Stories from the
Sine-Saloum Delta
From the mangrove, the pirogue, the dinner table.
Not travel stories.
Moments that stayed.
Small encounters, unexpected silences, things a place can teach you if you stop long enough to listen. These fragments come from thirteen years of living in the Sine-Saloum — not as a visitor, but as someone who chose to stay.
From the delta,
one moment at a time.
🌿 Why I Tell My Story2
**Why do I write about my own life?** It's a question I get asked from time to time. For years, I wrote only for myself. Over time, those pages grew into a complete autobiography. But I never published it. Why? Not because I thought my life wasn't interesting enough. And certainly not because I believed it was more extraordinary than anyone else's. The truth is, I believe every person carries a library within them. You do too. My own library began in childhood. I was curious about everything. The local library became my second home, a place where I could lose myself among the shelves for hours. Perhaps that's where my love for stories began. Later, the world became my library. I travelled. I built a business. I went bankrupt. I moved to Senegal. I built an ecofarm. I made mistakes. I lost. And, little by little... I found myself again. Along the way, I discovered something I had never understood before. The most meaningful stories are not about distant countries. They are about what we discover about ourselves while travelling through life. The greatest adventure doesn't only happen out there... It also happens within us. For many years, I kept those stories to myself. Now, it feels like the right time to share them. Not because I think my life is extraordinary. But because I hope that, every now and then, you'll recognise a small part of yourself in my stories. Perhaps in a memory. Perhaps in a dream. Perhaps in a mistake. Or maybe simply in a scent that suddenly brings you back to a forgotten moment. I don't write because I have all the answers. Quite the opposite. I write because I'm still curious. Because I still ask questions. Because I'm still capable of wonder. I'm sixty-three now... But thankfully, my curiosity has never grown old. And perhaps... that is the greatest journey any of us can make. Not the journey around the world. But the journey back to ourselves. Welcome to my library of stories. Take a book from the shelf whenever you like. Perhaps, somewhere between my stories, you'll discover a small part of your own. I'm glad you're here. ❤️ Luc
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My First Time in Senegal – Part 3
The Road into the Unknown** And then... Slowly, the chaos of Dakar disappeared into our rear-view mirror. The buildings became smaller. The noise faded away. It was as if the city was gently letting us go. **Perhaps you've experienced that feeling too. When a place completely overwhelms you... and only once the silence returns do you realise how intense it really was.** Ahead of us unfolded a landscape I had only seen in books and documentaries. An endless plain. Occasionally interrupted by a solitary baobab tree. As if it had stood there for centuries. Patient. Unmoving. For miles we passed through tiny villages. Sometimes there were no more than a few simple huts. And yet... there were people everywhere. Children playing. Women carrying water. Men resting beneath the shade of a tree. My Western idea of wealth suddenly began to change. **I found myself wondering how much of what we call wealth is really about money... and how much is about the way we choose to live.** We kept driving. Watching. Driving. Watching. With every kilometre, new questions entered my mind. In the background, our old Peugeot continued its endless growl. Strangely enough, I had completely forgotten about the car. Everything outside had captured my attention. The landscape kept changing. Dry plains gave way to scattered bushes. Now and then another magnificent baobab appeared on the horizon. I kept looking for wild animals. In my imagination, I expected gazelles, giraffes... perhaps even elephants. Instead... the gazelles had become goats. The elephants... large African cattle peacefully wandering across the dry savannah. Every now and then, one of them decided that the road belonged to them just as much as it belonged to us. Our driver simply slowed down. Waited. And continued. No one seemed surprised. The African sun had been warming the earth all day long. And you could smell it. Dry clay. Warm dust. Wood smoke. And every now and then... the fresh scent of wild mint. It was a smell I had never experienced before. Yet from that day on... I would always recognise it. **Some memories stay with your eyes.** **Others... with your nose.** As we passed another small village, I saw women cooking outside. A few stones. A wood fire. A large black cooking pot. The aroma of their meal drifted through our open windows. For the first time... Africa no longer felt like a destination on a map. It was becoming a place you couldn't just see... but one you could smell.
