A question about the 'Woman in green buying charcoal'

One of our regular readers sent me this question today:
Question: In the photos of Mali, please would you tell us what the woman in the beautiful long green frock is doing? Is she gathering coal or what is it that she is walking beside and through? Surely she's not doing laundry in a stream dressed so beautifully ... or is she?

Somebody else commented that he was surprised that I had photoshopped one of my photographs as I am so dead against photoshopping.

Well, the answer is : No I most certainly did not photoshop the picture -- I do not even have photoshop or any other photo-doctoring/enhancing/fixing program on my little note book -- and in fact, because everyone here is completely and unequivocally against having their photographs taken, almost all my pics are taken with the camera clutched next to the strap of my shoulderbag so I have absolutely NO idea what will be the result -- did I even get half of what I wanted to photograph into the picture, or is it going to be another skew picture of a car wheel or a piece of the blue sky? Every night when I get home, it is a total surprise what I managed to capture with my sly sneaky aiming-at-being-inconspicious photography.

I would love nothing more than to be able to photograph openly and freely -- the colours and the moments and the incredible light and intensity of it all here are so photographable, and not being allowed to use ones camera is the biggest torture ever! For instance, the day I took the photograph of the woman in question here, Suzanne and I had walked to the markets to buy provisions for the dinner we were to cook that night. It was a very long and very dusty walk in the early morning heat -- which was already searing at 9am in the morning. We had been told the markets were behind the mosque, but between us and the actual mosque behind which the markets are, there were about five other mosques; it was a loooooong way and very very hot. By the time we arrived at the markets, we were ready to find what was available and get back to the campsite as quickly as possible. But then: The market took my breath away!

I know! I know! all markets take my breath away! But this one was something else. This entire market --- the 'smaller' one on the right bank of the river -- Niger River) -- is a very large area -- as far as the eye could see and well beyond that, was situated under the very dark and low corrugated iron roofs so that everyone and everything was in a deep black and cool shade. The overall effect was one of blackness. But -- every here and there, in between the stalls and at the end of rows, it was open to the sky and there, like magic, the light poured in -- streamed in -- flowed in like a golden liquid and lit up the colours of the green and red and orange and white and yellow and indigo blue. The vegetables lying on the wooden planks took on a life of its own and the fabrics of the women's dresses and head scarves became animated in the sunlight-- seeming to glow luminescent in the dark shadows of the stalls. The women are garrulous and loud and their voices and laughter riccochet off the iron ceilings and bounce back off the soft dark soil under their feet. It is a joyous scene and you feel the compulsion to touch everything to feel if it is real, to feel the textures, to savour the pleasure of its freshness. I find myself buying beans - simply because they look so crisp and crunchy and green. I buy 12 small capsicums instead of the four we need, just to enjoy the shiny roundness of these bright green and red gems in the palm of my hand. I ask about the colour of the squash and the woman cuts one open with a single slice of her large rusty knife to reveal its moist white softness inside, and I cannot resist playing with an okra while chatting to the woman, remembering the okra angels a friend had made for us once, a very long time ago, for christmas tree decorations.

So, to answer the first question: All the women dress this beautifully all the time -- whether they walk in the dusty roads for miles, whether they sit in the searing sun selling their wares, whether they go to the Jet7 nightclub on a Saturday night!

(One is so tempted to go out and buy a whole wardrobe of these beautiful dresses, but then you have to pull in the reins and remember that the reason they look so beautiful is because the fabrics and colours have a rich, glowing dark brown skin as a backdrop. Put those same dresses on a white skin and it will probably look like nothing at all.) The particular woman in this photograph I simply HAD to capture -- again a shot from the hip and, in this case, a lucky one! That vibrant green bean green and beautiful intense fuschia cloth in which to wrap her purchases against the black black background of the charcoal and charcoal seller -- really did look like a picture that had already been photoshopped -- the background turned to B/W and only the foreground in colour. But as I said -- no fixing -- this is the way the picture came out -- and I was thrilled -- so much so that I simply had to share it with you!

