Senegal: The Final Stretch -March-May 2016

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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-

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

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.

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

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.

Senegal Round 2-Nov2015-March2016

SENEGAL ROUND 2



I feel excited to watch Viva experience Africa. So much personal stimulation the second you step out the door. People trying to sell you stuff every second, particularly in the tourist locations, and then the little shaved heads begging for alms for their marabout or spiritual teacher’s new car (they say). I am surprised at his first reaction. “I like it! I like the aliveness of the streets, like a continuous flea market. Everyone hangin’ out and selling random things.” The disgusting pollution spewing out of almost every non-wealthy person’s car gags my poor lungs. Black soot coughing out of the large trucks with each accelerator push, on their low tires with the rear chassis slanting down towards the ground like it’s on its last run. Brown soot shooting out of the over-charged mini buses called “clindos” (?) with their hangers-on in the back announcing the stops to the driver by banging on the windows are the major danger to us cyclists. They don’t use their rear view mirrors to make random sudden stops. Yesterday I almost hit a fancy large shiny black SUV whose driver, a young and slick-haired Senegalese woman, decided to swerve to the right into a driveway at her own timing oblivious to the rest of the world. “Heeeeeey! ATTENTION!!!!” I shouted at her coming within inches of altering her paint job. “Désolée...” she retorted sheepishly. I’m sure it will happen again. I kept going. 

Having my bike in Senegal this time is a treat despite the ferociousness of the Dakar streets. While Viva is enjoying the risk and quick-reacting nerves of steel required to swerve and dodge and weave for your life every moment...like a focused meditation on wheels...I beg to differ. Taking short and shallow breaths while focusing on the exhale, and with a bandana as the first line of defense, I am on survival mode. Like a live computer game, you cannot think of anything else except the movements at hand. I am quite anxious for our big departure day with our packed bikes into the unkown of the Senegal “brousse” or brush. How will the roads be? Where will we sleep? WIll we be safe? Mostly we are told that when we arrive in a village we need to seek the chief and ask him where to sleep for the night. There is no wild camping in Africa. It is not the norm and can subject you to unpleasant experiences, as well as pleasant of course. Most people talk of security issues. I am sure they are few and far between but it only takes one, as I learned in Cabo Verde, to disable your functionality for a while. 

This morning would be the big day no matter what. We had planned to leave the day before and took all day to pack. By 4:30pm we were ready. In 2 hours the sun would go down, which would maybe get us to the end of the never-ending smoggy nightmare of the Route Nationale. And then what??? We easily took Fred and Marianne’s suggestion to stay another night. Of course I knew she would love to delight in my son’s presence for another 12 hours and off they went cooking crêpes together in the kitchen, sharing stories, English and French lessons, and coy smiles. The middle-aged mothers on this journey always fall for Viva. No wonder of course. And Fred and I sit and sing and play “Stairway to Heaven”, “Come Together”, and other American oldies on his funky Alabama prized acoustic guitar. 

Our bikes stayed packed and after half a dozen games of revenge pool while I shoot out my last emails and internet work...we are all on our way, helmeted, sunglassed and bandana-ed. Viva and I start slowly and carefully, adhering to Fred’s directions and also adjusting them to the reality of our needs, wavering between side streets of red sandy laterite, wide sidewalks that start and stop, and the shoulder on the busy road. We have to take the best option which is constantly changing. Our direction is basically the Route Nationale for the next 2 hours, the busiest and dirtiest 15-mile stretch of Senegal road, in which the most horrible enemy are the black-smoke spewing trucks. Without them the air would probably be 75% cleaner. We silently move along, me constantly checking for Viva in my rear view mirror, dressed in neon orange for maximum visibility, we are a bulky sight. We follow the wide busy road as directed until we come to what seems like a total standstill of a zillion cars waiting at the worst intersection of the way, a multicircular highway interchange where we will have to insert ourselves very carefully into the mayhem. I decide to veer off the Route Nationale at this point and into the village that lives next to it to find an alternative to getting to the other side. RIding with the others who decide the same, on bumpy sandy terrain, even more careful now of stopping vehicles, opening doors, sudden pedestrians and potholes...we get to have another experience now. Everyone is yelling out at us, ogling our unusual appearance, trying to pretend grab us, etc. This is biking through African villages we would learn. No way around it. We are vulnerable and we are white. 

As all good things happen when you are open and in the flow and on your Heart Journey following The Call...Fred, our gracious Warmshowers host who picked us up when we arrived at midnight in Dakar with bikes and bags, told me about Village Pilote. Within minutes of hearing about this organization focused on "natural building" located on the path of our (my son Viva and I) first bike ride through Senegal, I felt driven to see it. Looking it up online I was filled with even more interest. But its 2-D representation did nothing to prepare me for the grand Soulful experience of spending a few days with the 120-strong Community of 3 to 25-year olds and their Counselors, Teachers and Mentors living near the famous Lac Rose (Pink Lake) region 50km north of Dakar.

I contacted the French expat Director Loïc the day of our departure who, upon hearing of my own mission of COB trainings in Senegal, came right over with map in hand to introduce himself, shake my hand, and invite Viva and I to stay there and share meals with the group. As always happens when 2 or more Eco Freaks get together, vibrant conversations of compost toilet cover material, earthen building styles and the latest on cob oven fuel sources ensued. I knew I was in the company of my global "family".
 

After 2.5 hours on the most blasphemously long, polluted and dangerous road I've yet biked, the 15-mile stretch of "Route Nationale" that is absolutely (they say) unavoidable when wanting to leave Dakar and go anywhere else except for the airport...Viva and I finally lowered our physical, emotional and face guards after turning left onto the smaller offshoot towards Keur Massar and the smaller offshoots taking us to the tourist-heavy Lac Rose area, the famous tourist destination of red/pink salty waters that would herald

our hosts for the night...the Village Pilote. As we get farther from the Route Nationale and Dakar, the roads get smaller, quieter and obviously more enjoyable. Ahhhh, we can breathe now. Thankfully Senegal has no mountains or climbs. Flat and no wind. Yes! And the roads are perfect thus far, relatively new it seems. We stop in Naga for some thrist-quenching local coconuts, a papaya and green-skinned sweet grapefruit. Ibou rides up on his moped luring us to his Arc en Ciel Hotel for the night, only $30 for a room with air-conditioning, TV, swiming pool, etc. And can I help his Youth Center learn cob? I take his number in my phone, the best way I have learned to end the interaction. It is a guarantee to them of continued contact. 

The villages became smaller and more bearable (only 20 rather than 50 onlookers surrounded our bikes in excitement) until we arrived at the source of all of Senegal's salt. The water looks red because of an algae that lives in it, the only thing that can withstand the ridiculously high salt content. Flurries of "salt flower" foam line the shore as do repetitive mounds of greyish-white salt being packed into bags for shipment.  When we arrive at the Lake, as expected, we are met with a slough of the ever-present vendors, laden with bracelets, beads, steer skulls, salt, whatever works. They can be so pushy and tiring. Do they have any idea of their impact? We are learning that NO works very fast because it is a word they do not use in Wolof. “No” is impolite and offensive. When you mean “no” you say “merci” and look down. I will try it. If you actually say “No”, it is a rare occasion, people will just walk away. But you have also hurt their feelings. The Lake water is literally red with salt. Mountains of white and grey salt line the sides of the lake. Men fill polyurethane bags with this precious salt and Viva and I ride on the relatively smooth but bumpy road between the salt mounds. The sun is setting soon and we know not how much more road and what kind of road lays ahead. A gaggle of young girls spot us and decide to run next to us for a mile or so with ease. This is a favored sport. 