*II hadn't even driven a single kilometer in Africa...and my adventure had already begun.*
**Tomorrow, I'll tell you how an old Peugeot 405 carried me through the chaotic streets of Dakar...** 👉 **Part 2: Chaos with a Heartbeat**
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My First Time in Senegal – Part 2
Chaos with a Heartbeat.. Once we left the airport parking lot, I began to relax. Well... a little. Whether our old Peugeot would survive the next 250 kilometres was still a big question mark. At first, we drove along a wide boulevard with large buildings on both sides, even a football stadium. _Was this really the poor country I had been dreaming about for months?_ The buildings surprised me. The cars... not so much. Almost all of them looked as old as our Peugeot, which was about fifty years old. Some minibuses had been patched up so many times that they seemed to be held together by body filler. Packed with people. Like sardines in a tin. Before long, the wide boulevard gave way to the narrow, crowded streets of Dakar. And that was when it really began. Everywhere I looked, there was a market. Along the roadside. At every intersection. Under the shade of a tree. People were selling vegetables, fruit, clothes... Some women simply sat on a cloth on the ground. With a few onions. A handful of tomatoes. That was all they had. Meanwhile, the Senegalese air conditioning was doing its job. All the windows wide open. As long as we kept moving, it was bearable. But the moment we stopped... the heat became suffocating. I didn't know where to look first. Cars. Motorbikes. Pedestrians. Donkey carts. Cows. Goats. It seemed as if everyone wanted to use the very same street at exactly the same time. The blue exhaust fumes stung my eyes and my throat. At times, it felt as though I was breathing in more petrol than oxygen. And yet... as unbelievable as it seemed... every time I thought, _"This is it. Nothing is moving anymore."_ an opening would suddenly appear. As if the chaos had its own traffic rules. Everyone edged forward. Everyone waited. And somehow... everyone found a way through. I felt like a bee in a giant swarm. Where I saw nothing but disorder... everyone else seemed to know exactly what they were doing. And honestly? I had travelled to quite a few places in the world. But this... this was unlike anything I had ever seen.
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My First Breath of Africa Part 1
That moment changed something inside me. After six hours of flying, we landed at Dakar's old airport. Back then, it was more like a heavily guarded military base than an international airport. There were no modern gates like the beautiful airport Senegal has today. Before I even took my first step out of the plane, a wave of hot, humid air hit me like an open oven. Down the stairs. Onto a small bus. Then into an old, worn-out building. The moment I walked inside, I was greeted by the smell of dust, sweat and warm air. My first impression? Dark rooms. Heavily armed soldiers. Back then, anyone could enter the airport. I even wondered if Senegal had ever seen many tourists at all. I had barely cleared passport control when the first beggars approached me. Taxi drivers pulled at my arm, all trying to convince me to ride with them. Luckily, our taxi had already been arranged. We walked across the parking lot with our suitcases. And there it was. Our taxi. An old Peugeot 405 with seven seats. A model I hadn't seen since I was a child. A wave of panic washed over me. Would this old wreck really survive another 250 kilometres? As if that wasn't enough, the engine wouldn't even start. Everyone had to get out. Push. After a few metres, the engine finally coughed into life. Within seconds, we disappeared into a cloud of thick blue smoke. And off we went.
