You don't know how good something is until it's gone, says the old adage. Yes, a travel partner as experienced, energized and communcative as Dana is impossible to find, and now he is gone. Back to Toronto, to the world of single family houses, bikeable streets, business suits and fiddleheads.

Me, I'm open... saying my goodbyes to Africa as I head to Barcelona, then France and Paris through rural Europe. I am underdressed for the cold, and I am expecting the shock of culture and 10Euro meals to hit me hard. But for now, the delight of Morocco is fresh in my blood. I am open...

When alone, your eyes are open: a sight or sound is just for you, there is no elbowing your pal to say, 'hey check that out.' There is no verification, and when the stick looks like it bends in the water, a self-reminder is in order.

The bus pulled out of the station, and I struck up a conversation in French. I never know what I'm going to get, Arabic, French, Spanish, English. But I'm only half listening to my new friend, the wheels of the bus are each screeching a perfect tone that achords like a harmonica. Meanwhile, my seatmate, Omar, sings the Moroccan blues, 'there is no work here for engineers. I must save money to go to France.'

Cigarettes and safron. Tumeric and tajine.

Tangiers shocked me. I was here 5 years ago and it was a small port town. The way between the port and the medina was covered with garbage and people who scared us into a taxi-ride. This time, there are European cafés right down to the biggest port in Africa. Where there was a souk with fresh and rotting vegetables, there is now a fountain. In a month there will be a Jazz festival. In five years Expo Tanger. Yes, it's changed.

Life is good. I'm riding the wave with a smile.

It might be time to recount some funny stories from the trip, so that you, my dear reader know that it has been not only beautiful and spiritual but full of giggles, rigoles, and knee slapping chuckles of African proportions!

This may not be for all readers as the comedy varies greatly:

1. You can image devout muslims coming in contact with Textured Vegetable Protien (TVP) for the first time and thinking it was pork. Well, one friend had to be convinced that it was 'harricot' (aka beans), but once he did; pulled the joke on his friends that it was Canadian Bacon.

2. I met the love of my life and she had my name, too. On the Senegal river that borders Senegal and Mauritania, a beautiful, young, African queen met us by the river. Through our friends who spoke both Pulaar and French, we learned her name was Adama. Eye contact was a must. In this region of Islam's reach, and the sun's touch, veiled modesty is not as essential as devotion, so it is customary for both men a women to bathe (separately but in plain view) in the river. It was just our luck that on the return journey of our walk around the town Darra Haleibe, Adama was bathing in the river. As we walked by we exchanged greetings:

'Bada Ehtam pere', I said. (How goes the fatigue?)
'Adeceli' (It goes well.)
'Jamtan' (Peace.)
'Hamdalila' (God is Great.)
'Zen' (All is well.)

In case you were wondering, I looked back.

3. Dana and I were at Lake Aleg in Mauritania and saw huge pieces of cow dung in the trees. We wondered why a cow would climb a tree just to shit? Later, when we went on a firewood collecting journey withe the town children on a three-donkey cart, we discovered that the locals huck a piece of dried cow droppings into the branches of the desert prickly trees to shake the fruit from the top tentacles. The nut needs to be peeled, sucked and spitted. Not a good taste. This was not Orange country.

4. In Atar, we discovered that a 'douche' which means shower in French, can often get confused for toilet, because if you are going to bathe yourself, it all goes down the same hole anyway. But in the desert, porcelain and bathROOMS are few and far between. In this one family's 'douche', clay stairs lead to a second storey of planks of wood, underwhich dropped whatever was necessary. Underdevelopment means no two storey buildings. All is subject to plain view in Africa.

5. ...except perhaps meals in towns with no electricity. Oftentimes, eating with our host family meant a good hand scrubbing, and then eating rice with overcooked vegetables and over-MSGed meat with our hands around a common bowl. We got used to it. This one night, a 'special' African meal was prepared. We were explained that it was the leaves of the 'harricot' plant, rice and meat. It tasted (and gritted) like grass, sand and cow dung.' When I asked what part of the animal this meat came from, our host pointed to, and spoke in French, 'brain, stomach and feet.' Dana proclaimed rightly, 'worst suprise meal in his lifetime.' I got the recipe.

Oh, I have a list of 20 more, but they will have to wait for the animated hands of Dana Fountain, my travel partner extraordinaire, and future opportunities for exchanges of smiles. Thanks for reading.

More than 6000 km behind us.

