It's been a looooooooong road since Day 1 (12/9/14)......transition time.....dur dur as they say in French!

It’s been a year since I wrote the last COBlog, or more. Interesting. The last year of the
Globalcobtrotter Ride went quickly though not without many an event to keep this Cob Queen
busy. Today I sit by an oceanview window in the tiny end-of-the-world village by the name of
Mosteiros (Monasteries) on the Azorean island of São Miguel. And ponder the last 4 years of
intent.
Riding like the wind down the Bahian coast of Brazil…struggling breathlessly up the unpleasant
climbs of Colombia… succeeding the highest peaks of the Pyrenées on my tiny-wheeled foldable
Bike Friday while the racers flew by and cheered…and chilling in a hammock for four days on the
Amazon River while my bike took a break too. Clearly the memories are endless and colorful and
have been and will be recorded and edited in book form and, with much new learning and help,
movie format. The material is too good to keep for myself.
My journey was dual, as those of you who have followed me know. I wanted to bike around the
world (glad I even got to do the 15 countries I did) and teach international intercultural cob
workshops along the way for the good of the planet and the people. I did not know how I would do
the latter and had an idea of how I would do the former, as I had already lived abroad and always
with my bike.
As all of you who commune with Great Spirit know, when you are clear and intent on manifesting
your Heart’s Calling, nothing is an obstacle, only a new learning experience faced with excitement
and even some healthy fear. This adventure had everything to keep me entertained, including a
couple of robberies with happy endings. I could not have asked for more support from the
Universe. I am utterly grateful and blissful that I am in good health, good shape, a better person,
more knowledgeable about a variety of places and cultures, more experienced in social relations,
got to share good times with my boyz along the way, and even have more money in the bank than
when I started!!!! (That was the plan)
SInce the last Blog entry there have been 5 cob workshops: Austin, Texas…Carrancas, Brazil…
Guatapé, Colombia…Trinidad, Colorado…and Faial, Azores. Oh and the first CruzinCobGlobal
oven workshop taught by my students Krystal and Bea. They were a combination of 3 month-long
complete builds (the roof is always a wild card), an oven/bench combo, and a 3-week wall
workshop. My intent for 2018 was to hold 4 month-long workshops and I managed 2. Brazil was
cancelled due to organizational difficulties and Morocco was cancelled due to cultural confusions
and my own tired self!
With each workshop it seemed the students were more productive and were able to build faster
and more. Even the Wild Woman workshop in Faial, which did not quite turn out as I had
imagined, started with a 2-story building with a 50cm wide foundation and bottom of wall which
took a week and a half, and was still able to complete the walls, sculpting and plaster in only 2.5
weeks!!!
Each workshop has taught me something and grown me. Whether it was about including more
Circle Time and extracurricular activities like yoga, dance and salsa, or joining the students on a
field trip to Taos for the weekend, or letting go completely of my plans for the morning and sitting
and processing personal issues all together instead, I always received something from each
workshop and each student. And I know that each student took away alot more than just a new skill
and knowledge of how to build themselves a house. Even if that was all they took away, hallelujah!
But CruzinCobGlobal is definitely fulfilling its vision and mission of spreading the COB throughout
the Planet while giving students a memorable intercultural experience in each country.
Often it is a challenge for Cob Instructors to sustain themselves teaching in Third World countries
where people have less or no funds to pay for a workshop, which is why the international format
succeeds by allowing the students who can pay for a workshop to subsidize the possibility for the
ones who can’t. In the end we all need each other to build a house, a village, raise a family, live,
learn and grow. Cob workshops are a microcosm of a Happy Planet, with its ups and downs,
different personalities, celebrations, joy, difficult moments, rituals, playfulness, hard work, good
shared meals and all in all an opportunity to connect with the Earth and People in an intense new
way. You are guaranteed to come out transformed and with new ideas.
For me personally, as a solo lone wolf mama, the upcoming workshops are always exciting to look
forward to, to try new things and meet another new set of students. Working with new hosts I have
never yet met in person has proven to be a challenge alot of the time and for that reason I have
decided to only work with hosts I know or have had a chance to meet with in person. Yes there is
nothing like feeling out each other’s energy and getting a real take on your ability to work intimately
with someone for a month and their ability to host successfully. After 14 years of organizing
workshops I know what it takes to host. It is no small feat and most people underestimate the work
they need to do before and during to make it work well on all fronts. With all the documents I
provide, and photos and videos online, and conversations…just like childbirth…you just don’t get it
until you do it!
Nonetheless the workshops have been separated by wonderful journeys from one to the next
through lands I have wanted to bike through, which was my intent in designing my route and
finding hosting opportunities along the way. Who knows how many kiometers or miles were
pedaled..ALOT!!!!! My legs know, my arms and wrists know and my back and eyes know. Some
of the people I met along the way who were biking or who hosted me are now still on the road and
a small part of me wants to join them! Small! Cause I dont know if this body wants to keep going
and sleep outside night after night in a new spot with new sounds, new things to be aware of, new
foods, new adventures. I’m a bit tired though short month-long journeys I can see in the near
future. Once a bike traveller always a bike traveller!
For now…I am trying to adjust to incorporating this vision I had of myself gracefully sliding into
settled living and finding the land, the partner and the community with ease. Yeah, right? Did
anyone remind me that I would also unbeknownst to me gracefully slip into emotional postnomadic
withdrawal symptoms and depression? Noooo! I am freakin’ out! I was hoping that if I
just quietly made a call to live in the Azores and shipped all my belongings (54 boxes) by boat for
$3800 from Oakland, CA to Ponta Delgada, São Miguel, posted it publicly on FB and and told all
the important people in my life….that all would unfold perfectly. NOOOOT!
I have been on and off crying for the last 5 weeks, feeling quite restless and bored as fuck (not my
usual MO) and wondering what the fuck made me think that a fun and easy free-flowin’ bike ride
around this island for two weeks 2 years ago, camping everywhere and feeling free, would qualify
