Most travelers who cross this region of Africa do so by following the most direct route, which is the one that follows the coast of the continent. However, my intention is not to take shortcuts but to delve deeper into the countries I visit. So leaving Nouakchott, instead of continuing north I decide to head northeast towards the Adrar in search of more adventure, 700km inland into the Sahara.
Surely it is difficult for you to imagine that I set off in search of meeting people, when the first thing that comes to mind for almost everyone when hearing the phrase “Sahara desert” is the image of an inhospitable world, built on sand and loneliness. It is true that these are aspects as characteristic as magical of the desert. However, scattered in that vast ocean of sand are thousands of people who have inhabited it since the beginning of time. It is perhaps that very combination that makes it so fascinating to me.
There are many motivations that lead me there but it is curiously one of the direct consequences of choosing this path what triggers most of my enthusiasm: the change of direction. At least for the next few days, I won't have to pedal putting up with the headwind that has punished me physically and mentally until I got here. This is not to say that crosswind is ideal by any means, but when we have dominant headwind, any degree of deviation from the axis on which it's blowing represents an additional degree of relief. And when it comes to wind, every degree counts.
I leave the guesthouse in the center of Nouakchott very early in the morning, when there is hardly any traffic and all the shops are closed, with the sole purpose of starting before the wind picks up. Loaded with 20 liters of water and 7kg of basic food for several days, my pace reminds me of the images of days ago of the barges returning to land overflowing with fish. It's fast enough to cool my face in the incipient morning breeze and slow enough so I don’t have to put effort into pushing on the pedals. The low level of ambient noise is extremely unusual for me for an African capital. Leaving the center of Nouakchott, the urban scale decreases dramatically. From the grandstanding of a handful of arrogant boulevards to sandy alleys in just a few miles. Some ghosts wrapped in celestial daraâs appear wandering here and there but it is clear that the bulk of the population still remains indoors. It is inevitable to fall into the redundancy of saying that the streets are deserted when the city itself is built on the largest desert in the world. Since I have spent most of my four days here resting within the perimeter of the internal courtyard of the guesthouse where I stayed and its surroundings, leaving the city allows me to have a more accurate impression of this capital.
When I reach the periphery, where the urban fabric of the city begins to unravel little by little over the desert, the first rays of the sun filter through the houses, casting shadows that reveal the simplicity of their geometry. The golden color is magnified by hitting on the sand-colored bricks of the buildings. Just like days ago when I arrived from the south, I see a city whose footprint grew and continues to grow indefinitely in an improvised way with the settlement of the successive waves of internal migration. It is at the edges of it where the last houses scattered on the sand are left behind, and in the blink of an eye, the only thing left in front of me is a straight line cutting an absolute plane in half. I try to elucidate something that identifies some sort of destination, but the line dissolves into infinity, there ahead on a blurred horizon under the effect of a mirage.
Standing at the foot of a mountain pass in a mountain range that we must cross, just by looking up you can feel tired, even demoralised. From a lower altitude it is impossible to anticipate when we will reach that highest point from which the long-awaited descent will begin. The jungle, on the other hand, also prevents us from any possibility of being able to foresee the future. It forces us to live moment by moment the rigour of the present that it offers us. It does not allow us to think beyond the immediate future because the density of its vegetation impedes us from finding mental refuge in the promising image of a distant horizon in which adversity will finally subside.
Unlike the mountains and the jungle, the desert allows us to see as far as the anatomical capacity of our vision allows us. Although this particular quality of being able to see absolutely everything around us may initially be attractive, the truth is that it is a deceptive reality. One would think that being able to see would bring us the tranquility of certainty. But, what happens when the space around us is so vast that the very immensity of the environment gives us a true dimension of uncertainty? What is it then easier to deal with? A tough but at least immediate and tangible present that does not give rise to speculation beyond what is attainable at any moment, or the vision of a clearly uncertain future in emptiness?