We get to the end of the Lake and find a stray biker who guess answers our destination direction. Eventually between questioning passing locals, trying to make out GoogleMaps on our phone and using common sense with regards to the ocean direction....we were on our way to the Village Tremplin in the distance. We find another one. We use GoogleMaps to get an idea of where we are. Between them all we decide to head inland up the shell-encrusted road towards a settlement on the hill ahead. The sun is setting behind the palms, the ocean waves break in the distance, we find a new guide on his mountain bike, Mamadou, excited to accompany us the rest of the way. 

We arrive at Deni Biram Ndao at dusk, led by a local co-biker Mamadou, hesitating to stop lest we get surrounded once again with a team of short onlookers. The sun is set now and the last minutes of light accompany us to the Tremplin Village of red mud brick buildings that announce adobe land. A big smile of happiness and relief fills me with joy to have found my brethren here in Senegal: natural builders, no concrete. Immediately the feel is different. We arrive to a scene of 30 male sandy soccer players of all sizes in the center of the village. Noone cares we are there. They are used to the visitors. Giorgui the 2nd in charge comes to welcome us. He shows us to our room in the main red building with a giant thatch roof. It is dark and the generator is not working and they don’t have enough solar panels to light the night. He tells us that when we hear the triple clang of a metal spoon on a tire rim, dinner is served. Viva and I have been pedaling for 6 hours or
so, with minor food stops, and we happily go bucket shower ourselves and prepare for a wonderful dinner experience Senegalese-style. 

 

There are about 100 youth here of all ages. All of them have been found on the streets lost, away from their families and up to no good. They come from Dakar neighborhoods known for street kids and have been brought here if they passed the first three steps of showing willingness. Here they are in a safe, joyful, healthful setting which is also strict, regulated, organized and focused. They get loving teachers and counselors who teach them life skills, work skills and academic skills...all on this large piece of red sandy land dotted with trees. This is the brainchild of Loïc Treguy, a French expat, who has garnered the support of France, the US and some other organizations to create a beautiful model of community, brotherhood, love and support. Here the boys all work and play together within the strict rules of the village and receive all they need to grow into confident, respectful, hard-working and inspired individuals. They receive schooling and practical specialized skills in the area of their choice: woodwork, electrical, metal, masonry, cooking and general cleaning services. Viva and I are blown away at the fluid and happy flow of life here at Le Tremplin. With only red mud (laterite) brick buildings built by the youth specializing in "masonry", compost toilets that are emptied daily into a big hole in the ground, shower water lifted up from a well, a huge commercial kitchen that is spotless, this simple place with a vegetable garden and sheep is a wonderful model for the world. I imagine grabbing the inner city kids in the US and placing them in somewhere like this, even bringing them to Africa, would heal them quickly. Lastly, the food we ate out of a large communal round silver dish in a circle of 7 spoon-ready mouths each meal , quietly and respectfully, was phenomenal. Perhaps the love with which it is made adds to the deliciousness. No desserts but noone is complaining. They are happy with so little. Few have phones, but they have each other. Love, companionship and mentorship. We have been well-taken care of here. Kindness abounds. A deaf youth follows us and stares, picking up all the information he can. Apparently he is one hell of a rapper, despite his inability to hear. We watch him beat rhythms on the walls, unconsciously. One of his "brothers" passes him with a supportive pat on the back. Viva and I decide we will be back to build a giant cob oven with these boys. It is hard not to come back here. There is so much LOVE in the air. My Heart is touched. Bless this place. 

Tonight the moon looks almost full. It’s an African night, warm and breezy, and many critters are singing and buzzing to the moonlight. Inside Viva has bats above him and mice below him. Creepy. In my tent I am safer. I am tucked into the sandy opening behind the bushes for a little morning privacy. We have been well-taken care of here. Kindness abounds. A deaf youth follows us and stares, picking up all the information he can. Apparently he is one hell of a rapper, despite his inability to hear. We watch him beat rhythms on the walls, unconsciously. It is all so very cool. 

The clang clang clang goes off at 7am...rise and shine time at the Tremplin Village. The big boys are up and breakfasting on a sweet white rice porridge with spoons in hand. Viva and I miss the early morning shift and make it in time for the little people’s breakfast. The large communal 7-person platters are brought out. A new dish, a new recipe to taste. The boys all wait for the elder to begin and that would be me. I wish them “Bon Appetit”

and they all begin spooning their sections of the circle respectfully and with excitement at the first sweet taste. It is my first time with the “young ones”. They are so cute and quiet and eat alot slower. Their tasks and work are not as physically demanding as they are in school all day and the 2-foot diameter platters fill alot of food. Viva goes around finishing up the leftovers, lest anything go to waste. Usually not much does in Africa I am learning. Even the darned cement bags get reused to wrap roasted peanuts in. 

Today begins another leg of our bike journey into the unknown. I am anxious as I am not sure where we will end up sleeping tonight and what the road will be like. But when we tke it one day at a time and do the footwork it always works out. The first 5 miles are a not- very-fun mix of rideable and unrideable sand road. It is the red laterite mixed with sand and interestingly enough the parts that look sandier are in effect more rideable than the ones that look harder. We are moving along slowly and steadily and dismounting what seems like every 5 minutes. The consolation is that this section is short we are told. And soon enough we arrive at the major intersection with the asphalt smooth road we are seeking to Mboro. We sit in the shade to chomp on some local grapefruits and raw peanuts, trying to blend in to the village and not draw attention. It kind of works, save for the elder artist sitting amongst his wooden sculptures hanging from a tree who is toothlesly screaming out at me about a Mme Martine and the tree with shade. We ignore him as does another woman passing by. Elders everywhere have a license to looniness and an excuse for their crazed outbursts. 

Our 30-mile ride today is of the finest kind with smooth new road surface the whole way! We pass a village every 5-10 minutes and must respond to the little people shouting “Toubab” and “Donne moi de l’argent!” with handwaves and greetings. “White person” and “Give me money!” is what they have been taught to yell at us. What a joke! Joke’s on us too! Since we fly by we don’t really care because we will not see them again and we are a rare sight. Besides it beats the actual rest stops where we are surrounded by 20-30 little people at all times. They just stand and stare and talk about us in front of our faces. They watch our every move and comment. I so darn wish I understood and could blurt things out. Our latest tactic is making scary faces and growling at them, which send s them running. So does whipping out my Iphone camera to take their photos. It’s like the Devil they have been told by their parents, taking their Soul. 

Did you know a sheepskin can be used in strips as a liner inside a bike tire to protect your tube from punctures? Today Viva and I learned the African version of our Western plastic- dependent tire liners from Abdul, an elder bike and moped mechanic who walked me briskly over to some young decorous wife selling her husband’s shorn and dried sheepskin for between 2500 and 3000 FCFA, the equivalent of $4 to $5. Clearly we were excited to be doing things local-style and learning new tricks. Apparently even a nail will bend when trying to pierce the tough hide of a sheep or goat. 

