Mauritania - a retrospective of not a particularly 'Moorish' experience (- if you will excuse the weak pun!)

When I started writing 'A retrospective of Mauritania', I first considered leaving a blank space.

Then I thought to rather just write one sentence -- short and not so sweet:

Mauritania sucks

And then I looked at my notebook and saw what I had written and thought I had better try to put down some thoughts and impressions -- and let you make up your own mind.
So, here you are -- The land of the Moors gets a blog entry after all:


On the 9th of April, I woke up in the morning, unzipped my tent, stepped out, watched the sun rise over the sand dunes and wrote in my journal: What an incredibly beautiful morning!

We set off after breakfast and for the first couple of hours drove all along the coast -- the yellow and white and pink sand formations dropping down dramatically into the bluest of oceans, the horizon of the ocean barely discernible from the start of the azure blue sky. Almost the entire way was in the Parc National du Banc d’Arguin, considered to be one of the best bird sanctuaries in the world for bird watching --mas it is one of the main resting points for north/south/north migrating birds. We stopped mid-morning and looked down on the spectacular crashing waves below forming a dramatic backdrop for large flocks of terns, cormorants, gannets, petrels, guillemots, - and even a few albatrosses came across. I stood there and so wondered whether any of the Chateau Lalinde swans had ever come this way...

But -- then we hit Nouakchott. Overwhelmingly hot -- one of the hottest days ever, a vast sprawling mass of makeshift buildings, rags, rubbish, paper, plastic, lean-to's, derelict and pockmarked squat buildings, holes dug in the middle of the road, dust whirlwinds swirling about like children looking for mischief, mangy dogs scratching in the rubble, goats nibbling at everything, the wind blowing the hot air from around one corner and down the next alley, coming back on itself to grow into a hotter, stronger wind, flies, flies, flies, flies everywhere... Everyone seems hot and bothered. Emy and I had our cooking turn that night and ventured into the market for provisions. We walked past the dirt road where a riot of colour greeted us -- the area where the farbics and cloth and textiles are sold -- piles and piles and piles of every colour and design under the sun, as well as the piles of blue and white embroidered robes that the men wear. Emy had to drag me away for we only had an hour to go find food. We found a few stalls with a meagre selection of onions and tomatoes and mangoes and oranges and one single stall that had a handful of small cabbages, about six carrots, two capsicums and three beetroot. We bought everything she had. Then to find some meat. Through an area where we saw what happens to all the old clothing you donate to charity or give to your church or your local do-gooders with the idea that it will be sent to the poor and homeless and destitute somewhere in the world. Well -- I have news for you! It comes to the markets like this one in Nouakchott -- neatly arranged on trestle tables and sold at a price -- to the poor and homeless and destitute -- and there are many poor and homeless and destitute here in this big jumble of a city, as the upheaval and expulsion of thousands of 'non-arab' African Mauritanians in recent years have left the false 'vacancies' for many more thousands of rural Mauritanians to stream into the city -- where, as is the case so often with urbanisation, there is no housing, no jobs and no opportunities waiting for them.

Anyway -- the quest for meat. Dodging the rubbish tips, jumping over water puddles with rubbish lying in them, finding detours around the holes dug in the road/pavement/ filled with rubble, steering clear of the rusty cars and the swarms of flies, we discovered that we needed to follow the goats -- one of those might become our evening meal. Eventually we found the butcher -- on a makeshift trestle table, under a grass canopy, sticking out from under a goat's grimacing head and his innards and an inch-thick layer of flies, we noticed two skinned legs: Eureka! Leg of lamb for dinner tonight! (let's not be pedantic about the name of the meat, OK?) A little bit of a fracas between me and the butcher as to exactly which part of the animal I wanted, worrying about Emy who looked close to having a fainting spell, trying to keep an eye on the friend who was keeping one finger slipping onto the edge of the scale, insisting that the one kilo and two kilo and 500 gram weights were NOT all one kilo weights, but in fact different weights -- finally we walked off very proudly with an entire leg of lamb. And yes -- the end result proved it was indeed lamb -- the evening's dinner -- roast leg of lamb done over the open fire, stir-fry vegetables with a sweet and sour sauce -- it was a feast and well worth the nightmare shopping experience.

And nightmarish it was, let me assure you. A nightmare that continued when we left Nouakchott. As far as we drove, the result of the expulsion programme that started in 1989 painted a terribly miserable and bleak picture around us. Seldom have I been so affected by the misery of poverty and destitution as these miles and miles of desert dunes and dust and hopelessness unfolded in front of us. Mile after mile of little shacks and stuck together hovels in the red sand. Mile after mile of arid, unforgiving desert where no creature can possibly survive. No water. No power. No structure. No roads. Nothing other than heat and sand. I have seen poverty and have seen misery and I have seen circumstances where you wonder at the sustainability, but never have I seen anything as bleak and heartbreaking as this. I had promised Nici I would not despair when I realise - daily - that I cannot save all the children of Africa and I would not get depressed when I realise - daily - that I cannot save every animal from torture and maiming and cruelty and abuse -- but I apologise Nici, I have already not kept my promise -- you see, Mauritania was the place where I heard a small dog scream such a bloodcurdling scream of agony and where I saw a man hit a leg of his cart-pulling donkey so hard with his stick that he snapped and broke the donkey's leg right out from under him.

Of course there were good moments too. I even found such a good moment that I left a red button -- albeit a very small red button -- when, on the last night in Mauritania, Mark managed to find the first baobab tree for us to nestle up against for the night. -- How good was that to see our first baobab tree. If this ancient old creature could survive in this bleak and unforgiving dry cruel land, then so can I make the effort -- and to remember that there is always some good to be found...