Hitching with Mauritanian Military

We waited all day on the side of the road, determined to reach Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania, via hitchhiking. Plenty of taxis, asking exorbitant fares, stopped for us. Busses came too, lowering their rates from $42 to $24, but we still resisted. At 5:00, I wandered into the desert, looking for a camp spot. After finding the perfect spot, I headed back, only to find that Susan and Jonathan had scored a ride.
A man dressed in camouflage was loading their bags into the trunk of his old Mercedes. He greeted me with English and a strong handshake. I sat in the front seat. Just before he started the car to leave, he changed his mind, went to his trunk, grabbed something and returned. He casually set a handgun down on the console between us. He didn’t say a word about it or look at me for my reaction, just started the car and started driving.

Yahya

Yahya Mohamed was a middle-aged captain and skydiver for the Mauritanian army. His tone could shift from goofy to stern in a heartbeat. He was the kind of persistent storyteller that could even shut Jonathan and I up. A couple of weeks before, he had skydived into the stadium in Nouakchott for the 50th Independence Day celebration, something that James had actually attended and had told us about. The military had sent him to America a few years ago to learn to skydive. He said he always thought that he hated America and Americans, until he spent a few months there. He still has his issues with America itself, but thinks the people are good, but a bit quirky. He had an American girlfriend once, that he got in a fight with because he re-gifted a bird she had given him. He gave it to a friend who passed it on to his own girlfriend, and when Yahya’s girlfriend found out she was livid, and demanded he re-obtain the bird. He couldn’t understand why.
We learned all of this before our first stop about thirty minutes later, when Yahya said he needed to stop for tea and prayer. We pulled off into the dirt, next to an empty hut made of sticks. He grabbed his gun as he got out. We offered to make the tea while he prayed and he agreed, wondering if we would really know what we were doing. After praying, he asked if we would like to shoot his gun. Jonathan was raised with guns. I had never shot a gun before, and was curious, but nervous. Susan, had never shot a handgun, so he let her try first. She emptied the clip, barely missing the can that Yahya had set up in the dirt. Jonathan continued to work on the tea. He reloaded the clip and let her try again. I was surprised that we could do this so close to the road. The tea was then ready, and I was disappointed to have missed my turn. Yahya tastes the tea, says it is not true Mauritanian tea, but forces it down anyway, something he must have learned about politeness in America.




Over the next couple of hours, Yahya talked enthusiastically, telling us hilarious stories about his own travels, and intense or sad stories about military combat. He had spent time stationed near the border with Mali, and told us about spats with terrorists and friends who had died. He told us about a recent drug plane that was intercepted by the military. The plane was carrying Colombian coke and was unloading somewhere in the remote desert. He told us about the recent outbreak of disease in the camel population in the Adrar region, which explained why we hadn’t eaten any camel since our second day in Mauritania. He told me if I ever see a crazy looking camel, bleeding from it’s nose, to get away from it. I flashed back to our day in Atar, walking out of town when I had seen a camel running from behind us. As it passed I had noticed blood streaming out of its nose, and a man was chasing it desperately.
Yahya was going all the way to Nouakchott to visit his young daughter from his first marriage, but would not go all the way in one day. He said he had a place for us to stay for the night if we were interested. We didn’t really have much of a choice, but he had earned our trust, and it seemed like the obvious way to go.
We arrived in Akjoujt the first town since Atar, and Yahya stopped at a small shop. We waited in the car as kids crept closer and started tapping on the windows and asking for money. He came back with a bag full of raw chicken, sandwiches and cokes to go around, waving the kids off as he got in. I don’t think I have ever appreciated Coca-Cola in America, or would ever want to, but in Mauritania it is the most pleasurable of guilty pleasures.
We drove through the town and continued for half an hour before turning off the side of the road. He said we were going to his place where his wife is. He told us that he works back in Atar, but he seems like the kind of guy that splits his time between many places. We continued in the dark along a series of dirt roads that were barely visible at points. It seemed like he was just hurling us through the desert aimlessly. Then he stopped and admitted he was lost. We meandered back toward the main road, and started again. He got lost again, but quickly recovered. Eventually we reached a small group of large white tents and we parked in the sand.
When I got out, it seemed silent, except for some barely audible murmurs. Yahya led us into one of the tents, and his wife was already waiting inside, preparing mint tea. The floor was lined with soft carpet, and luxurious pillows formed a rectangle along the edges. We took our shoes off before entering, and then stretched our tired bodies out on the carpet and pillows. Yahya’s wife served the tea, then disappeared. She returned thirty minutes later with an enormous platter of fried chicken and fries. This pleasant surprise further proved my point that Mauritania has less of a gastronomic identity than any country I have ever been to. The four of us (not Yahya’s wife) feasted, and then had more tea. After, Yahya said he would take us to where we would be sleeping. We got back in the car, but we were stuck in the sand. Jonathan, Susan and I couldn’t push hard enough, so Yahya rousted up a few young guys from a nearby tent, and we were able to make it out.
We drove through some more dirt/sand roads, and I was completely disoriented by the time we arrived at a little concrete hut. I don’t really know what this place was, but Yahya had the key. Like the tent, it had carpet and pillows on the floor, though nowhere near as comfortable. He said he would be back at ten in the morning, and that we should be ready.
We woke early and even had time to make some tea before Yahya arrived. But then he didn’t show up until noon, looking a little ragged. “I need some tea!” he said, as got out of the car. So we relaxed a little more and had another round of tea. Yahya seemed in no rush, even though we were only a third of the way to the capital and half the day was already spent.

