Many years ago I read a book called “Otherworld” by Tad Williams. I picked it up at an airport and I got hooked. It is a four-volume long novel that takes place mainly online in a system that’s used to take over the world. Towards the end of the novel action takes place in the dying system that’s just mainly grey and dilapidated environment.
I felt like I’m in a dying Otherworld on a bus from Nouakchott to Rosso and the border with Senegal. Or was I in a dying Earthworld?
I woke up late but I decided not to rush. The border was 200kms away, everyone said it’s 3 hours to the border town of Rosso. I went out, had a baguette with eggs, had my obligatory double espresso and then left my auberge about 11am.
There was a strong wind in Nouakchott – one of the reason my cousin is stuck in a hotel waiting for this ship to come to the port. Sand was in the air. The sky had a colour of milk and coffee. The garage Rosso is South of town, about 10kms away. I paid 100UMR for the ride. The taxi driver called up the bus agency for me and they had a bus going to Rosso.
The bus wasn’t leaving immediately, it left at that magical time – midi – which I thought is noon, in Morocco they told me it’s 12:30pm – here it was just before 1pm. We waited on carpets and cushions sipping tea courtesy of the agency.
T
he minibus wasn’t full, I had the whole backseat row to myself. The landscape outside was dark and gloomy and full of sand. Milk and coffee colour wasn’t leaving the sky, the road was half-covered by sand and it was in bad condition. Occasionally we drove just on sand. We passed ghost villages, cube houses, mosques and occasional tents, khaimas. Sometimes we saw a single person in the village, occasionally a donkey and camels. However you could see the desert is coming to an end as there already were trees growing – acacia.
W
e stopped halfway and I had a camel kebab baguette and tea. The colours weren’t changing.
We arrived in Rosso afted 5pm. The border closes at 7pm but my co-passengers told me it’s 6pm. I paired up with 2 Senegalese and a Gambian man but they were sometimes struggling as much as I did. The town looks awful and everyone looks as if they are out to get you. We were packed into a taxi and paid 100UMR – after one of the Senegalese men haggled hard – to drive us up to the border itself. It was maybe 2kms away, a walkable distance, had it not been for the imminent border closure. Then we were directed to a wrong border gate and had to walk around, someone led us, I relied on the Wollof of my new friends. The border crossing itself is entered via a tiny dilapidated door at the end of a filthy sandy alley. You’d never know there is a border crossing there.
But first police check. A dark man called me in and asked for my profession. The other guys were called in, he asked for money. They paid up. I told the Senegalese that the least he could have done is to ask for receipt. Second time they did ask him for money was at passport control and he did ask for receipt and it worked!
Then before the border money change. Since people on the street weren’t looking too trustworthy and even the policeman of the police check managed to tell me, in English, ‘be careful’, someone led us to a shop where the rate was rather outrageous, at 100UMR to 1500CFA but what could we do? The shop was on the right of the Société Générale.
We walked back to the filthy dilapidated door that’s the gate to the border. We had to pay for river crossing, 10UMR each. Then I was sent to a separate passport control as I was the one with Mauritanian visa. The man in the office took his time. Every paper he had on his desk – and the office is also for declaring vehicles – had to be counted, stamped, chats with his colleague had to be done, phones answered and there there was me just repeating “Monsieur svp” and behind me the ferry was docking and cars were embarking.
Finally he took my passport and stamped it, checking the stamp maybe 3 million times and constantly looking at the ferry behind me. I started thinking that maybe he does want to delay me so I don’t make it before the 6pm deadline and I was already seeing myself asleep on the pavement inside the mess that is Mauritanian border crossing.
But I made it and we crossed over to Senegal. As we disembarked a man was standing on the dock and he took my passport without word. And people were telling me that I should proceed to passport control that he would bring the papers there and I didn’t want to leave my passport behind but then one of my new friends said he’d also had his passport collected so we went ahead.
I got my fingerprints and photo taken (no visa for the Poles in Senegal), the passport suddenly appeared on the officer’s desk. By the exit gate there stood a man who demanded village tax. He even had tickets, 200CFA each. He demanded 500CFA. My Senegalese friends started haggling again. They managed to pay 200, also for me.
The garage where you can catch taxi brousse onwards is a bit over a kilometre away from the village. Of course we already had a friend with a motorbike who would take us there, 500CFA per person, one by one. I was the last as I wanted to do my business with the first shop that you see entering Senegal: Orange mobile shop.
The SIM card is 1000cfa, the 7GB internet pack is 5000cfa. I got it done quickly, we just had to input the APN.
I sat on the motorbike. The boy immediately started complaining I’m too heavy. We drove. After arrival the price suddenly was 1000cfa coz I’m heavy. I gave him 500.
I approached the car to Saint Louis. Everyone was saying the price is 2200cfa, and it is. But the baggage is 1000cfa extra, the supervisor announced with poker face. And of course a big lady selling good nearby joined trying to tell me that it’s alright. It wasn’t alright to me, I ended up paying 3000cfa.
I managed also to cause a stir when I started taking pictures. I took it cool trying to explain people that it’s a souvenir. There were many children begging for money. At one point I was standing with my back towards the car and the children were surrounding me. They looked awful, bare feet, rags in place of clothes, dust all over their faces. I asked the lady who was trying to talk me into higher taxi price if she thinks that’s alright. She wouldn’t say a word.
We arrived in St Louis after 9pm, the road was good. There were quite a few police and customs checkpoints but nobody bothered me. The taxi dropped me at bus station which is far from everywhere. I took a taxi to the St Louis Island for 1000cfa and arrived at Café des Arts which I picked as my accommodation.
It’s a bit weird not to book using booking.com but just show up in hope there will be space. How quickly I forget long walks across town looking for the cheapest hotel.
Café des arts also is supposed to be the cheapest on the island. It looked dead shut when I arrived and I even asked the taxi driver to wait in case noone answers the door. I knocked and I was welcomed. I was quoted 10000cfa for a room with bathroom and toilet. Finally my own bathroom!
I went to eat in Chez Dasso, which is a small restaurant made for tourists and full of tourists. I had yassa poulet but I didn’t like it. The chicken was tough and I had to chew my way through it. I also had my first beer in 2 weeks! I was hoping for a Guinness but they only had Flag. It was all 3000cfa.
On my way back I entered a bar in hope for a Guinness but the madame just laughed that Guinness is only in Dakar.
Then I heard a noise. A midnight noise of drums and chants. I went towards it. And there it was, a tent with plastic chairs occupied by grand madames in their most colourful clothes and men singing to the drums and dancing. All in front of a prison. At midnight. That’s how you know you’re in Africa. Maman, I’m home.
Coming back to Maman 