Angsty-pants

Mauritania has been stressful. More tourists have been kidnapped here in the last five years than anywhere else in the Sahel region. Both the Frenchies and the Poms have got almost the entire country in their ‘red-zones’ meaning ‘go there and not only will you end up in an orange jumpsuit but your travel insurance is off the hook’. The country is an Islamic state which means that public lashes in the town square are still on the cards if I were to utter a religious comment in bad taste or fire off some untimely gas. And on the back of this, almost everyone here wears turbans that they wrap around their faces so that only their eyes peer out. The only images of these types I’ve seen have been in their own home videos and have generally had a translator relaying a list of demands that basically require the West go and fornicate with itself. So throw whole bakkie loads of these guys together, driving around the streets of most towns and it’s enough to get my frail white nerves playing like a Tuaregs banjo.

And yet my experiences with the people here could not have been more different. The gendarmes that diligently man the roadblocks that coat every road, pathway and camel track, are always friendly and keen to find out if we have a good time in Mauritania. When strangers come up for a talk in the street, I keep waiting for the inevitable “Ah my friend, now you come look in my shop. No for buying.  Just for looking. Looking is for free. You have a nice beard”, but it never comes. When I ask for the price of things, I’m actually given the real price and not one that requires thirty minutes of haggling to drag down to a level that doesn’t require me to pimp out Tough Guy for a night to pay for it.  The women – far from being the brow-beaten stereotypes – are completely insane. The lumo-coloured, tie-dyed  shawls they wear a clear indication that they intend to make up for the lost years of fashion in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s and combine them all into one cataractic combo. Bra’s will be burned. And to match their plucky outfits they pack a tenacity that is, at times admirable and at others just exhausting. But never dull. And always combined with tea.

So it is with an odd mix of relief and sadness that I leave these sandy shores. This place has at least been an extremely pleasant surprise. The landscapes of the Sahara (that dominates ninety percent of the country’s landmass) are as surprisingly varied and colourful as the people within them. While I’ve definitely had to examine my own prejudices while I’ve been here, I still haven’t quite been able to rid myself of that sinking feeling in my stomach every time a car load of turban-shrouded men has come hurtling in my direction. And this is a feeling I will not miss.

Life in the Sahara

Baked meringue topping as far as the eye could see. It would have looked deliciously edible if my stomach was not suffering the explosive effects of an errant carrot. Not ideal in the middle of the Sahara desert, sure. But then not much about the world’s largest desert is ideal. The small number of creatures that have managed to call it home all have a gritty aura about them. The hardened black beetles that tattoo the virgin dunes with their footprints stop at your feet and look up at you as if to say “Hey! You’re a dick!”. The unlucky crows that have somehow landed here from the back of some old trading frigate seem to know that their brothers elsewhere on the planet just have it so much better. Tufts of grass like steel wool house hardy grey grasshoppers and the occasional gecko.  Small, unlikely pockets of life have sprung up all over the Sahara and – begrudgingly –  have adapted to these harsh and unforgiving conditions. The same certainly cannot be said of myself and Tough Guy. My headache, thirst and abdominal fireworks were not the signs of an organism that had mastered its environment.

And yet it had all started so peacefully. It was just going to be one – heck, maybe two – days in the ancient Islamic town of Chinguetti. I would stock my camera with images of this crumbling thirteenth century town, Tough Guy would have his annual fill of culture taking in the thousand-year-old manuscripts kept in the six local libraries and we would both have a bartering chip with extremists by stating that we had been to the seventh holiest city of Islam. Whether this would carry greater kudos than visiting the eighth holiest city, we were unsure. Or, for that matter, how exactly this religious rating system is done in the first place. Does Hanover Park, for example, bring up the rear at twelve-thousand-and-fourth? We attempted to extract these answers from the local scholar-cum-librarian. Unfortunately, all he could keep telling us was how quickly Mauritanian women put on weight after you marry them. And so it was from the rooftops of these locations of such millennia-old sage knowledge that the silver-caramel dunes of the surrounding Sahara called to us. “Dave and Tough Guy,” they seemed to say in a whispy hypnotic voice “Come to my bosom. I am unfathomably vast and enticing, edgy and a little dangerous. I span the breadth of a continent and etch over the borders of thirteen countries. I may house some Islamic extremists and induce chaos in most nations I touch, sure. But hey, c’est la vie? You know you want to…” And she was right. She cut to the core of me, that old rascal. For one thing was undeniable – that desert has a peculiar hypnotic pull.

