Mauritania  -   december 10th 2002 until december 16th 2002

A bumpy track leads us to Mauritania. In this area are land mines. Slowly we drive along the track, suspiciously looking around as if we search for unvisible enemies. Burnt out cars only a short distance away from the road remind us of their presence and of the fate of the wretches in the past in a horrific way. Although we realize that we're not in danger on the road we feel uncomfortable while driving through this no man's land. The offer of the experienced French to drive in front is gladly accepted!

Robert and Annique help us to pass all border checkpoints and do all the conversation in French so that we don't have to pay bribes or give presents. At the last checkpoint we can join a group of car sellers and drive directly into the Sahara instead of spending the night in Nouadibou. We are not prepared for this turn of events but have to decide quickly. The convoy is about to leave. Our biggest concern is the amount of diesel we have, because we intended to fill up in Nouadibou. Very generously Robert and Annique offer 60 litres diesel from their 120 litres spare tank. The car seller watch us impatient at the delay. They obviously don't think much of us. On the other hand they would like us to be part of the convoy in case they get stuck in the sand. And we're not to eager to pull their cars out every now and again! We decide just to see what will happen and join the convoy…

The bumpy track continues into the ‘Republique Islamique Mauritanie’.The guide immediately wants to lead us out of the mined area. After crossing the railway we are safe and along a lagune we drive into the desert. Within the our the front differential of our French friends breaks down due to an unnoticed oil leakage. They can continue the trip but without their four wheel drive. This makes Rusty the only four wheel driven car in the group.

Taking a break

Lunch break

That evening we sleep between high sand dunes. Stars twinkle in the cool of the evening. In the light of the full moon we cook our dinner. The silence of the desert is so intense that we start talking in subdued voices automatically. Footsteps and voices sound are muffled in the sand.

The next morning we leave early. In wide bends we drive between the motionless sand dunes. A number of times the Peugeots of the car dealers become stuck in the sand, but they're easily pushed forward. But when Robert and Annique become stuck in the sand it's a different story. The heavy car sinks deep in the soft sand and without the four wheel drive it's an endless job. We try to pull the Pajeero loose with a towrope. Our four wheel drive is engaged and we give full throttle but the cars don't move a single inch. We're reluctant to switch to the low gear because our car is also not standing on firm ground. We will do something completely different. While our audience watches us with increasing attention we prepare Rusty to use our winch. The speed, skillfulness and enthousiasm of our actions change the social relations in the group. People offer their assistence and everything is being prepared according to our directions. The display of strength is ready to begin.

Rusty pulls the car of Robert & Annique

One of the Peugeots has a problem

As the cable is being pulled everone watches from a safe distance. It's not working because not the car of the French is moving but Rusty is pulled towards the Pajeero. We ease off the towrope and make little dunes of sand in front of our wheels. At the same time the guide lowers the tyre pressure of the French car to create more grip. The rest of the group will push the car of Robert and Annique during the second attempt. Nothing happens for seconds, but then.....The Pajeero starts to move and soon we're on our way. Ignorant as we are with driving in the desert we become stuck in the sand ourselves a moment later. Taken aback and a little frightened we walk around our car: who's is gonig to pull us out? Our ever calm guide Ahmed seems not impressed. He gestures us to wait.

Ahmed is a Touareg. These long dignified people with their jet-black hair, dark eyes and a skin that's darker than that of Arabs but less dark than that of the Negroid are originally nomads that live in the Sahara. They wear long and wide blue garments and often have a turban around the head that only shows the eyes. Ahmed is no exception. With a tranquil and almost floating pace he comes towards us, a thoughtful look in the eyes. He kneels beside the car and lowers the tyre pressure a little, steps behind the steering wheel and after a short explanation he drives Rusty out of the sand in the low gear as if it's nothing. And that's not all: through very soft sand he in no time drives the car up a slope!

