SENEGAL: THE FINAL STRETCH (March 2016)
Africa, Africa, Africa. What a day unlike any I have had thus far because I have barely
depended on public transportation, and gratefully have brought my own means of moving
across this continent. Nine hours to go 200 miles in two Peugeot 504 wagons with 5.5
hours of idle waiting time first at the fume-laden “garage” where all the “Sept Places”,
“Clindos”, “Janga Ndiaye” and buses await to be filled before they are off at breakneck
speed. Little did I know that there is actually a system to all this that has to be respected.
Time is Money has no value here. Money determines the Time the darn car will take off.
When the quota is reached, things start movin’. Until then you will be barraged with short
bald shoeless munchkins with dried runny noses who take every opportunity to sing their
Allah Akbar verses in your ear ‘till you have no choice but to reach in your pocket to
reclaim your Peace of Mind. Or endless vendors of bananas, tightly plastic-wrapped
tangerines, pens, pencils, cell phone cases, earphones, peanuts, greasy doughnuts,
plastic bags of water and on and on. I try out different responses each time. Since
straight flat-out “No” is rude here, you need to find alternative declinations of interest and
willingness to part with yet another 100 CFA piece for the little Talibe Darra students,
whose job it is to hustle their plastic yogurt containers for some rice money every morning.
“Amoun Chalis”, “No money”, “Merci” with a shake of the head means “No Thanks”,
“Amna” or “I have” and the ultimate declination with harshness “Dedet!” or “NO!” There’s
also “Demlen” which equals “Dedet” in severity...which is “Leave me alone, Go away, and
Get out of my face!” all in one. It works well. I hesitate to try them because of the very
offended reaction I get. One unwanted flat repair stop at the end of a long and tiring day
when we were immediately surrounded by a buzz of staring intrusive eyes as we had to
once again deal with a plethora of punctures....I raised my voice and spewed out a
“Demlen!” and noone came near us for the rest of the time. Not only that but word got
around the whole village within minutes that we were rude and disrespectful Toubabs.
While we enjoyed the space and quietude for once, I also felt a bit of regret at being
viewed as the nasty Foreigner.
African public transport tests your limits. Sitting for 3 hours in the blazing 100 degree hot box car with no desire to eat another Thiebou Jen or Mafe or Yassa but rather a nice cold papaya/mango/acai smoothie, or a lime sorbet, mmmmm, I just stew in my sweaty torn seat and work my politeness lest I offend these poor Souls who do this day in and day out. “Patientez Madame, Patientez” they request of me. “Dude, come on, you’re just one person short...is the money that important?” I decide to see if each of the other 3 people in the car are willing to put out an extra 1000CFA’s to cover the missing person. Just as we all agree to sponsor the invisible 5th rider and get the energy moving, in comes a mom with 2 kids to complete the seats and suddenly the chi is bubbling away with movement, monetary exchanges, baggage tyeing, door closing and we are off. At breakneck speed along the same long, flat sweaty National Road Viva and I biked on a month ago on the last day of our bike tour.
There’s a wonderful feeling of being in movement with a functional car with all our belongings and no traffic. The Senegalese are quite a travelling culture and certainly don’t mind the long waits. In fact it’s part of the journey and allows for socializing, eating, exchanging stories, and just being “on vacation” from the daily routine. As I chill out in my seat despite the flaming sun on my right side, I feel little fingers feathering my left shoulder and I’m not sure it’s accidental or intentional. Suddenly the gentle massage becomes a tap tap tap. I turn around and an 8-year old girl asks me my name in smooth French. I respond. Then I ask her her name in Wolof. She answers “Claudine”. No way! I ask her
African public transport tests your limits. Sitting for 3 hours in the blazing 100 degree hot box car with no desire to eat another Thiebou Jen or Mafe or Yassa but rather a nice cold papaya/mango/acai smoothie, or a lime sorbet, mmmmm, I just stew in my sweaty torn seat and work my politeness lest I offend these poor Souls who do this day in and day out. “Patientez Madame, Patientez” they request of me. “Dude, come on, you’re just one person short...is the money that important?” I decide to see if each of the other 3 people in the car are willing to put out an extra 1000CFA’s to cover the missing person. Just as we all agree to sponsor the invisible 5th rider and get the energy moving, in comes a mom with 2 kids to complete the seats and suddenly the chi is bubbling away with movement, monetary exchanges, baggage tyeing, door closing and we are off. At breakneck speed along the same long, flat sweaty National Road Viva and I biked on a month ago on the last day of our bike tour.
There’s a wonderful feeling of being in movement with a functional car with all our belongings and no traffic. The Senegalese are quite a travelling culture and certainly don’t mind the long waits. In fact it’s part of the journey and allows for socializing, eating, exchanging stories, and just being “on vacation” from the daily routine. As I chill out in my seat despite the flaming sun on my right side, I feel little fingers feathering my left shoulder and I’m not sure it’s accidental or intentional. Suddenly the gentle massage becomes a tap tap tap. I turn around and an 8-year old girl asks me my name in smooth French. I respond. Then I ask her her name in Wolof. She answers “Claudine”. No way! I ask her
little brother and her Mom if it’s true. Yup, the Mom says they’re Catholic, which means
they have Western names. These kids speak a very good French which is unusual for the
mainstream. In addition they sing French songs and communicate with each other in
French. They speak better than the adults and even their own Mom, who doesn’t
understand French at all. Claudine is braiding my freshly-trimmed hair into tiny braids, a
beloved pasttime here. A way for the girls to hang out, groom each other and share from
the Heart. Not sure how this will look for my 52nd, but I can always headband it back and
let them be.
So here I have been now for 2.5 hours and probably another half hour as we await the third ferry trip to cross over this 300 foot strait. Honestly the ride would have taken me 14 hours or three days by bike. The car ride is taking us 10 hours, just four hours short of biking, and for $20. Anyhow, I have now been inoculated with an African travel experience for one day, which is enough for a while. I am anxious to start riding again....on my 52nd birthday...mañana. Thank Goddess it was not today. That would have been a bit sad for me.
Leaving Toubab Dialaw and my Senegalese friends was also a bit of melancholy because I know I will not see them again ever or for a very long time. It was hard to tell them that but also hard to lie. All I could do is look them in the eyes, give a big heartful hug and speak from the Heart. I must move on. I am really happy to be moving into new territory tomorrow, new country, new language, etc. But I did meet a few very meaningful Souls that I will stay in touch with from afar if possible: Mbarou, Nabou, Yacou, Baby. Others will follow me to Cabo Verde and be part of my team. I am very happy to make this happen for them and create this international building team for Patrick.
And then there is my Zeca on São Nicolau. Our second coming together was a good test of whether it’s “still there”. I love how he nurtures and loves me. He is so affectionate and his utter simplicity and purity calms me. His simple mind, for now, is refreshing. Uncomplicated. Honest. Just Pure Love between us. Care and Affection. Helping each other in the ways that we can. The big question is how he will evolve out of his country. His mind does not permit much interesting conversation for now. Will it remain like this? Will he surrender to more education that will initiate him into globally-aware citizenship? Or is it preferable for him to stay pure and simple? He is akin to an Angel right now. Giving, unjudgmental, polite, respectful and hard-working. These are very good qualities for me to be around. I assume I may have qualities he can learn from as well. I just have to decide whether I want to take the financial responsibility of taking him along for the ride and whether I have the long-term patience to be in an intimate relationship with someone I can only have limited intellectual experiences with. That is not to say that I will not have enlightening experiences on spiritual and emotional levels.
Well we are now off, past the ferry and gliding through the darkness Viva and I passed through in daylight, very enjoyably for the most part. Our little travelling family has now lost one impatient passenger, and now, with the evening wind comin’ through, we are on Easy Street. Claudine asks me for my number. Little does she know we will probably never see each other again. As is the case for most everyone I meet. I am amazed at how many people I can have a Heart Connection with and must learn to be OK with never seeing them again. And as for the many Men who titillate me, that is OK to leave it as is.
So here I have been now for 2.5 hours and probably another half hour as we await the third ferry trip to cross over this 300 foot strait. Honestly the ride would have taken me 14 hours or three days by bike. The car ride is taking us 10 hours, just four hours short of biking, and for $20. Anyhow, I have now been inoculated with an African travel experience for one day, which is enough for a while. I am anxious to start riding again....on my 52nd birthday...mañana. Thank Goddess it was not today. That would have been a bit sad for me.
Leaving Toubab Dialaw and my Senegalese friends was also a bit of melancholy because I know I will not see them again ever or for a very long time. It was hard to tell them that but also hard to lie. All I could do is look them in the eyes, give a big heartful hug and speak from the Heart. I must move on. I am really happy to be moving into new territory tomorrow, new country, new language, etc. But I did meet a few very meaningful Souls that I will stay in touch with from afar if possible: Mbarou, Nabou, Yacou, Baby. Others will follow me to Cabo Verde and be part of my team. I am very happy to make this happen for them and create this international building team for Patrick.
And then there is my Zeca on São Nicolau. Our second coming together was a good test of whether it’s “still there”. I love how he nurtures and loves me. He is so affectionate and his utter simplicity and purity calms me. His simple mind, for now, is refreshing. Uncomplicated. Honest. Just Pure Love between us. Care and Affection. Helping each other in the ways that we can. The big question is how he will evolve out of his country. His mind does not permit much interesting conversation for now. Will it remain like this? Will he surrender to more education that will initiate him into globally-aware citizenship? Or is it preferable for him to stay pure and simple? He is akin to an Angel right now. Giving, unjudgmental, polite, respectful and hard-working. These are very good qualities for me to be around. I assume I may have qualities he can learn from as well. I just have to decide whether I want to take the financial responsibility of taking him along for the ride and whether I have the long-term patience to be in an intimate relationship with someone I can only have limited intellectual experiences with. That is not to say that I will not have enlightening experiences on spiritual and emotional levels.
Well we are now off, past the ferry and gliding through the darkness Viva and I passed through in daylight, very enjoyably for the most part. Our little travelling family has now lost one impatient passenger, and now, with the evening wind comin’ through, we are on Easy Street. Claudine asks me for my number. Little does she know we will probably never see each other again. As is the case for most everyone I meet. I am amazed at how many people I can have a Heart Connection with and must learn to be OK with never seeing them again. And as for the many Men who titillate me, that is OK to leave it as is.
BIRTHDAY #52...ON A BIKE TO GAMBIA WITH VIVA AND JOIA
The morning of my 52nd birthday on the 20th of March was peaceful. After a
fitful mosquito-battling effort at sleep inside of a stuffy room with Joia, who
insisted on using the fan all night, I had to step out into the much more
enjoyable night under the stars. I looked for a decent spot to lay out my mat
in the sandy soil surrounding Ibrahim’s family’s house. I chose a slightly
inclined location off the wall and in front of the two cows and their two calves.
While the air was much more to my taste, the fully-armed mosquitoes were
just as aggressive and loud. So loud! They had that ungainly whine that
seemed decibels louder than normal and, as always, concentrated right at
your ear. Tossing, turning, assuming Shivasana pose, Butterfly Pose,
Stomach Pose, Pillow-on-Head Pose, Arms-Crossed-Over-Head
Pose....somehow I finally dozed off at what was probably 5am.
The next thing I know the dog finds me and goes off on me with fearful barking. Great. Noone seems to come out to check on what he is barking at. I ignore, shush him and tell him to go away. He eventually winds down with a final “Haruf” and thankfully noone has woken up. Next up are the multitudinous prayer calls all coming at me simultaneously from different angles and I am just lying there in utter awe. Oh my. How does one sleep in Africa? When I finally doze off again I am awoken by something being thrown at me. One of the young men has woken up and sees my figure on the ground and fearfully takes my earplug bag and throws it at me. I reveal my face and say “C’est moi!” to which he is relieved. However the same thing happens again a short while after only this time with the Big Mama of the family. She is on the way to the pit toilet with her colorful butt-washing water kettle just before dawn and rather than throwing something at me, uses her verbal skills to ask “Who’s there?” When I reveal my face she laughs in her matronly guffaw and continues on to her morning ritual.
