I was told before arriving here that the cars in Mauritania are generally in a horrible condition. I didn’t believe it could be worse than in, say, Mozambique, where the sliding doors of the minivans that serve as public transport sometimes have to be held in place with one hand by the young boys working, clinging to the moving veichle while shouting the destination and collecting coins from the passengers. But somehow the cars are even worse here. The state of most has me thinking of zombies, as if dragged from a graveyard with parts broken or missing or barely attached, everything properly buckled and scratched. As if this is the place where cars come to die.

Mama Aisethu’s car is a white, beat-up little thing with the front side windows, all rear view mirrors and the back of the passenger’s seat completely missing. The back of the driver’s seat is broken and stuck at a weird angle and mama Aisethu props it up with carpets. There are no belts, that goes without saying, and the doors don’t always close. Or open. The shift stick looks barely attached and I don’t know how she, or any of the older sons driving can ever manage to find the right gear. Or any gear. When the car starts it does so with a loud and painful screech that lasts all the way down the street and onto the big road and then there are the internal problems, the perpetual question of whether the engine will start at all or what, out of all the things wrong underneath the hood, may be the problem this time.

Still it rolls, and up to seven or eight small, smiling faces can squeeze into the battered seats. Mama Aisethu skillfully maneuvers the pedals with her wedge-heeled sandals through the slow but chaotic traffic: other zombie-cars and little donkeys pulling carts mingling with big four-by-fours, cargo trucks from every era and pedestrians with their clothes billowing in the wind, everyone jumbled up tightly on the flat streets.

The white little piece of metal is vital for the everyday life of the orphanage. Laughing, the family calls the car their Lamborghini.

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(This story told in pictures here and here.)