Six weeks, three countries, thousands of kilometers, and an impressive number of hours spent waiting for vehicles that appeared to operate on their own understanding of time.
In the spring of 2023, I traveled overland from Morocco through Mauritania and into Senegal, making my way south by bus, shared van, freight train, ferry, and whatever else happened to be heading in roughly the right direction. I wanted to experience this part of Africa at ground level, rather than fly between major cities and pretend I’d seen everything in between.
What I hadn’t fully appreciated was how much time I’d spend in the in-between.
There was a twenty-one-hour bus ride, a journey across the Sahara sitting on top of iron ore, border crossings that required patience and occasionally help from complete strangers, and conversations that stayed with me long after I’d forgotten the names of certain towns.
It wasn’t always comfortable, particularly efficient, or even especially sensible. But I wouldn’t have wanted to experience it any other way.
Starting in Morocco
I landed in Casablanca and began making my way through Morocco, initially following a fairly loose route through some of the country’s better-known destinations.
Fes was a maze of old streets, workshops, markets, and the sort of activity that makes standing still an attraction in itself. In Chefchaouen, I wandered through the blue-painted streets of the Rif Mountains before continuing toward Merzouga and the Sahara. There were stops in Marrakesh and Essaouira, long afternoons exploring, and the familiar routine of finding somewhere to eat before figuring out where I might sleep next.
Morocco was a wonderful country for easing back into the rhythm of independent travel. Getting between major destinations was relatively straightforward, but there was still enough unpredictability to keep things interesting. I’d find myself adjusting plans around transportation, staying longer somewhere because I liked the people, or heading off in a different direction because a conversation had given me an idea.
One of those unexpected developments was meeting a woman from Spain who had brought her car across on the ferry. We ended up traveling together for part of the journey toward the Sahara, including a long drive from Chefchaouen to Merzouga.
There’s something particularly enjoyable about road-tripping with someone you’ve only recently met. You begin with the usual polite conversation, and a few hours later you’re discussing life, family, relationships, and everything in between because you’ve exhausted most of the conventional introductory questions.
I was reminded how much I preferred this style of travel to rushing between attractions. The places were remarkable, of course, but the conversations and spontaneous changes of plan were often what made the journey memorable.
Eventually, I turned south toward Agadir and Dakhla, where the distances began to feel considerably larger.
Twenty-one hours through Western Sahara
The bus from Agadir to Dakhla took approximately twenty-one hours, which is enough time to develop a fairly intimate relationship with your seat.
I positioned myself near the front, partly for the view and partly because I enjoyed chatting with the driver when the opportunity arose. The landscape grew increasingly barren as we traveled south, with long stretches where the desert seemed to extend indefinitely in every direction.
At one point, the driver gestured toward the horizon. In the distance, I could see what appeared to be a lake, its surface shimmering beneath the sun. I’d heard about desert mirages before, but I’d never watched one unfold so convincingly.
As we approached, the water gradually disappeared.
I remember being struck by how confidently I’d believed I was looking at something that didn’t exist. It became the starting point for a much longer reflection about perception and the assumptions we make about the world, which I’ve written about separately.
For the purposes of this journey, though, I was mostly grateful when Dakhla finally appeared and turned out to be an actual city rather than another optical illusion.
By then, I’d crossed an enormous stretch of territory by road and was beginning to appreciate how much geography gets compressed when you travel by airplane.
The next step was Mauritania.
Crossing into Mauritania
Crossing from Western Sahara into Mauritania was one of those travel experiences that reminded me how useful patience can be.
I’d researched the route beforehand, but there’s a difference between reading about an international border and arriving at one with a backpack, your documents, and an optimistic belief that everything will go according to plan.
From Dakhla, the bus south to the border took about five hours, and then there were transport arrangements to figure out, formalities to complete, and the usual uncertainty about how long any of it might take. Eventually, I made my way onward toward Nouakchott, Mauritania’s capital.
Before planning this journey, Mauritania hadn’t been particularly prominent on my travel radar. I knew about the enormous iron ore train that crossed the Sahara, and that alone had been enough to capture my interest. Beyond that, I was curious about a country relatively few travelers I knew had visited.