So there we found ourselves. Not as much in her bosom as between her toes. Tricked. And yet, despite suffering all these ailments, that experience in the Sahara was nothing short of spectacular. The endless shapes cut by the dunes in the early morning light, the impossibility of the night skies above us, the view of an oasis after hours of nothingness, the penis-shaped footprints left by the camels. But above all else: the silence. No crickets, no mosquitoes, no cars, no dogs barking, no electrical hum of a completed circuit. Just a vacuum. At night it really feels like all life but your own has ceased to exist. But with the rising of the sun, the hardy creatures of the Sahara continue to eke out their existence. Some quite successfully – like the desert fox. Others less so – like Dave McAlpine. And most of the others somewhere in between – like the desert hare that sheepishly bolted behind the nearest dune as soon as it saw us. I fear the poor bugger must have eaten the same carrots as I did.

  

 

And now the coup de grace...

  

The Mines of Mauritania

We left Morocco and entered an active mine field. And I don’t mean this in any metaphorical sense. The gutted, charred carcasses of old vehicles were quite literal. We had entered the infamous 3km no-mans land that exists between the Moroccan and Mauritanian border posts and it was an unnerving place. The thin film of cloud bleached the sky and landscape alike creating a Mad Max-like apocalyptic feel to it. What was distinctly unapocalyptic about it, however, was the care-free herd of wild camels that nonchalantly strutted in amongst these primitive explosives - blissfully unaware that every two-toed footprint may be its last. We asked our taxi-driver – who may or may not have been Ben Kingsley taking time off from making Santam ads – to stop so that we might behold the frankly awesome spectacle of a camel being blown to smithereens. But he wasn’t keen. I think he had seen it all before.

So from our very first moment in Mauritania it became apparent that the comfortable but somewhat unexciting journeys we had made around Morocco were no more. The Mauritanian border official who processed our paperwork hinted as much. After swatting away swarms of flies that seem to have materialised out of nowhere the minute we left Morocco and chasing a toothpaste-eating goat from the entrance to the hut, he finally attended to us. As his official stamp hit the plush page of the passport – the point of no return – he didn’t offer the usual immigration jargon of “Welcome”, “Enjoy your trip” or even the stoney silence of bureaucrats who know they are, in fact, your daddy. No, he looked us straight in the eye and, with no discernible tone to his voice, ominously muttered the words “Good luck”. I don’t think people skills are big in this neck of the desert.

We soon found out what he meant, though. Our first journey within Mauritania – to the desert town of Atar – had no roads linking it to the grimy coastal hovel of Nouadhibou. It did have a train though. Good news. At 2,3kms the longest train on the planet, in fact. Better news. But it’s not designed to carry humans. Not such good news. It is a train created exclusively to collect vast quantities of iron ore, eviscerated from the bowels of the Sahara, and lug it to the coast to be exported. Probably to Russia. They seem to like iron ore. And it seems that they accept payment in the unlikely form of Soviet condensed milk. Tins of which ply the shelves of every shop, household and dingy coffee den. It seems the Cold War has found an unusual outlet in Africa in the form of confectionary. Its unsurprising that it’s not produced locally as Mauritania has no industrialisation to speak of, so all it can rely on to fill its sandy coffers are its sparse natural resources consisting almost exclusively of iron ore and fish. Tinned sardines can only do so much to stimulate a nation’s economy so this ore forms the backbone of what pays the salaries of the vast armies of gendarmes manning the roadblocks. And reserves of it are apparently dwindling fast. This was in no way apparent as we found ourselves in an one of the thousands of open-air iron ore carriages, hurtling through the Sahara towards the vast mines of the intimidatingly-named Zouerat . We had imagined golden dunes slipping by, universes visible beyond the untainted starry sky, man-love. What we got instead was iron ore dust which not only blocked out all in its path but also managed to penetrate every bodily orifice imaginable.  We emerged after thirteen gritty hours looking like the workers of Zouerat and feeling like one of the camels of no-mans land. After they had stood on one of those mines.

       

      

   

Morocco Roundup

Our time in Morocco has drawn to a close as we cross our first border into Mauritania tomorrow. Its really been quite an experience on every level. With landscapes as unpredictable as the meat hanging in the local markets, the bizarre tussle between their ancient way of life and the unstoppable march of modernity and a host of characters both generous and horrific, it certainly has never been boring.

So here are just some of the highlights of the last 4 weeks. Tough Guy has managed to put a little movie together so go check it out on his blog page 'South with Scott' which I have link to on this page.

