Noaukchott is full of sand. Chinguetti in the desert was obviously full of sand. The train to Choum was full of sand. The road from Atar to Nouakchott was full of sand, at times I was wondering what the driver can see in front of us, there was only a milky creamy nothingness ahead. A sandfog.
Waiting for the departure to Chinguetti in Atar was a pleasant affair. I was invited to the back of the agency’s office where I could lie on carpets and drink neverending brewed tea. Hospitality of the people here is amazing.
The car from Atar to Chinguetti finally departed around 3pm, it’s back trunk full of things. There were two passengers sitting in the back of the truck: an Arab language teacher named Hafedh (“I’m now selling vegetables”) and I. I was sitting on Hafedh’s sack of onions (“all vegetables except carrots and all fruits in Mauritania are imported”), they smelled nice. We chatted.
It’s 83kms from Atar to Chinguetti, we made it in 1h30m, I paid 250UMR. It was fast drive. We climbed onto a plateau of about 600m above sea level in altitude. At a police stop a 3rd passenger joined us. Camels roamed around us. There was more dust on us.
Chinguetti is slowly being buried under sand. There are dunes surrounding buildings, their peaks as high as their roofs. The wind was blowing. There was sand everywhere.
I stayed at Auberge Rose des Sables, expensive at 600UMR, dinner of chicken and rice was 250UMR. There were no open restaurants in Chinguetti but there were faded signs reminding of a better past of the town’s tourist infrastructure. The auberge’s owner, Mr Cher, was friendly though a bit pushy towards his own business. I thought I’d stay there for 2 nights but it took me a couple of hours in town to realise that I can leave the next day. Chinguetti is apparently the most visited place in Mauritania after Atar. Atar gets direct flights from Paris and there are costly trips around the desert organised there. Mr Cher expected 8 people travelling through the desert on camels, a 5-day-trip. I wonder if I could stand sitting on a camel for an hour, not to mention a day.
Chinguetti is famous for islamic manuscripts, a sort of Tombouctou of Mauritania perhaps, there are signs for “bibliothèques” around town. They charge 100UMR to enter, I didn’t go. Once you are in the ancien ville everyone wants something from you: younger children want a cadeau, older people want you to buy something. This is not a pleasant feeling, knowing that all this is coming more from a desperation or boredom than from “being spoilt” by tourists; I saw only two other tourists that day. The cadeau children ask for is bonbon or a pen or writing pad and also for money although one teenage girl asked for a phone.
And in the end, there isn’t much to see in the old town, except derelict buildings, ruined walls and mosques. There are beautiful dunes on the horizon, you walk on the sand all the time. Everything is covered by the sand. The sand is being blown all over you. Even sitting in the auberge’s resting area under a roof I found myself constantly wiping the phone screen from dust.
The auberge was very basic, 2 narrow low beds and mosquito nets. No electric socket, WiFi paid extra 100UMR for 24hr access. The sand-swept desolation of the town is its biggest charm.
Mr Cher was telling me the only confirmed transport to Atar goes at 5 and 7am, anything later is unpredictable though there is “occasion”. There is no scheduled transport to Ouadane from Chinguetti but there is from Atar. Pity I only found out after I had my ticket paid for Nouakchott.
I left at 5am so that I could catch bus to Nouakchott, which also had to be reserved by Mr Cher. It was chilly. I drove with the same driver who took me to Chinguetti. He played Muslim prayers from his USB drive in the car. We stopped in the middle of nowhere for prayer. It was an otherworldly view, a group of people kneeling down on the sand, the only light blinking emergency light of the car. Soon another car stopped, a woman prayed a few meters away from men, alone.
The bus to Nouakchott was empty half of the way, looks like there are quite a few agencies running to Nouakchott. It was a beautiful ride but also dangerous, because we were in the sandfog. We stopped in some towns, I had a camel kebab and delicious bread with butter and of course tea, which another passenger paid for. We also lost a tyre in a very picturesque spot. I like stopping in the desert even if I sand grits in my teeth.
