SENEGAL ROUND 2
I feel excited to watch Viva experience Africa. So much personal stimulation the second you step out the door. People trying to sell you stuff every second, particularly in the tourist locations, and then the little shaved heads begging for alms for their marabout or spiritual teacher’s new car (they say). I am surprised at his first reaction. “I like it! I like the aliveness of the streets, like a continuous flea market. Everyone hangin’ out and selling random things.” The disgusting pollution spewing out of almost every non-wealthy person’s car gags my poor lungs. Black soot coughing out of the large trucks with each accelerator push, on their low tires with the rear chassis slanting down towards the ground like it’s on its last run. Brown soot shooting out of the over-charged mini buses called “clindos” (?) with their hangers-on in the back announcing the stops to the driver by banging on the windows are the major danger to us cyclists. They don’t use their rear view mirrors to make random sudden stops. Yesterday I almost hit a fancy large shiny black SUV whose driver, a young and slick-haired Senegalese woman, decided to swerve to the right into a driveway at her own timing oblivious to the rest of the world. “Heeeeeey! ATTENTION!!!!” I shouted at her coming within inches of altering her paint job. “Désolée...” she retorted sheepishly. I’m sure it will happen again. I kept going.
Having my bike in Senegal this time is a treat despite the ferociousness of the Dakar
streets. While Viva is enjoying the risk and quick-reacting nerves of steel required to
swerve and dodge and weave for your life every moment...like a focused meditation on
wheels...I beg to differ. Taking short and shallow breaths while focusing on the exhale,
and with a bandana as the first line of defense, I am on survival mode. Like a live
computer game, you cannot think of anything else except the movements at hand. I am
quite anxious for our big departure day with our packed bikes into the unkown of the
Senegal “brousse” or brush. How will the roads be? Where will we sleep? WIll we be
safe? Mostly we are told that when we arrive in a village we need to seek the chief and
ask him where to sleep for the night. There is no wild camping in Africa. It is not the norm
and can subject you to unpleasant experiences, as well as pleasant of course. Most
people talk of security issues. I am sure they are few and far between but it only takes
one, as I learned in Cabo Verde, to disable your functionality for a while.
This morning would be the big day no matter what. We had planned to leave the day
before and took all day to pack. By 4:30pm we were ready. In 2 hours the sun would go
down, which would maybe get us to the end of the never-ending smoggy nightmare of the
Route Nationale. And then what??? We easily took Fred and Marianne’s suggestion to
stay another night. Of course I knew she would love to delight in my son’s presence for
another 12 hours and off they went cooking crêpes together in the kitchen, sharing stories,
English and French lessons, and coy smiles. The middle-aged mothers on this journey
always fall for Viva. No wonder of course. And Fred and I sit and sing and play “Stairway
to Heaven”, “Come Together”, and other American oldies on his funky Alabama prized
acoustic guitar.
Our bikes stayed packed and after half a dozen games of revenge pool while I shoot out
my last emails and internet work...we are all on our way, helmeted, sunglassed and
bandana-ed. Viva and I start slowly and carefully, adhering to Fred’s directions and also
adjusting them to the reality of our needs, wavering between side streets of red sandy
laterite, wide sidewalks that start and stop, and the shoulder on the busy road. We have to
take the best option which is constantly changing. Our direction is basically the Route
Nationale for the next 2 hours, the busiest and dirtiest 15-mile stretch of Senegal road, in
which the most horrible enemy are the black-smoke spewing trucks. Without them the air
would probably be 75% cleaner. We silently move along, me constantly checking for Viva
in my rear view mirror, dressed in neon orange for maximum visibility, we are a bulky sight.
We follow the wide busy road as directed until we come to what seems like a total
standstill of a zillion cars waiting at the worst intersection of the way, a multicircular
highway interchange where we will have to insert ourselves very carefully into the
mayhem. I decide to veer off the Route Nationale at this point and into the village that
lives next to it to find an alternative to getting to the other side. RIding with the others who
decide the same, on bumpy sandy terrain, even more careful now of stopping vehicles,
opening doors, sudden pedestrians and potholes...we get to have another experience
now. Everyone is yelling out at us, ogling our unusual appearance, trying to pretend grab
us, etc. This is biking through African villages we would learn. No way around it. We are
vulnerable and we are white.
I contacted the French expat Director Loïc the day of our departure who, upon hearing of my own mission of COB trainings in Senegal, came right over with map in hand to introduce himself, shake my hand, and invite Viva and I to stay there and share meals with the group. As always happens when 2 or more Eco Freaks get together, vibrant conversations of compost toilet cover material, earthen building styles and the latest on cob oven fuel sources ensued. I knew I was in the company of my global "family".
After 2.5 hours on the most blasphemously long, polluted and dangerous road I've yet biked, the 15-mile stretch of "Route Nationale" that is absolutely (they say) unavoidable when wanting to leave Dakar and go anywhere else except for the airport...Viva and I finally lowered our physical, emotional and face guards after turning left onto the smaller offshoot towards Keur Massar and the smaller offshoots taking us to the tourist-heavy Lac Rose area, the famous tourist destination of red/pink salty waters that would herald
our hosts for the night...the Village Pilote. As we get farther from the Route Nationale and
Dakar, the roads get smaller, quieter and obviously more enjoyable. Ahhhh, we can
breathe now. Thankfully Senegal has no mountains or climbs. Flat and no wind. Yes!
And the roads are perfect thus far, relatively new it seems. We stop in Naga for some
thrist-quenching local coconuts, a papaya and green-skinned sweet grapefruit. Ibou
rides up on his moped luring us to his Arc en Ciel Hotel for the night, only $30 for a room
with air-conditioning, TV, swiming pool, etc. And can I help his Youth Center learn cob? I
take his number in my phone, the best way I have learned to end the interaction. It is a
guarantee to them of continued contact.
The villages became smaller and more bearable
(only 20 rather than 50 onlookers surrounded our bikes in excitement) until we arrived at
the source of all of Senegal's salt. The water looks red because of an algae that lives in it,
the only thing that can withstand the ridiculously high salt content. Flurries of "salt
flower" foam line the shore as do repetitive mounds of greyish-white salt being packed
into bags for shipment. When we arrive at the Lake, as expected, we are met with a slough of the ever-present
vendors, laden with bracelets, beads, steer skulls, salt, whatever works. They can be so
pushy and tiring. Do they have any idea of their impact? We are learning that NO works
very fast because it is a word they do not use in Wolof. “No” is impolite and offensive.
When you mean “no” you say “merci” and look down. I will try it. If you actually say
“No”, it is a rare occasion, people will just walk away. But you have also hurt their
feelings. The Lake water is literally red with salt. Mountains of white and grey salt line the
sides of the lake. Men fill polyurethane bags with this precious salt and Viva and I ride on
the relatively smooth but bumpy road between the salt mounds. The sun is setting soon
and we know not how much more road and what kind of road lays ahead. A gaggle of
young girls spot us and decide to run next to us for a mile or so with ease. This is a
favored sport.
We get to the end of the Lake and find a stray biker who guess answers
our destination direction. Eventually between questioning passing locals, trying to make
out GoogleMaps on our phone and using common sense with regards to the ocean
direction....we were on our way to the Village Tremplin in the distance. We find another
one. We use GoogleMaps to get an idea of where we are. Between them all we decide to
head inland up the shell-encrusted road towards a settlement on the hill ahead. The sun
is setting behind the palms, the ocean waves break in the distance, we find a new guide
on his mountain bike, Mamadou, excited to accompany us the rest of the way.
We arrive at Deni Biram Ndao at dusk, led by a local co-biker Mamadou, hesitating to
stop lest we get surrounded once again with a team of short onlookers. The sun is set
now and the last minutes of light accompany us to the Tremplin Village of red mud brick
buildings that announce adobe land. A big smile of happiness and relief fills me with joy
to have found my brethren here in Senegal: natural builders, no concrete. Immediately the
feel is different. We arrive to a scene of 30 male sandy soccer players of all sizes in the
center of the village. Noone cares we are there. They are used to the visitors. Giorgui the
2nd in charge comes to welcome us. He shows us to our room in the main red building
with a giant thatch roof. It is dark and the generator is not working and they don’t have
enough solar panels to light the night. He tells us that when we hear the triple clang of a
metal spoon on a tire rim, dinner is served. Viva and I have been pedaling for 6 hours or
so, with minor food stops, and we happily go bucket shower ourselves and prepare for a wonderful dinner experience Senegalese-style.
so, with minor food stops, and we happily go bucket shower ourselves and prepare for a wonderful dinner experience Senegalese-style.
There are about 100 youth here of all ages. All of them have been found on the streets
lost, away from their families and up to no good. They come from Dakar neighborhoods
known for street kids and have been brought here if they passed the first three steps of
showing willingness. Here they are in a safe, joyful, healthful setting which is also strict,
regulated, organized and focused. They get loving teachers and counselors who teach
them life skills, work skills and academic skills...all on this large piece of red sandy land
dotted with trees. This is the brainchild of Loïc Treguy, a French expat, who has garnered
the support of France, the US and some other organizations to create a beautiful model of
community, brotherhood, love and support. Here the boys all work and play together
within the strict rules of the village and receive all they need to grow into confident,
respectful, hard-working and inspired individuals. They receive schooling and practical
specialized skills in the area of their choice: woodwork, electrical, metal, masonry,
cooking and general cleaning services. Viva and I are blown away at the fluid and happy
flow of life here at Le Tremplin. With only red mud (laterite) brick buildings built by the
youth specializing in "masonry", compost toilets that are emptied daily into a big hole in
the ground, shower water lifted up from a well, a huge commercial kitchen that is
spotless, this simple place with a vegetable garden and sheep is a wonderful model for
the world. I imagine grabbing the inner city kids in the US and placing them in somewhere
like this, even bringing them to Africa, would heal them quickly. Lastly, the food we ate out
of a large communal round silver dish in a circle of 7 spoon-ready mouths each meal ,
quietly and respectfully, was phenomenal. Perhaps the love with which it is made adds to
the deliciousness. No desserts but noone is complaining. They are happy with so little.
Few have phones, but they have each other. Love, companionship and mentorship. We
have been well-taken care of here. Kindness abounds. A deaf youth follows us and stares,
picking up all the information he can. Apparently he is one hell of a rapper, despite his
inability to hear. We watch him beat rhythms on the walls, unconsciously. One of his
"brothers" passes him with a supportive pat on the back. Viva and I decide we will be
back to build a giant cob oven with these boys. It is hard not to come back here. There
is so much LOVE in the air. My Heart is touched. Bless this place.
Tonight the moon looks almost full. It’s an African night, warm and breezy, and many critters are singing and buzzing to the moonlight. Inside Viva has bats above him and mice below him. Creepy. In my tent I am safer. I am tucked into the sandy opening behind the bushes for a little morning privacy. We have been well-taken care of here. Kindness abounds. A deaf youth follows us and stares, picking up all the information he can. Apparently he is one hell of a rapper, despite his inability to hear. We watch him beat rhythms on the walls, unconsciously. It is all so very cool.