Yahya wants us to try on his skydiving suit

We hit the road again, but Yahya desired more tea after a couple of hours. So we pulled off the road, found a tree, laid a blanket under it and took a siesta, Mauritanian style.
Back in the car, I was sitting in the front seat, and had started to doze. All of a sudden, I woke to a fat white man blabbering into my open window. We had stopped due to some sort of road construction and the man at the window, I think, was overseeing the operation. He was middle-aged, wearing lots of khaki and had a red face with a South African accent, though he said he was born in England. Although he was probably what I would consider a exploiter of the continent, a business man with a feeling of superiority over the blacks, he had me from sleeping to laughing in about three seconds. It was like he hadn’t spoken English/to a white person in years, and he needed to tell all the stories he could in the 2 minutes we would be stopped. I was lost in a haze, but I caught bits about Nigerian prostitutes in Mali, weird things from the nightclubs in Nouakchott, and tales from working construction throughout Africa. This guy was dirty, and I hated him, but at the same time, it was such a bizarre interaction that I thoroughly enjoyed. He just represents another segment of Africa’s…weirdness to put it lightly.
We started to pass through more military and police checkpoints. Yahya always played his “Captain card” to get us through without incident. He said if he didn’t do that they would be making up things that he had done wrong to extract bribes from him.



Somehow we reached Nouakchott in the same day. We pulled into the parking lot of the stadium, and Yahya passed us off to Mohamed, the young guy who we would stay with in the capital. I had arranged for us to stay with him through the website Couchsurfing. We said goodbye to Yahya and thanked him profusely for all of his generosity.
Mohamed lived in an unfinished home in a developing upscale neighborhood outside of the center of Nouakchott. He works as a painter and we weren’t sure if this was his home, or just one that he was living in while he worked to finish the interior. There was electricity, lots of space, luxuries like satellite television and internet, but no running water. We were surprised to find that he was actually from Morocco, and not just Morocco, but Guelmim, that black spot on our map where we had been ripped off on our donkey purchase and I had been robbed of my laptop. We made tea and Mohamed cooked us a dinner of past. We promised to make him dinner the next day, since I had noticed the tajine pot in his kitchen. That night we were attacked by mosquitoes in a more annoying and relentless way than I ever had experienced before. At 2 in the morning our patience wore out and we set up our tents in the living room.