Viva and I are gettin’ the hang of biking through Africa or at least Senegal. The villages are so laid back, everyone doing their tasks in a slow and languid stroll through the sandy streets impacted with garbage. Everyone knowing what everyone is doing and where to go for whatever need we have. Hungry for a Thiebou Djen? Right over there behind the

orange curtain. Need a fresh bissap or bouille drink? Over in that store. A place to sleep for the night? Let me call my friend. Our best moments are when we score a delicious meal for 75 cents in some humble non tourist-focused hole-in-the-wall restaurant at a market. With two naturally-pressed or blended juices for another 30 cents and we are flyin’ high. You can definintely eat well for $2 per day. The taste is good. As for the contents? Better not to look too closely and focus on the taste. As long as your belly accepts it and the bowels are happy... you’re doin’ ok. 

 

African villages are more lively and well-rounded than European villages due to the full spectrum of ages. The small villages are basically the template for Euro-American ecovillages or any worldwide villages for that matter, it’s just that there is more of a big family/community feel in Africa. 

For us as bike travellers in Africa, or more accurately Senegal, we benefit from the fact that movement into Nature beyond the village boundaries stops at dusk. Senegalese seem to be afraid of being out and about alone in the bush at night. They are afraid of evil Spirits that could hurt them if they are alone. In Africa, alone is not the norm. Alone and Space is not something people seek here. This is one of the major cultural clashes I experience here. You start to get used to being polite and greeting a hundred people a day including dozens of kids. It’s just what you gotta do lest people see you as impolite and begin to shun you. 

Viva and I have begun to get into the bike travelling and bush camping groove. Around dusk we get far enough from the villages that noone would be walking around in the tree and bush-protected area off the road we will discreetly call home for the night. I am pretty sure that were someone to spot our lights in the forest, or a fire, they would run in fear from the Spirits having a campfire...which serves us well. In the US I would be more fearful in ceratin States of armed and/or drugged loonies in the woods. In Europe there would be none of that. So pick your Land. 

The unsuspecting thorns have gotten Viva’s tires up to three times a day now and he is becoming an expert at tube repairs and changes. The $5 sheepskin liners have proven themselves invalid and we await Barbara’s US-sourced beefy plastic liners to save the day. Besides that and shitty sand-stricken roads we are thoroughly enjoying biking in Africa so far. 

Yene Kao and the Cob Workshop
Sunday November 30 is my big arrival back in Toubab Dialaw where I left from in June this year. Now I am an “old” friend. Greetings will take more time. But nothing has changed. It feels nice. The Mamas on the beach give me big bear hugs. I am warmly welcomed despite leaving under not always the clearest of situations. An oven job not totally finished, plaster that fell off, weird vibes with another one due to cultural confusion, and of course

the multiple lovers from the same Lebou tribe. I guess it’s all forgotten by now. I am so excited to have Viva here this time. But all he cares about is getting to the site and our new home for the month, another 3 miles away. So off we go to Yene Kao to wrap up this leg of our journey. 

Hans and Roos are my clients and the hosts of the workshop. A young attractive and energetic couple from Holland, they have opted to settle in Yene Kao on a small piece of land right in the middle of everything with barely any privacy. They are here to create artistic beautiful public spaces from abandoned garbage heaps, with the locals. They live from fundraising donations and now, through the graciousness of Hans’ folks in the Netherlands, have a piece of land o build a home on. Back in May we serendipitously met and converged on a workshop plan to build their 25m2 guest house in a month. Six months later the guest house plan turned into their house plan, meaning the group would now attempt to complete a structure twice as big in the same amount of time. With half the crew being rugged Senegalese builders and half being white women of all ages plus the vegan Sicilian Lorenzo, the workshop is bound to be a fun-filled environment. 

Yene Kao is the real deal. We are the only White people around. Sand-filled streets, concrete block housing, late night food stalls, garbage everywhere, fish remains and shells piled high, Mosque chants on the wind, long colorful pirogues looking alot like Native American canoes, beautiful warm ocean, women selling tiny amounts of peppers, peanuts, spices, coffee beans, tea, veggies and fly-ridden drying fish or chunks of meat. Second hand clothing from Europe and the US piled high on tables and on the ground attract the young and fashionable and even me. The young girls walk with their arms around each other and call out to me: “Toubab, comment t’appelles-tu?” I get tired of the same old questions day in and day out. I think of alternative responses. Living here long-term I would really be in a different relationship with them all, but still it’s tiring to be White in Africa. 

Each morning I rise early while it’s still dark. The prayer calls are my alarm. I love that they start when I already want to get up. I sit up in my mosquito net tent and meditate with the chanting in the background. Each day it’s different. A different voice and a different chant. I wish I could have a peek in there but have not ventured out yet. As a non-Muslim I am not welcome they say. As a menopausal women I am. Whatever, I’m not that interested. At dawn I head onto the beach alone. The only figures I see are the long- robed Imams or spiritual older men with caps on and prayer beads in hand. Clasping their hands behind their back they pace along the ocean’s edge probably reciting prayers in their heads. I also see older women in their layers of cloth and headpieces pacing as well, slowly. And the other morning I saw two women remove their clothes except for a sarong on the lower body and enter the water to duck under the waves and wash themselves. I have never seen that before. Here in Yene Kao it is rare to see someone swimming in the ocean, especially women. You wonder why. It’s so hot and the ocean so refreshing. Is it that is is so dirty with littler? From outside it looks pretty clean and I hope that is truly the case. But seeing all that has been washed up from the ocean on the sand’s edge, you gotta think there’s still tons being washed around in there under you. I try not to think about it and when I succeed, it ll seems like Paradise. 

Our family for the month is a wonderful group of women plus Lorenzo and now recently Bosco, a young male university student here to get practical experience to back up his studies. Once again I feel grateful and honored to have the opportunity to teach cob to willing students, travelling for days to come learn with me. God had truly shown me never- ending support for following my passion, and now, the true calling has presented itself with an opportunity to show up. My dream of being an Ecovillage Designer has now come to fruition as I am being asked to design a huge project on my favorite Cabo Verdian island where I had the best sexual heart affair in a while with my young Zeca. So Goddess is taking care of two things at once. My Love Body Desire and my intellectual physical work opportunity to provide me with more income. How much should I ask for? I look forward to this new Challenge to keep me awake and effortful. 

Africa or Senegal is becoming more familiar now. I feel more relaxed about it this time. I have seen and lived more authentically too. I still have two more vacation bike rides to choose. Life is good for me. I miss my two other sons greatly and regret not being closer to their lives. I also feel sadness to not be in on Yvonne and Eddie’s well-being and Eden and Ellen. Jackie my sister is by now quite the stranger. I cannot maintain a sustainable relationship with her. She is not at the level of evolution that would allow it to work. Oh well. I miss my Dad alot and hope he is in a good place. Peaceful. Even Jan is in my Heart always. I hope we see each other again one day soon. 

I feel and see my skin changing, loosening, wrinkling and it makes me concerned about the fact that it has nothing to do with my fitness and health. My body is still and always in good shape but up close the skin is not the same. Oiling it more, drinking more? I cannot reverse it but here on in oil it more. Tonight is Saturday. I am laying low. I dont need to be out and about anymore. But tomorrow is Winter Solstice. We will celebrate. 

Biking South with VIva
A full moon night in January. Viva and I have biked 3 days from Toubab Dialaw, our Senegal base, and have found our home for the night in an abandoned bungalow in front of the beach. Another large complex of abandoned bungalows left behind. An ambitious project that fell through. That is why I advocate starting small, humble, low-cost...and then let the thinggrow by itself organically. 