Dear reader: the things I've seen and experienced can simply not be captured in an occasional blog post. The kindness, the life of prayer, the heat, the wind, the beaches, the sand in our toes, the hand signals when words aren't there, the smiles, the children, AFRICA!

My hands are shaking at the thought that this will be my internet memory of this region at this time. To say the least, I have traveler's feaver. No, I'm not sick, I just want more! Try to close your eyes and breathe with me, becuase everyday I cross the Atlantic or Mediterranean this way with you.

Since I left you last in St. Louis, Dana and I have travelled on rediculously slow, busy and fumey Senegalese busses. (We even got into a fender bender with a taxi. No injuries.) We travel like the locals and have learned how to navigate through the all-in-one "garage", "gare routière", "marché", and zone for shoeless begger boys. Most busses can hold 15 to 35 people and will freauently stop the 35km/hr tromp to pick-up and drop-off passengers along the way. A small city outside of Dakar was where we said goodbye to our 3-week travelling companion named, Diop. He was our guide and interpreter-éxcellent but more than anything, our good friend. The night we three and Céline arrived in Thies, Senegal, the only hotels to be found were three times more expensive than what we were able to pay. At around 22h00, we stumbled upon non-French speaking Phillipinos who are here laying fibre-optic cable on contract for one month. They live next door the the Sayo family from The Central African Republic. Mme. Sayo is a large, intelligent, motivated and evers-so-kind woman who sustains her family of 7 children by working towards human rights all over the world. Her husband and their father died in a war three years ago. She put us all up for the night, and we played with her children. We spoke politics, exchanged gifts, e-mail addresses, food, smiles, music and continued the next day.

Dana and I were on our own again, with the goal of The Gambia. A larger river; a small country. People there speak English and live under mango trees. Rasta culture has crossed the Atlantic with the requisite dreadlocks, weed and Reggae. Dana and I made friends with musicians and I went out to a nightclub to see live music. Words like "Raspect" and "Bombaclatt" instantly reminded me of my time in the Caribbean.

After three weeks in the desert, we desired the beach and found the most spectacular beach I have ever been to. Seven kms of private beach for us and the two or three other guests, and a handful of locals who would walk and cycle the beach to get from town to town. The market was rick with hot peppers, tomatoes and mini obergine, so we cooked up a storm and swam three times a day for three days. It was our rest, and our southern-most point.

Since then, we have been making our slow return trip. So enamoured by our family in Thies, we returned to sing "Hotel California" (hilarious) at the top of our lungs with the Philipinos who blew me away with John Denver songs on the guitar, and gin and juice.

We also took a day trip into Dakar to visit my friend Benj's host family from when he was a student in Dakar. It can be said of our trip that one measurement of time is the families we stayed with. Benj's (or Ousmane Diallo as he was known there) family took us in and toured us around Dakar, French Africa's largest and busiest city. We took the trip to Goree Island, the point of no return for all the African slaves from that region for 300 years. It was so moving to hear the stories, walk the streets of this tiny island, and see the "Maison des esclave."

From Dakar back to Thies, then to the Mauritanian border, and more slow desert travel. I can't describe the beauty of dunes that flow with the wind. If you are not careful they may take over the highway or bury your tent. In Mauritania, sand is the only danger and the only comfort for lack of couch or chair.

Unfortunately, both Dana's camera and mine broke, so most of this return trip will not be captured on film, so the stress is on stories and drawings, and most of all, memories.

We take tea. I will make the famous Mauritanian tea for you when I see you next. Insha'allah.

A word on spirituality:

People here are believers. In every word is the reverance for Allah. Any mention of the future or in any response to the question "how are you?" they respond with "Insha'allah" or, "God willing." In most of our desert sunset rides, we stop to pray. Men wash their feet in the sand, and fold in the now-globally recognized "Muslim" way. How beautiful these men are when they pop back into the car with white, red or brown sand on their noses and foreheads. How much they desire to know us, exchange emails, give phone numbers if we need help or for our next trip. They jump at the chance to say all humans are the same and equal, and what matters is purity of heart not what's in your pocket. The godliness in the air, in the music, in the rituals has rubbed off on me. I am inspired to a state of constant and extreme thankfulness. I needed it more than anything in this world. Thankfulness. I give thanks to all the known and unknown forces that make my life wonderful, my family and friends healthy and loving, and my eyes open.

I send you, dear reader, nothing but peace, love and profound thankfulness.

I am in Dakhla, Western Sahara, Morocco after what seems like years of movement and laughter. Dana, my excellent and ideosyncratic traveling companion leaves in less than one week. I am the dirtiest I have ever been in my life, and the most happy (other than wishing you were here with me).

