The Memory of Dunes: On the Forgotten Trails of Senegal's Sahel

There is a particular light here, between the end of the rains and the beginning of the dry season. A light neither harsh nor soft, but one that seems to fall from a sky so vast it becomes almost a presence. The wind carries the scent of heated earth, of pounded millet, and sometimes, far away, a hint of salt from the invisible ocean. I am walking on a track that winds between thorny acacias and solitary baobabs, their branches stretched out like arms that forgot to fold back. This is Senegal's Sahel, a region often crossed without being seen, travelers in a hurry to reach the coast or the big cities. Yet here beats an ancient heart of the country. I came to follow a forgotten trail, the one used by Fulani herders before tarmac roads redrew the map. Today, only a few shepherds and their zebu herds still use it, out of habit or necessity. The sand is soft under my feet, in places mixed with dried dung and twigs. Each step raises a tiny cloud that settles immediately. The silence is broken by the cry of a hornbill, then by the creak of an old sweep well that a man works, bare-chested, his skin glistening with sweat. He watches me pass without surprise, as if my presence on this path were just an ordinary variation of the landscape. Further on, the trail climbs a low dune. From there, the view opens onto an ocean of savannah dotted with villages of conical huts. Thatched roofs smoke gently in the morning air. One can imagine the women pounding millet, children playing in the sha