The clang clang clang goes off at 7am...rise and shine time at the Tremplin Village. The big boys are up and breakfasting on a sweet white rice porridge with spoons in hand. Viva and I miss the early morning shift and make it in time for the little people’s breakfast. The large communal 7-person platters are brought out. A new dish, a new recipe to taste. The boys all wait for the elder to begin and that would be me. I wish them “Bon Appetit”
Tonight the moon looks almost full. It’s an African night, warm and breezy, and many critters are singing and buzzing to the moonlight. Inside Viva has bats above him and mice below him. Creepy. In my tent I am safer. I am tucked into the sandy opening behind the bushes for a little morning privacy. We have been well-taken care of here. Kindness abounds. A deaf youth follows us and stares, picking up all the information he can. Apparently he is one hell of a rapper, despite his inability to hear. We watch him beat rhythms on the walls, unconsciously. It is all so very cool.
The clang clang clang goes off at 7am...rise and shine time at the Tremplin Village. The big boys are up and breakfasting on a sweet white rice porridge with spoons in hand. Viva and I miss the early morning shift and make it in time for the little people’s breakfast. The large communal 7-person platters are brought out. A new dish, a new recipe to taste. The boys all wait for the elder to begin and that would be me. I wish them “Bon Appetit”
and they all begin spooning their sections of the circle respectfully and with excitement at
the first sweet taste. It is my first time with the “young ones”. They are so cute and quiet
and eat alot slower. Their tasks and work are not as physically demanding as they are in
school all day and the 2-foot diameter platters fill alot of food. Viva goes around finishing
up the leftovers, lest anything go to waste. Usually not much does in Africa I am learning.
Even the darned cement bags get reused to wrap roasted peanuts in.
Today begins another leg of our bike journey into the unknown. I am anxious as I am not sure where we will end up sleeping tonight and what the road will be like. But when we tke it one day at a time and do the footwork it always works out. The first 5 miles are a not- very-fun mix of rideable and unrideable sand road. It is the red laterite mixed with sand and interestingly enough the parts that look sandier are in effect more rideable than the ones that look harder. We are moving along slowly and steadily and dismounting what seems like every 5 minutes. The consolation is that this section is short we are told. And soon enough we arrive at the major intersection with the asphalt smooth road we are seeking to Mboro. We sit in the shade to chomp on some local grapefruits and raw peanuts, trying to blend in to the village and not draw attention. It kind of works, save for the elder artist sitting amongst his wooden sculptures hanging from a tree who is toothlesly screaming out at me about a Mme Martine and the tree with shade. We ignore him as does another woman passing by. Elders everywhere have a license to looniness and an excuse for their crazed outbursts.
Our 30-mile ride today is of the finest kind with smooth new road surface the whole way! We pass a village every 5-10 minutes and must respond to the little people shouting “Toubab” and “Donne moi de l’argent!” with handwaves and greetings. “White person” and “Give me money!” is what they have been taught to yell at us. What a joke! Joke’s on us too! Since we fly by we don’t really care because we will not see them again and we are a rare sight. Besides it beats the actual rest stops where we are surrounded by 20-30 little people at all times. They just stand and stare and talk about us in front of our faces. They watch our every move and comment. I so darn wish I understood and could blurt things out. Our latest tactic is making scary faces and growling at them, which send s them running. So does whipping out my Iphone camera to take their photos. It’s like the Devil they have been told by their parents, taking their Soul.
Did you know a sheepskin can be used in strips as a liner inside a bike tire to protect your tube from punctures? Today Viva and I learned the African version of our Western plastic- dependent tire liners from Abdul, an elder bike and moped mechanic who walked me briskly over to some young decorous wife selling her husband’s shorn and dried sheepskin for between 2500 and 3000 FCFA, the equivalent of $4 to $5. Clearly we were excited to be doing things local-style and learning new tricks. Apparently even a nail will bend when trying to pierce the tough hide of a sheep or goat.
Viva and I are gettin’ the hang of biking through Africa or at least Senegal. The villages are so laid back, everyone doing their tasks in a slow and languid stroll through the sandy streets impacted with garbage. Everyone knowing what everyone is doing and where to go for whatever need we have. Hungry for a Thiebou Djen? Right over there behind the
Today begins another leg of our bike journey into the unknown. I am anxious as I am not sure where we will end up sleeping tonight and what the road will be like. But when we tke it one day at a time and do the footwork it always works out. The first 5 miles are a not- very-fun mix of rideable and unrideable sand road. It is the red laterite mixed with sand and interestingly enough the parts that look sandier are in effect more rideable than the ones that look harder. We are moving along slowly and steadily and dismounting what seems like every 5 minutes. The consolation is that this section is short we are told. And soon enough we arrive at the major intersection with the asphalt smooth road we are seeking to Mboro. We sit in the shade to chomp on some local grapefruits and raw peanuts, trying to blend in to the village and not draw attention. It kind of works, save for the elder artist sitting amongst his wooden sculptures hanging from a tree who is toothlesly screaming out at me about a Mme Martine and the tree with shade. We ignore him as does another woman passing by. Elders everywhere have a license to looniness and an excuse for their crazed outbursts.
Our 30-mile ride today is of the finest kind with smooth new road surface the whole way! We pass a village every 5-10 minutes and must respond to the little people shouting “Toubab” and “Donne moi de l’argent!” with handwaves and greetings. “White person” and “Give me money!” is what they have been taught to yell at us. What a joke! Joke’s on us too! Since we fly by we don’t really care because we will not see them again and we are a rare sight. Besides it beats the actual rest stops where we are surrounded by 20-30 little people at all times. They just stand and stare and talk about us in front of our faces. They watch our every move and comment. I so darn wish I understood and could blurt things out. Our latest tactic is making scary faces and growling at them, which send s them running. So does whipping out my Iphone camera to take their photos. It’s like the Devil they have been told by their parents, taking their Soul.
Did you know a sheepskin can be used in strips as a liner inside a bike tire to protect your tube from punctures? Today Viva and I learned the African version of our Western plastic- dependent tire liners from Abdul, an elder bike and moped mechanic who walked me briskly over to some young decorous wife selling her husband’s shorn and dried sheepskin for between 2500 and 3000 FCFA, the equivalent of $4 to $5. Clearly we were excited to be doing things local-style and learning new tricks. Apparently even a nail will bend when trying to pierce the tough hide of a sheep or goat.
Viva and I are gettin’ the hang of biking through Africa or at least Senegal. The villages are so laid back, everyone doing their tasks in a slow and languid stroll through the sandy streets impacted with garbage. Everyone knowing what everyone is doing and where to go for whatever need we have. Hungry for a Thiebou Djen? Right over there behind the
African villages are more lively and well-rounded than European villages due to the full
spectrum of ages. The small villages are basically the template for Euro-American
ecovillages or any worldwide villages for that matter, it’s just that there is more of a big
family/community feel in Africa.
For us as bike travellers in Africa, or more accurately Senegal, we benefit from the fact that movement into Nature beyond the village boundaries stops at dusk. Senegalese seem to be afraid of being out and about alone in the bush at night. They are afraid of evil Spirits that could hurt them if they are alone. In Africa, alone is not the norm. Alone and Space is not something people seek here. This is one of the major cultural clashes I experience here. You start to get used to being polite and greeting a hundred people a day including dozens of kids. It’s just what you gotta do lest people see you as impolite and begin to shun you.
Viva and I have begun to get into the bike travelling and bush camping groove. Around dusk we get far enough from the villages that noone would be walking around in the tree and bush-protected area off the road we will discreetly call home for the night. I am pretty sure that were someone to spot our lights in the forest, or a fire, they would run in fear from the Spirits having a campfire...which serves us well. In the US I would be more fearful in ceratin States of armed and/or drugged loonies in the woods. In Europe there would be none of that. So pick your Land.
The unsuspecting thorns have gotten Viva’s tires up to three times a day now and he is becoming an expert at tube repairs and changes. The $5 sheepskin liners have proven themselves invalid and we await Barbara’s US-sourced beefy plastic liners to save the day. Besides that and shitty sand-stricken roads we are thoroughly enjoying biking in Africa so far.
Yene Kao and the Cob Workshop
Sunday November 30 is my big arrival back in Toubab Dialaw where I left from in June this year. Now I am an “old” friend. Greetings will take more time. But nothing has changed. It feels nice. The Mamas on the beach give me big bear hugs. I am warmly welcomed despite leaving under not always the clearest of situations. An oven job not totally finished, plaster that fell off, weird vibes with another one due to cultural confusion, and of course
For us as bike travellers in Africa, or more accurately Senegal, we benefit from the fact that movement into Nature beyond the village boundaries stops at dusk. Senegalese seem to be afraid of being out and about alone in the bush at night. They are afraid of evil Spirits that could hurt them if they are alone. In Africa, alone is not the norm. Alone and Space is not something people seek here. This is one of the major cultural clashes I experience here. You start to get used to being polite and greeting a hundred people a day including dozens of kids. It’s just what you gotta do lest people see you as impolite and begin to shun you.
Viva and I have begun to get into the bike travelling and bush camping groove. Around dusk we get far enough from the villages that noone would be walking around in the tree and bush-protected area off the road we will discreetly call home for the night. I am pretty sure that were someone to spot our lights in the forest, or a fire, they would run in fear from the Spirits having a campfire...which serves us well. In the US I would be more fearful in ceratin States of armed and/or drugged loonies in the woods. In Europe there would be none of that. So pick your Land.
The unsuspecting thorns have gotten Viva’s tires up to three times a day now and he is becoming an expert at tube repairs and changes. The $5 sheepskin liners have proven themselves invalid and we await Barbara’s US-sourced beefy plastic liners to save the day. Besides that and shitty sand-stricken roads we are thoroughly enjoying biking in Africa so far.
Yene Kao and the Cob Workshop
Sunday November 30 is my big arrival back in Toubab Dialaw where I left from in June this year. Now I am an “old” friend. Greetings will take more time. But nothing has changed. It feels nice. The Mamas on the beach give me big bear hugs. I am warmly welcomed despite leaving under not always the clearest of situations. An oven job not totally finished, plaster that fell off, weird vibes with another one due to cultural confusion, and of course
the multiple lovers from the same Lebou tribe. I guess it’s all forgotten by now. I am so
excited to have Viva here this time. But all he cares about is getting to the site and our new
home for the month, another 3 miles away. So off we go to Yene Kao to wrap up this leg of
our journey.
Hans and Roos are my clients and the hosts of the workshop. A young attractive and energetic couple from Holland, they have opted to settle in Yene Kao on a small piece of land right in the middle of everything with barely any privacy. They are here to create artistic beautiful public spaces from abandoned garbage heaps, with the locals. They live from fundraising donations and now, through the graciousness of Hans’ folks in the Netherlands, have a piece of land o build a home on. Back in May we serendipitously met and converged on a workshop plan to build their 25m2 guest house in a month. Six months later the guest house plan turned into their house plan, meaning the group would now attempt to complete a structure twice as big in the same amount of time. With half the crew being rugged Senegalese builders and half being white women of all ages plus the vegan Sicilian Lorenzo, the workshop is bound to be a fun-filled environment.
Yene Kao is the real deal. We are the only White people around. Sand-filled streets, concrete block housing, late night food stalls, garbage everywhere, fish remains and shells piled high, Mosque chants on the wind, long colorful pirogues looking alot like Native American canoes, beautiful warm ocean, women selling tiny amounts of peppers, peanuts, spices, coffee beans, tea, veggies and fly-ridden drying fish or chunks of meat. Second hand clothing from Europe and the US piled high on tables and on the ground attract the young and fashionable and even me. The young girls walk with their arms around each other and call out to me: “Toubab, comment t’appelles-tu?” I get tired of the same old questions day in and day out. I think of alternative responses. Living here long-term I would really be in a different relationship with them all, but still it’s tiring to be White in Africa.