Africa. Senegal. It is wonderful to see Viva feeling more and more comfortable with the cultural greeting norms, speaking in French, eating in a communal plate, and even using his smattering of Wolof. And it’s only been 7 weeks. What is amazing is that most people take him for my husband. Clearly I am flattered, and sorry for him. But the Senegalese don’t have a blockage around ageas we do. The young men actually appreciate the older women as a rule here, but that only goes for the Toubab women. You definitely do not see them with older Senegalese women. Speaking personally it feels natural to me. 

We just spent 3 days camped in the sandy busy courtyard of Yacou’s family compound in the depths of Nianing village. We push our bikes through the sand streets that wind beween unfinished concrete block shacks, spontaneous garbage dumps, construction debris, reed-fenced homes, fancier Toubab homes, tiny stores with their rebar-welded protective bars, male seamstress businesses and awe-inspiring baobabs everywhere. I am pooped and getting impatient with the distance while trying to be polite with our host Yacou. We met him in Toubab Dialaw, a self-made shoe and bag artisan who produces original designs in bright reds, yellows and greens and made to order. Viva had him make him flip flops with crossover straps in an X-shape in the colors of the Senegal flag. He sat there on his stool with his special tools and materials cutting out the soles, glueing them together, sewing his trademark braids along the edges, and making it all nice and tight and strong. All day he worked on the sandals, in front of the ocean, while doubling as the guardian for Nabou’s restaurant. Yacou has a beautiful calm energy. He is respectful and self-motivated. He reminds me of my sons, the artists. His birthdate of September 20th rings a loud bell for me as I am his polar opposite, March 20. Normally there is juice between us. I am watching and feeling. I am not naturally attracted to him, but there IS something. He has a deep strength and self-knowledge which I like. He is at peace with himself. He has no apparent ego. He is not aggressive at all and is present. I feel it would take a long journey to grow the attraction, but could be very good for me. His brother Pablo kicks my butt with his gait. Sex is just so powerful a force in bringing people together. I watch his strong fit physique slink across the courtyard and try to undress him. Can he feel it? Does he do the same? He is a Dragon. A Taurus Dragon. His firm large hand shaking mine tells all. I know he will make love to me and satisfy me. I am thankful to have someone to fantasize about again. Been a while. While Yacou may make the better lover in the end, with his caring and compassionate way, he does not trigger the energy as Pablo does. To each his own. And then there is their 70-year old father Omar, wise and charming and a lead djembe drummer. He may be the best of the three in bed, with his focus on connection before physical sensations. The whole family does it for me. Must be a karmic thing.
We spend three days lolling about in their courtyard, waiting for the communal meals to come out from the smoke-infested “kitchen” with nary an exhaust hole. Poor Aisatou seems to be the Cinderella of the household. I learn that her husband, the eldest son of Omar, brought her here from Casamance, introducing her into his family’s home where she will always be an outsider and as such, akin to the maid. It’s quite appalling but she is too smart to let it go unnoticed and without a plan. Day in and day out she is the only one sweeping the grounds in the morning, washing the bathrooms, washing the clothes, preparing the smoky wood fire for the meals and the meals as well. She is also responsible for cleaning up the dishes, going for well water 10 times a day on her head, and all this with her chubby boy Moussa on her back and little 4-year old Awa trailing along.. There are 8 and sometimes 9 other people onsite. It is appalling and when I address her she helplessly breaks out in complaints and excitement at finding an ally in her struggle. Even her baby is being alienated and not held by the others while she does her chores. The mother and two sisters-in-law, just like in Cinderella, walk around with their babies taking care of their own persoal needs only it seems. Who do I address about

this injustice? It’s not my business for sure but I feel obligated to a mistreated sister. I don’t know the whole story but can see unfairness in front of my eyes. Aisatou tells me she will escape as soon as Awa’s school is out and head back to Casamance where her mom lives. She puts her finger to her lips to signal that mum’s the word. It’s our secret. And to save up money for the transport she will sell shrimp here, secretly. Viva and I wonder when she will find the time to do it. She is happy to have found a friend in me. I suggest to her that she go on strike and object to doing certain things. She says she is scared of the matron of the houselhold, namely her husband’s mother, Awa, who wll say mean things about her. I tell her: “So what!” I see her dark unrelenting eyes thinking on it. I don’t like the fact that this family behaves so progressively, open, and even worldly all the while contributig to the inferiority of women. The other day someone else, I don’t recall who and where, said that women were inferior and that’s he way it is. They must do the work of the household. Aisatou and many others comoplain about how the men sit around, smoke, talk and watch and do nothing. No wonder the one man needs 4 wives and the wife only needs one man. The women here are just fine on their own and with each other and are sometimes very happy for the man to be away with his other wives to give them a break from serving him. 

Entering the Sine Saloum World Biosphere Reserve
Funckin’ A. My fears of the unknown that lies ahead biking through Africa lessen each moment I am blissfully riding in full-on natural areas far from villages and far from asphalt on serene laterite-packed smooth roads. With ease I must add. Some of the European off-road riding was way worse. Every 15 minutes we need to walk the bike through a patch of loose sand but we are getting used to it and it’s all part of the flow. The African bike journey flow. As long as the end is in sight we bear it better and better each day because the payoff is grand. A rundown “bush taxi” or “mini van” loaded with rooftop goods or passengers races by every 20-30 minutes, blinding and dumbing us for the time it takes the sandblast to settle again. We bear it happily. The payoff is grand.

Flamingoes, wild ones, soak their spindly legs in the distance. Lone baobab trees become scarcer, like small islands of vegetation in the vast sea flats we bike through today. Suddenly the ocean waves appear and we orient ourselves again, yup, headin’ south to land’s end, until the Gambian border. Beyond land’s end, a host of well-recommended addresses await us: Nodjor Island, Bassoun Island, Island, etc. We are to reach them by “pirogues”, the curved and colorful fishing canoes labeled with its owner’s or sponsor’s name that are unique to Senegal. The word Senegal even means “pirogue”. 

Starting today all is new for me, and I learn to enjoy the mysterious adventures ahead, step by step or pedal by pedal. Here they say “Ndanka Ndanka” which means little by little. With each day’s blessings and gifts my trust grows. Trust that all is well and Great Spirit is watching over us. Trust that the World is a beautiful and safe place, including the

people. I actually have less issues with Nature, which is scarier for the locals here. They feel safer with people and I feel safer with Nature. Viva and I camp each night in a new spot we find around dusk, the time when everyone heads close to home, leaving us in peace. Last night it was a great mango tree in a hidden nook that watched over us as the great orange moon came up through the brush. The night before it was Baidi, the self- appointed Serer guardian that gave us the thumbs up to lay down our heads in the abandoned bungalow on the beach, belonging to some unknown investor of 20 years ago, who could house several villages with his concrete oceanfront studios. Tonight....quién sabe? For now, in this moment, our faces beam with glee at our first naked beach romp since arriving in Africa. Taking our midday pause off of the alternating long white, red and brown “piste” that will take us to Djiffer, land’s end, we walk our bikes through the salt flats to a lone prickly bush on the beach. With no humans visible for as far as we can see, this is a first. We have the whole beach to ourselves and the whole ocean for that matter. The bliss is endless. We rip our sweaty dirty bike outfits off to our most favorite state of being in Nature. Finally a clean beach, clean water and noone around to stare, ask questions, hang around. Ahhhhhh, it takes an effort ot get away from people in Africa, and when you do, you get a whole lot of BIG EXPANSE with comfort and ease. 

