Sahara Hits

Eleven days in Mauritania

      

Sat, Feb 11th - Morocco/Mauritania Border - 'No man's Land'

"Scotch Lawruhns... bon chance." A suitably ambiguous preamble to the wet click of official admission. The administrative clerk, dressed for combat, clutched his stamp in both hands and lifted both feet off the floor to squash his mark in my "passeport."

"Inshallah," is grossly overdone in Morocco. Usually, it is used by someone who you are parting with to indicate safe passage. In most instances, you are due to hand over money to the person on your return. It can also be used prospectively, if the person believes your business may be solicited in the future. In every instance, the person believes it can.

"Bon Chance," was a new one. And, in the very slippery, very French realm, where one thing must be understood in terms of another, or one brick is feminine but two, are masculine, it was a tough one to begin with. I knew what he meant, though. I received the Mauritanian's meaning. He meant, preferring a charitable to a dignified tone, "Good Luck!"

Sun, Feb 12th - Port de Nouadhibou.

McAlpine found a flat cat this morning. He'll surely cover that discovery on his blog, which, you should read. Although I receive little airtime in his ramblings (it's not a competition), I'm willing to be the big guy and recommend his ranting - incisive and pithy. And, most of it is legible, because he types it.

Ali, the proprietor of our campsite ,Chez Ali, is a sod. He doesn't want to haggle for camping prices and he doesn't need the business either. This, and his pidgin French,  makes him difficult to engage. We decided to hide all the fish heads and offal from our dinner in a bucket, for him to find in a few days, rotting. Ali came with the bucket ten minutes later and asked what we thought we were doing. We pointed at Kyle, a cool American, standing nearby. I still don't know what happened to those fish heads.

McAlpine said I was talking in my sleep, again. He said it sounded like I was saying something in a "planning" kind of voice. I don't believe him, still.

Mon, Feb 13th - Gare de Nouadhibou.

Just past noon and we're standing in an empty iron-ore carriage on the longest train in the world. Our belongings fit into four black rubbish bags. The 'thrill of travel,' so often arousing feelings of nausea when read, overwhelms me. It doesn't make me want to shout, or let something out, it just overwhelms. We're heading straight into the Sahara in our own iron-ore carriage. I try and high-five McAlpine but he is taking pictures. I think he would have, he was very excited, too.

The journey is truly special. As the train lurches its hungry way back to the mines in Zouerat, we sit in the gathering darkness, heartily eating sardines and fresh bread. Flecks of sand in the desert winds bind with the fine iron particles and silently engulf us. It is a deceptively gentle process.  

In a matter of minutes, the Sahara has made herself known, stony in her reclamation of man and machine.

I glimpse a figure in the unreliable haze. He sits alongside his dishevelled tent. His tent ropes quiver routinely, as these steel giants ferry refined dust, to and fro. In his sleeping hours do other spectres make themselves known? Do they, too, advance, indiscriminate and rapacious, through the endless flatlands of his tiny square?

Tues, Feb 14th – Atar – The Adrar Region

Scuttling down the western extremity, but we're truly in the desert now. The first coffee table book at the hostel alleges: "the Arabic word Sahara," equates to "submission." Powerful stuff, until, the blurb continues: "it denotes the obligation for the 2,5 million people living in the Sahara to submit to God." That's the tonic for some clarity. People become tiresome and predictable.

Bart, a Dutchman, sits opposite at the coffee table. That’s not controversial, he is actually from Holland. He has a magnificent grey pony tail and jagged yellow teeth. Bart mentions something about crocodiles in in the seasonal desert pools of Chad and Mauritania. “Shey are shu relutiffs of shu Nile onesh.” These scarce pools aren’t perennial – they are often froced to wait out the summer months nestled in mud (the crocodiles – the Dutch fly home.)

Submerged for aeons in the sludge, their little eyes watched the Sahara transform - from luxurious vegetation to the barrenness of our times. And, now, beneath one of the hotter, drier spaces on the planet, a weathered reptilian heart pumps. Is there a word for that?

Wed, Feb 15^th – Chinguetti – ‘The Sorbonne of the Sahara’

Dave is nodding off. He is doing that thing when your limbs jerk, and you wake up momentarily. I once heard that that is your brain interpreting your successful falling asleep as a descent into death. The jolt, then, is essentially your brain’s last-ditch attempt at saving your life. Sound. He is not jolting anymore, now, but he is still breathing. His brain must have given up.

From Casablanca onwards, I have heard the liquid coo of the Laughing Dove. It reminds me of home. But, that reminds me of the ones at home that seem pretty pathetic. This one is laughing in a desert acacia in the Sahara. Ubiquitous and resilient, I never believed them to be. The only alternative - one is following us. It’s very suspicious. Every day, I hear that dove. No matter, we may need him to offer branches of leaves to the agitators further down the road.

