186 - Terjit-Chinguetti-Tanouchert (Adrar Region, Mauritania)
VEXATION. FRUSTRATION. CEREBRAL CONSTIPATION. ANTI-COOPERATION. This became the essence of our relationship with Ahmed. He confused the living bejesus out of us. We floated the idea of having our Dutch friend (Joris) join us for a part of our journey. He’d hopped the ore train from Nouadhibou, then hitchhiked to Terjit. We had space in our truck (double cab), Ahmed would incur no extra cost we could foresee, and Joris’s fluency in French could assist our plight. No problem, right? Wrong.
Ahmed resisted. First, he said something about insurance, claiming if something happened to Joris, he’d be liable. Um, ‘kay. Liable to whom? Was he not already liable for us? What if he’d been with us from the start? What’s the difference? I mustered all my powers of empathy to see his point of view. He wasn’t helping.
He mentioned phoning his sister in Nouakchott and asking her to speak with somebody for some reason to accomplish something. (She was chummy with someone important.) Then he highlighted a tax that had to be paid. As I tried to clarify and understand his position, it slowly eroded until he acquiesced, telling me it would be no problem. Huh? Tax you say? We were willing to pay it, but he claimed it was no problem. In ten minutes, he went from “No fucking way” to “ain't no thang but a chicken wang.” I was bewildered. It was impossible to accommodate him because it was impossible to determine what the fuck he wanted.
I asked him repeatedly if it really was okay, and he reassured me… repeatedly. We slept. The next morning, Leslie approached Ahmed to confirm. Somewhere in the course of the evening, he decided it wasn’t possible again. Leslie gave a disappointed, child-like sigh while letting her gaze rest on the ground. Awwwwwww... shucks. It was too much. His force field of detachment crumbled beneath her insidious guile. Women are the root of all corruption. A nanosecond later, it was game on.
As Joris was traveling alone in the Adrar, we almost felt obligated to invite him, a sort of traveler’s nomadic code. And notwithstanding Ahmed's puzzling protestations, we could fathom no rationale for not doing so. Not only did he seem to be a good guy, we knew all would benefit from his presence, especially Ahmed, in light of Joris' language skills. He did join our party, but not without yet another struggle with Mr. Grumpy Pissy Pants.
So, with the third musketeer in tow, we set out for Chinguetti. We passed through the oasis where Ahmed had tried to convince us to stay the previous evening. It was nice, but nowhere near as spectacular as Terjit had been. Ahmed's true motive was his relationship with an auberge owner. Instead of just telling us straight out, he came up with a myriad of excuses for leaving Terjit, not the least of which was the imagined threat of malaria. Crafty little minx.
We stopped to ogle ancient cave paintings, but no one was around to allow entrance. We even tried the cell phone number on the sign, to no avail. Caves closed. So, we moved on.
We paused in Chinguetti for lunch and a peek at a medieval library containing thousands of ancient Islamic manuscripts. It was once a gathering place for pilgrims making their way from the Maghreb to Mecca and is considered the sixth or seventh holiest city in Islam, depending on who you talk to. Within the city's confines are five ancient libraries harboring manuscripts from Chinguetti's golden age, when it was a center for Islamic study.
After lunch, we found a caretaker who agreed to give us a quick tour, followed by an explanation of how the manuscripts were created. It was excellent. He even recited/sang a poem contained within one of the books. As I sat there listening to our guide's explanation (with Joris playing translator), I felt a remarkable calm wash over me, a feeling I only get when visiting a sacred place, an existential ASMR session if you will.
Courtesy of Timelab Pro
Ahmed was getting anxious. Actually, he was in a perpetual state of anxiety ever since Leslie thwarted his marriage proposal. If we were to get to the Tanouchert oasis before sunset, we needed to giddy-up. Why did we need to get to Tanouchert before sunset? Because Ahmed said so. We’d deferred to Ahmed for three reasons: 1) he was from Mauritania; 2) he was a tour operator; and 3) he’d done this before (allegedly). It made more sense to sleep in Chinguetti and then head to Tanouchert, followed by Ouadane the next day. In hindsight, I believe Ahmed grew tired of our company and wanted to wrap up our desert extravaganza. He was in it for the wife. When that fell apart, he just assumed be done with us.
If you ever have the opportunity to visit that slice of the Mauritanian Sahara (somewhere between Chinguetti and Tanouchert) with the sun making its final descent, do not miss the chance. Ideally, you’d plop your happy ass on a dune overlooking a herd of camels sauntering across a sandscape imbued with varying hues of deep orange. Even more ideal would be a night spent sleeping atop the sand under a blanket of stars. Take a 4WD. Take a camel. Do what you have to do, but DO NOT take Ahmed. Had I been prescient, I would’ve suggested a night in Chinguetti with a late afternoon incursion into the desert for an unforgettable sunset. Wine would be one hell of a trip enhancer. Tea would suffice.