Leaving this large African family takes an hour of hugs, thank yous, photos, gifts, handshakes and smiles. This is our second stay with them. Now we are friends for real. We came back once so they know we may be back again. Viva and Joia have created a “special” relationship with the two Khadys, cousins living under the tutelage of one of the Khady’s parents. While awaiting my arrival for several extra days, Viva and Joia became part of the family duties and chores and went shopping, cooked, did laundry, fetched wood, etc. It’s been a grand experience for all and only we know we probably won’t see them again, at least not for a long time in the future. Our reality.
We must move on.
The next thing I know the dog finds me and goes off on me with fearful barking. Great. Noone seems to come out to check on what he is barking at. I ignore, shush him and tell him to go away. He eventually winds down with a final “Haruf” and thankfully noone has woken up. Next up are the multitudinous prayer calls all coming at me simultaneously from different angles and I am just lying there in utter awe. Oh my. How does one sleep in Africa? When I finally doze off again I am awoken by something being thrown at me. One of the young men has woken up and sees my figure on the ground and fearfully takes my earplug bag and throws it at me. I reveal my face and say “C’est moi!” to which he is relieved. However the same thing happens again a short while after only this time with the Big Mama of the family. She is on the way to the pit toilet with her colorful butt-washing water kettle just before dawn and rather than throwing something at me, uses her verbal skills to ask “Who’s there?” When I reveal my face she laughs in her matronly guffaw and continues on to her morning ritual.
Leaving this large African family takes an hour of hugs, thank yous, photos, gifts, handshakes and smiles. This is our second stay with them. Now we are friends for real. We came back once so they know we may be back again. Viva and Joia have created a “special” relationship with the two Khadys, cousins living under the tutelage of one of the Khady’s parents. While awaiting my arrival for several extra days, Viva and Joia became part of the family duties and chores and went shopping, cooked, did laundry, fetched wood, etc. It’s been a grand experience for all and only we know we probably won’t see them again, at least not for a long time in the future. Our reality.
We must move on.
A wonderful road to Gambia awaits us. Smooth asphalt, flat, wind at our
backs and nary a vehicle. Couldn’t ask for more ease. What we did not
calculate in was Joia’s pedal falling out due to a dethreaded pedal crank hole
possibly due to a wrongly-directed screwing in from the supposed bike
mechanic in Mbour. Basically there was no more thread left and after endless
attempts at temporary fixes by VIva and several motivated Senegalese
mechanics...VIva fixed a bungee cord around his waist and pulled Joia the
remaining 8 miles to Karang. They laughed as they recognized the beautiful
metaphor of the journey thus far, as VIva mentored Joia into his first bike trip.
Arriving in Karang, once again, we sought out an able-headed fix-it guy with a
more dependable skill set to add to the willingness to help. Old Mané with his
well-worn slightly-torn blue wool cap complete with pom pom, Blues Brothers
sunglasses and a gentle toothless smile was the man, we were told. Seeing
his countenance we were not fully convinced, but approached him anyway to
test out the waters. As is the norm in Africa, when Toubabs are in need, the
whole village rushes over and, like a football huddle, encroaches on every
square millimeter of airspace, even piling up multiple levels, to see the
problem and put in their 2 cents. It takes every ounce of self-control to not
shout at all of them “Demlen!!!!!”...”Get out of our faces!!!!!” This becomes a
real test of tolerance travelling through, as well as a test of new ideas and
strategies for limiting this type of circumstance. The best one is to never stop
for more than a few seconds and if you do, know exactly where you are
headed to and with what purpose and look confident if you don’t. Any inkling
of confusion or looking lost and helpless and you are done.
WIthin an hour of African and Santa Cruzan minds brainstorming together it was decided we would need to be escorted to the “threader” shop, a 15- minute walk away through the searing heat of the Karang streets with Mamadou holding our problem pedal crank as the trophy. A young Senegalese walking briskly and followed by two sweaty huffing Toubabs is quite a sight. I wanted to be invisible but no game. People shouted out God- knows-what comments to our guide and we remained at his mercy. We were on a mission to get this things taken care of cause we had to move on today. The best solution was decided to be the re-filling and re-threading of the hole somehow. It wasn’t until we reached the oily, greasy, messy “threader’s hangout shop” that we began having faith that a solution would come. Young Abdoul looked at the problem with confidence and, after laughing at all my warnings and reiterations of the solution we were seeking, took control of the situation with what-appeared-to-be total savviness. We felt a bit of relief and hope, especially taking into account his large green 19th century Parisian workhorse equipment which he handled deftly. He had the plan of action in mind and ignored my pleas at opening a round of price negotiation. In the
WIthin an hour of African and Santa Cruzan minds brainstorming together it was decided we would need to be escorted to the “threader” shop, a 15- minute walk away through the searing heat of the Karang streets with Mamadou holding our problem pedal crank as the trophy. A young Senegalese walking briskly and followed by two sweaty huffing Toubabs is quite a sight. I wanted to be invisible but no game. People shouted out God- knows-what comments to our guide and we remained at his mercy. We were on a mission to get this things taken care of cause we had to move on today. The best solution was decided to be the re-filling and re-threading of the hole somehow. It wasn’t until we reached the oily, greasy, messy “threader’s hangout shop” that we began having faith that a solution would come. Young Abdoul looked at the problem with confidence and, after laughing at all my warnings and reiterations of the solution we were seeking, took control of the situation with what-appeared-to-be total savviness. We felt a bit of relief and hope, especially taking into account his large green 19th century Parisian workhorse equipment which he handled deftly. He had the plan of action in mind and ignored my pleas at opening a round of price negotiation. In the
end I surrendered to whatever would be as long as we left with a functional
piece of equipment. Abdoul flew from one machine to the next, firing up this
tool and that, measuring here and there, like a Harvard-trained surgeon he
went about his well-trained maneuvers operating on our poor stripped
Shimano pedal crank. We all looked on at his well-honed prowess as the
village “tourneur” or “threader” that healed everyone’s smoothed-out metal
parts. His strategy was the one our novice metal minds had imagined but
had no clue of “how”. Abdoul would, in good African reuse mode, take an
existing bolt the size of our hole and drill out a hole the size of our pedal
attachment and basically thread the ouside and inside to fit. Amazing. Two
and a half hours later and all for only $8.50 we were on Easy Street again.
Viva reminded me that the special kit he found online ot repair these all-too-
common mishap situations cost $125. I felt relief, though the hefty 5000CFAs
he charged is equal to a whole day’s work for a skilled mason. The whole
price negotiation thing in Africa is, for us, layered with the whole Toubab thing.
So ultimately it’s all an intuition thing. A look in each other’s eyes with an
acknowledgemnt of the human labor and time put in topped by a realization of
the two worlds we live in and the human condition of mutual support came to
an agreement on 5000CFA.
The next round of price negotiation was a little more “greasy” as my sons like to call it. Another Abdoul, the brown and yellow-uniformed Chief Immigration Officer with a “happy gap” at the border took me into his chambers. An old wooden desk with some blue plastic chairs welcomed me to sit and begin the laborious task my boys had left me to of dealing with Visa cost. I have never been confronted with this yet, but have read more than one story on the difficulties of haggling Visa cost with border officials hungry for bonuses. They see the “white” bodies passing and prepare for the catch. Abdou began the round with the “official” price of 3000 Dalasis ($80) for each of our Visas. Ha, yeah right, you MUST be kidding, I thought. Showing me some old tattered stapled papers with lists of the countries that MUST have Visas to enter were France and the US, my only passport. Germans don’t pay along with a whole list of poor countries. But US and France....yup. Damn governments! Well I think he could read on my face that there was no way in hell he would get that out of me, especially since we were “transiting” through Gambia with no intention of staying. I looked sad and forlorn. In one breath he said both that there is no negotiation of the Vivsa price and asked what I could afford. Without waiting for my answer he offered to charge the 3000Dalasis for all three together. I retorted 1500, to which he said 2000. Darn, I should have said 500 or 1000. In retrospect I should have thought of something terrible and cried. Even my forlorn sad face got me down 7000 Dalasis. 50 Euros, I thought. Darn. That’s 5 days of travel costs at our
The next round of price negotiation was a little more “greasy” as my sons like to call it. Another Abdoul, the brown and yellow-uniformed Chief Immigration Officer with a “happy gap” at the border took me into his chambers. An old wooden desk with some blue plastic chairs welcomed me to sit and begin the laborious task my boys had left me to of dealing with Visa cost. I have never been confronted with this yet, but have read more than one story on the difficulties of haggling Visa cost with border officials hungry for bonuses. They see the “white” bodies passing and prepare for the catch. Abdou began the round with the “official” price of 3000 Dalasis ($80) for each of our Visas. Ha, yeah right, you MUST be kidding, I thought. Showing me some old tattered stapled papers with lists of the countries that MUST have Visas to enter were France and the US, my only passport. Germans don’t pay along with a whole list of poor countries. But US and France....yup. Damn governments! Well I think he could read on my face that there was no way in hell he would get that out of me, especially since we were “transiting” through Gambia with no intention of staying. I looked sad and forlorn. In one breath he said both that there is no negotiation of the Vivsa price and asked what I could afford. Without waiting for my answer he offered to charge the 3000Dalasis for all three together. I retorted 1500, to which he said 2000. Darn, I should have said 500 or 1000. In retrospect I should have thought of something terrible and cried. Even my forlorn sad face got me down 7000 Dalasis. 50 Euros, I thought. Darn. That’s 5 days of travel costs at our
budget rate. Hmmm, that ’s the cost of the boat we could have taken down to
Casamance. $15 Each. Ok I was cooling off to this useless loss. They
interjected that a Visa for them cost 300Euros, nonrefundable if they never
got the Visa for some reason. Ok Ok. I was adjusting to the reality. Just take
your stupid Dalasis and get me outta this hot stuffy room of thieves dressed
as government folk.
Off to Gambia. The unknown ahead. My favorite. Dusk was upon us and another cashew forest lay in waiting to host us on the left. We could not resist and headed for cover as soon as the coast was clear. A replay of last night in Senegal, we sought out a nice opening and, once again, set up camp, showers, tea and a fire. An almost-full moon rose behind us, peaking through the round, green shiny cashew leaves and connecting us to our friends and family everywhere. Sleep and the horizontal position called out to my whole Being. By 8pm I was in bed. Viva and Joia’s soft verbal exchanges over a small twig fire lulled me to sleep.
Viva becomes an African as he travels through the land. Slowly he has accumulated the local accoutrements which dangle from his bike on all sides making him look like a wandering gypsy salesman. The local tea-making metal cooker shaped like an upside down bell hangs by a ring from the back. The colorful tye-dye plastic kettle used for toilet activities is bungeed down on another side. A small bright silver local-style cooking pot says “Hello All” on top, a special Ataya fan for stoking the coal fire, and now he has bought old Abdoul’s 5-year worn wool hat that he sports fashionably in his low-key international Earth Man-look. That Northern California/Rocky Mountain young outdoorsy woodsman fashion that is so uniquely American. He is slowly learning all the traditions here and adopting them as his own to blend into the culture and add to his repertoire of global lifestyle knowledge. A true Renaissance Man of the World. I am proud of this. Bravo Viva!
We talk about when to cut off the flow of Africans inviting you on and on into their lives, lest your Journey becomes overtaken by generosity and love. We learn to stop the flow at the polite and opportune time, like after eating a meal together, after they have helped you with something, after the greetings are complete. For the second time we went too far with accepting and ended up bedding down in a super stuffy room in a big family compound rather than sleeping on the beach. Dear Solomon, such a sweet guy, but all that giving is always looked on with a bit of wonderment at how things will turn out when this person realizes we got nothing material to offer him. Usually when they figure that out they begin backing off. Which leaves us feeling a bit out of sorts, like we just took too much. Adjustment of mindsets in action.
