a start. I
love being the new girl in town, and then surprising them with my humor in
Portuguese and French! Being the mature wise no-nonsense woman that I
officially am now, I have absolutely no qualms or fears and am happy to take
it all in. I deserve it after solo parenting my three lads for the last ten years, a
devoted and full-power Mom, taking them on many an adventure longer and
farther than most single Mamas would/could. My boys were my “husband”,
collectively, and to this day they continue to reflect me as we grow together.
Stepping off the small green and white Binter Canarias plane that brought me here in 2.5 hours from Gran Canaria, I could smell the difference in latitude. Immediate warm wafts coddled me with comfort. They harbor a tiny tiny airport that is even international, receiving 10 flights a day from all over Europe, mainland Africa and the other neighboring islands. I watched my repacked bike come off the plane and onto the cart but still had to wait for it to show up through the curtain...in one piece. Yippee! Evidently it and the giant overstuffed black polyester square duffle bag drew the policeman’s attention and I was immediately singled out for a luggage check. However my swift first breath of Portuguese and my humor and story immediately touched his Heart so that no bags were opened. Rather I was escorted out and brought a map of the island by that very same policeman who welcomed me with warmth. What an honor. Once again my language skills are prime for getting me through the door with ease. And a friendly smile of course.
My arrival and bike were met with much interest and glee as changing groups of taxi drivers surrounded me and watched. Clearly this was a first for them and I tried my best to suavely put my bike and gear together with confidence but had a few glitches to which they enjoyed coming to the rescue. My ukelele was the hit of the airport party though. Lulu, a sweet quiet bespectacled smiling taxista spotted it and after correcting the order of the strings that my friend Steve had erroneously put together, we were all treated to the island rhythms so sweet to the ear. The uke is the equivalent of their cavaquinha and I was so happy that it was finally getting use and sounding so delightful. One of my goals on this journey is to learn to play and jam and sing. And what a great musical culture to start it in.
After three hours I was on my way to Espargos, which I could scope out less than a mile away. Clearly the distances were going to be very accessible on this island. One paved road connecting the capital Espargos in the north to
Stepping off the small green and white Binter Canarias plane that brought me here in 2.5 hours from Gran Canaria, I could smell the difference in latitude. Immediate warm wafts coddled me with comfort. They harbor a tiny tiny airport that is even international, receiving 10 flights a day from all over Europe, mainland Africa and the other neighboring islands. I watched my repacked bike come off the plane and onto the cart but still had to wait for it to show up through the curtain...in one piece. Yippee! Evidently it and the giant overstuffed black polyester square duffle bag drew the policeman’s attention and I was immediately singled out for a luggage check. However my swift first breath of Portuguese and my humor and story immediately touched his Heart so that no bags were opened. Rather I was escorted out and brought a map of the island by that very same policeman who welcomed me with warmth. What an honor. Once again my language skills are prime for getting me through the door with ease. And a friendly smile of course.
My arrival and bike were met with much interest and glee as changing groups of taxi drivers surrounded me and watched. Clearly this was a first for them and I tried my best to suavely put my bike and gear together with confidence but had a few glitches to which they enjoyed coming to the rescue. My ukelele was the hit of the airport party though. Lulu, a sweet quiet bespectacled smiling taxista spotted it and after correcting the order of the strings that my friend Steve had erroneously put together, we were all treated to the island rhythms so sweet to the ear. The uke is the equivalent of their cavaquinha and I was so happy that it was finally getting use and sounding so delightful. One of my goals on this journey is to learn to play and jam and sing. And what a great musical culture to start it in.
After three hours I was on my way to Espargos, which I could scope out less than a mile away. Clearly the distances were going to be very accessible on this island. One paved road connecting the capital Espargos in the north to
the crazy tourist and kitesurf mecca of Santa Maria in the south, and a few
offshoots to the popular tourist spots like Palmeira, Buracona, Pedra de
Lume. The north-south stretch is 12 miles and the east-west is 5. The island
is basically flat with a few random volcanic rises, and devoid of green, save
for random bushes and palm trees in the inhabited spots.
In 10 minutes I got from the airport to the main town with nary a vehicle on the road, rather a few walking Souls, walking from the airport. Haha. This is the first time I am landing somewhere with no plan, no connection, nowhere to go. But it’s cool. It’s like a hobbit island, micro size, and everyone speaks Portuguese, my favorite language!
Summary of Cabo Verde
Truth be told I basically stopped writing my journal diligently until it was too late. While I had some adventures and encounters on Sal, most of my time was spent working to create a new website from within the safe walls of a $10 a night apartment I found on AirBnB which turned out to be a bad deal turned good. I had a writer’s retreat on the 3rd floor of a sterile stereotype tourist complex in the tourist mecca of Cabo Verde, Santa Maria, that was all the way at the end of town beyond the last streets so that going anywhere was always a planned excursion. The cobblestoned streets wreaked havoc on my small-wheeled bike, rattling the bike and me to utter discomfort every time. There was only one paved street I could take but could not avoid having to cut in on the endless bumps if I wanted to get to where the action was. Plus being on my fire engine red specialty wheels garnered too much attention for my taste. I opted to walk more but got quickly bored of the repetitive cobblestones that were hard on the feet and the body. While half the day was spent on my best friend, my mini MacBook Air, I also needed to get my butt moving, buy food, swim in the clear clean ocean and check out the men, eventually.
I began with a short week in Espargos, the capital, where I met Antonio, a Guinea Bissauan artist of sorts (he painted 3000 versions of the same painting for hotel commissions) and visited my first “slums” intimately. Alto Santa Cruz was one of the several “favelas” that lined the edge of Espargos. I went on a run and accidentally came back through there, stopping to chat. Like a low- impact ecovillage of sorts, Alto Santa Cruz and its twin neighbor Alto São João were organically- grown reusing scrap metal, pieces of cars and buses, thick cardboard, some concrete blocks and whatever worked. When I stopped in one woman was scrounging through a pile of debris and pulled out a big panel made of hard plastic. It was a big free pile store for construction materials. I asked her if she lived there and where. She pointed to a very short structure where she and her kids lived. She asked me if I wanted to visit but Truth be told I was not ready yet. I had just arrived the day
In 10 minutes I got from the airport to the main town with nary a vehicle on the road, rather a few walking Souls, walking from the airport. Haha. This is the first time I am landing somewhere with no plan, no connection, nowhere to go. But it’s cool. It’s like a hobbit island, micro size, and everyone speaks Portuguese, my favorite language!
Summary of Cabo Verde
Truth be told I basically stopped writing my journal diligently until it was too late. While I had some adventures and encounters on Sal, most of my time was spent working to create a new website from within the safe walls of a $10 a night apartment I found on AirBnB which turned out to be a bad deal turned good. I had a writer’s retreat on the 3rd floor of a sterile stereotype tourist complex in the tourist mecca of Cabo Verde, Santa Maria, that was all the way at the end of town beyond the last streets so that going anywhere was always a planned excursion. The cobblestoned streets wreaked havoc on my small-wheeled bike, rattling the bike and me to utter discomfort every time. There was only one paved street I could take but could not avoid having to cut in on the endless bumps if I wanted to get to where the action was. Plus being on my fire engine red specialty wheels garnered too much attention for my taste. I opted to walk more but got quickly bored of the repetitive cobblestones that were hard on the feet and the body. While half the day was spent on my best friend, my mini MacBook Air, I also needed to get my butt moving, buy food, swim in the clear clean ocean and check out the men, eventually.
I began with a short week in Espargos, the capital, where I met Antonio, a Guinea Bissauan artist of sorts (he painted 3000 versions of the same painting for hotel commissions) and visited my first “slums” intimately. Alto Santa Cruz was one of the several “favelas” that lined the edge of Espargos. I went on a run and accidentally came back through there, stopping to chat. Like a low- impact ecovillage of sorts, Alto Santa Cruz and its twin neighbor Alto São João were organically- grown reusing scrap metal, pieces of cars and buses, thick cardboard, some concrete blocks and whatever worked. When I stopped in one woman was scrounging through a pile of debris and pulled out a big panel made of hard plastic. It was a big free pile store for construction materials. I asked her if she lived there and where. She pointed to a very short structure where she and her kids lived. She asked me if I wanted to visit but Truth be told I was not ready yet. I had just arrived the day
before and needed some accustomization time so as not to find myself in a
tough situation.
I was attracting attention obviously. Another couple came over and told me they were building their concrete mini-house and had to pause while they made more money for more ugly blocks. I asked them if they knew how to build with Earth to which they said no. I asked them if they wanted to learn to which they said YES. I promised I would be back with more information. I never was.
While my time in Santa Maria was very productive in terms of my cob business and website progress, and meeting Jean from Cameroon and Lamine from Senegal, my two lovers, I did not get much more out of it. There isn’t much to this island. Santa Maria is a big Disneyland for kitesurfers, windsurfers, surfers and plain old tourists lookin for a good time, especially single ones. It really turned me off actually. And ten days before my departure I experienced the assault from hell, losing my little Mac and Iphone to a couple of young badboys, who would ultimatley pay for it.
One Solid Miracle If I Ever Saw One!
I am on the small TACV plane to Dakar this morning, having left the tumultuous islands of Sal and Santiago, of the Cabo Verde archipelago. I am excited to be heading to the African Continent south of the Sahara for the first time in my life, imagining it since childhood.
I am also continuing to relive the surreal experience I went through Sunday evening as I prepared to depart from Sal, after one month.
As you all know in a very scary and unfortunate assault on Friday April 17th, two young Cabo Verdian men ran off with my highly treasured communication and recording tools for this journey, my MacBook Air and IPhone. I was devastated, especially for the photos and files I had not backed up and obviously for the violation of my person and the hassle I now had to deal with. However, with the spiritual training I have absorbed through my years in Santa Cruz and California, I knew enough to not start thinking or planning too much of how to move on. I stayed fixed and focused on recovering my belongings. I spent my enery envisioning my objects turning up on the Investigator’s desk to my joy and incredulousness (incredulity?). I visited him and/or contacted him
daily for news or any other tidbits of information I came up with. I spoke about what had happened with everyone I contacted, asking them to keep an ear/ eye out. Every day I did the footwork as well as the energetic work of feeling my tools in my possession again. When my mind got into it, it seemed a huge feat, overwhelming, possibly impossible. I tried to stay away from that vibe. In one of my last visits to Investigator Orlando Gomes, who had a very successful reputation on the island, he showed me a photo of a good-looking
I was attracting attention obviously. Another couple came over and told me they were building their concrete mini-house and had to pause while they made more money for more ugly blocks. I asked them if they knew how to build with Earth to which they said no. I asked them if they wanted to learn to which they said YES. I promised I would be back with more information. I never was.
While my time in Santa Maria was very productive in terms of my cob business and website progress, and meeting Jean from Cameroon and Lamine from Senegal, my two lovers, I did not get much more out of it. There isn’t much to this island. Santa Maria is a big Disneyland for kitesurfers, windsurfers, surfers and plain old tourists lookin for a good time, especially single ones. It really turned me off actually. And ten days before my departure I experienced the assault from hell, losing my little Mac and Iphone to a couple of young badboys, who would ultimatley pay for it.
One Solid Miracle If I Ever Saw One!
I am on the small TACV plane to Dakar this morning, having left the tumultuous islands of Sal and Santiago, of the Cabo Verde archipelago. I am excited to be heading to the African Continent south of the Sahara for the first time in my life, imagining it since childhood.
I am also continuing to relive the surreal experience I went through Sunday evening as I prepared to depart from Sal, after one month.
As you all know in a very scary and unfortunate assault on Friday April 17th, two young Cabo Verdian men ran off with my highly treasured communication and recording tools for this journey, my MacBook Air and IPhone. I was devastated, especially for the photos and files I had not backed up and obviously for the violation of my person and the hassle I now had to deal with. However, with the spiritual training I have absorbed through my years in Santa Cruz and California, I knew enough to not start thinking or planning too much of how to move on. I stayed fixed and focused on recovering my belongings. I spent my enery envisioning my objects turning up on the Investigator’s desk to my joy and incredulousness (incredulity?). I visited him and/or contacted him
daily for news or any other tidbits of information I came up with. I spoke about what had happened with everyone I contacted, asking them to keep an ear/ eye out. Every day I did the footwork as well as the energetic work of feeling my tools in my possession again. When my mind got into it, it seemed a huge feat, overwhelming, possibly impossible. I tried to stay away from that vibe. In one of my last visits to Investigator Orlando Gomes, who had a very successful reputation on the island, he showed me a photo of a good-looking
tall, lean, mulatto young man with small dreads, dark eyes, and an “I’m fuckin’
too cool for you” look on his face. I stared. “Sim, parece, pode ser,” I
responded. “Yes, it could be”.
The thing is, I honestly never saw my assaultants’ faces. I did however feel very strong hands on my face and mouth, and saw the two figures running off, one short and one tall. I saw the small one best since he was behind, with a red cap on, short dreads, a long red shirt and long jean shorts. And that was it. They however I am sure knew my face and appearance well. I am sure they had been planning this for a while, observing my route home, and knowing somehow that I carried my green Macbook case in my backpack, sometimes. What is most interesting, as you will read later, is that on a very deep subliminal level I felt their energy. Everything happened so fast, I was completely taken by surprise, and it was all reactions. No time to think.
The photo Orlando showed me “felt” right. Since my reconnaissance was mostly focused on the shorter one, I was imagining this was the shorter one, but he looked too tall. The other qualities seemed to fit, especially the short dreads. Orlando said however that this was the taller one, and that his hair had been cut short now. The only people who had seen the taller one running, at night, were a few scared tourists, who had confirmed the shaved or cropped hair and bare feet. It all seemed a bit confusing. While Orlando focused on the taller one, who I had barely seen, I felt more confident of the shorter one’s appearance.
A few days before my planned departure from Sal by boat, which is the locals’ transportation of choice (no choice actually), I had another visit with Orlando. Was he still optimistic? Were things moving forward? Was the chase narrowing down? Orlando mentioned that he had visited the potential thief’s quarters, not found my belongings, but put his mother, brother and girlfriend on alert. Returning the next day, he found that the young man had fled to Espargos with his belongings. The encouraging aspect of this search is that Sal is a small island with only two main populated hubs, and even they are minimal in size compared to Praia and Mindelo, other cities on other islands. In addition, Orlando has been in the biz for 17 years, with ten years on Sal, and apparently knows everyone. He is an undercover cop, doing his work in plain clothes, and nothing goes by him unnoticed. As I said he has a very good reputation on the island and while half the people I spoke to (mostly travellers) told me to not expect to get my things back, it never happens, they never did, etc, the other half (mostly locals) told me that I would. Plain and simple. I sided my energy with the positive thinkers and sayers.
During what was to be my last visit with this handsome, athletic, brown-eyed Cabo Verdian investigator in the Polícia Nacional, he mentioned that he felt the thiefs would try and flee the island by boat on Sunday night, and that he would be there to patrol. In the meantime he was going to visit Espargos, the
The thing is, I honestly never saw my assaultants’ faces. I did however feel very strong hands on my face and mouth, and saw the two figures running off, one short and one tall. I saw the small one best since he was behind, with a red cap on, short dreads, a long red shirt and long jean shorts. And that was it. They however I am sure knew my face and appearance well. I am sure they had been planning this for a while, observing my route home, and knowing somehow that I carried my green Macbook case in my backpack, sometimes. What is most interesting, as you will read later, is that on a very deep subliminal level I felt their energy. Everything happened so fast, I was completely taken by surprise, and it was all reactions. No time to think.
The photo Orlando showed me “felt” right. Since my reconnaissance was mostly focused on the shorter one, I was imagining this was the shorter one, but he looked too tall. The other qualities seemed to fit, especially the short dreads. Orlando said however that this was the taller one, and that his hair had been cut short now. The only people who had seen the taller one running, at night, were a few scared tourists, who had confirmed the shaved or cropped hair and bare feet. It all seemed a bit confusing. While Orlando focused on the taller one, who I had barely seen, I felt more confident of the shorter one’s appearance.
A few days before my planned departure from Sal by boat, which is the locals’ transportation of choice (no choice actually), I had another visit with Orlando. Was he still optimistic? Were things moving forward? Was the chase narrowing down? Orlando mentioned that he had visited the potential thief’s quarters, not found my belongings, but put his mother, brother and girlfriend on alert. Returning the next day, he found that the young man had fled to Espargos with his belongings. The encouraging aspect of this search is that Sal is a small island with only two main populated hubs, and even they are minimal in size compared to Praia and Mindelo, other cities on other islands. In addition, Orlando has been in the biz for 17 years, with ten years on Sal, and apparently knows everyone. He is an undercover cop, doing his work in plain clothes, and nothing goes by him unnoticed. As I said he has a very good reputation on the island and while half the people I spoke to (mostly travellers) told me to not expect to get my things back, it never happens, they never did, etc, the other half (mostly locals) told me that I would. Plain and simple. I sided my energy with the positive thinkers and sayers.
During what was to be my last visit with this handsome, athletic, brown-eyed Cabo Verdian investigator in the Polícia Nacional, he mentioned that he felt the thiefs would try and flee the island by boat on Sunday night, and that he would be there to patrol. In the meantime he was going to visit Espargos, the
capital, that afternoon to see what he could find. The interesting thing was
that I too was going to Espargos that morning, to talk to the big Nigerian man
who owns the only technology store and knows everyone and everything
related to phones and computers. Perhaps the thiefs had approached him to
unlock my phone. And that I too would be on the very same boat Sunday
evening headed for Praia, the capital of Santiago, the most densely populated
and most “African” Cabo Verdian island.
With no luck in finding the NIgerian, as he was travelling abroad, I headed back to Santa Maria and prepared my luggage for my departure the next day. Somehow somewhere I was still hopeful.
On Sunday I dropped my bike and many belongings I would not need in Africa in Reinhard’s garage, following his and others’ recommendations that my bike would be a burden and suffer from the poor road conditions. Reinhard is a wiry and nervous German transplant who owns a café on
Sal and rents his rooms out to travellers through AirBnB. I had stayed with him a few nights and he had offered me a secure space for my bike when I travelled to Africa, insisting I’d be a fool to take it with me. I would come back to Sal ultimately before heading back to the Canaries. So far I have left stuff behind in Malaga, Tangier, Fuerteventura and Sal. My load is getting lighter and lighter. It’s hard not to be biking but the circumstances of being white, female, somewhat attractive and having an unusual newish bike with tons of desirbale German pannier bags just doesn’t seem to fit with a peaceful and safe journey in Senegal and even in Cabo Verde. After the unfortunate events I have become more cautious and neurotic though I do not want to be travelling fearfully.
After disregarding Reinhard’s strong suggestion that I take a plane, that the boat would be horrid with everyone puking, and to forget about my computer and phone...I headed to the port. He was firmly confident I would be back that night and even told me how to find him. I wanted the boat.
When I got to the port and the waiting lounge, I was the only white non-Cabo Verdian there. Here goes, I thought. Low-income locals with their taped up packages and suitcases, bags of food for the trip, blankets, and friends and family surrounded me. All I could think of was: Are my assaultants here? Are my computer and phone here? Where is Orlando? I scanned the room over and over, intent on finding the robbers and my stuff, though mentally it was a formidable feat. Noone fit the bill. I was becoming discouraged. Starting to let go. Suddenly a young 16 or something walked into the door with a cart holding one large hardshell suitcase, one small box-like suitcase and a soft red carry-on bag. He stood there with his luggage in the corner. I could not stop looking at his wild yellow short dready mane. He chewed gum or was eating some kind of snack. He looked around and suddenly, from 30 feet
With no luck in finding the NIgerian, as he was travelling abroad, I headed back to Santa Maria and prepared my luggage for my departure the next day. Somehow somewhere I was still hopeful.
