There is a formal ferry across the river to Mauritania, but we caught one of many small boats that were barely afloat and naturally overloaded with as many people they could get in, along with their cargo. Perhaps only two hundred metres across, swimming to safety would be simple for me but I could only imagine that a few would not make it that far. Luckily the boat hit land before it filled up entirely with water, and with that we were greeted by Mauritanian police. I was expecting some sort of tension here, perhaps a plethora of soldiers and signals of intimidation; yet there was nothing, and the crossing was normal. Curious. We caught a ride on a horse and buggy to the taxi stand, were again we were crammed in the back of a small car. My guide bought a bundle of paper filled with the off-parts of a goat for lunch, I declined his offer to join him and finished off my water.
"C'es trop chaud ici, qu'est-ce qu'on fait?!?" I exclaimed jokingly at a group of young girls who were staring at my profuse sweating at a gas station we stopped at a kilometre after starting. They simply shrugged and smiled. Again onto the road, this paved and sealed highway heading north, now no signs of arable land but still awash with trees. Small villages began to appear, dot the sides of the roads: a few permanent structures, dwarfed by large tents. Camels and goats could be seen foraging for edible vegetation; along with many dead animals.
Afternoon turned to late afternoon, and finally twilight. Speeding north, Nouakchott was several hundred kilometres from here. Perhaps two hours after crossing from Rosso we encountered our first checkpoint: police, checking documents, the backs of trunks, asking us to get out on occasion. There were many of them: perhaps twenty total along the road to Nouakchott. Only one or two seemed to be entirely military, the vehicles clean and beige instead of derelict and a dark green. I was registered once along the way, an extended document check if you will. And finally, after the sun had all but set, we stopped at a taxi stand.
Surely we were not at Nouakchott: I couldn't see a city anywhere for the life of me. But another taxi later we were in city traffic, although the place felt like anything but. Unlike other urban African centres, this one was spread out and thinly populated.
A vast departure for me, and noteable. Nouakchott was founded with the founding of Mauritania's independence, in 1960 or so. Thus, it is a young city, and the only major urban centre of note in this country founded by and for its nomadic people.
Into a sand-filled lot we went, left the taxi, and into a quiet little hotel. A group of French tourists stared at me. Obviously the coup has not halted anyone's overland Saharan journey.
We walked in the evening to a family which my guide was familiar with, and sat drinking tea and watching a Senegalese sitcom. Of course, I understood none of it. I was simply marvelling at how attractive the girls on the show were, and how basic the production values were. Indeed, it's difficult to return to where I live and find any female that is as easy on the eyes as even the least attractive Senegalese girls in the same age group. Furthermore, this sitcom went on for about three hours, a monumental feat for any show. No wonder the production quality is so low, I cannot think of many stations that would invest the amount of time and money into a weekly three hour show that it needed.
This family of Africans, all of them Senegalese who travel here for work, also seemed unaffected by the coup. They were more concerned with their tea and cigarettes, the one woman in the crowd of ten men concerned with her newborn child and of course, her television show. So who then has been affected by the coup - aside from some military figures and politicans? Anyone at all?
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