Off to Gambia. The unknown ahead. My favorite. Dusk was upon us and another cashew forest lay in waiting to host us on the left. We could not resist and headed for cover as soon as the coast was clear. A replay of last night in Senegal, we sought out a nice opening and, once again, set up camp, showers, tea and a fire. An almost-full moon rose behind us, peaking through the round, green shiny cashew leaves and connecting us to our friends and family everywhere. Sleep and the horizontal position called out to my whole Being. By 8pm I was in bed. Viva and Joia’s soft verbal exchanges over a small twig fire lulled me to sleep.
Viva becomes an African as he travels through the land. Slowly he has accumulated the local accoutrements which dangle from his bike on all sides making him look like a wandering gypsy salesman. The local tea-making metal cooker shaped like an upside down bell hangs by a ring from the back. The colorful tye-dye plastic kettle used for toilet activities is bungeed down on another side. A small bright silver local-style cooking pot says “Hello All” on top, a special Ataya fan for stoking the coal fire, and now he has bought old Abdoul’s 5-year worn wool hat that he sports fashionably in his low-key international Earth Man-look. That Northern California/Rocky Mountain young outdoorsy woodsman fashion that is so uniquely American. He is slowly learning all the traditions here and adopting them as his own to blend into the culture and add to his repertoire of global lifestyle knowledge. A true Renaissance Man of the World. I am proud of this. Bravo Viva!
We talk about when to cut off the flow of Africans inviting you on and on into their lives, lest your Journey becomes overtaken by generosity and love. We learn to stop the flow at the polite and opportune time, like after eating a meal together, after they have helped you with something, after the greetings are complete. For the second time we went too far with accepting and ended up bedding down in a super stuffy room in a big family compound rather than sleeping on the beach. Dear Solomon, such a sweet guy, but all that giving is always looked on with a bit of wonderment at how things will turn out when this person realizes we got nothing material to offer him. Usually when they figure that out they begin backing off. Which leaves us feeling a bit out of sorts, like we just took too much. Adjustment of mindsets in action.
CASAMANCE
So here we are now in Abéné, tenting at Peter Diatta and the absent Jenny Webster’s compound in funky rootsy rasta land, with no internet for 50 miles. Well not the phone-based package we’ve been getting all along anyway, as Orange has no network here. This place is damn isolated. Good and sheisty as taxes are needing to be filed, college-reentry applications filled out (yeah!), credit card companies and long-lost silent sons to talk to .
Peter lives in Monterey part-time with his American teacher wife Jenny, who, like many Toubab wives, finances his life here. We were introduced to Peter within an hour of finally arriving, butt-kicked through sandy backroads, from NIafrang, after crossing the border from Kartong at 7:00pm several nights before. We were the last ones to cross with our 3 bikes in a canoe/pirogue that cost us $5 for a 5-minute paddle across the river. It was one of those “now or never” end-of-the-day pressure negotiations which required a sweet elder Rasta’s 50 Dalasi donation to our cause. It’s really touching when a low-income African (actually who am I to know) gives us a handout. Why not? We’re the outsiders. We are most likely living on the same budget as he is.
Peter welcomed us to set up camp in his huge tropical yard for as long as we wanted. Clearly we remind him of his American “roots” and his beloved absentee wife of 13 years, 15 years his elder. Stoned and palm-wined out most of the day, like many men here, we take it in stride. He is a smiling dreaded 35-year old Senegalese man of the rare Bantan ethnicity who got lucky with the Toubab wife. During his waking hours he has a permanent cigarette in hand or mouth and his small cell phone in the other hand. He wears the same clothes every day we have been here, a red T-shirt with saggy surf shorts and unlaced running shoes with no socks. He walks around with a knapsack in a cloud of smoke, revealing nicotine-stained never- flossed teeth which reduce his potentially good looks.
Maimouna lives with Peter in one of the worst-smelling houses I have ever stepped into. Devoid of aeration save for the front door, and light, as they are grid-untied and solar-free, I immediately get what we have landed in. The 10- year old round concrete house looks 10 times older. Large cracks run down all the walls, paint falling off, the makeshift kitchen has no running water and is a putrid mess of dirty dishes, cooking pots, old plastic wrappers and bags, dirty cutlery, old half onions, old empty pints of whisky and gin, roach spray, empty palm wine bottles, empty lighters and endless pieces of garbage
So here we are now in Abéné, tenting at Peter Diatta and the absent Jenny Webster’s compound in funky rootsy rasta land, with no internet for 50 miles. Well not the phone-based package we’ve been getting all along anyway, as Orange has no network here. This place is damn isolated. Good and sheisty as taxes are needing to be filed, college-reentry applications filled out (yeah!), credit card companies and long-lost silent sons to talk to .
Peter lives in Monterey part-time with his American teacher wife Jenny, who, like many Toubab wives, finances his life here. We were introduced to Peter within an hour of finally arriving, butt-kicked through sandy backroads, from NIafrang, after crossing the border from Kartong at 7:00pm several nights before. We were the last ones to cross with our 3 bikes in a canoe/pirogue that cost us $5 for a 5-minute paddle across the river. It was one of those “now or never” end-of-the-day pressure negotiations which required a sweet elder Rasta’s 50 Dalasi donation to our cause. It’s really touching when a low-income African (actually who am I to know) gives us a handout. Why not? We’re the outsiders. We are most likely living on the same budget as he is.
Peter welcomed us to set up camp in his huge tropical yard for as long as we wanted. Clearly we remind him of his American “roots” and his beloved absentee wife of 13 years, 15 years his elder. Stoned and palm-wined out most of the day, like many men here, we take it in stride. He is a smiling dreaded 35-year old Senegalese man of the rare Bantan ethnicity who got lucky with the Toubab wife. During his waking hours he has a permanent cigarette in hand or mouth and his small cell phone in the other hand. He wears the same clothes every day we have been here, a red T-shirt with saggy surf shorts and unlaced running shoes with no socks. He walks around with a knapsack in a cloud of smoke, revealing nicotine-stained never- flossed teeth which reduce his potentially good looks.
Maimouna lives with Peter in one of the worst-smelling houses I have ever stepped into. Devoid of aeration save for the front door, and light, as they are grid-untied and solar-free, I immediately get what we have landed in. The 10- year old round concrete house looks 10 times older. Large cracks run down all the walls, paint falling off, the makeshift kitchen has no running water and is a putrid mess of dirty dishes, cooking pots, old plastic wrappers and bags, dirty cutlery, old half onions, old empty pints of whisky and gin, roach spray, empty palm wine bottles, empty lighters and endless pieces of garbage
floating around. It is absolutely unappetizing and scary and I immediately feel
repulsed by any food that will come out of this stinky chaos.
We are down with the outside area though. A large forested space where we tuck ourselves away into the far corner and create our own campsite home in Abéné, among the large properties that line the “bolong”, or inland ocean streams. Travelling with two sons now takes a new adjustment. Viva and Joia are tight siblings and always have been. They have their own Yin Yang complementarity and harmoniously settle into their roles with much mutual respect and care. A perfect Felix and Oscar brotherhood. Viva and I had our own flow that we developed with much talking and trial and error. Then Viva and Joia quickly developed their own flow during a two-week bike trip to the Sine Saloum, replicating night for night the trip I took with Viva 2 months before. When I joined them, the day before my 52nd revolution around the Sun, I was prepared for yet another new experience. After a week of journeying down towards and through Gambia and then back into Casamance and arriving at Peter’s place...the shit hit the fan and Joia and I hit the roof terrace for a long late-night Council. While I tried to stay in my Mother role I also needed to express my hurt at their exclusive tightness which often left me out. Seeing them more as friends and travel buddies than sons...I wanted to have an equal share of attention and connection. I felt Joia’s presence and energy created separation between me and them. Joia and I have had a long-term tense relationship in the last 4 years where he ignored, distrusted and basically did not like me, as his behavior demonstrated. He felt a son-father relationship with Viva and gave him loads more love and attention and trust than he did me. At the same time, to mirror his behavior, I did the same by going to Viva for decisions on trip logistics, food, camping spots, bicycle issues, and so on and so on. Finally it all came to a head and I had to let out my anger. While stretching on his yoga mat, he “listened”. Trying to stay in my Heart and not my childlike Ego took a big effort as I was feeling very childlike and hurt, with my own children. What a bummer but the outcome was worth the hours of sharing, crying, anger, and finally love. Hearing Truths we did not want to hear but more importantly wanting a Peaceful reconciliation that would set the rest of the Journey on a positive stressless course, we worked hard.
I am utterly proud of these boys. Waking in the early hours to meditate and stretch, choosing the vegetarian diet that works for them, reading the grandest of literature at all times, discussing with maturity and grace all the great issues of the day, organizing themselves with intelligence and health, sharing and caring for each other and me, working diligently with responsible effort, politely learning to communicate in these new ways, and finally taking
We are down with the outside area though. A large forested space where we tuck ourselves away into the far corner and create our own campsite home in Abéné, among the large properties that line the “bolong”, or inland ocean streams. Travelling with two sons now takes a new adjustment. Viva and Joia are tight siblings and always have been. They have their own Yin Yang complementarity and harmoniously settle into their roles with much mutual respect and care. A perfect Felix and Oscar brotherhood. Viva and I had our own flow that we developed with much talking and trial and error. Then Viva and Joia quickly developed their own flow during a two-week bike trip to the Sine Saloum, replicating night for night the trip I took with Viva 2 months before. When I joined them, the day before my 52nd revolution around the Sun, I was prepared for yet another new experience. After a week of journeying down towards and through Gambia and then back into Casamance and arriving at Peter’s place...the shit hit the fan and Joia and I hit the roof terrace for a long late-night Council. While I tried to stay in my Mother role I also needed to express my hurt at their exclusive tightness which often left me out. Seeing them more as friends and travel buddies than sons...I wanted to have an equal share of attention and connection. I felt Joia’s presence and energy created separation between me and them. Joia and I have had a long-term tense relationship in the last 4 years where he ignored, distrusted and basically did not like me, as his behavior demonstrated. He felt a son-father relationship with Viva and gave him loads more love and attention and trust than he did me. At the same time, to mirror his behavior, I did the same by going to Viva for decisions on trip logistics, food, camping spots, bicycle issues, and so on and so on. Finally it all came to a head and I had to let out my anger. While stretching on his yoga mat, he “listened”. Trying to stay in my Heart and not my childlike Ego took a big effort as I was feeling very childlike and hurt, with my own children. What a bummer but the outcome was worth the hours of sharing, crying, anger, and finally love. Hearing Truths we did not want to hear but more importantly wanting a Peaceful reconciliation that would set the rest of the Journey on a positive stressless course, we worked hard.
I am utterly proud of these boys. Waking in the early hours to meditate and stretch, choosing the vegetarian diet that works for them, reading the grandest of literature at all times, discussing with maturity and grace all the great issues of the day, organizing themselves with intelligence and health, sharing and caring for each other and me, working diligently with responsible effort, politely learning to communicate in these new ways, and finally taking
care of their Mother’s needs with kindness. They choose the best camp
spots, collect the wood, heat water for showers, plan meals and do any
difficult physical tasks I have little energy for these days.
