187 - Kerfuffle In The Void (Ouadane, Mauritania)
WE LEFT TANOUCHERT, DESTINED FOR OUADANE, a desert outpost once a staging point for trans-Saharan trade. Group morale was low. Had it not been for the seemingly endless mesmerizing landscape, my mood would’ve cratered. Not even Ahmed's relentless prevarications, protestations, and bitchinations were enough to dampen my chi when presented with scenery beyond description. Still, our cheerless leader gave it his all.
We arrived in Ouadane at 10 a.m. and thought we’d then head to the Richat Structure (Guelb er Richat). Ahmed suggested this itinerary days before, but now said it was too late. He claimed he normally left around 7 a.m. for a midday return. Keep in mind, he once told us he never gets moving before 8 a.m. Why would he?
He was worried about going alone (i.e. one vehicle). Also, the sand would be too hot, making it difficult to maneuver through. My first thought? Are you fucking shitting me? We’d been driving through the “hot” sand for six days. Not a word about this beforehand, and November is relatively mild temperature-wise. What the fuckity-fuck was he talking about?
Courtesy of Timelab Pro
So, he suggested we hang out in Ouadane and leave for Richat in the morning. The Three Musketeers (Me, Leslie, and Joris) considered this. Not only was this plan asinine, it defied logic. It made no sense to squander a day and spend the following day driving from Richat all the way to…well…no idea. Planning was an exercise in futility, subject to Ahmed's whim. We pressed him again.
He enlisted an auberge (inn) employee to help his plight. We resisted. Ahmed relented. We departed… but not before finding the local police and registering for the umpteenth time. During the break, we had a little fun with a group of local children.
On the “road” to Richat, we stopped at the site of an old Portuguese trading post (the visible remnants are the remains of a French fort built later), no doubt a focal point of the slave trade. While there, we were invited into the tent of local nomads and treated to pleasant conversation, oodles of tea, and a spot of goat's milk. We all enjoyed it, but were perplexed by our extended stay (about an hour and a half) considering Ahmed's professed time constraints. His capacity to boggle knew no bounds.
The Richat Structure (“Eye of the Sahara”) is a geological anomaly whose origins are/were in dispute. Thought to result from a meteorite impact, it’s now believed to be a geological uplift (perhaps due to magnetism) made prevalent by erosion. While we were there, locals (including Ahmed) told us it was created by volcanic activity, although I can find only scant evidence of this theory (deemed improbable). Also, it could be Atlantis… or not. This formation is well known as the “bull's eye” by generations of astronauts. Whatever its origin, it’s a fascinating phenomenon and well worth a look. Its featurelessness (at least at ground level) is its most salient feature. It might be geological unrest, but it feels like ground zero of a past nuclear explosion. You can almost feel the shockwave.
Although we had every desire to continue to the center, Ahmed was adamantly opposed. What would happen if the truck broke down? A legitimate concern. One vehicle. No cell coverage. Understandable. Still, his concerns always seemed to arise at suspicious times. We’d faced this problem throughout our journey. We had food, plenty of water, and the ability to walk to Ouadane if necessary. Exasperation prevented resistance, so we capitulated. He even made the comment (directed at me) that this “was not the Dakar Rally.” I’m not a violent man, but I began fantasizing about providing Ahmed with the business end of an open-handed slap. Serenity now… mutha fucka.
We called it a day and made our way back to Ouadane. After a late lunch, I went for a stroll into old town. A walk through the old city is like following in the wake of a bulldozer. It’s in shambles. Still, enough is intact to appreciate the virtuosity of its creators and its designation as a World Heritage Site. The sunset backdrop was exquisite.
One section is still inhabited… by a colony of Rock Hyrax. They’re intriguing little creatures (averaging 20 inches, 8 pounds) imbued with an almost sinister if not ghostly aura in the right circumstances, like when you find yourself in an ancient abandoned city at dusk alone in the desert.
The little bastards were following me. No shit. It’s what they do. Rock hyraxes use sentries to alert the colony of impending danger. I was playing the part of “Impending Danger.” I stood mesmerized by their bizarre grunting alarm call and their attempts to outflank me. They exhibited zero fear and appeared to be on the verge of a full assault. They outnumbered me 50 to 1 and, truth be told, I found them a tad intimidating. The thought of being torn to shreds by a gang of quasi-desert rats was unsettling. Not how I pictured leaving this world. Hyraxes closest living relative? The elephant. No shit.
Speaking of nuclear fallout, our relationship with Ahmed took a serious nosedive. This time the fault lay on our shoulders. After dinner, we spoke with him about the rest of our trip. We planned to head south after the Adrar into the eastern Tangent, possibly going as far east as Tichit, a semi-deserted village between hell and gone, but were hesitant to embark on such a taxing journey with a disgruntled guide at the helm. Ahmed was as exasperated with us as we were with him.
We had the brilliant idea to capture our exercise in futility (i.e. negotiations) on video… without telling Ahmed. We wanted him relaxed and natural, not tense and artificial. Why would we commit such a colossally stupid and insensitive act? I can assure you there was no malicious intent. We figured trying to capture the essence of our constant skirmishes would be a unique souvenir and something we’d cherish viewing for years to come.
He caught on and was displeased, to put mildly. For twenty minutes, he went off, using the word “espionage” with a demeanor more appropriate for a spy film. He was angry. We understood. We apologized repeatedly. He kept firing away, highlighting a lack of respect. He had a point. No one could argue.
Right after Ahmed unmasked our surveillance operation, Joris (an integral component of the spycam preparation) sprouted a conscience and informed us of the “messed up” nature of “our” (as in me and Leslie) actions. Way to hold firm. Good thing we weren't planning a coup or terrorist operation. Joris folded like a fucking deck chair.