If we propose to use the horizon as a symbolic representation of the future, the desert challenges even the most stubborn minds because it immerses us in the present and the future at the same time. That is to say, that at the same time that we battle the immediate challenges that the environment throws at us, we must deal with the torment of seeing that in the surrounding emptiness there is the absence of a future. In the desert, the predominant feeling is that of advancing every day towards nowhere. Consequently, it is often better to be able to see no more than a few meters ahead.
Both in the mountains and in the jungle and the desert, despite their different qualities, one lives one step at a time, but it is in the latter where at each step one lives with the present visualizing the uncertainty of the future, or the very absence of it.
The road to Atar is fully paved, but I don't know to what extent this is a benefit in the daily struggle to survive monotony. It is indisputable that it is more comfortable to ride and that the bicycle suffers less from a mechanical point of view, but when roads without bends, without undulations, without slopes, crests or bumps extend for several hours or days at a time, the mind becomes a Roman circus. My years of meditative practice help me a lot to deal with this. It's the only way to survive without losing your sanity. Having these resources allows me to spend my days pedaling without suffering from the absence of distractions on the horizon, but that does not mean in any way that it is easy, much less infallible. Not falling into the clutches of boredom, mental exhaustion, torpor and other mental states requires regular exercise that has little to do with the body and everything with the mind.
If monotony eats away at your mind, the wind is the conductive medium that drills it into your brain. I left Nouakchott with my spirit energised by the illusion that the crosswind would remove at least one degree of adversity from the journey. I don't know if the force of the wind today is such that it exceeds that of the wind directly straight on during the previous weeks, but less than an hour after leaving the illusion has died. The road disappears completely under a loom of golden sand threads that, like blond hair, blur the limits between the road and the desert. Now, with the wind attacking over my left shoulder, I not only consume energy to stay on course, but also to keep my balance. Somehow, the relatively less effort I put in to move forward is offset, and perhaps even outweighed, by the more effort I need to put in to keep the bike in a straight line. It's a nightmare of forces acting in multiple directions that brings back the worst memories of studying physics and structural calculus. No more than a few hours of continuous crosswind haras sment are enough to begin wondering if, after all, having the wind directly against me was not an even better option.
The end of the first day finally comes but unlike the previous weeks, here the harassment extends past sunset. Camping in the immensity of the desert is usually one of the simplest and most pleasant things within the very experience of crossing it, but the presence of the wind has the odious ability to transform the idyll into a nightmare. Everything takes more work, from making sure to secure everything you take out of your panniers so it doesn't fly away, to finding a way to shield the flame of your stove so you can boil water. On the other hand, threading the poles into the eyelets of a tent flying wild in the wind requires the same dexterity as catching flies with chopsticks. However, after only 10 minutes inside my shelter nothing brings me closer to madness than when one of the poles gives in to the pressure and collapses, breaking, not in one, but in three different points. Now, the tent wraps around me like a sheet flapping in the wind, disguising me as a ghost. Getting rid of it is like trying to take off a straitjacket. Moreover, under these circumstances, once I’m out of it, I find it more convenient to use it as a bag than to spend the next 15 minutes taking out everything that was left inside. Already with the sky populating with more and more stars and their brightness gaining intensity, I decide to fit everything as I can back on the bicycle and ride a hundred meters ahead towards an abandoned building that I spot on the other side of the road. At this point, having no choice but to sleep outdoors, I settle on the edge of one of the walls using it as a screen against the wind. It is the refuge that allows me to unpack without everything flying out of my hands, cook in peace without the stove going off and eat without sand being the main condiment of my food. An hour later, lying on my back in the Saharan darkness with a full belly, I try to fall asleep contemplating the tapestry of stars above me so as not to think about the cobras and scorpions that go out for a walk on cold desert nights. At the same time, I must assimilate the idea that my tent is beyond repair and that from now on, I will spend the next few months sleeping exposed to the elements.