this place as my future ideal home. Did I even think of the people aspect? Hello!!! Society,
friends, music, salsa dancing, good restaurants, organic farms, Black culture, art life, and a culture
that stays up past 10pm and opens their windows to the world??? Heavy Heavy.
Well after 3 retracted way-too-fast offers for land and weird old tear-down houses that woke me up
to the reality of “You will be based here for a whiiiile…if you put that money down”…and woke the
real estate agents up to the confused foreign woman who you should stay away from….I’m pullin’
back, chillin’ out, and even if my worldly and emotional possessions are on a boat on their way
here after travelling for 2 months through hurricanes and the Panama Canal…I’m cool now. As my
son Viva says, “ Just take this sacred time for yourself Mom. Be with yourself. Love yourself. Make
your scrapbooks you’ve been wanting to do. Read a book. Don’t do anything. Just BE!”
And yes that is the word I’m hearing from on high too. Just relax now. Stop tryin’ to make things
happen. Stop pushing forward with the next plan and the next to-do-list. Man it’s hard. The first
thing I do when my eyes open in the morning, actually before they open as it is what make them
open, is think about my to-do-list. But my happy to-do list. My exciting to-do-list. Not the one with
“Call the IRS” on it. The endless creative development one. Still, it’s a to-do-list. And what I really
need to do is just be now. Smell the flowers. Save the poor juvenile endangered cagarro birds
walking the village streets at night because they fall from being blinded by the street lights and get
disoriented and need humans to take them to the beach. Talk to my neighbor Tania about the
weather and the figs on her tree that she downt want. Watch the endless flow of tourists park their
shiny little cars and get out with their 8” long lenses to take a few sunset photos, walk on the sand,
see the Beauty, and get back in to head to the next stop. Watch the teenaged boys, just like
anywhere in the world, huddled up in their hangout spot under the trees, smokin’ cigs or joints, and
checkin’ out the white bulbous female bodies they will never have an exchange with. Watch the
short, older well-wrinkled fishermen also huddled together lookin’ at the same white bulbous bodies
they will never have an exchange with.
The only life in this village is the kids and the elementary school. That is the saving grace of
Cecilia, my landlady. The youth keeps her sane and motivated. Like everywhere in the world,
right? The pre-10 year olds that haven’t been corrupted by much of the world happenings and
technology yet. Maybe. Anyway here at the end of the island it’s still a safe place. Safety,
security…THOSE are the key things that stuck with me about this island actually. That I could
sleep openly on any unoccupied field and noone would care or try to rob me or bother me. The
locals are shy that way. That there were no “Camping Prohibited” signs along the way. That I had
alot of space to just be. Of course that was after travelling through Africa and Morocco. It’s all
about contrast. We learn what we value and what is a priority for us when we don’t have it. The
key is to find the middle point where we don’t need to be in extremes all the time. I guess that’s it.
What’s my middle point that I can live with with my greatest needs met and my not so great needs
partially or not met. Greatest needs: my children nearby, mom close by, healthy environment,
moist climate, good drinking water, healthy agriculture, ocean nearby, cool, progressive society
with Afro-based dance and music, community vibes, ease to build and create…. and economical!
Not too much to ask for and probably most people I know’s greatest needs list too.
It’s funny. So many people are wandering on Earth looking for “home” right now, like the Jews of
yonder, of which I am a descendant. Only we self-chosen nomads are very fortunate to be free,
have some money-making skills, know how to create our income while being mobile (thanks to
those devices), and how to live without a home base. We get very good at it. We recognize each
other and commune easily. For a while. And then we are gone again on a plane, a boat, a train, a
car ride, a bike, our feet, away from here and going there. Cause we heard sopme good things
about it. Got some good referrals for housing and food.
And then there are the temporary nomads that after having saved up their income opportunities
and had minimal expenses for years on end, are ready to stop and buy land and create their
Permaculture Homestead with a bungalow or two to rent out and a food forest, some goats for milk
and cheese, and maybe room for a few friends. That is what I am finding here on São Miguel too.
Perhaps it is the budding next mecca that will take over the traditional island culture. And create its
own new culture with some contributions from the old guard that also knew how to thrive here in a
different way. But the squared-up white concrete block or rock-covered-with-cement houses all
lined up and facing each other with a few windows facing the street and the rest of the innards
hidden from the ocean will then be replaced because the New Generation of Azoreans have other
ideas. They want to face the ocean, see the sunrise and sunset, ride the waves, feel the wind,
work the land productively and naturally, many people together, grow as many fruit trees as
possible, repopulate the island with juicy joy, music, dance, parties, festivals, communities,
gatherings playfulness, and electric geothermal-generated transportation. Maybe the people who
came here years ago had to escape, run, and then kept going to the Americas and Canada and
saw this place as harsh, scary, overwhelming. And so that is how they built their homes. To protect
them and hide them from the elements outside.
So there is change in the air. Many lands are being sold to the newcomers for a hefty price. But it
is allowing a slow takeover and transition. Maybe that is what I was attracted to. The possibilities
inherent in this place. I didn’t think of the people because I didnt feel connected to them, as the
others here also feel. And this is cause for a strange feeling to be here and not connect with the
people who have lived here for a long time. When I say the people I mean more the villagers who
are a tighter-knit community because they are the ones who remain here year in and year out, who
rarely leave to visit other parts of the island even. One woman here, my landlady, goes to town
once a month and has never been to some other parts of the island I asked her about. What a
funny contrast with the nomads of the world who can’t sit still!! This village, Mosteiros, really puts it
right in your face. Maybe it’s not all boring here. It just is. And we have been too overstimulated
with our phones, computers, ipods, even books and movies, etc. Maybe just being with what is is
happening right here right now, all around me, and I can’t escape. Mosteiros, Monasteries, an
enlightenment immersion, if you so wish to embrace it. May the Force of Self-Love be with you!