 

Palmarin Coast
Mealtime in Senegal is not a solo thing, ever. The spoons are handed out, the large round silver platter is placed on the ground or a low table, people take their spots on the ground or low stools and chairs or in squat mode, and usually once the elder begins with “Bismilla”, the eating begins. The first taste sets the mood. Is it Thiebou Djen today? Mafé? Domada? Supakanja? Everyone has their favorite and their favorite veggies and fish. Some take spicy pepper condiment, like Viva, and some take extra sauce. Full focus and attention is on the food. Not much talking. It tastes best when it is after a hard morning’s work, like out cob building. Taste buds are virgin and fresh. Relaxation fills the body. The meal is a wonder drug of satisfied desires. 

Sometimes for us Toubabs, we have to really stay focused on the triangular section in front of us, lest certain of our mealmates’ habits turn off our appetite. At Nabou’s one day, I was pushed over to the “better” chicken meal. As the guest I had to accept and crawled over to a brand-new untouched dish of chicken, rice and veggies. I have to admit it was a nice change of pace from the eternal fish and rice. However, my new mealmate was a 7-year old Pippy Longstocking-type who began fondling and tugging at the chicken and generously throwing me pieces with her greasy licked fingers. I tried to remain unperturbed discreetly returning the favor. Soon she had the whole carcass in the air tossing and turning it to find the remaining shreds of flesh, chewing loudly with her big white teeth protruding from her expressive mouth. That was the last straw. I put my spoon down against the platter, the sign for “I’m done”, and crawled back to Nabou, the big African Mama with the front space between her “happy teeth”. Forever giggling and

sending out love from her large rotund breasts that fed 7 children and now a proud and successful businesswoman, Nabou is a main figure of respect and female modelling in Toubab Dialaw. She runs her restaurant like a star New York City restauranteur, dressing up in her latest bright-colored boubou, welcoming her guests with big voracious hugs, free drinks and other favors.
When I first arrived back in Toubab Dialaw, Adama, one of my beach mama grlfriends, led me to her “sister” Nabou, who took me into her floormat “parlor” to negotiate on how she could get a cob oven and I could get fed and housed for a week. We went back and forth in true businesswoman-style, each one trying to get a little advantage and convince the other of surrendering to her generosity. Our edges got closer and closer, punctuated by pauses as we considered the flexibility of our bottom lines, checking in with our minds and hearts until we met on common ground. Big hugs and smiles flew back and forth as a new Senegalese-American sisterhood was born...love beyond cultural differences, sister to sister, heart to heart, soul to soul. 

All week long the women peeked and prodded as the oven began looking like an oven. Little by little Aimee, Nabou’s daughter, could not help but get into the muddy straw mix with Gorgui, my handsome student I had met on the beach in Yene Kao. Love is so easy on a tarp mixing cob together, building walls, plastering side-by-side....the conversations become more open, flowing, and true when there is a secondary activity going on. Something productive, beautiful, and satisfying done in community creates a deep bond that is so innately needed by Humans everywhere. Here in Africa, women sit together to process and cook food, do each other’s hair, sell things. Men repair and sew fishing nets, fish, build, sew clothes, drum, gather and bunch straw for roofing, watch people go by, pray and of course everyone eats as one. Cob Building is very African in that way and works well in Africa where it comes naturally, but really everywhere. After all we are all Human Beings, though some of us more individualistic than others. But even the individualistic societies love togetherness, for a defined and limited purpose, after which they like to go back to their solitude to reflect. So in the end the Cob Build works for everyone.
Everywhere Viva and I are travelling there is interest in cob. Here an oven, there compost toilets, here a house, there a bungalow. We could be working full time at each stop. I am really enjoying seeing Viva blossom here. Whenever he is invited to share a meal he jumps in like an African, and even prefers the communal meal to the individual plates now. He reaches out to say “Nangadeff” with a handshake, introducing himself to anyone he crosses paths with. As we bike by he yells out “Bonsoir” at any time of day. He doesn’t even mind being surrounded by endless throngs of little people anymore, figuring out creative ways to break up the dynamic of “Toubab, Toubab, donne moi de l’argent...” and all of its variations. Now it’s me that steers the other way lest they all come running my way. 

Three days on the Palmarin coast were the peak of our “vacation”. Almost total solitude day after day, with a closed Eco-Resort nearby for showering and drinking, we had the whole beach as far as the eye could see to ourselves 99% of the time. Nude swimming

and sunbathing at our leisure. We barely ate as our lives had come to an easy halt and we dug into the Vision Quest lifestyle. On day 3 we stopped talking and interacting, intentionally creating a bubble of personal timelessness to wallow in without needing to do anything for anyone but ourselves. I love and cherish those days. Sleeping in and in and in, prolonging the dreamstate, stepping out into the sunny day at the slothful hour of 11am, guiltless and free. No-structure day. Hiding out in the tent and wiling away the hours at my own pace and desire. I love those days to nurture and rebirth my Soul. Let the creative juices flow. Love Myself. 

Day 4 and it’s back to the regimen: wake up, pack up and go. As usual Viva is already packed before I even step out of my tent. I peek out to the sound of the tarp being shaken out. Will I ever be ready first? How much of an effort am I willing to put out. How important is it to me? It is the eternal conflict between travellers, the early risers vs, the sleep-ins, the timely schedule vs. the play-it-by-ear, the 5-hour straight ride vs. the multuple stops, the map users vs. the intuitive flow which includes new acquaintances pulling us here and there. Viva and I try to find a middle ground after another fight on the beach. We will do my time one morning and his time the next. Meaning I have to make an effort to pack it up right away and he has to make an effort to wait patiently. The cool thing about travelling with my son is that we can continue working on our relationship and growing as mirrors without it being an intimate thing. The other side is that everyone thinks he is my husband or boyfriend and so I don’t get to shmooze as much. But on the other hand I don’t have to deal with the unwanted shmoozing and can pick and choose. 

So off we ride along the beach and then into the roadway. Long red dirt road with the usual washboard sections I try diligently to move away from. The houses on each side get bigger and bigger and are clearly Toubab creations. We even pass by an Organic Farmstand with basil, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce and tomatoes. A young dreadlocked French couple has created a paradise homestead here on the peninsula between the open ocean and the Sine River. A greenhouse harbors giant-leafed tomato trees, basil, cukes, lettuce....California-style. I have never seen such healthy green vegetables since I have been here. Jean-Dominique explains that after trying every possible organic solution to the nematode issue here, in which the critter attacks plant roots at an early stage, they have had to create an artificial environment with a concrete pad underlying their own man- made soil mix. I am impressed. Leave it to the Toubabs to recreate their Paradises everywhere. 

It’s still dark out and my rooftop sleep in an apartment complex on the island of Nodjor is rudely interrupted by yet another Imam. A million rooster fans cheer on as the thundering male voice imposes Islamic prayers at 5am. Each place we sleep affords a surprise as to wake-up call, duration, loudness, loudspeaker quality, aesthetics, etc. Palmarin’s mostly Catholic bent meant that we were left free of the early-morning imposition which now, in 99% Muslim Nodjor, swings to the other extreme. The day begins now with a cool crisp 60 degrees at 7:30AM, not a typically-expected West African temperature and very enjoyable, especially for eary-morning exercise. 

