08 Apr The mysterious inland sea

Once again I am encouraged to write this article from the Ubari desert in southern Libya. At sunset I like to go to the dunes to disconnect from the day, and the wind, which usually brings back memories of old loves or old stories, today has brought to my mind a very special place, Lake Chad.

I remember the first time I knew about this place was reading Jules Verne. As a teenager, my hidden beauty went totally unnoticed by girls, so I spent my days taking refuge in reading, devouring his novels, dreaming without restraint... I slept with Michael Strogoff (figuratively speaking) and woke up with Captain Grant's daughter (unfortunately, even more figuratively speaking).

But of all his adventures, my favourite was the one in which three friends travelled through Africa during Five weeks in a balloon and especially when they were attacked by the Biddiomahs, pirates who lived on remote islands in an ocean in the middle of the Sahara desert. It sounded so fantastic to me that I decided I would go there one day.

Everything I read afterwards only fed my fantasies, and therefore my desire to go. The chronicles said that a thousand dangers lurked in its waters and that its shores were controlled by an ancient empire, so distant and unknown that even the maps had forgotten it.

Legends that remained in history, until in 1823 the expedition of Oudney, Clapperton and Dexham, reached its shores, and some of its enigmas began to unravel. They discovered that these stories of impossible countries, with hippogriffs and nymphs, hostile tribes or invented mountain ranges, were just that, old stories... like mine. But the secret of the source of the Niger remained intact, for the only river that reached there was the Chari, a more modest one, but one that also offered great doses of beauty and adventure.

That is why I remember my entry into Ndjamena so well, for it was as eagerly awaited as it was disconcerting. I could still hear the gunfire of the UFDD rebels, who had reached the capital from Darfur, putting President Deby in check, but I couldn't get my mind off the need to get to the lake. What a start, it presaged adventure.

Despite the security situation in the capital, Le Carnivore was still open, a forbidden place, a joint, my bar... and its music broke the silence of the night like distant drums calling for war. There, while beauties in exaggerated wigs danced to African rhythms with impossible movements of stony buttocks (I imagine), I sipped my gin and tonic and planned my escapades. And Lake Chad, both in the extreme north of Cameroon and on the Chadian side, was always my main objective.

And I finally made it, and then I went several more times. The road passed through villages hidden among acacia trees twisted by the sun, colourful markets and herds of camels or big-horned zebus. I went even further, to Mao, the capital of Kanem-Bornu, that forgotten empire of "the useless part of Chad" as the French would say, (but which so attracts me). All that remains of its past splendour is a sultan and a bustling market where Tedas, Kagas and a few Tubus from the distant mountains flock.

I loved stopping along the route at a place called Dougia. Besides the beauty of the scenery, the place was equal parts rest and adventure. We would stop for lunch by the river, near a family of hippos, who watched us or passed by, I don't know. During the meal we had fun defending every crumb of bread from the coordinated attacks of two crowned cranes and several dozen cercopithecines, those cheeky monkeys found in every corner of Africa. Those were incredible days. From there you could go up the river in a pinnace to the lake, past sandbanks, fishing villages, and palm groves, accompanied by the presence of hippos, crocodiles and flocks of red bee-eaters that flew overhead in their hundreds.

And then you get to the lake and, even I, who have the same sensitivity as a grilled steak, burst into tears, you don't know if it's from emotion or from being overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape. I can't explain it, you'd better come and see it, but hurry, they say it will disappear in 20 years. Then this will be the chronicle of an invented place. And then I will cry, in sorrow.

Anyway, old stories... the Salat al Maghreb, the call to evening prayer, and the roar of my guts calling for dinner have brought me back to the world of the awakened, although I still think of the adventurers of that expedition. I am thrilled to know that they passed through here, heading south to cross the Tibesti Mountains and the dune sea of Yourab before reaching Bornu's empire. All three died in Africa, Oudney died on the spot, defeated by the mystery he wanted to unravel, Clapperton remained obsessed with the Niger and met his death searching for its mouth, and Dexham died in Sierra Leone. All three were taken by the same disease. They say it was dysentery. But I know it was something else, I suffer from the same disease, it's called Africa.