Cabo Verde Round 4: São Vicente, Santo Antão, São Nicolau, Praia- May-July2016

CABO VERDE, ROUND 4

Porto Novo, June 11, 2016 

One month since our arrival from Dakar with 3 bike boxes and a pile of luggage in the minuscule everyone-knows-each-other airport of São Vicente. The preceding days and weeks were filled with confusion on whether we should make the move to Cabo Verde or not. Since November 2015 I was in conversation and then contracted consultation work, including a paid work trip for a week in March, with Patrick de Santos, a reputed international jazz musician and singer. We met in a beautiful way as he was the only person that really reached out to me last year when I was assaulted and robbed of my laptop and phone one scary evening on the island of Sal, near his residence. He brought his computer to the police station to help me track the items down with Find My Mac and Phone. He spoke English perfectly as he had lived in the States. After that we lost touch. One evening in the bath as I was putting energy out for a cob building job somewhere....he called. It was a beautiful conjoining of our mutual desires. He wanted someone to build him his dream Eco-Resort and I wanted to build one for someone.
Fast forward to April 2016. After 5 months of back and forth on Skype, Whatsapp and Gmail exchanging drawings, ideas, calculations, contracts, timeframes, etc., the time drew near. Since my return from Cabo Verde in March Patrick’s communications began waning. His initial frequency and urgency in moving forward dissappeared it seemed. At least regarding me. When he did communicate there was no sign of stopping, though his messages were few and far between. I became confused and concerned, sharing this with Viva and Joia. How to read these changes? Was he just very busy, as he proclaimed, or was this a red flag, right before our arrival.
Two weeks before I contacted him about buying tickets. No answer for days. I went ahead and bought them to take advantage of a good deal. The moment after I bought them a Whatsapp message arrived alerting me to troubles he was having, setbacks, and to not make plans before talking to him. However he did not respond to calls nor call. I could not talk to him. Two days later I receive an email from CheapoAir that my reservations have been cancelled. I had sent him the itinerary. Could he have cancelled them? I went into slight freak- out mode. What was going on? Universe talking? Don’t go? 

I reached out with an undisclosed Skype call to his cell phone which he picked up and rudely just said: “What’s up?” Really? Red flag again. The dude has his phone attached to his body day in and day out. He never turns it off except to go to sleep. I know that because I saw it as we shared an apartment for a week. That experience had some red flags too. Self-centered, condescending, uneducated, air-headed and totally unconnected to the Earth. The man did not know how to hold or use a shovel when I asked him to get me a soil sample. I chose to have an open compassionate Heart and see beyond the red flags, turn them pink. Mistake! Big mistake never to repeat! A red flag is a red flag. See it or don’t. Better to see it and do something about it than get fucked in the end, which is what happened, longer story short. 

Two days before our departure, after we had re-routed our whole journey for this big, important, fruitful job for which my 5 Senegalese top cobbers had spent hard-earned money on getting passports for... he sends an email declaring financial problems which will delay the job by months and other excuses. Viva, Joia and I look at each other and powow in all seriousness. Great Spirit...what the fuck? $1500 in expenses to get to Cabo Verde and he is supposed to cover them. Now what? Cancelling tickets won’t help. Bottom line: Do we have any other reason to go to CV? Yes. Nuno and Susana are awaiting us to come and teach a 9-day cob intensive and build their first cob building on their future Pachamama eco permaculture homestead on São Vicente. That was going to be our pre-job perk with no expectations for students. Turned out Nuno had found 5 students the day before our arrival and was counting on more. Excitement was stirring in Mindelo about the cob workshop with the California expert. The Nuno family clan touched my Heart strongly and my boys saw that. What the fuck? Let’s go and hope for the best with Patrick. 

It was VERY hard to avoid the ensuing clear signs from the Universe. After trying to contact TACV for 2 weeks about bringing our bikes on the plane with no feedback, I prayed for a smooth checkin. Adriano, the head decisionmaker guy for such issues, did not give me a smooth welcome. My fearful attitude did not help energetically. With his first negative move I reacted. I was pissed to have tried so hard to do the right thing ahead of time and felt completely helpless now. He did not know whether he could take our bikes....on this flight. Probably not. Great. And then what? Where do they go then? The angrier I reacted the worse it got. Finally he yelled back: “That’s it! We are DEFINITELY NOT taking your bikes!” For real??? The nice Senegalese female agent

whispered to me to try and work it out with him. That he really was a nice guy. He did after all have some sex appeal. A bit heavy but a nice change from the Senegalese men. The latin look that I had not gotten to be around in 9 months, except fo rmy short stint with Zeca in March. I could see his flirty nature with all the female agents and decided to try my luck with my feigned humility in asking forgiveness for my aggressive reaction and sharing how stressed I was. He quickly accepted and began working in the opposite way of supporting us in making things happens smoothly. Suddenly ALL of our bikes were going to fly and to top it off he did not charge me for the overweightage, especially since the bikes themselves were going to bring 300€ into their pockets. Phew...or so I thought. 

