I rolled over and blearily glanced at him standing in the middle of the room. I didn’t mind getting up. I had not slept particularly well, but I was rested enough. I began wandering around looking for… I don’t know what. I finally did my ablutions and climbed the stairs to the roof to do my ZemZem. I came down to MenZeba setting out bread and coffee for breakfast.

“Let’s eat now and we must get ready to go soon.” Makheru said.

I like a good cup of coffee in the morning made from fresh ground beans. There would be none of that on this trip, but I was thankful for the Nescafe, as my friends had told me I would be. We had plain baguettes and butter as well as canned milk and sugar to go with the coffee and bread. The meal was satisfying if simple. Soon we were assembling inside and outside the room. Maakheru said. “OK, everyone who is ready stay outside. First I think we are waiting for one person, then they go inside, then we are waiting for someone else.” I stood outside near him and waited for what ever would develop next. Everyone began to file out and we finally were on our way to the river. BaAshu and I were the last to leave. We stayed behind to fill up the five gallon collapsible jug and put it in the sling that he had brought. I hefted it on my shoulder by its straps and hoped that our walk would not be too long.

We turned left as we exited the little compound and walked down the sunny street. There were trees lining the right hand side, though they provided little shade on the dirt road on which we walked. I didn’t mind the sun in the least. It was a glorious day to be alive.

It was surprising how compact the compounds were, sharing walls with each other and composed mainly of whitewashed bricks made from local clay. Everything was very neat and tidy in comparison to Bamako. We approached a paved cross street and made a right and then an immediate left down Rue 21. There were trenches on the sides of the streets here, but nothing more offensive than the usual donkey dung. I had seen worse dodging goose poop when I used to walk to work in Addision. IL.

This road was obviously a tourist area. It was lined with quaint looking restaurants that soon gave way to souvenir shops. I caught site of an arch in the distance that was covered with a finish the color of the red earth surrounding us. Beyond this I glimpsed a fairy and I soon was looking upon the Djoliba river.

It was wide and placid today. The water was a living green and though I could smell the usual fishy background, it was not too unpleasant. A cool breeze caressed my body as I stepped up to the sloping retaining wall leading down to several traditionally constructed boats, one of which would carry us on our adventure up the river.

Kyle was walking beside me. “I know we ain’t takin’ the big boat hungh? We gon’ take one’a them lil boats over their.” He said with some trepidation. I smiled over to him and nodded. “Do you swim?” I asked.

“No.” he replied with an adolescent squeak in his voice. “If the person next to you can swim, you can swim, just don’t panic.” I said.

We walked down the embankment to the largest and most colorful of the boats and climbed in. This boat was a medium sized version of the boats that the river dwellers used for every purpose. It was long and narrow with a long prow that had a pole sticking far ahead of the boat. I noticed a wheel in the prow with a couple of brightly colored seats for a passenger and the pilot. There was a diesel engine in the back of the boat to drive the prop. The boat had several compartments for passengers all of which were covered by a canopy of woven grass that stretched most of the length of the boat. Khefira seemed anxious to board. Though she was pregnant at the time and in her second trimester, she scrambled aboard like an old deck hand, as comfortable as if she were walking through her own living room. “It’s traditional for the pilot to enter first!” someone called out. BaHeru yelled, “Look at you!” Khefira turned and smiled, “Hey, I’m at home.”, “She’s a pirate!” said Makheru.

Khefira is a good friend and a lovely woman. She is married to my personal HatTenee, Nehez Mineooh. Her Mother is an American of European descent and her Father is Japanese, from a family that had immigrated to the US before the Second World War. She is about 30 years old with dark black hair tinged with a few wisps of grey. Her dark brown eyes with a slight epicanthic fold often alternate between humor and seriousness. She is very important to us on this trip. She is a world traveler and expert chef, having studied in Italy. She handled most of the travel arrangements and, after Maakheru, she is the leader of our team. She is in very good shape being a traditional African dancer as well. She even danced last night during the party that the locals gave us on the roof of our little hotel, quite a feat for a woman six months pregnant.

