184 - Love & Al Qaeda (Ben Amera, Mauritania)
A DESERT WIND SOUNDS eerily like the inside of a seashell…
…The next morning, we stopped in Tmeimchitt for our first gendarmerie (civilian police) check-in of the day. Whenever entering and leaving a city or village, it’s necessary to provide passport information to the security forces so they know how many tourists/foreigners are in the area. Supposedly, it was for our safety. And what were they protecting us from? Hmmm…
The post commander was ornery, which explains the two-hour delay for no good reason. He was upset about us not camping next to their office, as opposed to outside the village, where they couldn’t keep an eye on us.
Photo by Leslie Peralta
I am definitely from here.
Courtesy of Macedonia Adventures.
Courtesy of Timelab Pro
Grumpy Pants finally relented, so we set sail for the Ben Amera monolith and village of the same name. The monolith is reputed to be the largest of its kind in Africa, and second in size only to Uluru (Ayer's Rock) in Australia. Similar outcrops dot the horizon as you approach, but Mr. Amira is by far the most prominent. The landscape (monoliths, desert, dunes, etc.) combined with the ramshackle village is the stuff of surrealistic dreams, the kind that haunt you long after you wake, a visual feast if you will.
Per usual, we stopped at the gendarmerie office to check in. By this time, our Toyota had an electrical issue, something to do with a fuse. Ahmed and some locals played mechanic while Leslie and I soaked up the ambiance, snapped some photos, and engaged local children as they attempted to cajole a cadeau (gift) or two from us.
Ahmed assured us the problem was fixed, so we set off for Ben Amera's “wife” Aisha, a similarly intriguing, but not quite as massive, monolith not far from Benny. The area contains a series of sculptures, created in 1999 as part of a millennium commemoration, a makeshift art gallery inside a masterpiece of nature.
After a circuit of Aisha, we paused in the shade beneath an outcrop protrusion for the all-important tea interval. It was then Ahmed laid out his future business plan and intent to open an auberge (inn) in Nouadhibou. He needed someone to run it. Thus began a not-so-subtle pitch directed at a certain redhead in our party. This was the second time he lobbed hints at Leslie. And, just like the first, his spiel began while I was out of earshot (taking pictures on this occasion). When I entered the conversation, it didn’t occur to me only one of us was qualified for the position (i.e. possessed birthing hips and a comely appearance.) I briefly entertained the idea of working for Ahmed and engaging in a tourism enterprise in Mauritania. Growth potential was (is?) massive. The landscape sells itself. If you could somehow overcome the PR issue (slavery, Al Qaeda, banditry, etc.), the sky is the limit.
On the way back, we paused on the opposite side of Ben Amira (monolith), frolicking for a time in the dunes. Ahmed asked me to snap a few pictures of his truck for his not-yet-existing website. I obliged.
Back in the village, Ahmed inquired about diesel fuel for the next day’s journey to Choum. First, we were told none was available. Moments later, we learned some had been “acquired” from the mining company that owned the railroad. Nothing like the purchase of stolen fuel to set the mood. Scandalous.
While I stood on the tracks and filmed myself for posterity, Leslie, Ahmed, and Shady Fuel Salesman went for a short drive to load up on twenty liters of diesel. I wasn't included in this decision. They kinda just left without me. (See video.) I thought nothing of this. I'm stupid.
In the meantime, I engaged a child and an adult in a game of “Knock Shit Over With A Rock.” I’d set up tin cans and a plastic bottle or two, and we three amigos took turns firing rocks at them from the comfort of our train track perch. All found this amusing.
Upon returning, Leslie wore a queer expression, responding “It was interesting” after I inquired. She had much to share but would have to wait until Ahmed was otherwise preoccupied. With fuel secured, we drove about a kilometer from the village and set up camp. He forgot he needed coal for the fire, so he was off again.
