The Traveler From The End Of The World Louise Guersan   © Copyright 2025 by Louise Guersan

Photo courtesy of the author.

This story is unfortunately not fiction; I lived in Dakar (Senegal) from 2017 to 2019 and I knew the young man I am talking about. I sadly don't know what became of him, as I never heard from him again. Did he reach the end of his journey? I will never know, and I can only hope that he achieved his plans and found peace of mind... and happiness.

He watched the sun set far away on the horizon, at the edge of this ocean that seemed endless and stirred his imagination, just as it had once stirred the imaginations of great sailors who dreamed of exploring unknown lands. But this time, men had explored everywhere, even venturing into the heavens and dreaming of establishing colonies in distant galaxies. Going ever further, conquering new spaces, knowing what they contain, and embarking on adventures, even if these may be fatal, that is what had always fascinated men. To be honest, traveling thru galaxies in a comatose state of hibernation was more of a fictional concept. But isn't fiction the precursor to the future? Hadn't Jules Verne imagined man on the moon, the rocket, the submarine before it was possible, and three centuries before it, hadn't Da Vinci drawn up plans for the parachute and the bathyscaphe? That left him thoughtful.

There was no wind at that moment; the usually stifling heat of the season, an impression that was exacerbated by high humidity, had subsided, and the sea seemed like an immense mirror reflecting the last rays of the celestial body. It was long ago that a sunset terrified men, fearing that it would never reappear, swallowed up in the dark depths of a nitght populated by monsters. This terror had inspired many myths, and in particular that of Osiris making his nocturnal journey in his boat to face the twelve hours of the night from which he emerged triumphant every morning. This mythical journey contributed to the stability of the world, it was thought, but today, what people would not see in the night a respite from the disorders of the day? To the unbridled imagination that accompanied each tribe on a fatal journey, our man preferred the real and sublime spectacle that was always renewed and always different that the sunset offered him, from this beach of Mamelles – which means female breast - where he stood, gaze turned toward the west. The beach took its name from these two twin, rounded hills, at the very tip of this fishing neighborhood that is Yoff. One of them is topped by a huge bronze statue, much taller than the American Statue of Liberty, called the African Renaissance Monument. With his arm raised forward, a man resolutely leads his wife and child, whom he carries on his left arm, toward the future.

The future. Everything was there. The very young man had a decision to make. But for now, he filled his eyes with the fabulous spectacle of this sun setting in an explosion of warm and vibrant colors. First, the celestial body became almost white, and its disk was crowned with a halo of bright yellow that faded outwards into apricot and then brown hues. Then it was reduced to a half-circle that seemed to sink into the oceanic depths where it soon disappeared. Finally, under a layer of dark clouds, at the edge between the water which had become as impalpable as the sky, and the latter, over which the night was spreading the thickness of its cloak, horizontal bands, glowing, yellow, and purple, stretched out in a supreme blaze, before disappearing from his sight. The man let out a deep sigh. He loved more than anything this spectacle of the end of the day, always changing, always luminous, which filled his soul with a kind of fervor bordering on the divine.

The day was over, and the star of the night now reigned over the darkened sky, bathing it in a pale and reassuring light, reflecting its gentle glow on the ever-calm water. The weather was clear, and thousands of stars twinkled like so many favorable promises. The man was not superstitious, but he liked to dream and imagine that, under the vault of the heavens adorned with all these lights, a fabulous destiny was promised to him. But would he see such beautiful sunsets elsewhere? He listened in contemplation to the gentle lapping of the waves dying on the sand at his feet, inhaled with delight the sea spray, and felt a light breeze rise that caressed his face with extreme softness. It was an intoxicating moment, the one he preferred above all others, when the sounds of the city had ceased, the birds had fallen asleep under their feathers, and all that could be heard from time to time was the distant bark of a stray dog in a calm night that was not dark, bathed in the soft glow of the moon that seemed to smile benevolently.