Each morning I rise early while it’s still dark. The prayer calls are my alarm. I love that they start when I already want to get up. I sit up in my mosquito net tent and meditate with the chanting in the background. Each day it’s different. A different voice and a different chant. I wish I could have a peek in there but have not ventured out yet. As a non-Muslim I am not welcome they say. As a menopausal women I am. Whatever, I’m not that interested. At dawn I head onto the beach alone. The only figures I see are the long- robed Imams or spiritual older men with caps on and prayer beads in hand. Clasping their hands behind their back they pace along the ocean’s edge probably reciting prayers in their heads. I also see older women in their layers of cloth and headpieces pacing as well, slowly. And the other morning I saw two women remove their clothes except for a sarong on the lower body and enter the water to duck under the waves and wash themselves. I have never seen that before. Here in Yene Kao it is rare to see someone swimming in the ocean, especially women. You wonder why. It’s so hot and the ocean so refreshing. Is it that is is so dirty with littler? From outside it looks pretty clean and I hope that is truly the case. But seeing all that has been washed up from the ocean on the sand’s edge, you gotta think there’s still tons being washed around in there under you. I try not to think about it and when I succeed, it ll seems like Paradise.
Hans and Roos are my clients and the hosts of the workshop. A young attractive and energetic couple from Holland, they have opted to settle in Yene Kao on a small piece of land right in the middle of everything with barely any privacy. They are here to create artistic beautiful public spaces from abandoned garbage heaps, with the locals. They live from fundraising donations and now, through the graciousness of Hans’ folks in the Netherlands, have a piece of land o build a home on. Back in May we serendipitously met and converged on a workshop plan to build their 25m2 guest house in a month. Six months later the guest house plan turned into their house plan, meaning the group would now attempt to complete a structure twice as big in the same amount of time. With half the crew being rugged Senegalese builders and half being white women of all ages plus the vegan Sicilian Lorenzo, the workshop is bound to be a fun-filled environment.
Yene Kao is the real deal. We are the only White people around. Sand-filled streets, concrete block housing, late night food stalls, garbage everywhere, fish remains and shells piled high, Mosque chants on the wind, long colorful pirogues looking alot like Native American canoes, beautiful warm ocean, women selling tiny amounts of peppers, peanuts, spices, coffee beans, tea, veggies and fly-ridden drying fish or chunks of meat. Second hand clothing from Europe and the US piled high on tables and on the ground attract the young and fashionable and even me. The young girls walk with their arms around each other and call out to me: “Toubab, comment t’appelles-tu?” I get tired of the same old questions day in and day out. I think of alternative responses. Living here long-term I would really be in a different relationship with them all, but still it’s tiring to be White in Africa.
Each morning I rise early while it’s still dark. The prayer calls are my alarm. I love that they start when I already want to get up. I sit up in my mosquito net tent and meditate with the chanting in the background. Each day it’s different. A different voice and a different chant. I wish I could have a peek in there but have not ventured out yet. As a non-Muslim I am not welcome they say. As a menopausal women I am. Whatever, I’m not that interested. At dawn I head onto the beach alone. The only figures I see are the long- robed Imams or spiritual older men with caps on and prayer beads in hand. Clasping their hands behind their back they pace along the ocean’s edge probably reciting prayers in their heads. I also see older women in their layers of cloth and headpieces pacing as well, slowly. And the other morning I saw two women remove their clothes except for a sarong on the lower body and enter the water to duck under the waves and wash themselves. I have never seen that before. Here in Yene Kao it is rare to see someone swimming in the ocean, especially women. You wonder why. It’s so hot and the ocean so refreshing. Is it that is is so dirty with littler? From outside it looks pretty clean and I hope that is truly the case. But seeing all that has been washed up from the ocean on the sand’s edge, you gotta think there’s still tons being washed around in there under you. I try not to think about it and when I succeed, it ll seems like Paradise.
Our family for the month is a wonderful group of women plus Lorenzo and now recently
Bosco, a young male university student here to get practical experience to back up his
studies. Once again I feel grateful and honored to have the opportunity to teach cob to
willing students, travelling for days to come learn with me. God had truly shown me never-
ending support for following my passion, and now, the true calling has presented itself with
an opportunity to show up. My dream of being an Ecovillage Designer has now come to
fruition as I am being asked to design a huge project on my favorite Cabo Verdian island
where I had the best sexual heart affair in a while with my young Zeca. So Goddess is
taking care of two things at once. My Love Body Desire and my intellectual physical work
opportunity to provide me with more income. How much should I ask for? I look forward to
this new Challenge to keep me awake and effortful.
Africa or Senegal is becoming more familiar now. I feel more relaxed about it this time. I have seen and lived more authentically too. I still have two more vacation bike rides to choose. Life is good for me. I miss my two other sons greatly and regret not being closer to their lives. I also feel sadness to not be in on Yvonne and Eddie’s well-being and Eden and Ellen. Jackie my sister is by now quite the stranger. I cannot maintain a sustainable relationship with her. She is not at the level of evolution that would allow it to work. Oh well. I miss my Dad alot and hope he is in a good place. Peaceful. Even Jan is in my Heart always. I hope we see each other again one day soon.
I feel and see my skin changing, loosening, wrinkling and it makes me concerned about the fact that it has nothing to do with my fitness and health. My body is still and always in good shape but up close the skin is not the same. Oiling it more, drinking more? I cannot reverse it but here on in oil it more. Tonight is Saturday. I am laying low. I dont need to be out and about anymore. But tomorrow is Winter Solstice. We will celebrate.
Biking South with VIva
A full moon night in January. Viva and I have biked 3 days from Toubab Dialaw, our Senegal base, and have found our home for the night in an abandoned bungalow in front of the beach. Another large complex of abandoned bungalows left behind. An ambitious project that fell through. That is why I advocate starting small, humble, low-cost...and then let the thinggrow by itself organically.
Africa. Senegal. It is wonderful to see Viva feeling more and more comfortable with the cultural greeting norms, speaking in French, eating in a communal plate, and even using his smattering of Wolof. And it’s only been 7 weeks. What is amazing is that most people take him for my husband. Clearly I am flattered, and sorry for him. But the Senegalese don’t have a blockage around ageas we do. The young men actually appreciate the older women as a rule here, but that only goes for the Toubab women. You definitely do not see them with older Senegalese women. Speaking personally it feels natural to me.
Africa or Senegal is becoming more familiar now. I feel more relaxed about it this time. I have seen and lived more authentically too. I still have two more vacation bike rides to choose. Life is good for me. I miss my two other sons greatly and regret not being closer to their lives. I also feel sadness to not be in on Yvonne and Eddie’s well-being and Eden and Ellen. Jackie my sister is by now quite the stranger. I cannot maintain a sustainable relationship with her. She is not at the level of evolution that would allow it to work. Oh well. I miss my Dad alot and hope he is in a good place. Peaceful. Even Jan is in my Heart always. I hope we see each other again one day soon.
I feel and see my skin changing, loosening, wrinkling and it makes me concerned about the fact that it has nothing to do with my fitness and health. My body is still and always in good shape but up close the skin is not the same. Oiling it more, drinking more? I cannot reverse it but here on in oil it more. Tonight is Saturday. I am laying low. I dont need to be out and about anymore. But tomorrow is Winter Solstice. We will celebrate.
Biking South with VIva
A full moon night in January. Viva and I have biked 3 days from Toubab Dialaw, our Senegal base, and have found our home for the night in an abandoned bungalow in front of the beach. Another large complex of abandoned bungalows left behind. An ambitious project that fell through. That is why I advocate starting small, humble, low-cost...and then let the thinggrow by itself organically.
Africa. Senegal. It is wonderful to see Viva feeling more and more comfortable with the cultural greeting norms, speaking in French, eating in a communal plate, and even using his smattering of Wolof. And it’s only been 7 weeks. What is amazing is that most people take him for my husband. Clearly I am flattered, and sorry for him. But the Senegalese don’t have a blockage around ageas we do. The young men actually appreciate the older women as a rule here, but that only goes for the Toubab women. You definitely do not see them with older Senegalese women. Speaking personally it feels natural to me.
We just spent 3 days camped in the sandy busy courtyard of Yacou’s family compound in
the depths of Nianing village. We push our bikes through the sand streets that wind
beween unfinished concrete block shacks, spontaneous garbage dumps, construction
debris, reed-fenced homes, fancier Toubab homes, tiny stores with their rebar-welded
protective bars, male seamstress businesses and awe-inspiring baobabs everywhere. I
am pooped and getting impatient with the distance while trying to be polite with our host
Yacou. We met him in Toubab Dialaw, a self-made shoe and bag artisan who produces
original designs in bright reds, yellows and greens and made to order. Viva had him make
him flip flops with crossover straps in an X-shape in the colors of the Senegal flag. He sat
there on his stool with his special tools and materials cutting out the soles, glueing them
together, sewing his trademark braids along the edges, and making it all nice and tight and
strong. All day he worked on the sandals, in front of the ocean, while doubling as the
guardian for Nabou’s restaurant. Yacou has a beautiful calm energy. He is respectful and
self-motivated. He reminds me of my sons, the artists. His birthdate of September 20th
rings a loud bell for me as I am his polar opposite, March 20. Normally there is juice
between us. I am watching and feeling. I am not naturally attracted to him, but there IS
something. He has a deep strength and self-knowledge which I like. He is at peace with
himself. He has no apparent ego. He is not aggressive at all and is present. I feel it
would take a long journey to grow the attraction, but could be very good for me. His
brother Pablo kicks my butt with his gait. Sex is just so powerful a force in bringing people
together. I watch his strong fit physique slink across the courtyard and try to undress him.
Can he feel it? Does he do the same? He is a Dragon. A Taurus Dragon. His firm large
hand shaking mine tells all. I know he will make love to me and satisfy me. I am thankful
to have someone to fantasize about again. Been a while. While Yacou may make the
better lover in the end, with his caring and compassionate way, he does not trigger the
energy as Pablo does. To each his own. And then there is their 70-year old father Omar,
wise and charming and a lead djembe drummer. He may be the best of the three in bed,
with his focus on connection before physical sensations. The whole family does it for me.
Must be a karmic thing.
