There is not much to say about Nouadhiba, except that its name is translated as "den of jackals". The city is located on a narrow peninsula, which is divided in length by the Western Sahara and Mauritania and has an airport. Walking in the evening is not interesting here, because. there are no sidewalks, and I've seen enough of the goats on the garbage heaps. The most beautiful place I saw here was my hotel Aljazeera. Dinner at a Spanish restaurant, ordered "Moorish paella". Yummy. Intuition tells us that there is still a lot of Moorish cuisine ahead.
I really wanted to stop by the Banc d'Arguin National Park, a UNESCO site, on the way to Nouakchott. But local guides asked for unrealistic money. So I went to the capital like everyone else, on an 11-seater minibus with luggage on the roof. There are a lot of these minibuses to Nouakchott, but they all start at about the same time (7-8 in the morning), apparently, the habit of traveling in a caravan affects. The ticket seller (700 ouguiyas, about 18 euros) made a stack of copies of my passport and gave it to the driver so as not to disturb me on the way.
All the way - 480 km - the desert stretched outside the window. Sometimes beautiful, with dunes, more often just empty land, sand interspersed with stones. There are patches of grass, bushes, trees, sheds and trailers. The landscape is not boring yet. A Moorish woman is sitting in front of me, sorting out her rosary, and must be thinking: "It's good to live in the modern world. But my grandmother would have gone to Nouakchott for two weeks. When I return home, I will tell the slaves." Halfway up the wind picked up, visibility dropped, sand began to stroke the minibus. At the gas station I went out to breathe - indeed, it’s better not to go out without glasses.
Closer to Nouakchott, the landscape has changed, there is much more greenery, especially around the salt marshes.
Checkpoints on the way came across 10 times. Copies of the passport scattered like sordid cakes. I arrived in Nouakchott around 15:00.