Rosso, the main border crossing between Senegal and Mauritania, has one of the worst reputations in all of Africa. Among travelers, stories abound of officers devoid of any sense of legality shamelessly pushing for bribes, smugglers, thieves and constant street harassment. I don't want to sound arrogant, but at this point, after all of what I’ve been through so far, none of this intimidates me. In this sense, Rosso would be nothing more than yet another border in a long list of nests of corruption that I already know. However, what happens to me is that today I am at a stage where I prefer to focus all my energy on the adrenaline of the adventure and avoid wasting it on dealing with a new litter of leeches. That is why I leave St.Louis with the intention of crossing through the remote Diama border, even though I do so without knowing if, at this little-traveled crossing, they already have the new system for issuing the biometric visa that I need to enter. As it happens often, I swap one preoccupation for another, but over time as a result of the accumulated stressful situations I dealt with in the past, I have learned not to worry so much because at the end of the day there is always a solution for everything.
The solitude of the diversion to Diama denounces the remote, almost forgotten, character of this town where the sand and the bushes bouncing on their spikes against the floor, dance in the air. The Sahelian aridity extends throughout an eventless morning in which for more than 30 km I do not run into anyone along the way until I reach the banks of the Senegal River. Once there, at the border post under the midday sun, the Senegalese officials tell me that they have no idea whether the Mauritanian side is issuing biometric visas. Over the course of the fruitless conversation, I reflect to myself that when rivers serve as border lines they further accentuate the separation between two nations because these people clearly have no idea what is happening on the other side of it in their neighboring country. In moments of uncertainty I always try to have time in case I have to change my plans unexpectedly, so even though I don't know if they will let me enter Mauritania, I still decide to stamp my exit from Senegal. After all, the worst that can happen is that I have to come back.
I cross the river pedaling already in no man's land along the dam that serves as a bridge and which construction is said to have made several animal species native to this region disappear. I am officially inside Diawling National Park, a rare green patch of fertility in the middle of the arid desert. In this ecosystem I am startled by dozens of birds that I have never seen in my life fluttering around me. Immediately on the other side of the river, the asphalt disappears and my wheels start crunching the gravel again. A hundred meters ahead an unusual earth-colored wall stands in front of the Mauritanian post. When I see the adobe buildings and their walls crumbling, I fear the worst. It is impossible for me to associate this image with the possibility of a system in place with technology capable of issuing biometric visas. What’s more, if it weren’t for the dam I am certain that there wouldn’t even be electricity around here. Without any hope or illusions, I get off the bike already imagining that I will have to retrace my steps and travel further to Rosso to deal with its hindrances. However, the first officer I run into confirms that I can get the visa right there. It probably is the case that I had already conditioned myself so much to receive a negative answer in order not to have any false illusions that my reaction is not to jump out of joy. Instead I become dubious and suspicious. The first thing that crosses my mind is to think that he didn't understand my French or that standing there for so many hours under this merciless sun damaged his brain. I look around once again, I take a few seconds and with the suspicion of a detective I ask him again, speaking even more slowly. Now, he is the one who must think that I am the white man with a damaged brain who has no resistance to the sun of his land, as he confirms once again that indeed I can get the visa there, this time pointing to the side to an adobe box with a door and no windows. I am embarrassed to ask him again because judging from what I see, this man thinks that I am asking him where the toilet is and he is sending me to the latrine, but I desist instead.
I walk there in complete distrust, I knock on the door and when I open it I can't believe what I see. In a 1.5m x 1.5m space, an officer is sitting behind a small desk with a computer, a digital camera on a tripod and a small portable printer. Not only that, it has air conditioning! In less than 5 minutes, right there, he issues the biometric visa for the obscene sum of 120 Euros, which I suppose is what it costs to buy 10 houses in this forgotten corner of the world, or it may be the equivalent necessary to subsidize this tiny air-conditioned oasis within four adobe walls in the middle of the desert. Having blissfully enjoyed these last few minutes of air-con, I leave reluctantly but with my visa ready to move to the little house next door where the actual immigration office is. Inside, five idle officers roast in the air hot enough to heat a building in the Canadian winter. As soon as I walk through the door, everyone turns to me. In the sparkle in their eyes and the shining of their canines, I immediately capture the true intent behind those smiles. It’s Déjà-vu. I have already experienced this several times. I am a seal in the middle of the sea surrounded by hungry sharks. This is a critical moment for me. I need to control my emotions and avoid losing control like I did in the Congo months ago.
