185 - The Road to Terjit (Adrar Region, Mauritania)
THOUGH HYPERBOLE FOR SURE, I had the feeling if civilization came crashing down, people living in the Adrar wouldn’t notice…
A night with Ben Amera (monolith) supercharged my REM sleep. I discussed tax policy with Newt Gingrich. He called me naïve because I said we should tax people who can afford it. Later, a giant tree came alive and chased me, but a woman emerged from her house and shooed it away. Thanks. I collaborated with Matt Damon on a movie. Finally, I published a book by hitting “print” on my computer. Out popped a book in hardcover format. Busy night.
Remember the electrical problem Ahmed assured us was fixed? Nuh-uh. We packed our shit and were ready to face the day only to discover the Toyota’s battery deader than a fargin doornail. So, Ahmed marched to the village, hoping to round up a vehicle for a jumpstart. He said he'd be back in five minutes. That's five minutes “Ahmed time.” With Ahmed time, five minutes equals anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours. We never could decode his formula.
He returned in another vehicle, pulled up in front, and brought our Toyota Hilux back to life. Success. We thanked the good Samaritan and watched as he drove off. Ahmed put the truck in gear, drove 6.2 feet, and then stalled. Dead. He exited, walked toward the recently departed, and began yelling… to no avail. This wasn’t surprising. Said truck was halfway to Ben Amira. Super. This time the delay would be ten minutes. Sure.
Ahmed returned with a different Samaritan whose efforts to revive the Hilux failed. The battery in his jeep had seen better days and didn’t have the power to emancipate us. Back to Ben Amira. Third time's a charm. With an entire family in tow, another 4WD pulled up and revived the Hilux. Resurrection! All was well and good… as long we never shut off the engine. Perfect scenario for the desert.
On to Choum where Ahmed filled up on diesel and addressed the battery puzzle. After some intense efforts by him and a local mechanic, we were again informed the fuse was burnt, the battery was dead, the flux capacitor stopped fluxing, something, something, blah, so forth and so on. We now had to reach Atar three hours south to, in Ahmed’s words, “solve the small problem with the battery.” Super.
What can I say about the route between Choum and Atar? More exquisite scenery. More desolate, spell-binding views. End of the earth. Middle of nowhere. Land that time and god forgot. Armageddon. Apocalypse. You get the idea. Perfect place for a breakdown.
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. 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. His 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.
At Bab Sahara, Ahmed informed us we needed a new battery. No surprise there. Sometime after that, he mustered the courage to ask for the money. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but our banking issues put us at a disadvantage. We were relying on limited funds to get through the next seven to ten days. I had to point this out because it was he who assured us this wasn’t an issue, that we could settle up in full when we arrived in Nouakchott. The added cost might sink any plan for an extended trip. I was only trying to clarify, not deny him the funds.
He relented a bit and took enough money for a temporary fix. I have no idea what the hell he was thinking. We wanted to give him the money, but without an ATM, we would run out of moola, which would be bad for everyone. Still, if we needed a new battery, we needed a new battery. Did we need a new battery? Apparently not. I was starting to lose my shit.
Leslie and I went for a stroll into Atar to see if we could spot the elusive automatus tellamaticus (ATM). Along the way, we met some exceedingly friendly locals who pointed us in the right direction. We found two. Both were out of funds. No paddle for Shit Creek… frown.
We also did research into alternative transport. Our confidence in Ahmed declined precipitously. Not only did we neglect to find a suitable option, but even if we had, our money pickle would have put the kibosh on the plan. Foiled!
Ahmed declared problem solved… again. You promise? By then, I was in the midst of a terrible head cold, the worst in recent memory. My eyes were an uncorked fountain of water and my nose a bottomless pit of mucus. I was miserable. A cold? In the Sahara? WTF? Oh, yes, the fine mist that is Saharan sand can clog your shit up, brother. On top of that, our room was dry and stuffy, as in a “constant state of asphyxiation” sort of way. Lovely.
Imagine our mood the next morning when we discovered our truck would not start. Off went Ahmed again to do whatever the hell it is he was doing. While we waited, we returned to the ATMs from the previous evening. Bonzai! We were in luck, but Mr. Bank Manager told us we had to wait an hour for them to stock it with cash, which, of course, we were happy to do. With oodles of dough, we returned to the hotel. Upon arrival, we noticed a definite hint of consternation in Ahmed’s voice. I believe he thought we abandoned him. Heaven forfend! He needed cash for the new battery. Shocker. We packed up and went to buy one. Ahmed's “ten minutes” turned into two hours.