The sunrise wakes me up before the whistle of the wind. On these April nights I wake up every day completely buried inside my sleeping bag. I've slept about 11 hours and I could very well continue sleeping, but the morning is calm and I don't want to waste any time. It doesn't matter how bad you had it the day before; If you have slept well and there is no wind in the morning, you always wake up with the illusion, false or not, that today everything will be easier. What was an inconvenience last night, today at dawn is a blessing because not having a tent can carry its risks and inconveniences, but the truth is that it makes packing up much faster. This allows me to be on the road in half the usual time and take advantage of every minute that the wind is still sleeping. On top of this, the extremes of the day are always the most sublime times to ride in the desert, when your shadow is cast dozens of meters on the sand, and in the absence of water it is the air that cools your face and the breeze that caresses your body. Each moment like this must be absorbed as much as possible and valued deeply because it does not take long to learn that it is only a matter of time until reality transforms itself. Once you see the threads of sand unfold under the pedals, it's the end of the panacea and the advent of hell.
Laser-like sun, wind, emptiness, desolation, absolute loneliness are the words that come to mind during days that never seem to end. I cannot say that there is anything that makes things easier because in this region not even the landscape is attractive. From the pure white of the south the colors have turned to the range of muted browns. There are no more dunes or golden colors, this looks like a big burning carpet that extends without beginning or end 360º around me. I know it's all in my head, but every time the wind gusts up and slows me down and throws me off course, it erodes more and more of my ability to remain calm. By mid-afternoon I am so tired that I go on strike. I decide to pull over to the side of the road and lie down to rest until the wind subsides and cycle through the early hours of the night. After 3 hours in which I did nothing more than lying on the rocky ground reclining on the rubber of some mutilated tyres, the wind does not stop but at least it begins to give way. Despite the increasing darkness, I can pedal more calmly for a couple more hours until with the headlamp I light up a group of tents a few meters to the side of the road. I go straight to the only one where there is a point of light. There, gathered around a small solar lamp agonising to continue illuminating, I find three Touareg shepherds to whom I announce my presence and request permission to spend the night in the proximity of their tents. I’ve got so used to show up unnannounced in remote places for so long that I forget the impact I can have on the local people, who find it unthinkable that someone like me could turn up, let alone in the middle of the night. However, they welcome me quite naturally because just like in Mongolia, nomads see in me another nomad. Therefore, my arrival, despite my different appearance, is a somehow normal situation for them.
A few meters away from one of the tents, I spread out my mattress with my sleeping bag on the rocky ground and wrap the aluminum screen around the stove so I can cook. It's late, I can't see anything beyond the reach of my headlamp, the wind continues to blow mercilessly and although I'm exhausted, I'm so ravenous that without a doubt I won't be able to fall asleep. I fill the pot with water to boil the pasta but a sudden gust deflects the burner flame to the point of igniting the plastic base. The flame expands rapidly engulfing the gas tank, I don't have extra water on hand and I’m too afraid to tip the pot to put out the flames. At that point I see no choice but to put my things away and stand back, at which point the cheap stove I had bought in Nouakchott a few days ago explodes in a ball of fire. Perfect, the Saharan wind has left me homeless yesterday and without food today. Fortunately, the nomads boil my water on their stack of burning coals and save me from starving. A few minutes later, having devoured my pot of noodles, I go back to bed watching the same tapestry of stars on my TV. Today, apart from trying to fall asleep without thinking about deadly bugs and snakes, or not having a house, I have to avoid adding the worry of not having a kitchen.
I am not easily demoralised but my mood the morning after is not the best. I have fallen asleep with the wind and I have woken up with the wind because it has not stopped blowing even for a few minutes during the night. Fortunately, having breakfast inside the tent with the Touarges makes me happy at the beginning of the new day, because after all, it is the people what drives me to such far away places and endure such challenging conditions. They treat me with the traditional tea ceremony, one of the things that has made me fall in love the most since I arrived in the Sahel and continues to do so throughout the western edge of the Sahara. The high concentration of sugar in each of the 3 little glasses of tea that I drink is the perfect energiser to start a new day full of adversity.
