Every summer, between July and August,
it is a scourge that is befalling Senegal. Waterspouts are falling
without stopping. I have to stop and wait
that the water drops to start again. The streets are poorly made
and in addition there are no sewers. When it rains, we gain nothing,
we are not advancing, we are always late. In addition, the gutters overflow
because of the garbage that everyone throws in the street. The city of Kaolack is paralyzed. With the rains and the heat,
come mosquitoes and diseases. Whole neighborhoods are empty. Assane is getting ready
to leave his house. It came
pick up some stuff. It rained nonstop
from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. The whole neighborhood
got inundated. It's been four years
that's how it is. One last prayer
before fleeing the city. I pray here on my bed. It's the intention that counts. In Senegal,
very few people own a car. To leave town
there is only one solution: the bus station
and its flotilla of rolling wrecks all lined up,
like a race start. Bush taxis and minibuses
are in fierce competition. even longer
this seasonal exodus. Some are not ready to leave. The travellers,
are not at the end of their sentence. The road they will face
is strewn with pitfalls. It connects Kaolack
to the town of Ziguinchor, in Casamance. Minibuses and bush taxis
compete in speed taking all the risks. There are accidents all the time. You roll and suddenly
there's a cow popping up. On this road,
the mechanics are put to the test. They make the driver pay for it. Another major obstacle, The Gambia. This small country stands
like a barrier in the middle of Senegal. To cross its border,
passengers must be patient. Senegal is a country of sweat. Driving at night is dangerous. It's very hard. Here, life is earned through effort. That's my job. At the Kaolack bus station,
minibuses are nicknamed fast cars. It is more an intention than a reality. This family knows it. It's complete rubbish. It's horrible. We are here
since eight o'clock in the morning. The driver, he
is in no rush to leave. I'm waiting for my bus to be full. Everyone takes their time. However, the route is not given. Six euros, that
represents two days' wages. So of course, after
four hours of waiting, some travelers
end up getting angry. Passengers who want to take
the road fast head to bush taxis. With them, travelers
are certain to leave within the hour. Know when they will arrive
however, that is another matter. For Mouna, the driver,
every journey is a challenge, that of arriving as soon as possible. At the wheel of his old Peugeot station wagon,
so he rolls as if the road belonged to him. Not very reassuring
for these passengers, especially at the sight of these carcasses. Every day,
there are accidents. People cross anyhow. There are crashes all the time. You drive and suddenly,
there's a cow popping up. In Senegal, speed kills more
surely the diseases. Here, we really drive without guard
crazy, in every sense of the word. Four days after his accident, Adama
still waiting for help to arrive. Him and his assistant
went to get stitched up at the dispensary
closest, by hitchhiking. Since then they are
left to themselves. Until her boss
gather the sum, the wait is likely to drag on
for the castaways of the road. Meanwhile, Bouna,
the taxi swallows up the miles. He is determined to arrive
in Casamance before dark. At the same time, the minibus leaves
finally the Kaolack bus station. He too is racing against the clock. But the trip
has barely started that already the engine
shows signs of fatigue. I'm afraid there is a leak. I will check something. Without hesitation,
Balla raises the hood. A boiling water jet
sprang from the radiator. For lack of knowing where the evil comes from,
it's emergency medicine. The driver cools the beast,
tries to water it and leaves with fingers crossed. It's always hot. Nothing seems to seal
the thirst of the old minibus. The engine is still warming up.
