A Tree House Made of Seashells with Princess Beds

The ceilings are a spread of seashells. And the myriad archways are lined with sky-blue mosaic tiles that lead you up stairways, along hallways, and up a ladder to the terrace room that overlooks a mini-paradise: lush gardens and intricate architecture framed by garbage-laden dirt roads and sprawling concrete homes. It is an artist colony, a resort, a tree house made of seashells with princess beds, as Kate put it, thanks to the beautifully draping mosquito nets. A magical locale that exudes tranquility and begets creativity. It is no wonder that the gardens along the pathways are bespeckled with gorgeous contemporary and traditional art pieces all nestled into the scenery; they are proof of its inhabitants’ open minds and hearts.

I spent my weekend here, in company of the fifty or so other students on my program, and partook of batiking and dance classes. A calm city somewhere south of Dakar, Toubab Diallo overlooks the ocean and attracts a certain brand of tourists as a means of supporting the artist colony and the local craftspeople. Of the bookend bus rides on Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon and all that came in between, there is one moment that deserves verbal recreation:

We overlook the ocean, damp from the sweat of dancing and hearts racing with the thrilling thought of racing down the beach and plummeting into the sunset salty waters. And we go, smiles extending farther than the beach itself and cries of excitement turning into song as we twirl and tumble into the water. Crash! Swish! And we’re overtaken by a warm tide and embraced in its tumultuous churning. Coming up, we experience the final wisps of daylight’s pinks and yellows fading into lightning. And the rain comes forth, pelting from behind. Is that rain or sand? It’s hard to say. Is that salty or fresh? We are all wet, so we can hardly tell. On the beach, a beautiful man with short dreads plays kapoera with our friend and we come forth from the water, clapping and dancing, ready to join in the acrobatic martial-arts dance that has already begun. He was our dance teacher and now he is our kapoera companion, but the warmth and crash of the oceans beckons us back as a cool wind whips up. I stand in waves, and waves, and waves; arms raised to the darkness and the flashing, crinkly lightning. My toes pay homage to the magnificent sand and my calves are sustained by live-sustaining waters; and I free-fall back, am caught by a wave, and die happily. --- Who needs words when you have the ocean? Song bursts forth necessarily and the tune has never been heard before –because it is one of the heart, the senses, the cheeks, the eyes. These are the moments that one lives for. I give it to you with all my heart. May the sounds or rolling water imbue you with an urge to dance melodiously.

Peace and love,

Jocelyn


Sept 27, 2009