The Christmas Baobab

I begin this story in the arms of Fatou, a 20-year-old African woman. African women, and Africans in general, do not hug, but neither do I usually break down or burst into tears, especially in this continent, where the earth constantly transmits a vital fire that is almost incompatible with weakness. However, a series of circumstances led me to burst into tears in front of her, and other circumstances led her to embrace me to console me, to discover the beginning of a brotherhood that will last all my life. Caparan, a place in the world where I have another family, one that appeared on a night when I was not supposed to be there. A night when I was lost, and yet I found myself.

I had left that morning from Cap Skirring, on the southwest coast of Senegal, heading for Banjul, Gambia's airport, to catch a flight that would take me home for Christmas, yes, like nougat. I had calculated the time with a lot of margin, knowing the African roads and tempos, to arrive comfortably to my flight that left shortly before midnight. The journey to cover was 4 hours, and we were about to travel the third hour, when the car decided to stop, chin pum, without warning. Babucar, my native driver, looked at me and, with the hood open, showed me the palms of his hands, raised his shoulders in a "I can't do anything" gesture, and said "twenty years. Vingt ans" as he pointed his chin at the vehicle which was indeed twenty years old and very badly worn.

The inner peace to which I appealed at first, knowing that being four o'clock in the afternoon we could afford a puncture and two, and still reach our destination on time, had begun to fray just like my hair, which under the Senegalese sun and the dirt of the road took on sculptural shapes. The car had decided to die, and there was no other car to cross us to take me to my plane, or anywhere else.

I didn't know a lot of things then that I learned later.

That the place where we had stopped our march due to force majeure was called Caparan.

There are no cars in Caparan. Not a single one. There are none.

Due to political quarrels between former colonies, it is not allowed to drive cars after seven o'clock in the evening.

That it would suddenly dawn on me that I wouldn't be able to catch my flight home and would have to wait for the next one, that I wouldn't be leaving until a week later, and that despite being an adult, experienced, and having traveled halfway around the world, I would feel helpless.

That at six o'clock in the evening a group of Volunteer Travelers would return from the dispensary after another hard day building La Casa de Maternidad for the women of the village, and they would put me in their car and try to cheer me up.

That the only place they would take me, instead of my plane, would be in front of the village sage, which is the first thing to do whenever you arrive in a village in Africa.

That I would have to tell that wise man, in basic French and with a lump in my throat, that thank you very much for your hospitality but that it was December 23 and I wanted to go home.

That before that eminence I would not cry, but I would cry soon after, when Fatou, the woman who opened the doors of her house to me, gave me a bucket full of water to take a shower and an African dress of beautiful fabric dyed by herself.

That this woman born in the heart of Africa, destined to marry at the age of 16, would have rebelled against her destiny, and in her twenties would have sought, like me, her place in the world.

That, despite the fact that Africans do not hug, Fatou would have learned to hug by meeting a naked and sincere heart, and that after a hug that would last 20 seconds she would whisper to me: "relax, here you will have your second family".

That in that lost place in the world, after crying like a little girl thinking about that Christmas table with all my family waiting for me in Barcelona, the party would begin, because when a foreigner arrives to a village for the first time, there is a welcome party with dances and music.

That that night I would learn their songs dedicated to life and nature, and they would learn to sing our Christmas carols and that, under a giant Baobab tree, the Caparan people and I would sit in a circle and tell each other stories and, although I don't like to speak in public, I would feel unexpectedly comfortable and tell them how we celebrate these special dates at home. What we eat, how we dress up, how we decorate a tree with colorful balls and stars and how it dawns full of presents the next day thanks to a fat, bearded man dressed in red called Santa Claus. That would make the kids laugh out loud. How beautiful to see them laugh like that.

On the way back to Fatou's house, small under that infinite sky, we saw a shooting star that I asked to take care of my new family in Africa and we also saw a plane flying across the sky in the distance. It was a little after twelve o'clock. It would be mine. But I no longer felt sorry. Africa had shaken my soul again.

The next morning, another great gift awaited me, which confirmed that the accident with the car was not a fluke. Fatou covered my eyes and took me through the streets of the village. The children surrounded us and laughed like little bells. Some of them remembered pieces of my Christmas carols. I uncovered my eyes in front of the tree, witness to the stories of the eve, and found it decorated from top to bottom with balls and stars made of wood, colored cloth and seeds. The children laughed and pointed to what they had been working on so early in the morning. The whole town had gone all out to give me a surprise, the best gift I could receive.

Christmas baobab.