On Sunday I dropped my bike and many belongings I would not need in Africa in Reinhard’s garage, following his and others’ recommendations that my bike would be a burden and suffer from the poor road conditions. Reinhard is a wiry and nervous German transplant who owns a café on
Sal and rents his rooms out to travellers through AirBnB. I had stayed with him a few nights and he had offered me a secure space for my bike when I travelled to Africa, insisting I’d be a fool to take it with me. I would come back to Sal ultimately before heading back to the Canaries. So far I have left stuff behind in Malaga, Tangier, Fuerteventura and Sal. My load is getting lighter and lighter. It’s hard not to be biking but the circumstances of being white, female, somewhat attractive and having an unusual newish bike with tons of desirbale German pannier bags just doesn’t seem to fit with a peaceful and safe journey in Senegal and even in Cabo Verde. After the unfortunate events I have become more cautious and neurotic though I do not want to be travelling fearfully.
After disregarding Reinhard’s strong suggestion that I take a plane, that the boat would be horrid with everyone puking, and to forget about my computer and phone...I headed to the port. He was firmly confident I would be back that night and even told me how to find him. I wanted the boat.
When I got to the port and the waiting lounge, I was the only white non-Cabo Verdian there. Here goes, I thought. Low-income locals with their taped up packages and suitcases, bags of food for the trip, blankets, and friends and family surrounded me. All I could think of was: Are my assaultants here? Are my computer and phone here? Where is Orlando? I scanned the room over and over, intent on finding the robbers and my stuff, though mentally it was a formidable feat. Noone fit the bill. I was becoming discouraged. Starting to let go. Suddenly a young 16 or something walked into the door with a cart holding one large hardshell suitcase, one small box-like suitcase and a soft red carry-on bag. He stood there with his luggage in the corner. I could not stop looking at his wild yellow short dready mane. He chewed gum or was eating some kind of snack. He looked around and suddenly, from 30 feet
away, our eyes met in a blurry haze, at least for me. I knew we were looking
at each other but from that distance it was not a clear connection. What I felt
more was energy. For what seemed like several minutes we stared at each
other. I sensed curiosity. In my stare I wondered if it was him. Something kept
us looking at each other. There was definitely an energy surrounding him that
was saying “I don’t fit in”. Eventually I ignored it. He’s just another Cabo
Verdian. The red sweatshirt he wore brought back the red shirt I saw that
night, but on a subconscious level. Our whole exchange was going on on a
subconscious level. It was intense but it made no sense intellectually. I had
never seen this boy’s face. How could I accuse him?
Shortly we all began walking to the boat to stand in line. I forgot about the boy and the luggage on a surface level. I was looking out for Orlando. There were cops there but they looked completely unworried, unfocused and were clearly not looking out for anyone. They were joking around with the travellers. Eventually I got on the boat, looking for my spot for the night on the outer deck. I positioned myself so I had two seats to lie on, stationed my luggage there, and stood facing the landing where we had stood in line. I continued to scan. Suddenly the captain, a good-looking older local with a burgundy baseball cap and matching jacket, came and stood next to me. After the usual initial questions I told him I had been assaulted and robbed a week ago and that the police had mentioned the robbers might be on the boat and that I was wondering why the Investigator had not shown up. He said that he had, in an undercover white truck, and that he had to be discreet. As I was sharing the story with him, God turned my head to the right, so I could see a tall lean mulatto dressed in a white sweater with red and blue wide stripes, cropped hair and diamond earrings peering into the Captain’s cabin most definitely looking out for something or someone. God then had me say the words: “He kind of looks like the guy who robbed me from the photo the Police showed me” to the Captain. As the young man slipped by us he hopped down the stairs and jumped off the boat and onto the landing. The boarding rail had already been removed. Noone else could come onto the boat, or come off. Yet he had just leapt off the boat which he should not have been on in the first place since he had not gotten on with a ticket. A clear red flag led the Captain to his Cabin to call the Police. Within seconds one cop biked down to the landing and dropped his bike. He looked up at me and I gave a nod to indicate the suspect, who appeared to be the only person left on the landing. At that point, the shorter blonde guy I had eye-contacted earlier, and who I had not even noticed was there as well, began walking off with the smaller box- like suitcase. The cop went after him with a bike, shaking his fist in the air to stop. At that point noone could see anymore. Within a few more seconds he returned on the bike and confronted the
taller one, padded him down, and made him open his large suitcase in front of the whole boat. The young smart-ass cussed and complained, alomost convincingly. I was starting to feel anxious about my accusation. What if
Shortly we all began walking to the boat to stand in line. I forgot about the boy and the luggage on a surface level. I was looking out for Orlando. There were cops there but they looked completely unworried, unfocused and were clearly not looking out for anyone. They were joking around with the travellers. Eventually I got on the boat, looking for my spot for the night on the outer deck. I positioned myself so I had two seats to lie on, stationed my luggage there, and stood facing the landing where we had stood in line. I continued to scan. Suddenly the captain, a good-looking older local with a burgundy baseball cap and matching jacket, came and stood next to me. After the usual initial questions I told him I had been assaulted and robbed a week ago and that the police had mentioned the robbers might be on the boat and that I was wondering why the Investigator had not shown up. He said that he had, in an undercover white truck, and that he had to be discreet. As I was sharing the story with him, God turned my head to the right, so I could see a tall lean mulatto dressed in a white sweater with red and blue wide stripes, cropped hair and diamond earrings peering into the Captain’s cabin most definitely looking out for something or someone. God then had me say the words: “He kind of looks like the guy who robbed me from the photo the Police showed me” to the Captain. As the young man slipped by us he hopped down the stairs and jumped off the boat and onto the landing. The boarding rail had already been removed. Noone else could come onto the boat, or come off. Yet he had just leapt off the boat which he should not have been on in the first place since he had not gotten on with a ticket. A clear red flag led the Captain to his Cabin to call the Police. Within seconds one cop biked down to the landing and dropped his bike. He looked up at me and I gave a nod to indicate the suspect, who appeared to be the only person left on the landing. At that point, the shorter blonde guy I had eye-contacted earlier, and who I had not even noticed was there as well, began walking off with the smaller box- like suitcase. The cop went after him with a bike, shaking his fist in the air to stop. At that point noone could see anymore. Within a few more seconds he returned on the bike and confronted the
taller one, padded him down, and made him open his large suitcase in front of the whole boat. The young smart-ass cussed and complained, alomost convincingly. I was starting to feel anxious about my accusation. What if
nothing turned up since some other force pushed through me to make all this
happen, a force that had no intellectual basis? The guy complained and the
cop yelled at him to shut up. He got quiet and kept lifting his belongings into
the air as the cop shook everything around. Nothing. He had, I noticed,
quickly moved a clear plastic envelope containing papers into another
compartment while the cop was turned away for a second. I did not want to
draw attention to myself but it looked suspicious. The whole boat looked on
with curiosity. They did not know why this was happening or what had
triggered it. Only the captain, the cops and I knew.
With no stolen goods in the suitcase, the cop had him close it up, put his stuff on the cart, asked me to come off the boat and accompany him and the young man to the office. The boat would wait. The Captain took my belongings into his Cabin and I stepped off. I walked next to the young man and the cop quickly towards the office. He and I exchanged several stares. I took off my hood. He asked if something had happened, and could he know more about it. I said yes. I looked into his eyes as we walked hastily. I asked him if he recognized me. He said no. He asked if I recognized him. I did not answer as I was not sure.
We got to the office. The shorter young man was handcuffed and shoeless. Our eyes immediately met once again, this time from within 10 feet away. Face to face, he had the look of a dear in headlights. Huge fearful round dark eyes stared at me, in shock. The cop asked if I recognized him. I said “ Maybe”. At which the cop, with blue rubber gloves, slapped him violently across the face twice. I stepped back startled. Some other older man told me to be calm, not to worry. Meanwhile the taller boy stood watching, speechless. The shorter handcuffed boy gave him the combination to the lock on the piece of luggage he had tried to run away with. The small boxy suitcase was opened on the table for all to see. The cop began taking out one thing at a time. Small bags within bags with all kinds of trinkets. Clothing. Unidentifiable objects from the 15 feet away where I stood, behind the glass. Suddenly, a bright green flash passed before my eyes. My heart jumped. “Meu ordenador! Meu ordenador! Isso e meu ordenador! Queiro meu ordenador!” There it was...my baby I had missed so much for the last ten days, holding all my work, my photos, my personal history. Still intact. I could NOT believe my eyes, the miracle, the work of Goddess showing me the result of sticking with my mission, doing the hard footwork, not giving up and trusting. I threw my arms up in Gratitude and Glee, put my hands together in prayer, yelled : “I won! I won! I won!” and even inadvertently threw some “Fuck you’s!” out to the boys for having me go through all this hassle. The next few minutes were wild and emotional exchanges on the phone with Orlando who promised me he would send my computer over on a plane the next day, and find my phone as well, and not to worry, as they had to be documented legally. I trusted him. The boat was waiting for me. I began walking away smiling and turned to the boys as I felt the young one staring at
With no stolen goods in the suitcase, the cop had him close it up, put his stuff on the cart, asked me to come off the boat and accompany him and the young man to the office. The boat would wait. The Captain took my belongings into his Cabin and I stepped off. I walked next to the young man and the cop quickly towards the office. He and I exchanged several stares. I took off my hood. He asked if something had happened, and could he know more about it. I said yes. I looked into his eyes as we walked hastily. I asked him if he recognized me. He said no. He asked if I recognized him. I did not answer as I was not sure.
We got to the office. The shorter young man was handcuffed and shoeless. Our eyes immediately met once again, this time from within 10 feet away. Face to face, he had the look of a dear in headlights. Huge fearful round dark eyes stared at me, in shock. The cop asked if I recognized him. I said “ Maybe”. At which the cop, with blue rubber gloves, slapped him violently across the face twice. I stepped back startled. Some other older man told me to be calm, not to worry. Meanwhile the taller boy stood watching, speechless. The shorter handcuffed boy gave him the combination to the lock on the piece of luggage he had tried to run away with. The small boxy suitcase was opened on the table for all to see. The cop began taking out one thing at a time. Small bags within bags with all kinds of trinkets. Clothing. Unidentifiable objects from the 15 feet away where I stood, behind the glass. Suddenly, a bright green flash passed before my eyes. My heart jumped. “Meu ordenador! Meu ordenador! Isso e meu ordenador! Queiro meu ordenador!” There it was...my baby I had missed so much for the last ten days, holding all my work, my photos, my personal history. Still intact. I could NOT believe my eyes, the miracle, the work of Goddess showing me the result of sticking with my mission, doing the hard footwork, not giving up and trusting. I threw my arms up in Gratitude and Glee, put my hands together in prayer, yelled : “I won! I won! I won!” and even inadvertently threw some “Fuck you’s!” out to the boys for having me go through all this hassle. The next few minutes were wild and emotional exchanges on the phone with Orlando who promised me he would send my computer over on a plane the next day, and find my phone as well, and not to worry, as they had to be documented legally. I trusted him. The boat was waiting for me. I began walking away smiling and turned to the boys as I felt the young one staring at
me again, same eyes of shock and fear. Our eyes met for the last time. I told
him I was a single mom of three boys who had worked hard to buy these
objects and be on this journey, and that I was here to help. I told him I hoped
he would get help. Those were my last words.
Since then I have been thinking about this young man every day. His name is Willem and he is 18 and a Libra. Same age as my son Xica. A Rat in Chinese astrology. I felt a deep connection with this young man. I want to see him again. I want to help him. He lives in the “favela” area called Alto Santa Cruz, where I had visited and planned a cob workshop to train the locals and build a cob community building. When did he see me I wonder? Did he see me on the first day or second time I visited Alto Santa Cruz? His nickname is “Gutinho”. We wil meet again.
A few days later my stuff arrived in Praia at the airport in the hands of a professional singer. Back in my possession, in my life again. My laptop was all as it had been, with my login page still open. They had never turned it off. Gutinho had kept it safe and sound, somehow knowing it would return to me full circle. The phone had been sold and all my stuff erased and a new icloud account on it. Otherwise in good shape still.
Gut feelings, Intuition, Inner Voice, Goddess Speaking.....I was led by some Higher Energy that was looking out for me and teaching me how to hear it, follow it, trust it that night. May this lesson help me in all my future decisions as well. A great lesson, for sure. And for all. I am Grateful.
AFRICA (May 2015)
Senegal: Mama Africa, I am Home!
Clearly I have been here before, many times even, for many lives. Since childhood I have had African friends and always have felt the comfort and pure Love they exude in their personal interactions. The drumming, the dancing, the music, the mystique of the Black skin, the different languages, the kindness and the simplicity, the dignity with which they carry themselves...I absolutely LOOOOOVE being here.
Dakar is sandy and dry. The streets of Yoff, near the beach, are all sand- laden, yet it is a city. Construction waste is ubiquitous. Concrete blocks are ubiquitous. Garbage is ubiquitous. The beautiful sandy beaches and the blue warm ocean are denigrated by nasty litter mostly in the form of plastic bags, broken pieces of plastic, fishing nets and ropes, dead fish, clothing, wrappers and more plastic pieces from all sources. The first day I walked to the beach I was completely grossed out. Clearly the thousands of beautiful Black men running, working out on the beach and playing soccer were oblivious to the
Since then I have been thinking about this young man every day. His name is Willem and he is 18 and a Libra. Same age as my son Xica. A Rat in Chinese astrology. I felt a deep connection with this young man. I want to see him again. I want to help him. He lives in the “favela” area called Alto Santa Cruz, where I had visited and planned a cob workshop to train the locals and build a cob community building. When did he see me I wonder? Did he see me on the first day or second time I visited Alto Santa Cruz? His nickname is “Gutinho”. We wil meet again.
A few days later my stuff arrived in Praia at the airport in the hands of a professional singer. Back in my possession, in my life again. My laptop was all as it had been, with my login page still open. They had never turned it off. Gutinho had kept it safe and sound, somehow knowing it would return to me full circle. The phone had been sold and all my stuff erased and a new icloud account on it. Otherwise in good shape still.
Gut feelings, Intuition, Inner Voice, Goddess Speaking.....I was led by some Higher Energy that was looking out for me and teaching me how to hear it, follow it, trust it that night. May this lesson help me in all my future decisions as well. A great lesson, for sure. And for all. I am Grateful.
AFRICA (May 2015)
Senegal: Mama Africa, I am Home!
Clearly I have been here before, many times even, for many lives. Since childhood I have had African friends and always have felt the comfort and pure Love they exude in their personal interactions. The drumming, the dancing, the music, the mystique of the Black skin, the different languages, the kindness and the simplicity, the dignity with which they carry themselves...I absolutely LOOOOOVE being here.
Dakar is sandy and dry. The streets of Yoff, near the beach, are all sand- laden, yet it is a city. Construction waste is ubiquitous. Concrete blocks are ubiquitous. Garbage is ubiquitous. The beautiful sandy beaches and the blue warm ocean are denigrated by nasty litter mostly in the form of plastic bags, broken pieces of plastic, fishing nets and ropes, dead fish, clothing, wrappers and more plastic pieces from all sources. The first day I walked to the beach I was completely grossed out. Clearly the thousands of beautiful Black men running, working out on the beach and playing soccer were oblivious to the
litter they stepped on, smeared into the sand, and swam in. People played
happily in the water with plastic bags floating around them. The gorgeous
Black men distracted me so that I made do with the defaced beach I walked
on. Djembes sounded in the air and pulled me towards them hypnotically. I
wanted to see the real thing as it is practiced here. No modified playing for
Americans. Two dancers practiced as the 7 drummers did their thing. Always
these tend to be of the Baye Fall clan, a subgroup of Islam, known for their
dreads, musical penchant, openness to others, rituals. spirituality, good looks
and white foreign girlfriends. I am learning from my host Afidi that many call
themselves Baye Fall because it’s a prestigious label, but few are authentic.
Afidi’s husband Sakor is an elder Baye Fall. He prays alot and spends most of his time in his “lab”, a room on the top-floor terrace, where he smokes the “herb” and reflects. An apparently very spiritual and wise man, he is clearly respected by the others of his clan who bow their forehead down to kiss his hand which they hold in theirs. This is the Baye Fall salute and it is very touching to see. I am still not clear if it’s a hierarchy-based gesture or universal and egalitarian. Baye Falls chant and have Sufi-like ways. They wear many mystical “gri-gri’s” which are amulets and miniscule pouches filled with blessings in all forms handed down through generations, massive carved ebony necklaces for protection and head coverings to protect their dreads and 7th chakra. They have a leader and a pilgrimage site. It is similar to the
Rastafarian culture. One interesting and amusing “law” decreed by the Baye Fall’s spiritual leader, Amadou Bamba, is that his followers are exempt from prayer and fasting during Ramadan. When I inquired further about this from various sources, this exemption is supposed to be only for those who live the service life strongly espoused by this tradition. In other words, helping each other and the community with work, projects and support of any kind on a regular basis is key to this Muslim sect as is a simple non-material life with lots of prayer. Many abuse the traditions and go for the Baye Fall “look” to be part of the Mouridian “Brotherhood”, but are in fact “Baye Faux” as some call them (Fake Baye). The women who are part of this sect go by the name Yai Fall. Baye means Father and Yai means Mother in Wolof.
Most of my time in Dakar was spent hidden away in Afidi’s house, adjusting to the new climate, bacteria, water and pace. I also needed to work on my website and other necessities before beginning my new African sojourn which would take alot of my time and energy. Our first meals were exquisite, prepared by her cook/cleaner/helper Bernadette. Here you can hire a “helper” for $5 or less a day. Incredible. Our first meal was the official national dish “Thiebou Djen”, flavoured rice, fish, and veggies in a sauce. We all got on the floor and ate from a communal round dish. Normally it is with our hands but Afidi’s partial French roots mixed with Cameroonian lean towards using cutlery. Everyone eats in their section of the large round dish and any bones are neatly stacked outside of the dish under the rim on the tablecloth, to be
Afidi’s husband Sakor is an elder Baye Fall. He prays alot and spends most of his time in his “lab”, a room on the top-floor terrace, where he smokes the “herb” and reflects. An apparently very spiritual and wise man, he is clearly respected by the others of his clan who bow their forehead down to kiss his hand which they hold in theirs. This is the Baye Fall salute and it is very touching to see. I am still not clear if it’s a hierarchy-based gesture or universal and egalitarian. Baye Falls chant and have Sufi-like ways. They wear many mystical “gri-gri’s” which are amulets and miniscule pouches filled with blessings in all forms handed down through generations, massive carved ebony necklaces for protection and head coverings to protect their dreads and 7th chakra. They have a leader and a pilgrimage site. It is similar to the
Rastafarian culture. One interesting and amusing “law” decreed by the Baye Fall’s spiritual leader, Amadou Bamba, is that his followers are exempt from prayer and fasting during Ramadan. When I inquired further about this from various sources, this exemption is supposed to be only for those who live the service life strongly espoused by this tradition. In other words, helping each other and the community with work, projects and support of any kind on a regular basis is key to this Muslim sect as is a simple non-material life with lots of prayer. Many abuse the traditions and go for the Baye Fall “look” to be part of the Mouridian “Brotherhood”, but are in fact “Baye Faux” as some call them (Fake Baye). The women who are part of this sect go by the name Yai Fall. Baye means Father and Yai means Mother in Wolof.
