Day 12/part 2: Nouadhibou by Night

We've taken to drinking a lot of soda during the trip. The icy frizz and sugar gives a calorie boost needed especially because we weren't exactly eating or drinking regularly. Red tells me something that I've eventually witnessed during this trip which is in Africa you can surely find 2 things without difficulties: fuel and Coca Cola.

After the abrupt introduction at the border to 3rd world Mauritania, we parted off for Nouadhibou. We were lucky enough to have witnessed the renowned longest train in the world of Mauritania on the crossroad for the 2 cities. The ride was smooth I was sorry not to have dared once more to film this site as we actually surpassed the train of 3 kms length with our 50ccs. It was carrying iron.



The north of Mauritania is the point of the start of Sahel. Sands where more shifty and golden. There were less traces of sedimentary rocks. All these sights of dunes were laced with car carcasses and broken down houses made of stick and plastic. Once and a while you see that old mule in the middle of nowhere and you wonder how in the world it's still alive.

As usual we were late and time was of the essence in order to search for transportation to Rosso. We had laid out options, before we left for the this rally, to be escorted or shipped by cargo, but both proved to be insanely expensive. Prices ranged from 750 for the escort to 1650 Euro for the cargo ship. Running around this city that's divided in 2 parts: center and periphery, both about 1 km long, we managed to find a bus that would take us to Nouakchott for 35 Euros, bikes included.



Red and I settled in a campsite in center Nouadhibou. There were no chambers left but we happily accepted the option to sleep under a nomad tent. I thought of it as the most mesmerizing tent I've ever seen. There were mixtures of patterns that recalls christianity with colors of African spices, patterns of drawings that are of islamic theme and variety of colorful tapestry on the ground. While settling in I had a chat over Mauritanian tea with a tour guide named Fadel, a handsome Mauritanian with 4 wives who loves him but to whom he loves none. I ventured to ask if they were happy and with a convincing smile we stares at me straight in the eye and answers, 'Absolutely.' We had many laughs and spoke of the universal problem of unrequited love. He called me a liar when I told him that it was also a problem of mine. Fadel was guiding a group of french tourist in their 50s/60s. They were also in a rally from Paris headed for Dakar. The campsite had a pantry where the frenchmen were having tea after a days worth of drive. We had actually ran into this convoy at the border earlier. I loved the sight of a white bearded sympathetic man writing on 25 or more postcards short notes to his friends who were listed on sheets of A4 excel format. The campsite was also complete with terrace, where you could either relax or hang your washing to dry. Part of the terrace was gated and used as a goat house. In the meantime, Red was again on a soda run and came back with my possible reentry flight to Milan. And as I read the information, reality hits me with a bat on my back: time's running out.

This economic capital of Mauritania lives on the investments generated by the global consumption of fish in which Nouadhibou's bay is rich of. Freshened up we went out to see this city and wondered where did all that money go to? We met an Italian botargo exporter in the midst of the delirious commercial district. It was the second time we saw him after meeting briefly at the Mauritanian embassy in Rabat. He lead us to a 'foreigner's' restaurant where the food was not all that good but the view of the waitresses was pleasing to Red's eyes. The women are stunning in black Africa.

I was not concentrating. It wasn't reality's bat that hit my back but it was the cold shower that threw away a nerve on my vertebrae. I couldn't do anything, not even laugh without my back hurting as it felt as though my spinal chord was not completely intact.

Asking Naomi's double regarding where to get a massage lead us to Restaurant Hong Kong. It wasn't only a restaurant, it was Chinatown. This is proof of a place with moving economy. Where there's money, there's the chinese people working to earn a living. Behind the big building you had the quarters of 12 employees. Some playing Mah Jong and I heard a bit of karaoke too. My masseur came from Guang Zhou, spoke 20 words of Spanish but she had good hands and treated my with Eucalyptus Oil. After she had done, she then translated via Du Bai her diagnostic which was I've been under a lot of physical strain, I've been sitting too much, I need to drink more and I myself knew the art of massages.

The pain didn't go away but I had a brief relief.
That night it was my turn to be mosquito bait.