In Memorium
December 9, 2007
Global warming be damned; the world just got a little colder today.
I knew a man named Reg.
He was the first person I really met in Sadiola. No sooner had I walked in the club the first time then he piped up with that gravelly baritone of his, complete with a wave and that smile.
He showed me around the place; the best swimming holes, the best braai spots, and the best bush bars. I spent many a night at the DeCastro homestead listening to music and shooting the shit late into the night. No matter how late it got, he would never throw me out. I tried to test him, staying well past a reasonable time to leave, but he never caved. He would lie down on his bed, his eye lids drooping, talking and nodding off at the same time. I think he would have done that all night, rather than tell me to get out.
That’s the way he was; a friend to anyone who would have him. To know Reg was to enjoy his company. I never ceased to be amazed at the number of people he knew. It seemed like every other week there was some new oke who would show up and Reg would say, “Hey it’s my pal from…” He was warm and gregarious and independent. You could try to tell him his idea might not be the best one, but he’d probably go and do it anyway. He’d even come back to you later to tell you how much fun he had doing that very thing you advised him against.
I loved his stories. He had the best tales about battles in distant lands or travels to the bar down the road. His stories would unfold before your eyes as if you had lived them yourself. Of course it got kind of old hearing the same story again and again, but there was no stopping him once he got started. The key I found was to pour him some more Red Heart, a drink he would never refuse, and wait until he mumbled so bad you couldn’t understand him anyway.
He had a good spirit and a great sense of humor. He could take shit as well as dish it out. When he drove his bike into the boom gate, he allowed us to call him Boom Gate DeCastro for quite a while. He always insisted he was Portuguese; one day I asked him how long he had actually lived in Portugal. He pretended to be mad, but he laughed at the joke with the rest of us.
Without Rogerio DeCastro, my family’s life in Sadiola would have been very different. We were the teachers; the only Americans. We were strangers in a very strange place. He took us in and he took care of us.
Reg wasn’t just my friend, he was more like my older brother. I always knew he would be there for me if I needed him. I also knew in my heart when I left Sadiola that I would see him again. There was no question that our paths would cross. He is family!
Words cannot express the pain that we feel today. We have lost a great man, a true friend, a brother. We will mourn his passing for a long time to come. My solace is in knowing that he died on his motorcycle, his one true passion. May we all be granted the dignity to pass doing something we love.
MJR
Global warming be damned; the world just got a little colder today.
I knew a man named Reg.
He was the first person I really met in Sadiola. No sooner had I walked in the club the first time then he piped up with that gravelly baritone of his, complete with a wave and that smile.
He showed me around the place; the best swimming holes, the best braai spots, and the best bush bars. I spent many a night at the DeCastro homestead listening to music and shooting the shit late into the night. No matter how late it got, he would never throw me out. I tried to test him, staying well past a reasonable time to leave, but he never caved. He would lie down on his bed, his eye lids drooping, talking and nodding off at the same time. I think he would have done that all night, rather than tell me to get out.
That’s the way he was; a friend to anyone who would have him. To know Reg was to enjoy his company. I never ceased to be amazed at the number of people he knew. It seemed like every other week there was some new oke who would show up and Reg would say, “Hey it’s my pal from…” He was warm and gregarious and independent. You could try to tell him his idea might not be the best one, but he’d probably go and do it anyway. He’d even come back to you later to tell you how much fun he had doing that very thing you advised him against.
I loved his stories. He had the best tales about battles in distant lands or travels to the bar down the road. His stories would unfold before your eyes as if you had lived them yourself. Of course it got kind of old hearing the same story again and again, but there was no stopping him once he got started. The key I found was to pour him some more Red Heart, a drink he would never refuse, and wait until he mumbled so bad you couldn’t understand him anyway.
He had a good spirit and a great sense of humor. He could take shit as well as dish it out. When he drove his bike into the boom gate, he allowed us to call him Boom Gate DeCastro for quite a while. He always insisted he was Portuguese; one day I asked him how long he had actually lived in Portugal. He pretended to be mad, but he laughed at the joke with the rest of us.
Without Rogerio DeCastro, my family’s life in Sadiola would have been very different. We were the teachers; the only Americans. We were strangers in a very strange place. He took us in and he took care of us.
Reg wasn’t just my friend, he was more like my older brother. I always knew he would be there for me if I needed him. I also knew in my heart when I left Sadiola that I would see him again. There was no question that our paths would cross. He is family!
Words cannot express the pain that we feel today. We have lost a great man, a true friend, a brother. We will mourn his passing for a long time to come. My solace is in knowing that he died on his motorcycle, his one true passion. May we all be granted the dignity to pass doing something we love.
MJR
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 2:01 AM
1 Comments:
Dear Mark & Carrie & Zachary,
Thank you for sharing Reg with us in this memorium you wrote -- what a beautiful tribute.
Reg has been in our minds and hearts all this week since Carrie's call about his death. And I was glad to find his picture in our Mali photo folder.
We were privileged to meet him when we were there -- he made us fell at home and one of the crowd.
We am so sorry you lost your good friend -- I know you thought you would see him here there or anywhere soon again.
Love,
Paul and Linda/Pa and Mom
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