Living room tents at Mohamed's

Our days in Nouakchott were not fun. They were busy and filled with the essential errands that come with being in a capital after spending weeks in the bush, and planning to move on to the next place. We didn’t really know where we would go next, but we wanted to get out of Mauritania for Christmas, and our visa was wearing thin anyway. It would either be Senegal, Gambia, Mali, or Guinea Bissau for Christmas. We all had different desires, and we had to weigh everyone’s wants and needs accordingly. Jonathan wanted Guinea Bissau for the coast and cheap beer. Susan wanted to go to Mali, as it was the one country she really wanted to go to in West Africa and she was running out of money. There was also consideration of The Gambia as there are many resorts there and we could potentially find work for the holidays. I didn’t want to go to The Gambia because I would be the only one of us to have to pay for a visa ($40 isn’t too steep, but it is the principal) plus it would be very expensive if we didn’t find work. We also didn’t know if Susan would have to pay for a visa for Senegal. Americans, Canadians and European Union citizens don’t have to pay, but there was a rumor that Senegal still hasn’t gotten the message that Czech Republic is actually in the EU. For Susan, the cost of getting to our Christmas destination was of the utmost importance. Jonathan and I had spent hours figuring out every different route from Nouakchott to the capitals of Mali, Senegal, Gambia and Guinea Bissau, and the approximate costs and time for each one. Of course, we would try to hitchhike, but we still weren’t sure how well it would work with the three of us. We figured we would split up into two groups, and race to the destination.
So, our first errand was to the Senegalese embassy to get the scoop on what they would charge Susan to enter. It turned out that a one-month visa was $70, and a three day transit visa was about half that. The one-month visa was probably a quarter of her remaining cash, so it basically made our decision for us, since we would have to go through Senegal to get to any of the countries except for Mali. At least we enjoyed the Senegalese restaurant across from the embassy. Next it was off to the Malian embassy, but they were closed already. We would have to come back the next day. Next we were off to the hospital to get Susan’s Yellow Fever vaccine, proof of which is essential to enter most African countries. Unfortunately, though, they said we had to get there before noon (it was 5:00), and that the two shots necessary are given a day apart. Susan was starting to feel sick and insisted on going home alone, while Jonathan and I hit the market to shop for stuff for dinner. We got some goat meat and the prices were high because camel was off-limits due to the disease. When we were buying the vegetables, a spat broke out between the woman selling them and a woman buying. The woman buying took revenge by pointing at every vegetable and telling us the real prices of each one. I had never had this happen before, but it was hilarious, and she saved us at least a few dollars.
Back at home, I was half-surprised to find Yahya sitting there with Susan and Mohamed. Yahya had seen Susan as she was heading home. He said there was a man following her closely that she hadn’t noticed. He didn’t seem very happy with us letting her go out alone. We wanted him to stay for dinner, but it took too long and he was getting angry phone calls from some woman and had to leave before it was done.

Our beautiful tajine, and baguettes...unfortunately the round Moroccan breads are tough to find here.

Susan's dinner option of rice and bananas...an upset stomach

That night, Susan said she had started to consider turning around and heading to England to work. I thought this was the only sane thing to do. After the cost of the Malian visa, another visa to return through Mauritania, and the cost of getting from Morocco to Europe, she would have very little money to work with (and anything but hitchhiking would be out of the question). I wouldn’t imagine proceeding in her state, and she was starting to come to terms with this being the only logical option.
In the morning, Susan got word that her mom had agreed to lend her some money, which she had asked for weeks before and had been told no. So it was off to the Malian embassy. While we were filling out our forms, Susan made friends with some Spanish guys that were also heading that direction. They said they were leaving for Bamako, the capital of Mali, the next day and might have some room for us in their vans. We said we would talk when we came to pick up the visas later that day. Then it was off to the hospital for that vaccine. It took some patience, but we finally managed the first in the 2-part series. I paid about $100 for the shot two years before, but here, it was only $4, as the government subsidizes it.
Back at the embassy, the Spanish guys told us that they had room and if we wanted to go we would have to meet us at their guesthouse at ten the next morning. It would be a tight squeeze, as Susan couldn’t get the second vaccination until 9:00 the next morning. It was also difficult for me, as I was having money issues. Apparently my bank had cancelled my ATM card, saying it was “compromised”. I think this means that I had withdrawn money from a country they had never heard of, so they shut it down. Now I was waiting for my new one to be sent to me. It was supposed to be sent to Nouakchott, but at the last minute I found that it would not arrive in time, so I waited to see if I could have it sent to Bamako.
So in the morning, Yahya picked us up early to help us with our crazy schedule. He dropped Jonathan and I off in the banking district, then went on with Susan to strong arm his way into getting her vaccine in an efficient way. Jonathan withdrew money for the two of us, then we went and haggled with the black market money changers so we could get some francs (CFA) for Mali. We met up with them at the guesthouse, where the caravan was waiting. They followed us to Mohamed’s house to pick up our bags. We said rushed goodbyes to Mohamed and Yahya, promising to come back to see them when we came back to Mauritania.
I was in the front seat of Blai’s big Renault truck with Jonathan. Blai’s companion, Ignazi, had moved into the front of Felix’s Mercedes van and Susan had climbed into the back of it. We would meet later with Alejandro in his Mercedes van, carrying a couple of Polish hitchhikers. I was disappointed to have blown through Nouakchott in a rush, failing to see the beach, the fish market, or discover some interesting quirks on my own. But when you get an opportunity to get a direct ride with some good people to a country that has always been on your short list, then there’s really no real choice.

