Sheep brain at the petrol station instead of Tidjika

Next day the rest of the team woke up with burning eyes and sick stomach obviously. Most of the teams had already left, at least we shouldn’t worry how to get out with the bus. Gyula and Soma were fixing the Norwegians and the Polski, and Aravind left for the town to get a spare part. By 1pm, when it turned really hot, we managed to leave. The other teams left early to visit Tidjika, but we didn’t go there, the bus is not up for that terrain. we headed towards the next destination, Kiffa, which we reach by nightfall according to plans. Abdulay doesn’t come further with us anymore unfortunately. We say a long goodbye to him. We will miss him loads. We still don’t know where he is really from. But we know how he get into the picture. Two years ago Pasha, a Russian guy got really drunk and when he sobered up, Abdulay was next to him. His South African trip sounded dodgy as well. He said he went from Senegal to Mali, then to Nigeria, then to the Central African Republic, and from there straight to South Africa. All this by a car. When we asked him about the other countries between the Central African Republic and the South, he said that they didn’t go across them. I hope we’ll meet on our way back.

Desert and semi desert changes next to our route. Nomads are camping here and there next to the road. Sometimes we pass by a single street town where goats and sheep are crucified, as if there was some deathmetal festival going on. The people are very friendly, many of them wave at us.

We don’t really need to stop at the checking points, the authorities know about us, maybe the prebribing system works well. If someone stops us, Aravind goes and sorts the situation out. He puts on his pink Adidas bossy sunglasses which he bought for 250 money on the Nouakchott market. Usually he’s shouting from next to the driver, according to him in French. It’s very effective. The authorities can’t really do anything to a 16.5 meters long vehicle from which a drunken Indian is shouting and waving a piece of paper in some strange language in his pink bossy sunglasses. I’m curious how he could manage without the help of the Tourism Minister and other mainheads of the country.

The semidesert becomes savannah, then desert again. Slowly it gets dark. According to the itinerary, it’s not advised to drive in the dark. It’s not that difficult at all. Sometime a goat, cow or camel crosses, but we can go around them. If not, we’ll have goatstew. The traffic is very rare, and the drivers are not more insane than the ones at home on a Saturday evening. Aravind wants to stop in the middle of the savannah for the night. It’s a wonderful place. Riots arise. According to the itinerary, we shouldn’t do this either. In addition we’re at the same spot where the French got massacred. Fear can’t be overcome by reasoning. And there’s a lot: someone passes on the road in every five minutes, soldiers are everywhere, they might be watching us even now from behind bushes, etc, etc. We agreed to stop at a petrol station for the night. There you go African wild places!

We find a petrol station, and arrange the thing. In 5 minutes there were 70 people around our bus of course. The usual high fiving, where we are from, who many children we have, and so on, and so forth. A girl approaches me at the petrol station who promises me three times to cut my throat while I am sleeping. It seemed as a local expression of sympathy.

We fry the left over of the goat meat, delicious. We give the locals as well, they are happy. Some kids stay, but the the rest leaves. The shopkeeper and his boss invite us for meal in the shop of the petrol station. The shop is 8 square meters, there’s 1 mattress, 1 desk (which they use as a chair) and a pile of sand in the corner for cigarette ends in it. The food is being cooked on a small gas cooker: greasy rice with greasy veal. Everyone eats from the pan, using our hands. First table tennis size balls, then it can go to our mouth. There’s no spice in the food, hardly any salt, but it’s tasty. I get the best bit: sheep brain. It’s not bad, with some pepper it would have tasted quite good. Tea follows dinner. It’s green tea with some mint and lots of sugar. They boil it in a tea pot, pour it to glasses then back to the pot. This goes on for 5 minutes. We are having a chat meanwhile. It turns out that the throat cutter girl is the shopkeeper’s lover and they are going to get married next year. We discuss which actor or musicians we know. The boss’ favorite is 50 cent and the Wu tang clan. Schwarzenegger among the actors. A third local guy comes in. We just get to the increasing international situation topic when Aravind comes in and tells me everyone was looking for me, Gyula is worrying for me the most, he fears that I was kidnapped and next I’ll be waving on CNN. I was 6.5 meters far from the bus all the time. Aravind tells me to go back immediately as they are closing the door. I tell him to give me the key. No, noway, that’s out of question, he yells and pulls my shoulder. In that very moment three Mauritanian get up and start threatening the Indian. The right of the guest id very strong around here. A smaller argument starts, and Aravind heats it with starting to bargain on the price of the current the bus is using from the petrol station. The card on 19 wins, the locals even respect the mad. We leave, sleep, in fact a bit of thinking as the tea is still effecting my mind.