Rosso
We turn up in front of a whitish river - will it be because of the milk spilled in the water to pacify his evil spirits? - Rosso. We leave our imagination to travel. In the meantime we stagger around the cars, shops, looks. We will recapture the footpaths of the magic at dusk. It is Maouloud Celebration in Rosso. The thickness of the night returns, of the honey that gushes form the teapots, of the shadows that the wind shatters matching the sound of penetrating rhythms. We are like zombies watching the expressions that wake up the fascination, the shudder. A juvenile rap in the outskirts of the city is a lullaby before going to sleep.
I wake up in the full night for an airy worry. I follow disbelievably the convulsed movements of my roommates. I witness their struggle to death with an invincible aggressor, the mosquito. The outcome is chilling; the bites defy the worst imaginations. But in the end we survived. The following day we go to the north.
It is a travel towards ourselves. To the passages that suddenly we remember of no part. Discovering the surmised. The experienced dizziness when other re-lives through it for you.