Thurs, Feb 16^th – Chinguetti

We arrange a desert foray with the amicable proprietor of our Chinguetti Auberge – Mahmoud. Our guide’s name is Mahmoud-Ali. He is, essentially, a desert dweller. He lives where his camels choose to live. It takes 24 hours for him to gather and assemble them where we wait. McAlpine and I take the day to do some suntanning on the roof of our auberge. How lovely to absorb some Vitamin D without speedos and cellulite in your face. McAlpine talks about his dermatologist once calling him a “sissy.”

When I open my eyes from a dry midday slumber he has vacated the roof for the shade. I think that decision is more akin to good judgment than acting like a sissy. Over dinner, we meet an old Saharan veteran, Phillipe. Amongst the many sage things he conveys, the following is most pertinent to our future; the Senegal River, like most, flows into the sea. That should ensure the 500km we had planned to sail down towards Mali will be tough going. McAlpine had a lot on his plate, and in all departments he has delivered the goods. This Geographical fudge, however, I will never let him forget.

Fri, Feb 17^th – The Fennec

Mahmoud-Ali has been moulded by the Sahara; he is slight yet robust and possess an optimum surface area to size ratio. This makes him fast. Before, he glides ahead I ask him about the fox. The coffee book also mentioned this denizen of the desert. In these parts it goes by: “Fennec.”

We must find one. It will be good to find out how the fennecs are dealing with the swelling regional instability in the Maghreb.

Saturday, Feb 18^th – L’Aguela Oasis

McAlpine says he heard the call of a fennec last night. He also thought the Senegal River flowed away from the ocean. He produces a high-pitched howl, when pressed for more information. Mahmoud-Ali looks on.

There is another bird out here, another potent generalist. Their passing above us is unsettling in this untenable silence. Rigid shadows race along the milky dunes, tracking their signifier to perfection. Harbingers of the dreadful fascination the surrounding monotony presents. Who amongst us knows of their European relatives; well-versed in the properties of water displacement? Ravens will drop pebbles into a milk bottle until the final sip edges its way to the top. Small wonder their clan finds a way down South, deep in the arid region.

Sunday, Feb 19^th – N 20° 27" W12°16"

Something else arrives, at the most comfortable time. Feeling slightly acquainted with the wildlife, I now feel a fresh tingling on my neck. I flick the hairy caterpillar very hard into the lively desert breeze. I am certain it was a new and not unpleasant sensation for him. McAlpine hasn’t yet realised the rogue landed on his trousers. I decide to only tell him if the situation looks critical.

The fennec eludes us still. Its furtive reputation and current unavailability play games. The fox-like form simmers in the dry heat of my imagination. Atop a dune, Mahmoud-Ali gave us a quiet, beckoning whistle, holding up two fingers. They had scampered by the time McAlpine and I lumbered up to look. Only two trails of paw prints greeted us mockingly, as they dissolved into the haze.

I now feel if I were to chance upon one, it would be not unlike Exupery’s “renard.” As I approach, it gracefully evaporates, disclosing some inaudible secrets.

Monday, Feb 20^th – Dune Majestique

“The dune that talks,” Mahmoud-Ali confides. It does indeed produce a low-decibel squeaking sound if one heaves all their weight down in the fashion of sliding. The camel shepherds don’t have any strange beliefs on the topic, they simply shrug and say: “Je ne se pas.” Countless experts must have explained it. They’re probably lonelier for it.

McAlpine is out of it. A bad carrot has produced a malady of the stomach. He sleeps valiantly, after a quite wretched day for him. I recall Beckett’s cantankerous Krapp. Now it is my turn to have “never known such silence.” The quiet becomes a noise in itself.

I pick up two eyes in my torchlight. Their movement is quick and considered – enough for me to suspect who is behind them. And then, conspiratorially, the inky night consumes them. The creature is gone.

Tuesday Feb 21^st – Dune Majestique

By 06:00, the sun is preparing for its old vigil. The everlasting Harmattan is still on its way, bellowing from the south to smudge yesterday’s progress from the sandy archives. One feels, in this quiet hiatus, just a hint of entitlement. The elements bestow a fleeting chance for man’s rudimentary senses to transmit joy. Signs of nature surround our sleeping area. Tracks, so diverse, that it confounds to know they are the remnants of things that are flourishing. The nightly errands of nature’s hardiest, intricately etched, in spite of us. Does the crows’ gaze settle on these patterns? Are they impressed by our majestic wings, spanning from our sleeping mats, engraved by the feet of a thousand desert beetles? In this scene, can they detect signs of the canine?

Mahmoud-Ali stares a while at the prints. He nods. The fennec has walked amongst us.