The more Ahmed ranted, the angrier I became. How about his complete disrespect for Leslie and me? He did attempt to woo her away from me with promises of a better life. And let us not forget, to disguise his indiscretion, he chalked it up to Leslie's inadequate language skills and treated her like a moron. Respect? Fuck you, buddy. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but double standards chap my asshole.
To appease Ahmed the Terrible, Leslie took the unfortunate step of erasing the footage of our indiscretion in his presence. This seemed appropriate, but hindsight fills me with regret. I know she did the right thing, but I would love to review the video and audio (it continued to record even after I placed it out of view) of what will be remembered as the Ahmed Kerfuffle of '10. Damn it.
If the evening had a theme, it would’ve been “the lady doth protest too much.” The gravity of his protest made me uneasy. It was as if he had something to hide, giving him an ominous aura. Considering where we were and our reliance upon him, I swallowed my anger. When he settled down and inquired as to our plan, I uttered a single word, “Nouakchott.” I said this with a “we are tired of your bullshit, so take us to Nouakchott as fast as you can, you cantankerous prick” demeanor. He agreed and left the room.
We had a fitful night's sleep for two reasons: 1) we regretted our actions, and; 2) our trust in Ahmed degenerated considerably. I didn’t know what he was capable of. Thankfully, the night passed without incident. We left early for what would be a long, quiet drive to the capital.
Before we left, we had a final brush-up about expenses, mediated by Joris. Zaida, the owner of the auberge, assisted our plight. (Auberge Vasque – zaida_vsque@yahoo.fr) Her intervention proved vital. Not only did she sense his bullshit, she called him on it. She was the definition of charisma, a soul whose light warms all that have the good fortunate to meet her. She’ll charm you, disarm you, and neutralize your power to resist. Zaida possesses a sense of confidence and an independent spirit uncommon in a male-dominated society. Few times during my travels had I been as frustrated with my piss poor language ability as I was in her presence. She had a story to tell. If only I could’ve listened. Damn it.
For reasons beyond me, Ahmed claimed we had enough fuel for the remainder of our drive, even though, in hindsight, this was ludicrous. Initially, I believed him, so much so, at one point when he wanted to fill up, I questioned the need to do so. He responded with, “I know my truck” and that “we only had gasoil (diesel) for 80 km.” A mere three hours earlier, we had plenty, so I wondered if he was trying to recoup a few bucks from us with a fuel subsidy. I glanced at the fuel gauge, disagreed with his assessment, and pushed him to keep going. That was rash. We made it 160 km, but not before driving the needle close enough for it to start humping the “E”. Imagine if we'd run out of fuel because I refused to believe he was being honest. Talk about a hollow victory. Our antagonistic relationship was turning me into a querulous bastard. Damn it.
The ride to Nouakchott was punctuated with near-death experiences. It was then I realized the full extent of Ahmed's less-than-stellar eyesight. Driving in Mauritania at dusk and into the night is a terrible idea even with eagle vision, to say nothing of impaired vision. Prayer time is precarious. Folks are everywhere along the side of the road, engaging in Islam's sacred ritual. Some barely pull off the highway. Headlight use is an anomaly, not a standard practice. In the dying light, we nearly collided head-on with an approaching Mercedes. And more than once, we passed cars going in the opposite direction without lights. I was disturbed. Prevailing driving conditions are bad enough, but throw in a disgruntled, vision-impaired driver, and you have the potential for a horror show.
Upon arriving in Nouakchott, I settled up with Ahmed. We both apologized and bid farewell. He wanted to speak with Leslie, but I told him she was sick. She'd had enough.
“It’s not over until the fat lady sings… or you commit espionage. Its official – we’re not the three musketeers; we’re the three a-holes. We committed a big no-no. I hate to even admit it, as it was so incredibly inconsiderate, but I can assure you we meant no harm.
We thought it would be amusing to record our next discussion with Ahmed regarding upcoming travel plans. We just wanted a little memento; something to remind us of our constant struggles. Looking back, it was a stupid idea – very stupid. If I could go back in time and change things, I would, but unfortunately it’s never that easy. Oh what I would do if it was…
On our hands and knees, the three of us scoured over a map while discussing our options. Once we were all in agreeance, a camera was setup, and I went to fetch Ahmed. The four of us sat in a circle surrounding the map. Within seconds, Ahmed noticed the camera and went ballistic without letting us explain.
He’s a little guy, but when he’s pissed, he might as well be a ten ton gorilla, huffing and puffing, and beating his chest. I had visions of him whipping out an AK and going to town; who knows what he keeps underneath that blue draw of his. He could hide an entire village and I wouldn’t have a clue.
He had every right to be upset, but his display of distrust was so completely over the top. He was practically spewing piss and vinegar, as he went off in French about espionage and other spy related terms. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had something to hide; tour operator by day, who knows by night? After all, anything is possible.
We apologized over and over again, but he wanted none of it. We could have easily brought up his disrespectful actions, but alas, two wrongs don’t make a right; something I know very well. It was painfully obvious that our relationship was over. Our dreams of continuing to Tichit were gone – best to sever ties before we’re digging our own graves. So, with that in mind, we ended the conversation with a single word: Nouakchott.
Needless to say, we all slept with one eye open. The next morning, we said our goodbyes to Joris, as he decided to stay for another night, before attempting to hitchhike south. It took all day to reach our final destination, but by the time we arrived in Nouackhott, Ahmed was singing a different tune. Apparently he felt bad for the many hiccups we experienced along the way. He blamed it all on miscommunication due to the language barrier, which was a copout, but we didn’t have the energy or desire to set him straight. We’d had our fill.”
Leslie Peralta, “Houston, We Have A Problem,” Soledad — Notes From My Travels