The risk is that he ends up letting go. The driver is forced
to stop every ten kilometres. It's not good
for the average, all that. I will stop
at a mechanic. To find a garage
in the bush, Balla makes a detour. The place doesn't look like much,
but it's the lair of a real
marabout of mechanics. One glance is enough
to the healer to determine the evil. The side of the road
serves as an operating room. The brakes must be completely dismantled. Passengers say
that they would have done better to take a bush taxi. It's hard, you know. The wait is long. I stay on the bus and wait. The operation is difficult. Rust welded the metal. That's because of the floods. It's from rolling in the water. After some striking arguments,
the brakes eventually come loose. When he winds them up, it's 4 p.m. They are halfway through their journey. In the meantime,
the taxi consolidated its lead. But he still has one obstacle
size: cross the Gambia and the river of the same name. The last time I waited
the ferry for twelve hours. This long line of trucks
does not bode well. The Gambia is a tiny country,
a strip of land 40 kilometers wide,
in the middle of Senegal. There is a road
which circumvents the obstacle, but it is endless
and infested with bandits. So the Senegalese have no choice. They have to cross Gambia,
by submitting to the extortion of border guards. Be careful with your camera,
if you film there, they will stop and put you
in prison, you will not be able to pass. Hide it. The truckers who supply
Casamance are the first
victims of this grotesque situation. Unable to pay the bribe,
the passengers of Bouna are doomed to wait. It's all the more infuriating
that during this time, the minibus has caught up. Go find out why,
minibuses have priority over taxis. Here is Gambia. Arrived at the border,
the minibus does not queue, mounts directly on the tray. It is perhaps for this reason that
the Senegalese call them because fast. Thirty minute crossing almost in the current. After the misadventures of the road,
the river is like a parenthesis. Sometimes Senegal closes
its border to protest against exorbitant rights of way
imposed by The Gambia. These are always
travelers who pay the price. Finally, Balla, the minibus driver
and its passengers are doing quite well. They will only have taken 12 hours
to cover the 258 kilometers which separate Kaolack from Ziguinchor. They put the luggage on my dish. I had told them
to pay attention. I don't know if it's me
or another that damaged it. But if you want,
you can say it's me. Bouna's taxi arrives 5 hours later. As in the celestial parable,
the first are the last. Except that here below,
the moral is different. In the race for survival
that the Senegalese engage in, there are only losers. Casamance is poor. Formerly breadbasket of Senegal,
it is now experiencing shortages. Climate change,
poor soil management, so many explanations
that escape the rice transplanters. All they know
is that the earth is low when to plow the rice fields and that their village is well
away from Dakar, the capital of Senegal. My children are called
Fanta Seye and Mariama. The one I wear is the third. I am at the end of my pregnancy. A debt she pays in pain. The work is painful. And then there are a lot of mosquitoes. It gives me a fever. The task is huge
for this pregnant woman. At the end of the day,
even after ten hours of work, women still find
the strength to heckle. The day is far away
to be over for these workers. At the end of the day,
I'm tired, I still have to go home
to cook, to draw water
and also do the dishes. Amy maintains
fifteen people. For all this family,
rice is the main food. Except that the rice barely germinates. No harvest to expect
before weeks. Fortunately, street vendors
roam the roads. Finally, when they arrive
to reach the villages. This old Berliet is more than half a century old. But Ablaï, the driver, Samba,
his assistant, and Sylla, the owner, are quite confident
in their old machine. We go to Baggio and Candia. The road is long,
it's in the bush. The track on which
launch the three friends only 60 kilometers long. But in this season
it is a ribbon of mud. Their goal: to try to reach in time
the ummah market which is held once a week. We make the road
especially to serve. Our customers live very far from the stores. We really serve the most isolated. Better for them
that there is no glitch because the service
is not really profitable. We make very little margin,
barely €0.37 per bag of rice. If they miss the Ummah market,
they will have made the trip for nothing. But whatever happens,
and even if it wastes their time, they follow rule number
one in the bush: mutual aid. This biker is stuck with
its 100 liters of palm oil. It's heavy and given the state of the road,
if I don't help him, he will go no further. This improvised stop is also a delight of those who
walk to the market. They go to the Oumma market. It is a chance
that we passed today. So we take them. Hardly left, Ablaï feels
that his truck is leaning to the right. The tire is punctured,
we are going to change the wheel. We died.