This trip is knocking me over. I am tired now. Last night I asked them to tell me what they saw as my addictions. VIva gave it to me straight in the face. “Mother, to be honest and direct with you, what will take you to the grave is your inability to let go, be easy on yourself, celebrate your achievments, relax, have fun, and stop thinking about “work ”when it’s over.” “Yeah”, chimed in Joia, “ stop thinking period at the end of the day. And especially when you are going to bed. Enjoy Yourself. Take care of Yourself. Let go of thinking about others and other things”. I felt like my mom. I know I am doing better than her but with age it has gotten worse, my wild monkey mind that is. I used to be more serene in the days of doing Thai Massage and teaching Yoga. In a way I should not have stopped as these activities kept me grounded and connected to Spirit. I just don’t need the group thing anymore. I DO need more meditation, quality meditation, another Vipassana Course to kick my butt. Maybe a 40-day Course.
So here we are at Peter’s place having tried hard to make a last-minute workshop happen here with scrappy black and white African-produced flyers at $.40 a piece and word of mouth. Impossible to find 2 more paying people who will actually show up. Senegalese are good talkers but most don’t seem to walk their talk and they have no qualms about it. Telling you straight-faced that they will come to your class tomorrow after you spend 2 hours in light conversation listening to all their “stuff” patiently, giving them directions, they are cool with the price, you shake hands....and they don’t come. I could never live here.
So we started with 5 students on Day 1 and on Day 3 we are down to 2. Even Peter and Maimouna have been MIA for the last two days. Unbelievable. Just left without a word, no texts, no calls, and on top of that left the dog here who is starving for his Senegalese leftovers. We don’t have any to offer. So my butter and cheese, very prized Toubab foods here, were swiftly devoured when left unattended for moments. Arrggggh! Running out of materials we begin to improvise. No coarse sand to be found anywhere here so we begin to use gravel in the cob mix. A first for me. Then when that runs out we begin digging up his broken shell ground cover and using that for the coarse sand. This wall is definitely not up to my standards but hell, this is Africa, and I am dealing with Africans. Thankfully there is a white American source to finance this work and us, or I would not have engaged for sure.
This trip is knocking me over. I am tired now. Last night I asked them to tell me what they saw as my addictions. VIva gave it to me straight in the face. “Mother, to be honest and direct with you, what will take you to the grave is your inability to let go, be easy on yourself, celebrate your achievments, relax, have fun, and stop thinking about “work ”when it’s over.” “Yeah”, chimed in Joia, “ stop thinking period at the end of the day. And especially when you are going to bed. Enjoy Yourself. Take care of Yourself. Let go of thinking about others and other things”. I felt like my mom. I know I am doing better than her but with age it has gotten worse, my wild monkey mind that is. I used to be more serene in the days of doing Thai Massage and teaching Yoga. In a way I should not have stopped as these activities kept me grounded and connected to Spirit. I just don’t need the group thing anymore. I DO need more meditation, quality meditation, another Vipassana Course to kick my butt. Maybe a 40-day Course.
So here we are at Peter’s place having tried hard to make a last-minute workshop happen here with scrappy black and white African-produced flyers at $.40 a piece and word of mouth. Impossible to find 2 more paying people who will actually show up. Senegalese are good talkers but most don’t seem to walk their talk and they have no qualms about it. Telling you straight-faced that they will come to your class tomorrow after you spend 2 hours in light conversation listening to all their “stuff” patiently, giving them directions, they are cool with the price, you shake hands....and they don’t come. I could never live here.
So we started with 5 students on Day 1 and on Day 3 we are down to 2. Even Peter and Maimouna have been MIA for the last two days. Unbelievable. Just left without a word, no texts, no calls, and on top of that left the dog here who is starving for his Senegalese leftovers. We don’t have any to offer. So my butter and cheese, very prized Toubab foods here, were swiftly devoured when left unattended for moments. Arrggggh! Running out of materials we begin to improvise. No coarse sand to be found anywhere here so we begin to use gravel in the cob mix. A first for me. Then when that runs out we begin digging up his broken shell ground cover and using that for the coarse sand. This wall is definitely not up to my standards but hell, this is Africa, and I am dealing with Africans. Thankfully there is a white American source to finance this work and us, or I would not have engaged for sure.
Even the measly $350 for a week of work for the three of us is like gold. It will
help Joia break even with his daily expenses and Viva cover the rest of his
trip and me, well, cover the energy and time put into this gig so far.
Hallelujah! Not easy to carry out this feat and make people pay 25€ a day here in Africa. Everyone is “broke”, “too poor”, “out of money”. I’m talking about the rich people here with their mega plots of land. I clearly don’t ask this of the Senegalese, but luckily Peter’s wife Jenny is down to support this work on her land. But where the heck are Peter and Maimouna anyway? I am actually enraged and don’t know how he can show his face. I better read my Dalai Lama book hard before facing him. Compassion, care, happiness, joy...for everyone. Think about others before yourself. That’s my lesson always. So Aries I am. So Aries. Grateful for the dose of Pisces and Capricorn I get every day. These two angels are dosing me with hard lessons of patience, tolerance, compassion, respect and humility. Claudine is humble. How can I be humble and do my big work at the same time? That’s the lesson of my eldership years. Humble and Big.
I am feeling tired though, as I said. Tired of travelling. Need to chill somewhere peaceful, healthy and connected to the Internet as I prepare for the second half of my Journey. More Africa? Back to Europe and across to Asia? Workaway prospects? Vipassana or other Meditation Course? Something new? Boat to Brazil and Latin America? Visit Yvonne? Straight to Cuba? Get the Ecovillage started. And Zeca? Dear simple-minded loving and humble Zeca who fires me up? Is he a real thing? I know I only need him for long-term physical intimacy, but so young. How will he handle my relationships with others when I need more than him? Do I wait it out for one who is more me? Those old white men can be so laborious and unsexy? My Zeca is so quiet in public and so male big energy in private with me. But how will he fare outside of CV? Is there any reality in this possibility? And the $$ $? And beautiful Atab who I just met and zinged with, with his little Gambian English and uneven lips, high cheekbones and sad eyes. A small muscly he- man physique I like, and a mutual smile of pure love as well. And...where does it go???? Is it part of my learning to have fun? Are my boys’ presence in the way of that? Or is it just me? Decisions, decisions. Life ticking by. Each morning a new day, new possibilties, and one day less on the planet.
Three days after his unheralded departure, he shows up with endless “I’m Sorry”’s and an amazing litany of reasons for his complete vacancy from our lives and his land. On one level I trust him, on the other, it’s just too crazy a story. But, as my sons advised, just deal with the workshop part and let the personal stuff go. So here we go again, more materials paid for and a fresh start after a slow day. Our workshop grows by one person a day and now the
Hallelujah! Not easy to carry out this feat and make people pay 25€ a day here in Africa. Everyone is “broke”, “too poor”, “out of money”. I’m talking about the rich people here with their mega plots of land. I clearly don’t ask this of the Senegalese, but luckily Peter’s wife Jenny is down to support this work on her land. But where the heck are Peter and Maimouna anyway? I am actually enraged and don’t know how he can show his face. I better read my Dalai Lama book hard before facing him. Compassion, care, happiness, joy...for everyone. Think about others before yourself. That’s my lesson always. So Aries I am. So Aries. Grateful for the dose of Pisces and Capricorn I get every day. These two angels are dosing me with hard lessons of patience, tolerance, compassion, respect and humility. Claudine is humble. How can I be humble and do my big work at the same time? That’s the lesson of my eldership years. Humble and Big.
I am feeling tired though, as I said. Tired of travelling. Need to chill somewhere peaceful, healthy and connected to the Internet as I prepare for the second half of my Journey. More Africa? Back to Europe and across to Asia? Workaway prospects? Vipassana or other Meditation Course? Something new? Boat to Brazil and Latin America? Visit Yvonne? Straight to Cuba? Get the Ecovillage started. And Zeca? Dear simple-minded loving and humble Zeca who fires me up? Is he a real thing? I know I only need him for long-term physical intimacy, but so young. How will he handle my relationships with others when I need more than him? Do I wait it out for one who is more me? Those old white men can be so laborious and unsexy? My Zeca is so quiet in public and so male big energy in private with me. But how will he fare outside of CV? Is there any reality in this possibility? And the $$ $? And beautiful Atab who I just met and zinged with, with his little Gambian English and uneven lips, high cheekbones and sad eyes. A small muscly he- man physique I like, and a mutual smile of pure love as well. And...where does it go???? Is it part of my learning to have fun? Are my boys’ presence in the way of that? Or is it just me? Decisions, decisions. Life ticking by. Each morning a new day, new possibilties, and one day less on the planet.
Three days after his unheralded departure, he shows up with endless “I’m Sorry”’s and an amazing litany of reasons for his complete vacancy from our lives and his land. On one level I trust him, on the other, it’s just too crazy a story. But, as my sons advised, just deal with the workshop part and let the personal stuff go. So here we go again, more materials paid for and a fresh start after a slow day. Our workshop grows by one person a day and now the
structure begins to look like a shelter. Peter comments that he feels a
peaceful calm energy within him standing inside its circular enclosure. They
are all commenting in Wolof. I think they have been bit by the cob bug and
are getting more and more ideas and inspiration. Yeah! Our mission is
accomplished once again.
My boys are all converging on a similar theme in their life paths. How interesting. It seems they are all three walking a path of supporting spiritual awareness, self-introspection, and communal inspiration leading to group epiphanies. Xica takes the musical experience path wanting to create an ambiance of oneness, love, pleasure and happiness. Joia takes the path of intellectual inquiry into how to create the same with group improvisation. Viva’s path entails leading wilderness group experiences especially for inner- city kids, troubled youth and those less fortunate than he has been. All three are forms of public service in raising Spiritual Consciousness. Jan is also walking the path of Art and Spirituality and Claudine, that be me, well, I’ve been at it with my cob building workshops for years and now adding the international dimension makes their power even more clear. We are a family of Healers, blessed. May our Paths keep us close physically, emotionally and Spiritually. I still have work to do with Jan.
It’s frickin’ HOT today. Up until now the winds have been cool and even nippy requiring a sweatshirt at night. Today it feels like desert winds baking the land and the people. To top it off there has been no electricity or water all morning. I have completed my commitment to the cob bungalow and left the two remaining students to finish up. I have been swept away by “Bienvenue”, my new African lover with a physique to die for but more importantly we hit it off like salt and pepper. A new energy, a new body, a new Soul...next to me in bed. The large beer I had before retiring helped me to chill into the male mode. Been a while. I feel safe and aligned with him, though we barely have spent anytime together. A natural flow, the type I excel at, especially when it’s a first time.
Ziguinchor, finally. It’s funny how you carry this expectation in your mind of these magical names attached to historical visions of Portuguese, French, Dutch and English slave traders who owned these streets and did their nasty work in the world for centuries. Ziguinchor comes from “chegaram e choraram”...they came and they cried. Nice. I wonder if any of the citizens walking through the dusty, stinky, sandy streets even know that. Our arrival was slowed down by a sudden transition to paver-surfaced streets all the way into town. We crossed endless mangrove wetlands until we reached the Casamance River and entered. It was one of the hottest days yet and all I
My boys are all converging on a similar theme in their life paths. How interesting. It seems they are all three walking a path of supporting spiritual awareness, self-introspection, and communal inspiration leading to group epiphanies. Xica takes the musical experience path wanting to create an ambiance of oneness, love, pleasure and happiness. Joia takes the path of intellectual inquiry into how to create the same with group improvisation. Viva’s path entails leading wilderness group experiences especially for inner- city kids, troubled youth and those less fortunate than he has been. All three are forms of public service in raising Spiritual Consciousness. Jan is also walking the path of Art and Spirituality and Claudine, that be me, well, I’ve been at it with my cob building workshops for years and now adding the international dimension makes their power even more clear. We are a family of Healers, blessed. May our Paths keep us close physically, emotionally and Spiritually. I still have work to do with Jan.
