Forty years ago we left the frozen mists of Longwy; it was a family habit to change horizons, following my father from building site to building site, from workers' town to forgotten corner. This one had the advantage of exoticism: Moanda, somewhere in Africa near the equator, new manganese and uranium mines, a cable car to build, two years of bush, heat and beauty. I return there today, alone, unsure what draws me into this obsession of going back in time: to walk the illusion of my own history, or to confront the nostalgia of a breathless dream.