While waiting for the magic electric box to be installed, we loitered in the street. I noticed Leslie photographing an approaching lorry. Although she missed it, one gentleman riding on top gave her the warning finger wag to inform her photographs were a no-no. The warning was as friendly as the crew manning the truck. Just one of those moments that send a chill up your spine and make the world, at least for a second or two, a much more frightening place. Yikes.
We had a new battery. We had more cash. We had each other. We had Ahmed. Our lives were perfect. Off to the oasis at Terjit. The route led us through desert canyons filled with signature Sahara orange and rock formations I presumed would make a budding geologist as giddy as a schoolgirl. Come to think of it, I would’ve appreciated a geologist explaining what the hell I was looking at. At one point, it appeared a boulder of biblical proportions had exploded into a million pieces, which were then equally distributed among the landscape. Fascinating. Mind-boggling. Captivating. And through it all, we had cell service. What a world. Can you hear me now?
At the gendarme (police) checkpoint outside Terjit, we ran into a young Dutch gentleman we'd met at the Mauritanian Embassy in Rabat. Joris hopped aboard the ore train from Nouadhibou and arrived in Terjit at the same time. He'd ridden in an empty ore car for twelve hours, sipping endless cups of tea with the locals and inhaling copious amounts of ore dust. In Choum, he took a bush taxi to Atar, followed by a hitchhiking stint to Terjit. I was a bit jealous but knew his French language ability made that scenario more rewarding. He said a railway worker at the station in Nouadhibou pleaded with him not to ride in the open cars, to vie instead for a seat in the passenger car for his safety. Joris wanted none of it.
“The Oasis of Tergit was everything we had hoped for, as far as settings go. It’s nestled into a canyon on the edge of town. The trickling sound from the springs, mixed with the swaying palms was enough to put me into a trance. We sought refuge beneath an open-air tent for much of the afternoon, while swapping stories with Joris. When he retreated to his Auberge, we went for a hike in the canyon. We found a perfect spot to take in the views of the village and valley below. Sitting there, perched on a rock, I couldn’t help but feel lucky; not only for the view, but the company too. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’ll gladly accept it.”
Leslie Peralta, “The Adrar (Car Problems, Colds & More of Ahmed’s Crap),” Soledad — Notes From My Travels
The Terjit oasis is the stuff of fairy tales. It’s nestled in a narrow canyon just above the village and instantly instills a sense of peace and calm for all those that enter. The area surrounding the canyon has all the ingredients of a surrealist painting. For me, it was the contrast of semi-florescent orange desert sand with the blue hue of the sky and the deep earth tones of the canyon walls that gave the region its magical aura. It is a superb place to lose one's self in thought. Actually, it's a great place to just lose one's self entirely. I did. Then I found myself. It took a while, but there I was. Phew.
After our afternoon frolic, Leslie and I decided we wanted to stay in the tented auberge inside the oasis. You'd be an asshole not to. Shouldn't be a problem, right? Wrong. Ahmed no likey. Upon proposing this, he mentioned another oasis a short ten kilometers away that was the “same” (i.e. not remotely similar) but upon reiterating our desire retorted something like “as you wish.”
He then explained how sleeping in the oasis “would be very dangerous” for him. Why? Malaria (insert dramatic gasp accompanied by ominous piano score). Now, at first, we were concerned as we knew there would be many mosquitoes. We reconsidered. Upon inquiring once again (this time with an employee nearby), we discovered malaria was pretty much nonexistent in that area. Ahmed was forced to relent when rebuffed by the auberge staff. He wasn’t a big fan of relenting. Then he said something about the place not being secure because anyone could enter from the canyon. A valid point but brought forth at a suspicious juncture in the conversation. We decided to stay. He said he’d have to sleep at an auberge in the village because the buzzing of mosquitoes would prevent him from sleeping. Why all the subterfuge? He wanted us to stay at the auberge of a friend in a nearby village. Fucker.
We ate dinner and then retired to our tent. (Bats forced us to relocate once). Shortly thereafter, everyone disappeared... like Moorish ninjas. Ahmed and all the employees slept elsewhere. By then, a ghostly wind had invaded the oasis, filling our ears with a myriad of haunting sounds, all resembling someone skulking in the area outside our tent. (The swaying of palm leaves in the breeze can be particularly spooky—a light scraping sound). It was a less-than-stellar night's repose. The play of light on the tent combined with the aforementioned array of audio stimuli left me waiting for Binney (as in Osama) and the Gang to make an appearance. I could almost see the outline of a man holding an AK-47. I didn’t shit myself, but I thought about it.