It’s frickin’ HOT today. Up until now the winds have been cool and even nippy requiring a sweatshirt at night. Today it feels like desert winds baking the land and the people. To top it off there has been no electricity or water all morning. I have completed my commitment to the cob bungalow and left the two remaining students to finish up. I have been swept away by “Bienvenue”, my new African lover with a physique to die for but more importantly we hit it off like salt and pepper. A new energy, a new body, a new Soul...next to me in bed. The large beer I had before retiring helped me to chill into the male mode. Been a while. I feel safe and aligned with him, though we barely have spent anytime together. A natural flow, the type I excel at, especially when it’s a first time.
Ziguinchor, finally. It’s funny how you carry this expectation in your mind of these magical names attached to historical visions of Portuguese, French, Dutch and English slave traders who owned these streets and did their nasty work in the world for centuries. Ziguinchor comes from “chegaram e choraram”...they came and they cried. Nice. I wonder if any of the citizens walking through the dusty, stinky, sandy streets even know that. Our arrival was slowed down by a sudden transition to paver-surfaced streets all the way into town. We crossed endless mangrove wetlands until we reached the Casamance River and entered. It was one of the hottest days yet and all I
could do to relieve my thirst was guzzle down 2 homemade frozen slushy
bouye and bissap juices in a row and an iced water bottle. Heat stroke
overcame me and luckily I had to step into the Orange store to haggle for my
lost “credit” due to their poor network coverage in Abéné and Kafountine. The
air-conditioned and comfortable inside held me for 2 hours or more as I
discussed the merits of American vs. African Customer Service with Ibou.
The best I got for my efforts was a submitted complaint that may or may not get back to me before I depart for Cabo Verde in 3 weeks.
Gettin’ so tired of Africa suddenly. Dirty, grimy feeling the second you step out into the blast of sauna air beating down hard. Slow steps push through the sloppy sandy streets. Children beg for 100CFAS as they watch you buy food. Everything is repeated, nothing changes much. Same old 3 or 4 meals everywhere every day. The vegetables are hand-picked out of the cooking pot and placed on the rice. The fish is also hand-placed. People eating with their greasy messy hands and flicking food at your “area” of the communal dish, dropping unwanted pieces of food or bones out of their mouth and onto the ground as they eat and noone seems to mind or think it’s gross. “C’est comment?” is the question of the moment all the time. “How is it?” meaning your name. People just haphazardly walk up to you out of the blue and begin shaking your hand and asking your name with no connection and no intention to remember. Why waste our breath?
I am longing for “normalcy”. And who am I to know what “normalcy” is? I just want familiar ease, as every traveller feels after a long time away. To me that means less random conversations, less answering questions, organic vegtables namely chard, collards, kale, arugula, mustard and on and on, quietude and mostly, not standing out so much. I knew it would be like this, but, unless I am actually living here, I think I can only take so much at a time. If I were living here I would be learning the language and have more of a “I- know-the-ropes-so-don’t-give-me-your-Toubab-spiel-please” energy. I would even know how to answer back to all those little munchkins on the side of the road who scream the same bloody words from North to South, East to West.
La Casamance hits you immediately on the Nature aspect. Green palm tree, cashew tree, and other unknown native species’ forests line both sides of the asphalt road we are flying on at night under the Full Moon. There are footpaths leading in every few hundred meters which makes one curious as to what’s in there. Independent Rebels? Magical mud houses? Lush fruit trees dripping to the ground? Monkey tribes? Secret villages? Weed- smoking Rasta/Baye Fall compounds...We are drawn to the relaxed feeling here. Less people, less harassing salespeople, and a feeling of security
The best I got for my efforts was a submitted complaint that may or may not get back to me before I depart for Cabo Verde in 3 weeks.
Gettin’ so tired of Africa suddenly. Dirty, grimy feeling the second you step out into the blast of sauna air beating down hard. Slow steps push through the sloppy sandy streets. Children beg for 100CFAS as they watch you buy food. Everything is repeated, nothing changes much. Same old 3 or 4 meals everywhere every day. The vegetables are hand-picked out of the cooking pot and placed on the rice. The fish is also hand-placed. People eating with their greasy messy hands and flicking food at your “area” of the communal dish, dropping unwanted pieces of food or bones out of their mouth and onto the ground as they eat and noone seems to mind or think it’s gross. “C’est comment?” is the question of the moment all the time. “How is it?” meaning your name. People just haphazardly walk up to you out of the blue and begin shaking your hand and asking your name with no connection and no intention to remember. Why waste our breath?
I am longing for “normalcy”. And who am I to know what “normalcy” is? I just want familiar ease, as every traveller feels after a long time away. To me that means less random conversations, less answering questions, organic vegtables namely chard, collards, kale, arugula, mustard and on and on, quietude and mostly, not standing out so much. I knew it would be like this, but, unless I am actually living here, I think I can only take so much at a time. If I were living here I would be learning the language and have more of a “I- know-the-ropes-so-don’t-give-me-your-Toubab-spiel-please” energy. I would even know how to answer back to all those little munchkins on the side of the road who scream the same bloody words from North to South, East to West.
La Casamance hits you immediately on the Nature aspect. Green palm tree, cashew tree, and other unknown native species’ forests line both sides of the asphalt road we are flying on at night under the Full Moon. There are footpaths leading in every few hundred meters which makes one curious as to what’s in there. Independent Rebels? Magical mud houses? Lush fruit trees dripping to the ground? Monkey tribes? Secret villages? Weed- smoking Rasta/Baye Fall compounds...We are drawn to the relaxed feeling here. Less people, less harassing salespeople, and a feeling of security
despite the warnings from the American Embassy website. People seem to
go about their chores and their lives without stopping everything to look at or
talk to the Toubab.
We are at a crux in our Journey. Do we head south to Guinea BIssau, which requires a 20,000CFA visa ($35) and into a new country and language, for just 2 weeks before heading to Cabo Verde? I seek out the very discreet Bissauan Consulate on a nameless sand road, identifiable only by a sloppy green and yellow namesake flag hanging sadly at its front. This recent replacement consulate surprises me a bit for an official government office of a neighboring country. I walk in to a very pale yellow shabby office with one chair and a large wooden desk with an East German steel-gray typewriter on it. What a sight! Piles of paper gave importance to this desk, behind which sat a petite Bissauan dilpomat, light mulatto-skin color, and with huge rounded dark-framed spectacles which sat on the edge of his nose. The sight was classic and a perfect Saturday Night Live set-up.
The small Bissauan gnome had a soft childlike voice to match as he shared with me the Visa details in a very informed simple direct manner, reminding me of the American qualities I so miss. I had no questions, only a decision to make with my travel mate sons. Yearning for change, for newness, for Portuguese, for new foods and vistas on the one hand....and knowing how long it takes to really “learn” a country and also wanting to discover the Basse Casamance of lore, with its “impluvium” cob houses that collect rainwater in the middle of the structure due to internally-inclined rooves..we opted for staying local and going slow, with a return to our point of origin by boat before heading West to the Cabo Verde islands.
So, we are on the almost final leg of our Senegal adventure now, heading West to the farthest points we can get to in the Casamance rebel zones. Military soldiers from the “North” (Senegal north of Gambia) pop up here and there in their full GI Joe get-ups, enjoying the feel of being in an American Hollywood pic. Behind the scary façade is always a man ready for sex, for a Toubab wife, for gettin’ it on. It still surprises me though, as you don’t really get that in the US. As our bicycle-laden fully-packed pirogue cruised to its security checkpoints on the pier to the South, where one of the boat staff handed some important-looking and handsome military man a list of the names and nationalities on board, and then to the North...we were blasted with an angry and aggressive tall, thin, sinewy Border Patrol dressed in civilian clothes. He stood on the beach with our passports in hand and yelled questions at us regarding our enry date into Senegal, our birth dates, names, etc. Our answers were not making him happy nor satisfying him. He
We are at a crux in our Journey. Do we head south to Guinea BIssau, which requires a 20,000CFA visa ($35) and into a new country and language, for just 2 weeks before heading to Cabo Verde? I seek out the very discreet Bissauan Consulate on a nameless sand road, identifiable only by a sloppy green and yellow namesake flag hanging sadly at its front. This recent replacement consulate surprises me a bit for an official government office of a neighboring country. I walk in to a very pale yellow shabby office with one chair and a large wooden desk with an East German steel-gray typewriter on it. What a sight! Piles of paper gave importance to this desk, behind which sat a petite Bissauan dilpomat, light mulatto-skin color, and with huge rounded dark-framed spectacles which sat on the edge of his nose. The sight was classic and a perfect Saturday Night Live set-up.
The small Bissauan gnome had a soft childlike voice to match as he shared with me the Visa details in a very informed simple direct manner, reminding me of the American qualities I so miss. I had no questions, only a decision to make with my travel mate sons. Yearning for change, for newness, for Portuguese, for new foods and vistas on the one hand....and knowing how long it takes to really “learn” a country and also wanting to discover the Basse Casamance of lore, with its “impluvium” cob houses that collect rainwater in the middle of the structure due to internally-inclined rooves..we opted for staying local and going slow, with a return to our point of origin by boat before heading West to the Cabo Verde islands.
So, we are on the almost final leg of our Senegal adventure now, heading West to the farthest points we can get to in the Casamance rebel zones. Military soldiers from the “North” (Senegal north of Gambia) pop up here and there in their full GI Joe get-ups, enjoying the feel of being in an American Hollywood pic. Behind the scary façade is always a man ready for sex, for a Toubab wife, for gettin’ it on. It still surprises me though, as you don’t really get that in the US. As our bicycle-laden fully-packed pirogue cruised to its security checkpoints on the pier to the South, where one of the boat staff handed some important-looking and handsome military man a list of the names and nationalities on board, and then to the North...we were blasted with an angry and aggressive tall, thin, sinewy Border Patrol dressed in civilian clothes. He stood on the beach with our passports in hand and yelled questions at us regarding our enry date into Senegal, our birth dates, names, etc. Our answers were not making him happy nor satisfying him. He
demanded we descend from the pirogue with our 3 100-pound fully-loaded
bikes that had taken half anhour and alot of effort to load just 30 minutes
before. I was incredulous...as were the rest of the boat people. I jumped off
first to try and rectify things lest we would be dumped onto this dumpy, piggy,
garbage-infested shoreline that was not welcoming in any way. Again my
answers made him angrier. He would have none of it and insisted on the
boys and all our stuff to debark asap. We had no choice and I, for one, was a
bit scared.
The issue that was surfacing was unexpected. When we had crossed from Gambia back into Senegal in Kartong, we were taken across in a pirogue, dropped off on a deserted beach, and that was that. When I had asked about border officials, passport stamping, noone really knew what to say. Basically there was noone around to fill the role. We simply went on as we had no choice. Ultimately we forgot about it, but it did seem odd that people could just cross here unbeknownst to the Senegalese officials. Now we were being called on it.
The screaming skinny giant finally calmed down and gave me some hope for resolution here by saying he would see what he could do. Knowing Senegal is more correct than Gambia and probably most African countries, my momentary worry about being falsely requested money for having crossed illegally was assuaged. There is an honesty here that is reassuring. While the head honcho in his white muscle T, dark blue bermudas and flip flops flipeed through our passports back and forth repeatedly pausing on the Gambia visa, the second in line was eyeing me already. The head guy was pissed. Why did we leave Senegal, enter Gambia and not re-enter Senegal where we should have in Seleti? What business did we have crossing in Kartong where there are no border officials? My answers were not registered. He did not care that we were on bicycles and coming down the coast and this was the easiest closest place to cross before dark. He couldn’t even fathom what I was saying. All he could focus on was not getting his ass kicked by his superiors for having some random American and French Toubabs wandering around in Casamance with incorrect passport statuses. None of us had legally re-entered Senegal, I had left Senegal with my French passport and re-entered with my American passport when I went to Cabo Verde, Viva was 2 months past the 3-month maximum stay. Now what????