Sitting on the sand, he pondered his life, or rather his destiny. At seventeen years old and an only child, which was particularly rare in the country, he was not uneducated: unlike many other young people he knew, his parents had sent him to school and then to college, and he had even started high school. In this, he was privileged, coupled with being a good student, always interested in everything he was taught, and he had read a lot. That had not prevented him, during his leisure hours, from helping his father manage his small fishing business, nor from lending a hand to the sailors when they cast their nets so that, his father said, he would know the trade because to be a good leader you have to know how to do everything yourself. He had also learned to oversee the transport of their fishing to the large covered market of Kermel where the family owned stalls run by cousins, or to the luxury hotels of the capital, and he had helped manage the warehouses where the fish shipments to Lebanon, which is fond of it, were prepared. No fish in the world, ever, will be better than that of Dakar, the sea bream, the marlin, the ravil, the cobo, the grouper, and especially the thiof with which the succulent thiébou dienne, this national dish, is prepared. Year in, year out, the family's fate was more than decent, even enviable, in this country where only resourcefulness pays off. However, the previous year, he had lost his parents in a stupid accident – but aren't accidents always stupid? – and by losing his father and mother, he had lost everything. Too young and too alone to defend his inheritance, he had been dispossessed with the complicity of corrupt lawyers, and to survive he had been forced to take up employment with his father's former employes, as a simple fisherman. But wherever one is in the world, it is often the fate of orphans to be stripped by greedy uncles and aunts, and he had wondered, without being able to get an answer, if his parents' accident had been so fortuitous, given the family's eagerness to get rid of him. Sitting now on the beach sand that had witnessed the sun disappear, he pondered his destiny. Soon fatigue overcame him, and he fell asleep under the starry sky, dreaming of a new world where all his desires would be fulfilled. As he was courageous and never shied away from hard work, he knew deep down that he would achieve his dreams no matter what might happen. That night, the pale moon watched over his sleep, and the stars that shone in the sky seemed brighter than ever.

The next day, upon waking up, he gazed at the sea for a long time. Already, fishing boats were gliding slowly, and the men were casting their nets, calling out to one another. He wanted to fix in his memory the images of this moment when the day begins to dawn, serene, and when no wind ruffles the surface of the water. There was in the atmosphere that peace that precedes the usual hustle and bustle of the day, when people move noisily, when children run in the streets, when carts pulled by skinny horses cross paths with difficulty, their drivers cursing each other, and when women dressed in their splendidly colored boubous with geometric designs shout at each other as best they can. He knew he would never forget them and that their memory would always evoke feelings of great nostalgia in him, but that night he made his decision. Since the future he had believed to be his up until then had been brutally cut down with all his hopes, he needed to start anew. No doubt he was quite young to start a new life, but perhaps his youth itself was an asset. After all, at his age, some had achieved great things. Alexander the Great, king at fifteen, had created an immense empire from Greece to India, passing thru the prodigious Egypt of the pharaohs; Tutankhamun became king at ten, French Louis XIII seized power at the age of sixteen by a coup, and... He stopped there, he wasn't going to review his lessons in his head. He just needed to realize his own worth, to remember all the hopes his father had placed on him, and to feel that courage and mental strength that had always driven him.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, took a deep breath, and turned away. Then, with a determined step, he left the beach and walked for quite a while thru the bustling and active crowd, cluttered with goods of all kinds transported by carts, on men's backs, or on their heads, in improbable stacks. Men who had salvaged pieces of scrap metal and were working on them with rudimentary tools, the most important of which was the hammer, determined to make them into the frame of a bed, right there on the broken sidewalk, a remnant of the former French occupation, greeted him, but if he returned their greeting, he did not stop as he would have done in other circumstances. Nothing was to stop him in his determination, which he wanted to be unwavering. It was no longer time to procrastinate, he had a mission to accomplish, out of respect for his father who had believed in him so much, and he would not deviate from it. And perhaps, if luck smiled upon him, he would one day return to settle his scores with his relatives.

He set off toward the coastal road that ran alongside the urban expressway and waited for one of those little busses daubed with colorful, naive drawings that would take him to the southwest of the city; a very old bus overloaded with men and families crammed in, on the roof of which those who couldn't find room had perched. A very old bus that had belonged to the French army during the Second World War and whose Renault engine, regularly repaired by all-rounders and talented guys, was indestructible, devoid as it was of any trace of electronic parts. Good old mechanics like we don't make anymore in this absurd consumer society. There was no more room inside the vehicle, so climbing onto the footboard at the back and holding on as best he could next to another man, he made the journey in these difficult conditions to which he had had to get used to since the death of his parents. A quarter of an hour later, he jumped nimbly from his uncomfortable perch and headed toward Soumbédioune, this traditional fishing village in the heart of the city, which houses in its small port, or even on the beach, dozens of colored boats and canoes, squeezed together in an assemblage that would have delighted impressionist painters. He already knew what he had to do, but he had to wait until the end of the afternoon.

