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 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 extremely displeased. 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….
Ahmed resisted. First, he said something about insurance, claiming if something happened to Joris, he’ d be liable. Um, ‘kay. Liable to who? 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…
In Atar, we settled at Bab Sahara, a quaint auberge catering to overland traffic. Ahmed was beginning to grind on us. His prevarications, equivocations, and bullshitations became less and less amusing. A cold, harsh reality set in—Leslie would not be his bride (insert link). This, we suspect, was his primary motivation for agreeing to guide us. Now that this was off the table, he couldn’t bother to give a shit. The world had become that much bleaker.
I did the only thing I could—I ordered Leslie to give him a little sugar, put some extra sass in her step, string him along just enough to feed his motivation… um, no. If he thought he had a shot, he might have strangled me in my sleep.,.,.
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…
If “nowhere” is on your bucket list, northwest Mauritania is, at the very least, on the way—a land of enchanting desolation where the “nothingness” surrounding you still has a “somethingness” quality. This explains why I wasn’t the slightest bit bored sitting in a vehicle for hours staring into the void. Mesmerizing, captivating, and a whole slew of other adjectives can’t do it justice.
At one point, we pulled off the sand track for a short respite. Ahmed wanted a break. It was teatime. Tea, for Mauritanians, is only slightly less important than breathing and procreation. Watching locals pour tea back and forth from their miniature pot into minuscule shot glasses…
We liked flexibility, but Ahmed couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the fact we weren’t sure how many days we might require his services. We wanted freedom. He wanted specifics. His personality contradictions were too numerous to track, and we couldn't decide if he was deliberately evasive or if cultural and language barriers were to blame. A week after returning from the sandbox, we still didn't know. He would turn out to be an indecipherable enigma, as well as a bit of a conniver.
After throwing around possible itineraries and itemizing costs, we told Ahmed we had to mull it over. So, we mulled and mulled…
After some signature indecisiveness, we settled on an auberge (French for “inn”), but not before our taxi driver ferried us around town longer than he might’ve hoped. My sympathy evaporated when I discovered he’d screwed us bounteously before parting. He was “kind” enough to exchange our dirhams (Morocco) for ouguiya (Mauritania) at, unbeknownst to me, a preposterously low rate. Wait, a random taxi driver isn't the best place to exchange money? Who’d a thunk it?
No excuses. We were tired and stupid and couldn't be bothered to give a shit. Not knowing the exchange rate and arriving on a weekend did nothing to assist our cause…
3rd-7th centuries AD - Berber and Arab migrants arrive in present-day Mauritania.
9-10th centuries - Empire of Ghana has its capital in present-day south-west Mauritania.
1076 - Berber Almoravid warriors defeat the Empire of Ghana.
1500s - European mariners and traders establish settlements.
1644-74 - Mauritanian Thirty-Year War: Berbers unsuccessful in repelling Arab warriors.
1850s-60s - French forces gain control of southern Mauritania. In 1898 France wins the allegiance of Moors in the region.
1904 - France establishes Mauritania as a colonial territory.
Off we went. My visa anecdote sent tremors of foreboding across the Tweedles' faces. They were lost in a flurry of circumspection. Meanwhile, poor Leslie was the proverbial meat in the Tweedle sandwich, squashed between the big-boned dynamic duo. As for me, I sat shotgun and let my thoughts wander along the desolate landscape characterizing Western Sahara.
Every so often, we’d stop at a Moroccan security checkpoint where our driver would conduct high-level talks that always resulted in a bribe. I only had his word, but this is the modus operandi in those parts…
Although the journey took forty hours, we spent eleven sitting at the border of Mauritania and Mali with our thumbs securely up our asses. We arrived around 1 a.m. groggy and bleary-eyed. Before I knew what the hell was happening, I'd handed someone my passport and was shuffled off into darkness. After I regained my senses, I realized we were standing on the Mauritanian side with nary a clue. Two minutes after kicking us out, the doors closed and the lights went out. Allow passengers to sleep on the bus? Are you mental? Let them sleep in the filth, I say!
Outside, I found a long line of voyagers sleeping on the ground. This included my group and another from Mali that had been waiting since 4:00 p.m. Misery loves company. We had a lot of company.