Oasis (not the band)

On our last day in Chinguetti, we woke early and packed up. Abdullahi arrived at the garden to observe the collapsed well some more. We thanked him for his help, but he did not return the thankyou. We asked if he knew anybody that would be going back to Atar that day. He had told us at the beginning that he would try to help us get a ride back or at least a good deal on a taxi. Now he seemed completely uninterested in helping us get a good price. We spent most of the morning and afternoon trying to get a taxi fare that matched or beat the 1,000 UM price that we had paid to get there. Abdullahi watched silently as we argued over the prices.
We didn’t leave until three o’clock, although we did get the fare we were looking for. It crawled. The taxi was packed to the gills and halfway there we got a flat tire.

This part of Mauritania looks a little like Arizona

We got to Atar as night crept in, unsure of our plan. We had wanted to move in the direction of the capital, Nouakchott, and stop in another oasis town. We stopped into an internet café to catch up on things. I used Google maps to look at a satellite image of Atar. I found where the wadi made the nearest edge of town, and we headed that direction. A little investment in technology and we were going to sleep on the cheap.
It was an hour of walking out of town before we felt far enough away to duck into an alley and make our way into the dry river bed. We tucked into some bushes among soft sand to hide ourselves. Though I knew from experience that even if you seem hidden, if you arrive in the dark, you probably aren’t.
We woke to the sound of a large truck. I peered over a bush and saw a water truck pumping water out of the wells that had been dug into the riverbed. I think they were aware of us, but never let on that they did.
Out on the road, we had our thumbs out enthusiastically, trying to get to Terjit, a tiny oasis village with warm and cold springs. The thought of dipping our cracked bodies into cool fresh water made us crazy. We tried to hitch for a couple of hours before giving in to a guy heading there in his pickup truck. His offer of 1,000 Ouguiya per person was less than any taxi and it would be more comfortable. Even still, it was half the distance that Chinguetti was, and we paid the same price.
Arriving at the oasis, we were surprised to see a convoy of nice SUVs at the entrance. We were also surprised at the price. They wanted 1,500 ($6) to spend the day, 1,500 to spend the night, and 1,000 for a “visit”. I asked what a visit, and the man told me it is to come in, look at the water, take a picture and leave. This was ridiculous, so we left the oasis and cooked a meal between the entrance gate and the village. Some children came around to watch us out of curiosity, or because the men from the oasis had told them to check on what we were doing. While I finished up the cooking, Jonathan and Susan searched around for a camp spot. Jonathan didn’t find anything that was concealed, but Susan came back with news of a beautiful spot. We ate as we watched the middle-aged foreigners pack into their SUVs and file out of town. Probably embassy workers on a weekend outing. We didn’t even know we were near a weekend.
After eating, Susan led us up a steep trail to our gorgeous Cliffside dwelling overlooking the village. It was indeed a magnificent spot, save for the fact that we could see the entire village, meaning they could all see us. Jonathan and I didn’t like this, but Susan didn’t see the problem. It wasn’t a matter of security, but of ruffling feathers in a town that is used to making money off of tourists. We decided to bank on the nomad culture being accepting of our style.