 

My next step was to pay the money. Normally, in “normal” airports, a credit card will do the trick. Not so here. Cash, baby. Only cash. OK. Get me to an ATM. It’s 2 am and the flight takeoff time is 2:30. The first ATM rejects my card. Something about being under maintenance. I try again. This time something about not being able to fulfill the request. I try again. Now it is saying that it cannot honor my card. I walk away and someone else tries and gets his money. What? 

At this point I am trying all the other ATMs in the departure AND arrival lounge to no avail. They are ALL saying, “DO NOT HONOR”. Fuck! Shit! Now what? I felt l was in a movie. Freaked out face running around with a countdown to flight takeoff time and my kids waiting anxiously. Our bikes and 3 pieces of luggage were already gone into the plane. We were the last ones. I could not get the money to pay for the excess luggage. We would not be able to fly. No credit card, no phone in charge, no nothing. Just NO FLYING tonight. 

Suddenly another head agent rolls into action with his walkie talkie asking Adriano what he should do. Disembark, disembark, disembark is all I heard form the other end. All of our luggage would be taken off the plane 15 minutes before takeoff. All that hard work of plasticizing our 6 pieces, all the emotional mayhem and final conciliation and forgiveness would all be lost now by the incredible disbelief that we would NOT be leaving Dakar and Senegal just yet.  We would be stuck in the airport until daylight in 4 hours....and then what? I was in shock. Now if that is not a clear message from the Great Yonder I am not sure what is. “DON’T GO!!!!!” The boys and I sat in confusion. Hard to sleep. We had so clearly made a heartful decision we were still going no matter what and.....what was going on? 

Adriano sheepishly and very kindly passed by after the plane had taken off reassuring us that the next flight was 2 days later at 4am and we had to go get our tickets reissued and hopefully not have to pay more. Where to go now for two days after we had made our grand exit from Dakar? Again to make the story short, we decided to stay the course and head to SV two days later at 4am with all of our stuff again. He was there again and all went smoothly as everything was left in the airport 5 flights up plasticized and ready to fly. At least that was a relief. All of our baggage showed up on the other end in one piece and our beloved Nuno was there to pick us up with a giant flatbed truck and hot pizza!!!! Now that made up for alot of the nightmare. 

To this day, one month later, I still have not seen or spoken with Patrick. He bailed on our first Skype date and basically dropped out of all communication, after which I lost my patience and finally gave it to him as I saw it. What I did find out after sleuthing was that the man did not even buy the land he was planning this huge project on. He told me the paperwork would be done in April but Manuel, the landowner, told me there was no way he would let him build without buying the land first. Apparently he thought otherwise. All he had said to me was that Manuel wanted 70% of the land cost and he could not refuse him. What????? Não entendo! Intercultural mayhem.

Patrick is as dysfunctionally Cabo Verdian as those he ridicules and talks down about. A dreamer, from the beginning, but I was setting him straight, little by little with the reality of cost. His reality was scary. He had $40K for 18 bungalows, a large restaurant, a large home, a yoga studio, a music studio and a reception. All to be constructted by December 2016. Excuse me but not even in cheap Africa could you do that. I don’t think so. His rebuttal was bank loans. OK, maybe. Still, I stayed on and believed and trusted beyond the red flags. And now have to let go of having our travel costs paid for...lest somehow somewhere the reimbursement comes through. After a month of stress over it, writing him threatening messages, questioning his whole way of treating people and doing business...I am letting go. He is off my phone and email contacts and preferably out of my head too. The unfortunate consequence also hits VIva and Joia and the Senegalese. But my sons were counting on the money. In all honesty the job would have been a PAIN IN THE ASS, especially working with his unorganized, airy fairy mind. Works well for music but not for construction projects. Chalk it up to another lesson learned on the road. 

As I write I have completed my first smooth, unruffled, peaceful workshop with complete walls as promised. Viva, Joia and I were put up in a beautiful beachhouse in Calháu for 3 weeks to where we calmly returned each day after the workshop, to prepare our food, go swimming, relax....until the next grueling day of physical labor. When I would get home, swim and eat, I could not move out of the bed until the next morning. I love feeling that way, worked out, healthy, lean and mean, eat all I want. However after 9 straight says of running a workshop and building for 3 days after that...my body said NO MORE. Today is 9 days later of total rest and I think I finally feel back to normal. For the days after I felt tired and heavy from the moment I woke up after an 8 hour sleep. It dragged on for almost a whole week. Saying goodbye to Viva a few days ago and then Joia yesterday has released me of ALL obliged interactions and completely unto myself. This is when I REALLY rest. Like don’t-leave-the-house-all- day rest. Like take naps whenever, do what I want when I want, eat or not and play. This is my need at least 4 times a year. Total getaway into my “black hole” as Joia calls it. My woman cave. I like it. And I need it. 