What worked finally, after calling in to Headquarters in Dakar, was that I told them we were on our way out of the country momentarily. We were trying to get the boat from Carabane to Dakar so we could beeline out of the country and on to our next destination. This seemed to cause a sigh of relief that he repeated to his superior over the phone. No we were not on some Mother
The issue that was surfacing was unexpected. When we had crossed from Gambia back into Senegal in Kartong, we were taken across in a pirogue, dropped off on a deserted beach, and that was that. When I had asked about border officials, passport stamping, noone really knew what to say. Basically there was noone around to fill the role. We simply went on as we had no choice. Ultimately we forgot about it, but it did seem odd that people could just cross here unbeknownst to the Senegalese officials. Now we were being called on it.
The screaming skinny giant finally calmed down and gave me some hope for resolution here by saying he would see what he could do. Knowing Senegal is more correct than Gambia and probably most African countries, my momentary worry about being falsely requested money for having crossed illegally was assuaged. There is an honesty here that is reassuring. While the head honcho in his white muscle T, dark blue bermudas and flip flops flipeed through our passports back and forth repeatedly pausing on the Gambia visa, the second in line was eyeing me already. The head guy was pissed. Why did we leave Senegal, enter Gambia and not re-enter Senegal where we should have in Seleti? What business did we have crossing in Kartong where there are no border officials? My answers were not registered. He did not care that we were on bicycles and coming down the coast and this was the easiest closest place to cross before dark. He couldn’t even fathom what I was saying. All he could focus on was not getting his ass kicked by his superiors for having some random American and French Toubabs wandering around in Casamance with incorrect passport statuses. None of us had legally re-entered Senegal, I had left Senegal with my French passport and re-entered with my American passport when I went to Cabo Verde, Viva was 2 months past the 3-month maximum stay. Now what????
What worked finally, after calling in to Headquarters in Dakar, was that I told them we were on our way out of the country momentarily. We were trying to get the boat from Carabane to Dakar so we could beeline out of the country and on to our next destination. This seemed to cause a sigh of relief that he repeated to his superior over the phone. No we were not on some Mother
and Sons espionage cover-up mission for Al-Quaeda. Promise. We were not
supplying the rebels with arms or money. Promise. In the end what I learned
was that there was high security right now in Senegal to protect the Toubabs
from extremist terrorist bombs and they did not want us running around their
country haphazardly without being on their books. Thus they needed to know
who was where. Phew! Not so bad after all. And then, to top it off, the
second in line with his cutesy goatee, flirtatious smirk and buff physique, the
one who’d been eyeing me and thought I couldn’t see, asks me if I am
married. Right there in the rundown ramshackle deteriorating one-room
excuse for an Immigration Patrol office and in front of his superior. No shame
here whatsoever when it comes to intercultural courting. When I tell him yes,
he asks if I have a daughter he can add to his harem. Whatever!
Our next Senegal military run-in took place 3 days later on the island of Carabane...a 57 square kilometer mostly wild piece of floating land rimmed with mangrove. Only about 1km2 seems inhabited and the tourist-friendly area constitutes a minor piece of the coastline. The boys and I headed out to the “brousse” or brush, away from habitations, and in search of a perfect welcoming spot to do a 3-day Vision Quest. After inquiring with some friendly locals as to the security of wild camping and being supported in our desire to do a little personal “Ramadan” speech and food fast for 3 days...we were led to an abandoned “campement” on the beach where we would be left alone. Yesssss! I decided to take a solo space of my own, drawn to this semi- enclosed wind-protected ring of thick overgrown bush. Clearing out all the animal poops, I called it my own and after a last talking campfire with Viva and Joia in which we set intentions for our spiritual retreats, I prepared for a 3-day Silent Retreat at this interlude between wrapping up our time in Senegal and preparing for the next venture in Cabo Verde.
As is always the case...all the elements I needed presented themselves, which included 3 perfect books. One by Naomi Wolf, a Jewish peer with a Romanian parent as well, called “The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father”. It gave me the medicine I was needing to reaffirm and which I was already receiving from Viva and Joia every day. Time to move into the Heart space of Harmony, Respect, Humility and Patience and away from Global Combat, Conflict and Just Doing It. She shared her Dad’s academic teachings on Creative Expression and his eternal support of Passion in each person who passed his way, which told me I was on track too. I could relate to Naomi on several levels and reading her made me feel happy.
Along with the light Heart reading of “The Treehouse” I had the Dalai Lama’s more technical “Teachings on Love”. His emphasis is on changing our mind’s
Our next Senegal military run-in took place 3 days later on the island of Carabane...a 57 square kilometer mostly wild piece of floating land rimmed with mangrove. Only about 1km2 seems inhabited and the tourist-friendly area constitutes a minor piece of the coastline. The boys and I headed out to the “brousse” or brush, away from habitations, and in search of a perfect welcoming spot to do a 3-day Vision Quest. After inquiring with some friendly locals as to the security of wild camping and being supported in our desire to do a little personal “Ramadan” speech and food fast for 3 days...we were led to an abandoned “campement” on the beach where we would be left alone. Yesssss! I decided to take a solo space of my own, drawn to this semi- enclosed wind-protected ring of thick overgrown bush. Clearing out all the animal poops, I called it my own and after a last talking campfire with Viva and Joia in which we set intentions for our spiritual retreats, I prepared for a 3-day Silent Retreat at this interlude between wrapping up our time in Senegal and preparing for the next venture in Cabo Verde.
As is always the case...all the elements I needed presented themselves, which included 3 perfect books. One by Naomi Wolf, a Jewish peer with a Romanian parent as well, called “The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father”. It gave me the medicine I was needing to reaffirm and which I was already receiving from Viva and Joia every day. Time to move into the Heart space of Harmony, Respect, Humility and Patience and away from Global Combat, Conflict and Just Doing It. She shared her Dad’s academic teachings on Creative Expression and his eternal support of Passion in each person who passed his way, which told me I was on track too. I could relate to Naomi on several levels and reading her made me feel happy.
Along with the light Heart reading of “The Treehouse” I had the Dalai Lama’s more technical “Teachings on Love”. His emphasis is on changing our mind’s
habitual processes and ways of seeing things. Not an easy task at 52. I so
wish I had these books in hand in my late teens or early 20’s, like my Boys do
now. It gave me hope though and to be able to complete a book with no
interruptions from the outside world, and with full concentration, is a gift I
have not received in a long time. The key is, however, to set the intention to
be disconnected from phone, computer, speech, food and space. The last
one means that you will stay within a small area of space in which your water
needs can be fulfilled. Thus emerges Creative Ideas, Truths, Humble
Acnowledgments, Love, Peace, Equanimity and Rest. Rest is a big one for
this Wise Woman/Crone who is living her internal changing Biorhythms with
the external changing Landscape simultaneously, a different sleeping spot
nightly. This and running a business while biking around the world....While
this mission must be accomplished for my future Peace of Soul...I am longing
for, though not ready for, the moment of Physical Stillness in a Space that will
become my New Home on Earth. Surrounded by beautiful and beloved
objects, a vegetable garden, animals, trees, sunshine, wild spots, a
gorgeously cozy and eccentric home-made shelter, wonderful people, a
sweet village or town, and so on. As the moment approaches of course I too
will become more clear on what it is, who with, where and how. For now it is
still an impressionistic idea though I know what it feels like. Yummy. So
yummy.
Back to the military intervention into our Vision Quest. I am in my tent, it is dark, I am reading my third book...Iyengar’s “Light on Pranayama”. After two days in human silence, a voice interrupts the quietude. I barely recognize my son Viva’s voice. He apologizes for interrupting but needs my assistance as there are 2 machine gun-toting camouflage-outfitted soldiers with their plaineclothes boss standing at their campfire and asking for our passports. Transporting myself from Ujjayi Breath specifications to Speaking with African Militia Breath...I later learn from my boys that I did a wonderful job of being centered, respectful, calm and polite. Wonderful. The Quest is working. After ten minutes of chit chat that turns playful, they still decide they need our passports to record our whereabouts on Carabane and thus clear their conscience and line of duty work, lest all hell breaks loose. I am hearing from these guys that Senegal is the only West African country that hasn’t been hit by Al Quaeda and so they need to secure us Toubabs at all moments. I am grateful. Once again, no harm done, apologies made all around, and the passports are returned the next day. Our mode of travel and preferred mode of accomodation, camping in the brush, is not usual for these areas. I see now how the quick in and out tourist who stays where he/she is supposed to stay, eats where he/she is supposed to eat, does what he/she is supposed to do, is more calming to their minds. We calm their minds by, once again,
Back to the military intervention into our Vision Quest. I am in my tent, it is dark, I am reading my third book...Iyengar’s “Light on Pranayama”. After two days in human silence, a voice interrupts the quietude. I barely recognize my son Viva’s voice. He apologizes for interrupting but needs my assistance as there are 2 machine gun-toting camouflage-outfitted soldiers with their plaineclothes boss standing at their campfire and asking for our passports. Transporting myself from Ujjayi Breath specifications to Speaking with African Militia Breath...I later learn from my boys that I did a wonderful job of being centered, respectful, calm and polite. Wonderful. The Quest is working. After ten minutes of chit chat that turns playful, they still decide they need our passports to record our whereabouts on Carabane and thus clear their conscience and line of duty work, lest all hell breaks loose. I am hearing from these guys that Senegal is the only West African country that hasn’t been hit by Al Quaeda and so they need to secure us Toubabs at all moments. I am grateful. Once again, no harm done, apologies made all around, and the passports are returned the next day. Our mode of travel and preferred mode of accomodation, camping in the brush, is not usual for these areas. I see now how the quick in and out tourist who stays where he/she is supposed to stay, eats where he/she is supposed to eat, does what he/she is supposed to do, is more calming to their minds. We calm their minds by, once again,
affirming our imminent departure from the island, out of their “beat”, as soon
as low tide hits at 6pm the next day. They are visibly relieved and then the
fun and jokes begin though, thankfully for the presence of my sons, they keep
their flirting for another occasion.
As low tide reaches its max, and the sun is dropping, we initiate our latest departure yet. Gliding down the wide stretch of hard sand with our 100 pound-loaded bikes plus the rider, the Gypsy Bikers are off again to new lands, new scapes, new adventures. That’s how we like it. We leave our host places with gratitude, a positive vibration, a clear conscience and a peaceful mind. Thus we know that new host spots, people, animals, plants will welcome us again. In silence we pedal as far as we can go before needing to bridge a 20-foot wide bolong, an arm of ocean or river water entering into land. Unfortunately we are on the rising tide side of the low tide and dusk is upon us. Fortunately I have two travel warriors as my partners and know they will figure this quandary out. We need to cross with bikes and baggage trying to stay dry and for this we need to figure out the most shallow crossing point. The boys luckily scoped this out yesterday and as usual I am in good hands. No need to think, decide, lead, figure it out. It’s been wonderful to have these reprieves and I am proud of my African expert travellers. If they can do it here they can do it anywhere. I have done my motherly duty for what I believe is one of the most important human skills: travelling with respect, flexibility, adaptability, economy, beauty, nature, local customs and intercultural interlingual communication. In addition, the bonus is the bike touring skills which is the cream on the parfait. Thus the only larger expenses left are the plane tickets and visas. For those you need some cash in the bank or you need to be making money on the road, the final skill I have bestowed upon my 2 oldest male descendants. This last skill, as it relates to my personal expertise, leaves them with knowledge and ability to build their own beautiful shelter anywhere in the world for next to nothing in monetary cost. I am complete.
