182 - Oh, Fate, You Fickle Beeotch (Nouadhibou, Mauritania)
WE WHILED AWAY DAYS IN NOUADHIBOU, planning our move into Mauritania's interior and addressing a mini-financial crisis. Both issues would prove exhausting. What to do, and how to do it? The Adrar Region is a must-see. We'd been dreaming about it from the moment Mauritania appeared on our radar. The only question was how best to experience the wonder.
Adventure is only a train ride away. Every day, one departs from Nouadhibou, first heading east, then north to Zouerat, where it loads up with iron ore and returns. We were interested in going as far as Choum. There, we’d hop off and make our way three hours south via bush taxi to Atar, the capital of the Adrar. At full capacity, the train can stretch over two kilometers and is reputed to be one of the world’s longest. At the tail end is a passenger car you can stuff yourself into for around ten dollars. Or save money and ride in an empty (or full, depending on the direction) ore car for free. I'd read it can be an impossibly dusty and borderline hellacious twelve-hour ride. Sounds lovely. We were in. In Atar, the plan was to hire a 4x4 with driver to buzz across the desert.
There was another option—hiring a 4x4 with driver all the way from Nouadhibou. Although much more expensive, the freedom it could provide was too alluring to dismiss. We'd met a driver/guide at the Mauritanian border who’d passed along his card. His English prowess wasn’t quite what we’d hoped, leading to a dizzying succession of discussions that would’ve exhausted Middle East peace negotiators.
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. Then we mulled some more. We mulled while we ate. We mulled together. We mulled apart. We mulled in the street. We mulled in our room. Rarely have I mulled on such a grand scale. It was a fucking mull-a-thon.
We really wanted to experience the choo-choo train, but believed having an experienced driver would allow us to squeeze the most out of our trip. And if we went the train route, we’d have to carry a shit-ton of cash. Not such a hot idea on a train full of local vagabonds. With Ahmed, we could pay upfront and not have to haul around a small savings and loan. In addition, he could take us on a convenient loop ending in the capital, Nouakchott. Our initial impression was positive. We both felt, notwithstanding our excruciating deliberations, he was experienced and knew what he was doing. We were partially right but mostly mistaken. Fate can be a fickle bitch.
After agonizing over options and lamenting our indecisiveness, we decided… to flip a coin. Best of three. Ahmed won. It would be the four of us: Me, Leslie, Ahmed, and a Toyota Hilux. Excellent… but not so fast. Cue the financial quagmire. I had no access to funds. My ATM card didn’t work in Morocco or Mauritania. This time the fault lay with Mastercard. ATM’s only accepted Visa, because it's everywhere you want to be. Leslie had both, but to make a long story short, she had to go online and transfer funds to her Visa account. The weekend, time difference, and banking practices of Mr. Charles Schwab all conspired against us. We had a fair amount of dough, but not enough to pay off Ahmed, and certainly not enough for an extended trip. We only hoped by the morning of departure the money would’ve transferred.
It didn't. Fiddleshit! After all the verbal wrangling, we were forced to ask Ahmed to push the trip back a day. Super.
But, alas, he had an alternative. Pay him only for fuel during the journey and settle up after we arrived in Nouakchott. Of course, we’d still have to cover food and lodging, but we had enough cashola for that. His flexibility concerning money led us to believe we’d made a wise decision. Fate can be a twisted, fickle bitch.
Ahmed was accommodating, suspiciously so. Why? Well, he was hoping to beguile Leslie, convince her to marry him, bear his children, and run the auberge he was planning to open. Think I'm joking? Nope. Not even a little. We had nary a clue. Looking back, part of me wonders if he wasn’t scheming to assassinate me and bury my body in the desert. Good thing Leslie liked me and found little interest in becoming Ahmed's bride. Good thing. Fate might be a fickle bitch, but Leslie wasn’t. Pheeew.
“Our days in Nouadhibou were not of the relaxing variety. We had research to do and decisions to make. Prior to visiting, we both knew very little about the country; I suppose you could say that’s what drew us here – curiosity of the unknown, the overlooked. It felt so close, but yet so far away.
Government issued travel warnings say that all unnecessary travel to Mauritania should be avoided due to security concerns; most of the country is in the red zone. Al-Qaeda/AQIM is to blame, as terrorism is prevalent, especially in the east. In the past few years several kidnappings have occurred, causing the Peace Corp to pull out, and other organizations to scale back. We saw this as an opportunity. Tourism has dropped off, but security efforts have escalated. After much debate, it was time to proceed with caution.
When traveling, we both appreciate flexibility and freedom. We try to have open minds, often steering clear of set plans. We like to take things one day at a time. If you looked closely at our personal lives, you might say this mindset has crept into other areas, but that’s neither here nor there…
So, we loaded up his truck and disappeared into the desert. As I gazed out the window from the confines of the backseat, I couldn’t help but think…if it seems too good to be true, it probably is…”
Leslie Peralta, “Decisions, Decisions,” Soledad - Notes From My Travels