The aircraft crosses the small band of the Mediterranean, the beautiful mountains of Algerian Kabylie and then there is only desert. First it’s up and then sprinkled with a few patches of green, then there is just endless white. Before we touch down in  Niamey I get, from high above, a glimpse of the spectacular Air Mountains and its life-granting oases. Unfortunately these will probably be out of reach for me, thanks to the perils of banditry, human trafficking and islamic terror.
The whole flight from Paris to Niger just took me 5 hours making it once more utterly clear that we all live on a double continent called Africa-Europe. We share nothing but a common fate.
It’s hot in Niamey, the thermometer shows 45 degrees, the rainy season is about to arrive. The Niger river has its source in the evergreen highlands of Guinea. But now, after its long curve through the dry landscapes of Mali, water levels are low. From the vantage point of my hotel room I see eight fishermen positioned on the river in a neat octangle. Simultaneously, over and over again, they throw their nets. It feels like watching a water ballet.
Frog leg dinner in a sophisticated French garden restaurant – my travel buddy and I in an ocean of NGO people, Westerrn military staff and diplomats. Once Mali was the poster child of development aid in Western Africa, now, in July 2023, Niger had taken this crown. Malicious gossip, notably by the “New African”, had it that the penalization of illegal migration through the Nigerien government had been the biggest achievement of Western development aid in Niger.
I travel 600 kilometers north from Niamey to the center of Niger.
Agadez had been, since the 15th century, the fabled hub of caravans.
Until recently, it had been the gateway for anybody dreaming of making it somehow to Europe.
Now, there is not a single refugee or migrant in sight.
Life is going on as it seems to go on everywhere in the Sahel. I spend half a day on the cattle market. It is a caleidoscope of local people, Peul, the cattle traders with their extravagant hats, Hausa and Tuareg. I bargain for one camel and land at just 200.000 CFA, the equivalent of 300, for a rather young one. Instead of venturing into cattle trade I opt for a brochette of camel meat. Sandwiched in fluffy flatbread it’s just great.
On the next morning the central market and its range of fruits and vegetables come as a wonder: Here, in the middle of the desert, there are delicious mangos, papaya and every vegetable I could think of, thanks to the wates running down the Air Mountains and immense underground water reservoirs surrounding Agadez.
Later we walk around Agadez’ beautiful adobe old town. I am suddenly addressed in English by a funny-looking guy who briefly introduces himself as Liberian from Monrovia: “I want to go to Italy.” I try to engage him with questions how he planned to cross the dangerous Sahara – he was gone as quickly as he came. I should have been more cautious with my curiosity.

Where human trafficking once thrived and trucks packed with migrants left Agadez in broad daylight, now everything seems to happen in the dark of the desert night. In an Italian restaurant we accidently bump into the head of the local IOM transition center. The camp lies in a desolate part of Agadez and houses about 2000 poor souls whose dream of Europe had already ended in Africa. They were now waiting for IOM chartered flights to be repatriated.
Some were caught in Morocco or Tunesia and sent back from there. Others  were caught by Algerian police and just dropped in the no man’s land between Algeria and Niger. Without IOM assistance the no man”s land would probably have been their grave, having starved to death.
I happen to chat with migrants from Sierra Leone, Mali and Nigeria. Each of them had paid a few thousand Dollars just for the hopeful crossing of the Sahara. Marked by their arduous and failed travel and often traumatized, some are telling me that whatever shame might wait for them, they just wanted to return home. Others defiantly plotted another try. One Malian was painting a portrait of the current Malian military ruler — you never know, he explained to me.
My travel buddy and me were wavering long over the question of leaving Agadez for a day or so to get the chance to see some of Agadez’ beautiful surroundings. Ibrahim, our smart private driver, arranges for a gendarmerie escort with seven Kalashnikov-touting security guards. Guarding foreigners on overland trips around Agadez has become a welcome extra income for Nigrien security forces. We pay 250.000 CFA for a one-day trip. Off we go!
We first head south on the road from Agadez towards Zinder, a once important town on the trans-Saharan trade route. On our way we meet a dozen trucks and minivans so heavily overloaded that half of their respective passengers is sitting on the roof. Where are they going to? Agadez? The mining town of Arlit in Niger’s north? Libya? Europe?
Further south we encounter nomads and their tents, in a sea of sands. Where do they come from and how do they manage to survive here in these obviously desolate lands?
Finally we reach the Tiguidat Escarpment. The village where we stop has not even ten shacks but more than 30 kids. Sitting in the shadows of the school barracks to avoid the scorching heat, the primary school teacher is yelling verses of the Quran forcing his little students to repeat them again and again.

The true beauty of Niger comes clear when we head north of Agadez. With every kilometer increasing the distance to Agadez and coming closer to the Air Mountains, the landscape is becoming more serene. Each palm grove seems to be more beautiful than the one before, with the dramatic Air mountains looming in the distance. We climb on a pyramid of stones, as below us is enfolding an endless green ribbon of palms and carefully irrigated  fields. Ibrahim points to the smartness of his Tuareg people, meaning “those wh can read sand”: Instead of using parts of their precious oases for their houses, the village of Imasaka, like all Tuareg villages in the area, is built on the rocky territory surrounding the oases.
Back in the labyrinth old town of Agadez, we meet Mustapha, father of 8, who once earned his money as a tour guide. He raves about the time when Agadez was even receiving charter flights from Paris and Marseille.
Later, Algabé, owner of a new hotel with drop-down views over the old city and the minaret of the Great Mosque, is inviting us for sundowners. The beer is cold and the colors of the sunset are hard to believe. I love optimists so it’s wonderful listening to Algabè. He definitely is believing in a better future for Agadez and Niger.
While having my dinner aboard our short flight back to Paris I am thinking about the uncountable migrants who pay a hell lot than more than I did for my flight, just to fight for their survival in the desert and on an overcrowded boat on the Mediterranean. I took five hours to Paris, they might take two years, sacrifice their lives on the way or never make it at all.
Less than two months after my visit to Niger, in another West African coup, the Nigrien president was removed by his presidential guard. The western poster child was gone.