188 - Lolly Gagging & Large Women (Nouakchott, Mauritania)
WEARY. DEPLETED. SLIGHTLY DEFLATED. BUT NOT REGRETFUL. No, even with the “Trials of Ahmed,” the trip into the Adrar was extraordinary. The constant struggle with our desert Sherpa was disappointing, but not enough to spoil the experience. An antagonistic relationship with an individual you’re paying to guide you is not ideal, but it does make for enduringly comical moments. Yessir.
We spent over two weeks in Nouakchott, waiting, recuperating, and planning. Waiting for what? A shiny new ATM card to replace the one I’d lost via a pickpocket in Tunisia. Yay. I never found an ATM that would accept it. Yay.
What next? Mauritania is a hard act to follow. We considered Senegal but suspected it might be nigh disappointing in light of all we’d seen over the past weeks. Another time, perhaps. We’d heard of the Festival in the Desert in Mali from folks we met along the way. This intrigued us, so we figured, what the hell. Though we had over a month before the festival, we decided to explore Mali on our way into Northern Mali. Super.
We were in no rush, instead savoring an extended respite. Our lollygagging, along with a possible foray into Banc d'Arguin National Park, forced us to apply for a visa extension. (The foray never happened. The cost was astronomical. This is a shame because I’m certain it’s spectacular.)
Off to the appropriate office (Surete) to get an extension. Our visa expired on the 30th. We went on the 21st. We asked for two weeks. We paid $17 US. Upon receiving our passports, we discovered our extension began on the 21st, not the 30th. Muchas gracias. So, we paid $17 for an extra five days. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson, "Doh!”
We returned the next morning and, after explaining our situation, were met with a smile and a quick fix. Mr. Visa Man drew a “1” through the “0” to turn “Dec. 05” into “Dec. 15.” Et viola! Doesn't get any more official than that.
We squeezed in a Thanksgiving dinner (sans turkey) with American expats working in various NGO-ish related capacities. Jacque and Melanie prepared sumptuous malt shakes with the Magic Bullet (I had chocolate). A little taste of home in Nouakchott. We were super grateful.
We helped Sophie (another American expat) with a carnival event at a local private elementary school. Leslie manned the “Knock Over Cans With A Ball” game, and I took photos for the event organizer. Not a bad way to spend a day. A few days later, Sophie invited us to her place for a pancake breakfast. She even prepared grits. A tad surreal but definitely delicious.
We acquired a Malian visa with no hassles to speak of, a refreshing change. We took turns feeling ill. I went so far as to get blood work done, but it came back negative. We fought off boredom with movies and episodes of Dexter. On extended journeys, downtime is essential, or so I rationalize.
On a cultural note, Mauritania is somewhat notorious for fat women. Really fat women. Men, especially the White Moors, love females with a lot of cushion for pushin’. Give it up for big bitches, ya heard?
They like big butts and they cannot lie. You other Moors can't deny. That when a girl walks in with a big fat waist and a round thing in your face. You get sprung and wanna pull up tough. 'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed. Deep in the mulafa she's wearing, I'm hooked and I can't stop staring. Oh baby, I wanna get with you and take your picture. My homemoors tried to warn me. My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hun. So, ladies! {Yeah!} Ladies! {Yeah}. If you wanna roll in my Mercedes {Yeah!}. Then turn around! Stick it out! All White Moors got to shout. Baby got back!
Attraction to large women isn’t the disturbing part. It’s what women do or are forced to do that reeks of depravity. Although not what it once was, the practice of force-feeding is making a comeback. Obesity is a sign of good health and increased wealth. Slender is a badge of poverty. A trophy wife is one large enough to play defensive tackle for the Green Bay Packers. It proclaims, “I'm a man who takes care of his wife.” The fatter your wife, the more you love her.
Sidi modeling my hat. (Photo by Leslie Peralta)
We met a local guide, Sidi, through our local expat connections. He described the time he was stuck in the back of a truck between plump women on an extended trip as “heaven.” His facial expression underscored his veracity. In your heart, you know it’s not funny, but stifling a laugh in that scenario was impossible. He was downright giddy. If it were a conscious decision to put some junk in the trunk, that would be one thing, but many girls are forced to consume excess calories before the age of ten. There are bizarro fat camps established for the purpose.
It was time to leave Mauritania, even though we knew we'd barely scratched the surface. There is so much to see and do, but getting around requires copious amounts of cashola or more folks to share costs. Personal bodyguards couldn't hurt. Tourists in Mauritania are about as common as polar bears (at least while we were there). A 40-hour bus ride to Bamako, Mali? Oh, yes. That sounds nice. I’ll have that. We weren’t looking forward to it.
Courtesy of One Man Wolf Pack
Courtesy of Timelab Pro
“Nouakchott quickly became our ‘home away from home’, as the days turned into weeks. We found a comfy place to stay and passed the time by researching our next move, hanging out with a lovely group of American expats that treated us to home-cooked meals and lots of laughs, running errands, and getting sucked into the show, Dexter (thank you, Jacque).
Originally, Senegal was next on the list, but we quickly swapped it for Mali after discovering that Senegal is to the French what Hawaii is to Americans. No thanks; we’ll pass.
Prepping for Mali meant getting our Mauritanian visa extended, getting vaccinated for meningitis, waiting for a package from the states, and obtaining our Malian visa, among other things. They all seem like easy tasks, but nothing is easy in West Africa… nothing.
Our visa extension was first on the list. We located the office, but were told to return the next morning to fill out the necessary paperwork. When we arrived, we filled out our forms, handed over our passports, photos, and a hefty stack of Ouguiya, and were told to return at noon. When we came back to collect, we were told that the pickup time was in fact 3:30pm, not noon. Awesome – a fourth visit was just what we wanted.
We arrived at exactly 3:30pm, as instructed. They handed us our passports and sent us packing. While walking back, we discovered that they made a huge mistake. It was November 21st and our original visas were good until the 30th. We requested a two week extension, which would allow us to stay in the country until December 14th, but instead it said December 5th.
Now, we’re not sure if this was intentional or just an oversight, but we definitely didn’t go out of our way for an additional 5 days. We wanted to turn around, but the office was already closed, meaning we would have to return for a fifth time the next morning.
To make sure we didn’t get lost in translation due to the language barrier, I wrote down the specifics in French on a flashcard, with the help of an online translation site. Oh, how I love the internet; I’d be lost without it, and chances are, you would be too.
We woke up early and marched into their office, ready to battle it out, but were pleasantly surprised. They looked at my card, grabbed a pen, and turned the 5th into the 15th; no questions asked. We were in shock. Has the tide turned? A good deed finally repaid (me, not Rich, of course)? Luck of the draw? Not sure, but we’ll take it – thank you, Jesus.
After that, it was time to get cracking on everything else. The Malian visa was a breeze, as was our trip to the doctor. Can you believe it only cost us around $10 for an immunization shot? Unreal. At home it would have been around $150. Our healthcare system is so out of whack, but I’ll save that for another post; I could easily rant and rave forever.
So, despite the various warnings regarding the bus ride to Mali, we packed our bags and said farewell.”
Leslie Peralta, “So Long, Farewell, Au revoir,” Soledad — Notes From My Travels