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He needs money to pay for his trip, and manages to raise $2,000 — as much as an average Somali earns in three or four years — by selling the small vegetable stall his parents passed on to him before his 20th birthday. He gets advice on the best escape route from someone in the neighborhood whose relative has just made the journey. In the past, fleeing Somalis would travel by boat through the Suez Canal, but now that Egypt has tightened its border controls, the preferred route is overland to Libya, then by boat. His mother tries to talk him out of it, telling Abdi Salan that the trip is too risky and life will be hard even if he makes it. "I'm a man now," he tells her. "And in life, sometimes a man must suffer."

FROM MOGADISHU TO KHARTOUM
With a schedule of northbound buses in hand, Abdi Salan announces that he will leave the following morning. He has finally gained his parents' permission, and he sits his four younger brothers and sisters down for a chat, but decides not to tell them that he's fleeing war. "There's work for me in Europe," he says instead. He packs a small knapsack with a single change of clothes, a black satchel for his money and a few photos. As he boards the bus on Jan. 26, he looks out the window at the small group of friends and relatives who have come to wish him luck. "I registered that moment like a photograph," he recalls.

Abdi Salan spends the first five days of his journey heading northwest by bus to the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa. A Somali friend of the family offers him a place to stay, and he begins asking around about how to make his next move. He knows Sudan

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nginx/1.14.0 (Ubuntu) is the most direct route to Libya, but learns it is too dangerous for a Somali to travel there without proper documentation. For more than a month, he goes every other day to the Sudanese consulate to request an entry visa. Finally an official makes it clear that if he doesn't want to wait indefinitely, it will cost some extra cash. He slips the official $100, pays another $90 to a uniformed man at the border, and after four days on the bus arrives in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum. It is April 8. He catches a city bus to the International University of Africa, where some Somali students let him sleep on their couch. They also direct him to a café where smugglers are known to pass.

There, at around 10 p.m., he meets the man he hopes will get him to Libya. At a corner table in the dimly lit café, Abdi Salan listens intently to the local man, who speaks Arabic in a faint voice. (Abdi Salan's native tongue is Somali, but he understands enough Arabic to get by.) The man is tall, lean and dark, wearing a flowing white Arab robe and headdress. He is flanked by a pair of shorter, younger subordinates in Western clothes.

The smugglers agree to help Abdi Salan cross the Sahara to Libya, where he hopes to board a boat to Europe. Up until this point, his journey has been routine. But Abdi Salan knows that from here on in, each step must be taken undercover. The man in white is short on details, but the price is clear: $300, which includes food and water. The fare must be paid up front and in full. The man assures Abdi Salan that the ride through the Sahara will be fast and trouble-free, lasting no more than 48 hours.

The smuggler tells Abdi Salan that Sudanese security forces have cracked down on illicit trafficking, so it will be another month before the next ride rolls out from Khartoum. "Don't worry; you will wait," the man tells him. "And when it's time to go, we will find you." Still, the delay means nights spent sleeping on the floor of the café and days spent trying to conserve his money. Before leaving home, Abdi Salan had calculated that by now, two months into the trip, he would have already reached Europe. But the smuggler's one-month delay turns into two. Finally, in the first week of June, he gets the good word and sets out on a city bus at twilight for a rendezvous on the edge of town. Doubts run through his mind: Will the truck be there? Will it be able to evade the Sudanese security forces? Is the Sahara as unforgiving as they say? When he arrives around 8 p.m., with 24 other Somalis, there is good news and bad. Yes, they will be leaving tonight for the Libyan border, but they will be making the trip in a single well-worn flatbed truck. "It's just luck which truck you wind up in," Abdi Salan says. The Somalis cram into the back with their meager belongings and are told to stay silent. They roll out of Khartoum in the pitch-black night at about 40 km/h. Abdi Salan has just one thought: at this rate it will take a lot longer than 48 hours to reach Libya.

FROM KHARTOUM TO KUFRA
The smugglers aren't challenged as they leave Khartoum and pass a small encampment on the city's edge — the last sign of life they will see for 10 days in the Sahara. The open truck trundles across barren flatlands during endless chilly nights and sweltering days. A canvas cover partially blocks the sun, but a hot wind whips at the overexposed travelers. The two Sudanese men sharing driving duties ration the water, pouring a few small plastic cupfuls for the passengers every couple of hours. Abdi Salan quickly realizes that his survival depends on how well the truck withstands the heat.