I am shacked up in the “capital” of Santo Antão in a very sleepy seemingly abandoned cobblestone town that comes alive twice a day when the ferries from São Vicente arrive with people and goods. Seems all the vans, taxis and trucks come out of I don’t know where to pick everyone and everything up and deliver them all over the island accessible to vehicles. Shiny, modern, new Yacis from Japan I believe are the vehicle of choice. Everyone is happily loaded with a destination and goods for the rural village relatives. What is special about this island is the happiness and fulfilled energy of the people here. They love their home and land and have what they need here. It’s a sweet energy. Aside from the ferry ruckus, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here except for some card-playing groups in the afternoon, schoolkids making noise and random repetitive snare drum practices that can get quite tiring. Booooooooring. But perfect for my quiet and cozy retreat. After tomorrow I will be ready for action again. Ready to sweat and grind and work these mucles on the gnarly up and down trails this island is known for.
On another note, I have decided to head back to Europe, la Belle France of my Heart, in August. A spontaneously-organized workshop replacement of the one that was supposed to be held on supposedly

Patrick’s land...is happening in Sauxillanges. Never been there and don’t know the owner in person...but a friend of a friend and so on.
I have 4 signups so far which is better than I had for the other one after 4 months online. Clearly that one was not meant to be. And this one is. We will arrive July 14th on Bastille Day in Paris. A bit freaky but what the heck. La France! La Belle France! 

In the meantime the successful workshop was filmed on National television and I became a bit of a celebrity as people recognized me, even the bank teller. A young environmental engineer from Santiago contacted me with a burning desire to do a workshop there and since then has not stopped making it happen with funding and all! She is knocking on everyone’s door, from government departments to NGO’s including the UN. Rarely have I had the synergy of working with a host who is just as energized and fearless in making it happen as I am. Neiva is her name. It seems my hosts are now becoming the hosts I need. Perhaps I had to suffer a while, learn and evolve. My boys have been mirrors the whole way, sometimes to my annoyance for sure, but together we have done lots of learning on this journey. Ho! 

Santiago Success
The largest island of Cabo Verde and the capital, Praia, is home to our last African workshop for now. I book it in a tiny plane on Wednesday and leave Viva with both of our bikes and most of the luggage heading over by an 8-hour boat ride loaded with Motrivine pills. The Cabo Verdeans are not used to boat travel and tend to become ill shotly after the departure, prompting nausea around them. They are kind of messy about it too, surrendering to the powers of the ocean rhythms without much resistance. Poor Viva got a bit splattered on the last ride from São Vicente to São Nicolau which marked him a bit and so this ride he would be determined to be under the influence of the sleep-inducing Motrivine tablets.
I feel like somewhat of a star arriving at the airport and looking for my host. Lightly loaded (a very rare feeling if ever), I feel free and easy, passing through with no hassles. Neiva and I spot each other quickly, a big hug, a short face-to-face checkout, and we’re in business. She’s an on-it organizer and my favorite kind of energy to work with. She’s also a young Black Cabo Verdian woman and the mutual excitement that was transmitted through our incessant daily Viber chats is for real  

now. We flow smoothly from our techno-mediated relationship to the real thing and I am conforted to know my intuitive desire to collaborate with her was a good decision. It wasn’t even really a decision. It was naturally decided by the Great Forces that be. 

 

Neiva is a delicious being. Her smile lights up the room. Her laughter is infectious, even when you have no idea what she’s laughing about. She is on “manifest mode” 24-7. She has read “The Secret” and that is really the underlying language of our connection and flow. I am a bit surprised as she is from these tiny isolated islands, but, her time in Portugal studying Environmental Engineering together with her juicy zest for learning and growing, brought this into her life. She attracted it. And that’s how she runs. She still has some non-trust traces in her pushiness, she’s only 28, but if she keeps working on it she will become quite a manifester in the most gracious of ways. More based on Trust than Fear. Together we encourage mutually. We are a good team. I surrender to her lead and trust it will all work out.
A week and a half later, 1/5 of her future cob pleasure house is built by the hands and hearts of 13 young motivated locals. Viva and I realize that this, our last African workshop, has been the most successful. Not easy...but with the large number at it daily, we managed to finish what we wanted to finish: full plastered walls with roof connectors, a cob floor base, sculptures, bottles in the wall and satisfied students. Every day the humble and sweet Conceição hikes up the hill with a big bowl of food on her head accompanied by one of her daughters, signalling the break for our communal lunch: rice, beans, a few carrots, collards, onions and all too often...shreds of distressed pork meat and gristle with a few hairs left in for good measure. Viva and I are quite hungry and try to avoid the disturbing flesh chunks but the flavour and smell permeates everything. Day after day it got heavy on the system and the gnarly 5am pig shreaks during the week did not help. 

Eleven young males and two young females made up our troop of student builders. I do well with the Afro cultures with my youthful flirtiness, music on the site and joyfulness. I don’t have much patience for the tardy late-night drinkers though their amusing comedy acts help to compensate for their untimeliness. As if I should talk anyway...but in this culture I am quite Swiss. All in all we have a good time which is essential for getting the mud on the walls. As always the last two sculpting and plastering days bring joy and

lightness and relief from the cob grind. Connection to the inner artist reveals another side of each student. Usually it’s the productive grinders who take the longest to find their creative side, while the ones who have dilly-dallied trying to disguise their low output of wall volume are on fire with sculptural ideas. To each his own. Everyone shines somewhere along the way.
Not enough celebration here though. The last day of diploma presentation brings out only half the students. They are whooped and onto the next thing...planting corn and collards and manioc and sweet potato for the upcoming rains. They are supposed to stay on and keep building after the workshop is over, but I later find out that they have mostly abandoned the project. Neiva tried hard to keep them inspired, talking about creating a cooperative of cob builders for the next projects, after they have completed her house of course, for which they will be paid. But they have lost trust and perhaps are feeling used? I am not sure what is going on in their Cabo Verdian minds. It seems to me though that they have other things calling and unless the money is upfront, she will have to finish the house herself, which I don’t doubt for a minute that she can do. A month later I receive pictures of another1/3 of the walls done and the Spanish-tiled roof erected. She has finagled her way with credit upon credit and, after moving into her new cob home...she will begin to pay back the stores and all the people who have given of their support in a myriad of ways, including me, with her monthly saving of 200€ in rent. I can relate. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, hopefully without stepping on too many people and with Grace, and if you end up taking care of your debts and paybacks, your Karma is still intact. 