Most of my time in Dakar was spent hidden away in Afidi’s house, adjusting to the new climate, bacteria, water and pace. I also needed to work on my website and other necessities before beginning my new African sojourn which would take alot of my time and energy. Our first meals were exquisite, prepared by her cook/cleaner/helper Bernadette. Here you can hire a “helper” for $5 or less a day. Incredible. Our first meal was the official national dish “Thiebou Djen”, flavoured rice, fish, and veggies in a sauce. We all got on the floor and ate from a communal round dish. Normally it is with our hands but Afidi’s partial French roots mixed with Cameroonian lean towards using cutlery. Everyone eats in their section of the large round dish and any bones are neatly stacked outside of the dish under the rim on the tablecloth, to be
disposed of separately. The food tasted amazing. “Broken” white rice topped
with chunks of carrot, sweet potato, potato, manioc, turnip and the ever-
present endless varieties of fish, all covered with a tasty unidentifiable stew.
The only challenges to this communal meal are 1) getting a little bit of
everything since you can’t reach over to others’ sides to take from their
sections, 2) not dropping the food from the large dish to your mouth and 3)
eating a reasonable amount of food, in other words not overeating. Each day
I got a little better, however the one thing that I had a hard time preventing
was the bloatedness I felt every day. After the purity of the Santa Cruz diet, ie
large raw salads, organic everything, free range everything, soaked this,
sprouted that, etc....my poor little innards are saying hello to brand new
experiences. The other end of the bloated gassiness is the morning bowel
movement. It seems to come in a sudden burning burst and then it’s all over.
Which brings me to my next subject: African poop culture.
At my first wonderful meal with Afidi and her good friend Fatime, a radical elder matron who espouses multiple lovers for women, we spent the last hour focusing on the details of pooping/cleaning culture as they gave me very descriptive details, which I asked for, on how to wipe yourself with your left
hand. Of course I had heard of how Africans and Arabs use their hand to wipe themselves but I thought it was only the most poor and destitute and more of a putdown than a real thing. Afidi and Fatime both do not use toilet paper. They are about my age and love cleaning their butts with their hands. I was in momentary shock but soon adapted and went through a quick mini mental transformation to where I was excited to improve my skills. Afidi’s words were powerful: “Poop is part of you, your body, the food you ate... therefore why should it be gross?” She was right. From that moment on I saw things differently, and felt proud to be overcoming my last hurdle to a completely “green” bathroom culture. I looked forward to trying these new techniques. After all, these were dignified well-off women here in Senegal. It’s just that toilet paper is expensive and makes no sense. Fatime even has special colorful thick plastic teapots that are designed specifically to pour down your front or back genitalia as you use your fingers to clean the pee and poop off. I wonder what name they go by when you go looking to buy one. Simple, quick, efficient, no mess, no smearing and, after washing the area and your hand with soap....no smell. I feel so happy to be even more of a complete ecoqueen now.
Toubab Dialaw
Getting out of Dakar is like getting out of LA, only a bit more of a crazy life- threatening maze with stinky and black exhaust spewing everywhere. I still do not have my bearings in any way. Everyone asks me how long I have been here and everytime I say 5 days, I feel like I am lying. It has been so long that I have been befriending Africans in the US and other places, drawn to them
At my first wonderful meal with Afidi and her good friend Fatime, a radical elder matron who espouses multiple lovers for women, we spent the last hour focusing on the details of pooping/cleaning culture as they gave me very descriptive details, which I asked for, on how to wipe yourself with your left
hand. Of course I had heard of how Africans and Arabs use their hand to wipe themselves but I thought it was only the most poor and destitute and more of a putdown than a real thing. Afidi and Fatime both do not use toilet paper. They are about my age and love cleaning their butts with their hands. I was in momentary shock but soon adapted and went through a quick mini mental transformation to where I was excited to improve my skills. Afidi’s words were powerful: “Poop is part of you, your body, the food you ate... therefore why should it be gross?” She was right. From that moment on I saw things differently, and felt proud to be overcoming my last hurdle to a completely “green” bathroom culture. I looked forward to trying these new techniques. After all, these were dignified well-off women here in Senegal. It’s just that toilet paper is expensive and makes no sense. Fatime even has special colorful thick plastic teapots that are designed specifically to pour down your front or back genitalia as you use your fingers to clean the pee and poop off. I wonder what name they go by when you go looking to buy one. Simple, quick, efficient, no mess, no smearing and, after washing the area and your hand with soap....no smell. I feel so happy to be even more of a complete ecoqueen now.
Toubab Dialaw
Getting out of Dakar is like getting out of LA, only a bit more of a crazy life- threatening maze with stinky and black exhaust spewing everywhere. I still do not have my bearings in any way. Everyone asks me how long I have been here and everytime I say 5 days, I feel like I am lying. It has been so long that I have been befriending Africans in the US and other places, drawn to them
so easily and vice versa, all Blacks in general, that it all feels ultra natural for
me to be here now. While I am not feeling that I could/would live here for
various random reasons that are not clear at this time, I am enjoying being
here tremendously.
The moment I came down to the beach in Toubab, where I will be teaching a 2-week workshop, and saw the beautiful red laterite-plastered houses with various angular and conical shapes, traditional thatch roofs and verandas surrounded by hot pink and purple bougainvillea I fell in love. Walking farther down we came to small “kiosks” selling food, clothing, and snacks with hand- painted homemade names and images so typical of pictures of Africa. A little farther on, Djembe drummers were gathering with their dread-locked jewelry- laden bodies, handsome and strong, the African Gods of today. Smiles met me everywhere I went and at the bottom, a view of the ocean through a beautiful communal garden, dotted with open air thatched-roof huts, African statues, a giant ochre rock, soccer bodies sporting colorful European team
shirts dotted the beach. Heaven! One of the most beautiful spots I have seen and felt in my life. I knew I had to stay down here during my stay, which led me to the only accomodations on this beach, “Baby’s”, run by Baby, a powerful and beautiful 50-something Sierra Leone expat who rents 4 rooms out for a very reasonable price ($10/night) with ocean-view terraces over her cozy and welcoming restaurant. When I saw the room she had for me I fell in love again immediately and knew I had to be in this room during my stay. Waking up and going to sleep to the sound of the waves. Starting my day with an ocean swim, meditation, yoga, running and swimming right out my door with ease. Accompanied by the other morning workouters, one of which I would be bound to fall in love with.
So here I am. I arrived and settled in yesterday, put on my new purple tie dye sarong with a grey-ribbed tank top and headed towards the drums. Always the drums. The beat of my Heart. Will I choose a drummer for one of my Lovers, or as a Partner, Husband on this Journey? It would be cool to have an authentic African partner. Not one who has been Europeanized and lost his connection to his Deep African Roots. One who maybe does not even speak French so well, more Raw, Rootsy, Pure. Who does not see me as $$ $, a way out, a need fulfilled, their Savior.
In Cabo Verde I left Lamine, a scrumptious sexy Senegalese Leo Master Djembe drummer, who “knew” the first day he wanted me for his wife. “I need a good woman to stand behind me. Every artist needs someone behind him.” Wow, that sure did not seem to fit my bill. Though our lovemaking was of the fiery kind that I could tell from my body could make this connection durable for sure...the words he spoke and his behaviour were erratic and bizarre red flags. Comments like : “My mom is the only woman I respect in the world. After I have been hurt by a woman, never again.” His contradictions turned
The moment I came down to the beach in Toubab, where I will be teaching a 2-week workshop, and saw the beautiful red laterite-plastered houses with various angular and conical shapes, traditional thatch roofs and verandas surrounded by hot pink and purple bougainvillea I fell in love. Walking farther down we came to small “kiosks” selling food, clothing, and snacks with hand- painted homemade names and images so typical of pictures of Africa. A little farther on, Djembe drummers were gathering with their dread-locked jewelry- laden bodies, handsome and strong, the African Gods of today. Smiles met me everywhere I went and at the bottom, a view of the ocean through a beautiful communal garden, dotted with open air thatched-roof huts, African statues, a giant ochre rock, soccer bodies sporting colorful European team
shirts dotted the beach. Heaven! One of the most beautiful spots I have seen and felt in my life. I knew I had to stay down here during my stay, which led me to the only accomodations on this beach, “Baby’s”, run by Baby, a powerful and beautiful 50-something Sierra Leone expat who rents 4 rooms out for a very reasonable price ($10/night) with ocean-view terraces over her cozy and welcoming restaurant. When I saw the room she had for me I fell in love again immediately and knew I had to be in this room during my stay. Waking up and going to sleep to the sound of the waves. Starting my day with an ocean swim, meditation, yoga, running and swimming right out my door with ease. Accompanied by the other morning workouters, one of which I would be bound to fall in love with.
So here I am. I arrived and settled in yesterday, put on my new purple tie dye sarong with a grey-ribbed tank top and headed towards the drums. Always the drums. The beat of my Heart. Will I choose a drummer for one of my Lovers, or as a Partner, Husband on this Journey? It would be cool to have an authentic African partner. Not one who has been Europeanized and lost his connection to his Deep African Roots. One who maybe does not even speak French so well, more Raw, Rootsy, Pure. Who does not see me as $$ $, a way out, a need fulfilled, their Savior.
In Cabo Verde I left Lamine, a scrumptious sexy Senegalese Leo Master Djembe drummer, who “knew” the first day he wanted me for his wife. “I need a good woman to stand behind me. Every artist needs someone behind him.” Wow, that sure did not seem to fit my bill. Though our lovemaking was of the fiery kind that I could tell from my body could make this connection durable for sure...the words he spoke and his behaviour were erratic and bizarre red flags. Comments like : “My mom is the only woman I respect in the world. After I have been hurt by a woman, never again.” His contradictions turned
me off, telling me he was an African man and was not interested in going
anywhere else like his colleagues in one Breath, and then that he would be
willing to travel with me until we found a place to stop in another Breath.
When I confronted this long-locked sculpted Leo who wore a baseball cap
backwards over his knotted mane of thin braids and really knew how to dress
in that sloppy sexy way that hit my G spot hard, he simply replied: “That was
not what I said” and “You didn’t understand me”. One of those mindfuckers
which I have already lived with. Those darn Leos always get to my soft spot
but I know enough now to know that they are no good for me in the long haul.
At least the less-evolved ones. I left him in Sal but he continues to haunt me
because of his Intuitive Powers. On several occasions he felt what I was
doing though there was no overt communication and I was physically far. He
is a mystic, a Holy Man, but does not know how to also be a sexual loving
Being in one Body. He is figuring out how to be Lamine. When I saw him drum the first time it was transcendental. He and the Drum are one. His Passion for the drum shined all over. His talent left me limp. On stage he thrived on the attention a Leo loves to feel alive. But I surely cannot give my life up to this Leo who I could tell needed ALL of me, which he affirmed on Day 1. He knew I was also tied up with Melo, my Cameroonian lover turned friend. I liked having them know there was another...noone owned me. In a culture where men have several wives, I am a proud and shining example of the opposite.
This morning I met Baye Ass on the beach, doing his morning multiple-hour workout. A perfectly-sculpted shortish physique, the kind I am tending to go for more and more, he pranced along the beach doing the national workout moves that everyone does here: walking squats, walking backwards in the sand while dragging your feet, slow running, endless sets of pushups, jumps, etc. From my terrace I looked for him as he had left his clothes on the beach and gone off to workout farther along. When it was time for my run/swim, I ran into him with his friend Attilla doing their push-ups into a two-foot deep sand pit for more challenge. He wore big smiling face, had a powerful build and a friendly still-untainted countenance. He had started commuting to Toubab only 3 months before to further his Djembe drumming skills and has a huge difference in attitude from the other long-standing brethren “Baye Fall” drummers that have experienced the White Woman over and over and become quite the professional Don Juans. We did a long ocean swim together and boy did he swim. He is the first real swimmer I have seen here, doing all the strokes with an eccentric African touch. Sprightly and lovely he is. Still innocent and pure. A Capricorn too, a good thing for me. They teach and remind me to go slow, like Melo, and are respectful.
I am committed to learning Wolof. I have been carrying the two thin Wolof books I ordered on Amazon for 6 months now and, finally, get to use them. It is a totally new, totally unrelated idiom that will awaken my brain cells into
Being in one Body. He is figuring out how to be Lamine. When I saw him drum the first time it was transcendental. He and the Drum are one. His Passion for the drum shined all over. His talent left me limp. On stage he thrived on the attention a Leo loves to feel alive. But I surely cannot give my life up to this Leo who I could tell needed ALL of me, which he affirmed on Day 1. He knew I was also tied up with Melo, my Cameroonian lover turned friend. I liked having them know there was another...noone owned me. In a culture where men have several wives, I am a proud and shining example of the opposite.
This morning I met Baye Ass on the beach, doing his morning multiple-hour workout. A perfectly-sculpted shortish physique, the kind I am tending to go for more and more, he pranced along the beach doing the national workout moves that everyone does here: walking squats, walking backwards in the sand while dragging your feet, slow running, endless sets of pushups, jumps, etc. From my terrace I looked for him as he had left his clothes on the beach and gone off to workout farther along. When it was time for my run/swim, I ran into him with his friend Attilla doing their push-ups into a two-foot deep sand pit for more challenge. He wore big smiling face, had a powerful build and a friendly still-untainted countenance. He had started commuting to Toubab only 3 months before to further his Djembe drumming skills and has a huge difference in attitude from the other long-standing brethren “Baye Fall” drummers that have experienced the White Woman over and over and become quite the professional Don Juans. We did a long ocean swim together and boy did he swim. He is the first real swimmer I have seen here, doing all the strokes with an eccentric African touch. Sprightly and lovely he is. Still innocent and pure. A Capricorn too, a good thing for me. They teach and remind me to go slow, like Melo, and are respectful.
I am committed to learning Wolof. I have been carrying the two thin Wolof books I ordered on Amazon for 6 months now and, finally, get to use them. It is a totally new, totally unrelated idiom that will awaken my brain cells into
youthful action. I cannot be in a country and not communicate in the native
speak. After “Nanagadeff” the universal greeting meaning “How are you?”
more or less, and “Mangui fi” meaning “I am here” followed by “Al Hamdi Lilai”
or “Thank God”....the next word that took me for a loop was “Wow”. In one of
my first French conversations with “Vieux” another Master Djembe Fola like
Lamine, who works his legs and pecs for an hour on the beach in front of
Baby’s daily...he replied “Wow” to my every word. I thought it was a very
adorable injection of our English “Wow” into the native tongue here.
Everywhere I started hearing “Wow” inserted constantly in conversations and
was tickled, until in one instance I actually learned that it means “Yes” in
Wolof. And that the Senegalese culture is “Yes”-oriented. They barely ever utter the word for “No”, which is Dedet. I thought: What a positive People. Naturally. No webinars, no self-help books, no Positive Thinking trainings, workshops, therapists, seminars, life coaches, etc. Just a whole Culture focused on “Wow”. But Hans and Roos, a young and creative Dutch couple who have just become official landowners here set me straight on that one too. In their experience, the lack of the use of the word “Dedet” here is more related to not wanting to deal with the reality when it’s a negative and to always being accomodating at the expense of truthfulness. Hmmmm. Good insight and good lesson. They even have expressions here to the effect of: “Better to lie and keep everyone happy than tell the Truth and have enemies”....and others.
Yesterday was Day 2 for getting to know Baye Ass. After receiving his adorably misspelled French texts in the morning as we attempted to make plans and somewhat understanding them, I wondered how things would go with a more authentic Senegalese man and authentic man period. I clearly felt a vibe quite the opposite of Lamine. No bullshit, no games, no playing around, no ulterior motives. Ahhhh, quite a relief. In the afternoon after I returned from running around with Afidi and Sissy looking for oven bricks for the workshop, I was anxious to see Baye again. (I can’t use that “Ass” part of his name yet). How would it be today? We met on the beach again and the big smile welcomed me back. He wore those adorable African patchwork pants that I sent to my boys, a sleeveless basketball tank and a wool cap to control his newly dreaded still-short locks. He is a hairdresser by trade now and I found that adorable too. Africans take their hair quite seriously and have hairdressers on every corner that seem to always be cornrowing, dreading, braiding, extending and all the other techniques they have developed to play with African hair. Baye’s specialty in fact is shaving designs on people’s heads, mostly male I guess. I have to say I was a bit surprised to learn that this very “male” Djembe player also did hair, a slight rupture with my Euro- American mindset regarding male hairdressers, but Yeah for cutural mindset ruptures.
Keep ‘em comin’!
Wolof. And that the Senegalese culture is “Yes”-oriented. They barely ever utter the word for “No”, which is Dedet. I thought: What a positive People. Naturally. No webinars, no self-help books, no Positive Thinking trainings, workshops, therapists, seminars, life coaches, etc. Just a whole Culture focused on “Wow”. But Hans and Roos, a young and creative Dutch couple who have just become official landowners here set me straight on that one too. In their experience, the lack of the use of the word “Dedet” here is more related to not wanting to deal with the reality when it’s a negative and to always being accomodating at the expense of truthfulness. Hmmmm. Good insight and good lesson. They even have expressions here to the effect of: “Better to lie and keep everyone happy than tell the Truth and have enemies”....and others.
Yesterday was Day 2 for getting to know Baye Ass. After receiving his adorably misspelled French texts in the morning as we attempted to make plans and somewhat understanding them, I wondered how things would go with a more authentic Senegalese man and authentic man period. I clearly felt a vibe quite the opposite of Lamine. No bullshit, no games, no playing around, no ulterior motives. Ahhhh, quite a relief. In the afternoon after I returned from running around with Afidi and Sissy looking for oven bricks for the workshop, I was anxious to see Baye again. (I can’t use that “Ass” part of his name yet). How would it be today? We met on the beach again and the big smile welcomed me back. He wore those adorable African patchwork pants that I sent to my boys, a sleeveless basketball tank and a wool cap to control his newly dreaded still-short locks. He is a hairdresser by trade now and I found that adorable too. Africans take their hair quite seriously and have hairdressers on every corner that seem to always be cornrowing, dreading, braiding, extending and all the other techniques they have developed to play with African hair. Baye’s specialty in fact is shaving designs on people’s heads, mostly male I guess. I have to say I was a bit surprised to learn that this very “male” Djembe player also did hair, a slight rupture with my Euro- American mindset regarding male hairdressers, but Yeah for cutural mindset ruptures.
Keep ‘em comin’!
Totally excited to see me by his huge smile, he immediately barraged me with
a slough of apologies for not having responded to my texts due to credit on
his phone running out and for having kept his distance earlier when I bumped
into him in the presence of his Djembe colleagues. He had been walking on
the beach all day since that moment until now, about 5 hours. He had missed
me tremendously and could not stop thinking about me all night. While these
words are not unusual in the mouths of the player “Baye Falls” and other
players in the league of handsome African men that know their strengths in the face of hungry White Women...there was no doubt for me that Baye is not of that league. He is not even a Baye Fall. He is Tijan, another Muslim sect to which most of the Lébou belong. The Lébous are descendants of the original Serrer who are the original Senegalese from the interior. The Lébou are the ocean people, the fishermen, the pirogue crafters. In fact Senegal means “my pirogue”, the answer given to the French colonists when asked who they were, and thus the name given to the land they “discovered”. All the Lébou swim and are comfortable on the water, not so for the rest of the Senegalese who fear the ocean tremendously. There are hundreds of drownings each year due to fear.
Baye Ass is different and for that I am thankful. I am not up for being taken for rides anymore. We played Smashball and tempted the huge ocean. With respect I stayed back, not wanting to lose my life quite yet in case some weird rogue currents decided to suck me in. This is Baye’s ocean, so I watched as he pranced and danced and dove into the large swell. A little powerhouse like my son Viva, I trust his physical confidence fully. But as far as lifesaving skills, that does require a bit of training I think.