A word of consolation

Everyone back home must be wondering what is happening with us. We are currently travelling through a troubled and upside-down continent. Some days it feels a little like we are caught amongst the pins at the bowling alley, watching the balls hurtling towards us an knowing that the pins will be tumbling around us -- never sure which ones will fall, which will stay standing, which will drag us down with it.

I, for one, had promised my loved ones that I would not knowingly put myself in a situation of risk, that I would keep myself informed about world events and that I would fly out of here if things got dangerous. I am quite sure everyone out there would like to hear that same promise from their own family members who are currently on this Trans.

But let me assure you -- we have no intention of being reckless and the last of the great adventurers. I know each individual would gladly answer to the call of the Endorphins and go with the flow of the Adrenaline Rush, but none of us are here as individuals -- each of us is one of the a group, and the safety of the group is what will be the ultimate factor in our decisions about the rest of the trip.

At the moment we are playing the waiting game -- but then, that is not unusual for Africa. We are on Africa Time and the waiting game was invented by Africa. Mark is the best person to be in charge at the moment -- he knows the people, he knows what is called for and when and where -- so we are in good hands.

For security reasons we don't advertise where we are are and when or where we are going, but rest assured, we are safe and sound and very fortunate to be in a comfortable place -- and also very fortunate to be a group that knows how to make the best of any situation and to have fun no matter where!

SO -- watch this space for the story of the hog roast -- of the hog which is being led home on a lead as we speak, will be slaughtered and butchered not five metres from where I am sitting right now, and will be the centre of our celebration tonight.

What are we celebrating? Being here in Beautiful Africa and experiencing this priceless adventure, of course!

Mark's bush-office -- a working breakfast on the road --

One of the big acitivities on a trip like this, is filling in forms, and more forms, and more... Every country needs visa applications in triplicate, quadruplicate, zilliondiplicate, plus photographs, plus, photocopies of passports, plus money, money, money! And Captain Mark is the one who collects and coordinates and ticks off and collates and everything else included in the application process, -- at a table, over breakfast, under the confetti tree (so-called by me because the tiny, tiny leaves continuously fall down like at a permanent wedding celebration), out in the open - and the heat


Mark in his bush office during a working breakfast

A few beautiful images of Mali

A night out on the town!

We happen to be in a part of the world where music is BIG -- and not far from where we are staying (in luxury! with running water and shade and a dinkum kitchen and BEDS!), we found a fabulous spot to spend the evening a few days ago. Great music, good ambiance, (air conditioning!) doormen (aka bouncers) that looked like they stepped straight off the remake of a Tarzan or a Rambo movie (or is that giving my age away again? Should I rather say a remake of The Pacifier?) -- BIG, burley and built to last! Everyone on the A-list of this beautiful capital city seemed to be there -- glitter and glamour and glitz, shisha pipes bubbling away, hostesses teetering on 8-inch stilettos, Absolut Vodka by the bottle, laser beams flicking over the crowd and occasionally highlighting in green the faces of the dancers on the floor.
I can literally say we danced the night away -- stumbled into the pool and then into bed around 4am -- those of us that did make it home, after having had a thoroughly fun African night club experience!

Truck Cleaning Day!

A few of the many spectacular birds in the vast open sky above us

(With apologies to Nici -- and a promise that I WILL NOT turn into a bird person! -- But in my defense I have to say: we are all noticing the amazing birds around us. How these birds survive without water is a mystery - especially in the areas where there are only sand dunes and dust and no water -- not even wells, for vast distances -- but we are seeing trees with leaves now and some green grass -- and I also have to keep on reminding myself that during the rainy season this world does undergo a metamorphosis. I spoke to Esther -- a young Dutch woman who is working on her PhD here in Mali -- she is researching the artisanal gold mining in Mali and spending a year here in Bamako and staying with host families in the areas where the gold mines are. I commented on how difficult it must be to survive where there is no water and she reminded me that there is a rainy season -- albeit maximum two months and when often no more than 500mm of rain falls per annum, but how, during that time, everything turns green and becomes unrecognisable. I have seen the Namaqualand in the North-Western Cape (South Africa) desert turn into a garden of flowers - literally overnight, but having driven through this arid scenery for two weeks, it really is very hard to picture it all covered in green!