Must go down. But an unpleasant surprise awaits them. One of the nuts
resist them. Too bad for the punctured wheel,
hurry up. At any time, a thunderstorm can make
the road impassable. We will try to go
like that to the village. I will drive slowly. The truck is driving now
for nearly ten hours. Obliged to move forward,
the three men see the time slip through their fingers. The market takes place
the next morning and they are no more
very sure of getting there. driving at night,
it is very hard and dangerous. There are many ruts,
it hurts the truck. With his rear tire flat, the truck is a lot
less maneuverable. This was the fear of the crew:
crash the truck into a hole. Curiously,
they left without a shovel. Digging by hand:
the task turns out to be impossible. Sylla decides to leave
on foot to seek help. three kilometers away,
finally there is a house. Sylla thinks he's out of trouble. But this shovel
won't be of much use to them. It's now a mud trap
which closes in on them. The village of Umma
and its market seem unattainable. 300 kilometers more
to the west, on Kafountine beach. In Senegal, everyone is fighting for their survival. For all who find
the earth too ungrateful, the sea is there, wide open, provided
to have the courage to face it. Every day there are hundreds
to want to embark on the fishermen's canoes. But that morning
very few agree to go to sea. The weather portends the worst. Last month,
seven sailors did not return. The big canoes
take on board nearly twenty sailors and can bring back up to
seven tons of fish. Souleymane is the most
young crew member. At fourteen, in principle,
he has no right to work. My father and my mother are dead. That's why I go to sea,
to make some money, help my little brother. It's hard to go to sea. Once on the high seas,
to attract fish seamen
ward off bad luck. In the morning, early,
just after boarding, I pour milk
in the canoe and around. I do this to hunt
evil spirits. On board there are only
two life jackets that men share in turn. So once again,
you have to use magic. Sailors smear their bodies
with a protective potion made by a marabout. Navigation is done
without instruments or GPS, by guesswork. After four hours at sea, like an oracle,
the captain sees the sardines. In reality,
it reads the surface of the ocean. A reflection or a ripple:
the fish is there. It's already in the net! Good game.
There really is fish. It's time for Souleymane
to prove its worth. He must jump into the water
and make as much noise as possible with his feet and his hands
to prevent sardines to escape from the net. Another sailor joins Souleymane. If ever he gets tired,
he can always hang on to his life jacket. The noise serves
to scare the sardines. They've been in the water for more than an hour. The two swimmers
are at the limit of their strength. All that for this. The net does not contain
only a few sardines. On board the canoe,
it is disappointment. We have to leave,
ever further out. Captain's eye
scanning the surface of the ocean. Pay-as-you-go, none
sailors cannot afford to return empty-handed. On their side,
the truckers have not been idle. To lighten their truck,
they unloaded all their cargo of rice. But nothing worked. But stones,
there aren't many in the area. Sylla goes to look for wood. The day passes
and the prospect of arriving in time to the market moves away. I feel helpless and it pisses me off. I will not sell my rice. another truck
probably arrived in the village. I am really very annoyed. The local peasants come as reinforcements. They know what they owe
to the truck that so often supplied them Two hours later,
the truck arrives at the market it's too late. The villagers did not wait for them. Everyone got
oriented towards competition. I will try to sell my rice. Only one of his clients
wanted to wait for him, but he is not happy. I bought it to feed my family. Rice is expensive.
It has increased again. Now the
bag is 1.50€. For Sulla,
the bill is even saltier. He wasted two days of fuel,
plus the mechanic to pay to remove the stuck nut. Once its wheel has been repaired,
Sylla left with his cargo bags of unsold rice. It's the harsh law of the track, the one that know
all the itinerant traders. Aboard the big canoe, fate seems to fight
on fishermen. It's been eight hours
that they are at sea and already four times
that they drop the 200 meters of nets and pull them up by the strength of their arms,
without catching a single fish. It's been four times
that Souleymane throws himself into the water. This time the grip is better. Everyone smiles. But the canoe is far from full,
like those auspicious days where everyone is insured
to receive the price of his pain. Today, the fishery barely covers
travel expenses. Sailors paid on commission
will only receive 3€. A final stroke of fate
ends this bad day. The coast is still 20 kilometers away. Spend the night at sea
at the mercy of storms, nobody wants to think about it. Upon arrival, unloading
tons of fish on the beach looks like a metaphor
of the daily life of the Senegalese: a race between the poor. Hundreds of porters come
offer their services to fishermen. The rule is simple:
first come, first served. So it's a rat race
for a few cents. Even among the poor
there are degrees. Porters are the elite. The others pick up the crumbs. Half gleaners and half thieves. I try to catch the fish
falling from the canoe. I put them in my bag,
I catch them one by one. Sometimes it works
but other times not. That's my job. They are dozens
wanting to catch fish. Fishermen try
to hold them behind a rope. The rope does not stop them.
The melee becomes general. The boldest thieves rise
outright help themselves on board the canoe. From this economy of survival, everyone strives
to keep your head above water. As for the fish, it's not sure
that it arrives very fresh at its destination. After marinating
hours in the canoes, it is stored right on the beach,
without ice or cold chain. It is still necessary that the trucks
cross without incident the trials that promise them
Senegalese roads.