So he began to stroll thru this neighborhood called the artisans' village, filled with small shops where you can find remarkably smooth and shiny wooden masks, typical fabrics, exquisitely graceful bronze statuettes colored in red, black, brown, green, blue according to the mix of metals used, and a thousand other attractive things. He chatted a bit with the merchants, drank some bad coffee, bought some snacks, and filled his bag with water bottles and food, because you never know what awaits a traveler. Then he went to the beach and sat down. The heat was intense, and from time to time he would go to cool off in the sea while keeping an eye on his bag, which he had hidden between two light boats that slightly overlapped. Unlike many, he could swim like a fish and he took great pleasure in diving into the water, with the feeling that he was one with the sea. The sea was his element, he loved its cool touch on his skin, he felt at ease in it, and he had a pang of regret at the thought that this closeness would probably end, but he decided to ignore such considerations. But in his mind, he couldn't help but see his father teaching him to swim when he was little, and he had to hold back a tear: there was no question of letting emotion overwhelm him.

He soon saw men of all ages arriving, who sat down near him in silence, and he quickly realized that they all had serious looks and voices, signs of extreme anxiety that one tries to contain but cannot hide. There was also something that united all these men, like in an army going into battle, the soldiers who share a common fate feel bound by something deep and yet impalpable. The other is then not the enemy but the ally; the one you may have to count on and who will count on you. And without having to speak to each other, they all knew that they were going to live the same adventure together and face the same dangers on a maritime journey of at least two thousand kilometers: the whims of the ocean or the sky, an engine incident or hull damage, pirates armed to the teeth in speedboats... anything could happen. So the silence was heavy and the worry certain. But also the determination of people who have nothing left to lose.

From the height of his seventeen years, the young man discreetly observed his companions. It seemed to him that he was the only one who had studied, the only one to look at the world with a perplexed gaze, the only one to reflect on the meaning and absurdity of life. And he remembered those few words, not devoid of meaning and humor, that the Chevalier d'Éon had prepared for his tombstone:

Naked from the sky I descended,

And naked I lie under this stone:

So for having lived on this earth,

I neither won, nor lost.

That made him smile and he said to himself: "Come what may, the die is cast. What could happen to me that would be worse than the inevitable end that awaits all creatures? God is very strange who gives only to take away, but let's not think about it. There is undoubtedly beauty in all things, and I would be pleased to discover other places. Certainly, I infinitely love this red and ferruginous land on which I was born, but I would also love others, different from this one”.

The other men around him were rough, unrefined, mostly orphans like him, but who had lived on the streets by all sorts of expedients, abused by a life of misery and by marabouts who had torn them away from their families under the guise of giving them a good education, but who forced them to beg. That had also been the fate of many orphans during the sad industrial revolution in Western Europe when children were handed over to real gang leaders without pity. Alas, humanity has a certain number of cruel, lawless people. So our young man was thoughtful. What could he expect from his unfortunate companions in case of hard times? What is a man worth when the situation is critical? Does he only think of himself or is he capable of virtue? Individualistic or, on the contrary, supportive and collaborative? Little by little, while they impatiently waited for the smugglers, tongues loosened, each person recounting the hope they had for a better life. The search for an Eldorado had always inspired men, more so than women who were generally less adventurous and more attached to their environment. But the truth is, they were mainly trying to escape a harsh, merciless world, full of injustice, corruption, and misery, imagining that elsewhere the grass is greener.

When evening came, he felt an obvious nervousness run thru his companions. And this time he did not linger to contemplate the sun setting in its lavish blaze. He had already bid farewell to the sunset of Dakar the day before and he knew there would be others elsewhere.

Soon they heard the hum of an engine approaching on the water, and all the men stood up. In the light of the torches, they paid the agreed price, put on life jackets, and crowded into the boat for their journey toward a new beginning.