Safara and Grégoire glide down the Saloum

in a dugout canoe. She points to a crocodile

sunning on a bank. Above it, red combretum

vines cover the trees. Near her village, boys

shoot arrows at fish. One readjusts his aim.

Safara yells. Too late. His shot pierces

Grégoire's shoulder. Arrows rain over them.

She yells again. The boys fall silent, then

chatter. "They don't remember me," she says,

tending Grégoire's wound. "Quickly, bring

your parents!" she commands in Wolof.

"Tell them Safara has returned with her

future husband." The drums-calabash

gourds-begin almost immediately.

That evening, the couple are feted with

sweet potatoes and bananas, fowl with

peanut sauce. They drink palm wine and

dance-men and women in separate groups.

Safara's uncle, alive due to a fishing trip,

has become father to all the village orphans.

"Help me care for these children, Safara."

For several weeks, Safara and her uncle

argue and draw maps on the ground.

Grégoire studies their diagrams. He

leaves for Dakar to buy camels for his

trek into the interior.