Leslie started sharing. Ahmed saw an opportunity and decided to carpe the fucking diem. Thus began the wooing… a shitload of wooing. He needed a wife and two more children. Something about having kids to pass on his fortune, and how in the absence of children (what about his 10-year-old son?) his possessions would pass to his mother and sister. (Can't have that, right?) He may look older, but he’s actually young/youthful with a lot of life left in him. Then came the assault upon my character. He impugned my “system,” as in our Dutch pay (split the costs) relationship. He was fond of the phrase “for example,” using it incessantly. So, imagine the look on Leslie's face when he said something like, “If you were my wife, for example, you wouldn’t have to pay for anything. Mauritanian women do not have to pay for anything.” Mauritanian women don't have to pay for anything? Well, I wish I was a Mauritanian woman.
I have since discovered Mauritanian men have somewhat of a “all's fair in love and war” attitude. I was irritated, if not severely vexed. Indeed, Ahmed started getting on our nerves even before the hard romantic sell.
But what to do?
All things being equal, I would’ve instructed G-money to “step the fuck off, ya heard?” But, alas, all was not equal. We were somewhere in the Mauritanian desert at the mercy of a man we knew very little about. My instincts told me he was harmless and was bound to ensure our safety if for no other reason than to safeguard his reputation. After all, he was a businessman. On the other hand, the possibility of “hell hath no fury like a Mauritanian man's scorn” had a solid foothold in my reasoning. Cupid is a devious fucker.
There goes my baby, (Ooh girl, look at you), You don't know how good it feels to call you my girl, There goes my baby, Loving everything you do, Ooh girl, look at you
And let us not forget the Al Qaeda factor, specifically Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), whose presence spans Algeria, Niger, Mauritania, and Mali. One quick call from Ahmed, and I'd have my head mounted in someone's living room. To this day, foreign government travel warnings (USA, Australia, UK, Canada, etc.) range somewhere between “You'd have to be an asshole to go there” and “Sure, you can go, but when you get there lock yourself in a room and emerge only for food and water.” Kidnapping, violent crime, terrorism, and subpar medical services round out the amenities.
One might ask why the fuck we chose Mauritania? Yes, it sounds crazy, but it’s important to take a step back. As with almost everything, all was not what it seemed. For one thing, there was a significant expat population, most residing in the capital, Nouakchott. I corresponded with a former Peace Corps volunteer living and working there before arrival. She said it was a personal decision. Yes, there was a risk, but it wasn’t quite the level presented by government websites. The far east and northeast sections were no-nos, but the Adrar (our destination) was safe, or safe-ish.
[Author's Note: Areas that were kinda-sorta-okay are now off limits. This includes Nouadhibou. Too dangerous? People are still going, sooo… I suppose one should do the research and then decide. Pack a spare AK and a few RPGs.]
We perused online posting boards (like Lonely Planet Thorn Tree), reading comments and suggestions by recent travelers to the region. We also met folks at the Mauritanian Embassy in Rabat, Morocco, who were headed there as well. If we kept our wits and didn’t go gallivanting off into the desert on our own, we’d be relatively secure… probably. Also, we'd heard much about the number of police checkpoints scattered throughout the region we wished to visit. The Mauritanian government had taken steps to curb AQIM's activities and was more than aware of the impact recent headlines had on tourism. Was there a risk? Of course, but there are risks everywhere. The real question was: were the risks extreme? My answer, at the time, was no. Now? Well…
All this swirled in the forefront of my mind when deciding whether to confront Ahmed. I figured it if I didn’t, he would’ve assumed Leslie told me nothing, interpreting that as an open invitation to continue the woo festival. Upon return, I welcomed him with, “Ahhhmed, hay problema contigo” (“I have a problem with you” in Spanish). The jig was up, his expression akin to a child exclaiming, “Uhhhh-ohhhhh!” I let him know I didn’t appreciate him putting the moves on my “fiancé” (a fib to make him squirm) and that his actions were “very, very bad.” He switched into defense mode, telling me he wouldn’t do anything to disrespect his clients and he was very sorry for the misunderstanding.