Ahmed was nervous about driving at night, which explains his reluctance to enjoy the setting sun. This seemed reasonable. Driving in the night desert without a proper road could make spotting Tanouchert difficult. Perhaps desert marauders were weighing on his mind. And I'm sure his degraded night vision amplified his concerns. (Forget night vision. On our return to Nouakchott a few days later, we discovered his overall vision was less than stellar).
Understandable… until you consider there was no fucking reason to be doing it in the first place. We could’ve slept in Chinguetti and frolicked in the dunes that evening or the following morning. All Ahmed had to do was tell us he was pooped. No problem. Fuck a duck, eh gov’nah?
Ahmed didn’t want to drive at night, so we spent two hours driving at night. Why? Because we got lost, of course. We stopped at a nomad's tent, asked directions, drove around in circles, and ended up back at the same nomad tent to ask directions again. At one point, Joris stood in the truck’s bed against the roof, attempting to find our oasis.
We did end up in Tanouchert. I have no idea how. No one was cheerful by the time we arrived, Ahmed the least so. He was pissed at life. The three of us were pissed at him. Leslie was cursed with the monthly feminine bonanza, and my head cold was still giving me fits. Even with all this, I hold not a single regret. Just being where we were being was incredible.
I rose early and went for a solo jaunt among the nearby dunes. Tanouchert is an oasis village right out of a T. E. Lawrence journal. The desolation is almost palpable, though the complete lack of other tourists likely intensified the perception past the normal reality. It’s hard to imagine folks grinding out an existence in the void. A remarkable place. I’m better for having experienced it. Thank you, cosmic hand of fate... or some shit.
I’ve looked better.
“Never, and I do mean never, underestimate the female powers. They come in handy regularly, but I do my best not to abuse them. I only reach into my bag of tricks as a last resort, and well, this was one of those times.
The next morning Ahmed informed me that Joris would not be joining us. He blamed his sister, insurance liability, and of course, our previous ‘contract’. I listened to his explanation, but wasn’t convinced. I knew that if he wanted to say yes, he could. My guess is that he saw Joris as another person standing between us, and happily ever after; a roadblock if you will. With a quick tilt of my head, a few bats of my eyelashes, and the best pouty-face I could muster, we went from duo to trio in a matter of seconds; as easy as one-two-three.
With Joris in tow, we made our way to Chinguetti, considered one of the holiest cities in Islam. We stopped for lunch and a visit to one of the ancient libraries in town. I’m very fond of any and all libraries, so this was a treat. Not only did the caretaker give us a tour of the grounds, but he also explained the importance of the manuscripts and how they were recorded. After letting us peek around, he recited a lovely poem in French, which Joris so kindly translated. There was something about his voice and overall demeanor that was so gentle, perhaps even magnetic. It’s rare that I feel that way in another’s presence, but there was definitely something about him… something different.
With daylight dwindling, Ahmed was chomping at the bit to make our way to Tanouchert. We desperately wanted to soak in the sunset while perched upon one of the many dunes, but the answer was no. Making our way through endless mounds of sand was tricky enough with daylight, so imagine it without.
Once again, the scenery was overwhelming. The colors so bright, so vibrant, that the sand and sky almost looked fake. In some areas, green grass sprouted up, making for an interesting contrast. We all agreed that if we were going to partake in some kind of mind-altering activities, this would be the place to do it.
Under the cover of moonlight, we realized we were lost. Spinning in circles, following various tracks, Ahmed refused to admit it, even though we asked the same nomads for directions twice. The three of us were secretly hoping we could setup camp on our own, but we knew that would never happen. He would rather drive aimlessly all night than admit defeat. After all, he’s an experienced guide, the best there is; he knows the area like the back of his hand. My favorite part was when he said, ‘Just look for a big dune’. Umm, okay… we’re surrounded by big dunes. Hell, we’re driving on one as you speak.
In the end, we eventually found our way. By this time, it was obvious Ahmed wanted to line us up for some good old fashioned guillotine fun. It’s unfortunate, because the situation could have easily been avoided. We would have happily stayed in Chinguetti, but he insisted we press on. Hopefully, he’ll think twice next time. Doubtful, but one can hope, right?”
Leslie Peralta, “Uno, Dos, Tres,” Soledad — Notes From My Travels