23 Apr In the shadow of the great baobab

A long time ago I fell into my possession, or rather I fell into his, an old map of the former French Equatorial Africa, a treasure. I used to spread out the map and spend long periods immersed in it, practising my favourite sport, dreaming, planning routes. As soon as I followed the explorations of the Count of Brazza, I would go with the Baka pygmies into the jungles of Dzanga Sangha, following the trail of the lowland gorillas or the forest elephants. Yes, I know it's not normal, but it's the fault of the maps, they should be forbidden, all of them, they are addictive and invite you to dream and lose your mind.

On that map I was powerfully drawn to two small dots lost in nowhere, a fragment of African savannah caught between the desert of the East and the jungle of the West. It seemed to be the very heart of the continent and I always thought I had to get to its heart if I wanted to begin to understand Africa, the land of purple sunsets and starry nights, the paradise of mystery and adventure, the kingdom of the Lion.

Those dots corresponded to Birao in the old Ubangui-Chari region, two rivers that delimited the region and that, by the way, I had no idea I would be navigating years later. Just that, two little points of the Central African Republic on the border with Sudan and Chad, but yes, there had to be the heart of Africa. So, driven by this unconsciousness of mine that comes so naturally to me, and which my parents always found so amusing..., I decided to go there.

Little or nothing I knew about that forgotten corner of Africa, neither Livingstone, nor Rimbaud's verses, nor Kurtz's madness, nor Barth, nor any other explorer sent by the Royal Geographic Society in search of the Golden Fleece... Only the janjaweed, the Islamist militias of Darfur, the devil on horseback, sowing death and destruction, have passed through there. And the Ugandan rebels of the Lord Resistance Army still determined to impose by force a government based on the 10 Commandments, another dangerous madness, although in politics, nothing can surprise me anymore...

Well, so did those who escaped from being part of Emperor Bokassa's lunch. Oh, and the paratroopers of the French Foreign Legion, who took the city after that attack by the rebels. It was they who taught me that song, le Diable marche avec nous... Those days, in the morning we sought refuge from the horror and in the evening we ourselves sought refuge from the horror we had lived through, drinking those pastis-fuelled filthies that the French love so much, another horror indeed, especially for a man of such refined tastes as mine.

I remember the nights on the way back to the hut, the most absolute darkness, and that starry sky, I have rarely seen anything like it again, there were so many of them that they reached down to the ground, there on the horizon. And the silence, broken only by the muffled and monotonous noise of a distant generator, a concert of crickets and some birds and monkeys, scheming how to take away my reserves of fuet and bimbo bread. My treasure...

In the centre of the village presided a large baobab tree, in its shade all the important events of the village were concentrated, announcements, stories, meetings..... It also had a sacred character and the spirits of the ancestors came to rest at its feet. Next to the baobab there was a small market, as colourful as it was sparse. There was also an army patrol, six men, six different uniforms, the only commonality of uniformity was in the footwear, all cholas, and in the Kalashnikov, omnipresent in Africa.

Behind that great baobab stretched the city and the people lived in a maze of palm leaf huts, savannah spirits and initiation rituals.

Opposite the market there was a restaurant, La Chuiterie, well there was another one, but it inspired even less confidence than this one. On Saturday nights, apart from a few villagers, aid workers from UNHCR or Médecins Sans Frontières would come and the bar took on a different life. The Banga people are known for their music, and of course, as you can imagine, I played it in my own way, making those impossible arrhythmic movements that no one else understands. The gin and tonic, which makes me uninhibited. There was also a mosque and a church, then living peacefully together, I don't know how they are now after the country was engulfed by violence between the Muslim Seleka coalition and Christian militias.

Every other Sunday, the parish priest from the village of Ouanda Djallé, more than two hours away, would come to celebrate mass. It was the big day, the women dressed up in colourful dresses and the men in a different style... The mass lasted almost two hours, but I don't remember ever having witnessed such a joyful and beautiful celebration. It didn't matter that it was held in Sangho, the message came through loud and clear. Everyone offered what little they had from their hearts, with joy. The dances and songs of those masses will remain forever in my memory. Just ask that group that came with me to the north of Tanzania....

Birao was the main road to Sudan, although that doesn't mean it was paved. The route passed by the great baobab tree, which also served as a passenger terminal, and right there was an avenue of huge mango trees that provided welcome shade from the oppressive heat. The road went all the way to Am Dafok on the border with Darfur, where all the Sudanese goods came from, as well as the evil. From time to time we drove there, I really liked the ochre colour of the earth on the road when the morning light flooded every corner. Occasionally we popped into the St Floris National Reserve, where they say you could spot the Big Five (lion, elephant, leopard, rhino and buffalo), although I can't remember if I saw one or none. The poachers, who are destroying this area, which is still a World Heritage Site...

There, under that great baobab, I found the heart of Africa, beating strongly, and a part of mine remained there. That's why I was so sad when one day a plane came to take me away, never to return. And that's why this attack of nostalgia.