*II hadn't even driven a single kilometer in Africa...and my adventure had already begun.*
**Tomorrow, I'll tell you how an old Peugeot 405 carried me through the chaotic streets of Dakar...** 👉 **Part 2: Chaos with a Heartbeat**
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The Stories in Our Heads
We live by stories. Not only the stories we read. But even more by the stories we tell ourselves. Someone doesn't look at us. Flash. They must be angry. We see someone driving an expensive car. Flash. They must be happy. A friend doesn't reply to our message. Flash. Maybe they don't like us anymore. Our minds do this all day long. Without us even noticing. They compare. They filter. They fill in the blanks. And once again... Another story is born. Sometimes it's true. But often it isn't. Yet those stories shape the way we feel. Happy. Angry. Sad. Afraid. Not because of what actually happened... But because of the story we've created about it. Since moving to Senegal, I've become even more aware of this. Here, people live even more through stories. Not only religious stories. But stories about spirits. Witches. Protective forces. Ancient rituals. For many Senegalese, those stories are just as real as the tree standing in front of their home. In Europe, we sometimes smile at that. But are we really so different? We live by stories too. We simply give them different names. Success. Status. Degrees. Money. Reputation. Those stories guide our lives just as much. Perhaps that's both the greatest gift... And the greatest danger... Of being human. We are the only creatures that don't just live... but also live inside the stories we tell ourselves about who we are... And about the world around us. And perhaps freedom begins the moment we dare to ask ourselves: **Is this reality...** **Or just another story I've been telling myself?**
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Under the mango tree
A day in Sangako, visiting the family. Always on foot. People in the village secretly smile about that. A toubab_"a white man" without a motorbike or a car. They're simply not used to seeing that. As soon as I get close to the family's compound, I hear the familiar voices. "Louky! Louky is here!" The children are crazy about me. Mostly because they know I've brought tangals "their favourite little sweets". Like always, the visit begins with a glass of tea. The tea is poured from one glass to another over and over again, much like Moroccan mint tea. The more you pour, the thicker the foam becomes. It's delicious. And incredibly sweet. No wonder diabetes is becoming more common here. Meanwhile, lunch is being prepared. Usually, it's the girls who do the cooking. Here, children learn to cook almost as soon as they can walk. They spend most of their time with their mothers. Or perhaps I should say... their mothers. It's not unusual for a father to have more than one wife, and to the children, they're all simply "Mama." If they know I'm coming, there's usually fish. But sometimes I arrive unannounced. Then it's simply rice with millet and a basic onion sauce. Nothing fancy. Just enough to fill hungry stomachs. One large bowl. Sometimes shared by ten people. Most of them children. We eat beneath the shade of the mango tree. An old sheet spread out on the ground. A few donkeys stand nearby, braying as if they want to join us. Finally, the cloth covering the bowl is lifted. Today's meal is rice with onion sauce and fish balls. Everyone gathers around. Seven children. Three adults. And as if they had been waiting for this very moment, the chickens come running too. They've learned that if they make enough fuss, sooner or later someone will throw them a handful of rice. Then we begin. Everyone eating from the same bowl. With their hands. Except me. Someone always hands me a spoon. I've tried eating like everyone else many times. It always ends the same way. With rice all over my face... ...and everyone laughing. Meanwhile, the battle with the chickens continues. The food is always delicious. The bowl is generous, but I never eat much. When I look at all those skinny little faces around me, my appetite fades. So I usually ask someone to fetch a few bottles of lemonade. I always want to give something back to the family. And lemonade... Well, that's something they only get when Louky comes to visit. After lunch, everything becomes quiet. Everyone finds a shady spot. People rest. Later, we share one last glass of tea. Nobody is in a hurry. Nobody looks at a clock. Everyone is simply content. And that feeling... I take it home with me every single time.
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On My Way to a Dream
A few years after my bankruptcy, something unexpected happened. A colleague at work couldn't stop talking about Africa. Not the Africa from television. Not the Africa of wars and famine. But the Africa he had fallen in love with. He owned a small bed & breakfast in Senegal. Every day he came back with another story. About the people. About the endless landscapes. About the warmth. About a way of life I had never imagined. As an adventurer at heart, those stories slowly found their way into my bloodstream. Sometimes it felt as if I had already been there. I even lay awake at night, imagining what it would be like. The strange thing was... I recognized that feeling. As a boy, I had dreamed about distant places. Rainforests. Savannas. Wild animals. Unknown cultures. My colleague laughed. "The wild animals have mostly been replaced by goats, sheep and cows," he said. That didn't matter. The dream had already taken hold. Eventually, I decided to go with him. The months before departure seemed endless. I wanted to know everything. That's just who I am. Whenever I travel, I don't look for luxury hotels or swimming pools. I want to understand the place. Its nature. Its people. Its culture. I had travelled before, mostly around Europe. But this felt completely different. This wasn't Slovenia. Or France. Or Spain. This was Africa. And somehow... it didn't feel unfamiliar. It felt like I was going home. The strangest part? Whenever I travelled before, I was always a little nervous. This time... it felt as if I was simply going to visit the neighbours.