As it happens, she is a pirate. It is in her bloodline.

After the pilot had climbed aboard and positioned himself in the main steering area, aft of the engine compartment, we all began to file in one by one. I handed the jug of water to one of the deck hands before I climbed aboard myself. The deck hands braced the plank that we were all using, as if they were expecting me to be nervous. I walked on with as much grace as I could muster and thought the plank had the worst of it.

I felt no particular excitement as we pulled away from the small pier. I have been in boats of many sizes before so I was comfortable in the compartment with Kyle, Malik, Bass, Amouzou, Justice and BouAnkhi. Malik, Bass and Amouzou were playing a card game called Ghanaian Five. I joined in and we had a wonderful time. Next thing you know, we looked to the riverbank and saw a small temple approaching as our boat motored placidly toward the shore.

The temple was sitting a ways back from a stone retaining wall that circled it like a small version of some medieval castle. Sprouting from the earth at the top of the wall and in front of the temple was a huge majestic tree. This tree seemed to stand guard over the temple like an ancient warrior. The folds of its trunk reached far into the ground, rooting deeply in the earth and creating crevices and crannies where children played and the elderly sheltered from the hot sun. The birds seemed to treat this tree with a kind of reverence.

It soon became clear that this was our destination. The children of the prosperous nearby village came running out to meet us as we made landfall on a small beach of reddish brown sand in front of the temple. BouImin, who always seemed to revel in the attention of the children, soon was surrounded by innocent little faces filled with curiosity and joy at our appearance.

I climbed out from under the straw canopy and disembarked onto the firm sand and walked up to the wall. A steep stair of about seven steps led to the top of the wall, which was just higher than my six foot five inches of height. As I climbed the stairs, the scope and beauty of the temple and the tree which sheltered it came into full view. I immediately noticed an elder sitting in front of the door to the temple. Everyone was gathering around under the tree for the presentation of our guide, Ibrahim. Instead I went to the elder and paid my respects. I felt a strong affection and respect for him. When he looked into my eyes, I felt as if gentle hands were caressing my soul.

This was a wonderful day.

My colleagues required my attention as Maakheru began to speak. At first, he was only translating what Ibrahim was saying. Ibrahim told us that the people of this village, Segou Kora, were the descendants of the first Islamic people to come here and that this was one of the oldest Islamic temples in the world. All of a sudden, Maakheru turned to Ibrahim and just took over the lecture completely. He explained that this was not an Islamic temple, though it was used for that purpose now. In fact, all Islamic Temples must have their entry way pointing toward Mecca. This building had an entry way pointing directly east. The building’s age pre-dated the Islamic religion.

Maakheru said that it was true that the people who came here were Moslems, but they found this temple here when they arrived along with many other architectural artifacts. I somehow got the impression that the tree was even older than the temple and that it predated civilization itself. It seemed that there was something special about the tree and I really couldn’t take my eyes off of it. My ignorance of the meaning and purpose of my perceptions began to wear upon me again, and I was reminded of the questions that continued to burn inside me. “What is fantasy, and what is reality?”, “What is the difference between Imagination and fantasy?”, “What is real?”

We soon moved on to the interior of the village. I followed along with the group, enjoying the sunshine and the attention of the children. They seemed to enjoy walking along with us and holding our hands. I took this as a sign of genuine affection.

Leaving Bamako was a blessing in and of itself. It seemed that the bus could not leave soon enough for me. I could almost say that I hated the traffic and glare and pollution of this city. I had expected to be challenged by insects and smells and heat. I did not expect those smells to be all too familiar, the smell of diesel and burning coal and gas. The people were not really that friendly and I looked upon everyone there, with a few exceptions, with great suspicion.

The mosquitoes were tiny, persistent and irritating. Maakheru told us that in the bush, the mosquitoes were finished for the year. He complained about how in Bamako, the mosquitoes lived year round. I think he had reason to complain. Of all of us there, it was only he who contracted malaria.