The Difference between Darra and St. Louis is enormous.

After checking in one last time on the internet from Bogue, Mauritania, Dana, Diop, Celine (our traveling companion who is a 32-year-old Romy Lightman), our host Kals, his wife Umu and their son Mohammed drove west along the Senegal River which acts as the unguarded boarder between Mauritania and Senegal. All the people here speak Pulaar, which is a beautiful sounding African language that seems as old as the land. It has all the pops and clicks of the French West African tongue, and has left behind the Arabic "ch" found at the end of Hebrew words like Pesach.

We crossed the river and came upon a community in celebration. This past weekend in Darra was the celebration of the prophet's birhtday, and each year Darra hosts more and more people. A town of a few hundred that sustains itself on small gardens next to the river, and the animals that drink from it can host what we guessed was 10 000 people. This region all centres around the Marabu. The Marabu are the most highly respected people in the area. They are the leaders and decision makers. They are regarded as the most familiar with Allah. In the festival we heard people praising Allah, the Prophet and the holy Marabus. The knowledgeable ones recite the entire Koran by heart from midnight to 6am with all the ululation and ferver that one would expect from such believers. We also had the opportunity to dress up in Boo-Boos with our hosts and visit Darra's Marabu. He welcomed us as forigners and said a prayer over all who sat before him.

People in Darra are very relaxed. They light on mats under trees almost all day because it is blisteringly hot, and tress offer the best source of shade as long as you keep moving around it when the sun shifts. They stand for each visitor who comes their way and murmur a huge list of salutations. Each person will say 8 or 10 salutations before movong on. In this respect, women and men are totally equal in hanshake and greeting. Both men and women bathe topless in the river, and work together in the fields.

We ate like Africans, all together sitting around one common bowl making balls of food with our hands and popping it into our mouths. We bathed in the river and washed our clothes there two. Life there seems slow, holy and unchanging. We were the only white people in town, and it seemed like very few white people every make it to Darra. It's extremely hard to get to, and there are no hotels.

Over 200 kms west of Darra, the Senegal River empties into the Atlantic onto an island city that the French colonialists set up as their capital to all of West Africa. The architecture and grid system scream colonial design, and it's rather nice. So too, think the throngs of French tourists who come here to walk the bridges and eat the fresh fish. There is electricity and internet, water from taps and the high fashion you might see on the streets of Paris or New York. But don't be fooled, poverty abounds here as well. Children approach in droves to beg for money. They are no less poor or rich than those shoeless children in Darra, but more caged in and more reliant on "toobap" the Wolof word for white person. "Toobap, toobap, done moi de l'argent," they chime.

I see why the French chose this as their capital, the breeze here is magnificent and it's not oppresively hot like it is in Darra.

People here are still connected to their Marabus. They hand photos of them from around their necks, but it seems a little more distant. In the rush of the cars (of which there are non in Darra) and the hustle of the market, the African spirituality is a little bit lost.

I've found myself intrigued and inspired by both places. Their contrast was so shocking that I thought it might provide a bit of good context for you in this region. Next, we head to Dakar and Gambia before our return to Morocco.

Colours, Sand and People

I couldn't capture it all for you in a few minutes of writing, nor would I want to because it has to be experienced first hand, but I can describe a few moments for you in hopes that you are interested, and that maybe you will email me.

Well, let's start with the colours. At times, Dana and I will be in a car on the road for several hours at a time. Often we are squashed 4 to a back seat of a beat-up Mercedes, sometimes we ride in the back of pick-up trucks. Whatever's going our way. I say to Dana, "each car has it's own personality." He understands: its own cracked windshield, bumpy tires and interior decoration. So we wizz by humungous mountain passes that stretch black and firm like an African fist puching through water. The rest of the roads in this country are surrounded by red, white or yellow sand and it can very dramatically with the time of day and rock type. When the wind blows, it picks up off the ground and fills the horizon with "poussiere" or dust, but the French word is nicer, I think. Sometimes the wind is so strong that the desert so vast that a haze builds to partially block the sun's rays and our view of the sparce green that surrounds the highways and towns.

Yet, there are oases. And in one such oasis town of about 300 people (says the town-elder, Ali, with whom we sat for tea) green foliage abundantly pushes above the sand as the water is close to the surface. In the towns and cities, colours fill the day. Taxis match the colour of the Mauritanian flag, Green and Yellow. Mint leaves, tomatoes and a rainbow of goats and sheep (dead and alive) fill the markets.

