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The latest posts, regardless of story or project


A mad dash Southwards by train, to the Strait of Gibraltar

Georgia, 2016

Inbetween jobs, I had three weeks to head east. Georgia, culturally European and geographically Asian, seemed like a suitably ambitious destination.

Mata Atlantica, Brazil’s other jungle

2015 & 2018

West-Africa, 2014

In over my head? Yes, very much so. But it’s the trip I wanted to do and the moment I could do it.


Images only, texts need not apply

La Route du Despair

Oualata welcome The pickup truck’s rear is filled up with fridges, food, furniture, construction materials, a few goats, and who knows what else, until the cargo is more than twice the size of the pickup truck itself… and then some ten people clamber on top of the cargo. I’m about to experience one of those quintessentially Saharan journeys, but I barely notice, let alone feel like taking a photo (I don’t want to do anything that makes it more obvious that I’m a tourist).

La Route de l’Espoir

Desert rocks There are many gueltas in the Sahara desert, and they’re often a lifesaver for nomadic herders. What makes this particular guelta special, though, is that it is one of the last places in the Sahara desert where the West African Crocodile still lives.

Why not?

More hard work The sea is dotted with hundreds of pirogues, waiting to be brought ashore. The beach is littered with thousands of men, women and children, whose job is apparently to bring the fish from the boats to the traders. It’s a dramatic scene, and one that repeats itself every afternoon.

GTA: Nouakchott

Port de Peche - waiting for the night On the morning of my sisters’ birthday, I meet a couple from Bretagne, named Simon and Valerie. She works as an independent fashion designer, and he works on the local water quality authority. Their great passion, however, is west-African music. Their main reason for coming to this part of the world is to interview and record West-African artists and others in the music industry. They are looking for an American, who supposedly lives in Nouakchott and records local artists. It sounds interesting, but it ends up leading to by far the craziest day of my life…

To the place of the winds

For the most part, this is a thoroughly uninspiring city; it was a fisherman’s village of only a few hundred people until the 1950’s, when Mauritania became independent. Since it had always tagged along as the most neglected colony within the colossal French West Africa, it had never needed a capital, or much of anything approaching a center of organisation. So when the country became independent, it needed a new capital, and fast. Someone, somewhere decided that the little fishing village of Nouakchott, or “windy place”, should become the capital.