We spend three days lolling about in their courtyard, waiting for the communal meals to come out from the smoke-infested “kitchen” with nary an exhaust hole. Poor Aisatou seems to be the Cinderella of the household. I learn that her husband, the eldest son of Omar, brought her here from Casamance, introducing her into his family’s home where she will always be an outsider and as such, akin to the maid. It’s quite appalling but she is too smart to let it go unnoticed and without a plan. Day in and day out she is the only one sweeping the grounds in the morning, washing the bathrooms, washing the clothes, preparing the smoky wood fire for the meals and the meals as well. She is also responsible for cleaning up the dishes, going for well water 10 times a day on her head, and all this with her chubby boy Moussa on her back and little 4-year old Awa trailing along.. There are 8 and sometimes 9 other people onsite. It is appalling and when I address her she helplessly breaks out in complaints and excitement at finding an ally in her struggle. Even her baby is being alienated and not held by the others while she does her chores. The mother and two sisters-in-law, just like in Cinderella, walk around with their babies taking care of their own persoal needs only it seems. Who do I address about
We spend three days lolling about in their courtyard, waiting for the communal meals to come out from the smoke-infested “kitchen” with nary an exhaust hole. Poor Aisatou seems to be the Cinderella of the household. I learn that her husband, the eldest son of Omar, brought her here from Casamance, introducing her into his family’s home where she will always be an outsider and as such, akin to the maid. It’s quite appalling but she is too smart to let it go unnoticed and without a plan. Day in and day out she is the only one sweeping the grounds in the morning, washing the bathrooms, washing the clothes, preparing the smoky wood fire for the meals and the meals as well. She is also responsible for cleaning up the dishes, going for well water 10 times a day on her head, and all this with her chubby boy Moussa on her back and little 4-year old Awa trailing along.. There are 8 and sometimes 9 other people onsite. It is appalling and when I address her she helplessly breaks out in complaints and excitement at finding an ally in her struggle. Even her baby is being alienated and not held by the others while she does her chores. The mother and two sisters-in-law, just like in Cinderella, walk around with their babies taking care of their own persoal needs only it seems. Who do I address about
this injustice? It’s not my business for sure but I feel obligated to a mistreated sister. I
don’t know the whole story but can see unfairness in front of my eyes. Aisatou tells me
she will escape as soon as Awa’s school is out and head back to Casamance where her
mom lives. She puts her finger to her lips to signal that mum’s the word. It’s our secret.
And to save up money for the transport she will sell shrimp here, secretly. Viva and I
wonder when she will find the time to do it. She is happy to have found a friend in me. I
suggest to her that she go on strike and object to doing certain things. She says she is
scared of the matron of the houselhold, namely her husband’s mother, Awa, who wll say
mean things about her. I tell her: “So what!” I see her dark unrelenting eyes thinking on it.
I don’t like the fact that this family behaves so progressively, open, and even worldly all the
while contributig to the inferiority of women. The other day someone else, I don’t recall
who and where, said that women were inferior and that’s he way it is. They must do the
work of the household. Aisatou and many others comoplain about how the men sit
around, smoke, talk and watch and do nothing. No wonder the one man needs 4 wives
and the wife only needs one man. The women here are just fine on their own and with
each other and are sometimes very happy for the man to be away with his other wives to
give them a break from serving him.
Entering the Sine Saloum World Biosphere Reserve
Funckin’ A. My fears of the unknown that lies ahead biking through Africa lessen each moment I am blissfully riding in full-on natural areas far from villages and far from asphalt on serene laterite-packed smooth roads. With ease I must add. Some of the European off-road riding was way worse. Every 15 minutes we need to walk the bike through a patch of loose sand but we are getting used to it and it’s all part of the flow. The African bike journey flow. As long as the end is in sight we bear it better and better each day because the payoff is grand. A rundown “bush taxi” or “mini van” loaded with rooftop goods or passengers races by every 20-30 minutes, blinding and dumbing us for the time it takes the sandblast to settle again. We bear it happily. The payoff is grand.
Flamingoes, wild ones, soak their spindly legs in the distance. Lone baobab trees become scarcer, like small islands of vegetation in the vast sea flats we bike through today. Suddenly the ocean waves appear and we orient ourselves again, yup, headin’ south to land’s end, until the Gambian border. Beyond land’s end, a host of well-recommended addresses await us: Nodjor Island, Bassoun Island, Island, etc. We are to reach them by “pirogues”, the curved and colorful fishing canoes labeled with its owner’s or sponsor’s name that are unique to Senegal. The word Senegal even means “pirogue”.
Starting today all is new for me, and I learn to enjoy the mysterious adventures ahead, step by step or pedal by pedal. Here they say “Ndanka Ndanka” which means little by little. With each day’s blessings and gifts my trust grows. Trust that all is well and Great Spirit is watching over us. Trust that the World is a beautiful and safe place, including the
Entering the Sine Saloum World Biosphere Reserve
Funckin’ A. My fears of the unknown that lies ahead biking through Africa lessen each moment I am blissfully riding in full-on natural areas far from villages and far from asphalt on serene laterite-packed smooth roads. With ease I must add. Some of the European off-road riding was way worse. Every 15 minutes we need to walk the bike through a patch of loose sand but we are getting used to it and it’s all part of the flow. The African bike journey flow. As long as the end is in sight we bear it better and better each day because the payoff is grand. A rundown “bush taxi” or “mini van” loaded with rooftop goods or passengers races by every 20-30 minutes, blinding and dumbing us for the time it takes the sandblast to settle again. We bear it happily. The payoff is grand.
Flamingoes, wild ones, soak their spindly legs in the distance. Lone baobab trees become scarcer, like small islands of vegetation in the vast sea flats we bike through today. Suddenly the ocean waves appear and we orient ourselves again, yup, headin’ south to land’s end, until the Gambian border. Beyond land’s end, a host of well-recommended addresses await us: Nodjor Island, Bassoun Island, Island, etc. We are to reach them by “pirogues”, the curved and colorful fishing canoes labeled with its owner’s or sponsor’s name that are unique to Senegal. The word Senegal even means “pirogue”.
Starting today all is new for me, and I learn to enjoy the mysterious adventures ahead, step by step or pedal by pedal. Here they say “Ndanka Ndanka” which means little by little. With each day’s blessings and gifts my trust grows. Trust that all is well and Great Spirit is watching over us. Trust that the World is a beautiful and safe place, including the
people. I actually have less issues with Nature, which is scarier for the locals here. They
feel safer with people and I feel safer with Nature. Viva and I camp each night in a new
spot we find around dusk, the time when everyone heads close to home, leaving us in
peace. Last night it was a great mango tree in a hidden nook that watched over us as the
great orange moon came up through the brush. The night before it was Baidi, the self-
appointed Serer guardian that gave us the thumbs up to lay down our heads in the
abandoned bungalow on the beach, belonging to some unknown investor of 20 years ago,
who could house several villages with his concrete oceanfront studios. Tonight....quién
sabe? For now, in this moment, our faces beam with glee at our first naked beach romp
since arriving in Africa. Taking our midday pause off of the alternating long white, red and
brown “piste” that will take us to Djiffer, land’s end, we walk our bikes through the salt flats
to a lone prickly bush on the beach. With no humans visible for as far as we can see, this
is a first. We have the whole beach to ourselves and the whole ocean for that matter. The
bliss is endless. We rip our sweaty dirty bike outfits off to our most favorite state of being
in Nature. Finally a clean beach, clean water and noone around to stare, ask questions,
hang around. Ahhhhhh, it takes an effort ot get away from people in Africa, and when you
do, you get a whole lot of BIG EXPANSE with comfort and ease.
Palmarin Coast
Mealtime in Senegal is not a solo thing, ever. The spoons are handed out, the large round silver platter is placed on the ground or a low table, people take their spots on the ground or low stools and chairs or in squat mode, and usually once the elder begins with “Bismilla”, the eating begins. The first taste sets the mood. Is it Thiebou Djen today? Mafé? Domada? Supakanja? Everyone has their favorite and their favorite veggies and fish. Some take spicy pepper condiment, like Viva, and some take extra sauce. Full focus and attention is on the food. Not much talking. It tastes best when it is after a hard morning’s work, like out cob building. Taste buds are virgin and fresh. Relaxation fills the body. The meal is a wonder drug of satisfied desires.
Sometimes for us Toubabs, we have to really stay focused on the triangular section in front of us, lest certain of our mealmates’ habits turn off our appetite. At Nabou’s one day, I was pushed over to the “better” chicken meal. As the guest I had to accept and crawled over to a brand-new untouched dish of chicken, rice and veggies. I have to admit it was a nice change of pace from the eternal fish and rice. However, my new mealmate was a 7-year old Pippy Longstocking-type who began fondling and tugging at the chicken and generously throwing me pieces with her greasy licked fingers. I tried to remain unperturbed discreetly returning the favor. Soon she had the whole carcass in the air tossing and turning it to find the remaining shreds of flesh, chewing loudly with her big white teeth protruding from her expressive mouth. That was the last straw. I put my spoon down against the platter, the sign for “I’m done”, and crawled back to Nabou, the big African Mama with the front space between her “happy teeth”. Forever giggling and
Mealtime in Senegal is not a solo thing, ever. The spoons are handed out, the large round silver platter is placed on the ground or a low table, people take their spots on the ground or low stools and chairs or in squat mode, and usually once the elder begins with “Bismilla”, the eating begins. The first taste sets the mood. Is it Thiebou Djen today? Mafé? Domada? Supakanja? Everyone has their favorite and their favorite veggies and fish. Some take spicy pepper condiment, like Viva, and some take extra sauce. Full focus and attention is on the food. Not much talking. It tastes best when it is after a hard morning’s work, like out cob building. Taste buds are virgin and fresh. Relaxation fills the body. The meal is a wonder drug of satisfied desires.
Sometimes for us Toubabs, we have to really stay focused on the triangular section in front of us, lest certain of our mealmates’ habits turn off our appetite. At Nabou’s one day, I was pushed over to the “better” chicken meal. As the guest I had to accept and crawled over to a brand-new untouched dish of chicken, rice and veggies. I have to admit it was a nice change of pace from the eternal fish and rice. However, my new mealmate was a 7-year old Pippy Longstocking-type who began fondling and tugging at the chicken and generously throwing me pieces with her greasy licked fingers. I tried to remain unperturbed discreetly returning the favor. Soon she had the whole carcass in the air tossing and turning it to find the remaining shreds of flesh, chewing loudly with her big white teeth protruding from her expressive mouth. That was the last straw. I put my spoon down against the platter, the sign for “I’m done”, and crawled back to Nabou, the big African Mama with the front space between her “happy teeth”. Forever giggling and
sending out love from her large rotund breasts that fed 7 children and now a proud and
successful businesswoman, Nabou is a main figure of respect and female modelling in
Toubab Dialaw. She runs her restaurant like a star New York City restauranteur, dressing
up in her latest bright-colored boubou, welcoming her guests with big voracious hugs, free
drinks and other favors.
When I first arrived back in Toubab Dialaw, Adama, one of my beach mama grlfriends, led me to her “sister” Nabou, who took me into her floormat “parlor” to negotiate on how she could get a cob oven and I could get fed and housed for a week. We went back and forth in true businesswoman-style, each one trying to get a little advantage and convince the other of surrendering to her generosity. Our edges got closer and closer, punctuated by pauses as we considered the flexibility of our bottom lines, checking in with our minds and hearts until we met on common ground. Big hugs and smiles flew back and forth as a new Senegalese-American sisterhood was born...love beyond cultural differences, sister to sister, heart to heart, soul to soul.
All week long the women peeked and prodded as the oven began looking like an oven. Little by little Aimee, Nabou’s daughter, could not help but get into the muddy straw mix with Gorgui, my handsome student I had met on the beach in Yene Kao. Love is so easy on a tarp mixing cob together, building walls, plastering side-by-side....the conversations become more open, flowing, and true when there is a secondary activity going on. Something productive, beautiful, and satisfying done in community creates a deep bond that is so innately needed by Humans everywhere. Here in Africa, women sit together to process and cook food, do each other’s hair, sell things. Men repair and sew fishing nets, fish, build, sew clothes, drum, gather and bunch straw for roofing, watch people go by, pray and of course everyone eats as one. Cob Building is very African in that way and works well in Africa where it comes naturally, but really everywhere. After all we are all Human Beings, though some of us more individualistic than others. But even the individualistic societies love togetherness, for a defined and limited purpose, after which they like to go back to their solitude to reflect. So in the end the Cob Build works for everyone.
