I cannot determine exactly when I officially enter Senegal, because, in the middle of absolute nowhere, it is difficult to distinguish when one crosses the imaginary line that divides the countries. Everything around me is nothing more than a collection of spiky bushes, dust, and gravel among which I pedal, advancing towards the only huts that I see on the horizon. From the first light of day, I feel how the gentle breeze that I generate with my own movement begins to roast my skin over low heat. Undoubtedly, these are the first indications that once again, I am close to the Sahara.
The village through which I enter Senegal is as forgotten as the village through which I left Guinea. Unlike the previous one, here, curiously, there is a health post next to the migrations cabin where a nurse measures my fever. I suppose this is because of the aftermath of the Ebola crisis that, until not long ago, still plagued Guinea and its neighboring countries. Without major inconveniences, I pass through the shack where the immigration officers are. They clearly enjoy the same level of leisure as that of the officers of the last 4 borders that I crossed. I walk out with a stamped passport smiling on the inside because I honestly believe I have a gift for collecting border crossings in the end of the world. I come from one of the most remote regions of Guinea and consequently, I enter one of the most remote regions of Senegal.
Perhaps the most beautiful thing about Africa is that even in the most remote places, there are always people to chat with and hang out with. Throughout the first kilometers I pass small villages where the West African simplicity to which I am already accustomed continues. However, just 46 km later, upon reaching Kedougou, I find myself in a more bustling city than its size suggests. Once again, the skeletons of French mechanical engineering buzz around me like flies again, shaving me as I pass laden beyond imaginable limits. Despite the urban landscape of half-finished buildings, the wood-and-tarps stalls that line the dirt alleys beyond the only paved central street, there is something different here that it takes me a while to realize what it is. It's just that coming from Guinea, I feel like Marty McFly going back to the future when I see that almost all the stalls in the center of town have electricity. As if that weren't enough, in the first little shop I enter I manage to buy myself a cold Coca-Cola. Between this and the sealed road that starts from here I feel simply disconcerted but I do welcome the future with open arms.
My body is very tired. I suspect that I have underestimated the harshness of the Fouta Djallon descent and today my muscles are taking a toll on me. In addition, the substantial change in temperature that I experienced in just a few hours, coming from the cold of the high lands to the scorching of the plains, exposes once again my damaged lungs from breathing so much dust. My defenses are low and my chest is congested. The bleak and monotonous scenery doesn't help, but I'm in good spirits and I use the push that the sugar from the Coke gives me to keep moving forward for the rest of the afternoon. Shortly after crossing the Gambia River for the first time, I reach Mako, a small but noisy town like Kedougou. Although it is already dark, people come and go shopping in the stalls lined along the side of the road and talk as if the day had just begun. The hustle and bustle bring me peace of mind when I arrive at a place at night and I have to deal with the daily uncertainty of not knowing where I am going to sleep.
At the edge of the road, where the cracked asphalt gives way to the dirt surface, I stop the bike so that no one can run over me, to be able to elucidate in the dark and in the midst of the bustle where I can get something to eat. I barely have the strength to stand but I am sustained by the imperative need to satisfy my voracious appetite. Like a mammal sniffing out prey, I push the bike a few meters forward following the trail of scent coming from a stall mounted on sticks and tarps. At its center, behind a pot on the floor surrounded by stacks of firewood, the silhouette of a man squatting reveals itself behind the smoke and the ashes, dimly lit by the ambar light of the embers.
-Bonsoir Monsieur- (Good evening Sir!) he joyfully exclaims
Theodore came to Senegal from his native Niger in search of prosperity. While he continues the search, he has this little stall where he serves me a traditional Senegalese rice that from now on will become the cornerstone of my diet in the country. When I finish eating two whole dishes, I have to decide where I will sleep, but at this point in my journey through Africa, this has long since ceased to be a concern. It is at that very moment when I ask Theo for suggestions that he tells me about two boys, Nigeriens too, who are stationed a few houses further back, with whom I can spend the night.
Guided by Theo in the dark, I push my bike through the dirt alleys until we find Amadou and Mahamadou sitting on the ground under the stars around a kettle over the hot coals, right in front of an adobe house. As soon as they introduce us, they invite me to sit with them and drink tea served Nigerien style. It is neither more nor less than the practically ceremonial way in which it is served throughout the entire Sahel and the west of the Sahara, pouring it back and forth several times between the teapot and the little glasses so that the tea is well concentrated and the sugar fully dissolved.
Mahamadou is 21 years old and Amadou 18. They both left their native village north of Agadez, with some money in their pockets and a bag with some clothes, seeking the dream that thousands and thousands of Africans pursue: to reach the shores of the Mediterranean to cross to Europe, the promised land. Since then, they have been doing all kinds of informal jobs at each stop along the way, in order to continue financing their dream of a better world. In each and every one of them they have been exploited and invariably underpaid. It took them 2 years to get to Mako. Here they have been able to get hold of a lot of Chinese trinkets for street bike sale. The profits allow them to continue moving north and save little by little to pay an obscene sum of money to the exploiters who cross the Mediterranean in clandestine boats. Many of them arrive with success and another end up on the cover of the world's newspapers when they become a statistic.
