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?