I fly past the touristic towns; the road to M’bour, turn down toward Joal-Fadiouth; I have been here before. The people who shout greetings don’t know that. The first night I sleep in a bush, wake up to rain and mend the carriage tire that has gone flat. Thorns, thorns, but no snakes.

I have coffee and am offered a shower by the kind strangers who own the café, but it feels a bit too early on in my trip to accept luxuries; I just left home yesterday, aching to get dirty, not clean.

In Joal-Fadiouth I am treated to mafé for lunch by the shop owner where I buy glue to mend my tubes. He sends his son to fetch the mafé for me. We sit and talk and he tells me about the people, the families even, women and small children, who pay a fortune to load themselves onto one of the overcrowded fishing boats that head for Europe. They leave from all the coastal towns in West Africa; from this small town all the way to Spain. Just the other week one had capsized, left the townspeople picking corpses from the beach. Twenty-four dead, three not found.
“To get to you,” he says, eyes solemn and steady. He has insisted to pay for my meal.
“I’m sorry it is that way,” I say. There is nothing I can do.

…

In the afternoon I turn toward Fimela, pass the bridge with the children running after me and come up to the open fields and the contours of palm trees. Everything is green and singing. The sun sets and rain is underway.

I don’t want people to see me turn off from the road when I start looking for a place to sleep. At dusk, most farmers have returned from the fields already. When no one is coming I take a small sand road into a field.

The bike parked on its side in the grass, I walk up and down to find where I can pitch my tent. The sky wrinkles up and darkens quickly. Three horses are tethered on the field and two young boys come to get them for the night, staring at me as I rummage around the bushes. I pretend like I just need to find a place to pee.

Maybe under the mango tree? Or underneath these short palms, despite the trash? Are there thorns to puncture my tires? The first rain drops are coming and the light is leaving fast.

“Toubab, what are you doing?” I look up and see one of the boys coming for the last horse.
“Just a place to sleep,” I say.
“Toubab, come.” He turns and starts walking, leading the horse. I hesitate. I really just want to be by myself somewhere. But these are not my fields and the mango tree will not protect me from the rain entirely.
“Come!” the boy repeats, and I take the bike and start pushing after him.

We walk down the sand road, toward the village. The boy’s skinny arms and legs stick out of the big shorts and t-shirt, turning into silhouettes next to the horse; it’s getting darker and darker. I follow them, struggle with the bike through the sand. Where is he taking me? For a moment I doubt; can I really trust a kid, just follow him blindly like this? Raindrops begin to fall.

He turns off, walks into one of the fields. I follow, try not to step or roll over the peanut plants with any of my three wheels. The boy leaves the horse among the peanuts and walks into the adjacent millet field, parts the high stems and steps carelessly on the ones fallen. I try to be more careful, feeling more doubt rise as we crash through the plants. But then, there, we have arrived: a small farm hut with straw roof, raised low on wooden poles and three of the sides covered with palm leaves as walls.
“This is good?” the boy asks. The raindrops are still few, but heavy.
“Very good!” I feel humble all of a sudden, my chest crumbling.
“Thank you so much!”

I take the bike inside and roll out my mat. The boy hangs around, looking at what I’m doing. I make as if I was finished, not willing to open my bags in front of him.
“Thank you, you can leave now, please?” I ask him. I feel terribly impolite, but I don’t like him staring. I hope to invoke the authority where youngsters have to listen to their elders. He looks at me, then nods and heads off, rustling into the millet stalks.

I pitch my tent to the light of my torch and the rain starts coming down for real now, but under the straw roof it can’t touch me. I can not believe my luck. I snuggle in my tent, read a book by the light of my fairy lights and enjoy not getting wet. Not soon after, I fall asleep.

It is gray all around when I wake up. I pack my tent and bags. From further I can hear voices, men talking and children running, passing along the road somewhere, millet rustling. I am brushing my teeth when I hear his agitated whisper somewhere in the millet field.
“Toubab! You have to go!” I spit out the foam.
“Yes, OK, I am going!” I say straight out, not sure which direction he’s speaking from. I take a gulp of water from the bottle and rinse my mouth. A rustle from him leaving. Would he get in trouble if someone found out I was there?

Was he ever there?

I wrestle out the bicycle and carriage from the hut, step carefully out of the millet field and look around before walking out onto the road where people can see me, stare and greet. The sun is rising. I head toward the waking village.

…

(This story told in pictures.)