East on the Route D'Espoir

Nouakchott is in full election mode, and here "big tent politics" is literal, with Bedouin style tents pitched on every approach, blaring presidential propaganda. I hope at least one candidate is promising to clean the place up, as it is without doubt the dirtiest city I have ever seen. Any rubbish not left to fester in the streets is taken to the outskirts, where there are miles of truckload sized piles of waste. 

Camping near Nouakchott

Nonetheless, the tap water is drinkable, and we filled our tank at the Auberge du Sahara, and picked up our Mali visas on the way out of town. We have now left the Atlantic coast; and are heading due East. The wind is up, not quite a sandstorm, but enough to put the headlights on. There is an incredible amount of domestic animals to avoid, including many fine African donkeys with a black stripe down their backs, another across the shoulders. 

The police checkpoints continue, and they generally follow the same routine: Shake hands. "Where are you going?". "Your nationality?" "And yours?" (with a quizzical look at Jason, who they cannot place; at least they don't insist on speaking Arabic to him, as in Morocco). "Purpose of your journey?". Then, with a scan of the dashboard, "have you got a present for me?". Hand over bic biro. "Merci, bonne route". Drive on, take another bic from supply and put on dash. To be fair, many of the police are not such big children, and just wish us well, or inquire if the weather is to our liking. 

On the left are red dunes, some colonised by plants. To the right, it looks more like savannah. We are driving along the line of the Sahara and the Sahel. By evening we pull off right, and go around into the lee of a small rocky hill to camp, a thorny savannah to the horizon.