Rather than passing straight through, I arranged to stay with a local host through Couchsurfing.
His name was Haroune, and meeting him became one of the most memorable parts of the entire trip.
A week in Nouakchott
I spent about a week staying with Haroune, getting to know Nouakchott through someone who actually lived there rather than through a list of attractions.
We shared meals, talked about our lives, explored the city, and gradually settled into a routine that felt surprisingly familiar despite how different our backgrounds were.
One of my favorite things about Couchsurfing has always been the opportunity to experience the ordinary parts of someone’s life. You see what they eat, how they spend their afternoons, the people they know, and the little habits that make up their days. It’s a very different experience from checking into a hotel, visiting the main sights, and leaving two days later.
Haroune was also incredibly helpful when it came to preparing for the iron ore train. He took me to a local market to find supplies, including a pair of ski goggles that would become one of the more valuable possessions in my backpack.
Buying ski goggles in the Sahara felt slightly ridiculous, but the logic became abundantly clear once I was sitting in an open freight wagon being blasted with iron ore dust.
What stayed with me most, however, wasn’t the equipment or logistical assistance. It was how naturally Haroune welcomed me into his life.
I’d arrived as a stranger and left with a friend.
The entire experience reinforced something I’d been discovering throughout my travels: a place becomes much more interesting when you have someone to share it with.
North to Zouerat and a rather unusual train ride
From Nouakchott, I arranged a shared van north toward Zouerat, the mining town where I’d begin the next stage of the adventure.
The journey took approximately ten hours. We traveled across long stretches of desert, eventually arriving as the day was coming to an end. I spent the night in Zouerat, bought supplies, and made sure I had enough food and water for the train.
I’d heard about Mauritania’s iron ore railway long before arriving in the country. The trains transport enormous quantities of ore across the Sahara toward the Atlantic coast, and travelers have sometimes made the journey in open freight wagons.
There are no comfortable seats in those wagons. No windows, no dining service, and absolutely no plausible way to finish the journey looking presentable.
For some reason, that sounded appealing.
Just before the journey, I met another traveler named Sterling, who happened to be from Kansas. We decided to make the crossing together, which was a welcome development considering I had been preparing to spend the better part of a day alone on a pile of iron ore.
We climbed into the wagon with our supplies and settled in for what would become roughly twenty hours crossing the Sahara.
The first few hours were exciting. The landscape stretched endlessly around us, the train rattled along the tracks, and there was something surreal about traveling through such an enormous and remote environment without the usual separation of a vehicle window.
Then came the dust.
Iron ore has a remarkable ability to work its way into absolutely everything. Clothes, bags, skin, and any exposed surface quickly acquired a dark coating. The goggles were helpful, but there was no realistic possibility of staying clean.
As evening arrived, the temperature dropped and the desert sky transformed. Away from the lights of cities and towns, the stars were extraordinary. I remember lying there, staring upward, feeling simultaneously very small and remarkably fortunate to be experiencing something so unusual.
Sterling and I talked for hours, shared what we’d brought, and occasionally contemplated the wisdom of our transportation choices.
By the time we reached Nouadhibou, I was exhausted, filthy, and very ready to return to a world that contained showers.
I’d also just experienced one of the most memorable journeys of my life.
I’ve written a separate, detailed account of the iron ore train, including the experience and what I learned from preparing for it. It deserves considerably more attention than a few paragraphs here.
Turning south toward Senegal
After the train adventure, my journey eventually brought me back toward Nouakchott and the road south to Senegal.
The crossing at Rosso involved traveling across the Senegal River by ferry before continuing through the border formalities on the other side.
Border crossings have a funny way of making you feel simultaneously independent and completely dependent on everyone around you. You can plan a journey across multiple countries, research the route, and organize your documents, but occasionally the difference between an easy crossing and a confusing afternoon comes down to meeting someone who knows where you’re supposed to stand.
I was fortunate to encounter people willing to help me navigate the process.
Once across, I found shared transportation toward Dakar. As is common with shared vehicles in many parts of the world, departure depended on having enough passengers.