I had no qualms in inviting him to dinner at Baby’s in trade for some Wolof lessons. He accepted happily and graciously. A nice fish, rice and sauce meal here runs around $2-$3 and there is always extra left over for the next day. We shared a big plate of rice with a large fish with Baby’s special cassava leaf-based sauce. FInally some greens. Baye was so sweetly shy with Baby as he had never walked into her restaurant before. Most Senegalese don’t pay more than $1 for their meals, home-cooked by the African mamas on the street every day. Here he was treading into new territory, and with respect. I liked that. And so did Baby, I could tell. After 15 years here she is the Matriarch of this section of the Beach. She knows ALL the guys here, and which ones she does not like and which ones she approves of. I could tell she approved of Baye. Who couldn’t?
Being in Africa among the People for a long period definitely brings a bit of simplifying of one’s lifestyle for sure and, I imagine, of one’s intellectual abilities too. Just as the Africans that get to Europe and the States begin expanding their abilities to survive and even thrive, and, if they are blessed get to even experience higher education, foreign transplants here begin to
players in the league of handsome African men that know their strengths in the face of hungry White Women...there was no doubt for me that Baye is not of that league. He is not even a Baye Fall. He is Tijan, another Muslim sect to which most of the Lébou belong. The Lébous are descendants of the original Serrer who are the original Senegalese from the interior. The Lébou are the ocean people, the fishermen, the pirogue crafters. In fact Senegal means “my pirogue”, the answer given to the French colonists when asked who they were, and thus the name given to the land they “discovered”. All the Lébou swim and are comfortable on the water, not so for the rest of the Senegalese who fear the ocean tremendously. There are hundreds of drownings each year due to fear.
Baye Ass is different and for that I am thankful. I am not up for being taken for rides anymore. We played Smashball and tempted the huge ocean. With respect I stayed back, not wanting to lose my life quite yet in case some weird rogue currents decided to suck me in. This is Baye’s ocean, so I watched as he pranced and danced and dove into the large swell. A little powerhouse like my son Viva, I trust his physical confidence fully. But as far as lifesaving skills, that does require a bit of training I think.
I had no qualms in inviting him to dinner at Baby’s in trade for some Wolof lessons. He accepted happily and graciously. A nice fish, rice and sauce meal here runs around $2-$3 and there is always extra left over for the next day. We shared a big plate of rice with a large fish with Baby’s special cassava leaf-based sauce. FInally some greens. Baye was so sweetly shy with Baby as he had never walked into her restaurant before. Most Senegalese don’t pay more than $1 for their meals, home-cooked by the African mamas on the street every day. Here he was treading into new territory, and with respect. I liked that. And so did Baby, I could tell. After 15 years here she is the Matriarch of this section of the Beach. She knows ALL the guys here, and which ones she does not like and which ones she approves of. I could tell she approved of Baye. Who couldn’t?
Being in Africa among the People for a long period definitely brings a bit of simplifying of one’s lifestyle for sure and, I imagine, of one’s intellectual abilities too. Just as the Africans that get to Europe and the States begin expanding their abilities to survive and even thrive, and, if they are blessed get to even experience higher education, foreign transplants here begin to
lose what they don’t need or use here. My Wolof teacher had clearly never
taught his language to anyone. As I opened my book of phrases and began
exploring the differences between words, ie when to use “Jama rek” and
when to use “Jama nga fnaane”, which both translated into “Good Morning”,
he had trouble. He just kept repeating the phrases and saying that that’s what they were. I could have lost patience but gave him a chance to explore further inside of him to be able to develop his capabilities of connecting his inner understanding of his language’s intention with an external verbal description, not an easy feat for anyone who is not trained as a language teacher. And even then, because they are trained, it often means their descriptions may have been imposed from the outside by books and teachers. Here was the real thing in action. I was intrigued. Eventually he was able to come out with an interesting description of why “rek” is used sometimes: “C’est le Wolof dur, profond,” he said. “It is the deep, hard Wolof”. Of course he is limited by his French vocabulary as well. I took his answer to mean that it is the classical, proper, official Wolof rather than the slang, vernacular, common language. I liked those adjectives he used : “deep and hard” for a language.
As I well know now for having lived most of my life in the US and Europe...the great intellect has benefits yes, however the pain and suffering that it can bring through stress and self-deprecation and incessant analysis and questioning and dissatisfaction are the bane of the “West”. “We” get lost in our minds, depressed and stuck. Coming to Africa balances it all out. As long as one lets go of the mind long enough to get a full experience of life here and can appreciate it without judgment, for here reign deep Wisdom, deep Love, deep Connection to Other and to the Elements and the Earth. However, the fact that they can remain oblivious to the scarring of the landscape with man-made commercial industrial waste scattered over the land and in the water and sky makes me question their Earth connection. But perhaps, as I was thinking yesterday, it is the fact that these objects are foreign-produced, not part of their heritage, and thus they cannot relate to them in a responsible fashion. They don’t know how to relate to them beyond using them. And because they come from the “outside” they don’t even see them. They don’t take responsibility for them. It is a troubling matter for all the foreigners here and some locals too, but not many it seems. Only the ones who have been brainwashed by outsiders perhaps?
Ibrahima cleans the beach every morning. Dragging a 3 foot long nylon recycled bag behind him and carrying a rake he scours the coastline and rids it of the waste in all forms, mostly tiny clear plastic bags used for peanut butter and other small snacks and products that are ubiquitous and can pass for jellyfish in the ocean. He, like me, has a deep passion for the Earth and does his morning practice out of personal need. He is not looking for rewards, though a few generous French locals offer him a large $10 a month recompense for keeping “their” beaches clean of debris for their weekend
he had trouble. He just kept repeating the phrases and saying that that’s what they were. I could have lost patience but gave him a chance to explore further inside of him to be able to develop his capabilities of connecting his inner understanding of his language’s intention with an external verbal description, not an easy feat for anyone who is not trained as a language teacher. And even then, because they are trained, it often means their descriptions may have been imposed from the outside by books and teachers. Here was the real thing in action. I was intrigued. Eventually he was able to come out with an interesting description of why “rek” is used sometimes: “C’est le Wolof dur, profond,” he said. “It is the deep, hard Wolof”. Of course he is limited by his French vocabulary as well. I took his answer to mean that it is the classical, proper, official Wolof rather than the slang, vernacular, common language. I liked those adjectives he used : “deep and hard” for a language.
As I well know now for having lived most of my life in the US and Europe...the great intellect has benefits yes, however the pain and suffering that it can bring through stress and self-deprecation and incessant analysis and questioning and dissatisfaction are the bane of the “West”. “We” get lost in our minds, depressed and stuck. Coming to Africa balances it all out. As long as one lets go of the mind long enough to get a full experience of life here and can appreciate it without judgment, for here reign deep Wisdom, deep Love, deep Connection to Other and to the Elements and the Earth. However, the fact that they can remain oblivious to the scarring of the landscape with man-made commercial industrial waste scattered over the land and in the water and sky makes me question their Earth connection. But perhaps, as I was thinking yesterday, it is the fact that these objects are foreign-produced, not part of their heritage, and thus they cannot relate to them in a responsible fashion. They don’t know how to relate to them beyond using them. And because they come from the “outside” they don’t even see them. They don’t take responsibility for them. It is a troubling matter for all the foreigners here and some locals too, but not many it seems. Only the ones who have been brainwashed by outsiders perhaps?
Ibrahima cleans the beach every morning. Dragging a 3 foot long nylon recycled bag behind him and carrying a rake he scours the coastline and rids it of the waste in all forms, mostly tiny clear plastic bags used for peanut butter and other small snacks and products that are ubiquitous and can pass for jellyfish in the ocean. He, like me, has a deep passion for the Earth and does his morning practice out of personal need. He is not looking for rewards, though a few generous French locals offer him a large $10 a month recompense for keeping “their” beaches clean of debris for their weekend
visits from Dakar. He also does Reiki healing massage and yoga and is more
of a Santa Cruz type living here in Toubab. When he sees me also cleaning
with a bag he smiles and immediately we are kin. The job is endless, every
day, but this is apparently one of the cleanest beaches on the coastline and
much appreciated. He of course receives his just rewards every day. He is
taken care of.
My dinner with Baye was sweet. We were the only two eating at Baby’s on a Saturday night. I was quite surprised. Sitting next to each other in a corner near the sand, we talked. I asked him how old he was. Thirty eight. I would have guessed twenty eight. I asked him if he was married. He replied Yes. I asked him if he had children. One. Three months old. I asked him if his wife knew that he was meeting me. He replied Of Course. She is happy for me. She is not jealous. I have educated her that way. Hmmmm. For a moment I wondered what he meant by that. Was this more of the Afro-Muslim macho culture? I asked him if it was OK for her to have other lovers. He said Yes Of Course. Just to make sure I asked again. No, I would not like that at all. I trust her. And she trusts me. I am a man of Confidence. She knows that. My decisions are good. She trusts me. All a bit confusing. I definitely appreciated the part about Truthtelling. Baye confirmed that he would only tell me, her and everyone Truth, never lie. He is a correct man. I felt that to be real.
White woman-Senegalese man relationships abound here. I had been warned of the male “prostitution” here, and even husband rentals. I guess I fall into that category of older white women that come and find younger Senegalese boyfriends. I look at them and it appears a bit off. But now that I am in the midst of one myself, I see it differently. Many women of the world, the White ones in particular, prefer a black partner for many reasons. We need a more pure, raw, MALE lover. Someone who desires us and shows it. Someone more simple and down-to-earth. Not so overly mental and intellectual. No hangups, addictions and neuroses. And not to forget the gorgeous physical appearances, someone that turns us on easily. No toys, liquids, porns, therapies, coaching, etc. Just the real thing: eat, sleep, play, love, dance, have fun. That is definitely worth a plane ticket over here, even a 2-week “all-inclusive rental”. It’s not quite as it looks from the outside though. I think it is quite easy to hook up with a man here, even fall in Love, for both parties. Hearts are open here, life is simple, friends are easily made and we all help each other out. Usually it’s money and material on one side and love and kindness and sensuality on the other. A fair exchange I guess.
Last night Baye and I danced so much, our first time together on the dance floor and we were nothing less than the center of attraction. Showing your love and passion publicly is not the norm in Muslim countries, even with your partner or wife. Lamine in Cabo Verde would tell me to act neutral in public. Baye let it all hang out with me. Like children we danced un self-consciously flowing harmoniously to the reggae rhythms and with each other. Only
My dinner with Baye was sweet. We were the only two eating at Baby’s on a Saturday night. I was quite surprised. Sitting next to each other in a corner near the sand, we talked. I asked him how old he was. Thirty eight. I would have guessed twenty eight. I asked him if he was married. He replied Yes. I asked him if he had children. One. Three months old. I asked him if his wife knew that he was meeting me. He replied Of Course. She is happy for me. She is not jealous. I have educated her that way. Hmmmm. For a moment I wondered what he meant by that. Was this more of the Afro-Muslim macho culture? I asked him if it was OK for her to have other lovers. He said Yes Of Course. Just to make sure I asked again. No, I would not like that at all. I trust her. And she trusts me. I am a man of Confidence. She knows that. My decisions are good. She trusts me. All a bit confusing. I definitely appreciated the part about Truthtelling. Baye confirmed that he would only tell me, her and everyone Truth, never lie. He is a correct man. I felt that to be real.
White woman-Senegalese man relationships abound here. I had been warned of the male “prostitution” here, and even husband rentals. I guess I fall into that category of older white women that come and find younger Senegalese boyfriends. I look at them and it appears a bit off. But now that I am in the midst of one myself, I see it differently. Many women of the world, the White ones in particular, prefer a black partner for many reasons. We need a more pure, raw, MALE lover. Someone who desires us and shows it. Someone more simple and down-to-earth. Not so overly mental and intellectual. No hangups, addictions and neuroses. And not to forget the gorgeous physical appearances, someone that turns us on easily. No toys, liquids, porns, therapies, coaching, etc. Just the real thing: eat, sleep, play, love, dance, have fun. That is definitely worth a plane ticket over here, even a 2-week “all-inclusive rental”. It’s not quite as it looks from the outside though. I think it is quite easy to hook up with a man here, even fall in Love, for both parties. Hearts are open here, life is simple, friends are easily made and we all help each other out. Usually it’s money and material on one side and love and kindness and sensuality on the other. A fair exchange I guess.
Last night Baye and I danced so much, our first time together on the dance floor and we were nothing less than the center of attraction. Showing your love and passion publicly is not the norm in Muslim countries, even with your partner or wife. Lamine in Cabo Verde would tell me to act neutral in public. Baye let it all hang out with me. Like children we danced un self-consciously flowing harmoniously to the reggae rhythms and with each other. Only
knowing each other a few days, each step is another discovery and a
pleasant surprise, so far. A Senegalese Earth man, humble, kind, almost a
virgin, real, clean of stimulants, non-judgmental, absolutely comfortable in his
body and with none of the distortions inherent in the minds and behaviors of
many of his Djembe brethren and others. I couldn’t ask for a better partner
here. And that there is total transparency here with regard to the multiple wife
phenomenon is actually pretty cool compared to the US dramas that take
place. I actually think it works quite well for the men and the relationships to
be able to move between wives so noone gets too sick of each other. The big
family and friends network around the wife makes the child-rearing easier
when the husband is flitting from house to house. However there is also the
set-up in which the wives all co-habitate in different sections of one house
and become one big happy Sisterhood all fertilized by the same male. My
problem with this set-up being one way is actually being modified after some
reflection. A woman of child-bearing and child-rearing age is definitely not in a
multiple lover let alone husband time and space in her life. What she needs is
support, human support from like-living Sisters and other Females in her Life.
Therefore the four-wife thing fits the bill. However, I believe that after the kids
are “out of the house” and the woman is done with rearing her children, the
multiple partner thing should now be mutual. A woman is now ready to be in
the world, serving with her innate skills and passions, and is ripe and ready
for fun, adventure and experiences to expand her Heart and Soul to the next
level of development, leadership and eldership. Meeting and learning from
many partners, not to mention teaching them as well, a woman can handle
and may desire great variety in her sexual/sensual/intellectual contacts. She
does not need anyone and can make her way in the world husband-free. She
is in the most powerful time of her Life with the greatest amount of liberated
Energy. On the other hand, I construe that it is perhaps now the man’s time to
be more still, at home and quiet after many years of being out in the world
working in a career to support his family. So perhaps in the end things are
balanced out and now the mobile active “crone” goes from house to house
visiting her husbands who tend the homestead in their later years. Yin and
Yang, Expansion and Contraction, Sun and Moon, The Pendulum swings,
Nature Creates Function Creates Form....We are One.
One of the fascinations I have had here is with the long back and forth slew of automatic and always changing list of greetings. Here you say hello to just about everyone you pass, especially in this large village called Toubab Dialaw. How do you decide which greetings to use and how many to say? At this point I dont have enough of a vocabulary memorized to go back and forth more than twice. As I walk with Baye Ass I am studying this phenomenon. What I notice is 1) people often just keep walking and don’t make eye contact as they are greeting each other 2) there is no emotion in the words or apparent interest 3) it appears to be a formality 4) there are about 5 standards.
One of the fascinations I have had here is with the long back and forth slew of automatic and always changing list of greetings. Here you say hello to just about everyone you pass, especially in this large village called Toubab Dialaw. How do you decide which greetings to use and how many to say? At this point I dont have enough of a vocabulary memorized to go back and forth more than twice. As I walk with Baye Ass I am studying this phenomenon. What I notice is 1) people often just keep walking and don’t make eye contact as they are greeting each other 2) there is no emotion in the words or apparent interest 3) it appears to be a formality 4) there are about 5 standards.
Basically it goes like this:
or
“Salaam Aleykum.” “Asalaam Aleykum.” “Nangadeff” “Mangui fi”
“Yangisi jam”
“Wao. Jama rek” “Naka Subasi”
“Jama rek. Santi Allah” “Wao. Al Hamdulilai”
“May Peace be with you” “And with you” “How are you?”
“I am here”
“Are you in Peace?”
“Yes. Peace is here”
“How was your morning?” “I am in peace. Thank God” “Yes. Thank God.”
When I think of my dear Baye coming to the US and the culture shock of one- word greetings...”Hey” “Yo” “Wassup?” “Cool”, etc. But I guess that makes it easier for them. These long barrages of greetings are pretty much obligatory if you want to keep good relations here. As a Toubab or “White” you can be excused I guess, and get away with the shorter “Ca va?” “Oui, ça va bien” and pretend you don’t know the other ones and they will stop. However this is a very unique phenomenon to Senegal I hear. I would like to find out more
about it. Personally it tires me. I have to be on my toes to remember the greetings each time while it seems noone really cares about the content anyway. A bit like in the US, people pretty much go through the motions regardless of the Truth of their life...most of the time.
My relationship with Baye Ass is fuckin’ amazing. Though I promised myself to go to sleep early I just need to get this on paper. This may be the beginning of my first mature real loving relationship, with someone with whom I can’t even discuss at a high level, meaning his French is basic and my Wolof non- functional. We are managing to laugh together, play together, tease each other and have alot of talks...nonetheless. HIs love for health and fitness matches mine. His willingness to be transparent and communicate does too. His clear range of talents keeps expanding with each day we are together, most recently his easily-acquired new cob building skills. As a good Capricorn, the likes of which I know full well through my son Viva, he works well and hard and everything he tries after short observation comes easily. HIs body is magical. Watching him run, play in the ocean, dance, move on the beach, play drums, massage me, sit, lie, sleep...I am in awe. More importantly Baye Ass is true, real and I am fuckin’ bewildered that Great Spirit has already decided I am ready for a healthy normal high-caliber evolved Being in my life. I feel in love. All other men look uninteresting to me in
or
“Salaam Aleykum.” “Asalaam Aleykum.” “Nangadeff” “Mangui fi”
“Yangisi jam”
“Wao. Jama rek” “Naka Subasi”
“Jama rek. Santi Allah” “Wao. Al Hamdulilai”
“May Peace be with you” “And with you” “How are you?”
“I am here”
“Are you in Peace?”
“Yes. Peace is here”
“How was your morning?” “I am in peace. Thank God” “Yes. Thank God.”
When I think of my dear Baye coming to the US and the culture shock of one- word greetings...”Hey” “Yo” “Wassup?” “Cool”, etc. But I guess that makes it easier for them. These long barrages of greetings are pretty much obligatory if you want to keep good relations here. As a Toubab or “White” you can be excused I guess, and get away with the shorter “Ca va?” “Oui, ça va bien” and pretend you don’t know the other ones and they will stop. However this is a very unique phenomenon to Senegal I hear. I would like to find out more
about it. Personally it tires me. I have to be on my toes to remember the greetings each time while it seems noone really cares about the content anyway. A bit like in the US, people pretty much go through the motions regardless of the Truth of their life...most of the time.
My relationship with Baye Ass is fuckin’ amazing. Though I promised myself to go to sleep early I just need to get this on paper. This may be the beginning of my first mature real loving relationship, with someone with whom I can’t even discuss at a high level, meaning his French is basic and my Wolof non- functional. We are managing to laugh together, play together, tease each other and have alot of talks...nonetheless. HIs love for health and fitness matches mine. His willingness to be transparent and communicate does too. His clear range of talents keeps expanding with each day we are together, most recently his easily-acquired new cob building skills. As a good Capricorn, the likes of which I know full well through my son Viva, he works well and hard and everything he tries after short observation comes easily. HIs body is magical. Watching him run, play in the ocean, dance, move on the beach, play drums, massage me, sit, lie, sleep...I am in awe. More importantly Baye Ass is true, real and I am fuckin’ bewildered that Great Spirit has already decided I am ready for a healthy normal high-caliber evolved Being in my life. I feel in love. All other men look uninteresting to me in
comparison right now. I don’t even care much. He seems to be fulfilling me
more and more each day. He has that “positive thinking/manifestor” quality
that we in the West have to practice hard to acquire. The fact that we had a
laugh attack this morning with minimal words across our language and
cultural barriers as he described watching me sleep this morning through a
stuffy nose and probably some gastrointestinal perturbations, is deepening
our bond. The fact that he doesn’t care what others think and kisses me,
holds my hand and hugs me publically surprises me because of his
Muslimhood.