Everywhere Viva and I are travelling there is interest in cob. Here an oven, there compost toilets, here a house, there a bungalow. We could be working full time at each stop. I am really enjoying seeing Viva blossom here. Whenever he is invited to share a meal he jumps in like an African, and even prefers the communal meal to the individual plates now. He reaches out to say “Nangadeff” with a handshake, introducing himself to anyone he crosses paths with. As we bike by he yells out “Bonsoir” at any time of day. He doesn’t even mind being surrounded by endless throngs of little people anymore, figuring out creative ways to break up the dynamic of “Toubab, Toubab, donne moi de l’argent...” and all of its variations. Now it’s me that steers the other way lest they all come running my way.
Three days on the Palmarin coast were the peak of our “vacation”. Almost total solitude day after day, with a closed Eco-Resort nearby for showering and drinking, we had the whole beach as far as the eye could see to ourselves 99% of the time. Nude swimming
When I first arrived back in Toubab Dialaw, Adama, one of my beach mama grlfriends, led me to her “sister” Nabou, who took me into her floormat “parlor” to negotiate on how she could get a cob oven and I could get fed and housed for a week. We went back and forth in true businesswoman-style, each one trying to get a little advantage and convince the other of surrendering to her generosity. Our edges got closer and closer, punctuated by pauses as we considered the flexibility of our bottom lines, checking in with our minds and hearts until we met on common ground. Big hugs and smiles flew back and forth as a new Senegalese-American sisterhood was born...love beyond cultural differences, sister to sister, heart to heart, soul to soul.
All week long the women peeked and prodded as the oven began looking like an oven. Little by little Aimee, Nabou’s daughter, could not help but get into the muddy straw mix with Gorgui, my handsome student I had met on the beach in Yene Kao. Love is so easy on a tarp mixing cob together, building walls, plastering side-by-side....the conversations become more open, flowing, and true when there is a secondary activity going on. Something productive, beautiful, and satisfying done in community creates a deep bond that is so innately needed by Humans everywhere. Here in Africa, women sit together to process and cook food, do each other’s hair, sell things. Men repair and sew fishing nets, fish, build, sew clothes, drum, gather and bunch straw for roofing, watch people go by, pray and of course everyone eats as one. Cob Building is very African in that way and works well in Africa where it comes naturally, but really everywhere. After all we are all Human Beings, though some of us more individualistic than others. But even the individualistic societies love togetherness, for a defined and limited purpose, after which they like to go back to their solitude to reflect. So in the end the Cob Build works for everyone.
Everywhere Viva and I are travelling there is interest in cob. Here an oven, there compost toilets, here a house, there a bungalow. We could be working full time at each stop. I am really enjoying seeing Viva blossom here. Whenever he is invited to share a meal he jumps in like an African, and even prefers the communal meal to the individual plates now. He reaches out to say “Nangadeff” with a handshake, introducing himself to anyone he crosses paths with. As we bike by he yells out “Bonsoir” at any time of day. He doesn’t even mind being surrounded by endless throngs of little people anymore, figuring out creative ways to break up the dynamic of “Toubab, Toubab, donne moi de l’argent...” and all of its variations. Now it’s me that steers the other way lest they all come running my way.
Three days on the Palmarin coast were the peak of our “vacation”. Almost total solitude day after day, with a closed Eco-Resort nearby for showering and drinking, we had the whole beach as far as the eye could see to ourselves 99% of the time. Nude swimming
and sunbathing at our leisure. We barely ate as our lives had come to an easy halt and
we dug into the Vision Quest lifestyle. On day 3 we stopped talking and interacting,
intentionally creating a bubble of personal timelessness to wallow in without needing to do
anything for anyone but ourselves. I love and cherish those days. Sleeping in and in and
in, prolonging the dreamstate, stepping out into the sunny day at the slothful hour of 11am,
guiltless and free. No-structure day. Hiding out in the tent and wiling away the hours at
my own pace and desire. I love those days to nurture and rebirth my Soul. Let the
creative juices flow. Love Myself.
Day 4 and it’s back to the regimen: wake up, pack up and go. As usual Viva is already packed before I even step out of my tent. I peek out to the sound of the tarp being shaken out. Will I ever be ready first? How much of an effort am I willing to put out. How important is it to me? It is the eternal conflict between travellers, the early risers vs, the sleep-ins, the timely schedule vs. the play-it-by-ear, the 5-hour straight ride vs. the multuple stops, the map users vs. the intuitive flow which includes new acquaintances pulling us here and there. Viva and I try to find a middle ground after another fight on the beach. We will do my time one morning and his time the next. Meaning I have to make an effort to pack it up right away and he has to make an effort to wait patiently. The cool thing about travelling with my son is that we can continue working on our relationship and growing as mirrors without it being an intimate thing. The other side is that everyone thinks he is my husband or boyfriend and so I don’t get to shmooze as much. But on the other hand I don’t have to deal with the unwanted shmoozing and can pick and choose.
So off we ride along the beach and then into the roadway. Long red dirt road with the usual washboard sections I try diligently to move away from. The houses on each side get bigger and bigger and are clearly Toubab creations. We even pass by an Organic Farmstand with basil, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce and tomatoes. A young dreadlocked French couple has created a paradise homestead here on the peninsula between the open ocean and the Sine River. A greenhouse harbors giant-leafed tomato trees, basil, cukes, lettuce....California-style. I have never seen such healthy green vegetables since I have been here. Jean-Dominique explains that after trying every possible organic solution to the nematode issue here, in which the critter attacks plant roots at an early stage, they have had to create an artificial environment with a concrete pad underlying their own man- made soil mix. I am impressed. Leave it to the Toubabs to recreate their Paradises everywhere.
It’s still dark out and my rooftop sleep in an apartment complex on the island of Nodjor is rudely interrupted by yet another Imam. A million rooster fans cheer on as the thundering male voice imposes Islamic prayers at 5am. Each place we sleep affords a surprise as to wake-up call, duration, loudness, loudspeaker quality, aesthetics, etc. Palmarin’s mostly Catholic bent meant that we were left free of the early-morning imposition which now, in 99% Muslim Nodjor, swings to the other extreme. The day begins now with a cool crisp 60 degrees at 7:30AM, not a typically-expected West African temperature and very enjoyable, especially for eary-morning exercise.
Day 4 and it’s back to the regimen: wake up, pack up and go. As usual Viva is already packed before I even step out of my tent. I peek out to the sound of the tarp being shaken out. Will I ever be ready first? How much of an effort am I willing to put out. How important is it to me? It is the eternal conflict between travellers, the early risers vs, the sleep-ins, the timely schedule vs. the play-it-by-ear, the 5-hour straight ride vs. the multuple stops, the map users vs. the intuitive flow which includes new acquaintances pulling us here and there. Viva and I try to find a middle ground after another fight on the beach. We will do my time one morning and his time the next. Meaning I have to make an effort to pack it up right away and he has to make an effort to wait patiently. The cool thing about travelling with my son is that we can continue working on our relationship and growing as mirrors without it being an intimate thing. The other side is that everyone thinks he is my husband or boyfriend and so I don’t get to shmooze as much. But on the other hand I don’t have to deal with the unwanted shmoozing and can pick and choose.
So off we ride along the beach and then into the roadway. Long red dirt road with the usual washboard sections I try diligently to move away from. The houses on each side get bigger and bigger and are clearly Toubab creations. We even pass by an Organic Farmstand with basil, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce and tomatoes. A young dreadlocked French couple has created a paradise homestead here on the peninsula between the open ocean and the Sine River. A greenhouse harbors giant-leafed tomato trees, basil, cukes, lettuce....California-style. I have never seen such healthy green vegetables since I have been here. Jean-Dominique explains that after trying every possible organic solution to the nematode issue here, in which the critter attacks plant roots at an early stage, they have had to create an artificial environment with a concrete pad underlying their own man- made soil mix. I am impressed. Leave it to the Toubabs to recreate their Paradises everywhere.
It’s still dark out and my rooftop sleep in an apartment complex on the island of Nodjor is rudely interrupted by yet another Imam. A million rooster fans cheer on as the thundering male voice imposes Islamic prayers at 5am. Each place we sleep affords a surprise as to wake-up call, duration, loudness, loudspeaker quality, aesthetics, etc. Palmarin’s mostly Catholic bent meant that we were left free of the early-morning imposition which now, in 99% Muslim Nodjor, swings to the other extreme. The day begins now with a cool crisp 60 degrees at 7:30AM, not a typically-expected West African temperature and very enjoyable, especially for eary-morning exercise.
Man-woman relations here are a mystery. Just as affection is not shown between man
and woman, none is shown between humans and animals either. Donkeys and horses are
whipped constantly into action even though the animals do nothing but serve. Sometimes
they are loaded with unearthly burdens of concrete bags or sand mountains and asked to
pull them through the sand to no avail. In these moments aside from the whipping I see
the humans collaborate in helping the donkey out as they all push and pull together in
team action. Yesterday young boys raced their donkeys through the palm tree alleys
screaming “Atcha, Acha!” Unless tied up, the animals roam around human-like as part of
the community. They are left to their own avail to find food and just hang out. The dogs
especially seem to not belong to anyone as they serve no function except to protect and
defend, which is more a need of the wealthy. The dogs roam in cliques and will often run
the beach, sleep, have sex, find food, bully others and live their dog lives on their own,
independent of human support. The sheep and goats also fend for themselves. Lucky for
them they can feed on garbage heaps, especially paper. I heard it’s the glue that they are
addicted to in the cardboard and paper but I guess there is a fibrous element too. Makes it
hard to want to eat their flesh.
Everywhere we arrive there is a need for our services. Ovens, compost toilets, non- smoking stoves, cob houses. It seems the Third World needs these elements badly. Well maybe not the ovens where there is little fuel, but perhaps the work is to develop a solar or solar hot water-fueled oven? I am sure people are working on that somewhere. Everyone wants their own ovens anyway. It’s kind of a human romantic need to be able to cook your daily bread at home. Sell pizzas. Cook a whole sheep till it’s tender. Or your crying baby. Hahaha. Babies don’t cry much here as they are always on someone’s back with their head resting on the back of the Heartbeat. I hear that the Mothers carry them behind to protect them from evil spirits and evil people. While the Senegalese are such kind, generous and seemingly happy folk, they also harbor an innate fear of evil and live by superstitious protective actions daily, most notably wearing the grigri belt of talismans around their waist under their clothes. Babies wear them on wrists and ankles as well. A string of small hand-sewn leather pouches filled with Marabout-chosen and blessed plants, natural objects, prayers, this is the one ubiquitous item you can be sure to find on everyone regardless of creed. This is the Animist thread that binds them, “underneath” the surface. I wonder if the slaves in the Americas wore them.