Anyway -- I am digressing -- (probably in fear of being labelled a freaky birder or dipsy twitcher or some such) -- we have been delightfully surprised by some very exquisite and colourful birds on the way. One particular companion has been the flashes of bright indigo blue of the Purple Glossy-Starling and the Bronze- Long-tailed Glossy-Starling. The blue colour seems to be quite common -- there are also the beautiful Camaroon Indigobirds -- their blu outlined on the wings and tail with black, the Long-tailed Paradise-Whydah -- a blue brother of the usual black whydah, and then the many Woodland kingfishers we have seen as well as this region's particular brand of Roller. One has to wonder whether perhaps the spirits of the Blue Men become the birds of the Sahel skies. It definitely does appear to be the case.

And then -- whenever you look high up in the blue, blue sky, you will also see the many raptors of the Sahel -- Bateleurs, Tawny Eagles, the quite common Brown Snake Eagle, and then the smaller beautiful falcons and kestrels. There seems to be a lot of crows and ravens around and I felt right at home when I saw my first hornbills -- both red and brown! These all have given us a most regal and generous welcome to their territory!

A definition of the word of Mauritania

tr.v. eked, ek·ing, ekes
1. To supplement with great effort. Used with out: eked out an income by working two jobs.
2. To get with great effort or strain. Used with out: eke a bare existence from farming in an arid area.
3. To make (a supply) last by practicing strict economy. Used with out.

Mauritania - a retrospective of not a particularly 'Moorish' experience (- if you will excuse the weak pun!)

When I started writing 'A retrospective of Mauritania', I first considered leaving a blank space.

Then I thought to rather just write one sentence -- short and not so sweet:

Mauritania sucks

And then I looked at my notebook and saw what I had written and thought I had better try to put down some thoughts and impressions -- and let you make up your own mind.
So, here you are -- The land of the Moors gets a blog entry after all:


On the 9th of April, I woke up in the morning, unzipped my tent, stepped out, watched the sun rise over the sand dunes and wrote in my journal: What an incredibly beautiful morning!

We set off after breakfast and for the first couple of hours drove all along the coast -- the yellow and white and pink sand formations dropping down dramatically into the bluest of oceans, the horizon of the ocean barely discernible from the start of the azure blue sky. Almost the entire way was in the Parc National du Banc d’Arguin, considered to be one of the best bird sanctuaries in the world for bird watching --mas it is one of the main resting points for north/south/north migrating birds. We stopped mid-morning and looked down on the spectacular crashing waves below forming a dramatic backdrop for large flocks of terns, cormorants, gannets, petrels, guillemots, - and even a few albatrosses came across. I stood there and so wondered whether any of the Chateau Lalinde swans had ever come this way...