Today Fatime, a local revolutionary Senegalese elder helped mediate us through a frustrating communication gap. The only odd issue between us right now is sex. While the chemistry is there he does not feel comfortable, he says, engaging sexually freely with no limits, meaning intercourse, if we are not married. He says it’s his personal preference, not religious, but the two must be clearly intertwined since he is a pretty devout Muslim, praying several times a day. For me the line is not clear since it is OK for him to pleasure me but then he stops as I am approaching climax, which is extremely frustrating. I try to explain and we go in Circles so we mutually agreed to seek an appropiate French/Wolof interpreter to help us through this.
Baye was a 33-year old virgin when he was ready to marry Marem, his wife of four years. She too is a devout Muslim. The first time he and she ever made love was after they were married. Wow. Wao (or Yes) Mind-blowing for us Westerners. Therefore I am the second woman he has ever been with intimately and, as you can imagine, he is ready for wife #2. And no more, he says. Marriage? After 10 days? But Marriage??? What a long-forgotten concept! But kind of cute. “I am marrying an adorable Senegalese Muslim man, kids. Meet your new step-father, Baye Ass!”
He assures me, through Fatime, that it is not his Muslimhood but his personal preference, to go slowly. He is scared. Does not want to rush things. It’s all new for him to be sexual like this. He wants to be sure that I love him truly. His pleasuring is such a turn-on because he is like a child exploring my body and its reactions with love and attention. I doubt his wife is so open sexually with him. They do not have intercourse because she just had a baby a few months ago and they do not want to get pregnant again right now. He keeps asking why I am in a hurry. “Is it not making love when we kiss and touch and hug too?” Try telling that to a passionate Aries with a scrumptious, respectful, honest well-built African man. Goooo sloooow! Darrn, I have heard those words one too many times with regard to the men who I bring in to my life, or rather Great Spirit does. Once again, I have no choice, however this time I have respect, kindness, love, friendship and a wiser countenance. I can handle it, I think.
Today Fatime, a local revolutionary Senegalese elder helped mediate us through a frustrating communication gap. The only odd issue between us right now is sex. While the chemistry is there he does not feel comfortable, he says, engaging sexually freely with no limits, meaning intercourse, if we are not married. He says it’s his personal preference, not religious, but the two must be clearly intertwined since he is a pretty devout Muslim, praying several times a day. For me the line is not clear since it is OK for him to pleasure me but then he stops as I am approaching climax, which is extremely frustrating. I try to explain and we go in Circles so we mutually agreed to seek an appropiate French/Wolof interpreter to help us through this.
Baye was a 33-year old virgin when he was ready to marry Marem, his wife of four years. She too is a devout Muslim. The first time he and she ever made love was after they were married. Wow. Wao (or Yes) Mind-blowing for us Westerners. Therefore I am the second woman he has ever been with intimately and, as you can imagine, he is ready for wife #2. And no more, he says. Marriage? After 10 days? But Marriage??? What a long-forgotten concept! But kind of cute. “I am marrying an adorable Senegalese Muslim man, kids. Meet your new step-father, Baye Ass!”
He assures me, through Fatime, that it is not his Muslimhood but his personal preference, to go slowly. He is scared. Does not want to rush things. It’s all new for him to be sexual like this. He wants to be sure that I love him truly. His pleasuring is such a turn-on because he is like a child exploring my body and its reactions with love and attention. I doubt his wife is so open sexually with him. They do not have intercourse because she just had a baby a few months ago and they do not want to get pregnant again right now. He keeps asking why I am in a hurry. “Is it not making love when we kiss and touch and hug too?” Try telling that to a passionate Aries with a scrumptious, respectful, honest well-built African man. Goooo sloooow! Darrn, I have heard those words one too many times with regard to the men who I bring in to my life, or rather Great Spirit does. Once again, I have no choice, however this time I have respect, kindness, love, friendship and a wiser countenance. I can handle it, I think.
After a good long sit in the presence of the One on the sandy slightly-littered
beach with my old sick dog friend curled up next to me, I realize something.
Asking for the lessons, once again, it comes to my awareness that there is
Wisdom in the Muslim preference for intercourse only after Marriage, or a
commitment to be together in Love. We in the West terribly abuse sex and
intercourse, having sex with anyone, even for a night, an hour, a minute...
never to see them again sometimes. Like animals, we need to get fucked,
laid, sometimes with little or no personal connection. There is no Sacredness
to this way of connecting with another, which can be so powerful an
experience when acted with consciousness, fearlessness, love and
commitment. But I have also experienced this Beautiful Act with men with
whom I was not in a committed relationship but with whom I felt an honest,
fearless willingness to be Present, even if only but for the Moment, as
mediums of Unconditional Love from the One. A momentary Meditation
moving Energy through Chemistry, Touch, an Open Heart, and Slow
Movement with Awareness. If both partners know how to be, they can arrive
together despite not having a long-term “mundane” connection behind them.
That is definitely not to say that such a connection would create the same kind of experience as one with a long-term partner, only to state that I believe depth can be had with a momentary partner as well. Maybe even deeper because there are no mental hangups and emotional baggage or fear in the way. Like the Africans, it is pure, simple and real.
I have yet to see how Tantric Sex is received by the African man who has no intellectual knowledge or prior experience of it. As a matter of fact, I don’t know if I will get a chance to, seeing as Marriage may be the prerequisite. And, perhaps I might even venture there, for the fun of it, for another experience, and of course with someone I love. I know though that my reticence stems from not wanting the emotional obligation and bond at this time, that knowing I am married will carry. Even if it happens in a Mosque, in Senegal, and does not count once I am elsewhere, the ritual carries meaningful weight. There is definitely something to it.
Today, right now, I am comfortably set up on my camping mat, leaning on my backpack, scarf on my head and wearing my new tank and blue and white- striped long sleeve sailor shirt recovered from a shipping container of American clothing as I begin once again to write my journey. Days go by and there is just no energy for it though I avidly jot reminder notes down constantly. I have 24 hours of sitting and lying ahead of me, on the old blue and white cargo ship, the “Sotovento”, taking me from Praia to São Vicente, the capital of Cabo Verdian music culture, and home to its most famous spokeswoman Cesaria Evora. I have taken my small yellow “Vomidrine” pills which worked so well on the last trip. There are maybe a dozen Cabo Verdians on the boat and a ton of cargo: vegetables, tires, vehicles and all kinds of goods imported from the capital. I, once again, am the only foreigner.
That is definitely not to say that such a connection would create the same kind of experience as one with a long-term partner, only to state that I believe depth can be had with a momentary partner as well. Maybe even deeper because there are no mental hangups and emotional baggage or fear in the way. Like the Africans, it is pure, simple and real.
I have yet to see how Tantric Sex is received by the African man who has no intellectual knowledge or prior experience of it. As a matter of fact, I don’t know if I will get a chance to, seeing as Marriage may be the prerequisite. And, perhaps I might even venture there, for the fun of it, for another experience, and of course with someone I love. I know though that my reticence stems from not wanting the emotional obligation and bond at this time, that knowing I am married will carry. Even if it happens in a Mosque, in Senegal, and does not count once I am elsewhere, the ritual carries meaningful weight. There is definitely something to it.
Today, right now, I am comfortably set up on my camping mat, leaning on my backpack, scarf on my head and wearing my new tank and blue and white- striped long sleeve sailor shirt recovered from a shipping container of American clothing as I begin once again to write my journey. Days go by and there is just no energy for it though I avidly jot reminder notes down constantly. I have 24 hours of sitting and lying ahead of me, on the old blue and white cargo ship, the “Sotovento”, taking me from Praia to São Vicente, the capital of Cabo Verdian music culture, and home to its most famous spokeswoman Cesaria Evora. I have taken my small yellow “Vomidrine” pills which worked so well on the last trip. There are maybe a dozen Cabo Verdians on the boat and a ton of cargo: vegetables, tires, vehicles and all kinds of goods imported from the capital. I, once again, am the only foreigner.
It is utterly enjoyable. Sitting on the windy deck, I watch Santiago go by with
its coarse and jagged mountainscape. It is a varied fertile island I had the
opportunity to circle in April using several “yassis”, group transport minibuses,
to take me from point to point. I want to circle it by bike next time.
I have staked out my “spot” near the Captain’s cabin and expect a wonderful sleep rock and rolled by the large subtropical Atlantic swells. Everyone has brought their mattresses, pillows, blankets, food, music, etc for a comfortable $40 ride. Personally I really look forward to these “in between” periods that surface travel affords, the moments where you are covering more ground at once and are neither here nor there and can “reset” between “being places”. I will try and catch up and come to date for the next 17 hours of being nowhere and everywhere.
Back to Africa. (Isn’t that a book by Isak Dinesen and a movie?) I must open my mouth right now and speak up as I have held back information from Baye Ass though we professed to tell each other only the Truth. Of course he did not ask and I did not tell. However he is so intuitive that I wonder if he knows and is not saying anything. The two days he did not come to Toubab, I worked frantically to finish Baby’s oven. I could have hired some others to help but was determined to finish it on my own, at my own pace and with no talking for a change. Towards the afternoon on Day 2, as I was losing power and optimism that I would finish that day’s goal of finishing the inner oven shell around the sand dome, an adorable, shortish, shorn and well-built Gallé and his bald, thin artsy protegé Seydou walk up to the site. Gallé, need I say more, is a fellow Aries. We had an immediate connection, or “current” as he calls it, that only mutual Fire signs can understand. His naturally muscular build shown through his white T-shirt that simply read “SH%$#@T!”. When our eyes met, I knew it was good. A clean and shiny smile of well-formed white teeth was highlighted by one of the coolest deepest whole-hearted laughs I have ever heard. I love his laugh. He would open his mouth wide and start with “Ahhhhhh” followed by “HaHaHaHa” and then “IIIIIIII” and ending with “Yippeeeeee”. Upon my invitation to join me, he rolled up his jeans, threw off his shoes, and playfully jumped into the mud ready and willing for the unknown. It took Gallé one batch to get it and he was off, eagerly rolling up “cobs” and handing them to me so that we worked fast and hard together plugging in the very last “cob” an hour after he’d arrived on the scene. He had apparently come to pay Baby a visit...which is when he saw me. Gallé is a “building contractor”. Here they call them “entrpreneurs”. He runs building projects, large ones, and makes about $32 a day for it. In the trades that is well paid. His workers make about $6 a day. The masons make $8 a day.
As a Thank You gesture for his kind support and for saving me 2 hours while allowing me to advance in a timely fashion and be ready for the next day’s work, I invited him for a drink and food later that night. He accepted. Of course I immediately realized I was “not available”, the first time I have had
I have staked out my “spot” near the Captain’s cabin and expect a wonderful sleep rock and rolled by the large subtropical Atlantic swells. Everyone has brought their mattresses, pillows, blankets, food, music, etc for a comfortable $40 ride. Personally I really look forward to these “in between” periods that surface travel affords, the moments where you are covering more ground at once and are neither here nor there and can “reset” between “being places”. I will try and catch up and come to date for the next 17 hours of being nowhere and everywhere.
Back to Africa. (Isn’t that a book by Isak Dinesen and a movie?) I must open my mouth right now and speak up as I have held back information from Baye Ass though we professed to tell each other only the Truth. Of course he did not ask and I did not tell. However he is so intuitive that I wonder if he knows and is not saying anything. The two days he did not come to Toubab, I worked frantically to finish Baby’s oven. I could have hired some others to help but was determined to finish it on my own, at my own pace and with no talking for a change. Towards the afternoon on Day 2, as I was losing power and optimism that I would finish that day’s goal of finishing the inner oven shell around the sand dome, an adorable, shortish, shorn and well-built Gallé and his bald, thin artsy protegé Seydou walk up to the site. Gallé, need I say more, is a fellow Aries. We had an immediate connection, or “current” as he calls it, that only mutual Fire signs can understand. His naturally muscular build shown through his white T-shirt that simply read “SH%$#@T!”. When our eyes met, I knew it was good. A clean and shiny smile of well-formed white teeth was highlighted by one of the coolest deepest whole-hearted laughs I have ever heard. I love his laugh. He would open his mouth wide and start with “Ahhhhhh” followed by “HaHaHaHa” and then “IIIIIIII” and ending with “Yippeeeeee”. Upon my invitation to join me, he rolled up his jeans, threw off his shoes, and playfully jumped into the mud ready and willing for the unknown. It took Gallé one batch to get it and he was off, eagerly rolling up “cobs” and handing them to me so that we worked fast and hard together plugging in the very last “cob” an hour after he’d arrived on the scene. He had apparently come to pay Baby a visit...which is when he saw me. Gallé is a “building contractor”. Here they call them “entrpreneurs”. He runs building projects, large ones, and makes about $32 a day for it. In the trades that is well paid. His workers make about $6 a day. The masons make $8 a day.
As a Thank You gesture for his kind support and for saving me 2 hours while allowing me to advance in a timely fashion and be ready for the next day’s work, I invited him for a drink and food later that night. He accepted. Of course I immediately realized I was “not available”, the first time I have had
that feeling in 15 years. I was “taken”. Yet I had no commitment to Baye Ass
and we had spoken about my desire to be free to be with other men, which he
accepted, with the unspoken understanding that it meant outside of Senegal.
I believe he would not be able to accept me having another love(r) in the
same country let alone the same town.
Nonetheless, I went to meet Gallé at the gorgeous and unique Sobobadé Art Hotel, in the dark. I wanted to be away from the faces that knew Baye Ass and I were a couple so Gallé and I could freely talk and discover each other.
What I discovered was a man totally different than Baye Ass in almost every way. They matched each other in their strong religious practices, their physical strength, their ethnicity, their stature, intensity, age and, as I would later find out, their sexual organ. Gallé is a hard worker who wakes up at 6am and is on the job site from 8am to 4pm daily. He is well-known in the zone and even in Dakar as an integrous and excellent builder. Wherever I said his name, to see what his reputation was in Toubab, I heard only good things. He is divorced and has two teen-aged boys who live with their Mom in Dakar. He lives in his parent’s compound and his Father is the Imam of Toubab Dialaw, meaning he teaches the Koran and leads the prayers. He took me to meet his Mom after we had spent our second day together and I found out where he got his laugh. She was probably not much older than me, attractive, warm and welcoming as are most Senegalese. An attractive woman with a great laugh, and not much older than me.
I was certainly not looking for another man let alone partner in my last week here. Even though Baye Ass and I were not having intercourse, and the sexual intimacy was limited and irregular, we had created a strong affectionate and loving bond together. We slept well together and had developed our sensual/sexual rhythm within his bounds of comfort and I had gotten used to it and enjoyed what we did have. With Gallé there was more passion, more fire, and though he also began by saying “Patience, no hurry, not right away...” when we were getting closer to penetration, he, unlike Baye Ass, went for it. WIth Gallé the communication was easier and more full, as he worked with many Europeans and was used to speaking in French. We laughed and had a good time together. Like Baye Ass, he professed his love immediately and told me he had been alone for the last 10 years and waiting for the “right one” to show up in his life. I believed him. He is a serious man, an honest man and he wanted me to stay and be with him. I could see that happening....if I wanted to stay here. Gallé was very interested in stopping construction with concrete blocks and learning earthen building. He had felt that desire before we met. And here I was looking for a professional builder to partner up with in Senegal and who could take the cob and spread it here. We were each other’s needs.
Nonetheless, I went to meet Gallé at the gorgeous and unique Sobobadé Art Hotel, in the dark. I wanted to be away from the faces that knew Baye Ass and I were a couple so Gallé and I could freely talk and discover each other.
What I discovered was a man totally different than Baye Ass in almost every way. They matched each other in their strong religious practices, their physical strength, their ethnicity, their stature, intensity, age and, as I would later find out, their sexual organ. Gallé is a hard worker who wakes up at 6am and is on the job site from 8am to 4pm daily. He is well-known in the zone and even in Dakar as an integrous and excellent builder. Wherever I said his name, to see what his reputation was in Toubab, I heard only good things. He is divorced and has two teen-aged boys who live with their Mom in Dakar. He lives in his parent’s compound and his Father is the Imam of Toubab Dialaw, meaning he teaches the Koran and leads the prayers. He took me to meet his Mom after we had spent our second day together and I found out where he got his laugh. She was probably not much older than me, attractive, warm and welcoming as are most Senegalese. An attractive woman with a great laugh, and not much older than me.
I was certainly not looking for another man let alone partner in my last week here. Even though Baye Ass and I were not having intercourse, and the sexual intimacy was limited and irregular, we had created a strong affectionate and loving bond together. We slept well together and had developed our sensual/sexual rhythm within his bounds of comfort and I had gotten used to it and enjoyed what we did have. With Gallé there was more passion, more fire, and though he also began by saying “Patience, no hurry, not right away...” when we were getting closer to penetration, he, unlike Baye Ass, went for it. WIth Gallé the communication was easier and more full, as he worked with many Europeans and was used to speaking in French. We laughed and had a good time together. Like Baye Ass, he professed his love immediately and told me he had been alone for the last 10 years and waiting for the “right one” to show up in his life. I believed him. He is a serious man, an honest man and he wanted me to stay and be with him. I could see that happening....if I wanted to stay here. Gallé was very interested in stopping construction with concrete blocks and learning earthen building. He had felt that desire before we met. And here I was looking for a professional builder to partner up with in Senegal and who could take the cob and spread it here. We were each other’s needs.
So now what? I love both men equally and differently. They both satisfy needs
that each one alone does not. And I am sure there are more needs to be
satisfied for which there will be more men to meet. I have no problem loving
both...and more. The issue here is that they are both geographically
proximate and thus how can I be publically with both. Apparently I would be
challenging a very strong and ancient Muslim paradigm were I to attempt to
openly be with both men, and yet I cannot lie and cheat, which I have already
done against my core. I am trying to figure out how to tell Baye Ass directly that I also love and want to be with Gallé. Gallé knows I am with Baye Ass and cannot “share” me. He is willing to wait, as he waited for his wife to make a decision when she was not happy living in Toubab anymore. He is, like Baye Ass, an upstanding and correct Being and I am blessed to have these two quality men in my Heart and in my Life. With Baye I have told him several times we need to be “platonic” lovers as this aborted sexual relationship doesn’t work for me and I will not get married. He mentioned during one frustrating conversation that if I needed to have sex I should go and find someone else for that. So there have been steps made in the direction of “other” relationships. I really appreciate the progressive Ecovillage in Portugal named Tamera, where they study and process these issues daily. They look at jealousy, possessiveness, fear, deceit and the limitations around male- female relationships as they exist in most of the World. Tamera is a living laboratory for the study of male-female dynamics as a solution to war and conflict in the World.
Why can’t I enjoy the uniqueness and love with both men? Baye Ass loves his wife and me. He is affectionate and intimate with both, though I don’t think she knows we are intimate sexually. He has not been totally honest with her either. That gives me an opening, as long as the dance with both is well- orchestrated so that I am with one during the day and with the other at night, or one on weekdays and one on weekends, why should my dual relationship not be acceptable? It is very possible as they have opposite shifts. It is to be seen whether they will an issue with that, or perhaps it is because of the others of course, the onlookers, the community....talk, talk, talk.