TACV- Worst Airline on the Planet!
Another airline nightmare. Everjets. Have you ever heard of Everjets? Some Porto-based airline. Up at 4:30am, sleep-walking our bike boxes and luggage into the back of Andreas’ truck and off we go along the early-morning streets of the sleepy beach and surf town of Tarrafal on Santiago, Cabo Verde. Heavy-set large-bellied Cabo Verdian women jogging in the dark along the sidewalk. The 6-foot long carcass of a recently-slaughtered swine is hanging on a street corner, warm and palpating flesh, for all to have to see. A light drizzle, the first I’ve yet seen here, covers the windshield. Low-lying clouds waver over the green terraced valleys below. This island is very

topographically-inclined with something happening at all visual perspectives. Andreas clearly loves his 7-year adopted residency here. The swerving combined with late-night buttery polenta meal and 4.5 hours of sleep leave my belly queasy. I have to lean forward, close my eyes, and just breathe. I regret the extra 3 hours of hairpin driving I subscribed to in order to get a dependable easy ride to the airport. I got a beautiful hand-made basket from Solange, his new flame, another Aries sister I jelled with immediately. A cross between Guinea Bissau, Cabo Verde and Portugal, she is a gorgeous artsy lean and independent Spirit. Like me. My mirror. Astrology is so right on. She won’t go far with Andreas’ Piscean energy. Pisces and Aries, very poor match. I let him know gently. He is onto it already.
We get to the airport at a prompt 7:15am...plenty of time! With our 2 giant oversized bike boxes, Viva’s metal framed backpack and my giant soft duffle sack, we gingerly and cautiously head in to the airport, trying to stay cool for the unknown ahead. It’s always an unknown in our situation. We scout out the check-in clerks’ faces to see which one looks the most easy-going, is smiley, and relaxed. They both look similar. We opt for the leaner one with a tall pom pom hairdo, the most popular here. 

As we look around us we notice that the other people on line have small single suitcases. I do recall the TACV website ticket summary mentioning something about one 15kg suitcase allowed on this promotional ticket. I choose to think other thoughts and only expect the best. My new mantra: “Expect the best!” is becoming more and more habitual. It’s our turn now. It looks like people are being rejected for overweight luggage and going back to take stuff out and returning to the line. We approach and Viva discreetly and thankfully leans over and reminds me to smile and be nice. The smile doesn’t come so easily in these anxious moments but I manage to pop one out at the start setting things on a good wave. 

The agent reminds me that we get one piece of 50 lbs each. I nod. I know what the rule is according to the website. One bike costs 100€. She begins to total our excess weight and for a moment I think we’re in the money and with my momentary forgetfulness think she’s allowing us 2 bags each at 50 lbs. At 15€ an extra kg I start to calculate...will it be less than the 200€ I was prepared to dish out?

I remain silent in hope. Her final tally is a cool 460€ or $700, which she emits with a straight face. Really now? $700 in excess baggage charges on a $150 ticket? I don’t think so.

I equally calmly respond that to my knowledge bikes cost a fixed price of 100€. She accepts my information easily which makes me wonder if she was trying to pull one over me. That’s quite a wad of cash to pocket on the sly, if possible here. My unusually soft-spoken “complaint” goes over nicely. I like it. I am sent to pay the bill at the TACV office where, once again, the uninformed agent wants to charge me something to the tune of 600€. He doesn’t seem evil-intentioned, just ignorant of hos own employer’s policies. Once again I remind him of the rules very confidently, which he easily accepts and replaces his erred calculations with my information to arrive at a number 2/3 lower. It’s a chunk of change but I am prepared to pay it. He also tell me that the plane is 2 hours late. Cool. We don’t have to rush.
Everything is pretty smooth so far. When we get to the waiting room, it is clear that the plane has not arrived. We settle in with our computers and phones awaiting the plane. At 12:30pm the EVERJET plane arrives at Mandela International Airport in Praia. Viva and I, completely oblivious to the calls, almost miss the plane but for the thoughtfulness of our check-in agent who was running around looking for us. Polish and Portuguese stewardesses accompanied by Portuguese and Guadeloupean pilots greet us. Once we are on the plane we are told that the plane will be stopping in Porto for a technical matter, and then in Amsterdam, before arriving in Paris. The tickets we have are for a direct non-stop trip to Paris. Other passengers are wondering about these extra stops. The only explanation is that they had mechanical difficulties in Sal and could not depart until today, and thus all the Amsterdam-bound passengers from yesterday need to be brought “home” today, with us. Hmmmm. Sounds weird and fishy and not cool. As I start calculating flight times, waiting times and time differences...I realize we will get to Charles de Gaulle at 11pm or later and that we will not catch the last train to my friend Claire’s house, at 11:50pm. I hear the other passengers chit chat worriedly and angrily that they were not told about this change and besides they paid for a non-stop flight and would also miss their train or not be able to contact their friends and family waiting for them at 6:30pm. Hmmmm. So what can be done? I ask the stewardesses “What’s up? Why the change and what time will we arrive then?” They all seem to just try and calm us down without

direct true answers. Have they been told to ignore our questions? What do they know that we don’t? 