But -- then we hit Nouakchott. Overwhelmingly hot -- one of the hottest days ever, a vast sprawling mass of makeshift buildings, rags, rubbish, paper, plastic, lean-to's, derelict and pockmarked squat buildings, holes dug in the middle of the road, dust whirlwinds swirling about like children looking for mischief, mangy dogs scratching in the rubble, goats nibbling at everything, the wind blowing the hot air from around one corner and down the next alley, coming back on itself to grow into a hotter, stronger wind, flies, flies, flies, flies everywhere... Everyone seems hot and bothered. Emy and I had our cooking turn that night and ventured into the market for provisions. We walked past the dirt road where a riot of colour greeted us -- the area where the farbics and cloth and textiles are sold -- piles and piles and piles of every colour and design under the sun, as well as the piles of blue and white embroidered robes that the men wear. Emy had to drag me away for we only had an hour to go find food. We found a few stalls with a meagre selection of onions and tomatoes and mangoes and oranges and one single stall that had a handful of small cabbages, about six carrots, two capsicums and three beetroot. We bought everything she had. Then to find some meat. Through an area where we saw what happens to all the old clothing you donate to charity or give to your church or your local do-gooders with the idea that it will be sent to the poor and homeless and destitute somewhere in the world. Well -- I have news for you! It comes to the markets like this one in Nouakchott -- neatly arranged on trestle tables and sold at a price -- to the poor and homeless and destitute -- and there are many poor and homeless and destitute here in this big jumble of a city, as the upheaval and expulsion of thousands of 'non-arab' African Mauritanians in recent years have left the false 'vacancies' for many more thousands of rural Mauritanians to stream into the city -- where, as is the case so often with urbanisation, there is no housing, no jobs and no opportunities waiting for them.

Anyway -- the quest for meat. Dodging the rubbish tips, jumping over water puddles with rubbish lying in them, finding detours around the holes dug in the road/pavement/ filled with rubble, steering clear of the rusty cars and the swarms of flies, we discovered that we needed to follow the goats -- one of those might become our evening meal. Eventually we found the butcher -- on a makeshift trestle table, under a grass canopy, sticking out from under a goat's grimacing head and his innards and an inch-thick layer of flies, we noticed two skinned legs: Eureka! Leg of lamb for dinner tonight! (let's not be pedantic about the name of the meat, OK?) A little bit of a fracas between me and the butcher as to exactly which part of the animal I wanted, worrying about Emy who looked close to having a fainting spell, trying to keep an eye on the friend who was keeping one finger slipping onto the edge of the scale, insisting that the one kilo and two kilo and 500 gram weights were NOT all one kilo weights, but in fact different weights -- finally we walked off very proudly with an entire leg of lamb. And yes -- the end result proved it was indeed lamb -- the evening's dinner -- roast leg of lamb done over the open fire, stir-fry vegetables with a sweet and sour sauce -- it was a feast and well worth the nightmare shopping experience.

And nightmarish it was, let me assure you. A nightmare that continued when we left Nouakchott. As far as we drove, the result of the expulsion programme that started in 1989 painted a terribly miserable and bleak picture around us. Seldom have I been so affected by the misery of poverty and destitution as these miles and miles of desert dunes and dust and hopelessness unfolded in front of us. Mile after mile of little shacks and stuck together hovels in the red sand. Mile after mile of arid, unforgiving desert where no creature can possibly survive. No water. No power. No structure. No roads. Nothing other than heat and sand. I have seen poverty and have seen misery and I have seen circumstances where you wonder at the sustainability, but never have I seen anything as bleak and heartbreaking as this. I had promised Nici I would not despair when I realise - daily - that I cannot save all the children of Africa and I would not get depressed when I realise - daily - that I cannot save every animal from torture and maiming and cruelty and abuse -- but I apologise Nici, I have already not kept my promise -- you see, Mauritania was the place where I heard a small dog scream such a bloodcurdling scream of agony and where I saw a man hit a leg of his cart-pulling donkey so hard with his stick that he snapped and broke the donkey's leg right out from under him.

Of course there were good moments too. I even found such a good moment that I left a red button -- albeit a very small red button -- when, on the last night in Mauritania, Mark managed to find the first baobab tree for us to nestle up against for the night. -- How good was that to see our first baobab tree. If this ancient old creature could survive in this bleak and unforgiving dry cruel land, then so can I make the effort -- and to remember that there is always some good to be found...