Just a quick thank you to everyone who has generously donated to our Key School fund. Especially Timeless Tents and Netherwood for their continuing support of our trip and of autism. But we've still got a long way to go so if anyone has any ideas or contacts we can get hold of who may be interested in what we're doing. it would really be appreciated.

So without further ado...

Trip Statistics

Monies raised to date for Key School: R7300

Modes of Transport: 4 (grand taxi, bus, train, feet)

Mileage: 3211km

Tea Consumption:  320 cups (1cup/10.3km - efficient)

Peaks: 3 (Jebdel Toubkal 4200m, Jebdel El-Kest 2750m), found 5 dirhams on the floor.

Troughs: McAlpine's cartogrpahy. Tough Guy's French. Moroccan peak socialising hour: 01:00. Flashed by the village loon (he also kissed Tough Guy's head).

Things thrown at us: 3 (banana, bottle, brick)

Long Drops Used: 9,  Successfully: 1

No. of dirhams swindled: 250 (conservative estimate)

Times addressed as "my friend": 272

Actual friends made: 2

Public Bathhouses visited: 1

Verucas contracted: 2,5

Favourite Quotes

McAlpine (to Tough Guy): "I'm realising more and more how great it is you came on the trip. Splitting costs is cheaper than I could have imagined."

Snake-charming hype man: "Behold the squirrel! Fiercest and most well-known enemy of the snake!"

Polish women: "When I was in Western Sahara, I had a chicken tagine. But, the meat was not like anything I had ever tasted. Also, I had not seen any chickens. What I had seen lots of, were seagulls. I believe I had a seagull tagine. I was sick for days."

Favourite Pics

 

                  

Western Sahara

       

The days of plenty are behind us. Gone are the hazey aromas of the tagines, fist-sized gooey dates, the markets exploding like a fruitarians wet dream. They disappeared gradually together with the sparsening of the foliage and the replacement of ‘Stop’ signs with those simply showing a camel in mid-stride. Even the local wildlife has had to adapt or die. Entire herds of goats are seen nesting in the highest branches of the occasional tree – the mystery of how their hoofs became apposable still to be solved. The butcheries no longer tell you what kind of meat they’re displaying. Its gastric Russian roulette out here. You see, we have crossed the threshold from Morocco into Western Sahara and the two are absolute worlds apart.

Firstly, this is perhaps the only place on earth where our Green Mamba passports are not scorned and scrutinised for signs of forgery but, au contraire, afford us a kind of VIP status. The reason for this is that Western Sahara was actually a completely different country from Morocco in the past – administered by Spain as ‘The Spanish Sahara’ for most of the 20^th century, while the rest of Morocco ate baguettes with the French . Then after the Spanish decided that the 70’s were just too groovy for colonisation they gave it up only for Morocco to promptly invade and, in the words of our right-wing Saharawi host “took our sand, took our women and, yes, even took our phosphate!” While the rest of the world has largely ignored this for the past 20 years, our government has stood by the little guys and championed freedom for these turban-clad individuals. It is, I suppose, a bit of a sad irony that the Saharawi here revere us as South Africans to such an extent as to offer us free nights in hotels and an extra baklava at the end of our meals, while hardly any of us know that Western Sahara even exists.

The other differences are everywhere. Some small: the people speak Spanish instead of French, khaki military uniforms are everywhere, more road blocks, more donkeys, more sand, less cats. Other changes are enormous:  the people here drink coffee instead of tea. This shakes the very foundation of Moroccan society where every street corner has at least three tea-shops, always full with patrons fervently decanting tea back-and-forth between their glass and the pot. Every Moroccan gives a different, increasingly implausible reason as to why this is done.

“It is for good filter”

“For flavour – strong like the desert!”

And the least logical: “For strength – for you and your wife in the night”

The truth, I suspect, is simply to draw out this sacred ritual of consuming sickly-sweet minty tea they hold so dear. And, in doing so, get the most bang for their buck. So in their absence, everything we thought we knew about Moroccan society has come crashing down. And with it almost our entire Arabic vocabulary – all of which related to the foam a good tea-pourer makes. Now all we can converse about is flatulence.

There have also been other weird curiousities around. The seaside village of Tarfaya is a good example. An ancient building sits in the middle of the surf, halfway out to sea. The entire shore is lined with hundreds of thousands of washed up miniature purple jelly-fish. The most translated French book in history ‘Le Petit Prince’ was written there and the only museum for 500kms is the one dedicated to him. Old men in white jelabas ride donkeys up-and-down the streets. People keep their goats within their houses, locked up behind five metre high concrete walls. They are clearly aware that, like everything else in these parts, these creatures are just not like all the other kids.