The bus stopped a couple of times on the way out of the city. The first time it stopped, I got a foreshadowing of the good times to come. Vendors would enter the bus and bring in muffins, water, soda bread and anything else that a traveler might need for a long journey. I little girl came on the bus vending muffins. She was so beautiful. Her voice had the sound of bells ringing as she held up her muffins for sale. I was spell bound by the sound of that voice and the beauty of her eyes. I fumbled for my camera to snap a picture of this vision of innocence and purity.

The bus continued and I settled in as best I could to enjoy the bus ride. It was oppressively hot when the bus stopped, but when moving, a lovely breeze blew through the bus and carried away the smoke and dust and the sickening stench of Bamako, may I never see it again.

We stopped one time for a “pit stop” Several of our group got off the bus to relieve themselves, including Makheru. He seemed to be doing better. Another of our group, Robert Conda, was almost left behind as the bus pulled off. He finally caught up with us and we continued North for Segu.

As we approached Segu, the Djoliba river came into view on our left. Just a few tantalizing glimpses as we traveled down the road at a respectable pace, passing the occasional donkey cart or bush taxi on the way.

We pulled in to the bus station in Segu, and I was prepared for another dusty polluted experience, but thankfully, we had left such things behind. A small contingent of porters and vendors assaulted us as we unloaded our bags and accumulated them into a pile as Makheru went off to find us accommodations. I was still worrying about the computers that we were lugging along with us. We had not sold a single one and I was working very hard to find a formula in my mind to break the grip of the depression that was snapping at my heals.

Malik hovered around me like a mother hen, continuing to assure me that the laptops would be sold. He had offered the most promising buyer, who had said that they would meet us at the bus station, that he would pay for transportation if he came to Segu to make the purchase. “Please, I don’t want to hear bout it anymore until somebody is in front of us with the money.” Malik looked a little hurt, but I think he understood. I had not wanted to lug these computers through the bush on the way to Ouaga, but I realized that I would have little choice.

I decided that it was time for me to start my pilgrimage.

The bus station in Segu was clean and well tended. The buildings were freshly painted and the people were friendly. The vendors were not too persistent as they seemed to realize that we were more interested in ending this leg of our journey. Makheru came back with a couple of young men and a boy bearing a hand carts. It turned out that one of them, a handsome young man with a confident bearing and beautiful blue-black skin, was also of Dogon lineage.

It was but a short walk around the corner, and we soon found ourselves stepping into a very pleasant courtyard. A canopy of woven grass stretched across from left to right. A table was set up in the corner of the front porch of a small hotel, which was only a step above ground level. Chairs were set up under the canopy and a small tree grew in the center of the courtyard with an earthen jar sitting next to it containing drinking water and a small statue that wore a necklace of cowry shells.

The building was painted yellow. A set of double doors led to what could be a great room or sleeping room with a kitchen off to the right. I noticed there were cow horns jammed into the door and strategically placed at various locations throughout the building. There was a set of stairs leading up to the roof of the building that I wanted to explore.

The courtyard continued around the building to an area in the back where we found a faucet for water, and further a walled in area for showering and relieving oneself. Khefira and MenZeba quickly made a bee line for this area. Khefira was apparently looking forward to her first outdoor shower of the trip with great anticipation.

Three or four young men greeted us obsequiously in the courtyard. The young Dogon was among them, and Makheru began negotiating a price for our stay. This was the first of several such negotiations that I would observe. When the deal was finally done, we all pulled our bags from the cart and placed them on the left wall of the great room as one of the young men proceeded to drag futons in and place them on the floor.

I climbed the stairs to the roof and found a very pleasant space with a view of a lot below where a couple of elderly men were weaving huge straw barrels under the shade of a couple of trees. As I stood there, I could see how all of the buildings were connected together in a warren of brick walls and passageways that was compact and efficient. Children played in the small courtyards and I could see into some of the open windows where woman were busy doing some chore or other.