We have a break in a Touareg tent where a woman pours tea dreamy and slow. Six small glasses are on a glittering tray. The still simmering tea is poured into the first glass gracefully and accurately. With an absent look in her eyes she pours the tea from the first glass into the second. The browny stuff goes from glass to glass, in a slow ceremony of endlessness. From the last glass the tea goes back into the pot that goes back on the charcoal fire. A sweet fragrance fills the tent.

After the tea a few hours of concentrated driving follow. Low thorned bushes, holes and bumps make driving straight-through impossible. At a speed of about 70 kilometres per hour we slalom around the bushes on our way to the last obstacle of the day: a very sandy area of dunes, scattered with bushes. To our regret we get stuck again. And also this time it is the guide who has the solution. The tyre pressure is lowered further and with ease he drives Rusty to the top of the hill. We ask him if our automatic transmission can be the cause of our getting stuck in the sand. 'No', says Ahmed, 'the way you drive is the problem....'

The next morning he gives instructions at the beach. The 60 kilometres along the beach are easily done then. After this we go inland for the last 100 kilometres of sandy tracks to the capital city. We're not fast with Rusty but the rest of the convoy waits when necessary. Like in a race-game on the computer we rush over the track surrounded by dust clouds. Everything goes well until we, blinded by the dust, drive into the deep tracks of lorries. Very soon we stand still again. The convoy is nowhere to see. We start thinking and a moment later we drive ourselves free, backwards and in the low gear. For a moment we think about the tiny sand dune at Merzouga in Morocco where we trapped ourselves and raise our shoulders loughing out loud. . . We overtake the convoy and arrive together in Nouakchott. After three days of crossing the desert we're covered with layers of dust, sweat and seasalt. This combination makes a sticky stuff on our skins, making us yearn for a shower.

Three Dutch cars in a row

Terje and Elisabeth from Norway

Colourful bustle -Nouakchott-

For a capital city Nouakchott is surprisingly small. Problems of large cities like traffic jams are unknown here. In fact the traffic passes with a certain tolerance, which has something to do with the unwritten rules of conduct. Unlike in Morocco there's no intimidating and commanding of space. Vehicles coming from the right don't have precedence. Nonverbal communication is the keyword here. It's no problem at all when four cars approach a crossing simultaneously. Everybody stops. Glancing to and fro determines who's driving first. Nobody has to wait long. After getting used to this we drive around as if we already live here for years!

In Nouakchott the 'real' Africa seems to commence: shops with colourful clothes and fabric, many fruit stalls, swinging music and black people. We notice nothing of the tensions that exist in this country between the Arabs and the original black population. In the streets there's a cheerful African bustle. Very unexpected is a small Christmas tree in a restaurant, which takes our thoughts back home for a moment. We have to calculate that we live two weeks before Christmas. Our awareness of time and date continues to fade.

Border troubles? -Rosso, Diama-

After arranging the necessary paperwork we can head for Senegal. In the meanwhile the Harmattan winds have risen, which sandblasts everything and everyone. The sky is yellow with dust and sand. Mirages vibrate in the distance. Donkeys seek shelter in the small shadows of straw huts in desolate looking villages. Slowly the desert transforms into a sandy savanna landscape. We see sand dunes with small brave Acacia trees on them. The officers at the checkpoints feel little need to make problems. Would it be likewise at the border? This road leads to the much feared border crossing at Rosso, where Mauritanian border officials make it very difficult for travellers to pass. A hundred kilometres from Rosso there is another border crossing, near the town of Diama, where things seem to be easier. There is only a track from Rosso that leads to it. When we arrive in Rosso we're immediately surrounded by a dozen of men, who are very eager to expain where we can find the road to Diama. They point in the wrong direction however, supposedly to direct us to the border checkpoints after Rosso. The track to Diama should start at a taxi-rank, but how to recognise Mauritanian taxis? After some trial and error we find the track that goes parallel to a dyke. After we have left Rosso we drive through a green landscape with fields, reed marches and trees. Hundreds of birds fly above us. Groups of Pelicans drift about in ponds along the track. Despite our anxiousness about the approaching border crossing we enjoy ourselves very much.