There have been others and there will be more men. I am a free loving Spirit who enjoys learning from new People. As I travel around the world, one way of learning new cultures is by being in close relationships with the Men. I am still attractive and youthful despite the additional wrinkles and “wisdom scars”. They don’t seem to stop the young men at all. I need to live it up now while I am fit, fearless and mobile. I love discovering a new Male, with his unique Kiss, Touch, Smell, Feel, Affection, and Lovemaking Style. And of course his personality, traditions, clothing, body, intelligence, spirituality and interpersonal relations. What are his strengths? Passions? Interests? Very Scorpionesque of me....growth through relationship.
done against my core. I am trying to figure out how to tell Baye Ass directly that I also love and want to be with Gallé. Gallé knows I am with Baye Ass and cannot “share” me. He is willing to wait, as he waited for his wife to make a decision when she was not happy living in Toubab anymore. He is, like Baye Ass, an upstanding and correct Being and I am blessed to have these two quality men in my Heart and in my Life. With Baye I have told him several times we need to be “platonic” lovers as this aborted sexual relationship doesn’t work for me and I will not get married. He mentioned during one frustrating conversation that if I needed to have sex I should go and find someone else for that. So there have been steps made in the direction of “other” relationships. I really appreciate the progressive Ecovillage in Portugal named Tamera, where they study and process these issues daily. They look at jealousy, possessiveness, fear, deceit and the limitations around male- female relationships as they exist in most of the World. Tamera is a living laboratory for the study of male-female dynamics as a solution to war and conflict in the World.
Why can’t I enjoy the uniqueness and love with both men? Baye Ass loves his wife and me. He is affectionate and intimate with both, though I don’t think she knows we are intimate sexually. He has not been totally honest with her either. That gives me an opening, as long as the dance with both is well- orchestrated so that I am with one during the day and with the other at night, or one on weekdays and one on weekends, why should my dual relationship not be acceptable? It is very possible as they have opposite shifts. It is to be seen whether they will an issue with that, or perhaps it is because of the others of course, the onlookers, the community....talk, talk, talk.
There have been others and there will be more men. I am a free loving Spirit who enjoys learning from new People. As I travel around the world, one way of learning new cultures is by being in close relationships with the Men. I am still attractive and youthful despite the additional wrinkles and “wisdom scars”. They don’t seem to stop the young men at all. I need to live it up now while I am fit, fearless and mobile. I love discovering a new Male, with his unique Kiss, Touch, Smell, Feel, Affection, and Lovemaking Style. And of course his personality, traditions, clothing, body, intelligence, spirituality and interpersonal relations. What are his strengths? Passions? Interests? Very Scorpionesque of me....growth through relationship.
I truly love both of these men, and others, equally. There is not a better one or
a prioritary one, at least not at this time, I am a communist when it comes to
equal division of love, an egalitarian.
I want to talk about the djembé drummer groups of Senegal. Both on Sal and in Toubab I was exposed to djembé groups who are led by a “djembé fola”, a master drummer, the maestro, who is the most experienced and advanced and thus the most interesting soloist. He plays the loudest and highest- pitched drum so that he is heard clearly above the background lower-pitched drumming of the “chorus”, who play their repetitive beats all in harmony of course. The djembe fola plays an independent beat and while he seems to be playing spontaneously and doing his own thing, it is all within a structure of course that finishes with a recognizable riff that is the signal to the others to come in or finish up.
On Sal, I had the experience of being desired by the head drummer Lamine Sarr, who stopped me abruptly one evening as I was walking past him. While I have talked about Lamine previously, he is coming up for me again. He remembered that I had watched him and his group play one afternoon and was now apologizing for not having spoken to me but wanted to affirm that he had seen me. And now he was inviting me to watch him perform on stage in costume so I could see him at work. Ha! A Leo’s favorite venue, his own show! Though I was really tired, the combination of his incredibly hot appearance and sex appeal with his “won’t-take-no-for-an-answer” persistence won me over. Lamine: tall, lean, muscular, long kidney-length skinny braids all over his head knotted up in a non-chalant oh-so-sexy hairdo under a backwards red baseball cap. Silver jewelry on black skin (yum), messy t-shirt and jeans with definitely non-African lace-up boots, and chewing gum. My weak spot! This guy really wants ME?
Seeing this man on stage I was taken aback. He had let his mane loose, no more hat, bore his bare chest, and like a roaring Lion made his larger-than- life appearance, his djembé hanging from his waist. Like a giant penis he lugged it graciously around onstage between his legs, his instrument of power and prestige, he played it hard and he played it well. I was very impressed. Sadly there were only a dozen onlookers in the audience with a capacity of several hundred. I could tell Lamine couldn’t care less. He was not expecting more and I was the guest of honor. It felt like he was playing for me, all his energy was directed towards me. The Lion seducing his prey. I was honored and also unsure of where things were going with all this attention. When the show came to an end reluctantly, he whisked me off in the back of a taxi playing “Happy” by Pharrell Williiams and singing to it with his adorable Senegalese accent. I was touched. How romantic. Something was goin’ on here and I was goin’ for the ride....with thoughts of my Cameroonian man Melo in the background. Here we go again, another hot man workin’ my desire. I have been waiting for this a damn long time. I
I want to talk about the djembé drummer groups of Senegal. Both on Sal and in Toubab I was exposed to djembé groups who are led by a “djembé fola”, a master drummer, the maestro, who is the most experienced and advanced and thus the most interesting soloist. He plays the loudest and highest- pitched drum so that he is heard clearly above the background lower-pitched drumming of the “chorus”, who play their repetitive beats all in harmony of course. The djembe fola plays an independent beat and while he seems to be playing spontaneously and doing his own thing, it is all within a structure of course that finishes with a recognizable riff that is the signal to the others to come in or finish up.
On Sal, I had the experience of being desired by the head drummer Lamine Sarr, who stopped me abruptly one evening as I was walking past him. While I have talked about Lamine previously, he is coming up for me again. He remembered that I had watched him and his group play one afternoon and was now apologizing for not having spoken to me but wanted to affirm that he had seen me. And now he was inviting me to watch him perform on stage in costume so I could see him at work. Ha! A Leo’s favorite venue, his own show! Though I was really tired, the combination of his incredibly hot appearance and sex appeal with his “won’t-take-no-for-an-answer” persistence won me over. Lamine: tall, lean, muscular, long kidney-length skinny braids all over his head knotted up in a non-chalant oh-so-sexy hairdo under a backwards red baseball cap. Silver jewelry on black skin (yum), messy t-shirt and jeans with definitely non-African lace-up boots, and chewing gum. My weak spot! This guy really wants ME?
Seeing this man on stage I was taken aback. He had let his mane loose, no more hat, bore his bare chest, and like a roaring Lion made his larger-than- life appearance, his djembé hanging from his waist. Like a giant penis he lugged it graciously around onstage between his legs, his instrument of power and prestige, he played it hard and he played it well. I was very impressed. Sadly there were only a dozen onlookers in the audience with a capacity of several hundred. I could tell Lamine couldn’t care less. He was not expecting more and I was the guest of honor. It felt like he was playing for me, all his energy was directed towards me. The Lion seducing his prey. I was honored and also unsure of where things were going with all this attention. When the show came to an end reluctantly, he whisked me off in the back of a taxi playing “Happy” by Pharrell Williiams and singing to it with his adorable Senegalese accent. I was touched. How romantic. Something was goin’ on here and I was goin’ for the ride....with thoughts of my Cameroonian man Melo in the background. Here we go again, another hot man workin’ my desire. I have been waiting for this a damn long time. I
deserve it and I’m gonna enjoy it. I wonder if all single women in their 50’s are
experiencing this.
Lamine wanted me in his room and in his bed but I was not going to have it that quickly. I mean even I need some lead time, some reconnaissance time, when we’re talkin’ Muslim, Senegalese, and no background info. No matter what it may seem to outsiders or my readers, it is not all about fucking a hot and exotic black or other guy. It’s really not possible for me to do that without being interested and turned on by the person in the body. Do we have a connection? Do we have things to talk about passionately? Do we like each other? Lamine came on strong and directly. The second day he was talking marriage, children, travelling together, needing a strong woman “behind” him, etc. Leos always get my soft spot, yes, but this was way too fast and not convincing at all. I openly told him I was with another man and open to being with both, which did not seem to perturb him but rather excite him to the challenge of “getting” me.
The third day he did. Well kind of. He got me into his bed long enough to show me his intense desire. Being not prepared for this and in an unattractive get up of running clothes I’d kept on all day...I easily resisted his advances into my pants. I did not feel very desirable and showed it. His sexual energy was vibrant and strong but his sensuality barely shown. He didn’t do it for me. He just wanted to fuck. Sorry honl!!
I had given him my word that I would not be “available” for a few days and he was counting them down. I felt honored that this Master Djembé player whose hands slapped that drum at 100 mph and could not be stopped once he got going...wanted me so much. I had lost some drive after his desperate petting and clothed humping the day before. However, on the fourth day I was ready. Showered, oiled and sexily attired with stretchy tight canary yellow pants and an olive tank with a translucent flowered back...I danced for him to some Carribbean zouk music. As soon as his brother took off we slid into the bed together and began a new dance. This time he was relaxed, patient, sensual, loving and more of a turn-on. Physically and visually Lamine is an extremely sexy man, despite ciagrette-stained and unkempt teeth. Our mutual fire was ignited and it was good.
What followed was unexpected. I did not know what I was really getting into with this man and was mostly curious. He seemed to be very tied to his habits and ritual of “attaya” drinking, the green gunpowder tea that gets heated on a small coal stove after lunch and in the afternoon, his cigarettes, his afternoon sit at his friends’ beachfront store and of course his djembé. He
seemed to also be very concerned about discretion with me once we had crossed the line into sexual intimacy and asked me to be “neutral” in public. Was this a Muslim-based request or was he wooing other white women too?
Lamine wanted me in his room and in his bed but I was not going to have it that quickly. I mean even I need some lead time, some reconnaissance time, when we’re talkin’ Muslim, Senegalese, and no background info. No matter what it may seem to outsiders or my readers, it is not all about fucking a hot and exotic black or other guy. It’s really not possible for me to do that without being interested and turned on by the person in the body. Do we have a connection? Do we have things to talk about passionately? Do we like each other? Lamine came on strong and directly. The second day he was talking marriage, children, travelling together, needing a strong woman “behind” him, etc. Leos always get my soft spot, yes, but this was way too fast and not convincing at all. I openly told him I was with another man and open to being with both, which did not seem to perturb him but rather excite him to the challenge of “getting” me.
The third day he did. Well kind of. He got me into his bed long enough to show me his intense desire. Being not prepared for this and in an unattractive get up of running clothes I’d kept on all day...I easily resisted his advances into my pants. I did not feel very desirable and showed it. His sexual energy was vibrant and strong but his sensuality barely shown. He didn’t do it for me. He just wanted to fuck. Sorry honl!!
I had given him my word that I would not be “available” for a few days and he was counting them down. I felt honored that this Master Djembé player whose hands slapped that drum at 100 mph and could not be stopped once he got going...wanted me so much. I had lost some drive after his desperate petting and clothed humping the day before. However, on the fourth day I was ready. Showered, oiled and sexily attired with stretchy tight canary yellow pants and an olive tank with a translucent flowered back...I danced for him to some Carribbean zouk music. As soon as his brother took off we slid into the bed together and began a new dance. This time he was relaxed, patient, sensual, loving and more of a turn-on. Physically and visually Lamine is an extremely sexy man, despite ciagrette-stained and unkempt teeth. Our mutual fire was ignited and it was good.
What followed was unexpected. I did not know what I was really getting into with this man and was mostly curious. He seemed to be very tied to his habits and ritual of “attaya” drinking, the green gunpowder tea that gets heated on a small coal stove after lunch and in the afternoon, his cigarettes, his afternoon sit at his friends’ beachfront store and of course his djembé. He
seemed to also be very concerned about discretion with me once we had crossed the line into sexual intimacy and asked me to be “neutral” in public. Was this a Muslim-based request or was he wooing other white women too?
Who knew? What I did find out with him was that he, like other Africans I
befriended, especially the illiterate ones, had a very strong intuition and
connection to Spirit. The few dreams and hunches he shared with me were
connected to real-time events. I had left my bicycle with him overnight and
when I woke up the next morning had a fleeting but clear thought of the
possibility that it could have been stolen from his place or, even more
momentarily, that he had sold it. Before heading to his place to get it later that
morning I stopped at the police station to check on developments regarding
my stolen items (I was in Cabo Verde at this time). As I sat with the police, he
called me. When I got to his place he told me he had dreamed that I had
gone to the police and accused him of stealing my bike. Things like that
reccurred.
After I recovered my bike from his place, I never heard from him again until the day I arrived in Senegal. He said his phone had stopped working. I did not believe him and could see he was online through Whatsapp. I was still taken by him in an irrational emotion of vulnerability for his powerful rhythms and deep black Africanness. But everything else was off. He seemed to lie, fear public displays of affection, not know what he wanted or who he was, and be terribly insecure apart form the drumming. While I was in Senegal he would send me his trademark one-word texts once or twice a week:
“Hi” and “Hello”, and that was it. They always seemed to come at moments when I decided to shut the door and stop thinking about him once and for all. Interesting. And then when I removed him from my Contact List and deleted our chats, came a voice message on Whatsapp: “I want to talk to you. Call me.” No overt communication on my part, just energy and actions to support it. He read it. Tired of the back and forth and the lack of responses to my texts, I replied with a recorded message as well: “I’m done. It’s too late. It’s too bad that you did not stay in contact with me. I have another man. I am happy. Ciao.”
What immediately followed were four enraged and perturbed voice messages one after the other. I was shocked. “What? Who is it too bad for? For me? Why? I have every white woman following me around here. It’s not too bad for me. Maybe for you but not for me. I have no problem being with a white woman. Remember where I am. In Cabo Verde. Remember where you met me. Here not there in Senegal. Please explain to me why it’s too bad.” I wrote this off to intercultural differences plus interpersonal differences plus plain old psychological weird shit. After the incident, he had clearly removed
me from his Contacts as his name dissappeared from the Whatsapp screen leaving only a number. Weeks later I got another “Hi” as a text message on my Cabo Verde phone. And a friend told me he had asked about me to see if I was still in Senegal. My heart tugged a bit. As did my erogenous zone. In the end it did come to me that he was probably illiterate which explained the one
After I recovered my bike from his place, I never heard from him again until the day I arrived in Senegal. He said his phone had stopped working. I did not believe him and could see he was online through Whatsapp. I was still taken by him in an irrational emotion of vulnerability for his powerful rhythms and deep black Africanness. But everything else was off. He seemed to lie, fear public displays of affection, not know what he wanted or who he was, and be terribly insecure apart form the drumming. While I was in Senegal he would send me his trademark one-word texts once or twice a week:
“Hi” and “Hello”, and that was it. They always seemed to come at moments when I decided to shut the door and stop thinking about him once and for all. Interesting. And then when I removed him from my Contact List and deleted our chats, came a voice message on Whatsapp: “I want to talk to you. Call me.” No overt communication on my part, just energy and actions to support it. He read it. Tired of the back and forth and the lack of responses to my texts, I replied with a recorded message as well: “I’m done. It’s too late. It’s too bad that you did not stay in contact with me. I have another man. I am happy. Ciao.”
What immediately followed were four enraged and perturbed voice messages one after the other. I was shocked. “What? Who is it too bad for? For me? Why? I have every white woman following me around here. It’s not too bad for me. Maybe for you but not for me. I have no problem being with a white woman. Remember where I am. In Cabo Verde. Remember where you met me. Here not there in Senegal. Please explain to me why it’s too bad.” I wrote this off to intercultural differences plus interpersonal differences plus plain old psychological weird shit. After the incident, he had clearly removed
me from his Contacts as his name dissappeared from the Whatsapp screen leaving only a number. Weeks later I got another “Hi” as a text message on my Cabo Verde phone. And a friend told me he had asked about me to see if I was still in Senegal. My heart tugged a bit. As did my erogenous zone. In the end it did come to me that he was probably illiterate which explained the one
word texts and lack of responses? And perhaps ashamed. But there was
always the phone and voice messages, right? Perhaps he had only learned
about them later. All kinds of possibilities. But had he wanted to see me
during my last few days in Sal he could have. He definitely had some
mysoginistic tendencies that would have had to be broken through as well as
other ego-based defenses if we were going to even hang out together. Our
lovemaking was fiery just because we are Aries and Leo. It was what I
expected. But that’s not all I want these days. Cleary it’s not the most
important as I was to experience in my Toubab Dialaw love story with Baye
Ass, who taught me a new intercourse-less way of being in love, like a rebirth
for me. This is after all my year of “Death” according to the Tarot, in which I
shed my skin and die to the old ways. I like that. After all, I am a 51-year old
Crone now. Time to breakthrough the way drawn-out habitual ways of being
in the world and push the boundaries into new worlds. I thank Great Spirit for
sending me a Messenger Angel in the form of Baye Ass, “Pilgrim Father”.
There is no health insurance for most Senegalese, especially of the lower economic strata which is most. Thus, the motivation for morning workouts as preventative measures supporting health and well-being. Aligned with my lifestyle, I have big respect for the way they use their morning and afternoon time. Even the djembé drummers maintained their morning discipline of squats, pushups, abs, running and other strengthening movements as a preparation for their 2-hour percussion sessions which were clearly very demanding on every level, except the buttocks. Vieux, the leader of Casa di Mansa, showed me his thick, calloused, muscular hands with pride. A big white grin exploded on his face, “These are my tools. These are gold. These make me rich.” Vieux made alot of money with his skills. Groups of foreigners would arrive in Toubab for a week of drum lessons. Alot of money for a young drummer. He had already developed a business mind. When I asked him about a dance class we had to negotiate quite a bit, as is the norm here. Everything, I learned, starts at 3 times above the actual cost because people like to haggle. For me it is tiring.
A few weeks later Vieux’s colleague from Casamance arrived, Moussa. A very skinny muscular 28-year old who started drumming as a child, Moussa and the drum were one, like Lamine. Everyone watched him play in awe. Clearly thriving on the attention he had drawn, he had the most enthralling
facial expressions I have ever seen. Like a giant elfin he had a big white smile plastered on his face and his head bobbed from side to side as his long lithe arms danced above the drum, the extension of his Soul. Moussa made it all look so effortless. As he played he took on another persona, like Lamine had on stage. The bliss on his face was hard to stop watching. A Master at work making it look like play. A rare sight to cherish. Moussa was magical and I am grateful to have caught him in action. All the djembé players clearly had the utmost respect for him. Now Vieux had a “competitor” on his terrain, but it
There is no health insurance for most Senegalese, especially of the lower economic strata which is most. Thus, the motivation for morning workouts as preventative measures supporting health and well-being. Aligned with my lifestyle, I have big respect for the way they use their morning and afternoon time. Even the djembé drummers maintained their morning discipline of squats, pushups, abs, running and other strengthening movements as a preparation for their 2-hour percussion sessions which were clearly very demanding on every level, except the buttocks. Vieux, the leader of Casa di Mansa, showed me his thick, calloused, muscular hands with pride. A big white grin exploded on his face, “These are my tools. These are gold. These make me rich.” Vieux made alot of money with his skills. Groups of foreigners would arrive in Toubab for a week of drum lessons. Alot of money for a young drummer. He had already developed a business mind. When I asked him about a dance class we had to negotiate quite a bit, as is the norm here. Everything, I learned, starts at 3 times above the actual cost because people like to haggle. For me it is tiring.