An occasional motor scooter would travel up and down the dirt road outside the entry way to our hotel and everything seemed to be moving at a very leisurely pace. I felt myself relaxing with every breath and an emotion filled me that until then had been a faint memory. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that I was truly happy in a way that I had not been since my childhood. I looked up into the clear blue sky and felt the sun shining down on my face like a mother caressing a baby. I was truly home.

I banked my emotions and went downstairs to see what was going on with everyone else. Makheru was asking if we would like to pay a couple of dollars each to have some music that evening. “Do you want to pay some dollars to be pampered with music tonight?” he asked. I was the first person to speak up. I had little money, but this seemed like something that would be worthwhile to spend it on.

Khefira and Zeba had completed their shower and were busy making sandwiches for us from left over fish and fresh vegetables that they had saved from the day before in Bamako. We had acquired fresh plain baguettes, which seemed to be a staple food in Mali.

A little while later, some of the guys from Segu came by and brought some djembes. A djembe is a traditional African drum that found its origin many years ago here in Mali. One of the guys, who Makheru had nick named “Ja Rule” because of his resemblance to the rapper sat down with Bass and Makheru to play. This was a wonderful time. Makheru was still a bit weak from the malaria and he had a very persistent cough, so he had little energy to play for very long.

Ja Rule’s real name was Papu. Later in the day Papu was playing the djembe on the roof with Bass and I joined them. Papu sat me down with a djembe and showed me a simple beat that I stumbled through for a while. He began to sing and Bass joined in. Justice, a brother from the New York School joined us on the roof and I turned over my djembe to him. I pulled out my harmonica and tried to pick out a tune.

Justice stands about 6’1” and is only a year younger than I. He’s a big guy like me and has been involved with the study of African spirituality for many years but has only been studying with the earth center for about a year. At first, Justice seemed kind of stand-offish. He kept to himself in the airport and also in Bamako. Segu had worked its magic on him as well and here he began to open up and spend more time interacting with everyone else in the group much more than before.

That night a group of performers came by our little compound. There were two djembe players, one player of the tum tum, which is a stick drum that is used to keep the beat and three beautiful women. One woman brought a European man with her who appeared to be her boyfriend. The leader of the group was an incredible djembe player. As he played, the women would spontaneously get up and dance traditional party dances.

I had experienced something like this before in Chicago at the 63^rd street beach on the South Side. There is a drum circle that forms there most every night in the summer and especially on the weekends. Many Africans come there to play and dance. This was a smaller version of the same, but the dancing and the drumming was more coordinated and much better.

Zeba, a member of our group dances semi-professionally in Chicago with the Najua dance troop and she allowed the other women to convince her to join the dance. She seemed hard pressed to keep up with the drummers but seemed to enjoy her self immensely. She soon lost her shyness and danced with the other ladies.

I have rarely seen and heard such beautiful sites. The sky was clear and the moon shown down brightly thought it was not entirely full. The drummers hands moved so fast sometimes that they were only a blur and were matched in speed only by the feet of the dancers. At one point, one of the drummers removed his shirt revealing a lean physique and took over the dance. Everyone whooped and hollered as he moved with a powerful grace that made me wish that I were capable of such things, but that would only be a dream for me.

Soon another member joined the group. He was a young man who was severely crippled. He could not stand up straight at all and moved from one place to another on all fours using sandals to protect his hands. He was just as friendly as everyone else and clearly quite strong and comfortable in his skin. All the other members of the troop treated him as an equal. He too took the floor to dance as well.

His dance was not clumsy or graceless. It had an energy and joy for life that left me dumbfounded. In America, he would have been marginalized and denigrated, but here, he was strong and accepted. I have never experienced this and I felt somewhat ashamed of my own initial reaction to his presence.

