What Took You So Long Foundation

Every guide book and blog states the same: 3 trains leave Nouadhibou for Choum daily, one with 2 passenger wagons. Departure at 2:30 pm.

We arrived at 1:30 at the train station 5km out of town. The station is a surreal bustle of lazy activity amongst rolling sand dunes, Women seated by small ramshackle stalls selling apples, bruised bananas, hard boiled eggs and sweet flavoured drinks; people watching behind long scarves and the flowing robes of desert people, talking, resting, passing time in wait for the train to arrive.

Our quest to ride the iron train-cum-public-transport derives from our vision to travel as locals do, while giving us a way to connect, share and receive ideas and thoughts with the recently urbanized nomad population of Mauritania: the unofficial border country between Western Arab and sub-Saharan Africa.

Initial rumors regarding the estimated time of departure were obtained from market ladies by the WTYSL team through sign language and time codes written in sand. Conductors of other trains would hold up numbers with their hands to report the new estimated time of arrival. The overall conclusion was that the train would arrive at 6 pm, not 2:30, as has been published worldwide via internet. Time stood still and we entered utopia, sipping superb tea sold at 10 cent a cup by a old man; probably the best shot of mint tea with sugar in northern Mauritania. By the time Nirvana was upon us, 6 o’clock had come around, and new times began to pop up – 7:00, 8:30, 10:30 pm… There was no end to the possibilities. As the sun went down over the sand-duned horizon we became truly ‘localized’ – inspired by our nomad neighbours also waiting for the train, we build a windshield out of bags, collected firewood and created a fire.

At 11:30 pm, kilometers of empty iron ore wagons began to emerge; people were yelling and getting mobilized to storm the last 2 wagons; we saw a man jump 6 feet into the air to grab an open window to crawl through while the mad rush jammed the doors, throwing luggage up in the air like nobody’s business. We quickly realized we wouldn’t be able to compete with the locals for a spot in the wagons and plan B was launched: we ran over to an iron ore wagon, climbed up, and started moving our luggage from the sand dunes to the bottom of the wagon.

5 minutes later the train slowly pushed forward into the night; relief and excitement was at large. The moonlight decorated our faces and so did the sand – followed by a quick revelation that you can’t breathe as such; anxiety how we will survive the night emerges. One of our tents is put up to protect our bags; another tent is used as a floor on the hard metal. Sleeping begins; every turn and tweak the wagon makes is felt throughout the entire body… Imagine trying to fall asleep in a rollercoaster and then add sand in your eyes, ears and mouth.

What makes the experience epic is the importance this route has to the people of Mauritania; it’s a one of a kind, free alternative to move yourself from A to B. Traveling as locals had never felt better; after 10 hours on the train we reach Choum where we changed to a packed up pickup; 6 people inside the car and 7 people in the bed, and the WTYSL team were of course those 7 hardcore people in the back on top of a pile of luggage stacked 3 feet over the bed’s capacity and held in with net. Throughout the 4 hours through the canyons and dune-ridden landscapes boasting shades of red, tan and yellow, we felt as if we had landed on Mars.

Arriving at Atar, it takes us one hour plus to mobilize the owner and driver of a bush taxi to take us to the capital. Without enough sleep the driver finally agrees to take the team and 2 more passengers down south. In the car with 10 people packed like sardines at 40 degrees Celsius (105 Fahrenheit), the air surrounding us becomes a sauna. A 6 hour ride turns into a 10 hour struggle against the machine a.k.a. the car we are travelling in. First problem: 2 hours after departure the tire bursts and changing it adds 45 minutes to the ride. Second problem: finding another tire to replace the next flat adds another hour. Third problem: at every police control the engine dies, forcing us to get out of the car and push-start the taxi again. It usually took us 3 or 4 pushes before the engine finally agreed to get back into the game. 4th problem: 6 hours down the road the car stops – we are out of fuel. The driver hitchhikes back to a town to pick up more fuel and the incident added 1 hour to our bush taxi experience.

At 2am our host, Azzedine Ould Daddah, the son of the first president of Mauritania, graciously drives 60km out of Nouakchott to pick up 7 tired travelers covered in sand stranded on the side of the road. We had reached the end of a chapter on our epic journey across Africa.