Man-woman relations here are a mystery. Just as affection is not shown between man and woman, none is shown between humans and animals either. Donkeys and horses are whipped constantly into action even though the animals do nothing but serve. Sometimes they are loaded with unearthly burdens of concrete bags or sand mountains and asked to pull them through the sand to no avail. In these moments aside from the whipping I see the humans collaborate in helping the donkey out as they all push and pull together in team action. Yesterday young boys raced their donkeys through the palm tree alleys screaming “Atcha, Acha!” Unless tied up, the animals roam around human-like as part of the community. They are left to their own avail to find food and just hang out. The dogs especially seem to not belong to anyone as they serve no function except to protect and defend, which is more a need of the wealthy. The dogs roam in cliques and will often run the beach, sleep, have sex, find food, bully others and live their dog lives on their own, independent of human support. The sheep and goats also fend for themselves. Lucky for them they can feed on garbage heaps, especially paper. I heard it’s the glue that they are addicted to in the cardboard and paper but I guess there is a fibrous element too. Makes it hard to want to eat their flesh. 

Everywhere we arrive there is a need for our services. Ovens, compost toilets, non- smoking stoves, cob houses. It seems the Third World needs these elements badly. Well maybe not the ovens where there is little fuel, but perhaps the work is to develop a solar or solar hot water-fueled oven? I am sure people are working on that somewhere. Everyone wants their own ovens anyway. It’s kind of a human romantic need to be able to cook your daily bread at home. Sell pizzas. Cook a whole sheep till it’s tender. Or your crying baby. Hahaha. Babies don’t cry much here as they are always on someone’s back with their head resting on the back of the Heartbeat. I hear that the Mothers carry them behind to protect them from evil spirits and evil people. While the Senegalese are such kind, generous and seemingly happy folk, they also harbor an innate fear of evil and live by superstitious protective actions daily, most notably wearing the grigri belt of talismans around their waist under their clothes. Babies wear them on wrists and ankles as well. A string of small hand-sewn leather pouches filled with Marabout-chosen and blessed plants, natural objects, prayers, this is the one ubiquitous item you can be sure to find on everyone regardless of creed. This is the Animist thread that binds them, “underneath” the surface. I wonder if the slaves in the Americas wore them. 

So the women fetch and carry the water on their heads daily for the whole family, fetch the wood for cooking, make the fire, buy the food, cook the meals, clean the dishes, wash the clothes, take care of the children and, when they are done, take care of their own personal needs. The men somehow find money, give it to the wife to buy food, wood, clothing and sometimes water, and sit around talking, smoking, watching TV, beating on the drum and having sex with one or more wives. What’s wrong with this picture? Aisatou told me that her nails are falling off and her eyes hurt from all the smoke in the kitchen. The ADJA monosodium glutamate-laced bouillon cubes they use in every meal here burns holes in your sotmach, gives you headached and most recently I learned fucks with your feet. Yet they do not know how to cook without it since they started using it 10 years ago. They feel their meal will taste bad. It gives a very salty and spicy flavor to everything. Many Europeans have told me they get migraine headaches from it. 
 

Viva and I spent the night on a deserted barrier beach island that we were rowed to by Seydou and his buddies for 3€ round trip. Once again we were launched into a Vision Quest as a result of conflict. Viva, in his usual mopy pouty way when he is not happy, refused to talk. Off he walked towards a large shade tree to begin once again setting up camp with what was available. Here we go again. I wondered how long his grudge would last this time. Our old dynamic is slowly dying out as we get closer and closer to nipping it in the bud. Meditation is the key. That mixed wih compassionate communication, the answer to everything. When I am done with this journey I will focus my work on either Poop, Plastic or Communication...or all three. I will have gotten a good idea of what I feel is most needed in the World. 

This morning the sound of women woke me on this deserted island. The tide was at its bottom and they were able to walk over through the shallow water to perform their oyster- picking income activity. Laden with a tub on their head and a long rod with a metal loop on the bottom, they walked in file in the shallow water dressed in a variety of colorful long hand-me-downs. Sometimes it’s so cute to find “University of Wisconsin” or “I’m with Stupid” T-shirts on these unbeknownst Senegalese who continue to use the giveaways from somewhere far far away. I wish I could speak with them in their language. What great stories we could tell each other. For now it’s just LOVE through the eyes that connect us for a moment in time. 

After wiling away the morning hours hungry and timeful, we anxiously await our young piroguier Seydou on the mangrove shore. One pm for him could be 2pm. Darn. The sun is beating down and as I call him a third time this morning, Viva points to the edge of the blue pirogue making its way around the corner. Yes! The two young short muscular lads paddle us to the other side, only 200 feet away and against the current and wind. They will make $3.50 for both trips, going out and coming back. As we near the opposite shore they are pointed to somewhere in between the two groups of outhouses that stand tall on posts about 10 feet above the water and 20 feet out from the shoreline. Men are walking with their plastic multi-colored butt-washing tea kettles along the plank towards the makeshift metal-walled toilets. Viva and I are sickened. Why are they aiming the pirogue to the “poop beach” between the women’s and men’s toilets? Whose idea was it anyway to build toilets in the ocean where people swim and fish? The tide goes out and comes in and everything gets spread out and well, disappears to somewhere I guess. It’s surprising that people here are not ill from swimming in their feces. I feel sick. 

I think the Africans are the loudest culture, with no sense of the sound and bliss of silence. They do not value aloneness and quiet. Viva and I are in a 20-apartment complex in a wonderfully large corner room with light and windows and a second-story lookout view, for only $8.40 a night plus 3 meals for $1.68 each. Cheapest deal yet. However we soon find out why. The only TV for the whole complex sits on the backside of our wall where the dozen male schoolteachers eat and gather twice a day for hours, chatting away vibrantly as the TV blasts European soccer games in the background. The whole scene gets super lloud with people yelling, debating, shouting at the TV, bellowing, children crying, women shreaking in their high-piched Wolof and Serrer....and all of this happens at the sweet hour of our preferred naptime, after lunch. The schoolteachers have until 4pm and take every last minute in social time, where they get their rest and relaxation. My friend Elisa put it well. Some people get their energy from being alone and others from being together. Just as the TV is turned off and the last sounds trickle off, we look forward to some shuteye...”ALLAAAAAHHHHH AKBAAAAAAR, ALLLLAAAHHHHH AKBAAAAR, ALLAAAAHHHH AAAKBAAAAR!” 
 