Which meant waiting.
And then waiting a little longer.
Eventually, the car filled, we headed toward the capital, and I found myself in Senegal after weeks of traveling south.
By that point, I was ready to spend a few days in one place.
Preferably somewhere with water, decent food, and absolutely no iron ore.
A week on Ngor Island
I made my way to Ngor Island, just off Dakar, and settled into a surf camp for about a week.
After so many days moving between cities, buses, and border crossings, the change of pace was wonderful. Mornings around the water, shared meals, fresh fish, mangoes, conversations with fellow travelers, and the opportunity to learn a sport at which I was not particularly gifted.
I’ve spent years climbing mountains and training for physical challenges, but surfing reminded me that enthusiasm and athletic ability don’t automatically translate into competence on a board.
The ocean is quite efficient at delivering that lesson.
I enjoyed it anyway.
What I particularly appreciated was the atmosphere around the surf camp. People from different backgrounds had arrived for different reasons, but we shared meals, talked about where we’d been, and enjoyed the easy familiarity that often develops when nobody is in much of a hurry.
It was a fitting way to end the journey.
After weeks spent covering enormous distances, I was finally content to stay in one place and let the days unfold without much of a plan.
What six weeks on the road taught me
One of the reasons I chose to make this journey overland was that I wanted to experience the countries between the destinations.
Flying from Casablanca to Dakar would have been considerably easier. I would have saved time, avoided uncomfortable transportation, and arrived with clothes that didn’t need to be excavated from a layer of iron ore.
But I would also have missed most of the experiences that made the journey memorable.
I wouldn’t have watched a mirage disappear on the road to Dakhla, spent a week getting to know Haroune in Nouakchott, met Sterling on the iron ore train, or navigated the small uncertainties that came with making my way across borders by land.
Traveling slowly creates space for the unexpected, although I wouldn’t pretend that every unexpected moment is enjoyable. Sometimes you’re simply tired, hungry, confused, or wondering why you didn’t book a flight like a sensible person.
But those moments become part of the experience, too.
I think that’s what continues to draw me toward this way of exploring. It forces me to pay attention, adapt to unfamiliar circumstances, and spend time with people whose lives intersect with mine for reasons neither of us could have anticipated.
The scenery is extraordinary, but the people give the journey its character.
And after six weeks traveling through Morocco, Mauritania, and Senegal, I came away with a much greater appreciation for both.
Planning a similar journey
I made this trip in 2023, and transportation arrangements, border requirements, and fares can change. Rather than presenting my old notes as instructions that will necessarily work today, I’d encourage anyone considering a similar route to verify the practical details before departure.
The route I followed was broadly Casablanca through Morocco to Dakhla, onward to Nouakchott in Mauritania, north to the iron ore railway, back south through Rosso, and finally toward Dakar and Ngor Island in Senegal.
Traveling independently along this route requires a willingness to navigate changing schedules and spend time arranging local transportation. For me, having some flexibility made the experience considerably more enjoyable.
It’s also worth distinguishing the overall journey, which lasted roughly six weeks, from the shorter stretches of continuous overland travel between particular destinations.
I would also recommend giving yourself more time than you think you’ll need. There are plenty of reasons to linger along the way, and rushing through the route would mean missing much of what makes it interesting.
The long way was worth it
Looking back, I can remember the famous places and impressive landscapes, but it’s often the smaller moments that come to mind first.
A conversation in Morocco that changed my plans. Haroune helping me find goggles for an adventure that sounded increasingly questionable. Sterling and I sitting beneath a sky full of stars, surrounded by iron ore and wondering how we ended up there. A long wait for a shared car to Dakar, followed by the relief of finally arriving somewhere I could unpack for a few days.
None of those moments required an elaborate itinerary.
They happened because I was willing to take the slower route, spend time in unfamiliar places, and allow the journey to develop around the people I met along the way.
I still enjoy arriving somewhere new, but I think the years have made me more interested in everything that happens before I get there.
There’s a lot of life between the places we put on a map.
And occasionally, an extraordinary amount of dust.