The view from our camp spot

As we sat there enjoying the view, we heard someone yelling to us. We acknowledged them, but couldn’t understand them. We decided to wait for them to come to us if our camp spot was not kosher.
Sure enough, after about ten minutes a few people approached. Two cute kids, an old man, a young man and a young woman. I considered the young man with light skin, a light-brown beard wearing a billowing blue robe and turban and carrying a walking stick. The girl, with light skin and light eyes wearing flowing cloth that covered all but her face. I puzzled over there confusing appearance for a moment before the young man said, “y’all Americans?” with a slight drawl. Taken aback I said yes, and proceeded by saying, “salaam alaykum,” continuing with the traditional greetings and handshakes. He continued in English and we revealed our identities slowly. Us as a few travelers from completely different backgrounds hoping to camp on this cliff, them as 18-year-old American twins, James and Hannah, doing a couple of weeks of cultural immersion before spending a year volunteering for their parent’s organization in the capital. They had actually spent the first nine years of their life in Mauritania, and they speak fluent Hassaniya, the local dialect of Arabic. The old man and kids they were with were from their host family. They said that the man had invited us to stay with them as it would be more comfortable for us than sleeping in the elements on the side of the cliff. We thanked him for the offer, but said we preferred to sleep here instead. He said he would not charge us, even if we wanted to stay a month. We agreed on spending the next night at his place. We chatted with the Americans for a little longer before they told us that we were invited to dinner at their host family’s place. We climbed back down with them and we were welcomed to the home with some sweet mint tea. I tried to glean as much insight into Mauritania as I could from them, as I hadn’t met any English-speakers since Eric, our Liberian friend from the first day in the country. I told them about our situation with working in Chinguetti, and how relationship with Abdullahi had changed so quickly in a week. Like we had expected, they said it was probably because we were acting in the role of the black moors. They said that Mauritania has a strong culture of gift-giving, and that in our situation, if we had not wanted to be treated like the black moors, then we should have participated in the gift-giving that Abdullahi had initiated with bread, tea and cigarettes.
Tea turned into dinner, and we continued to talk. They felt bad for neglecting their “cultural immersion” but like us, they seemed starved for someone to talk with in English. The meal was a starch party on a big platter. A mushy mix of macaroni, beans, and potatoes with little spice beyond what I assumed was the ubiquitous MSG Maggi cube of chicken bouillon. They told us the history of their parents’ organization, starting in the ‘80’s doing food relief and health education programs. James was now working with boys that had been sent from their villages to Koran schools in Nouakchott, and were essentially made into beggars. He told us that this is a recent trend in West Africa, and the poor people send their children, thinking it will be a good opportunity for their boys, but the schools usually just send the kids into the street to fend for themselves. They told us that their best friend’s dad was the one who had been killed by a terrorist a year and a half prior. I didn’t press them to find out if he was indeed an evangelizer as I had read. They explained the role of slavery in today’s Mauritania. As I had assumed, it wasn’t the same kind of forced labor in awful conditions as westerners picture slavery to be. Sure, it is not ideal, but it has been part of the culture for hundreds of years, and in a lot of ways the slaves are treated like a part of the family and are attached to them in a way that makes it impractical to leave. I asked about those that do leave, and what kind of opportunities they will have. He said that it is possible for them to make a life for themselves post-slavery, but of course it is hard. They will still be doing manual labor for low wages, resulting in a situation better if only because of the title as a free man.
After dinner, the family built a fire for us, and we gathered around it with the kids. Susan brought out the drum and we started to play some music. We acted crazy, dancing, and singing. The American twins joined in. The hoopla seemed to shock the kids, but they enjoyed it. We knew that the noise was echoing off the surrounding cliffs, and hoped that the village could forgive us.



In the morning, we relaxed over coffee as we took in the view of the village some more. Jonathan and Susan played some drum and tin whistle. I had made enough noise the previous night. Jonathan played a shrill version of the Star Spangled Banner for all of Terjit to enjoy.