As the plane continues on its way, and we are fed, the sun is setting. Our time of arrival in Paris is 6:30pm local time. We land in Porto at 7pm local time. One hour later we are off to Amsterdam. We arrive in Amsterdam at 11pm local time. After the Amsterdam-bound passengers disembark, the rest of the passengers are wondering why we are not moving on and questioning the crew about how they will get home now that we will be arriving so late and who is going to pay for the taxis and hotels needed??? The staff is clearly nervous. The stewardesses are turning red and hot and trying to calm people down. Amsterdam Airport staff are making phone calls. We are told by the captain, after 2 hours in the plane and NO food or drink since lunchtime, that the plane cannot continue to Paris. It will have to stay in Amsterdam and so will all the passengers. What????? He says that legally he cannot fly a plane for more than 11 hours and he has been flying for 14 hours. Hmmmm. Apparently we will be staying in hotels tonight.
After another hour, the staff calls all the people travelling alone forward. All these people will disembark first since the hotel they have chosen only has single rooms. Weird. They ask my son and I if we want to separate. We say no. (Luckily, as we find out the next day that all the solo people have to stay another unnanounced day more) All these people disembark. Now all the families with small children, pregnant lady, elderly and others are left. Two French guys decide to get off and take a train that they will charge TACV for. Everyone is hot, weary, tired, mad, impatient and totally confused. After another hour later (3am) of secretive giggly discussions up at the hatch between the airport staff and the plane personnel the rest of us zombies are given a blue Transit card and sent to a hotel. But first we have to find our way through the very confusing Schiphol airport to the bus. None of the Cabo Verdean passengers speak English or Dutch. Viva and I have to lead them through the airport and many of them are so slow, with their half-asleep stragglig posse of kids and elderly parent, that they get lost. Everything is closed and signs are in English and we have no idea how everyone will find the way. We get to the very hard-to-find bus stop and find a driver there pulling up his bus for the group. With cigarette in mouth the bus driver gingerly opens the hatches and waits. Viva and I and the only two other well- seasoned English-speaking travellers have assigned ourselves to be

the herders of the lost Souls in the dead of the Amsterdam airport night. It’s 4am now and everyone finds almost everyone (some people simply went missing) and we are relieved to be taken care of by European customer service now and on a functional bus going to a fancy hotel. Great, except it is now 4:30am. We are told the flight the next day is at 1:30pm and we have to leave the hotel at 11am. So much for lounging in our cushy eco-bedding, luxuriating in the king- sized bathtub with hot water (a first in 9 months!) and extending our all-you-can-eat brunch for seconds and thirds. It all had to be condensed but I made sure to get it in for who knew what was to come next and when our next meal would be, as we were still in the hands of TACV and Everjets. Scary! 

When the Flight VR009 family gets to the airport in two busloads, everyone is too scared to make a move until both groups have been reunited. It’s July 15th, the peak of summer travel is on and the airport is a zoo of tired, anxious, impatient and hungry travellers. The crowded hard-to-get-through TACV line takes us to check-in agents that are totally uninformed and confused as to our situation and how they will get us on that plane. Luckily for our passenger family, they have us and a couple of other don’t-take-no-shit aggressive types to push and fight through the complete mayhem. We are moved from one long serpentine line to another one on the other side and all the TACV sheep passengers have to be herded over. VIva and I survey the situation and in doing so I pass a horrible nauseating stench of rotten fish emanating from one passenger’s luggage. She refuses to open her suitcase. Those around her suffer in silence and breathe through their mouths. Hmmmm, little did I realize the effect her fish-juiced luggage would have on mine and everyone’s in the days ahead....
We are possibly now on the way to something real. The multiracial Dutch agents kindly respond to my inquiries and are working hard for a positive outcome. I trust them. Viva and I are the last in line with our giant bike boxes turned vertical and barely holding together after all the back and forth. At least we have them, right? Nothing is for certain until we have our boarding passes in hand and FRAGILE stickers all over the bike boxes before waving them goodbye into the deep, dark recesses beyond the rolling carpet curtain. An elderly Dutch-Indian agent with a calm nature assures us all is well. If he only knew the airline we were handing ourselves over to once again. 

Feeling a bit more sure of reaching Paris on the same day, we peppily begin our trek to the very last and farthest possible gate in the terminal. Scanning the VR009 family on the bus, it is clear we are not complete, aside from the ones who went missing last night and the “single” ones who ended up having to stay yet another day! We wait yet another hour on the bus, as the poor same Dutch agents, now looking haggard and at the end of their ropes, try to locate the newly- missing passengers. Three shuffle their way to the bus, then two more. Apparently they were sent to a gate at the other end and God only knows how they figured out their error! Simply amazing! What more could happen??? 

Well...more could. We mount the plane, getting that much closer to our destination only an hour away by plane, normally. The same pilot and stewardesses that dealt with us last night are present, refreshed and renewed. Kind of weird the whole thing and no doubt a bad dream scenario or crappy movie. Viva and I board and sit together. There are a few new innocent faces on the plane who have clearly not lived the ordeal with us. They are fresh, happy and energized for their kitesurfing vacation to Sal. One German woman used to live in Cabo Verde and when she hears the background story to the sad, disheveled and worn faces of her co-passengers, she nods in compassionate understanding. “Ja, ja...I know zees stories.” My horrific details do not surprise her. The questions still is: “When will we get to Paris? And will they detour us to Sal first?” At this point nothing that ludicrous would surprise me from this mentally-retarded airline. Not even taking us to Brazil first, which is some of the passengers’ final destination. 