Viva is 24. He is extremely handsome, well-built, intelligent, friendly, humble, kind, respectful, fearless, sturdy, confident and creative. He is our lead guide on this journey as far as directions, where to camp, setting up camp, making the fire, cooking, making sure water is nearby, and basically securing everything. When Viva is around, everyone feels safe and sound, well taken care of, loved and peaceful. He is essentially a Mama and a Papa rolled into one. I have no doubt he can raise a family all by himself, perfectly. Of course why would he want to do what his Mama had to do, not without difficulty and stress. The lucky woman who makes his Heart sing and Face smile is an amazing one. Just like him. This Journey has deepened our relationship, our
As low tide reaches its max, and the sun is dropping, we initiate our latest departure yet. Gliding down the wide stretch of hard sand with our 100 pound-loaded bikes plus the rider, the Gypsy Bikers are off again to new lands, new scapes, new adventures. That’s how we like it. We leave our host places with gratitude, a positive vibration, a clear conscience and a peaceful mind. Thus we know that new host spots, people, animals, plants will welcome us again. In silence we pedal as far as we can go before needing to bridge a 20-foot wide bolong, an arm of ocean or river water entering into land. Unfortunately we are on the rising tide side of the low tide and dusk is upon us. Fortunately I have two travel warriors as my partners and know they will figure this quandary out. We need to cross with bikes and baggage trying to stay dry and for this we need to figure out the most shallow crossing point. The boys luckily scoped this out yesterday and as usual I am in good hands. No need to think, decide, lead, figure it out. It’s been wonderful to have these reprieves and I am proud of my African expert travellers. If they can do it here they can do it anywhere. I have done my motherly duty for what I believe is one of the most important human skills: travelling with respect, flexibility, adaptability, economy, beauty, nature, local customs and intercultural interlingual communication. In addition, the bonus is the bike touring skills which is the cream on the parfait. Thus the only larger expenses left are the plane tickets and visas. For those you need some cash in the bank or you need to be making money on the road, the final skill I have bestowed upon my 2 oldest male descendants. This last skill, as it relates to my personal expertise, leaves them with knowledge and ability to build their own beautiful shelter anywhere in the world for next to nothing in monetary cost. I am complete.
Viva is 24. He is extremely handsome, well-built, intelligent, friendly, humble, kind, respectful, fearless, sturdy, confident and creative. He is our lead guide on this journey as far as directions, where to camp, setting up camp, making the fire, cooking, making sure water is nearby, and basically securing everything. When Viva is around, everyone feels safe and sound, well taken care of, loved and peaceful. He is essentially a Mama and a Papa rolled into one. I have no doubt he can raise a family all by himself, perfectly. Of course why would he want to do what his Mama had to do, not without difficulty and stress. The lucky woman who makes his Heart sing and Face smile is an amazing one. Just like him. This Journey has deepened our relationship, our
friendship and knowledge of each other. I am less triggered by his moody
moments, perhaps becoming more self-confident and less self-centered is the
reason. It’s not always all about me. I learn so much from and with Viva as
he has those characteristics I am weak in: the H word (humble), the P word
(patience) and the R word (respect), in descending order of quantity. Of
course I know how to be respectful, at the gross level, but Viva teaches me
the subltler and finer levels of respect, the ones us childlike Aries can’t even
detect. I know I am making progress because we have less fights than we
did at the beginning. Or maybe it’s that he is becoming a Buddha and can
transcend my foibles with more Love and Compassion. Bless His Soul. So...
what more could a Mother ask for. I look forward to seeing his Journey
unfold, from not too far away hopefully.
Joia is 22. He is also very handsome (the redhead version), tall, lean, strong, fit, kind, respectful, friendly, curious, self-motivated and loving. Joia is a bubble of innocent childlike happiness, eager to learn, share, communicate and love. He makes friends easily, and his musical talents are often the bond when the language skills are not yet established. I admire Joia’s willingness to jump into new adventures fearlessly and spontaneously (hmmm, wonder who he takes after). He is the most travelled of the three, and has had the good fortune to have a best friend whose family took him with them every Christmas vacation to a new international hotspot. Joia has opened his Spirit to monkhood in China for three months, 11th grade in Spain, Thailand on his own, a southern road trip on his own from Asheville to Dallas, traipsing through Europe with his best buddy and of course all of our wild and woolly family trips. Joia is on a heady Spiritual Path to become wise in the ways of the Chinese and Indian healthy lifestyle systems and immediately puts into practice what he is learning each day. His newest interests are Spontaneity Philosophy and Art Therapy and, much to my contentment, he is returning to college to finish a BA at a school that is more to his liking, the famous Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. This African adventure will have brought him many new traveller and construction skills which give him grounding practical abilities to equalize the focus on Spirit and Mind. I am proud of his desire to face the difficult, things that don’t come easily for him, as a way of fleshing out his Being. Not everyone likes to be in a place of not knowing, being the beginner, having to get to where everyone else seems to already be.
I am a very very fortunate and blessed Mother that 2 of my children want to travel with me for a lengthy period of time in a foreign land by bike and work at my side. Very lucky indeed! I get to watch Viva and Joia flow in their beautiful brotherhood friendship unlike many others I think. It’s really an incredible event to watch them speak, cook, decide on what to buy and how
Joia is 22. He is also very handsome (the redhead version), tall, lean, strong, fit, kind, respectful, friendly, curious, self-motivated and loving. Joia is a bubble of innocent childlike happiness, eager to learn, share, communicate and love. He makes friends easily, and his musical talents are often the bond when the language skills are not yet established. I admire Joia’s willingness to jump into new adventures fearlessly and spontaneously (hmmm, wonder who he takes after). He is the most travelled of the three, and has had the good fortune to have a best friend whose family took him with them every Christmas vacation to a new international hotspot. Joia has opened his Spirit to monkhood in China for three months, 11th grade in Spain, Thailand on his own, a southern road trip on his own from Asheville to Dallas, traipsing through Europe with his best buddy and of course all of our wild and woolly family trips. Joia is on a heady Spiritual Path to become wise in the ways of the Chinese and Indian healthy lifestyle systems and immediately puts into practice what he is learning each day. His newest interests are Spontaneity Philosophy and Art Therapy and, much to my contentment, he is returning to college to finish a BA at a school that is more to his liking, the famous Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. This African adventure will have brought him many new traveller and construction skills which give him grounding practical abilities to equalize the focus on Spirit and Mind. I am proud of his desire to face the difficult, things that don’t come easily for him, as a way of fleshing out his Being. Not everyone likes to be in a place of not knowing, being the beginner, having to get to where everyone else seems to already be.
I am a very very fortunate and blessed Mother that 2 of my children want to travel with me for a lengthy period of time in a foreign land by bike and work at my side. Very lucky indeed! I get to watch Viva and Joia flow in their beautiful brotherhood friendship unlike many others I think. It’s really an incredible event to watch them speak, cook, decide on what to buy and how
much to spend and what to eat, massage each other, learn from each other,
get annoyed (rarely) and basically just love each other. They wake before
dawn and do their yoga, chi gong and meditation practice daily, they fast
every Sunday, and here in Africa, their diet (and mine) has been simplified to
rice, veggies and beans once in a while. There is not so much available here,
certainly nothing new except seasonal fruit, and thus decisions on what to eat
are limited. They have been enjoying what they call the “Rice Life”, eating
rice twice a day with variations in spices and veggies. They have regular
bowel movements, feel good and lead an equanimous life. Again I feel
complete in having shared a healthy lifestyle with these guys as best I could
and now they have adopted it and customized it to their taste.
Today was speech and food fast day. To our good fortune we were surrounded by harvestable coconuts filled with water. The kind that is shipped over to the US, put into weird Tetra-Pak containers and sold for 10 times more than the cost to just drink it out of the coconut, if there is even is a cost. The cost for these is asking Viva to climb the tree. I even offered him 500 CFAs a coconut (double the price) because my fast needed a little sweetness. I must have drank 5 coconuts today and I learned this afternoon that the water deconstipates you swiftly. They tasted so fresh, clean, natural, healthy. Our day was superb. Slow, spontaneous, relaxing and everyone looked fantastic at the end of the day, if I may say so myself. I even communed with a cow, to the point where he let me touch his horns, and the vultures came pretty darn close too. A stretch of pristine white sand beach lines a pine needle-layered ground cover dotted with coco palm trees behind which is a multi-layered forest through which the cows plod daily after their day on the beach. This is the spot that called out to us, says Joia, and Viva was sensitive enough to hear it. We have settled here for 3 days in delight and seen noone but the cows. Clay body facials, massages, fireside chats, naps, books, good food cooked on the natural coals of the Ataya Stove that Viva has carried around for the last 2 months, Shea Butter spreads, hairwashing, and so on. We are really preparing for some worktime ahead. The unknown for now, as my dear friend Patrick continues to expand his pot of gold in order to manifest his greatest dreams with my muddy support.
Akine Lodge is the magical creation of Anne Gavietto, a short, stocky French crone who is somewhat hard to “age” because of years of addictive smoking...but her place is a testimony to her manifesting chi. Viva actually spotted it from maybe 300 feet away across the community gardens in Djembering, up on a hill. My visual scope gets narrower when the conditions are challenging, namely heat, hunger and deep shifting sand to walk through. Viva called out what seemed to be an “Art Hotel” highlighted by its two-
Today was speech and food fast day. To our good fortune we were surrounded by harvestable coconuts filled with water. The kind that is shipped over to the US, put into weird Tetra-Pak containers and sold for 10 times more than the cost to just drink it out of the coconut, if there is even is a cost. The cost for these is asking Viva to climb the tree. I even offered him 500 CFAs a coconut (double the price) because my fast needed a little sweetness. I must have drank 5 coconuts today and I learned this afternoon that the water deconstipates you swiftly. They tasted so fresh, clean, natural, healthy. Our day was superb. Slow, spontaneous, relaxing and everyone looked fantastic at the end of the day, if I may say so myself. I even communed with a cow, to the point where he let me touch his horns, and the vultures came pretty darn close too. A stretch of pristine white sand beach lines a pine needle-layered ground cover dotted with coco palm trees behind which is a multi-layered forest through which the cows plod daily after their day on the beach. This is the spot that called out to us, says Joia, and Viva was sensitive enough to hear it. We have settled here for 3 days in delight and seen noone but the cows. Clay body facials, massages, fireside chats, naps, books, good food cooked on the natural coals of the Ataya Stove that Viva has carried around for the last 2 months, Shea Butter spreads, hairwashing, and so on. We are really preparing for some worktime ahead. The unknown for now, as my dear friend Patrick continues to expand his pot of gold in order to manifest his greatest dreams with my muddy support.
Akine Lodge is the magical creation of Anne Gavietto, a short, stocky French crone who is somewhat hard to “age” because of years of addictive smoking...but her place is a testimony to her manifesting chi. Viva actually spotted it from maybe 300 feet away across the community gardens in Djembering, up on a hill. My visual scope gets narrower when the conditions are challenging, namely heat, hunger and deep shifting sand to walk through. Viva called out what seemed to be an “Art Hotel” highlighted by its two-
layered pointed triangular tower replete with 2 wild straw roof edges, akin to
an old man’s toupéed head gone awry. Immediately my interest was piqued.
These works of the Soul manifested into habitations that excite and bring joy
are one of the “raisons d’êtres” of this Journey.
On our return from the village in search of victuals, I take a solo detour up to the magical grounds that call out to me. As I enter, the gardener leads me to the cropped red-headed and rectangular-bespectacled Queen Matron who is in the large, colorful and artistically-tiled kitchen full of unusual liqueurs made from local fruit, open and airy, clearly the source of many a tasty European- inspired African meals. Anne immediately welcomes me as a peer crone Wild Woman/Goddess and takes me on a tour of her five bungalows, each one with its unique name, style, materials, size and feel. Tok-Tok is the 2-story skinny pyramid I had seen from far away. We enter through the little door made of black-striped mangrove wood. I fall in love. Up we climb to the lookout tower bedroom with a 360-degree view of the ocean, the rice fields, the village and the dunes. The large flap windows open to the outside and are supported by a piece of wood, simple, allowing the fresh breezes to fill the room and remind you where you are.