Clearly, Leslie “no comprend pas.” His English is bad, Leslie doesn’t speak French or Spanish, blah, blah, yaddy, yah… In other words, he was a Big Fat Liar Face and close to pooping his robe. Leslie, within earshot of our cross-legged face-to-face pow-wow, was more than a little irritated by the implication. No one could blame her, but I felt I had to give him a chance to save face and carry on making it up to us. I accepted his apology and waited for the impending awkwardness.
It started while preparing dinner via snide comments about Leslie's inability to understand him. He did it in a chauvinistic “women are all silly bitches” kind of way. Leslie wanted to throttle him. I considered holding him while she did so. We refrained. The awkwardness culminated after dinner when he left camp to visit the gendarmerie shack in the village. He left us alone in the desert at night with nothing but government travel warnings to consider. I wonder what the going rate was for an American male and female? He was probably negotiating his share of the ransom.
Leslie had less to worry about. Her life would be spared. Sure, she’d end up as a warlord’s sex slave, but she’d live. I’d have ended up as decoration in that same warlord’s trophy room. We distracted ourselves by laying in the sand, breathing in the cool desert air, and contemplating the night sky. All things considered, it was a magnificent evening, made more so by a large meteorite fireball in the sky, the largest I’ve ever seen. Ahmed returned not long after we crawled into our tent. No late-night assault. No roving bandits. He just crawled inside his tent and fell asleep. Pheeeew...
Our campsite was in the tree grove in the righthand photo on the outskirts of Ben Amera village. Perfectly safe… gulp.
“As I stood there, awestruck, attempting to take it all in, Ahmed snapped me back to reality. Rich was away and Ahmed wanted to play. It started with a story about a friend who opened an Auberge with his American wife. Apparently business is good and Ahmed wants in on the action. He has plans to open an Auberge in Nouadhibou next year; is all he needs is a wife to run it. Alas, the wooing has begun.
Whenever Rich wandered off, Ahmed sprang into action, making the most of his time. By early evening, we found ourselves in a bit of a fuel crisis. The tiny town was out of diesel, forcing us to purchase it illegally. We believe it was stolen from the train company, but we didn’t get the specifics. While working out the sale, Rich was skipping along the tracks, playing with kids, and Ahmed saw this as an opportunity to go for gold.
He had a three-step plan. Step one involved telling me, once again, that he’s in need of a young wife to bear him two children, and of course, run his Auberge – I’m sure all of the cooking and cleaning, too. He also wanted to make it very clear that even though he looks old, he’s actually very youthful, and has lots of life and love left in him. I wasn’t buying it.
Step two was to determine the exact nature of my relationship with Rich. We introduced ourselves as friends, but he had his suspicions. Desert nights can be chilly, so we opted to forgo our individual tents the night before, and share a sleeping bag; I was without, and using a liner. This confused him. I thought it best to leave him guessing, so I skirted around his questions using the power of deflection – works every time.
Last, but not least, was step three: denounce ‘Rich’s system’. He frowned upon the fact we were splitting the cost of things. Real men, as in Mauritanian men, don’t let their women pay. Ahmed loves, and I do mean loves, the expression ‘for example’. He uses it constantly; for example this, for example that, just plain for f-ing example. I could deal with it until he said, ‘for example, if you were my wife’. I would rather die.
With the fuel tank full, we circled back to Rich, and then drove farther out to setup camp. Rich could tell something was up, but I thought it wise to wait until we were alone to share the story. Luckily, it didn’t take long for Ahmed to wander off in search of coal, giving us ample time to discuss what had just transpired. Needless to say, we both found it entertaining, but were less than pleased…”
Leslie Peralta, “Three Strikes, You’re Out,” Soledad - Notes From My Travels