Soon the main djembe player began to serenade each of us. Well,… I don’t think serenade is the right word, because it was more a display of his virtuosity. Upon completion, we would give him our payment for the performance. He did something with the djembe that I had never seen before. He took a glass and slid it along the head of the drum with one hand while striking the drum with the other. It gave the djembe the character of a talking drum where he could change the pitch at will.

Makheru finally came up to the roof as the main djembe player was finishing his rounds. Makheru is himself a master drummer so I knew that it would take much to impress him. The main drummer pulled every trick out of his book, seeming to realize that Makheru was our leader and the man to impress. Makheru sat in his chair wrapped in a blanket unimpressed, until the made the djembe talk. It was after this that Makheru offered him his payment. Later Makheru proclaimed him to be “Very good”.

]]> http://weblog.modernmysticman.com/?feed=rss2&p=57 0 http://weblog.modernmysticman.com/?p=44 http://weblog.modernmysticman.com/?p=44#comments Sun, 09 Mar 2008 04:31:05 +0000 http://modernmysticman.com/weblog/?p=43 The day began with intense pain. It was a welcome pain, a reminder that my journey had just begun.

I was lying on the hardwood floor of the New York Earth Center. Kyle lay nearby and Kasabez was lying next to the wall. At my head lay a man named Jacob, a brother from South Africa. I thought back to the drive from my home in Chicago to the Earth center here along interstate 90. The drive had been 13 hours. My companions were Nehez, Khefira, Kyle and my favorite driving tunes.

About 7 or 8 hours into the trip, we entered the Allegany Mountains and it began to snow. At the time, I had just been thinking what it must be like to drive through these mountains on snow-covered roads. The snow came down wet and sticky and it was inconsistent enough to require me to take precious attention away from my driving to manage the windshield wipers. The sun had gone down and since these roads were not so familiar to me, I really needed every bit of concentration to figure out where the next major incline or turn would be.

There were mostly 18 wheelers sharing the road with me at this time of night. Most of the time I could see well enough, but I must admit that I was surprised to be passed on the right by a semi traveling at more than 80 miles per hour. I guess they new the roads a lot better than me. Sometimes I was hemmed in, as the convoys found their way through the darkness, snow, rain and sleet. I was not frightened by this. It all seemed a great adventure. I had driven to New York before and I was so happy to finally be on my way to Merita.

I was tired. I had done all of the driving and it had been virtually non-stop, but this was my decision.

I began to slip in and out of consciousness. Though my eyes were open, I could recognize myself sliding into a fugue state somewhere between wakefulness and a dark tunnel of tiny lights rushing at me like fireflies parading in some unnatural precession.

I turned the music up loud and began to sing in full voice. I had The Police’s greatest hits in the CD player and I knew all the words. “How are you doing?” Nehez interrupted my serenade. “I just need to sing.” I replied.

Every song was five miles closer to our destination. “Roxanne”, “I Just Can’t Stand Loosin’ You”, “Message in a Bottle”, by the time I got to “Spirits In a Material World” I was wide awake and in fine form. My throat felt clear and my vocal control was good since I new these songs so well. I finished off The Police and then put in U2’s Greatest Hits from the 80’s. I was fine until we came to “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Lookin’ For”. This song brought back a flood of emotions. I began to cry.

Before I came to live with our community in Chicago within walking distance of Lake Michigan, I lived alone in a suburb of Chicago. I would drive to class after work and play this song. In my mind I changed the chorus to “I’ve finally found what I’m lookin’ for”. I later changed them back again, I realized that I am again searching, for the honesty within the midst of the questions, the cure to the “burning desire” that clouds my brain.

I stopped singing and just listened to the song as I replayed it again. I couldn’t sing anymore, and the fatigue began to snap at me again, like a crocodile reaching from the murky depths of the river of road markers rushing by me at 75 miles per hour. I was fighting for my consciousness again, but I realized that the death roll would not be mine alone, my friends would go down with me.