So the women fetch and carry the water on their heads daily for the whole family, fetch the wood for cooking, make the fire, buy the food, cook the meals, clean the dishes, wash the clothes, take care of the children and, when they are done, take care of their own personal needs. The men somehow find money, give it to the wife to buy food, wood, clothing and sometimes water, and sit around talking, smoking, watching TV, beating on the drum and having sex with one or more wives. What’s wrong with this picture? Aisatou told me that her nails are falling off and her eyes hurt from all the smoke in the kitchen. The ADJA monosodium glutamate-laced bouillon cubes they use in every meal here burns holes in your sotmach, gives you headached and most recently I learned fucks with your feet. Yet they do not know how to cook without it since they started using it 10 years ago. They feel their meal will taste bad. It gives a very salty and spicy flavor to everything. Many Europeans have told me they get migraine headaches from it.
Everywhere we arrive there is a need for our services. Ovens, compost toilets, non- smoking stoves, cob houses. It seems the Third World needs these elements badly. Well maybe not the ovens where there is little fuel, but perhaps the work is to develop a solar or solar hot water-fueled oven? I am sure people are working on that somewhere. Everyone wants their own ovens anyway. It’s kind of a human romantic need to be able to cook your daily bread at home. Sell pizzas. Cook a whole sheep till it’s tender. Or your crying baby. Hahaha. Babies don’t cry much here as they are always on someone’s back with their head resting on the back of the Heartbeat. I hear that the Mothers carry them behind to protect them from evil spirits and evil people. While the Senegalese are such kind, generous and seemingly happy folk, they also harbor an innate fear of evil and live by superstitious protective actions daily, most notably wearing the grigri belt of talismans around their waist under their clothes. Babies wear them on wrists and ankles as well. A string of small hand-sewn leather pouches filled with Marabout-chosen and blessed plants, natural objects, prayers, this is the one ubiquitous item you can be sure to find on everyone regardless of creed. This is the Animist thread that binds them, “underneath” the surface. I wonder if the slaves in the Americas wore them.
So the women fetch and carry the water on their heads daily for the whole family, fetch the wood for cooking, make the fire, buy the food, cook the meals, clean the dishes, wash the clothes, take care of the children and, when they are done, take care of their own personal needs. The men somehow find money, give it to the wife to buy food, wood, clothing and sometimes water, and sit around talking, smoking, watching TV, beating on the drum and having sex with one or more wives. What’s wrong with this picture? Aisatou told me that her nails are falling off and her eyes hurt from all the smoke in the kitchen. The ADJA monosodium glutamate-laced bouillon cubes they use in every meal here burns holes in your sotmach, gives you headached and most recently I learned fucks with your feet. Yet they do not know how to cook without it since they started using it 10 years ago. They feel their meal will taste bad. It gives a very salty and spicy flavor to everything. Many Europeans have told me they get migraine headaches from it.
Viva and I spent the night on a deserted barrier beach island that we were rowed to by
Seydou and his buddies for 3€ round trip. Once again we were launched into a Vision
Quest as a result of conflict. Viva, in his usual mopy pouty way when he is not happy,
refused to talk. Off he walked towards a large shade tree to begin once again setting up
camp with what was available. Here we go again. I wondered how long his grudge would
last this time. Our old dynamic is slowly dying out as we get closer and closer to nipping it
in the bud. Meditation is the key. That mixed wih compassionate communication, the
answer to everything. When I am done with this journey I will focus my work on either
Poop, Plastic or Communication...or all three. I will have gotten a good idea of what I feel
is most needed in the World.
This morning the sound of women woke me on this deserted island. The tide was at its bottom and they were able to walk over through the shallow water to perform their oyster- picking income activity. Laden with a tub on their head and a long rod with a metal loop on the bottom, they walked in file in the shallow water dressed in a variety of colorful long hand-me-downs. Sometimes it’s so cute to find “University of Wisconsin” or “I’m with Stupid” T-shirts on these unbeknownst Senegalese who continue to use the giveaways from somewhere far far away. I wish I could speak with them in their language. What great stories we could tell each other. For now it’s just LOVE through the eyes that connect us for a moment in time.
After wiling away the morning hours hungry and timeful, we anxiously await our young piroguier Seydou on the mangrove shore. One pm for him could be 2pm. Darn. The sun is beating down and as I call him a third time this morning, Viva points to the edge of the blue pirogue making its way around the corner. Yes! The two young short muscular lads paddle us to the other side, only 200 feet away and against the current and wind. They will make $3.50 for both trips, going out and coming back. As we near the opposite shore they are pointed to somewhere in between the two groups of outhouses that stand tall on posts about 10 feet above the water and 20 feet out from the shoreline. Men are walking with their plastic multi-colored butt-washing tea kettles along the plank towards the makeshift metal-walled toilets. Viva and I are sickened. Why are they aiming the pirogue to the “poop beach” between the women’s and men’s toilets? Whose idea was it anyway to build toilets in the ocean where people swim and fish? The tide goes out and comes in and everything gets spread out and well, disappears to somewhere I guess. It’s surprising that people here are not ill from swimming in their feces. I feel sick.
I think the Africans are the loudest culture, with no sense of the sound and bliss of silence. They do not value aloneness and quiet. Viva and I are in a 20-apartment complex in a wonderfully large corner room with light and windows and a second-story lookout view, for only $8.40 a night plus 3 meals for $1.68 each. Cheapest deal yet. However we soon find out why. The only TV for the whole complex sits on the backside of our wall where the dozen male schoolteachers eat and gather twice a day for hours, chatting away vibrantly as the TV blasts European soccer games in the background. The whole scene gets super lloud with people yelling, debating, shouting at the TV, bellowing, children crying, women shreaking in their high-piched Wolof and Serrer....and all of this happens at the sweet hour of our preferred naptime, after lunch. The schoolteachers have until 4pm and take every last minute in social time, where they get their rest and relaxation. My friend Elisa put it well. Some people get their energy from being alone and others from being together. Just as the TV is turned off and the last sounds trickle off, we look forward to some shuteye...”ALLAAAAAHHHHH AKBAAAAAAR, ALLLLAAAHHHHH AKBAAAAR, ALLAAAAHHHH AAAKBAAAAR!”
This morning the sound of women woke me on this deserted island. The tide was at its bottom and they were able to walk over through the shallow water to perform their oyster- picking income activity. Laden with a tub on their head and a long rod with a metal loop on the bottom, they walked in file in the shallow water dressed in a variety of colorful long hand-me-downs. Sometimes it’s so cute to find “University of Wisconsin” or “I’m with Stupid” T-shirts on these unbeknownst Senegalese who continue to use the giveaways from somewhere far far away. I wish I could speak with them in their language. What great stories we could tell each other. For now it’s just LOVE through the eyes that connect us for a moment in time.
After wiling away the morning hours hungry and timeful, we anxiously await our young piroguier Seydou on the mangrove shore. One pm for him could be 2pm. Darn. The sun is beating down and as I call him a third time this morning, Viva points to the edge of the blue pirogue making its way around the corner. Yes! The two young short muscular lads paddle us to the other side, only 200 feet away and against the current and wind. They will make $3.50 for both trips, going out and coming back. As we near the opposite shore they are pointed to somewhere in between the two groups of outhouses that stand tall on posts about 10 feet above the water and 20 feet out from the shoreline. Men are walking with their plastic multi-colored butt-washing tea kettles along the plank towards the makeshift metal-walled toilets. Viva and I are sickened. Why are they aiming the pirogue to the “poop beach” between the women’s and men’s toilets? Whose idea was it anyway to build toilets in the ocean where people swim and fish? The tide goes out and comes in and everything gets spread out and well, disappears to somewhere I guess. It’s surprising that people here are not ill from swimming in their feces. I feel sick.
I think the Africans are the loudest culture, with no sense of the sound and bliss of silence. They do not value aloneness and quiet. Viva and I are in a 20-apartment complex in a wonderfully large corner room with light and windows and a second-story lookout view, for only $8.40 a night plus 3 meals for $1.68 each. Cheapest deal yet. However we soon find out why. The only TV for the whole complex sits on the backside of our wall where the dozen male schoolteachers eat and gather twice a day for hours, chatting away vibrantly as the TV blasts European soccer games in the background. The whole scene gets super lloud with people yelling, debating, shouting at the TV, bellowing, children crying, women shreaking in their high-piched Wolof and Serrer....and all of this happens at the sweet hour of our preferred naptime, after lunch. The schoolteachers have until 4pm and take every last minute in social time, where they get their rest and relaxation. My friend Elisa put it well. Some people get their energy from being alone and others from being together. Just as the TV is turned off and the last sounds trickle off, we look forward to some shuteye...”ALLAAAAAHHHHH AKBAAAAAAR, ALLLLAAAHHHHH AKBAAAAR, ALLAAAAHHHH AAAKBAAAAR!”
The $1.68 3 meals a day plan in the end is quite appropriate. With a Continental-style
bread, butter and jam breakfast to soothe our Western palate, we are just teased. Being
on the bike trail the bread-based meal does not cut it. But the homemade bissap, bouye
and sweet potato jams are unique and new. Anything new to our Africanized taste buds is
very welcome. The bright purple bissap color is so appetizing and adds a bit of sour. We
wolf down the morning fare and are left hungry. Where are the eggs? Cheese? Avocado?
Beans? Rice? Lest we dream of a Mexican Eggs Ranchero breakfast....Our hostess
Alimatou is an African European. On the outside she is a devout Nodjorian Muslim
woman. Inside she is a fully-educated European with her laptop and busy schedule
running around from meeting to meeting in search of her next batch of “development”
funds that will sustain her pro-active life here in Senegal. Who knows the actual path of
the funds that are earmarked for this developement project and that group, etc.? With us
she has cut us a “good deal” because we are “helping” her country. She is clearly used to
working with development workers and knows the value of connections. Her own
university studies were financed by American and European friends who saw her potential.
She is utterly grateful and knows how to make us feel comfortable. The down side of
having an intellectual female hostess is that she is not a great cook. As a matter of fact,
today she was too occupied to make us food and had her daughter hand-deliver the lunch
which was made at her parents’ house. Viva and I had been practically fasting for the last
24 hours on the deserted island. We felt pretty famished and excited for some good
Thiebou Djen. Spoons in hand we sprang up from our beds at the sound of light knocking.
It was Yatou’s small ten-year old hands bringing us the silver platter from grandma’s. We
invited her to share with us but she refuted. She said she had already eaten. No worries.
More for us. We sat down on the floor with excitement at eating some lunch and ready to
dig in. As Viva revealed our lunch, our taste buds died a little bit. As a matter of fact they
went a bit numb and soon it was a toss up between having some food in our bellies, which
meant it had to pass by our tongues and mouths first, yeesh!, or possibly waiting for the
next opportunity. White room temperature rice with what looked like 4 Tablespoons of a
dirt-colored sauce, 1/8 of a potato in one corner and 4 more Tablespoons of fried onions
here and there with no apparent love. One fish head and a whole fish of the sort with so
many bones you cannot have a boneless mouthful even if you spend minutes cleaning it
up. A dab of red tomato skin here and 3 tamarind seeds there. This was probably the
worst-lookin’ and tastin’ meal of our whole time in Senegal. So what were we gonna do
with it? No wonder Yatou took off quickly. Viva took three reluctant bites and gave up. He
placed his bets on seeping his way into the schoolteachers’ communal platter. Spoon in
pocket he made his way out the door, feigning interest in the soccer game on TV while keeping an eye on the meal to come. This was the first time that Viva would manipulate
his way into a meal. He sat there despondently waiting to be invited in and tried to not
look too desperate when someone did. I on the other hand meditatively and graciously
continued eating mouthfuls of the rice convincing myself that it was not that bad. Mixing it
and cleaning out the questionable unidientifiable tidbits and going to work on the fish
flesh, I remained humble. Soon I had almost finished it all. My belly was satisfied at the
expense of my taste buds. A few minutes later Viva entered with a huge toothy grin
celebrating his success at sitting in on another tasty meal. They had fallen for his game.