A few weeks later Vieux’s colleague from Casamance arrived, Moussa. A very skinny muscular 28-year old who started drumming as a child, Moussa and the drum were one, like Lamine. Everyone watched him play in awe. Clearly thriving on the attention he had drawn, he had the most enthralling
facial expressions I have ever seen. Like a giant elfin he had a big white smile plastered on his face and his head bobbed from side to side as his long lithe arms danced above the drum, the extension of his Soul. Moussa made it all look so effortless. As he played he took on another persona, like Lamine had on stage. The bliss on his face was hard to stop watching. A Master at work making it look like play. A rare sight to cherish. Moussa was magical and I am grateful to have caught him in action. All the djembé players clearly had the utmost respect for him. Now Vieux had a “competitor” on his terrain, but it
was clear which one was better. Moussa shared his knowledge and
experience tutoring the group for several days morning and afternoon
overlooking the ocean. Toubab Dialaw is a magical place. As one arrives in
this particular spot where all the energies converge, at the bottom of the path
which takes you to the steps down to the beach, there is a strong feeling that
you are home.
Plastic crap washes up on all the beaches from the garbage dumped into Mother Ocean. Here in Toubab there is Ibrahima and myself who clean the beach. I never saw anyone else doing it. Heading into the bush and other beaches down the coast with less tourist use is nauseating. The nastiness you walk by and try not to step on clogs the heart. The number one sight is plastic of all sorts: tiny clear knotted bags used for small amounts of everything, water bottles, hard broken pieces of plastic from anything and everything, broken containers, larger plastic bags used in the stores. Then there are the bloated dead animals like the giant 2 foot rat, the cat, the baby goat, not to mention a 5-year old boy who washed up one day, found by a tourist. He had gone missing for days and his mother was hospitalized for mental hysteria as a result. One morning during my beach run north I saw a large gathering of men on the beach ahead of me. I thought they were a contingency of the Christian pilgrimage headed back to Dakar. I did not want to draw attention to myself in my bikini and tank top so I turned back. Later I found out that they were wrapping up the little boy to bury him. A whole village.
The dogs of Sengal are either used for security or they are on their own. They hang out in packs, walk the streets together, take naps together, take runs down the beach together, and scrounge for a living together. Few people touch them. Even Afidi who has a dog for security, a dog she loves, never touches him. “It’s dirty,” she says. Her dog was one of the ancient races that walked with the Peul cow herders. You see them all over. They are extremely loyal. One pretty mangy sick dog that belonged to Baby slept on the beach in front of her place. Every morning he awaited and greeted me happily as I came down for my yoga/chi gong/ abs session. He lay beside me
and cleaned himself while I stretched. One eye was full of mucus, his fur was falling off in several places, the ends of his ears had bloody scabs on them, and big black ticks were visible in a few obvious spots. Baye Ass threw a rock at him and uttered some kind of “scat” sound that dogs knew well here. I rebelled. “It’s not his fault he’s sick and old. He’s still one of God’s children, right?” I wanted to wake him up to animal consciousness, which he welcomed because he is already there. Binta, the dog, ran with me and Baye Ass every day. He even ran with me several miles into the village and down the coast one day. He seemed old but it was more that he was sick and out of balance. I felt badly for him, but he clearly didn’t. He just kept doing this thing every day and was fortunate to have a daily meal at Baby’s. He was even one of
Plastic crap washes up on all the beaches from the garbage dumped into Mother Ocean. Here in Toubab there is Ibrahima and myself who clean the beach. I never saw anyone else doing it. Heading into the bush and other beaches down the coast with less tourist use is nauseating. The nastiness you walk by and try not to step on clogs the heart. The number one sight is plastic of all sorts: tiny clear knotted bags used for small amounts of everything, water bottles, hard broken pieces of plastic from anything and everything, broken containers, larger plastic bags used in the stores. Then there are the bloated dead animals like the giant 2 foot rat, the cat, the baby goat, not to mention a 5-year old boy who washed up one day, found by a tourist. He had gone missing for days and his mother was hospitalized for mental hysteria as a result. One morning during my beach run north I saw a large gathering of men on the beach ahead of me. I thought they were a contingency of the Christian pilgrimage headed back to Dakar. I did not want to draw attention to myself in my bikini and tank top so I turned back. Later I found out that they were wrapping up the little boy to bury him. A whole village.
The dogs of Sengal are either used for security or they are on their own. They hang out in packs, walk the streets together, take naps together, take runs down the beach together, and scrounge for a living together. Few people touch them. Even Afidi who has a dog for security, a dog she loves, never touches him. “It’s dirty,” she says. Her dog was one of the ancient races that walked with the Peul cow herders. You see them all over. They are extremely loyal. One pretty mangy sick dog that belonged to Baby slept on the beach in front of her place. Every morning he awaited and greeted me happily as I came down for my yoga/chi gong/ abs session. He lay beside me
and cleaned himself while I stretched. One eye was full of mucus, his fur was falling off in several places, the ends of his ears had bloody scabs on them, and big black ticks were visible in a few obvious spots. Baye Ass threw a rock at him and uttered some kind of “scat” sound that dogs knew well here. I rebelled. “It’s not his fault he’s sick and old. He’s still one of God’s children, right?” I wanted to wake him up to animal consciousness, which he welcomed because he is already there. Binta, the dog, ran with me and Baye Ass every day. He even ran with me several miles into the village and down the coast one day. He seemed old but it was more that he was sick and out of balance. I felt badly for him, but he clearly didn’t. He just kept doing this thing every day and was fortunate to have a daily meal at Baby’s. He was even one of
the top guns here I noticed. When we ran down the beach and any other
dogs approached, Binta would stop, turn around and growl, and they would
scurry away. Even sickly he still had the respect. Guess it’s an internal thing,
like with humans. Self-confidence. Loved.
Baye’s First Camping Trip
Baye Ass was clearly uncomfortable about the unkown. As the good Capricorn that he is, solidly grounded, the act of putting a foreign object on his back, namely a backpack, and starting to walk down the road to Popenguine with no plan, did not sit well with him as was discernable on his face. As he entered the door this morning, there was no smile, no love, no happiness visible. Head hanging he sat on my bed and continuously sighed while massaging his face with his hands. This idea of going camping and sleeping outside on the beach or in the bush scared him. While a few nights before he had affirmed his love for theoretically sleeping outside and making a fire...now that it was here he was unsure. “We don’t do that here. That’s something you do in your country. When I am in the US I will be happy to do that. But here it’s strange and someone can just kill you and take your stuff and then you are lying there like an animal. Abandoned. Noone knows. And that’s it. Nothing for your family.” I have to admit it hit me kind of hard. Sounded pretty awful. But whenerver anyone tries to scare me like Reinhard telling me not to take my bike (big regret!) and not to take the boat (Thank God I ignored him), I know that I must follow my Heart which is not fear- based. I would not be stopped. I was going anyway, alone or with him.
As I wavered between alone or coupled, enjoying the thought of both options, and shedding big alligator tears as I bid Baye adieu the night before my planned solo departure, I was deeply touched by my sadness at not seeing him for a while and the appraoching end of our loveship in Senegal. I texted a long passage that night that I wanted him to come absolutely. He never got
it. The next morning however he showed up with a new red big fanny pack with water bottle holder slung on his back like a mini backpack. Apparently he had felt me and was showing his readiness with his new “backpacking” accoutrement. Hahahaha. And me lugging a big 20 pound backpack. And a tent and a bag of food. Like my kids, Baye wanted to travel light and was not keen on carrying extras though he would be using them. Finally we were off, to the delight of all the local community and friends of onlookers. We had compromised. A little car support and a little walking on the coast. As always I find with trips into the new, the beginning is always a bit hectic and uncomfortable...and slowly as we let go into peace and happiness things start flowing enjoyably. We found ourselves ona long white beach in Popenguine resting languidly, my head on his belly, and taking all sorts of cool yoga-in- the-sunset photos as the day wound down. We were finally relaxed together and not concerned about where we would sleep that night. We walked south
Baye’s First Camping Trip
Baye Ass was clearly uncomfortable about the unkown. As the good Capricorn that he is, solidly grounded, the act of putting a foreign object on his back, namely a backpack, and starting to walk down the road to Popenguine with no plan, did not sit well with him as was discernable on his face. As he entered the door this morning, there was no smile, no love, no happiness visible. Head hanging he sat on my bed and continuously sighed while massaging his face with his hands. This idea of going camping and sleeping outside on the beach or in the bush scared him. While a few nights before he had affirmed his love for theoretically sleeping outside and making a fire...now that it was here he was unsure. “We don’t do that here. That’s something you do in your country. When I am in the US I will be happy to do that. But here it’s strange and someone can just kill you and take your stuff and then you are lying there like an animal. Abandoned. Noone knows. And that’s it. Nothing for your family.” I have to admit it hit me kind of hard. Sounded pretty awful. But whenerver anyone tries to scare me like Reinhard telling me not to take my bike (big regret!) and not to take the boat (Thank God I ignored him), I know that I must follow my Heart which is not fear- based. I would not be stopped. I was going anyway, alone or with him.
As I wavered between alone or coupled, enjoying the thought of both options, and shedding big alligator tears as I bid Baye adieu the night before my planned solo departure, I was deeply touched by my sadness at not seeing him for a while and the appraoching end of our loveship in Senegal. I texted a long passage that night that I wanted him to come absolutely. He never got
it. The next morning however he showed up with a new red big fanny pack with water bottle holder slung on his back like a mini backpack. Apparently he had felt me and was showing his readiness with his new “backpacking” accoutrement. Hahahaha. And me lugging a big 20 pound backpack. And a tent and a bag of food. Like my kids, Baye wanted to travel light and was not keen on carrying extras though he would be using them. Finally we were off, to the delight of all the local community and friends of onlookers. We had compromised. A little car support and a little walking on the coast. As always I find with trips into the new, the beginning is always a bit hectic and uncomfortable...and slowly as we let go into peace and happiness things start flowing enjoyably. We found ourselves ona long white beach in Popenguine resting languidly, my head on his belly, and taking all sorts of cool yoga-in- the-sunset photos as the day wound down. We were finally relaxed together and not concerned about where we would sleep that night. We walked south
along the beach, rockhopping and running from the increasing tide. I could
feel him getting more excited at the adventure. And less scared or worried.
He turned and said, “ You are definitely the only white person to ever walk
here like this.” He was excited at the thought of my adventure for me. We
decided on a small sandy outcrop to set up the quick one person tent that had
been loaned to us. The sun was down and we were far enough from any
villages that noone would be walking around us. He felt safe I think, but also
expressed his fear of animals that could be lurking around. I could not
imagine what animals would be dangerous to us on this beach. We sat
against some rocks and ate the cornucopia of veggies, bread and aged
liquefied goat cheese left in my food bag. We enjoyed it as we watched the
lights of Guereo in the distance. A nice cool ocean breeze bathed us in
comfort. An evening to be remembered. He was appreciating my push for him
to come, and do something new. Perhaps all of his new experiences with
Claudine would be the beginning of a new phase of his life, out in the world,
more fearless, and learning a whole lot more about the world out there than
he was capable of living in his little village.
The next day we walked and walked for breakfast. His breakfast required a shack where they make coffee Touba and baguette sandwiches with fillings like spaghetti, potato salad, tuna or eggs for 35 cents. My breakfast required more. A store that had refrigeration and sold yogurt to accompany my oats and banana. I was sick of bread bread bread. I was trying to stay healthy by keeping some of my normal eating habits going interspersed with going local. But there were definitely limits. Bread and butter for breakfast jut does not speak to me. Though I am a long way from my ideal morning fare, I really don’t need much to stay healthy: fruit, nuts, some yogurt or eggs, etc., universal basics, no?
We hired a horse buggy for the last 5 miles and everyone else we passed going that way jumped on for the free ride subsidized by the Toubab lady. The bumpy ride took us along a sandy dirt road, through marshes and forest, and finally into touristy Somone, the place where Gallé had wanted to hang out together. Baye Ass had lived here for several years as a fishermen. As we walked through the village which was bifurcated between the 5-star Hotel Baobab Resort complex and everyone else, we were stopped every 5 minutes to say hello to this old friend, that family member, this roommate, that workmate, etc. He was proud to show me how popular he had been here, how loved, how many friends he had. And of course he was proud to show me off. I realized I could not come here with Gallé too now that I have been presented to the village as Baye Ass’ woman. Oh well. I too was proud to be with such a well-loved and well-respected man.
Our last night together for this trip was spent in a $20 African-style hut managed by his “brother” who he grew up with. It was a complex designed to look traditional but was all concrete with a pool in the middle. Another
The next day we walked and walked for breakfast. His breakfast required a shack where they make coffee Touba and baguette sandwiches with fillings like spaghetti, potato salad, tuna or eggs for 35 cents. My breakfast required more. A store that had refrigeration and sold yogurt to accompany my oats and banana. I was sick of bread bread bread. I was trying to stay healthy by keeping some of my normal eating habits going interspersed with going local. But there were definitely limits. Bread and butter for breakfast jut does not speak to me. Though I am a long way from my ideal morning fare, I really don’t need much to stay healthy: fruit, nuts, some yogurt or eggs, etc., universal basics, no?
We hired a horse buggy for the last 5 miles and everyone else we passed going that way jumped on for the free ride subsidized by the Toubab lady. The bumpy ride took us along a sandy dirt road, through marshes and forest, and finally into touristy Somone, the place where Gallé had wanted to hang out together. Baye Ass had lived here for several years as a fishermen. As we walked through the village which was bifurcated between the 5-star Hotel Baobab Resort complex and everyone else, we were stopped every 5 minutes to say hello to this old friend, that family member, this roommate, that workmate, etc. He was proud to show me how popular he had been here, how loved, how many friends he had. And of course he was proud to show me off. I realized I could not come here with Gallé too now that I have been presented to the village as Baye Ass’ woman. Oh well. I too was proud to be with such a well-loved and well-respected man.
Our last night together for this trip was spent in a $20 African-style hut managed by his “brother” who he grew up with. It was a complex designed to look traditional but was all concrete with a pool in the middle. Another
investment for tourist money. It was way more comfortable than the tent but
the mosquito net didn’t really work and thus in the end the night was rough
despite a world-class massage session by Baye. The next morning we ran
through the town, along the beach and back, again needing to stop and say
hello multiple times along the way. I informed Baye Ass that I wanted to travel
the rest of the journey alone. I would be meeting some work contacts in
Mbodienne, another hour down the road, with whom I needed to discuss a
cob project. These were international and academically-educated folks and I
needed to get into my business hat as well as my cosmopolitan woman
nature and I wanted full freedom to enjoy it without having to be in-between
worlds. He understood, though reluctantly, because he felt he needed to
protect me from exploiters. I reminded him that I was 51 and had been
travelling alone for a while. He accepted choicelessly. We hugged and kissed
goodbye once again, always accompanied by a few helpless tears on my
side. He touched me deeply with his big unconditional love and protection.
Taruaskan Farm
It was good to be on my own again, and enjoying the change to a new atmosphere of internationally-educated Africans on a three-hectare organic farm placed ideally between wild protected lands to one side, the unspoiled coast a 500-meter walk to the west, and uninhabited land to the other side. A perfect setting. Mamadou is a tall, friendly, outgoing, intelligent Senegalese
man with a passion for the Earth. On the one hand he is dressed sophisticatedly in his Senegalese/Muslim tunic and pants, with the skullcap representing his spiritual path...and then there is Mamadou the farmer, in his dirt-encrusted T-shirt and khaki shorts and farm hat working his land avidly: pulling weeds, thinning plants, watering, smelling, harvesting, observing and giving orders right and left to another Mamadou, the young and relaxed Malian apprentice, and the other workers on the farm. Like my good friend Tom back in California, who runs a very large organic family farm operation in Watsonville, Mamadou is multi-tasking constantly. Last year he planted 400 fruit trees, focusing on little-known endemic varieties to educate people on the potential variety the land has to offer. The farm also has sheep, chickens, ducks, dogs, a horse, and a nice wildland buffer zone to the west where will go 6 100 square-foot cob huts to house 2 people each in the future Ecovillage they are creating.
I am here to make that happen with them in the form of a workshop or a straight job site in one month. As a matter of fact, this is the third request for the exact same thing. Mom Jeanny and Marie up in Toubab Dialaw have the same vision: 6 small cob cabanas for future tourists, Woofers, friends, renters, etc., and they all want them “au natural”. A trend is starting all over the world and it is GOOD. Small-scale ecovillages as a habitable source of income creating sustainable environmentally-enhancing green pockets
Taruaskan Farm
It was good to be on my own again, and enjoying the change to a new atmosphere of internationally-educated Africans on a three-hectare organic farm placed ideally between wild protected lands to one side, the unspoiled coast a 500-meter walk to the west, and uninhabited land to the other side. A perfect setting. Mamadou is a tall, friendly, outgoing, intelligent Senegalese
man with a passion for the Earth. On the one hand he is dressed sophisticatedly in his Senegalese/Muslim tunic and pants, with the skullcap representing his spiritual path...and then there is Mamadou the farmer, in his dirt-encrusted T-shirt and khaki shorts and farm hat working his land avidly: pulling weeds, thinning plants, watering, smelling, harvesting, observing and giving orders right and left to another Mamadou, the young and relaxed Malian apprentice, and the other workers on the farm. Like my good friend Tom back in California, who runs a very large organic family farm operation in Watsonville, Mamadou is multi-tasking constantly. Last year he planted 400 fruit trees, focusing on little-known endemic varieties to educate people on the potential variety the land has to offer. The farm also has sheep, chickens, ducks, dogs, a horse, and a nice wildland buffer zone to the west where will go 6 100 square-foot cob huts to house 2 people each in the future Ecovillage they are creating.
I am here to make that happen with them in the form of a workshop or a straight job site in one month. As a matter of fact, this is the third request for the exact same thing. Mom Jeanny and Marie up in Toubab Dialaw have the same vision: 6 small cob cabanas for future tourists, Woofers, friends, renters, etc., and they all want them “au natural”. A trend is starting all over the world and it is GOOD. Small-scale ecovillages as a habitable source of income creating sustainable environmentally-enhancing green pockets
everywhere. As I have said before, like a good cancer, the cells are
spreading, reproducing and slowly agglomerating into the dominant paradigm
and before everyone realizes what or how it has happened...the SHIFT will be
complete! We will all be surrounded and neighbouring with varied visions of
ourselves until the Whole Planet is sound and healed again. WIth no major
fear or anger-based revolution, violence, or fight, we will have what we want
because we stayed focused on it, fed it, lived it, breathed it, spoke it and were
it, every moment.
While in Mbodienne, Mamadou decided I must visit Fadiouth before leaving. A one-of-a-kind place in the world I think, Fadiouth is a Christian-dominant island that you walk to over a long wooden bridge. It has been built up on a ground of shells, as have all the old buildings. Their short walls are made of shell-encrusted concrete. No cars. Tons of narrow streets and alleys take you through little surprise squares, stores, and one big Church where all the Catholic Senegalese can feel at home. On the island one notices drunkenness rampant, a significant change from my last month in Muslim territory where I only came across one drunk. There are many small uninhabited islets all around and one feels the beginning of the Sine Saloum ecosystem to the South.
Heading North with Mamadou the next day with excitement, I am preparing to spend time with my other love, Gallé, who i have not gotten to really know as i have Baye Ass. I look forward to it. I really like this man. He is solid. He tells me he wants me, I’m the one, and he cannot share me. I like his clarity and confidence. I also notice his patience with my indecision regarding where we will stay that night. I am a bit dissappointed that he has brought no money at all. This man makes good money for this area. He is a general contractor bringing in a whopping $32 a day which is alot here. So again the white woman pays? I let him know my thoughts. He laughs it off and says “Naaaahhhhh” in his very idiosyncratic Gallé laugh which has me hooked already. He has a very deep voice and his laugh is a series of slow “hahaha’s” followed by a big breath in in which he also belts out a deep shout of happiness “Yippeeee”. I feel safe with him, as I do with Baye Ass. But it is different. Gallé is a real working man. He enjoys his trade and want to progress into earthen building. He has had many clients, built many houses and has a good reputation. That makes me feel safe. With Baye Ass there is an economic lack which makes me feel like I am with another son. Baye Ass does not like to work much. He reminds me of my sons. He makes just enough to live and sees no reason to work harder than that. Gallé supports his kids in Dakar and probably his whole family too. We end up returning to Toubab for lack of finding affordable clean quarters to the south, and spend a lovely night together under the mosquito net.