My bed in Terjit

After packing and putting our bags in the home of our American friends, we headed toward the oasis. We paid for our full day of lounging and made our way toward the water. Jonathan and I spent most of the day lounging in the warm pool that was formed where a stream met the hot spring, occasionally jumping into the cold pool. The water was shallow and we had to lay low to get the full effect of the warmth. Susan went off wandering for an hour to who knows where. While she was gone, a man from the gendarmerie came to ask us questions. We had no idea why, but we gave him all of our information. He asked where the girl was, and we said we didn’t know, but pointed in the direction she had wandered. We knew he would never find her, and sure enough, he came back ten minutes later, not saying a word to us.
Later, we watched as a tour group came through for the 1000 Ouguiya “visit”. They took some pictures of the water, wandered for 20 or 30 minutes and left. I couldn’t understand the point of coming to this place and not swimming, but to each his own.
That night we brought some gifts to Ali, the man of the house that James and Hannah were staying at. They had advised us that it would be a good idea, to be correct in this gift-giving culture. We brought tea, sugar, pasta and some couscous.

The "tikit" we slept in that night.

We shared another starchy meal with more conversation about Mauritania. After dinner, Ali asked Susan (who has nursing experience) if she would look at his son’s finger, which was in bad shape after taking a beating in school. It had been festering for a couple of weeks, and Susan said that if she didn’t do something to it, he would lose it. She even considered telling them to send him to the hospital in Atar, but decided that she could probably do enough to save it as long as they kept it wrapped and clean for the next week.
The family, the Americans, Jonathan and I crowded around while Susan sliced away folds of gangrenous skin and the entire nail. The child screamed and tried to pull his hand away as his siblings and father just laughed at his pain. It was intensely painful for me to watch, but the unconcerned and upbeat nature of the family kept me at ease, reminding me that this is just life. Pain. Laugh at it or you lose.
Jonathan gave the family his antibiotic ointment, and I gave them my only set of antibiotic pills. When Susan finished, the boy wiped the tears from his eyes and started to giggle. Susan showed James and Hannah what was necessary to clean the finger, and told them to tell the family that if it wasn’t kept clean he would lose his finger. Of course, it was now all up to the boy, his family, and partly the James and Hannah to decide whether the finger was worth saving. The next morning we were disappointed to see the boy digging into his breakfast with his injured hand, getting his finger and the wrapping covered in mush.
After the operation, the kids requested that we play some more music, even though Hannah had told me they thought we were pretty rowdy the night before. They made us tea as we passed around the drum and tin whistle. James, Hannah and Jonathan united around their religious upbringings, belting out gospel songs and church hymns. The kids got hopped up on the tea, though and got a little rowdy themselves. Ali came out and put a stop to it, directing his anger toward his kids, though we knew it was probably time for all of us to pack it in.
In the morning, I got a ride from Terjit out to the highway with some Germans. They only had room for one, so Jonathan and Susan stayed back as Ali had asked Susan to treat one of the child’s out of control ear infections.
The two German men had retired recently and were now off on a great adventure. Their destination was Chad, to see some mountain or something that was important to them for some reason. They would then go back through Niger and north through Algeria. Chad is one of the most difficult and restricted countries to travel in Africa, and I was impressed with their balls. Jonathan and I also have plans to go to Chad, but we know that if we do it will be expensive, complicated, dangerous, and probably not all that fun. Just adventure. I had faith in these guys completing their journey, though, as they seemed to have the right mix of African street smarts, ambition and ignorance (the good kind).
They dropped me off at the main road, where I waited for Susan and Jonathan. I had brought all their bags with me in case they needed to walk the 7 km to the road. Jonathan and Susan arrived an hour later. A taxi had picked them up, regardless of Jonathan’s insistence that they would rather walk than pay.
I was disappointed to find out that just before leaving, Ali asked Jonathan and Susan for 500 UM. They asked why and he said, “for the guesthouse.” This was surprising, since, from the start he had said we could stay for free. Additionally, we had given them expensive antibiotics, treatment of their children and tea, pasta, etc. Sure the 500 was not a lot to ask, but I felt that we had done plenty. I half-suspected that the Americans had actually brought us there, in order to extract money and gifts from us for the family. I would never be sure, but it would not have shocked me after Hannah had told me that the English she was teaching the local kids included phrases like, “give me a gift” and “give me a pen”. I am sure it came from the heart, but is begging really the best tool to teach?