The unusual agility with which they execute the bureaucracy takes me by surprise, however I do not want to be too gullible, because this very fact is already something to be suspicious about. After filling out the papers and answering the questionaire, now only the stamp is missing. In front of me, the officer is holding my passport in the air in one hand and the stamp in the other and when I think that this is finally going to end well, in a sudden turn of events he places them on the table, cracks a smile and tells me: "Do you have anything for me?". I make a titanic effort not to roll my eyes and maintain my posture. At that moment, the first thing that comes to mind is the story that my friend Salva Rodríguez tells in his wonderful book 'Africa', when facing a similar situation, so I smile at him, resorting to Salva's sublime response: - “Yes, my friendship! Do you want a hug?". The officer laughs confused but insists, now making the money gesture explicit by rubbing his thumb against his index finger. Arming myself with patience and trying not to lose my humor, I tell him that in any other circumstance I would have loved to make a contribution to the Mauritanian military, but after paying no more no less than 120 euros for the visa, I have run out of money to the last cent. To continue with the language of gestures, I turn my pants pockets outwards pointing to their holes to emphasize my 'poverty'. He is not so convinced of my answer but to my relief he decides to stop insisting and stamps my passport.
As soon as I leave there I find myself pedaling completely alone in the middle of the national park, surrounded by exotic birds, dozens of wild boars that cross my path and above all green, a lot of vibrant green around me. It is a surreal image after going for months without seeing such a level of fertility. 50 km of absolute solitude follow in which I hear nothing but my wheels crunching against the sand, the singing of the birds and the sporadic howl of some other animal invisible to my eyes. I feel like I've been teleported out of the desert to one of the many animal reserves I've already been through. The feeling makes me shudder, bringing back memories from South Africa to the Congo and beyond. At the end of the day, almost like in the blink of an eye everything is sand again but not like in the Sahel. In a small village half-sunken among the dunes called Keur-Macene I am back at the feet of the vast Sahara desert.
Night is about to fall over the desert and thus ending my first day in Mauritania. The distant whispers of some villagers wandering around break up the Saharan silence. The darkness prevents me from making out their silhouettes as I push my bike through the sand trying to find someone to ask about a place to camp. It is more out of formality rather than necessity. I could as well camp wherever I want but asking is a way of asking indirectly for permission, as well as informing the local people of my presence as a sign of respect. Fortunately, hospitality doesn’t take too long to arrive. After pushing for a few meters, Mahmoud, a boy of about 18, invites me to eat and sleep in the small cubicle of adobe where he lives. As usual, I try to cover the cost of the food or bring my own rice, but he wouldn't let me because I’m the guest.
The morning after, shortly after saying goodbye to Mahmoud, the magic begins immediately as I leave Keur-Macene. The rising sun progressively paints the dunes in a golden color, casting deep shadows that define their relief. The morning breeze caresses me behind my ears, reaching just the right balance, cold enough to wake me up without chilling me, and strong enough to break the silence with the melody of its whistling sound without putting up much resistance. However, the desert shares the schizophrenic characteristics of many other ecosystems. When the conditions are right, its magic is hard to match, but those conditions rarely last long, and that primeval idyll quickly turns to hell. As the sun rises, it stops gilding the earth and begins to burn it. From gold that sweetens the eyes, to white that blinds them. From the whistle of sweet melodies to the one that deafens to torment. From the sand that caresses, to the sand that pierces like needles. The Sahara is the giant ring to which you give yourself in mind and body to feel the pleasure and suffer the harrasment.
