Two days ago—Sunday—we were all set to head from Dakar to Nouakchott, Mauritania, in a classic 4×4 Toyota Land Cruiser with Mohammad, also known as Hamoudi, and the infamous “baby driver.” Why do I call him that? Because this kid drove like he was in a Fast & Furious audition in the Sahara—pure chaos on wheels, but somehow charming.
We were loaded up, spirits high, kids excited, bags strapped tight. Then came the slap-in-the-face moment—Mauritania immigration.
Now here’s where it gets really funny, if you like irony. We had gotten our Mauritania visa back in Dakhla—a 30-day unique visa. And I, thinking in English, thought “unique” meant cool, special, even upgraded. I mean, who wouldn’t want a unique visa? Sounds fancy.
But no—turns out “unique” means single entry in French. And this little misunderstanding sent us spiraling into one of the most bizarre border experiences of my life.
A Time Machine to 1852: The Diama Border Experience
We arrived at the Diama border post, a place where time stopped sometime in the 19th century. Dusty, disorganized, and full of men in faded uniforms who look like they’ve been playing immigration officer for far too long without a script.
Soldiers weren’t saluting—they were slapping each other on the bum as if we were in a football locker room. The “baby driver” kept telling me to stand here, then over there, then back again.
After 1.5 hours of shifting around like chess pieces on a cracked board, we were finally escorted to the “visa and money” counter. A bit of tense Arabic, lots of blank stares, and then—boom—denied.
An officer barked at me, “Go back.”
I asked, “Go back where?”
He replied, “Senegal.” “Apply Visa” (hand movements showing it must be down on a computer)
I literally dropped to my knees and began pleading in Urdu, trying to explain that I had three kids, that we were just traveling through. No mercy. Not an inch. Not even a shrug.
Back to Senegal. Paid the entire fare to Nouakchott anyway, and then more to Saint-Louis. The total? Around 620 Canadian dollars.
At Senegalese immigration, the officer looked at me like a teacher staring at the kid who didn’t do their homework. “Why didn’t you check?” he asked. Honestly, fair question. But come on, who calls a visa “unique” and expects it to mean “you can’t come back”?
Immigration Flashbacks and the Mental Toll
This wasn’t just a logistical mess. It tugged at older threads in my mind. I’ve had a long history of immigration issues, particularly in the U.S.—hours of questioning, unjust treatment, being pulled aside just because someone felt like it.
Mauritania, I like you, I really do. But this experience? Not your best welcome.
We weren’t trying to settle, claim land, or disrupt anything. Just passing through.
And now, with our worldschooling hub in Mirleft starting Saturday, the race against time begins. Long roads. Crowded buses. Sleepless nights. The kids? Already on their devices, bracing for what lies ahead.
Waiting on a Visa and Watching Trash Float in Paradise
This morning, four of our five Mauritania visas finally came through using their online system. But not my wife’s. So we packed up from Hotel Post and moved to Omar’s Guesthouse in Saint-Louis.
Now we wait, again. A car is booked for tomorrow to try again at Diama. Inshallah.
Walking across the bridge today, I went to the other side of Saint-Louis, a strip of Atlantic coastline so full of potential… and so full of trash.
Everywhere—plastic bags, bottles, dead goats, malnourished dogs, debris from every forgotten corner of the earth. I couldn’t help but feel that this—this mess—is my next calling.
To bring zero waste to Africa. Not through preaching, but through real, community-based action. Imagine: incentivizing locals to collect trash, take it to sorting centers, and turn it into something—building materials, PET flakes, eco-blocks.
No profit. No PR. Just service. I owe that to this continent. A place that’s been raped and pillaged, colonized and controlled, traded and trafficked.
Mauritania, you denied me entry, but you gave me something bigger.
A mission.
And in the end, a verse for the journey:
نکلنا خلد سے آدم کا سنتے آئے تھے
مگر بہت بے آبرو ہو کر تیرے کوچے سے ہم نکلے
Nikalna khuld se Adam ka sunte aaye they
Magar bohot be-aabroo ho kar tere kooche se hum niklay
We heard of Adam’s departure from Paradise.
But we came out of your alley far more humiliated.
That’s how it felt.
But maybe that’s part of the schooling too.
Let’s see what tomorrow brings.
Halai 
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