I Spent A Month Riding The Infamous Mauritanian Iron Ore Train And Here Are 25 Photos I Took

Iron ore dominates Mauritania’s export output, constituting about 50% of total exports, alongside significant contributions from the fish, gold, and copper sectors. Abundant iron ore deposits fuel the country’s economy, with mining and export operations centered around the Zouérat mines. The Mauritanian railway, stretching along the Western Sahara border, links these mines to the port of Nouadhibou. From there, iron ore embarks on journeys to Italy, China, and other destinations. The iron ore railway infrastructure is Mauritania’s economic lifeline and a relic of its colonial past. The 700-km length railway was constructed by the French in the 60’s but was taken over by SNIM (National Mining and Industrial Company) in 1974. Operating tirelessly for almost half a century, this railway transports over 17 million tons of iron ore annually. In the absence of road connections between the mines of Zouérat and the rest of the country, it also serves as a vital transport link for the inhabitants of this vast desert nation. The Mauritanian Iron Ore Train has earned the distinction of being one of the longest trains in the world, boasting a length that can extend up to 2.5 kilometers.

My first impression of the country was shaped by the sight of armed soldiers with dogs thoroughly searching my backpack at the border. I wait impatiently as a rude customs officer sitting in a stifling room full of flies takes forever to stamp my Mauritanian visa. There are a thousand miles of empty desert behind me and one million square kilometers of desert in front of me. Mauritania is breathtaking and haunting at the same time. You feel like you are on a set of a Mad Max movie – old cars drive around without hoods or doors, endless piles of scrap metal and skeletons of abandoned vehicles litter the landscape, men roam around in disguise, their faces wrapped in headscarves even at night, goats feed on cardboard, and the rough desert climate only adds to the frightening image of this West African country I have now stepped into.

I reached the tiny Nouadhibou train station 10 km outside the city in an old Mercedes packed with six other passengers. All the shades around the station building are occupied by people. I am immediately invited to the police checkpoint to explain my travel plans and give them a copy of my passport - a regular procedure in Mauritania. Three trains ply between Nouadhibou and Zouerat. Only one of them picks up passengers. Of this, only the last car is a proper passenger carriage, and it stops right in front of the station. The other 220 wagons are iron ore carts, empty on the way to Zouerat; hence, people and their goods travel in them free of charge. There are two groups of passengers awaiting the train. Women, families, the elderly, and anybody who can afford the 5-euro ticket ride in an old but presumably more comfortable passenger carriage wait around the station building. The traders, shepherds, and the poor are lined up along the train track a few hundred meters ahead with sacks of rice, dates, cases of fruit and vegetables, gas balloons, and crates of soft drinks ready to be loaded on the train when it arrives. I head straight towards the latter, hoping to make friends with someone and travel in the same carriage so I can shoot their journey as well.

It doesn't take long until a group of young Mauritanians invite me to ride along with them. Some of them speak English and I couldn't have asked for better co-passengers. The train was due to arrive an hour ago, and the air is thick with anticipation.

The ground beneath my feet vibrates as three 190-ton locomotives pulling a serpentine chain of 220 wagons chug past the station. The passengers are ready, and it feels like ages before the train finally grinds to a halt. My travel companions, playful and relaxed just a moment ago, are now frantically loading the cargo into one of the empty cars. I come to their aid as they race against time to load a van full of vegetable cases and crates of fizzy drinks on the train.

I'm sharing a car with a group of kids barely in their twenties. Said, who looks like he's walked out of a Hollywood poster, is the boss. "We travel whenever Said gets us an order. We're going back to Nouadhibou on Thursday and then back again to Zouerat on Saturday," says another guy wrapped in a blue scarf. "We are freelancers, just like you," - says another, pointing toward my camera. They understand that I'm here for pictures, and they don't mind. I am invited for yet another cup of strong Mauritanian tea.

Riding the train back and forth, I started meeting the same people. For many of these men, carrying cargo is their full-time job. They endure extreme temperatures and sandstorms daily, yet none of them ever complain about how tough it is. During a month's stay in Mauritania, I rode the train 8 times, covering a total distance of around 4300 km, and there wasn't a single time when I wasn't greeted with extreme hospitality and positivity by the Mauritanian traders. Eventually, I was being recognized by the shepherds loading their goats at Zouerat, the kids selling water to the train passengers at Choum station, and the policemen at the Nouadhibou station checkpoint. I was traveling in a territory of hundreds of thousands of square kilometers, but it felt like everybody knew me everywhere.

Mauritania's culture is deeply rooted in its traditional Moorish music. I remember walking through smaller towns like Atar, Choum, or Chinguetti in the evenings and hearing meditative, mysterious music and chanting echoing from nearly every other house. People would sit around in a circle on the carpet in their homes; somebody would be playing Tbal – a traditional Mauritanian drum, and the others would just clap to the rhythm and chant.

Another defining aspect of Mauritanian culture is its tea tradition—an experience one cannot fail to mention when speaking about the country. Strong green tea, infused with fresh mint and a generous amount of sugar, is served in small glasses with a thick foam that forms as the tea is poured from a teapot held high above the cup. Every time I was invited into someone's home, tea was the first thing offered to me.

When traveling back from the mines of Zouérat to Nouadhibou, a group of shepherds is just beginning to load their goats—this time onto cargo cars already packed with iron ore. Hundreds of goats are grabbed by their back legs, dragged to the train, and tossed onto the piles of ore like sacks of potatoes.

I quickly befriend one of the shepherds, Muhammad, who invites me to travel with him and his crew. They’ve been transporting goats from the farms near Zouérat to Nouadhibou for years. Dressed in a mix of old suits, leather jackets, and long raincoats, with scarves wrapped around their heads, the shepherds look like rock stars from a sci-fi film.

The train starts moving more gently this time, burdened with over 80 tons of iron ore in each wagon. The shepherds swiftly set up their base for the next 16 hours atop a mound of stones, flattening the ground, covering it with blankets, and assembling a small stove to boil water for tea. In every other carriage, a man keeps watch over the animals to ensure they don’t fall off.

"One live goat in Nouadhibou sells for 100 euros," Muhammad tells me. Every time a goat edges too close to the side, someone throws a stone to nudge it back. Despite their best efforts, some still fall—especially early in the journey when they’re more agitated.

"We lose at least five or six goats every time we ride," says Osman, a tall, powerfully built shepherd originally from Senegal. "Sometimes nomads pick them up, sometimes they die, and sometimes we’re lucky enough to catch them on our way back."

Half an hour later, the train stops near the town of Fderik. Another chain of ore-laden wagons is being attached. Muhammad and Osman jump down to retrieve a goat that has just fallen. Tying a long black scarf to another goat, they use it as bait to lure the runaway back. Soon, the lost goat is caught and tossed back into the carriage.

Standing atop a cargo car in the middle of the desert, I watch as a few dozen people load goods into the empty carriages. Suddenly, a sound of a distant thunder rolls toward me. My travel companions signal for me to hold on tight. The locomotive, so far ahead that it’s out of sight, tugs the first car, setting off a chain reaction. Standing in one of the last carriages, I have only a few seconds to brace myself as the deafening roar of colliding carriage joints surges toward me, like an airliner hurtling straight in my direction. A moment later, the train shudders, and we jolt forward, beginning our journey into the depths of the Sahara.