A couple of hours after leaving I need to wrap myself in my turban and make sure as my absolute priority that I don't lose my glasses like I did two years ago in Sudan. The wind forces me to go very slowl, creating the demoralising illusion of distances that extend indefinitely. With the deliberate slowness similar to that of an art critic, I pushed through the gallery of this open-air museum that exhibits on each side of the road an exquisite collection of skeletons of rusted cars being slowly devoured by the desert. I have the impression that here, very, very far from the world of insurance, a car that breaks down is a car that dies in oblivion.
With the exception of the occasional passing vehicle mercilessly whipping a lash of sand onto my face, I find no one on the road to stop and chat with. Every one or two hours I find a group of houses scattered on the horizon. Some mimic the color of the sand that accumulates several centimeters on their perimeter walls, others are painted in such garish colors that they burn my retinas. In all cases, it is difficult for me to discern whether the village is inhabited or not. Only with the appearance of a silhouette wrapped in a daraa and tagelmust moving like a blue ghost across this sand-colored paradise do I confirm the presence of life. The inhospitable environment forces people to live indoors for most of the day and with the small openings of their dwellings closed to protect themselves from the elements. During the wee hours of the day, it is always a specific purpose that drives people out of their shelters, but never the mere pleasure of being outdoors. When it comes to me, I seek refuge among the dunes under the protective shade of the acacias, in the same place where the cobras shelter from the heat during the day. Without a doubt, neither they nor I contemplate the danger of an encounter when it is solar radiation that subdues us all around here.
Upon reaching the crossing with the N2, the main road leading to Nouakchott, a 90 degree turn to the north puts me directly against the wind. The transition from crosswind to headwind notably raises the degree of rawness of the experience, which leads me to drastically slow down the pace despite having to triple the effort. I pay each step on the pedal with high portions of energy. Although I put all my psychological strength, my mood drops inversely proportional to the intensity of the wind. I spend hours of incessant hardship until the sun is about to begin its descent over the horizon and casts my shadow several meters across the sand. In this moment of ever-deteriorating mood, the appearance of another bicycle traveler coming from the north takes me by surprise. After a whole day of not talking to anyone and fighting steadily against the invisible enemy, now I have the perfect excuse to stop.
The brief encounter with Charlie, an Englishman based in Andalusia who started his journey in Gibraltar, quantifies the magnitude of the challenge in which I find myself. Charlie arrives overflowing with euphoria. Through his gestures I’m able to see the adrenaline flowing through his veins. He needs to slam on the brakes several meters before so he can stop where I am standing. I, on the other hand, have to make an effort to be able to produce a smile, emit a word, and all I have to do is simply to release the pressure on the pedals for my bicycle to stop dead on the spot. With the typical exaltation of someone high on endorphins, Charlie tells me that he has pedaled 225 km in 8 hours and that since he is not at all tired he will keep going until the sun sets. Me, on the other hand, I pass on the disheartening report of having pedaled 75 km in 12 hours and barely being able to feel my legs. The encounter is also a harbinger of the challenge that lies ahead of me as Charlie confirms that the further north I go, the stronger and stronger the wind gets. To be honest, I'm not learning anything new. Each and every one of the people who know the region had warned me of this, but it is just that nothing anyone tells you is real until you have to face it yourself. Therefore, I decide not to stir up my burning negative emotions any further, and to keep pedaling a while longer until it's time to camp.
Little less than an hour later, when the sun finally reaches the horizon, the wind is still blowing strongly when I luckily coincide with an unusual group of houses scattered on the sand by both sides of the road. One of the people I meet out there accompanies me to a small abandoned box where he tells me I can sleep. I receive this as a blessing because I no longer have the strength to camp nor I want to sleep in the tent flapping in the wind all night. The little box has a door, a small window and approximately 1.5 m x 2 m, enough space to fit in the bicycle, inflate my mattress and cook on the small stone shelf that it has on one of its sides. If there is a difference between the comfort of this little shed and the Hyatt rooms in China where I used to sleep on business trips, I honestly don't see it. It is in this rudimentary space where I find the simple pleasures necessary to be happy. A haven from the elements, a plate of pasta with no sauce or sides, and a movie theater where where by turning off my headlamp, all that remains is nothing but silence and darkness. The wind has subsided, the stars have populated the sky, and the temperature has dropped so much that the only thing left for me is to bury myself in my sleeping bag and surrender to the deepest of dreams.