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Why I've Never Been Traveling
As a boy, I spent much of my youth in the Belgian Ardennes. To me, that was paradise — forests, hills, rivers, and a world where my imagination ran wild. We went there often. It was only a few hours' drive, but it felt like another world. Nearly every holiday, every free weekend, we'd head to our caravan. Even at night, I dreamed of the river. Of fishing. Of snorkeling. Of exploring. By morning, I'd have my rod in my hands before I'd finished my breakfast. When I came home around noon with a bucket full of fish and proudly showed it to my mother, everyone was pleased. But before my mother could grab the potato peeler, the bucket and I had usually already vanished. After all, you couldn't kill and eat such beautiful fish, could you? One by one, I'd slide them back into the river. With one last touch. And deep inside, always the same thought: _Sorry I hurt you._ My father would get angry, as usual. My mother would double over with laughter. "That's my Luc." Maybe she already knew something back then that I didn't yet understand. Strange as it sounds, I felt more at home there than in our own house. Perhaps I was already searching for something I didn't yet have a name for. When I got older and had my own car, the Benelux held few secrets for me. I was constantly on the move. Always searching. But looking back, I wasn't searching for new places. I was searching for home. And I found it, time and again, in the same places. In forests. Along rivers. Among trees. Where the world goes quiet for a moment. Where nothing is required. Where you only hear the wind. That felt like home. I've traveled my entire life. But I've never looked for swimming pools, hotels, or luxury. Even today, in Senegal, I'm not the only white man living here. But perhaps one of the few who lives in the middle of the bush. At the edge of the mangroves. Among the birds, the crabs, and the frogs. And sometimes I wonder if that little boy in the Ardennes somehow already knew. If he already felt where he would one day end up. After more than fifty years, I finally understand something I could never put into words before. I never traveled to get away. I never traveled to find something new. Every single time, I was simply on my way home.
Everything Wakes Up
It's finally here. I've been waiting for this for weeks. Just like most Senegalese people, I suppose. Then... Around five o'clock this morning. **Boom.** Thunder. Lightning. I woke with a start from a deep sleep. The storm was getting closer. A few drops. Then a few more. And suddenly... the heavens opened. Rain hammered against the metal roof with a deafening roar. The rainy season had finally arrived. My heart beat a little faster. One of those _wow_ moments. But also a moment of uncertainty. Out here, you never know exactly what such a storm will bring. For more than a month, it had been announcing itself. Every day the wind grew stronger. Every day the clouds gathered a little more. The air became warmer. More humid. Until sleeping without a fan became impossible. Even then, I woke every morning drenched in sweat. I live completely off-grid, powered only by solar panels and batteries. Air conditioning simply isn't an option. Every single year I tell myself, _"This will be my last rainy season."_ And yet... this is also the most beautiful time of the year. After only a few downpours, a green carpet slowly spreads across the scorched landscape. Everything wakes up. You can feel life returning to every plant, every insect, every bird, every creature around you. Within a week, the sandy track in front of my home will become a highway. Not for cars. For frogs and toads. And if I forget to close my doors, quite a few of them decide to spend the night with me. Even the birds know. Their songs become louder and more joyful. It's mating season. The dull feathers they've worn through the dry months suddenly transform into brilliant colours. Some almost seem to glow. Like the tiny African dwarf kingfisher. Barely larger than a sparrow. When it flashes through the forest, it looks as if someone has thrown a tiny blue-purple light through the trees. It never stops amazing me. The trees awaken. The shrubs burst into life. The entire forest, which only weeks ago looked dry and exhausted, transforms into something that feels almost like a tropical rainforest. Nature never ceases to surprise me. But don't be fooled. After every heavy shower, the sun returns. It turns the fresh rain into steam. The temperature rises again. Before long, you're gasping for breath. It is no longer simply hot. The air becomes thick. Heavy. Even breathing takes effort. And yet... however uncomfortable it can become... this remains my favourite moment of the year. Everything wakes up. Including me.