Working in Chinguetti, Part II

During our week in Chinguetti we had many offers for similar gardening work, but we didn’t even want to consider it. The white moors don’t do manual labor, and the black moors at least have to be given enough food to sustain them. We were only getting one meal a day, and we were still sleeping outside.
Back in town, we were hanging out next to a shop when we decided to play a little music. We attracted a crowd of mostly children as I drummed and Susan and Jonathan played their recorder and tin whistle. Some of the older men cleared the kids away to get a better view of us. Everyone loved it and one men even gave Jonathan some cigarettes. Then a large, very stern man came up and asked me if I was a tourist. I gave him a vague answer. Then Jonathan whispered to me, “I think that guy’s 5-0”. He kept asking questions out of character of curious civilians, so we just responded in English, saying that we don’t speak French. It worked, and he eventually left us alone. We asked Abdullahi about him later, finding out that we was indeed a cop, and that he is crazy, but nothing for us to worry about.
Our first meal with Abdullahi was a delight. We did not eat at his guesthouse, but went with him to his home and ate with his family, all crowded around a large dish, eating with our hands. His darling young wife made a meal of rice with an onion sauce and a little bit of chicken. His three little children were adorable, and we stayed there long after dinner, drinking tea, and making music. Even though we weren’t making ideal wages, we felt that this kind of experience made it worth it.
The next four days were a constant challenge to get anything done beyond our four hours of work. We would try to get started by seven or eight to beat the heat of the day, but by the time we were finished, it was blazing, and we were beat. We also had to use this stationary period to do some badly needed clothes washing, further inhibiting our ability to explore the rest of the town.
In the beginning, Abdul would come by and bring us tea, bread and cheap smokes (at $.35 a pack they were easy to give away) for Jonathan and Susan. By the end, though, he had turned cold to us. Our dinners became sparse, and we would usually eat bread and jam when we got home because we were still hungry.
It wasn’t until the fourth day that we finally managed to explore the old town, the real draw of Chinguetti. We crossed the wadi, shook the aggressive trinket-hawking women and wandered deep into the mostly uninhabited stone ruins. Pictures should do it more justice than my descriptions.

The minaret of the Chinguetti Mosque, built in the 13th century, is the second oldest minaret in continuous use.

I apologize for the number of photos of the same mosque

Even here, satellites. Surprising

Anybody that still lived in the old town seemed to want us to join them for tea, but we avoided them, knowing that the tea would be tainted with sales pitches for jewelry and handicrafts. Unlike many historic areas, this place was not well-protected, allowing us to climb in, through, and up many of the abandoned buildings. We talked about ways that we could move into one of the more intact homes and squat there, allowing us to live without breaking our backs moving sand all day. We thought about visiting one of the four libraries in the old town that contained ancient Islamic scripts, but that we require finding somebody that held the key to them, and paying about $4 per person. Too steep for us.

Can you find Susan?

Before dinner, we had a tea invite from Abdul, a young black moor donkey driver (that donkey connection) that Jonathan and Susan had met the day before. He and his family were very fun to be around and we really liked the relaxed nature of their home. We told him to come to our garden the next day and we would prepare tea for him.