I am playing with fire now. I am back in Toubab, walking the streets with Gallé, the streets that I usually walk with Baye Ass, and people know, see and
While in Mbodienne, Mamadou decided I must visit Fadiouth before leaving. A one-of-a-kind place in the world I think, Fadiouth is a Christian-dominant island that you walk to over a long wooden bridge. It has been built up on a ground of shells, as have all the old buildings. Their short walls are made of shell-encrusted concrete. No cars. Tons of narrow streets and alleys take you through little surprise squares, stores, and one big Church where all the Catholic Senegalese can feel at home. On the island one notices drunkenness rampant, a significant change from my last month in Muslim territory where I only came across one drunk. There are many small uninhabited islets all around and one feels the beginning of the Sine Saloum ecosystem to the South.
Heading North with Mamadou the next day with excitement, I am preparing to spend time with my other love, Gallé, who i have not gotten to really know as i have Baye Ass. I look forward to it. I really like this man. He is solid. He tells me he wants me, I’m the one, and he cannot share me. I like his clarity and confidence. I also notice his patience with my indecision regarding where we will stay that night. I am a bit dissappointed that he has brought no money at all. This man makes good money for this area. He is a general contractor bringing in a whopping $32 a day which is alot here. So again the white woman pays? I let him know my thoughts. He laughs it off and says “Naaaahhhhh” in his very idiosyncratic Gallé laugh which has me hooked already. He has a very deep voice and his laugh is a series of slow “hahaha’s” followed by a big breath in in which he also belts out a deep shout of happiness “Yippeeee”. I feel safe with him, as I do with Baye Ass. But it is different. Gallé is a real working man. He enjoys his trade and want to progress into earthen building. He has had many clients, built many houses and has a good reputation. That makes me feel safe. With Baye Ass there is an economic lack which makes me feel like I am with another son. Baye Ass does not like to work much. He reminds me of my sons. He makes just enough to live and sees no reason to work harder than that. Gallé supports his kids in Dakar and probably his whole family too. We end up returning to Toubab for lack of finding affordable clean quarters to the south, and spend a lovely night together under the mosquito net.
I am playing with fire now. I am back in Toubab, walking the streets with Gallé, the streets that I usually walk with Baye Ass, and people know, see and
talk here. Quickly. So I keep it cool. The hotel staff sees us come in together,
they know him, they talk together. The following night Baye Ass insists on
walking me back to my place. Now there are new staff on duty (phew) and he
also spends time talking with them. Does he feel something? He is so
intuitive. He takes me up to my room and looks around once he is sitting on
the bed. Does he smell Gallé’s after shave? Did I leave something out? And
the oil stains on the bed? He does not say anything. I guess all is good. We
take another series of love selfies. I truly love this man deeply. And I truly love
the other man deeply too. But this one does not know about the other one
and the other one does know about this one. That is not fair nor truthful of
me. I have been talking to Baye Ass about my preference for platonic
friendship as I will not be married and this whole non-sexual sex is frustrating
me and I like to be free anyway to have other men in my life. I think he gets it
but not sure he can wrap his head around the other man being one of his own
ethnic tribe who works in the town he lives in and who he knows. I end up
leaving Senegal without divulging the truth to Baye Ass and for that do not
feel good. Perhaps he knows on some deep level but on the other hand his threat to beat the shi_t out of any guy that tries to touch me regardless of being sent to jail has me put on my cautious hat. Go slow. Think. Compassion.
Sendou
Finally freeing myself of the never-ending loving clutches of my Toubab- adopted community, with a whole new pile of gifts to add to my bag, I take a taxi to Sendou to visit Baye Ass’s “first” wife and child and hometown. The taxi arrives and drops me off right in the middle of the small sandy Sendou main hub, where I see Baye Ass in front of his adorable homemade handpainted barber shop. This is HIS territory. Here he is King. He is saluted every few minutes. And now he has a white woman at his side, in the place where his wife resides. Not knowing how it all works, I just go with the flow. It feels OK but I am conscious of the new territory and that everyone knows. After dropping my stuff off at some rich Senegalese ex-pilot’s oceanfront mansion for which Baye Ass’s cousin is the guardian and will let us stay for the night for a fat tip, I replace my sexy leggings and tight black T- shirt with his requested green batik dress to go visit Marem and the family compound.
There is no nervousness on his part. He is peaceful as we cross over another main road and enter the “house” through a narrow alley. We stop. He tells me we are at his home. I look to my left to see a young black nymph with color- enhanced skinny braids tied back into a scarf hanging laundry.
She shows no emotions. I look again. It’s her. I have seen many photos. “Marem?” I ask. She explodes with a big friendly sparkly grin. Her eyes gleam. She is wearing a purple tank and the usual sarong through which I can see a slim and healthy busty figure. I go to hug her and kiss her hello.
feel good. Perhaps he knows on some deep level but on the other hand his threat to beat the shi_t out of any guy that tries to touch me regardless of being sent to jail has me put on my cautious hat. Go slow. Think. Compassion.
Sendou
Finally freeing myself of the never-ending loving clutches of my Toubab- adopted community, with a whole new pile of gifts to add to my bag, I take a taxi to Sendou to visit Baye Ass’s “first” wife and child and hometown. The taxi arrives and drops me off right in the middle of the small sandy Sendou main hub, where I see Baye Ass in front of his adorable homemade handpainted barber shop. This is HIS territory. Here he is King. He is saluted every few minutes. And now he has a white woman at his side, in the place where his wife resides. Not knowing how it all works, I just go with the flow. It feels OK but I am conscious of the new territory and that everyone knows. After dropping my stuff off at some rich Senegalese ex-pilot’s oceanfront mansion for which Baye Ass’s cousin is the guardian and will let us stay for the night for a fat tip, I replace my sexy leggings and tight black T- shirt with his requested green batik dress to go visit Marem and the family compound.
There is no nervousness on his part. He is peaceful as we cross over another main road and enter the “house” through a narrow alley. We stop. He tells me we are at his home. I look to my left to see a young black nymph with color- enhanced skinny braids tied back into a scarf hanging laundry.
She shows no emotions. I look again. It’s her. I have seen many photos. “Marem?” I ask. She explodes with a big friendly sparkly grin. Her eyes gleam. She is wearing a purple tank and the usual sarong through which I can see a slim and healthy busty figure. I go to hug her and kiss her hello.
There is a little shyness on her part but it is quickly shed. That’s it. The ice is
broken. Baye Ass is thrilled. And the baby? Where is Suleyman? They all
scurry to bring me the baby. A young girl is carrying him on her back in a
wrapped towel. They lift him up an out and hand him to me like a present. A
little pudgy emotionless African babe adorned with multiple protective “gri-
gri’s” made by special Marabouts in the forest. He looks nothing like Baye Ass
and I love him already. He is my love’s son and so he is my love too. As is
Marem. There are no jealousies, awkwardnesses, fears to be felt. Just as he
had said. He married her because she is different than all the other women.
She supports him. Even his other love. She wants him to stay with me tonight
so that I am not alone. I want him to stay with her because they have a little
Baby together and he should be home. That night I am really
unsteady with my emotions and feel angry that he is not staying at home with his family. I insist that we stop our intimate non-sexual sexual relationship and that I cannot be with a married man. We have a horribly unrestful night not to mention the rabid mosquitoes enjoying the mosquito net-free night of bloodsucking. We are sweating profusely, itching nonstop and emotionally restless. We fight, we snuggle, we fight, we love. What am I doing here? What does all this mean? What is the right thing to do? How do I share my love for Gallé too and keep both men in my life?
The next day is my last day in Sendou. Oddly enough I forgot my charger at the hotel in Toubab and the only person who could get it to me is Gallé, who works in Sendou every day. Oddly enough I can only get to Gallé’s worksite accompanied by Baye Ass who is the only one who knows where it is. So, the Universe wants me to bring together the two men I love in my presence. Ha. Great. Ok. Whatever. I want to see how the two interact. We get there on a horse and cart and funnily enough pass Gallé along the way who calls out “Boy!” to Baye Ass to tell him he is coming. How will Gallé act with me? How do I act? Will the intuitive Baye Ass pick up on anything?
Gallé’s worksite is a huge 7-bedroom oceanfront villa for a very wealthy retired Dakar television mogul, Sophie Sonko. He has at least a dozen men working there. All concrete nastiness unfortunately. But still a big job to run and I am impressed. A looong way from Baye Ass’ capabilities and lifestyle. Baye Ass watches me walk around. Gallé arrives. I hug him. I am happy to see him and vice versa. We play it cool. He shows me around and I follow him curiously and Baye Ass follows me quietly. It is the first time I have seen him so quiet. He and Gallé did not even greet each other, which is unusual. When we get to the bottom again the homeowner has arrived. She is a 60- something rotund and not very attractive TV personality with a bouffant hairdo and carrying a small Yves St. Laurent satchel, an immediate sign of where she’s at financially not to mention the concrete mega villa all for herself. I tell her what I do. She immediately shouts that she wished she had known me sooner so she could have made her megamansion out of cob instead. She
unsteady with my emotions and feel angry that he is not staying at home with his family. I insist that we stop our intimate non-sexual sexual relationship and that I cannot be with a married man. We have a horribly unrestful night not to mention the rabid mosquitoes enjoying the mosquito net-free night of bloodsucking. We are sweating profusely, itching nonstop and emotionally restless. We fight, we snuggle, we fight, we love. What am I doing here? What does all this mean? What is the right thing to do? How do I share my love for Gallé too and keep both men in my life?
The next day is my last day in Sendou. Oddly enough I forgot my charger at the hotel in Toubab and the only person who could get it to me is Gallé, who works in Sendou every day. Oddly enough I can only get to Gallé’s worksite accompanied by Baye Ass who is the only one who knows where it is. So, the Universe wants me to bring together the two men I love in my presence. Ha. Great. Ok. Whatever. I want to see how the two interact. We get there on a horse and cart and funnily enough pass Gallé along the way who calls out “Boy!” to Baye Ass to tell him he is coming. How will Gallé act with me? How do I act? Will the intuitive Baye Ass pick up on anything?
Gallé’s worksite is a huge 7-bedroom oceanfront villa for a very wealthy retired Dakar television mogul, Sophie Sonko. He has at least a dozen men working there. All concrete nastiness unfortunately. But still a big job to run and I am impressed. A looong way from Baye Ass’ capabilities and lifestyle. Baye Ass watches me walk around. Gallé arrives. I hug him. I am happy to see him and vice versa. We play it cool. He shows me around and I follow him curiously and Baye Ass follows me quietly. It is the first time I have seen him so quiet. He and Gallé did not even greet each other, which is unusual. When we get to the bottom again the homeowner has arrived. She is a 60- something rotund and not very attractive TV personality with a bouffant hairdo and carrying a small Yves St. Laurent satchel, an immediate sign of where she’s at financially not to mention the concrete mega villa all for herself. I tell her what I do. She immediately shouts that she wished she had known me sooner so she could have made her megamansion out of cob instead. She
settles for waiting till November to do her outdoor kitchen out of cob. She
hires me on the spot to which Gallé and I exchange knowing glances of a
solid future collaboration representing guaranteed time together to look
forward to. Once again, COB is contagious. Yeah!
I am so hungry and frustrated to be someplace where I can’t feed myself. I decide to go get some veggies and insistently tell Baye Ass I need to eat. There are no eateries here and I don’t know his usual routine as far as food is concerned. I drop into patience. Marem once again prepares us a delicious
omelette covered with raw veggie salad. Yum! We all three sit down on the floor for our second meal together while Suleyman naps. We eat with our hands while talking comfortably, Baye Ass and his two “wives”. I am experiencing the Muslim household life, I guess. I love these two beings so much. And they love me too. I start to cry from the love pouring through me and in the air. There is just pure LOVE and PEACE. It’s so beautiful. We begin to give each other gifts from our bodies, cementing our bond. They are an extremely beautiful couple. I repeatedly want to know how she feels. Is she OK with me being with Baye Ass. She laughs and insists that she is fine with it. She does not want to tire herself and feel jealousy. She has Suleyman to keep her company at night. I accept. Baye Ass says it is his decision to be with me too and that though they talk about it out of respect, it is still his decision. That’s the place that gets me. There is not an evenness in the power here. It is based on inherited cultural norms but not mine. I back down from having that argument again. As he says: “You live your life and I will live mine.”
Ngor
After a heart-tugging goodbye with Marem and the whole female crowd, Baye and I take off to Dakar where I will spend the last two days of my Senegal experience. Though I have told him I wanted to go alone and that it did not seem he was welcome at Arielle’s place on Ngor, he insisted on accompanying me to the end and was not worried about the details. It would all work out. I did not resist for Love is that way. You keep letting go. If I really did not want him to come he would know and accept. After my two- hour meeting with Hans and Roos to finalize the details of the December Cob Workshop, I could not find Baye Ass anywhere. He had not called, texted or even come by. It was very strange. It was getting dark and I needed to get over to the island so I could see where I was going. I was getting really annoyed. When we finally broke through frustrating barely audible calls and cut-off conversations, I realized he had already traversed to the other side. I imagined he was scoping out a place to sleep. Still I was pissed he had not alerted me.
I am so hungry and frustrated to be someplace where I can’t feed myself. I decide to go get some veggies and insistently tell Baye Ass I need to eat. There are no eateries here and I don’t know his usual routine as far as food is concerned. I drop into patience. Marem once again prepares us a delicious
omelette covered with raw veggie salad. Yum! We all three sit down on the floor for our second meal together while Suleyman naps. We eat with our hands while talking comfortably, Baye Ass and his two “wives”. I am experiencing the Muslim household life, I guess. I love these two beings so much. And they love me too. I start to cry from the love pouring through me and in the air. There is just pure LOVE and PEACE. It’s so beautiful. We begin to give each other gifts from our bodies, cementing our bond. They are an extremely beautiful couple. I repeatedly want to know how she feels. Is she OK with me being with Baye Ass. She laughs and insists that she is fine with it. She does not want to tire herself and feel jealousy. She has Suleyman to keep her company at night. I accept. Baye Ass says it is his decision to be with me too and that though they talk about it out of respect, it is still his decision. That’s the place that gets me. There is not an evenness in the power here. It is based on inherited cultural norms but not mine. I back down from having that argument again. As he says: “You live your life and I will live mine.”
Ngor
After a heart-tugging goodbye with Marem and the whole female crowd, Baye and I take off to Dakar where I will spend the last two days of my Senegal experience. Though I have told him I wanted to go alone and that it did not seem he was welcome at Arielle’s place on Ngor, he insisted on accompanying me to the end and was not worried about the details. It would all work out. I did not resist for Love is that way. You keep letting go. If I really did not want him to come he would know and accept. After my two- hour meeting with Hans and Roos to finalize the details of the December Cob Workshop, I could not find Baye Ass anywhere. He had not called, texted or even come by. It was very strange. It was getting dark and I needed to get over to the island so I could see where I was going. I was getting really annoyed. When we finally broke through frustrating barely audible calls and cut-off conversations, I realized he had already traversed to the other side. I imagined he was scoping out a place to sleep. Still I was pissed he had not alerted me.
Arielle, the ADD chain-smoking and beer-guzzling mosaic artist I had worked
with in Toubab had a very cool pad on the island of Ngor. Mosaics out the
wazoo adorned every wall and every floor and every seating area. It was all
open air and she overlooked the wild Atlantic Ocean. She had no doors and
no privacy save for large pieces of cloth between the rooms. An African-
American PhD woman Nicole on her first journey to Senegal was renting her
AirBnB room upstairs. I would sleep in the space next to Arielle’s room. She
clearly was not up for Baye staying there and I understood and he knew, yet he wanted to bring me over there so he knew where it was and would then find a place to sleep. After several beers and half a pack of cigarettes, Arielle broke down and said she felt like a bitch and OK he could sleep there as long as we didn’t make loud lovemaking sounds at night. This woman would definitely not be part of my circle. I stayed my most calm self through her raging ADD behavior. If Baye could stay, whatever. I could deal and so could he. However the next night she called drunk from a party telling me, on loudspeaker, that I needed to watch out for him. That his holding back from intercourse was a ruse to get me to marry him so he could have my money. He heard it all and reacted immediately. For a moment I took it in and felt distant from him and had to work on talking myself out of her crappy influence. That night we went to sleep without talking or touching. Our last night together. The next morning however he was intent on showing me she was wrong and because it was our last time together for now, wanted to make love with intercourse. I had gotten used to the other way. Making love without intercourse. I asked him what he was doing. While it happened it was all awkward though I am not sure why. Was it his inexperience? Guilt? Fear? It all happened pretty quickly and it was hard for him to look me in the eyes. Nothing like any sex I had ever experienced really, especially with someone who I was in love with and who was in love with me back. Strange Muslim sex? Or just strange Baye Ass quirks?
Baye Ass, I learned, is a fighter. Almost every day he would get loud and in his Caprcorn-esque gentle way argue with someone, usually for money reasons. Everyone was overcharging us because of me and he didn’t like it. He fought for me since I was paying for everything. I guess that’s fair. I pay he negotiates the price down. Our last moments together at the airport were quiet. Holding hands, black and white, we sat. Nothing more to say really. We had said it all. So many times. Over and over. Love Love Love. Thank You Thank You Thank You. Another power hug and then...letting go...Until we meet again...Shaking the left hand of the heart...Inch’Allah....
clearly was not up for Baye staying there and I understood and he knew, yet he wanted to bring me over there so he knew where it was and would then find a place to sleep. After several beers and half a pack of cigarettes, Arielle broke down and said she felt like a bitch and OK he could sleep there as long as we didn’t make loud lovemaking sounds at night. This woman would definitely not be part of my circle. I stayed my most calm self through her raging ADD behavior. If Baye could stay, whatever. I could deal and so could he. However the next night she called drunk from a party telling me, on loudspeaker, that I needed to watch out for him. That his holding back from intercourse was a ruse to get me to marry him so he could have my money. He heard it all and reacted immediately. For a moment I took it in and felt distant from him and had to work on talking myself out of her crappy influence. That night we went to sleep without talking or touching. Our last night together. The next morning however he was intent on showing me she was wrong and because it was our last time together for now, wanted to make love with intercourse. I had gotten used to the other way. Making love without intercourse. I asked him what he was doing. While it happened it was all awkward though I am not sure why. Was it his inexperience? Guilt? Fear? It all happened pretty quickly and it was hard for him to look me in the eyes. Nothing like any sex I had ever experienced really, especially with someone who I was in love with and who was in love with me back. Strange Muslim sex? Or just strange Baye Ass quirks?
Baye Ass, I learned, is a fighter. Almost every day he would get loud and in his Caprcorn-esque gentle way argue with someone, usually for money reasons. Everyone was overcharging us because of me and he didn’t like it. He fought for me since I was paying for everything. I guess that’s fair. I pay he negotiates the price down. Our last moments together at the airport were quiet. Holding hands, black and white, we sat. Nothing more to say really. We had said it all. So many times. Over and over. Love Love Love. Thank You Thank You Thank You. Another power hug and then...letting go...Until we meet again...Shaking the left hand of the heart...Inch’Allah....
!
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