We got dropped in the Northern outskirts of Nouakchott. A taxi took me to auberge Menata, 600UMR for a room with shared bathroom, I had to bargain quite hard, the asking price was 800UMR. It’s a spacious but bare room with 2 clean beds and there is air-conditioner. The streets is half-covered in sand and there are stretches full sand-covered. The wind blows strong.
So strong that the ships cannot enter the port. So strong that a fisherman today complained to me that the daily catch is small. This or it’s simply overfishing of these rich waters. Where the fish goes I have no idea, next to my auberge there is a restaurant that has good value plat du jour for 80UMR, quite tasty rice and fish and the fish portion is rather small.
I know about the ships and ports because world is small and there is a cousin of mine in town! Well, husband of a cousin, who tracked me on Instagram and made a connection. The husband, Krzysiek, is coming regularly to Nouakchott, to unload the ships, he’s a crane operator. He’s been sitting in a hotel here with his 6 colleagues, all from Poland, for the last week waiting for ship to enter the port. Who would ever think such jobs exist and that the Poles could be the ones to do it in Mauritania. It was a nice meeting, I was bestman on his wedding, 23 years ago and that’s when I saw him and my cousin last… Easier to meet in Nouakchott than in Gdansk, 600kms away.
Nouakchott doesn’t look like a capital city but it’s a city nevertheless, so there is cafes and teas and also higher prices. And sand.
I stayed here 2 nights mainly because of the Mali visa that I wanted to get. I am still not sure if I will go to Mali, the journey to Bamako will be long and I will most likely have to go to and fro on the same route but let’s see. The music is tempting.
I walked a bit, I found a bookshop that had postcards, I found a quite confusing and overstaffed post office where every counter (!) had a bored assistant. I went to Central market, where someone shouted at me for taking photos, there was not much of interest there. I wonder if there is a sort of tourist market here but there is nothing in the guidebooks. I saw two shops with carvings and African attire and some wooden trinkets and ugly jewellery and that’s it.
In the late afternoon I want to the beach, la plage des pêcheurs, fishermen beach. It’s a quite atmospheric place. There is also a market, not very big but some of the fish there is big, one man told me the big ones that were on sale reach 30kg or more. Then on the shore there is tens or hundreds of colourful wooden boats. Quite a sight, also sometimes quite a smell. I was there at 5pm but the boats were already returned to the shore. Then there are more boats moored in the water. And the waves are crashing loud and the water is chilly and the sunset is creamy yellow. More people have come to the beach but it is a bit filthy beach with all the fish and fish scraps around and there is nowhere to sit but the sand. The guidebook mentioned cantines serving fried fish but I haven’t seen any. What a pity but I remember a lot of African Atlantic coast is like that: hauntingly beautiful and hauntingly empty of anything. This one at least was busy with fishermen.
On my way back I saw men drinking what looked like jus gingembre. They didn’t speak French, the lady selling the juice didn’t speak French so they said yes it’s jus gingembre but it wasn’t. One of the men told me in Bambara language the fruit is called tomono. The juice was refreshing and delicious and a bit thick and I had my suspicions that it’s made of baobab fruits.
And I confirmed it with the taxi driver on my way back. I also learned that in Wollof language the fruit is called guyi (transcription by truly yours), in Hassaniya it’s called tezhebakh and in Polar (?) language it’s called kwahe. Now I didn’t do any research on what Polar is but the driver claimed Poll people are all over Sahel but originate from Ethiopia. Please bear in mind the true name of the peoples name may be something completely else but that’s what I heard. I’ll find out. And how did the taxi driver know the juice. Of course I asked him to take a sip from my bottle and tell me. I have already been given water to drink from another taxi driver’s bottle in Nouadhibou and this is part of the world where when you share food with someone, they may give you tastier bits directly to your mouth, so there you go. Also, quite incredibly, two Mauritanians on the beach thought I’m one of them in my sunglasses and blue turban all over my head. Vous êtes comme Mauritan!
Alors!
PS Still no photos, internet situation is dire.
Coming back to Maman 