It won't stop! No, it won't stop not even for a few fucking minutes since I left. I pedal wrapped in the turban because I can no longer tolerate the pressure it exerts on the left side of my head, which is where it hits me the most. The accumulated fatigue forces me to stop more often than I want to, but it is also impossible to rest when the wind continues to blow mercilessly. At each stop I seek to come up with something to distract myself. In one of them I decide to get off the bike and release the turban in the air holding it by one of its ends. From where I am standing I can see the 4 meters of fabric flapping almost in a straight line without touching the ground, embodying the intensity of this invisible enemy that I face every day. The arrival in the town of Akjoujt marks one of the only breaks throughout the day because the greater concentration of adobe houses help to shield the main street from the wind. Unfortunately, it is the combination of Akjoujt’s size and the shelter it offers from the wind, what paradoxically helps me go so much faster that in just 10 minutes I find myself on the other side of town once again out in the open.
Throughout the day, the gamut of muted browns gives way once again to the yellow colour of the sand, restoring a bit of luster to the landscape. When the sun reaches its highest point punishing everyone who is unprotected on earth, I am fortunate to find a new tent at the foot of a telecommunications tower. The maintenance guards live there, who, needless to say, invite me to stop by for a break and enjoy a new tea ceremony. I could spend all day drinking tea just because watching them make it gives me a beautiful sense of peace. From seeing the little coloured teapots resting on the burning coals, to the hypnotic pouring of the water going from the teapot to the cups, back and forth, again and again, in order to extract as much flavour as possible off the tea and sugar, it is simply and enjoyable thing to watch. I have experienced tea ceremonies all over the world: China, Japan, Turkey, Iran, Egypt, Gambia, Burkina Faso but this is one that I enjoy the most. Outside, the world is on fire while inside the tent we are safely enjoying every round of tea. Or so I thought, until the moment I'm drinking my second glass I see a sand-coloured cobra peeking out of some blankets just a meter behind us. With the serenity of those who are used to certain events, the guards push her out with brooms and go after her with a machete. I beg them not to kill her, just to let her go, but I am not successful. With reckless dexterity, one of them decapitate her in the split of a second.
After the execution and the last glass of tea I have to get back on the road, with little desire and a lot of inertia, until I reach the end of another day in which I find neither new tents nor abandoned buildings where I can take refuge. Today I only have the entire desert as a room to sleep in and canned food with biscuits and stale bread for dinner because in a Sahara without firewood and after the explosion of my last stove I can't cook. One more night in which I try to fall asleep, lying on my back looking at the stars on TV, ignoring the fact that I don't have a house or a kitchen. Although today, far above these concerns, my greatest effort is focused on removing from my head the image of the cobras that slither the very same sand in which I am so comfortably reclining. In addition to this, it is the first night that I go to bed with my turban on, because the wind keeps blowing, spraying me with sand. I can't even fall asleep watching TV anymore, I'm forced to sleep on my side, sheltered as much as I can inside the sleeping bag, with my back to the wind.
The sun wakes me up as soon as it peeks over the horizon. I have not slept well. The wind hasn't stopped blowing all night and I'm half buried in the sand. I have it stuck inside my eyes, in my ears, and I feel it grind against my teeth when I move my jaw. It's not enough for me to spit it out and I don't have much water to waste in trying to wash it down. As hungry as I am, I think it's better not to have much to eat. Unlike the previous days, today I pack up reluctantly. It is very difficult to generate enthusiasm when even before leaving the golden threads of sand are already dancing under my feet. It is an immense loom that covers the entire surface around me. Today I feel that the force I put on the pedals does not come from my muscles but from the very psychological weight that I carry on top of me. The mind is so volatile, some days it is fine, others more or less and on days like today, it is bad, congested, blinded to everything that is good. The biggest problem with feeling this way is that the challenges are amplified exponentially. What is already difficult in itself, the mind puts an extra burden on it that makes everything even more difficult. It is the exact opposite of positive energy states where the force springs forth without even understanding where it comes from.