The men wear white or baby-blue "boo-boos" which are loose gowns with no sleeves. A distinguished mode of dress, even more so if it has elaborate embroidery on the chest. The boo-boo is usually worn over African pyjamas of any colour or patern, or a western-style colar and dress pants. Turbans, black, white, blue, green or brown cover men's heads to protect from sun and sand.

But by far, the women control the eye of colour in Mauritania. Their shalls are anything from teal to tope and could have paterns of the sun, leaves or geometric shapes. They capture the faces, but leave the arms bare for work, perspiration and easy access for breast feeding.

But maybe, more than the colours, the sand should be a topic to write about. There is sand everywhere in Mauritania. Sand in my pockets, ground into the fabric of my clothes, between my toes, under my fingernails, in the lines on my hands, like lice-eggs in my hair, in the food, in the water, at the corner of my eyes. I've learned to get used to it, and like it. It's like living right by the ocean, vast and variable, entirely careless. Moreover, we use sand to clean our pots and pans, and to bury our shit, we agree upon price by writing in the sand. It's our matress and our pillow.

Dunes are a perfection of movement. They leave waves that mark the wind's direction and strenght, they bury houses and date palms (now I know why palms grow up and not out), they are next to impossible to climb because each step takes you as third as far as you want to go, but once you do climb it, you're in raven territory. The black birds circle and squlk to let you know you are on their perch. But the Saharan sunrise is too sweet to leave just yet. I take a morning breath and try not to forget that the same wind blows snow off the Rockies.

Otherwise, the people continue to be excellent to us. Hospitality is a huge thing, and so is the community. People help each other here. Rides are given for free to everyone except tourists, people sit and lie on mats together for hours on end just discussing. Electricity is fairly rare, and comes in sprurts, usually after sunset for a few hours, but people cook with carbon or gas, and sit with candles and flashlights. The stars shine bright even in big cities. Everyone says "Bonjour" or "Salam Aleykum" or the Pular, "Bada eh tam pereh" which literally translates to, "how's the fatigue?"

I told my friend, Diop, that instead of filling the first minute or two of a conversation with hellos and how's your familys, we talk about the weather, in Canada because is changes so often. "Hi how are you? It's sure beautiful outside. I'm glad spring is around the corner." Here, a season change means slightly more rain, and a change in migrant workers and tourists, not much.

That should do it for now. I'm living it up here, eating, sleeping and sharing everything with locals like Kals and his wife, Umu. They are new parents to Mohammed who is five months of the cutest little-ness in the world. It reminds me of why those who raise you from that age when you're bathed in the sink are able to love you most profoundly.

With that said, I miss you all from my grandparents and parents, to the people I met just last year. Life is good, "insha-allah" and it will continue to be good when we cross into Senegal tomorrow morning. That should be about two weeks and then back up to Morocco for our second crossing of the Sahara.

From the heat of Bogue, Mauritania, on the Senegal River. Peace, Salam, Shalom.

Well... Africa is alive, and so are we, Dana and I. It has been about a week and one half since we have been here and we have moved aroud a lot. Right now, we are in Mauritania's capital and largest city, Nouackshott. It's got 400 000 people and it's mostly comprised of partially built buildings, sand and plastic bags. But the people are wonderful. We have been brought in by our friend/guide, Diop to his sister's home by the sea. Later we are going for a hamam which will be much appreciated after such a long time without a bath, other than is the sand dunes of this great and peaceful nation.

I go back and forth from, "I'm so lucky to be here" to "Man! it's dirty and poor." But there are some certainties I would like to share with you:

1. People who have little but give much are the richest in the world.
2. We who live in North America are SO LUCKY and we should never forget it. I never will.
3. A place can be both poor and safe at the same time.
4. Sand is as good at cleaning as water.
5. Water is the most precious resourse on the planet.
6. A smile and a song (and perhaps bic pens) are the most important things to bring with you wherever you go.
7. Fruit is delicious.
8. There are many kinds of toilets.

It's hamam time now (and prayer time for the muslims, calls the imam from the minerets).

May peace be upon us all. Please send emails, news and crazy ideas. I will read them all.

In the three minutes that remain for my internet time (slow internet mimics the patience I need for long desert voyages), I will try to recap a few things.

Dana and I are great! We eat faily well and drink lots of tea and water. I've learned a few things along the way:

People of the desert are not to be questioned on matters pertaining to the desert.

The more you smile the more people will smile back.

Young and old, rick and poor, everyone can appreciate a well-made paper airplaine.

More later,

Love,

Adam