The $1.68 3 meals a day plan in the end is quite appropriate. With a Continental-style bread, butter and jam breakfast to soothe our Western palate, we are just teased. Being on the bike trail the bread-based meal does not cut it. But the homemade bissap, bouye and sweet potato jams are unique and new. Anything new to our Africanized taste buds is very welcome. The bright purple bissap color is so appetizing and adds a bit of sour. We wolf down the morning fare and are left hungry. Where are the eggs? Cheese? Avocado? Beans? Rice? Lest we dream of a Mexican Eggs Ranchero breakfast....Our hostess Alimatou is an African European. On the outside she is a devout Nodjorian Muslim woman. Inside she is a fully-educated European with her laptop and busy schedule running around from meeting to meeting in search of her next batch of “development” funds that will sustain her pro-active life here in Senegal. Who knows the actual path of the funds that are earmarked for this developement project and that group, etc.? With us she has cut us a “good deal” because we are “helping” her country. She is clearly used to working with development workers and knows the value of connections. Her own university studies were financed by American and European friends who saw her potential. She is utterly grateful and knows how to make us feel comfortable. The down side of having an intellectual female hostess is that she is not a great cook. As a matter of fact, today she was too occupied to make us food and had her daughter hand-deliver the lunch which was made at her parents’ house. Viva and I had been practically fasting for the last 24 hours on the deserted island. We felt pretty famished and excited for some good Thiebou Djen. Spoons in hand we sprang up from our beds at the sound of light knocking. It was Yatou’s small ten-year old hands bringing us the silver platter from grandma’s. We invited her to share with us but she refuted. She said she had already eaten. No worries. More for us. We sat down on the floor with excitement at eating some lunch and ready to dig in. As Viva revealed our lunch, our taste buds died a little bit. As a matter of fact they went a bit numb and soon it was a toss up between having some food in our bellies, which meant it had to pass by our tongues and mouths first, yeesh!, or possibly waiting for the next opportunity. White room temperature rice with what looked like 4 Tablespoons of a dirt-colored sauce, 1/8 of a potato in one corner and 4 more Tablespoons of fried onions here and there with no apparent love. One fish head and a whole fish of the sort with so many bones you cannot have a boneless mouthful even if you spend minutes cleaning it up. A dab of red tomato skin here and 3 tamarind seeds there. This was probably the worst-lookin’ and tastin’ meal of our whole time in Senegal. So what were we gonna do with it? No wonder Yatou took off quickly. Viva took three reluctant bites and gave up. He placed his bets on seeping his way into the schoolteachers’ communal platter. Spoon in pocket he made his way out the door, feigning interest in the soccer game on TV while keeping an eye on the meal to come. This was the first time that Viva would manipulate his way into a meal. He sat there despondently waiting to be invited in and tried to not look too desperate when someone did. I on the other hand meditatively and graciously continued eating mouthfuls of the rice convincing myself that it was not that bad. Mixing it and cleaning out the questionable unidientifiable tidbits and going to work on the fish flesh, I remained humble. Soon I had almost finished it all. My belly was satisfied at the expense of my taste buds. A few minutes later Viva entered with a huge toothy grin celebrating his success at sitting in on another tasty meal. They had fallen for his game. Well, I guess not “fallen” as the Africans are always happy to share food. That has been a blessing for our budget on this trip. We always know we can get fed. 
 

Child or sheep? Sheep or child? It is literaaly difficult to tell many times. Both are whiny high-pitched frantic yells that turn human and sheep heads. Today Viva and I are hangin’ low and chillin’ in our getaway pad harboring all our bike gear spread out wide all over the room. Tryin’ to recuperate ahead of time for our 4-hour red-eye pirogue journey tonight at midnight, it is impossible to get any shuteye. I have ear plugs in, a pillow wrapped around my head and ears and my arms tightly holding it all firmly against my ears. The mayhem is impossible to deter from entering my eardrums and annoyed head. In this moment I just wanna be gone from Africa. I am longing for Peace, Quietude and Tranquil Nature. I am longing for good food. Variety. Organics. Oil-less. Living here long-term may take years off of my life due to the oily, greasy repetitive ingredients. It’s tiring to have to say hello to everyone constantly. Perhaps I should use Viva’s tactic of minimal response signal. 

We headed out through the sand at midnight, Ibrahim giving my much-needed loaded Bike Friday some rear support as we made our way through the rarely quiet streets of Nodjor, headed to the midnight pirogue back to the mainland. We were told we had a 3-hour, 4- hour and 5-hour journey ahead of us to Sokone. When we arrived at the loading dock, all the best sleeping spots had been usurped by the regulars who were already asleep under their blankets, on their cozy rice bag mattresses well-prepared for the night ride. Oh well. At least we had Ibrahim with us who had alerted the Spanish-speaking captain to our bike cargo and for the second time we deftly unloaded all the gear we had just loaded onto our bikes ten minutes before. Our organized flow made it easier for the boatmen and within minutes the bikes, our gear and ourselves were all neatly packed into different sections of the pirogue. The long hull had a wide middle for the people and cargo and the staff stationed themselves on the front and back ends. I was astonished that there was no light on the boat for other nighttime water travellers to see. We actually would travel in the dark using only night vision for direction and protection. Viva and I snuggled ourselves between our bags and got cozy under the starry sky and perfect breezy airflow. The engine started up and, clearly, this would be our OM hum for the next undetermined number of hours. No way around it with earplugs, pillow, hands. Just surrender. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the coziness but did not sleep for a minute. Viva stayed on his Iphone the whole time. Before we knew it, we had arrived quietly in the night to a totally desolate harbour. 

We reassembled everything and luckily had hosts guiding us to our new headquarters for a day or two. Ibrahima had picked up his nephew Issa, the baker, on Bambugar Island on the way, as the unspoken plan was that he would come and do my cob training because Ibrahima could not. Everything had kind of just happened in a wordless way. They were now hosting us for two days and Issa would get a free training. All good for me. 

The animals. So the donkey, according to VIva’s research on Wikipedia, originates from Africa and is also known as the wild ass. The donkeys are humble and work their ass’ off (ha), it’s true. They carry merchandise, people, carts and all three of the above. The horses do too but I think the horses are more of a status symbol. Did you know that the mule is an infertile offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. Now that’s an interesting sight to behold I’m sure. The animals all roam around free, that is when they are not tied up on a short rope. They are part of the community of people. The donkeys have certain dark brown stripes on their grey stout torsos that differentiate them. The donkeys also have the most emotional outcry of all the animals except for the pig in distress. The donkeys are very social and when they see another donkey and they can’t approach it because they are working, the cry is deeply noticed. They are very expressive and often the only sound heard late in the night. They all seem well-fed in comparison with the often thin horses we see. Perhaps they eat more possible foods. Today I gave a donkey some love as he waited for his cart to be filled up. The owner took a photo of me. You don’t see that often here. Or maybe it happens in private.
My big moment today was turning a family on to how to make and apply an earthen plaster in ten minutes. With the same clay soil they used to make their bricks, they pestled the clay clumps into powder, sifted it through the strainer, added the moistened fresh horse poop, mixed by hand to the right consistency and voilà! I pulled out my handy-dandy plastic yougurt lid trowel, did a quick demo on the wet wall, and watched their jaws drop in sweet pleasure at the beauty and simplicity of my brown-green earthen plaster on their yellow cob brick walls. Enough bla bla bla. It’s the action that makes a difference. It feels very good to have something practical to offer that makes people happy and their lives easier. The degraded cement plaster on cob walls proved my point to them: no cement on clay please! I forgot to have the daughter try it, she seemed the most interested after the dad. I also forgot to document the whole thing because these are the key moments of satisfaction when there is a true trade of need. They gave us water when we were thirsty and we promised a plaster mix the next day. Now they can finish their plaster at anytime they choose, without the need to pay anything! We also learned that the Italians had come through and set up a cheese and yogurt training course here and left the women of the village with everytihg they need to mke their cheese and yogurt to order daily. It was spotless and well-kept. The products were out-of-this world. You have no idea how much

