(English Translation Below)
Dag 65: Nouakchott Dit raak nou lank. En ons kan nie veel daaraan doen nie. Ons het só voorspoedig gevorder deur Ivoorkus, Guinea en Senegal dat ons heeltemal te vroeg is vir die inklok-datums op ons Morocco en Europa visums. Ons staan laat op. Gaan eet laat ontbyt. Lê en lees. Ek voel nog flou van gister se dehidrasie. Later besluit ons om 'n barbier te soek om ons baarde te tem. Loop die dorp in. Hier en daar 'n vergete kar met pap wiele. Toegemis deur maande se voëls. Dit voel soos 'n Sondagmiddag in enige Karoo-dorp: Warm, stil en effens neerdrukkend. Die barbier se winkel wil-wil uitmekaarval. Hy beduie in Frans en Arabies dat ons moet sit. 'n Verstandelik gestremde man kom van die straat af ingestap en kom sit reg langs ons. Begin gesels. Kliphard. In Engels met ons en dan in Arabies met die barbier. Die barbier laat hom begaan. Geduldig. Dan spring die man op en loop uit. Kom later terug met 'n bottel water vir my. Intussen beduie ek en De Witt met ons hande en gesigte in Afrikaans en Engels dat ons nie alles wil afgeskeer hê nie, net 'n bietjie korter en netjieser. Ek gaan sit en hoop vir die beste. Besef dadelik ons is in die hande van 'n meester. Later vat ons ons nuwe aangesigte vir 'n spin na die koffiewinkel om die draai. Die eerste een in duisende kilometer. In Mauritanië is alkohol onwettig so mens drink koffie en tee en vars uitgedrukte sap en gaskoeldrank. En water. Môre nog 'n hele dag van rond-sit en -dwaal voordat ons verder noord in Morocco se rigting ry. Dan twee nagte aan dié kant van die Morocco grens wag. Dan eers kan ons oor. Dis asof 'n ou eggo weer vir ons wil weerklink: Vat. Dit. Rustig. Day 65: Nouakchott It's getting long now. And there's not much we can do about it. We've made such good progress through Ivory Coast, Guinea and Senegal, that we are way too early for the check-in dates on our visas for Morocco and Europe. We wake up late. Have a late breakfast. Lie down and read. I still feel weak from yesterday's dehydration. Later, we decide to find a barber to tame our beards. We walk into town. Here and there, a forgotten car with flat tires. Covered by months of bird poo. It feels like a Sunday afternoon in any Karoo town: Warm, quiet, and slightly depressing. The barber's shop looks like it's about to fall apart. He gestures in French and Arabic for us to sit. A mentally disabled man walks in from the street and sits right next to us. He starts talking. Very loudly. In English to us and then in Arabic to the barber. The barber lets him be. Patiently. Then the man jumps up and walks out. Comes back later with a bottle of water for me. Meanwhile, De Witt and I signal to the barber, with our hands and faces and in our best Afrikaans and English, that we don't want everything shaved off, just a bit shorter and neater. I sit and hope for the best. Immediately realize we are in the hands of a master. Later, we take our new appearances for a spin to the coffee shop around the corner. The first one in thousands of kilometres. In Mauritania, alcohol is illegal, so you drink coffee and tea and freshly squeezed juice and soda. And water. Tomorrow, another whole day of sitting and wandering before we head further north in the direction of Morocco. Then two nights waiting on this side of the Morocco border. Only then can we cross. It's as if an old echo wants to remind us yet again: Take. It. Easy.
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AuthorThis blog was written by Dr. Jean Cooper. For my work as organisational psychologist, adventurer and writer, go to www.jeanhenrycooper.com |