FESTIVAL CATACUMBAS — EP3 NOUADHIBOU

Morning dawns in a murky shade of sand, seeping through the windows of the old, half-ruined building where we’ve gathered.

The room is filled with bustling activity. The three brothers, Bajar, Enkh, and Nyam, are in constant motion, like restless ghosts making the final preparations for our journey. Cables are passed around, tables are adjusted, and heavy crates of Mongolian schnapps are loaded.

Bajar throws me a meaningful glance and says dryly, “We need the schnapps for the jackals.” His words echo in my head as I watch Nyam and Enkh load the heavy containers into the vehicle with an almost ceremonial seriousness.

Our tracked vehicles, massive machines resembling monstrous beetles, stand ready. Their tracks dig deep into the sandy ground, as if they were alive and hungry for the upcoming journey through the merciless landscape.

Enkh bends over an old, worn map, his fingers gliding over the lines marking our route. A brief glance over his shoulder at me, a tap on the paper, and it becomes clear there will be no turning back. We bid farewell to the clan, a brief, wordless ceremony, then climb into the tracked vehicles.

Bajar sits silently beside me, his eyes focused on the road ahead. “Biorhythm blending,” he murmurs at some point in a rough voice as the first dunes disappear behind us. “It will help us find the rhythm of nature. It will guide us.”

His words are hard to grasp, but I just nod. The port city, our first difficult checkpoint, lies ahead. The jackals would be waiting for us there. Bajar continues talking about the road we have ahead, his voice a low murmur mixing with the rattling of the tracks beneath us.

The sun begins to set. The vehicles plow through the sand, leaving our trail behind. Night falls, and we continue our journey, accompanied by the eerie silence of the Earth’s surface. I can feel the weight of the challenges ahead in every movement of the tracks beneath us.

A day passes, an endless stream of sand, dust, and silence, interrupted only by Bajar’s occasional murmuring and the drone of the engines. We have our destination in sight — Nouadhibou, the city of jackals, awaits us.

Noon. The scorching sun stands high in the sky, casting the decaying remains of Nouadhibou in a dull light. The place lies before us like a rotting carcass, a symbol of the decay and destruction that humanity has brought upon itself.

After the hundred-year climate wars, the once-thriving port city has turned into a ghost town. No signs of life are to be seen. The crumbling ruins and weathered façades of buildings speak of a violent end.

All life above the earth’s surface has been eradicated. An endless sea of sand and rubble spreads out, while the sky glows an unnatural gray, streaked with fine dust particles that have settled in the atmosphere.

Our vehicles move through the crumbling suburbs, lined with debris and metal. The air is bone-dry, the light toxic. Everywhere, the traces of the catastrophe are visible. The streets are littered with debris and disintegrate into dusty paths, that are barely recognizable.

Broken shipping containers lie like stranded whales along the encrusted coast, their once-imposing hulls corroded by rust and time. These relics of past trade routes and prosperous times now stand as mute witnesses to the apocalypse. We drive on, past dilapidated houses, their windows staring empty-eyed into the void.

But what truly catches the eye are the gigantic remnants of the former luxury cruise ships lining the trail. These once-majestic behemoths, symbols of wealth and exclusivity, now lie like grotesque monuments of downfall in the desert; their sight is simply overwhelming.

We drive slowly through this bizarre, metallic, nightmarish canyon landscape of steel giants, their shadows falling long and threatening on our path.

Everywhere, roadblocks have been erected, makeshift barricades of scrap and concrete. Each of these barriers is guarded by the jackals, the cruel rulers of this cursed region.

These sinister figures lurk in every corner, every shadow. Their slobbering faces are a constant companion on our journey, and the feeling of danger is ever-present.

The sand crunches under our vehicles like shattered glass, and the heat is unbearable, it lays upon us like a leaden cloak. The air is so dry that every breath hurts.

For what feels like hours, we move from one roadblock to the next. Each barrier means negotiations, threats, and the constant fear that a wrong word or movement could spell our end.

The closer we get to the border post at the great rift, the gloomier and more oppressive the atmosphere becomes. The air seems to grow heavier, and the sun loses its battle against the dense veil of dust that blankets the landscape.

The border post stretches over a decayed landscape, where the remnants of a once-impressive military structure stand. Tall, rusty metal fences topped with barbed wire surround the area, while heavy concrete barricades block access. Abandoned watchtowers, some partially collapsed, stand like silent sentinels along the route.

Their silhouettes are etched darkly against the gray sky, as if still trying to guard the remnants of a long-lost order.

The tension in the air is palpable, heightened by the soft creaking of metal in the wind and the occasional clicking of geiger counters, indicating elevated radiation levels.

Warning signs, some faded, some new, urge caution and announce draconian penalties for any attempt to cross the border illegally.

Our convoy comes to a halt as a group of jackals emerges from the shadows of the ruins. “Vile bastards,” Bajar spits out contemptuously, and we open the cargo box of the truck and haul out several crates of schnapps. The henchmen of this place scrutinize us with cold, calculating eyes. Mauler, the leader of the group, just nods curtly.

“This is for you,” Enkh says in a voice that brooks no argument. “Let us through.”

The jackals slink around our two trucks like hungry dogs, as the leader casts another look at the crates and finally breaks into a grim smile. “You can pass,” Mauler growls, and his voice sounds like metal scraping against metal. “We’ll be seeing each other real soon, I promise you zat.”

With a final look at the decaying remains of Nouadhibou and the sinister figures of the jackals, we continue our journey. The tracked vehicles dig back into the sand, leaving the border post behind as we venture into an uncertain future.

Ahead of us lies the great rift, an abyss that holds both hope and despair. And we know that the real challenge is yet to come.

👊😎🫱 Thx for reading.