Sitting out here around the embers I listen to their "adventures", so different from mine, with a shrinking heart. The three of us chase our dreams, the three of us have been traveling for years, but I come from a privileged world. I have the privilege of traveling out of the pure desire to satisfy my curiosity, to learn about the world, to connect with humanity, to overcome my limits, to feel the adrenaline, and learn from myself. I finance myself with savings that are modest for the world I come from but exorbitant in theirs. They were pushed to travel, moved by the deep difficulties they live in their land. The drought, the scarcity of resources in all its forms, the constant lack of work and money. All factors that lead them to leave their land and their families, something unthinkable for them if their conditions were better. They do not seek to satisfy their curiosity but rather their illusion of reaching a world that, at least in their imagination, they idealize as the place where they can make a lot of money. At no point do I hear them lament or complain. Their serene tone, their acceptance of the life that they have to go through is a reflection of the resilience with which they assume such responsibility. Between story and story, little by little, we are falling asleep one by one, lying under the stars.
At 5.40 am, we began to wake up with the first light of day. Amadou sits back up still wrapped in blankets to add some firewood to the hot coals that still survive from the night before. Mahamadou brings the teapot full of water before going to the backyard to bathe in cold bucket water, which he pours over himself from a small pot. An hour later, he reappears scented and dressed as a Dandy, preparing his freight-laden bicycle for a long day of work. We drink the last tea together before leaving. For the three of us, it will be a new day of adventure.
I start a day marked by internal conflict. Meeting Amadou and Mahamadou, like so many other people I have met around the world to this day, fills me with admiration and respect. It leaves me with the most valuable life lessons I can receive. On the one hand, an infinite sense of gratitude floods me for everything I have and everything that I've had in life: my loved ones, my health, my education, the opportunities I had, the, mostly favorable conditions in which I was able to grow and live to this day. It is a gratitude that I try to keep present at all times and not only come to the surface when I see those who live in extremely adverse conditions. On the other hand, not having answers to the incessant search to understand how we came to this world fills me with conflict. What determines our conditions? Why is one born in one place in a certain family and the others in others, better and worse? Why do some of us get one reality and others another? Why are some of us favored and others disadvantaged? Why do some of us have a most comfortable life and others of utter misery? In moments like these, the lack of answers that explain the fortunes and misfortunes of each one of us overwhelms me, but what I find most crippling is the inability to change or at least revert the misery that others have to go through.
In the midst of a debacle of conflicting thoughts, haunted by unanswered questions, I arrive at the gates of Niokolo Koba National Park where the rangers jerk me out of my existential conflict. There are 120 kms of absolutely nothing until reaching the other end of the park, they tell me. 'We have buffalo, hippopotamus, antelope, lions..'
-‘you said lions!?’ - I interrupt abruptly.
Indeed, to my absolute surprise, there are lions in Senegal. There are not many, but they are in this park. Chilling memories of the parks of Uganda, Tanzania, Botswana, and Namibia immediately run up my spine. Unlike places like Katavi NP, the guards here do not put up any resistance to prevent me from crossing the park by bicycle. I do not know if it is because this takes me completely off guard or simply because my mind is too convoluted, but now I do not feel that same desire for adrenaline that led me to risk my life crossing all the previous parks. On the contrary, I am overcome by a sense of insecurity that I had not felt in a long time. With the bike stopped, using my hand as a visor and squinting so that I could see something under the glare of the sun, I can see the road in front of me stretch out in a perpetual straight line until disappearing over the horizon. On both sides, the grayish dry bushes and the soil as pale as the blue of the anemic sky, do not inspire me at all. I decide to continue but as soon as the opportunity arises, I will not hesitate to ask someone to take me. As I move forward, I relive in my body the fear of feeling that at any moment, from behind the bushes, lions may come out. Unlike the previous times, today I am no longer enjoying it.
It is surely a much more irrational fear than before, because here the lion population is much lower and I am crossing in broad daylight. Still, I decide to trust my instincts because it is the only thing that has kept me safe, if not alive, to this day, and by the time I hear the roar of a truck engine behind me, I do not hesitate to stop and raise my thumb to hitch a hike. Charmed, the friendly trucker took me the remaining 60 km to the exit of the park.
Having survived my last nature reserve for animals in Africa, I continue cycling for two more days until shortly before reaching Tambacounda, when I detour onto a dirt road that leads me towards the gates of one of the Gambian borders. I will leave Senegal for a few days, only to come back later after crossing the entire length of this small country contained within its territory.