Buggers
Whenever I walk to the village, I usually carry a bag of candies with me. For my little buggers. Before I even see anyone, I can already hear them shouting from a distance. "Louky! Louky! Louky!" And then they come running. With noses producing colors you never knew existed. The first thing they always shout is: "Louky tangal!" A sweet. "First wipe your nose," I tell them. For the youngest ones, that's no problem at all. One quick swipe with the under lip and everything is magically clean again. The others use a sleeve. Or their T-shirt. What else are they for? Then they each get a candy. Just to watch those little faces turn into a tiny piece of happiness. There is also a family in the village that has found a permanent place in my heart. That's where little Aladjie lives. I think he's about five years old. But nobody really knows. Around here, hardly anyone knows their exact age. Aladjie is a sweet little boy. And very affectionate. Perhaps a little too affectionate. Because whenever I sit down, he's there too. Not immediately. No. First he circles around me. Like a mosquito patiently waiting for the perfect moment. And just when I think the coast is clear, he launches his attack. With a big hug. And a little nose that slowly finds its way across my T-shirt. Before you know it, my shirt has been promoted to official handkerchief. But every evening, when I walk back home, it feels like another perfect day. Because some hugs are worth more than a clean T-shirt.
Going with the flow
This morning, I was walking through the forest. I stepped on a dead branch. The branch snapped, and for a moment I thought about the life hidden inside it. Insects, fungi, and tiny creatures that need months to turn that branch back into soil. Nature cannot be fooled. It simply does what needs to be done. After my bankruptcy, I spent a long time trying to understand why this had happened to me. I fought against it. I wanted my old life back. Losing my business was devastating. Those final years were filled with taxes, VAT, suppliers, and constant financial worries. It felt as if my life was slowly being drained away. It had to stop at some point. Without really planning it, I ended up building an ecofarm among the mangroves of Senegal. And the longer I think about it, the stranger it becomes. As a child, I already dreamed of forests, nature, and freedom. Perhaps this chapter had been waiting for me much longer than I realized. Perhaps the old life first had to disappear before the new one could begin. Whether that is nature. Or God. Or simply the logic of life. The older I get, the more I believe that some things are not meant to be fought. Sometimes you simply have to let them come. And only years later do you understand why.
Here, I live
I still remember the first time I set foot in Senegal. Had I landed on another planet? Whenever I arrive somewhere, I want to understand everything. I have travelled quite a bit during my life, but the truth is that I have never really been on a holiday. I have simply wandered through my own world. I have always felt at home everywhere and nowhere. Until I came here. It is remarkable what a country like Senegal can do to a person. Where I come from, life revolved around stress, money and constant restlessness. Even the sun rarely showed itself. And when it rained, it often felt as if not even the rain could wash away the misery. I often did not even feel at home in my own house. Here, things are different. Wherever I am, I feel a kind of peace I never knew before. Nothing has to be done. Everything can wait. People greet each other warmly, even when they have never met before. They take the time to ask how you are, and strangely enough, they actually seem to care about the answer. In the morning, I wake up with the sun. I do not need a thick sweater. In the afternoon, I lie in my little pool among the mangroves and try to relax. I say _try_ on purpose. Because the stress of my life in Belgium was burned deep into me. You do not simply leave that behind. It feels as though I have finally come home. Back in Europe, I often felt that life was living me. Here, I live.