The hours go by and the wind doesn't stop whipping me, or let's put it better, it doesn't stop screwing, screwing up my life. In negative states, the ego takes on such a powerful force that it blinds. Everything becomes personal, today everything happens to me, the world is against me. The wind blows to punish me, to fuck with me, to annoy me, to make my life difficult. Those are the feelings I deal with when I'm held back by the invisible hand. I feel such a negative energy that if I don't start bitching out in the air even if it's just to vent my anger, I'm going to implode. I feel like Lieutenant Dan in Forrest Gump swearing at the air. I scream, I swear, I get angry, I vent, I unload my frustration on nothing but thin air. I don't know if it makes things any better. Well, yes, I do know, it does not make them better, but the alternative is to implode. At least yelling is the best I can try to shake off the negativity without getting anyone else involved (not that there’s anybody around anyway). The feeling I have is that Atar becomes unreachable. The more I move forward, the more it moves further away every day, because the miles do not pass. Really, they don't.
At sunset, the road slightly changes direction shifting the wind from my left shoulder to my left buttock. Suddenly, I start to fly. It seems like an act of magic, nothing more, nothing less, a gift so wonderful that I feel like crying. My legs rotate without much effort and I feel like the bicycles is floating in outer space. It is indescribable what rotating just a few degrees can do to the quality of my day and life. I may be exhausted but with this streak I don't want to stop, but to actually take full advantage of it. My energies sprout out of nowhere just to keep me moving along with the wind. We call a truce, and for now, we're back to being friends.
When night falls I'm exhausted but I'm still on the bike. I think I have cycled about 70 km in 12 hours when I reach a small town partially sunk in the sand. Guided by the few hanging street lamps that are on, I get off to walk pushing the bike. The whistle of the wind between the adobe houses is intermingled with the whispers and the creak of the footsteps of the few men who wander here and there. Wrapped in their darâas and tagelmusts, they look like ghosts flying in the gloom. I need to find a place to sleep but as I usually do on days and places like these, instead of looking for it, I walk for a while and I let myself be exposed, because almost always, it is the place that comes to me without me looking for it. Said and done, no more than a few meters pass by before one of the ghosts approaches me to ask if I need help. I am more than lucky tonight because he turns out to be the mayor of the town and he invites me to spend the night at his house. Mahmoud's level of education is reflected in his manners, in his perfect French and the neat way in which he dresses. He is a man of the desert with the education of a city man. As is often the case in many desert towns, the exterior austerity of the houses contrasts with the warmth of their interiors, rich in colors, textures and decoration. Mahmoud and his family treat me to their company and a dinner that brings my body back to life. It's the kind of evening you know you'll never forget.
The morning after, breakfast is yet another blessing. Today I see life differently, the day is radiant, I only have 30 km left to reach Atar and guess what... the wind slept in. I decide to leave early to take advantage of the positive energy of my mood. When I leave Mahmoud's house I see that the little town is at the foot of some rocky mountain formations. It's time to cycle uphill, to finally begin the ascent to the Adrar plateau. I don't mind the climb because there is no wind and because the mountains with their truncated pyramid shep tops have broken the numbing monotony. I have been reborn. I reach Atar, the large town that serves as the capital of the Adrar just a few hours later. The sun is high and allows me to walk around town looking for a quiet place to stay. I'm happy, but looking back at the days that have passed, I feel like I've stepped off a roller coaster. From yesterday's demoralisation to today's enthusiasm, I can feel the emotional battering the world puts me through in such short periods of time. It is a dance, the dance of the mind, that makes me happy and makes me angry, that gives me pleasures and pains, comfort and annoyance. Now I need a few days to rest, try to find a new stove in the bazaar and recharge my energies, because this is just the beginning. I am willing to continue pushing further into the desert.