I started popping dark-chocolate covered coffee beans, and switched to “The Very Best of the Eagles”, but somehow my voice had left me. I couldn’t catch my breath. We passed into New Jersey on sheer force of will alone. My eyes began to blur and I realized that I still had the defrost on and it was drying out my eyeballs.

Kyle had been silent but awake all of this time. We had sailed through the Pocanoes on Steve Wonder at Nehez’s request. As we approached New York, Kyle seemed to come to life. “Are we gon’ see that lil’ statue?” he asked. “What statue?” someone replied. It could have been me. I was concentrating so hard that all I remember hearing was Khefira’s directions and Kyle prattling on about Tyra this or Tyra that. Kyle’s a “Next Top Model” groupie and his only wish was to catch a glimpse of her walking on the street somewhere in the big city.

Every other time I had driven in New York City, I had gotten lost. I don’t know if it was Khefira’s excellent directions or what, but we arrived at the EC without a hitch. As tired as I was at 2:30 AM in the morning, dragging our bags up the stairs, I found myself hungry for the curry that Menzeba had left for us on the stove. Zeba had arrived in New York ahead of us. I was thankful for the smell of the food that enlivened my mind once again.

Soon an African man came walking out of the shrine. He had on a sweat suit with a blue hoodie. His hair was close to his head in tiny little knots that reminded me of little beads. He smiled a humble smile and introduced himself as Jacob. I soon felt very comfortable with his company and imagined that we would become good friends.

Jacob is from South Africa. He had a lot of wonderful stories to share and he and some of the others and I spoke for a couple of hours before we finally laid down on the floor to sleep. I was struck by the openness with which he shared his experiences with us. Nehez was clearly excited to hear what he had to say. Jacob is a Zulu Ba’Ntu, and Nehez is fascinated by Ba’Ntu and Zulu culture. I have rarely seen him so excited. Jacob shared things with us that I had heard rumors of before, but somehow, coming from him as the common knowledge of his village, it had a new legitimacy.

I’m now 35,000 feet above the middle of the Atlantic, traveling at over 520 Miles per hour. We will arrive in Casablanca in 3 hours or so and I’ll try to get some sleep now.

It is 2:22AM and I have not gone to sleep yet. In a few hours I’ll load up my car with my luggage and my friends and we will head east across the Midwest to New York. There I will meet with the rest of my friends and we will all board a plane for Casablanca.

Casablanca, a name that evokes ideas of adventure and romance to all who have a memory of the famous Hollywood movie by the same name. When I told my colleagues about my trip, some were very excited about the prospect of exploring the city. Our flight from New York to Casablanca will be about 8 hours and we will have an 11 hour layover before we hop another 8 hour flight to Bamako.

I think I’ll hang out at the airport.

There will be 13 of us on the first part of the trip.

Khefira Hasati

Khefira is a lovely young woman who is the wife of my personal Hatenee and good friend Nehez Meniooh. Khefira is half Japanese and half European. She is about five foot 6 and in pretty good shape to be in her second trimester of pregnancy. Her face is an interesting mix of features with the typical epicanthic folds of the Japanese but slightly muted by her mother’s European ancestry. Khefira’s hair is a slightly coarse and wavy dark brown with a few strands of grey. She has a dancer’s body, having studied and taught Sabar dance for many years, but her pregnancy is beginning to show.

Khefira is a seasoned traveler. She made the pilgrimage last year and before that had traveled extensively in Africa, Europe and Tibet. I think that she will be a reliable travel companion.

KaSabez Ma’akma’a

KaSabez is a good friend. I first met him when I began my initiation. Since he was originally in my generation and I am the Mer (overseer), I felt a certain responsibility for him. He is about twenty five and is re-growing his dreds. He is another of mixed ancestry. He is tall and thin and slight of build. He seems rather clumsy sometimes and for some reason has always wanted to test his strength against mine. I’m 6’5″ and 350lbs and he is probably 6’4″ and 180lbs. Not really a fair fight, but he is much younger than my 47 years. I indulge him when I’m in the mood.