After dinner that night, we performed the tea-making for Abdullahi and his family, as we had been practicing to get it right. It is not a simple procedure, and there are many intricate steps to get it just right. The most difficult part is pouring the tea back and forth between the cups to get a foamy head that fills half the glass. We did it fairly well, though they seemed unimpressed, as getting it perfect every time is second nature to them.
During our conversation with Abdullahi that night, he told us that he had been married to his wife for six years. We asked how old they were, and he said he was 26, and she was 24. This was possible, but I doubted it as a few days back, he had told us that he had owned the guesthouse for ten years. Most likely he was near forty, and his wife was probably closer to twenty. Young girls getting married to much older men is common here, as in much of the world and I would not have been surprised if he had told me the truth. But I saw it as the same kind of lie as Jonathan and Susan tell about their “marriage”. Even if everyone knows it is a lie, it is easier to fib when dealing with people that don’t fully understand your culture.
On our last day of work, Abdullahi barely spoke to us. He came by around ten to look at the situation of the well. For the past few days there had been a black moor working on building a new wall along the stairs that lead down to the well (yes, stairs that lead down into the well). Abdullahi would usually come by to oversee him and move a stone here and there. The day before, though, there was some sort of accident, and the wall came crashing down into the well. We turned and watched as they observed the rubble as the dust settled. A few moments passed and they decided that meant the workday was done. So now they were back, casually trying to get the rocks back out of the well. I smiled on the inside, knowing that it was not my problem and we would be gone the next day.
After work, Abdul, the black moor donkey driver, came by for tea. We relaxed in our little hut while Jonathan prepared it. After so much time and effort on getting the tea just right, Jonathan was offended when Abdul tasted the first cup, but didn’t finish it. He said it needed more sugar. Jonathan fumed. Of course, in this part of the world it seems necessary to put in plenty of sugar, impossible to put in too much. The next two cups tasted perfect, though Jonathan was too annoyed to put the effort in to make the frothy head.

This guy's tea sucks!

Hangin' out in our hut.

Abdul, fellow donkey-driver

In case you wondered what I would look like after a week of digging sand.

When Abdul left, we forced ourselves to have some energy to walk to the next village, about three km away. When we got there, though, we decided not to explore the village, but play in the surrounding dunes instead. Running up dunes and rolling down them ensued. We tired ourselves out in our races before watching the sun go down. We walked through the village at dusk and admired their well-manicured date palm gardens. This tiny town couldn’t rely on tourism and therefore seemed much more skilled at date harvesting. The gardens in our oasis seemed decrepit compared to these.



We got completely lost in the dark on the way back, but seeing as it was a straight shot through sand to get back to our village, we just ended up in the wrong part of town. When we finally located ourselves, we made our way back to the garden and changed into our nicest, freshly washed, desert threads for our final dinner with Abdullahi.
We expected it to be at least a little bit of a cause for celebration. I know we were excited to be finished with our work, and we were actually proud of the progress we made. We hoped for some sort of gratitude from Abdullahi.
Nothing. Abdullahi hung out in another part of the house while we ate alone. His wife served us the most comical dish of my life. We were starving, and when she took the lid off the large plate, there sat nothing but plain couscous, with a single boiled carrot draped across the top. After she left us alone I burst out laughing. I am not the kind to expect any fancy food, especially when eating in a family’s home in a developing country, but this was obviously intentional. I might have been annoyed if it was just couscous, but the lone carrot on top, a sorry excuse for either garnish or vitamins, was just hilarious.
After dinner, one of the family boys came in to make us tea. The previous nights he was a lot of fun, and we would spend time drumming and dancing with him and his brothers. This night was different, though, and as he prepared the tea, I heard the dreaded word cross his lips discreetly, barely audible, “cadeaux?” I was shocked, and acted like I didn’t hear, hoping that I hadn’t. Abdullahi, or maybe his wife, had obviously told him that since we were leaving then he might as well ask. A few minutes later he said it again. We all ignored it. At some point, Abdullahi came in, seeming excessively tired. He layed down after exchanging a few words with us and eventually dozed off to sleep. We tried to say goodbye to him, but he did not respond, sleeping or at least pretending to.




We left, disappointed and confused by the direction our relationship with Abdullahi and his family had gone. We went to the only shop that remained open and bought some bread, as we were still hungry, but too tired to cook. We stayed up late, talking and trying to figure out what had gone wrong. We later found out (from some very knowledgeable young Americans living in Mauritania) that, as we had imagined, the more we acted like the black moor working class, the more we were treated in such a way. Maybe Abdullahi didn’t mean it intentionally, but just grew into treating us as he would normally treat anyone working for him. For this, it was worth the experience. I wouldn’t want to have done something wrong to lose the pseudo-friendship we had started with, so it was better this way. Not many people get to take a step into the shoes of the slave class in a country that still has slavery.