I’m in a car. In the seat behind the backseat squashed between a young girl and a boy. The road is as straight as in the Western Sahara. In front of me are four guys with their heads wrapped in garment, in the front seat a woman. The driver has dark skin and the white garment around his head create a touchable contrast. I am careful with my back. Who knows how far I have to carry my back pack this day? Within a few house I will be in Senegal. Let the journey continue.
The car is taking me to Rosso, and there I cross the border into Senegal, getting a bush-taxi to Saint Louis.
Some people load the minivan, putting all the stuff onto the roof. It’s not a hundred kg’s, more like a ton. They lift up three sheep with their legs tied together onto the roof. They scream as if being tortured and I get an instant feeling of wanting to rescue them, but I don’t.
We sit there for two hours before departing, and only a couple kilometers outside Rosso we are being stopped by the police. They take everything back down and go through all the stuff, then putting it all back again. That takes another hour and a half.
I’m didn’t arrive in Saint Louis until after seven in the evening, I left Nouakchott at nine in the morning. A longer journey than planned, but now I am here and it feels good. But, I do miss Mauritania.