Johnny Walks into 'dry' Mauritania - and gets his feet wet at Orm's 30th birthday party

I think everyone was a little sad to leave Morocco. After all – it was the first of the 29 countries that we will be getting to know over the next ten months, we did spend four weeks and covered 4000 kilometres there and the country served well as a gentle introduction to the vast dark continent which is Africa. For many in the group it was a first in many things – a first taste of the medinas, a first look into the Arabic souks, the first call to prayer – five times a day, seven days a week, the first lesson in bargaining and haggling and finding a good deal which makes the seller as well as buyer a happy man, the first time sleeping under African skies, cooking over open fires, finding the ingredients for a meal for thirteen people in the open air markets alongside the road, eating goat, eating camel - riding a camel, touching a camel, falling in love with a camel!, the first lessons in Fun Finnish Facts, the first time playing Arse-hole and Shit-head, the first time having to dig your own toilet every morning, the first time swimming/surfing in the Atlantic ocean, the first time baking a birthday cake over an open fire in a hole dug in the sand in the desert, the first time seeing a cobra snake hypnotised by a flute player, the first time pitching a tent, the first time being transported 3 metres across the desert floor by the wind whilst sleeping, the first time seeing shooting stars in the desert, the first time seeing snow and throwing a snowball!, the first time shopping in Marjane!, first time sleeping on the flat rooftop of a travellers' inn, --- no doubt there will be many many more firsts!

The last of firsts go on – and with all firsts – they are good, they are memorable, they make for great stories.

But now Morocco is behind us. Yesterday, after drivi9ng through the Western Sahara for three days and seeing the gradual change in the dress, the architecture, the very appearance of the people as we go along – Layounne, Boudjour, Dakhla – exotic names for exotic places, where the men are so much taller and bigger and darker and mostly dressed in flowing, richly embroidered Bedouin robes, the women in brightly coloured tie-dyed robes, looking like exotic flowers in the otherwise monochrome hues of the desert – and being stopped every 20 kilometres or so at a road block where the Royal Moroccan Gendarmerie inspect the truck, get a list of our names and details, inspect the truck papers and interrogate Mark and in various levels of thoroughness, and then finally ask for whiskey. Mark’s self-taught French is good we finally reached the border post. Getting out of a country can be more time consuming and tricky than getting in. Each one of us, one by one, had to go
underneath the police, the gendarmerie, immigration and customs' magnifying glass – and then, for good measure., in the fifty metres between the last check of passports and papers, the truck gets stopped another two times to allow more police to get onto the truck and go through each passport and have a good look around. And while we were all being scrutinised, the entire truck had to be driven into a large building where it was x-rayed., Amazing!
And then finally – we are through the impressive gateway – in No Man's Land! We pulled over almost immediately and like vultures, the blue and white robed men were all around us, their robes billowing in the wind, their weathered bedouin faces beautifully framed by their head scarves, their hands deep in their chest pockets ready to provide us with Mauritanian ouguiya in exchange for our Moroccan dirhams. Roughly 33 ouguiya for one dirham – the exchange taking place quickly and efficiently, bony ebony fingers fluttering over the cheap little pocket calculators, the dirhams disappearing deep in the djelleba pocket and thick wads of Mauritania ouguiya appearing from the same place – already counted out in neatly folded packets of nine thousand wrapped in a tenth note. The money is beautiful with pictures of all things Mauritanian, giving us a glimpse of what we will see over the next few days. Little square huts with cone shaped canvas roofs, camels – and more camels, fortress type casbahs, a beautiful mosque, the longest train in the world (a 2.5 kilometres-long trains that transports iron ore from the Mauritanian mines to Agadir port – we actually saw the train – quite an incredible sight! – Is it longer than the Richards Bay anthracite and coal train?), an iron ore mine, an oil rig (Idid not know they had oil -- but now see it everywhere - Star Oil) – somewhere out there are all these things – for now we only see flat white and pink and green that stretches all the way to infinity.
No man's land. How very strange. There is no road to speak of – so for probably about five kilometres, we drive bumpy across sand dunes, rocks, holes, surrounded by burntout cars, wrecks, random tyres, the odd tent of a money changer. We speculate about being in No Man's Land – what happens if you decide to stay there? Do you live Nowhere? If you died there, are you really dead, since you have died nowhere? What is the situation if you should be born in No Man's Land (and rest assured, if you were pregnant you would probably give birth – it was that bumpy!) – I would love to know the answer to these International Political questions please!)
And then we arrive at the entrance to Mauritania. A much much smaller set-up than at the Moroccan side, a small building or two and a boom over the road – yes, suddenly a proper tarred road again!

