47˚ East 18˚ South 6

Ironic that I had to come to the ends of the earth to find the courage to leave isn’t it. You can’t just hop in a taxi in a place like that. No roads for a start. That’s why they didn’t have a real address – only its latitude and longitude. The only way to do it is in a little eight-seater plane – which belongs to the hotel – and a two-hour flight. Spectacular. But I wasn’t really paying attention.

They were very good. Didn’t turn a hair when I told them, though it must have been obvious…Calmly professional I suppose you’d say. Couldn’t have done it on my own. I was shitting bricks of course – the adrenalin – and the fear. The worst bit was just before…..trying to ignore the voice inside – the one that said think of the security, the money, the house….what will you do? Sometimes you have to take a leap to get past that, and of course once it’s in motion, once you’ve started it, it gets easier. You can more or less sit back and watch from the sidelines as it all happens – at least you can if you have the right kind of card. Funny, I used to get embarrassed having to wave that one around in shops – the attention it drew. I wasn’t embarrassed last night.

Anyway, now I’m here – Anta –something or other - god I can’t even say the name it’s so long, with vowels all over the place. And it smells bad. Really awful. A million unwashed people shuffling along. Rancid food. One fan, trained on the sweating man at the immigration desk.

I’m exhausted. All that bravado, all the exhilaration of leaving – it’s all gone now. I’m also scared. Shit scared. Breathe. Breathe slowly. It feels as if the floor’s shaking, but I think it’s actually my legs, so I crouch down – somehow it feels safer - leaning against the wall in the arrivals lounge, holding my luggage close, watching the sea of angry hot smelly people flowing past. Shit. I try to convince myself that I’ve done the right thing. What is it they say again? Little steps….? Baby steps, that’s it. One thing at a time. Then it might not look so dire. I’ll give myself a mantra – nearly there. It’s not quite accurate but it’s optimistic at least. Nearly there. Nearly there. That’s the nature of mantras right? Like a prayer, kind of. You say it often enough and soon you believe it and it works, or you feel better, or something. I fucking hope this one works. Nearly there. Just the flight to Paris now, and then I’m on home ground, more or less. I can cope in Paris. And I’m not going to think about what comes after, not now. Just the journey. Baby steps.

Someone stops in front of me and I look up. This must be her – my guide. I’d tried to refuse her at the hotel. Said I’d pass the time in departures. They persisted though – told me it wasn’t the kind of place you’d want to hang around in. I can see what they mean now.

“Madame?”

She’s wearing a kind of uniform – a polo shirt with the name of the travel company in a little crest. Very neat. Plaits. Smiling. Not the big, insincere American teeth flash that means nothing. Good. And she’s pale – a golden brown. More Arabic than African. There is every shade under the sun here, due to the mix of peoples over the centuries – from darkest brown to this golden colour. I wonder if it’s used as a hierarchy like in India? I pull myself to my feet and smile back.

She politely asks how my flight was, in not very good English. It’s French they learn at school here. I thank her and say it was lovely, which it was, but not in the way she thinks. Then she takes my big case, and asks me to follow her out to the car. It’s so surreal but at the same time so normal. Like you feel when you have a fever. I’ve just done possibly the stupidest thing of my life, or the bravest – and I should be taking stock, or whatever they say you should do at times like that, but instead I’m having a cultural tour of this third world city, passing time until my flight back to Europe. I follow her, shaking my head slightly at the weirdness of it all.