Well, I guess not “fallen” as the Africans are always happy to share food. That has been a
blessing for our budget on this trip. We always know we can get fed.
Child or sheep? Sheep or child? It is literaaly difficult to tell many times. Both are whiny
high-pitched frantic yells that turn human and sheep heads. Today Viva and I are hangin’
low and chillin’ in our getaway pad harboring all our bike gear spread out wide all over the
room. Tryin’ to recuperate ahead of time for our 4-hour red-eye pirogue journey tonight at
midnight, it is impossible to get any shuteye. I have ear plugs in, a pillow wrapped around
my head and ears and my arms tightly holding it all firmly against my ears. The mayhem
is impossible to deter from entering my eardrums and annoyed head. In this moment I just
wanna be gone from Africa. I am longing for Peace, Quietude and Tranquil Nature. I am
longing for good food. Variety. Organics. Oil-less. Living here long-term may take years
off of my life due to the oily, greasy repetitive ingredients. It’s tiring to have to say hello to
everyone constantly. Perhaps I should use Viva’s tactic of minimal response signal.
We headed out through the sand at midnight, Ibrahim giving my much-needed loaded Bike Friday some rear support as we made our way through the rarely quiet streets of Nodjor, headed to the midnight pirogue back to the mainland. We were told we had a 3-hour, 4- hour and 5-hour journey ahead of us to Sokone. When we arrived at the loading dock, all the best sleeping spots had been usurped by the regulars who were already asleep under their blankets, on their cozy rice bag mattresses well-prepared for the night ride. Oh well. At least we had Ibrahim with us who had alerted the Spanish-speaking captain to our bike cargo and for the second time we deftly unloaded all the gear we had just loaded onto our bikes ten minutes before. Our organized flow made it easier for the boatmen and within minutes the bikes, our gear and ourselves were all neatly packed into different sections of the pirogue. The long hull had a wide middle for the people and cargo and the staff stationed themselves on the front and back ends. I was astonished that there was no light on the boat for other nighttime water travellers to see. We actually would travel in the dark using only night vision for direction and protection. Viva and I snuggled ourselves between our bags and got cozy under the starry sky and perfect breezy airflow. The engine started up and, clearly, this would be our OM hum for the next undetermined number of hours. No way around it with earplugs, pillow, hands. Just surrender. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the coziness but did not sleep for a minute. Viva stayed on his Iphone the whole time. Before we knew it, we had arrived quietly in the night to a totally desolate harbour.
We reassembled everything and luckily had hosts guiding us to our new headquarters for a day or two. Ibrahima had picked up his nephew Issa, the baker, on Bambugar Island on the way, as the unspoken plan was that he would come and do my cob training because Ibrahima could not. Everything had kind of just happened in a wordless way. They were now hosting us for two days and Issa would get a free training. All good for me.
We headed out through the sand at midnight, Ibrahim giving my much-needed loaded Bike Friday some rear support as we made our way through the rarely quiet streets of Nodjor, headed to the midnight pirogue back to the mainland. We were told we had a 3-hour, 4- hour and 5-hour journey ahead of us to Sokone. When we arrived at the loading dock, all the best sleeping spots had been usurped by the regulars who were already asleep under their blankets, on their cozy rice bag mattresses well-prepared for the night ride. Oh well. At least we had Ibrahim with us who had alerted the Spanish-speaking captain to our bike cargo and for the second time we deftly unloaded all the gear we had just loaded onto our bikes ten minutes before. Our organized flow made it easier for the boatmen and within minutes the bikes, our gear and ourselves were all neatly packed into different sections of the pirogue. The long hull had a wide middle for the people and cargo and the staff stationed themselves on the front and back ends. I was astonished that there was no light on the boat for other nighttime water travellers to see. We actually would travel in the dark using only night vision for direction and protection. Viva and I snuggled ourselves between our bags and got cozy under the starry sky and perfect breezy airflow. The engine started up and, clearly, this would be our OM hum for the next undetermined number of hours. No way around it with earplugs, pillow, hands. Just surrender. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the coziness but did not sleep for a minute. Viva stayed on his Iphone the whole time. Before we knew it, we had arrived quietly in the night to a totally desolate harbour.
We reassembled everything and luckily had hosts guiding us to our new headquarters for a day or two. Ibrahima had picked up his nephew Issa, the baker, on Bambugar Island on the way, as the unspoken plan was that he would come and do my cob training because Ibrahima could not. Everything had kind of just happened in a wordless way. They were now hosting us for two days and Issa would get a free training. All good for me.
The animals. So the donkey, according to VIva’s research on Wikipedia, originates from
Africa and is also known as the wild ass. The donkeys are humble and work their ass’ off
(ha), it’s true. They carry merchandise, people, carts and all three of the above. The
horses do too but I think the horses are more of a status symbol. Did you know that the
mule is an infertile offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. Now that’s an
interesting sight to behold I’m sure. The animals all roam around free, that is when they
are not tied up on a short rope. They are part of the community of people. The donkeys
have certain dark brown stripes on their grey stout torsos that differentiate them. The
donkeys also have the most emotional outcry of all the animals except for the pig in
distress. The donkeys are very social and when they see another donkey and they can’t
approach it because they are working, the cry is deeply noticed. They are very expressive
and often the only sound heard late in the night. They all seem well-fed in comparison
with the often thin horses we see. Perhaps they eat more possible foods. Today I gave a
donkey some love as he waited for his cart to be filled up. The owner took a photo of me.
You don’t see that often here. Or maybe it happens in private.
My big moment today was turning a family on to how to make and apply an earthen plaster in ten minutes. With the same clay soil they used to make their bricks, they pestled the clay clumps into powder, sifted it through the strainer, added the moistened fresh horse poop, mixed by hand to the right consistency and voilà! I pulled out my handy-dandy plastic yougurt lid trowel, did a quick demo on the wet wall, and watched their jaws drop in sweet pleasure at the beauty and simplicity of my brown-green earthen plaster on their yellow cob brick walls. Enough bla bla bla. It’s the action that makes a difference. It feels very good to have something practical to offer that makes people happy and their lives easier. The degraded cement plaster on cob walls proved my point to them: no cement on clay please! I forgot to have the daughter try it, she seemed the most interested after the dad. I also forgot to document the whole thing because these are the key moments of satisfaction when there is a true trade of need. They gave us water when we were thirsty and we promised a plaster mix the next day. Now they can finish their plaster at anytime they choose, without the need to pay anything! We also learned that the Italians had come through and set up a cheese and yogurt training course here and left the women of the village with everytihg they need to mke their cheese and yogurt to order daily. It was spotless and well-kept. The products were out-of-this world. You have no idea how much
My big moment today was turning a family on to how to make and apply an earthen plaster in ten minutes. With the same clay soil they used to make their bricks, they pestled the clay clumps into powder, sifted it through the strainer, added the moistened fresh horse poop, mixed by hand to the right consistency and voilà! I pulled out my handy-dandy plastic yougurt lid trowel, did a quick demo on the wet wall, and watched their jaws drop in sweet pleasure at the beauty and simplicity of my brown-green earthen plaster on their yellow cob brick walls. Enough bla bla bla. It’s the action that makes a difference. It feels very good to have something practical to offer that makes people happy and their lives easier. The degraded cement plaster on cob walls proved my point to them: no cement on clay please! I forgot to have the daughter try it, she seemed the most interested after the dad. I also forgot to document the whole thing because these are the key moments of satisfaction when there is a true trade of need. They gave us water when we were thirsty and we promised a plaster mix the next day. Now they can finish their plaster at anytime they choose, without the need to pay anything! We also learned that the Italians had come through and set up a cheese and yogurt training course here and left the women of the village with everytihg they need to mke their cheese and yogurt to order daily. It was spotless and well-kept. The products were out-of-this world. You have no idea how much
yogurt and cheese you can gorge down after not having it for weeks or months. Such
pleasure!
The items of most need to better people’s lives here are: a smokeless cooking stove (women complain of painful stingy eyes), a compost toilet (to keep the water table clean and raw poop off the land), lessons in earthen building, organic agricultural techniques, solar panels with a battery, books, dental floss, toothbrushing and flossing demonstrations.
Back in Toubab
While it feels so good and exciting to be back on the road, the nomad gypsies free and wild in the African bush, making our way at the lowest cost possible ($1-$2/day)...it’s also amazingly relieving to be back in a stable living spot for a while. For the next 3 weeks we are privy to a 3-story modern “toubab” house with multiple terraces overlooking ocean and village and sunset. Like the chief of the village, we sit on our hilltop balcony perusing the locals elow going about their daily activities. We are in the house of a 70-year old Frenchman who is absent and has bestowed his fancy digs to Malick and Elisa, our young hosts, to do as they will. A little luxury is relaxing. Running water, power, beautiful lush green gardens separated by well-designed laterite rock walls, a gas-powered kitchen and a flush toilet all seem extravagant now. How quickly our reference points change! Viva is utterly grateful to have a place with wifi and armchairs and most of all books. Ahhhh, the comfort and safety of a filled bookshelf. But ohhhh the bummer of not reading French.
We settle in to a large and long-uninhabited room lined with red laterite dust. We are blind to it and see only comfort in the firm king-size bed, the shower, sink and wide ledges to pose our scrunched-up belongings ready to breathe and expand. But what pleases me most is the green vegetation, including little grassy enclaves, of the terraced backyard. Ahhh the sweetness of laying naked on the grass again. That is one of my little loves that is absolutely out-of-line here unless you are in a guaranteed hiding spot which is a challenge here.
The prayer call blasts into our ears at 5:30AM. We must be in the direct line of audibility from some Mosque. After 3 months I am still not immune to it but I do manage to fall asleep after it now. It can be quite beautiful if the voice and loudspeaker allow it. Such a beautiful way to start the day, and a reminder to those of us who don’t adhere to the Muslim etiquette. To have Spirituality so obtrusively present that you cannot run from it says something about a country. Viva and I have pledged to meditate for each prayer call 5 times a day for 5 minutes. I mean really, not such a big deal. Right? After doing hour- long Vipssana sits 5 times a day for 9 days....come on. Well we have not managed to keep to our word yet. I am convinced it would change our lives.
Joia Arrives!
I definitely feel blessed that a second son has trekked all the way to Africa to see and be with his Momma. Last night a wonderful open bedtime check-in through the mosquito
The items of most need to better people’s lives here are: a smokeless cooking stove (women complain of painful stingy eyes), a compost toilet (to keep the water table clean and raw poop off the land), lessons in earthen building, organic agricultural techniques, solar panels with a battery, books, dental floss, toothbrushing and flossing demonstrations.