There are soldiers everywhere. So different from the Moroccan Royal Gendarmerie. These are tall men, almost black with Arabic features – long aquiline noses, moist black eyes, regal bearing, so totally in charge. They take turns to get onto the truck and ask for our passports, they scan every nook and cranny of the truck for the slightest sign of alcohol, they ask the question everyone asks at every check point: Is this a humanitarian mission? What is your mission? Who are you? Why are you travelling through Africa? Tourists? No! Not possible! What is your mission? Are you going to teach? Are you scientists? Is it humanitarian? No one will believe that we are mere adventurous explorers of an exciting continent.
Mauritania is a 'dry' country, meaning not only that almost the entire country is one big stretch of desert, but also that absolutely no alcohol is allowed in this country. I have often come across this ruling and have traditionally found that those are the areas where you are most likely to see several drunk people lurching across your way. Not here, it seems. It really, really is dry. So the last remnants of the Stork Beers, the Flag beers, the red Moroccan Sahara wine – everything containing any alcohol was finished and polished off the night before. Because we knew the truck would go through the x-ray machine, no one was going to take a chance on trying to get even one drop of alcohol through that b order. “Where is the alcohol?' the soldier barks. “We have none” we reply – and I even taught Mark the little phrase – especially for all those policemen at every checkpoint in Morocco who wanted whiskey before letting us go – how to say – we respect the Muslim faith so we don't drink in Muslim countries and carry no alcohol. There were a few embarrassed faces at the checkpoints – but only a few...
But then of course we had Johnny with us – black labelled and all. You see, it was Arm’s 30th birthday on the 8th and Graham's 25th birthday on the 9th, and everyone had pooled in to buy a special bottle to celebrate. Where Johnny was hiding when we crossed the border I have no idea, but better so – I am not sure how long I would have stood up to the interrogation were I put under the spotlight.

But – as mentioned, we had to empty the truck of ALL alcohol the night before we crossed the border, and thus the night before the birthdays, so the birthdays were preceded though by a HAT Party! The night before the first birthday party, everyone had to make a hat with whatever was to hand. The idea was not to buy a hat, but to make your own. What a truly mad hatter party that turned into! There was a shisha pipe contraption made from a cut-in-half round-bellied water bottle, complete with the Vache qui rit logo on the front on Graham's head. On Orm's head was a (water-bottle-) tagine with Je ne sais quoi Morocco randomness inside – a bicycle peddle, a lucky stone, a crystal from way back, other odds and ends collected along the way in Morocco and rounded off with the obligatory slice of preserved lemon – looking a little worse for wear. Elissa looked splendid in her disco ball hat – a round aliminium foil cap covered in the bottoms of plastic cups that she had painted – each another fluorescent colour. Emy was superb in her Moroccon “Looking is free” shop. She had a camel – with a superb hump, a pair of Moroccan babouche slippers, silver earrings, a Fatima's hand, and several key rings – Moroccan'Roll, Mint tea pot , and of course. A drink or two of your own preferred tipple could buy you any of the items. There was quite a bit of bartering going on – usually in the opposite direction of what we were by now used to doing! Kyle wore a miniature red fes which got a little lost in his dreaded dreads, Mark started off as a koala, but then had a metamorphosis halfway through the evening and became a sad donkey. Ben was a happy donkey – again half a water bottle forming the base for two magnificently happy donkey ears, perking up even more as the evening progressed. I used five Moroccan bread loaves – the plate sized round flat loaves – all on top of each other as the base for Terry – our pterodactyl dinosaur mascot, with a few more smaller dinosaurs around, a crown from a palm leaf and some desert flowers for decoration – since I am the dinosaur on the trip, after all and the bread loaves – well, the thinking was they might just come in handy. And they did – breakfast the following morning was some delicious flower flavoured toast. Andrew had a hat of toilet rolls – treated like the crown jewels that those are out here!, John was the prince of the desert with his karate headband covered in clothes pegs and David looked jolly with his hat made from a swimming cap (yes, David- the man with no hair!)in which he had threaded about twenty blown up balloons in all colours, with a champagne glass nestling on the top of his head amongst the balloons. This glass was constantly filled with beer and so he shared his big stash of beer with the group. But the winner of the evening was Suzanne who had spent hours making miniature drawings of everything that had impressed her since arriving in Morocco. There were surfers, waves, Mark in his Moroccan Ewok coat, a face of each one in the group – quite remarkable likenesses! And all of this was on the burka head covering and veil that she had made out of the Marjane logo cut from about forty Marjane plastic bags. It was superb! The very worthy winner got a medal (made from – guess! The top of a water bottle!) as well as a bag of small Mars Bars – which was shared with everyone. And the slightly blurry star of the evening was Elissa who, in true Finnish style, taped all her empties on top of each other and needed a couple of guys by the end of the evening to stand at the top of the truck stairs and hold this one long beer can for her to drink from. (don't ask how many empty cans were in the end result ! ) But in case you do, it was 18!)