Building a Library of a Human Life
Here I am again, about to pull another story out of the air. This time, it is not about a kingfisher, a fisherman, or another Senegalese adventure that left me wondering how the world really works. This time, it is about myself. For years, I have been collecting stories. In my head. On my computer. On scraps of paper. Inside unfinished notebooks. Slowly, the stories became so numerous that the confusion started to grow larger than the stories themselves. So I decided to ask for help. Not to write the stories for me. Those are already inside me. I simply needed a place where they could quietly live until the moment they were ready to be told. So I started building a digital library. I do have a technical background, but believe me, at sixty-three this is not always a simple task. Still, they say persistence always wins. And somehow, four days later, the first shelves are already beginning to fill. My childhood. My years as an entrepreneur. The bankruptcy that changed my life. My move to Africa. And hundreds of small moments that have shaped the person I am today. Some people here joke that I have almost become Senegalese. They do not always understand why I look at things differently. Why I try to understand instead of judge. Why I often see the human story before I see the problem. Perhaps living here has simply changed me. Since moving to Senegal, I experience things almost every day that stand in sharp contrast to the world I grew up in. And all those little encounters, all those unexpected moments, deserve better than being forgotten. So I am building a library. Not a library of books. A library of a human life. And perhaps, from now on, I can walk through those shelves every week, pick out one story, and share it with you.
6 Mango's
Every year I wait for mango season. Not only because mangoes are my favourite fruit, but because all of Senegal seems to fall in love with them at the same time. A few days ago I was walking through our village when I saw a few beautiful mangoes at Mariama's small market stall. "Mariama, how much are those?" She didn't answer. "Come to my house later, Luc. I have more." After visiting a few friends, I stopped by. I could hear her calling my name before I even reached the garden. "Luc! Luc! Here I am!" She was doing the laundry. Not with a washing machine. Just a large basin, soap and a washboard. She smiled and pointed behind the house. "Look." There stood a huge mango tree. Full of mangoes. She asked one of her sons to go with me. Before I knew it, the boy was climbing high into the tree, reaching for the ripest fruit. I watched with my heart in my throat. One wrong step... My backpack had room for six mangoes. No more. When we walked back, I asked the question I had wanted to ask from the beginning. "How much do I owe you, Mariama?" She looked up from the washing and smiled. "Just take them, Luc." I never like that. I know life is not easy here. So I gave her son some money. Not for the mangoes. Just as a thank you. Then I walked home with six mangoes in my backpack.
I Am a Luc
After living in Senegal for years, people still ask me the same question. "Luc, are you Muslim?" When I answer no, a second question follows almost immediately. "So... are you Christian?" Again I shake my head. Then comes the silence. The strange look. The smile that says: this toubab is about to say something very strange. "What are you then?" For years I tried to explain. Now I simply smile. "I am a Luc." That doesn't help at all. If anything, the confusion only grows. Some people laugh. Others look at me as if I have lost my mind. And then the real conversation begins. The truth is, I enjoy those conversations. Not because I want to change anyone's beliefs. But because I am curious about the person behind the label. Muslim. Christian. Black. White. European. Senegalese. Those are only words. Behind every label is someone who hopes, fears, loves and tries to make sense of life. Just like me. Sometimes I jokingly pinch someone's arm. "Did that hurt?" Of course it did. Then they pinch mine. "Ouch." And we all laugh. "See? Under that skin lives the same human being." Maybe that is why I answer that I am a Luc. I don't want to live inside a label someone else gives me. I know who I am. After all these years in Senegal, I cannot say that anyone has ever fully understood what I mean. But that is all right. The conversations continue. And perhaps, somewhere along the way, something remains. A thought. A question. A small seed. For me, that is more than enough.
The mangrove forest never asks what you do for a living. It simply waits until you are still enough to hear its voice.
Toubacouta · June 2025
What children still know...
that the rest of us have forgotten...
A dozen children stand on a football field. None of them are wearing shoes. Their ball is made of plastic bags and rubber bands. Sometimes I wonder who among us is truly the richest.
I stood at the edge of the field for twenty minutes. No one looked my way. They were completely absorbed in the game. I can't remember the last time I was that present in a single moment.
