Transadeuche

In 1989, a group a friends —including my parents— made a trip from Paris to Timbuktu in 2CV. I have a lots of archive documents from that trip such as images, travel journals of different persons but also a text about the genesis of that trip.
I am very much interested in my work to tell stories, explore the gap between reality and fiction, but also collect stuff and try to talk about the things I discover. Start with a personal story and try to make it universal is also something I find very interesting… So for all those reasons (and many more) I’ve decided as a starting point to look at the bits that I didn’t know in the writing that I had. I’ve collected some names, and I’ve made research.

Algerian desert between Illizi & Djanet (marvelous place know for it’s cave painting), 2CV Charleston, Dakar rally in 1986, Thierry Sabine & Daniel Balavoine, legendary city of Timbuktu, the desire to do something exceptional at a time when everything was possible…

I wanted to know more and more, and my informations to be as accurate as possible so for severals weeks I’ve collected: informations, archive images, typography… all sort of documents.

Our writing in the Hoggar
is a nomadic writing
because it is all in sticks
which are the legs of all the herds.
Legs of men, legs of mehara,
of zebus, of gazelles,
everything that roams the desert.
And then the crosses say whether you go right
or to the left. And the dots, you see, there are
a lot of dots. These are the stars
to lead us at night, because we,
the Saharans,
we only know the road,
the road that has as its guide, in turn,
the sun and then the stars.
And we start from our heart,
and we turn around it
in ever-widening circles,
to embrace the other hearts
in a circle of life, like the horizon
around your flock and yourself.
— Dassine Oult Yemma

I could go on and on as I’ve collected lots of really interesting knowledge but I think you’ve got that. To talk a little bit more about the process then, I arrive one day at a point when I add to ask myself how to communicate all my findings. I found fascinating the power of words and their capacity to make us travel, in reality as well as in fiction.
And I wrote a tale.

Did I ever tell you about the lost tree? It was called that because it grew alone in the Ténéré region of the Sahara desert in northeast Niger. A real miracle. But for you to understand the magical aspect of this story, I have to tell you a little more about this immense desert. Close your eyes and try to imagine. During early human history, the Ténéré was a fertile land much more congenial to human life than it is now. The region was inhabited by modern humans for as long as 60,000 years ago. We know about them because they hunted wild animals and left us evidence of their presence in the form of stone tools. Then, about 10,000 years ago, ancient hunters created rock engravings and cave paintings that can still be found across the region. Later, the human population dwindled as the Sahara dried out, and by 2500 BC, it had largely become as dry as it is today. If you went there tomorrow, you would see that this part of the Sahara Desert has one of the harshest climates in the world. It is hyper-arid, extremely hot, sunny and dry year-round and there is virtually no plant life. The annual rainfall is extremely low, and often several years can pass with no rainfall at all. Water is notoriously difficult to find, even underground, and wells may be hundreds of miles apart. But there was a time when the region was beneath the sea; later it became a tropical forest. Can you imagine? It is even said that a major dinosaur cemetery lies southeast of Agadez at a site called Gadoufaoua, «the place where camels fear to go « in Tuareg; many fossils have been found there, having eroded out from the ground. An almost complete specimen of the crocodile-like reptile Sarcosuchus imperator, nicknamed the SuperCroc, was discovered there by paleontologists. Fantastic, isn’t it? So it’s a pretty incredible part of the world, which, as you can imagine by now, holds many secrets. And today I’m going to tell you one of them.
One day when I was about your age, a pregnant woman came to our village. Nobody knew what country she came from, how old she was or even what her name was. Even today, nobody knows her story, but one thing is certain: the day she arrived, she was running away. As she hardly spoke our language and her features were very different from ours, we quickly determined that she probably originated from a distant country. Even today, I remember her face perfectly, with its long brown hair, eyes in which one seemed to see the ocean, and very light skin scattered here and there with freckles. She was a very beautiful woman, affectionate and generous, but also very discreet. She was invisible in a way, but always there, listening to those who wanted her to. Months passed, she made her place in everyone’s hearts, helping every day with extreme patience, making jewellery, milking the goats, learning our language. I have fond memories of those moments when, at nightfall, we would prepare the taguella1 together, those crispy little breads that we would bake in the heart of the hot sand. It was always the moment she chose to tell us stories of a thousand colours. In the moonlight, we would stay for hours, hanging on to her every word, which would transport us to far away places.
And then one day she lost her child. She remained as gentle and caring as ever, but a certain pain could now be seen in her eyes. A little glow had gone out of her, and yet she said nothing. But she would often be seen leaving the village, walking into the heart of the dunes, carrying a small jug on her hips. No-one knew where she went, but everyone respected her silence and the apparent importance of these moments that she took for herself. Until one day, when, piqued by curiosity, I asked her the meaning the meaning of this ritual; that’s when she invited me to accompany her. We walked in silence for a good hour. Finally, she stopped, crouched down and stirred the sand in front of her, revealing a shrub no higher than 15 centimeters. I watched her dust it and water it and then she explained that she had left her country with an acacia seed. In the Ténéré region, the land was arid, nothing had grown in the area for many years. But she had not given up, as if she could not keep her child alive, but had decided to make our land fertile again. And her little seed had sprouted. It wasn’t the biggest, nor the most impressive looking tree, but it was powerful simply in its presence: it was there. Alone in the middle of the desert.  
Every week he was visited by his guardian who came to water him, to say sweet words to him, to rest at his feet. Until one day, she left as she had arrived, and no one ever saw her again. Her beautiful tree remained for decades, seeing generations of children clinging to its branches from all sides, providing a meeting place for local lovers, a landmark to lost travelers, a bit of shade to nomads and coolness to dromedaries. 
And then one day the beautiful tree disappeared in its turn. Years passed and people found other places to meet. Over time they forgot. But it is said that deep in the desert, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the wind blowing through its branches, and the sweet voice of the woman singing. 

Then I asked myself how would my story look like if it was made of images? (using this question also as a prompt to work quickly and experiment with my style of illustrating things).

And then I wanted to create something a bit more coherent, so I started again, doing only line drawings, in black and white.

And then I tried to illustrate some of my research too.

And tried to see how it would look like to have a more scientific approach toward my subject.