yogurt and cheese you can gorge down after not having it for weeks or months. Such pleasure!
The items of most need to better people’s lives here are: a smokeless cooking stove (women complain of painful stingy eyes), a compost toilet (to keep the water table clean and raw poop off the land), lessons in earthen building, organic agricultural techniques, solar panels with a battery, books, dental floss, toothbrushing and flossing demonstrations.
Back in Toubab
While it feels so good and exciting to be back on the road, the nomad gypsies free and wild in the African bush, making our way at the lowest cost possible ($1-$2/day)...it’s also amazingly relieving to be back in a stable living spot for a while. For the next 3 weeks we are privy to a 3-story modern “toubab” house with multiple terraces overlooking ocean and village and sunset. Like the chief of the village, we sit on our hilltop balcony perusing the locals elow going about their daily activities. We are in the house of a 70-year old Frenchman who is absent and has bestowed his fancy digs to Malick and Elisa, our young hosts, to do as they will. A little luxury is relaxing. Running water, power, beautiful lush green gardens separated by well-designed laterite rock walls, a gas-powered kitchen and a flush toilet all seem extravagant now. How quickly our reference points change! Viva is utterly grateful to have a place with wifi and armchairs and most of all books. Ahhhh, the comfort and safety of a filled bookshelf. But ohhhh the bummer of not reading French.
We settle in to a large and long-uninhabited room lined with red laterite dust. We are blind to it and see only comfort in the firm king-size bed, the shower, sink and wide ledges to pose our scrunched-up belongings ready to breathe and expand. But what pleases me most is the green vegetation, including little grassy enclaves, of the terraced backyard. Ahhh the sweetness of laying naked on the grass again. That is one of my little loves that is absolutely out-of-line here unless you are in a guaranteed hiding spot which is a challenge here.
The prayer call blasts into our ears at 5:30AM. We must be in the direct line of audibility from some Mosque. After 3 months I am still not immune to it but I do manage to fall asleep after it now. It can be quite beautiful if the voice and loudspeaker allow it. Such a beautiful way to start the day, and a reminder to those of us who don’t adhere to the Muslim etiquette. To have Spirituality so obtrusively present that you cannot run from it says something about a country. Viva and I have pledged to meditate for each prayer call 5 times a day for 5 minutes. I mean really, not such a big deal. Right? After doing hour- long Vipssana sits 5 times a day for 9 days....come on. Well we have not managed to keep to our word yet. I am convinced it would change our lives.
Joia Arrives!
I definitely feel blessed that a second son has trekked all the way to Africa to see and be with his Momma. Last night a wonderful open bedtime check-in through the mosquito

netting revealed his honest desire to see our relationship blossom during this time. He has grown so tall, so solid, and confident. An initial squabble like the old days left us both a bit sad and dissappointed that the old baggage was still there, but heck good wake up call to what our intention is today. My dream is happening every day in which I get to travel/work with my boys in exotic places. I am proud of Joia facing his edge right now by “taking” my cob workshop, never a high priority on his agenda...it is so hard for him to get down and dirty in the cob... he would rather sit back and write about his experience. But he has said he is ready to meet his challenges now. In more ways than one.
I hope I don’t have malaria. My head hurts and I had a fever last night. I had a headache last night too. The energy is so wild here, drumming and music channeled on the ocean winds right up to my room it seems every night till late. Then the early morning prayer calls come in at 5am. I don’t think the Senegalese sleep very much here. The couple whose store we are building during this workshop fight every night after midnight and loudly. The Senegalese husband Malick is one of those wild musician artsy types, like my dear ex, who cannot sit still for very long and needs to be out and about making connections and touching base with the world. He is very charming and also a yeller. I feel for Elisa his wife who acts as if nothing happened the next morning though I look at her with compassion. I’ve been there too. She is so in love at the cost of her self-care. So once again in search of a peaceful place to recover and repair...where? Africa is not so peaceful. So much movement and interaction constantly. It tires me.
I think I need a man. But I don’t want to finance anyone’s life. There are so many nice sweet men here but so helpless financially it could never work for me. I am also not into the big wigs from Dakar with their fancy cars and so on. And then of course my two sons are with me, like my body guards, making it very hard to hide away into romance. Here they fall in love hard and then you feel obligated to pay for everything. Alot of women don’t mind but I do. I’m not into it. I want someone I am on an equal footing with or at the least someone who isn’t only thinking about their financial rescue.
SLEEPLESS IN TOUBAB
Fifteen months on the road and I have only made 6 countries, twice around. After Cabo Verde I gotta get a move on. I will be more than halfway through my 3-year journey and a whole Planet to see still. Heck I may just beeline to Cuba and el Caribe and start my final project building my own Cob Village and my own Cob Landing Pad no holds barred.
Still in Senegal. Tonight no sleep happening. I don’t like these nights. They reveal my inner restlessness and lack of control. I need sex. Softness. Change. Letting go of the harsh facade, the masculine energy, the director, manager and controller. I need to be alone now. No boys. And be la mujer. Cabo Verde brings it out in me. I am feeling like I can only handle 6 more workshops. Getting tired of building for others. Soon I turn 52. I should be with my Mother. My third son. Now what?

CASHEW STRUGGLE ON THE ROUTE NATIONALE

Early morning exit from Toubab, we were able to get a ride from a very quiet schoolteacher, Aziz’ brother, who speaks perfect English but barely utters a word until it comes to politics. Then he explodes. The Senegalese are pretty aware of their national politics, despite illiteracy and small village life. It seems they all get the news somehow, either radio, TV, word of mouth and, rarely, the newspaper. Our ride kindly dropped us off in the center of downtown Dakar, wished us good luck, and drove off to his tutoring job. Our schedule for the day included a little walking tour through yet another 3rd World City, a boat ride to Gorée Island checking out the old colonial architecture and the slave shipping post that changed colonial hands over and over, Yellow Fever and Typhoid shots, a big 24- hour everything-you-want- to-find-and-more Market, and a rooftop music bar. One of those days completely the opposite of chillin’ on the beaches of Toubab Dialaw. Just powerin’ through.
The event of the night was the cashew struggle on the highway. Senegalese vendors are everywhere. All over the world you find them trying to push something on you at twice or thrice the value. They love the negotiation game apparently and it tires me out, personally. I miss the good ol’ Western world of straightforward prices. Anyway, here we are in a scary rundown taxi on the highway at night made even worse by a scary taxi driver who is intentionally driving between lanes the whole time until I yell at him and he laughs. We slow down and up comes a cashew vendor to the window. Longing for nuts beside peanuts, I shout out at him “Nyatala? Nyatala?” “How much? How much?” He answers: “2000”. Knowing the price of the cashews I begin to do the exchange until the taxi driver has a freak attack saying it should be 1000. He begins to yell back and forth over me with the cashew vendor as we are rolling along the slowing highway. I keep trying to give the vendor the money telling him it’s OK, the price is right, but he won’t accept this. He is 100% sure that the cashew guy is trying to rob me because I’m a Toubab and is getting VERY angry to all of our surprise. Suddenly we are all three holding onto and tugging at my 2000 CFA note which is about to be torn in three ways. I finally have to take a stand and raise my voice at the taxi driver and tell him to STOP and gice the poor struggling cashew guy his money and take my nuts. The driver is seething. I tell him once again that this is the right price and he still resists my words and that’s that, until he starts driving like a lunatic again with all sorts of disturbing sounds emanating from his junky vehicle. Well that’s what I get for taking the cheapest bid!
Back at Fred’s, our home away from home in Dakar. Our first friend who greeted us at midnight at the Dakar airport and escorted us to a warm bed and hot shower. Like old friends, we fall into his home with comfort. Marianne is happy to see Viva again and exchange language lessons. Joia is now in the picture which adds another alchemy. Fred and I still have that spark that ignites juicy conversations about anything. The pool games begin and I am feeling excited to see Zeca again and anxious about leaving the boys to their own adventure in Africa. At the same time I am stoked to have some separation Claudine time again.