Oxun, the African entity, is the name of the bungalow whose grey straw roof continues down to the sandy ground like a big round A-frame. We have to duck to enter through the little hobbit door which leads us into, once again, an irregularly-shaped room for three. The walls all have different shapes, angles, nooks, niches and windows, framed with all sorts of woods from the area. I later find out from Julio, the self-made master builder, that he and Anne had a ball deigning and building this maze of happy huts. It has now become a 40€ a night getaway for the Senegalese progressive elite, coming back to their roots and titillating their Souls with creative living with ease. She has outdoor living rooms of purple and pink-pillowed couches, cozy wooden armchairs and perfect WIFI coverage. Her domain is a kid’s dream playroom. Little doors, stairs leading to small loft spaces, random shelves in all shapes and sizes, oddly-shaped windows and all with very customized woodwork that looks like it took forever for all its personalized details. She confirms the contrary however...only 6 years to make this Happy Hippy Haven a reality out of a barren sandy hill. That is why my Journey needs a limit so I too can have the time needed to sprout my Ultimate Ecovillage Creation.
Anne hears about my mission and practically jumps on me to build her her next dream vision: her house in the shape of a termite mound, `all out of red clay. Hmmmmm, I take a big breath before responding. With my CruzinCobGlobal team (Viva and Joia) in my consciousness, I know I need to
On our return from the village in search of victuals, I take a solo detour up to the magical grounds that call out to me. As I enter, the gardener leads me to the cropped red-headed and rectangular-bespectacled Queen Matron who is in the large, colorful and artistically-tiled kitchen full of unusual liqueurs made from local fruit, open and airy, clearly the source of many a tasty European- inspired African meals. Anne immediately welcomes me as a peer crone Wild Woman/Goddess and takes me on a tour of her five bungalows, each one with its unique name, style, materials, size and feel. Tok-Tok is the 2-story skinny pyramid I had seen from far away. We enter through the little door made of black-striped mangrove wood. I fall in love. Up we climb to the lookout tower bedroom with a 360-degree view of the ocean, the rice fields, the village and the dunes. The large flap windows open to the outside and are supported by a piece of wood, simple, allowing the fresh breezes to fill the room and remind you where you are.
Oxun, the African entity, is the name of the bungalow whose grey straw roof continues down to the sandy ground like a big round A-frame. We have to duck to enter through the little hobbit door which leads us into, once again, an irregularly-shaped room for three. The walls all have different shapes, angles, nooks, niches and windows, framed with all sorts of woods from the area. I later find out from Julio, the self-made master builder, that he and Anne had a ball deigning and building this maze of happy huts. It has now become a 40€ a night getaway for the Senegalese progressive elite, coming back to their roots and titillating their Souls with creative living with ease. She has outdoor living rooms of purple and pink-pillowed couches, cozy wooden armchairs and perfect WIFI coverage. Her domain is a kid’s dream playroom. Little doors, stairs leading to small loft spaces, random shelves in all shapes and sizes, oddly-shaped windows and all with very customized woodwork that looks like it took forever for all its personalized details. She confirms the contrary however...only 6 years to make this Happy Hippy Haven a reality out of a barren sandy hill. That is why my Journey needs a limit so I too can have the time needed to sprout my Ultimate Ecovillage Creation.
Anne hears about my mission and practically jumps on me to build her her next dream vision: her house in the shape of a termite mound, `all out of red clay. Hmmmmm, I take a big breath before responding. With my CruzinCobGlobal team (Viva and Joia) in my consciousness, I know I need to
pause and think REALISTICALLY before uttering anything. What she is
asking for is a cob dome, in which the walls turn into the roof in one fell
swoop. This is something that Nader Khalil does with his serpent-like
Superadobe bags firmed up with barbed wire circling around and around like
making a pot. I know that cob ovens are made this way but they have a sand
form, which clearly we cannot do here. I know the cob can be corbelled little
by little to close the dome...probably. And, finally, with my mentor Michael
Smith’s confirmation, we could also build some kind of wattle framework that
would be grounded deep into the walls and on which we can “daub” our cob
ceiling/roof. I explain to Anne that it could be possible, but either way an
external roof would be requisite here where the downpours come from July
through September and flood the rice fields. The good news, despite my
experience in cob’s termite resistance, is that the sandy underlayment bears
no termites, which bodes well as far as any wood that might be exposed.
Of mud and men. I love this title for my book, which means I can’t stop now. There are more men and there is more mud to discover. What is the connection in terms of me, I am not clear. I AM clear that mud bonds men and women and children when they prepare it for and embark on building a structure together. No question there as my decade of cob workshops attests. As far as my personal discoveries in mud and men, however, let’s see....
I have circled the sun 52 times now. I don’t mind stating my age and am proud of it. People’s reactions differ greatly, from “Wow, you look much younger!” to just accepting the reality. For the most part they are surprised I have boys in their early 20’s. Now, I am going to be totally honest with you guys who have had the wherewithal to follow this story this far.
Like many a woman entering her 5th decade of life I am sure, it’s a trip on many levels. The wrinkles have definitaly set in for good and probably no turning back, unless, like the beautiful 60-year old British-Ghanaian Deanne, living in Abéné, one opts for the neat little face lift visible only with a small 1/2- inch incision next to the ear. Perhaps only a well-trained eye or another crone Goddess would even notice. Many a morning I pull and lift my facial skin towards my ears, eliminating the wrinkled delicate skin under the eyes and the “wisdom scars” next to the eyes and I look 20 years younger. Perhaps if I could do that now, the neurotic changes that have begun to infiltrate my persona with the end of my menses would also be lifted away. Almost like an AA “fake it ‘till you make it” operation.
Of mud and men. I love this title for my book, which means I can’t stop now. There are more men and there is more mud to discover. What is the connection in terms of me, I am not clear. I AM clear that mud bonds men and women and children when they prepare it for and embark on building a structure together. No question there as my decade of cob workshops attests. As far as my personal discoveries in mud and men, however, let’s see....
I have circled the sun 52 times now. I don’t mind stating my age and am proud of it. People’s reactions differ greatly, from “Wow, you look much younger!” to just accepting the reality. For the most part they are surprised I have boys in their early 20’s. Now, I am going to be totally honest with you guys who have had the wherewithal to follow this story this far.
Like many a woman entering her 5th decade of life I am sure, it’s a trip on many levels. The wrinkles have definitaly set in for good and probably no turning back, unless, like the beautiful 60-year old British-Ghanaian Deanne, living in Abéné, one opts for the neat little face lift visible only with a small 1/2- inch incision next to the ear. Perhaps only a well-trained eye or another crone Goddess would even notice. Many a morning I pull and lift my facial skin towards my ears, eliminating the wrinkled delicate skin under the eyes and the “wisdom scars” next to the eyes and I look 20 years younger. Perhaps if I could do that now, the neurotic changes that have begun to infiltrate my persona with the end of my menses would also be lifted away. Almost like an AA “fake it ‘till you make it” operation.
I have lost weight to the point that I am lighter than I was as a senior in high
school when I first got my period and put on 20 pounds in 6 months, taking
me to 140 pounds and more for the next 35 years of my life. The weight I
have levelled out at on this journey of physical workout and camping almost
daily feels healthy. We have been eating mostly vegetarian fare and with little
protein, adjusting to our African environment. I have been influenced by my
son’s lifestyle, as they explore, discuss, experiment with and ponder the best
way to live, especially as it relates to food.
Here in Africa I am still somewhat of a star. The men don’t see my “age” as the White men do. Still, the response to my Being has changed, as I take on more of my mother’s behaviors, with a much lighter touch thank Goddess. This is when I am being unskillful and unaware, but how, when you are travelling with your two yogic sons, can you stay unskillful and unaware for very long. I am proud of the good personal work they are embarking on to better their life experience and, while it helps me tremendously to become a better more successful being on the Planet, there is this fine line I am treading between that Spiritual Journey of learning and growth, and being the Wise Woman/Mother to my boys. It is alot of hard daily work and a consistent meditation practice would be most beneficial and until I am settled somewhere...Goddess help me to make it happen again.
I am getting older physically but the changes will not happen so markedly with the inner work taking place and keeping me positive, trusting, calm, and loving. Basically thinking the best of others and the best of a situation as a first approach replacing the instinctual fear-based reactions I was brought up around and that I re-enacted when married to Jan. It is time to clear it all out. To regain my True Nature and to attract healthy people, healthy events, and healthy work into my Life. And to sink in to a new ambiance as my new normal.
The Aguéne Ship is taking us back to our starting point now. Immense security measures accompany a very rambunctious chaotic-looking departure scene full of dried fish, onions, veggies, bananas, mangoes all heading north to feed the hungry of the desert-like lands above Gambia. We surrender our bicycles to the unknown loading personnel and head to the Waiting Room. About 150 mostly Senegalese travellers are corralled onto the boat where most of us will sit in armchairs all night. Our beloved mats and pillows have been forcibly relegated back to the bicycle “freight”, after pleading with a novice official with a young smirk on his face as he instilled his authority for perhaps a new job description. Another Senegalese traveller with odd fishing equipment is also forced to relinquish it to the freight section. These guys are
Here in Africa I am still somewhat of a star. The men don’t see my “age” as the White men do. Still, the response to my Being has changed, as I take on more of my mother’s behaviors, with a much lighter touch thank Goddess. This is when I am being unskillful and unaware, but how, when you are travelling with your two yogic sons, can you stay unskillful and unaware for very long. I am proud of the good personal work they are embarking on to better their life experience and, while it helps me tremendously to become a better more successful being on the Planet, there is this fine line I am treading between that Spiritual Journey of learning and growth, and being the Wise Woman/Mother to my boys. It is alot of hard daily work and a consistent meditation practice would be most beneficial and until I am settled somewhere...Goddess help me to make it happen again.
I am getting older physically but the changes will not happen so markedly with the inner work taking place and keeping me positive, trusting, calm, and loving. Basically thinking the best of others and the best of a situation as a first approach replacing the instinctual fear-based reactions I was brought up around and that I re-enacted when married to Jan. It is time to clear it all out. To regain my True Nature and to attract healthy people, healthy events, and healthy work into my Life. And to sink in to a new ambiance as my new normal.
The Aguéne Ship is taking us back to our starting point now. Immense security measures accompany a very rambunctious chaotic-looking departure scene full of dried fish, onions, veggies, bananas, mangoes all heading north to feed the hungry of the desert-like lands above Gambia. We surrender our bicycles to the unknown loading personnel and head to the Waiting Room. About 150 mostly Senegalese travellers are corralled onto the boat where most of us will sit in armchairs all night. Our beloved mats and pillows have been forcibly relegated back to the bicycle “freight”, after pleading with a novice official with a young smirk on his face as he instilled his authority for perhaps a new job description. Another Senegalese traveller with odd fishing equipment is also forced to relinquish it to the freight section. These guys are
doing a good job BUT we realize we could have duped them by calling our
mats “prayer mats”, before which the Senegalese surrender every time.
Anything that has to do with prayer, they give full respect to, Muslim or not.
We cautiously approach the Immigration Official taking a breath as he looks
at Viva’s incomplete passport stamps and is duped for a moment. Viva plays
dumb, passes the guy over to his Mom, and I reassuredly fumble my way
through his questioned look....and we move on. Phew!
The boat ride is calm, cool and collect, though it would have been excellent ot have our sleeping mats for sleeping and stretching outside under the starry ocean skies. Travelling like this is a constant trial and error and trying to get it righter and righter, learning to trust intuition. Viva has excelled at this and Joia and I trust him immediately most of the time since he has proven to be right on. I, on the other hand, have a ways to go.
The boat ride is calm, cool and collect, though it would have been excellent ot have our sleeping mats for sleeping and stretching outside under the starry ocean skies. Travelling like this is a constant trial and error and trying to get it righter and righter, learning to trust intuition. Viva has excelled at this and Joia and I trust him immediately most of the time since he has proven to be right on. I, on the other hand, have a ways to go.