One of the peculiarities of traveling in extreme conditions is that at the end of each day one goes to sleep with the notion that the harshness of the day that has passed will not be repeated tomorrow. We deludedly believe that what we left behind on a hard day must have been the exception and not the rule. I don't know whether this sort of intention to somehow minimise or even ignore the harshness of reality as it is, is a trick of the mind to be able to continue generating incentive to keep moving forward, but it is with that same false illusion that I wake up the next morning before dawn after 11 hours of solid sleep. Outside, the desert is still silent, the sun's rays just beginning to appear on the horizon. As I heat the water to prepare my breakfast, I feel energized, marveling at my body's ability to recover. Despite the deep desire to enjoy the morning peace and the display of a profusion of changing colors in the sky, I do not want to waste too much time because every peaceful minute is threatened by the imminent return of the wind.
Filled with enthusiasm, I get on the bike all wrapped up to resist the cold of the early hours and with the neurons rejoicing in the tingling of caffeine. However, a simple breeze that comes out of nowhere indicates that the wind has also woken up and the optimism with which I started pedaling less than an hour ago soon fades away. My face is the surface where I can feel the pressure in-crescendo. The brief periods in which it decreases no longer fool me either. Once the wind picks up it won't go back to sleep. In a short time the breeze becomes a constant wind, the line of the horizon blurs into a cloudy white stripe that blurs the passage between the earth and the sky. The magic has lasted a miserable hour, from then on I begin the battle again, this time with frequent gusts of wind and sand that pierce like pins into every exposed part of my skin. It's time to put on my sunnies, my windbreaker and wrap myself in my turban. I could go for long pants too but my legs are already numb from so many of these long unsolicited acupuncture sessions.
In the space of a few minutes, the world has transformed 360º around me, sand particles clouding the atmosphere, the sky pales, the thorny bushes roll uncontrollably all over the place. The entire desert has turned incandescent white. When houses appear on the sides of the road, they do so blurred behind a thick film of sand. Along the road, there’s me, trying to pedal keeping my head as close as possible to the handlebars to reduce wind resistance as much as possible. Under my feet I see the sand dance drawing waves of fleeting shapes on the pavement. The gusts destabilize me, take me off course, force me to make dangerous maneuvers to avoid the craters and fractures in the tarmac. Visibility isn't good, and while there isn't much traffic, passing trucks don't skimp on slowing down. The ones coming from the north produce a lateral shock wave that throws me to the gravel out of the road. Those going in my direction pass me leaving behind a trail of sand that whips across my entire body, followed by a subsequent suction effect that tends to make the bike spin like a dynamo. Still, being aware that I am facing brutal conditions, I feel emboldened. I'm going slowly but steadily, I keep on pushing on the pedals in this Saharan odyssey. I feel the intoxicated endorphins flowing throughout my body. I don't feel pain but pleasure.
Remaining determined for 10 consecutive hours of nearly non-stop riding, I roll into the outskirts of Nouakchott minutes before the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Its suburbs do not mark the exit from the desert but rather the transformation into the urban desert, because this city seems to be growing organically on the very sands of the Sahara, without defined streets or signs, following the lines of the settlements. Unlike yesterday, the wind subsides at sunset. The most curious thing is that I notice it by the high speed at which I suddenly find myself pedaling without having increased the pressure on the pedals. When I realize it, I relax, straighten my position, take off my sunnies, unwrap my turban and when I reach the door of the guesthouse where I will stay, I exclaim: “Mission accomplished”.