I have always shown great hope and confidence in KaSabez when many others had dismissed him. He has been in and out of The Earth Center for five years and had a reputation as a stoner for a while. He seems to think of himself as more intelligent than most people. He definitely has a good memory since he no longer smokes pot. He seems to have two different effects on people, he either gets on their last nerve, or makes them feel comfortable enough to trust him with some of their most important projects.

He is a real enigma.

BaAshu Tutsanai’i

BaAshu is my brother in the initiation. He is about six three with dark blond hair and a full beard. He too is very slight of build though he seems to wear it better than KaSabez. Perhaps it is the fact that he is a horticulturist and likes sports. He spends a lot of time outside.

BaAshu also has traveled to Africa before, though he has not been on the pilgrimage yet. His Mother runs a semi-annual program where she takes inner-city youth to Africa, and BaAshu has accompanied her on a few of these trips.

BaAshu is very intelligent, though he tends to hide it well. He sits back quietly and watches everything. He usually speaks when he has something worthwhile to say, or to add a dry witticism to a conversation. His emotions rarely come to the surface, but that does not mean that he doesn’t have them.

I think that he will be a good person to rely on as we navigate the environment.

Kyle

“Beautiful” Kyle. Kyle is the grandson of my sister in the initiation Neeriooh. Neeriooh went on the pilgrimage last year.

Kyle is 15 years old and has just started the initiation at the behest of his Grandmother. At first, I was pretty worried about taking Kyle on this trip. I have been told stories of how different the culture is and Kyle is rather effeminate. He seems to prefer hanging out with the women at the EC rather than with the men and he seems to have a preoccupation with his appearance. I tease him sometimes because he works so hard on being “beautiful”.

I have been impressed by how far he has come since he started the initiation. I think that he realizes how important this trip is and how much of an opportunity it will be. He has really tried to learn how to be more open with experimenting with his pallet and he shows much more respect for his elders than he once did.

I know that this trip will be a real challenge for him, but I think that he will make it OK, as long as he can keep a lid on the whining.

BaHeru Meniooh and MenZeba Hasati

BaHeru and MenZeba will get married in Merita (traditional Africa). BaHeru is a former college basketball star. He has long thick dreads and a full beard. He has a powerful but not too obvious build and an easy smile and a quick cadence to his voice that makes him always seem to be in a hurry to get what he has to say across. Even so, what he has to say is usually very significant and he has an honest earnestness about him that shines through in the conviction that you see in his eyes, which are both gentle and intense at the same time. I think that I would not have wanted to meet him on a basketball court. He must have been a fierce competitor.

MenZeba is simply beautiful, but in a kind of innocent way. She is unassuming about her looks and she works very hard at perfecting her skills as a dancer and running the business that she an BeHeru share along with BaHeru’s younger brother SaDeni Ma’akma’a. ‘Zeba is tall and thin with a coffee and cream complexion. She usually wears her hair tied back so that it springs out of the back of her head like a halo of dark honey curls surprised to have been freed of the restriction.

MenZeba means “strong teacher” and I think that she lives up to that name. She is very intense and at times has to concentrate to not offend the people around her with an imperious attitude that occasionally peeks out from the place that she has locked it away. I feel that I can depend on her.

Well, it’s really very late and I will be driving 12 hours tomorrow. There are still a few things left to do.

I’ll be leaving my CPAP behind. I have been using a medicine for Sleep Apnea for the past month or so, but I gave up on trying to adapt to not using the machine until now. I couldn’t afford to fall asleep on the highway during my commute to and from work. I’ll be leaving that behind for two months now.

I think that I can sleep without the machine now, and I think that I have a psychological attachment to the sound of the machine. Since I’ll no longer be faced with the day-to-day stress of urban colonial life, I hope that I will be able to overcome the disease now.

One more night with the machine.

I probably won’t be able to blog again for two weeks. I should be able to access the internet from the EC in Ouagadougou.

Until then…