And so the journey continues – Orm successfully turned 30 and lives to tell the tale – balloons, crowns, lots and lots – and lots of singing and of course, a dashing Johnny later, and so did Graham enjoy his 25th. If their families are reading this – I am afraid you have a lot to live up to from now on – they will want every birthday to be this good in the future! They both got silly little presents from everyone, beautiful cards, T-shirts with everyone's (rude) messages written on, and everyone will agree that is it good to celebrate a birthday on a trip like this (where the any-excuse-for-a-party-policy applies)


Short note: Layounne was interesting – big sprawling quite modern city on top of a hill in the desert. Lots of building going, seems flourishing, I had my last hammam there and spent a glorious two hours enjoying the last of this fabulous luxury. Next shower or wash is fourteen days away. Don't ask!...)
Nouakchott is the first mad, crazy, busy, colourful, noisy noisy noisy, bustling, very very dirty, dusty, disorganised African city. And so hot we are dying! We slept on the roof of a camp-site building last night on the beach – after visiting g the fishing port where the huge 20+metre wooden brightly painted fishing boats are pulled in from the ocean – our boys helping the 30-a-side teams to drag these boats in with their haul on drums and sand mats – quite an amazing sight to see! The brightly clothed women sit on the beach and wait for the first choice from their husbands' catch, before the fish is unloaded and everyone e can come to buy. Huge trucks drive down to load fish and drive it away to the factories, people shouting, donkeys braying standing waiting to take their loads over the soft beach sand, over there a half-faced dog heartbreakingly drinking sea water, here a mother breast feeding her new-born baby, and there, in the shade of the boat, a few men kneeling towards the east and praying. Wonderful!
We also all swam in the ocean – very salty! Very strong currents. Very wild waves – and a cup or two of precious water had to suffice to at least wash the crusted salt off my face afterwards. The rest of me will have to wait until we get to Bamako and water. The beach was crowded on the Saturday afternoon – families, groups of friends, men in flowing robes, women either veiled and covered or almost naked, everyone swimming and enjoying g the slight relief from the heat once in the water. Mark and Orm impressed everyone with their excellent body surfing, and we reckon Mauritania has learned a new sport from them yesterday.

Oh yes – Elissa and David and John left us yesterday to travel 13 hours by bush taxi down to Senegal. We will meet them again in Bamako – we hope! As we will Randy – who never got his visa for Mauritania so went back to Rabat to collect his passport and flew from there to Senegal (we think!) So – we now head off into the hinterland and will be in touch again next Sunday – if all goes well!