Back in Toubab
While it feels so good and exciting to be back on the road, the nomad gypsies free and wild in the African bush, making our way at the lowest cost possible ($1-$2/day)...it’s also amazingly relieving to be back in a stable living spot for a while. For the next 3 weeks we are privy to a 3-story modern “toubab” house with multiple terraces overlooking ocean and village and sunset. Like the chief of the village, we sit on our hilltop balcony perusing the locals elow going about their daily activities. We are in the house of a 70-year old Frenchman who is absent and has bestowed his fancy digs to Malick and Elisa, our young hosts, to do as they will. A little luxury is relaxing. Running water, power, beautiful lush green gardens separated by well-designed laterite rock walls, a gas-powered kitchen and a flush toilet all seem extravagant now. How quickly our reference points change! Viva is utterly grateful to have a place with wifi and armchairs and most of all books. Ahhhh, the comfort and safety of a filled bookshelf. But ohhhh the bummer of not reading French.
We settle in to a large and long-uninhabited room lined with red laterite dust. We are blind to it and see only comfort in the firm king-size bed, the shower, sink and wide ledges to pose our scrunched-up belongings ready to breathe and expand. But what pleases me most is the green vegetation, including little grassy enclaves, of the terraced backyard. Ahhh the sweetness of laying naked on the grass again. That is one of my little loves that is absolutely out-of-line here unless you are in a guaranteed hiding spot which is a challenge here.
The prayer call blasts into our ears at 5:30AM. We must be in the direct line of audibility from some Mosque. After 3 months I am still not immune to it but I do manage to fall asleep after it now. It can be quite beautiful if the voice and loudspeaker allow it. Such a beautiful way to start the day, and a reminder to those of us who don’t adhere to the Muslim etiquette. To have Spirituality so obtrusively present that you cannot run from it says something about a country. Viva and I have pledged to meditate for each prayer call 5 times a day for 5 minutes. I mean really, not such a big deal. Right? After doing hour- long Vipssana sits 5 times a day for 9 days....come on. Well we have not managed to keep to our word yet. I am convinced it would change our lives.
Joia Arrives!
I definitely feel blessed that a second son has trekked all the way to Africa to see and be with his Momma. Last night a wonderful open bedtime check-in through the mosquito
netting revealed his honest desire to see our relationship blossom during this time. He has
grown so tall, so solid, and confident. An initial squabble like the old days left us both a bit
sad and dissappointed that the old baggage was still there, but heck good wake up call to
what our intention is today. My dream is happening every day in which I get to travel/work
with my boys in exotic places. I am proud of Joia facing his edge right now by “taking” my
cob workshop, never a high priority on his agenda...it is so hard for him to get down and
dirty in the cob... he would rather sit back and write about his experience. But he has said
he is ready to meet his challenges now. In more ways than one.
I hope I don’t have malaria. My head hurts and I had a fever last night. I had a headache last night too. The energy is so wild here, drumming and music channeled on the ocean winds right up to my room it seems every night till late. Then the early morning prayer calls come in at 5am. I don’t think the Senegalese sleep very much here. The couple whose store we are building during this workshop fight every night after midnight and loudly. The Senegalese husband Malick is one of those wild musician artsy types, like my dear ex, who cannot sit still for very long and needs to be out and about making connections and touching base with the world. He is very charming and also a yeller. I feel for Elisa his wife who acts as if nothing happened the next morning though I look at her with compassion. I’ve been there too. She is so in love at the cost of her self-care. So once again in search of a peaceful place to recover and repair...where? Africa is not so peaceful. So much movement and interaction constantly. It tires me.
I think I need a man. But I don’t want to finance anyone’s life. There are so many nice sweet men here but so helpless financially it could never work for me. I am also not into the big wigs from Dakar with their fancy cars and so on. And then of course my two sons are with me, like my body guards, making it very hard to hide away into romance. Here they fall in love hard and then you feel obligated to pay for everything. Alot of women don’t mind but I do. I’m not into it. I want someone I am on an equal footing with or at the least someone who isn’t only thinking about their financial rescue.
SLEEPLESS IN TOUBAB
Fifteen months on the road and I have only made 6 countries, twice around. After Cabo Verde I gotta get a move on. I will be more than halfway through my 3-year journey and a whole Planet to see still. Heck I may just beeline to Cuba and el Caribe and start my final project building my own Cob Village and my own Cob Landing Pad no holds barred.
Still in Senegal. Tonight no sleep happening. I don’t like these nights. They reveal my inner restlessness and lack of control. I need sex. Softness. Change. Letting go of the harsh facade, the masculine energy, the director, manager and controller. I need to be alone now. No boys. And be la mujer. Cabo Verde brings it out in me. I am feeling like I can only handle 6 more workshops. Getting tired of building for others. Soon I turn 52. I should be with my Mother. My third son. Now what?
I hope I don’t have malaria. My head hurts and I had a fever last night. I had a headache last night too. The energy is so wild here, drumming and music channeled on the ocean winds right up to my room it seems every night till late. Then the early morning prayer calls come in at 5am. I don’t think the Senegalese sleep very much here. The couple whose store we are building during this workshop fight every night after midnight and loudly. The Senegalese husband Malick is one of those wild musician artsy types, like my dear ex, who cannot sit still for very long and needs to be out and about making connections and touching base with the world. He is very charming and also a yeller. I feel for Elisa his wife who acts as if nothing happened the next morning though I look at her with compassion. I’ve been there too. She is so in love at the cost of her self-care. So once again in search of a peaceful place to recover and repair...where? Africa is not so peaceful. So much movement and interaction constantly. It tires me.
I think I need a man. But I don’t want to finance anyone’s life. There are so many nice sweet men here but so helpless financially it could never work for me. I am also not into the big wigs from Dakar with their fancy cars and so on. And then of course my two sons are with me, like my body guards, making it very hard to hide away into romance. Here they fall in love hard and then you feel obligated to pay for everything. Alot of women don’t mind but I do. I’m not into it. I want someone I am on an equal footing with or at the least someone who isn’t only thinking about their financial rescue.
SLEEPLESS IN TOUBAB
Fifteen months on the road and I have only made 6 countries, twice around. After Cabo Verde I gotta get a move on. I will be more than halfway through my 3-year journey and a whole Planet to see still. Heck I may just beeline to Cuba and el Caribe and start my final project building my own Cob Village and my own Cob Landing Pad no holds barred.
Still in Senegal. Tonight no sleep happening. I don’t like these nights. They reveal my inner restlessness and lack of control. I need sex. Softness. Change. Letting go of the harsh facade, the masculine energy, the director, manager and controller. I need to be alone now. No boys. And be la mujer. Cabo Verde brings it out in me. I am feeling like I can only handle 6 more workshops. Getting tired of building for others. Soon I turn 52. I should be with my Mother. My third son. Now what?
CASHEW STRUGGLE ON THE ROUTE NATIONALE
Early morning exit from Toubab, we were able to get a ride from a very quiet
schoolteacher, Aziz’ brother, who speaks perfect English but barely utters a word until it
comes to politics. Then he explodes. The Senegalese are pretty aware of their national
politics, despite illiteracy and small village life. It seems they all get the news somehow,
either radio, TV, word of mouth and, rarely, the newspaper. Our ride kindly dropped us off
in the center of downtown Dakar, wished us good luck, and drove off to his tutoring job.
Our schedule for the day included a little walking tour through yet another 3rd World City, a
boat ride to Gorée Island checking out the old colonial architecture and the slave shipping
post that changed colonial hands over and over, Yellow Fever and Typhoid shots, a big 24-
hour everything-you-want- to-find-and-more Market, and a rooftop music bar. One of
those days completely the opposite of chillin’ on the beaches of Toubab Dialaw. Just
powerin’ through.
The event of the night was the cashew struggle on the highway. Senegalese vendors are everywhere. All over the world you find them trying to push something on you at twice or thrice the value. They love the negotiation game apparently and it tires me out, personally. I miss the good ol’ Western world of straightforward prices. Anyway, here we are in a scary rundown taxi on the highway at night made even worse by a scary taxi driver who is intentionally driving between lanes the whole time until I yell at him and he laughs. We slow down and up comes a cashew vendor to the window. Longing for nuts beside peanuts, I shout out at him “Nyatala? Nyatala?” “How much? How much?” He answers: “2000”. Knowing the price of the cashews I begin to do the exchange until the taxi driver has a freak attack saying it should be 1000. He begins to yell back and forth over me with the cashew vendor as we are rolling along the slowing highway. I keep trying to give the vendor the money telling him it’s OK, the price is right, but he won’t accept this. He is 100% sure that the cashew guy is trying to rob me because I’m a Toubab and is getting VERY angry to all of our surprise. Suddenly we are all three holding onto and tugging at my 2000 CFA note which is about to be torn in three ways. I finally have to take a stand and raise my voice at the taxi driver and tell him to STOP and gice the poor struggling cashew guy his money and take my nuts. The driver is seething. I tell him once again that this is the right price and he still resists my words and that’s that, until he starts driving like a lunatic again with all sorts of disturbing sounds emanating from his junky vehicle. Well that’s what I get for taking the cheapest bid!
Back at Fred’s, our home away from home in Dakar. Our first friend who greeted us at midnight at the Dakar airport and escorted us to a warm bed and hot shower. Like old friends, we fall into his home with comfort. Marianne is happy to see Viva again and exchange language lessons. Joia is now in the picture which adds another alchemy. Fred and I still have that spark that ignites juicy conversations about anything. The pool games begin and I am feeling excited to see Zeca again and anxious about leaving the boys to their own adventure in Africa. At the same time I am stoked to have some separation Claudine time again.
The event of the night was the cashew struggle on the highway. Senegalese vendors are everywhere. All over the world you find them trying to push something on you at twice or thrice the value. They love the negotiation game apparently and it tires me out, personally. I miss the good ol’ Western world of straightforward prices. Anyway, here we are in a scary rundown taxi on the highway at night made even worse by a scary taxi driver who is intentionally driving between lanes the whole time until I yell at him and he laughs. We slow down and up comes a cashew vendor to the window. Longing for nuts beside peanuts, I shout out at him “Nyatala? Nyatala?” “How much? How much?” He answers: “2000”. Knowing the price of the cashews I begin to do the exchange until the taxi driver has a freak attack saying it should be 1000. He begins to yell back and forth over me with the cashew vendor as we are rolling along the slowing highway. I keep trying to give the vendor the money telling him it’s OK, the price is right, but he won’t accept this. He is 100% sure that the cashew guy is trying to rob me because I’m a Toubab and is getting VERY angry to all of our surprise. Suddenly we are all three holding onto and tugging at my 2000 CFA note which is about to be torn in three ways. I finally have to take a stand and raise my voice at the taxi driver and tell him to STOP and gice the poor struggling cashew guy his money and take my nuts. The driver is seething. I tell him once again that this is the right price and he still resists my words and that’s that, until he starts driving like a lunatic again with all sorts of disturbing sounds emanating from his junky vehicle. Well that’s what I get for taking the cheapest bid!
Back at Fred’s, our home away from home in Dakar. Our first friend who greeted us at midnight at the Dakar airport and escorted us to a warm bed and hot shower. Like old friends, we fall into his home with comfort. Marianne is happy to see Viva again and exchange language lessons. Joia is now in the picture which adds another alchemy. Fred and I still have that spark that ignites juicy conversations about anything. The pool games begin and I am feeling excited to see Zeca again and anxious about leaving the boys to their own adventure in Africa. At the same time I am stoked to have some separation Claudine time again.
