My last words.

It’s with a weathering stone in my heart that I leave Mauritania. I will miss all the men with their heads wrapped in cloth, wearing the big sheets they call bobo while running around on the streets. All women wrapped up in the most colourful garments you can imagine.
The stone in my heart is Mauritania, and when it’s weathered it will forever stay in my blood.

I entered Mauritania one and a half month ago. I didn’t know what to expect apart from a new culture. Last night I helped preparing a dinner for some fifty Germans coming to Nouakchott in a rally. As they all arrived, I felt a big hand within me saying “stop! Don’t go there!” and I couldn’t bring myself to go over and mingle with them. I turned towards the Mauritanians with their heads wrapped in cloth wearing their bobos, and even though I don’t understand what any of them say, I felt so much more at home with them. Sitting on the carpet in the sand, making that bitter and sugary Mauritanian tea. One glass say more than thousand words.

Iselmour asked me to look really closely as he made the tea, the third glass would be made by me. And gosh, even though I have been looking at that tea-making too many times to count by now I still could not remember how the flip they do. I was left to my memory and pottered about, poured the tea in the glass, back into the teapot with some more sugar… poring, poring back, poring… trying to get that thick foam they are all so fond of. I put the teapot back onto the glowing coal and prayed for a miracle.
The result was a bit bitter (use your mind to make the exaggeration) and my friend comforted me by saying the third cup is always the most bitter one.

I am so happy that I set out for this journey. I have experienced so much more than I can ever write down.
The culture in Mauritania is the strongest I have experienced, the food very special. The traditions so substantial. I feel I haven’t found the words to give Mauritania a fair description in this blog. I don’t know if I ever will.

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