Everyone is seated and the pilot begins the engine. Stewardesses are prim and proper as they can be, readying themselves for their millionth safety spiel when, suddenly, a young mod female passenger in leather jacket, sexy sunglasses and diamond earrings tears out of her seat and screams out that her luggage is not on the plane. She can see it in the pile of luggage sitting untouched in the trailers 50 feet away from the plane. Others rip off their seatbelts to look, including myself. “My suitcase is also there!” “Hey so is mine!” “There are your bicycle boxes!” someone reports to me as I am on the other side stretching my neck out to try and identify our bags. Once again, chaos breaks loose on the plane. People are screaming, shouting, the instigator is bawling in heaves, children are jumping up

and down, the stewardesses are soon struggling to breathe through the angry horde surrounding them and demanding to get their luggage on or get them off the plane, IMMEDIATELY. It seems everyone’s luggage, at least belonging to our VR009 family, will be left on the tarmac for no understandable sensible reason that noone, including the stewardesses and pilot, can explain. What the f_____? Incredible! Just when it could all have ended smoothly. I think TACV is cursed from another life. I mean how much crazier can this story get? I don’t even have to make anything up! It sells itself. 

At this point I am pretty pissed off too and up there with the others yelling at the stewardesses to get our luggage onto the plane. The instigator is totally out of control now and in tears, like a big soap opera, falling in a heap on th floor. I am also laughing incredulously as I stand back and watch what reminds me of a scene from “Airplane”. Suddenly the dark and slick-haired short and skinny Portuguese pilot with a large beak exits his control station in disbelief but apparently ready to act. Using his voice to no avail, I watch as he reaches for the megaphone and threatens the passengers with the police if they don’t shut up and sit down immediately. I am taken aback at how submissive the response is. I guess this is when you know you are dealing with a plane of Third World passengers. The mere mention of “police” triggers their greatest fears. A plane of Americans or Europeans would NOT react this way, and then again would an airline dare treat a planeload of European or American passengers with such disrespect, inefficiency, manipulation, deceit, abuse, and disorganization? Never in my 52 years have I experienced such a ridiculously and poorly-run uncomfortable travel experience. My son was convinced it was due to our very economical tickets but if anything we were lucky as others had paid 3 times more!!!!
The story continues. Sorry. The plane becomes quiet now as we back out and say goodbye to our poor luggage with despondency and surrender. Until we meet again...who knows when and where? We all take a big breath of letting go, once again, as the plane readies for takeoff in the pink, violet and magenta dusk skies of Holland. Let’s now just get there please, in one piece. 

We do. Phew. Cause that could be the joke end to this melodramatic adventure is that we never get there. HAHA. Not so funny. We arrive in Paris exactly 24 hours later than our scheduled arrival date and time. Not one of our VR009 passenger family’s luggage appears out

of the rolling carpet abyss. Not one. Well, I guess everyone’s luggage was still there in Amsterdam in the trailers we saw. Amazing. So what the heck was in the plane’s cargo hold then??? Well I know for sure that the pilots’ and stewardesses’ bags made it onto the plane as I overheard before all hell had broken loose. And perhaps the fortunate innocent newbies’ stuff too. And that’s it! 

 

Happy to have even arrived in Paris now, and to be moving on, we all file like poor abused sheep to the LOST LUGGAGE counter to helplessly fill out our claim forms. Feeling a glimmer of hope now in the hands of the French who emanate assurance and procedural knowledge, we go through the motions. With claim number in hand, the best we can get, we head to the metro with our bikes and light weight, to find our way into Paris and Claire’s house, adjusting quickly to the 14€ metro fee without a word. We are happy to be awaited with love and comfort and food. 

Four days later at 1AM my cell phone rings. Our luggage has arrived. The frantic delivery man pulls the disheveled cartons out followed by the sad bags. Everything reeks of rotten fish. My bike seat, handlebars and just about every item I have. Viva’s was in 2 boxes and had a layer of protection. Wow. The final cherry on top. Unfortunately I am too excited and zonked to have the driver mention the fishy luggage state on the final receipt. I know it’s not his fault, but these are the details that make the difference when you are wanting financial compensation in the end. Another lesson learned.
Today we are 8 weeks from the incident and after submitting all the requisite documents in a whirlwind marathon day of biking through Paris with Viva looking for the very discrete shabby TACV office in the 1st Arrondissement...and being assured by Mr. Jean-Remy Santos that my file would be attended to asap and for sure in the next 2 weeks, I am still waiting. What do you know? I have found out that there are some very definite laws addressing excessive flight delays and lost luggage of this type which amount to 600€ in compensation at the least per person. I have let them know. As is my usual style when wronged, I won’t let it go. 

Three months later, nothing happening, I decide to give it one more shot and write the woman who is the Sales Director for Holland and France, Senhora Eloise Gomes, and cc the infamous do-nothing TACV crew of names I have been corresponding with to no avail.  Within an hour a response comes.  This lady has definitely grown up in Europe as her customer service shows.  Within one week I have 1 free round-trip ticket in hand, from Europe to CV and back.  Well? Worth the hassle and 5 minutes a day of email time? I would say so.  Now let's see what happens with Legal Heroes to the rescue.  I have managed to dig up the names and emails of at least 20 of the 80 passengers on the flight in exchange for no commission deducted from my and VIva's 600€ compensation each.  The footwork, baby, all about the footwork.

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.