constanttrek

I’m off

October 22nd, 2006

Oh, this is going to be very short, and I do apologise - hoping for more in a couple of weeks when I have Sat coverage.

The currency here (Nouadhibou, Mauritania) is called Ougiya.  For those who want to know what that means, here is an Australian approximation:  Oh You-have Got-to-be-joking If You-think-I'm-paying-that, ARSEHOLE. 

Yep.  Out of civilised, dear old Morocco (NEVER thought I'd be saying that) and into mad, corrupt, completely off the wall Africa.  Although there is a lot to be said for the instant drop insexual harrassment compared to the Northern neighbour, Mauritania certainly makes up for it in every other way.

After flying to marrakech with Dad and having a speedy trip up to Casa for the visas, I met with Habib and his sidekick, Abdul, and we took off at the speed of light down to the border.  Three thousand kilometres and the customary family/friend stops on the way (including tea at a serviced palace with a friend of Habib's Dad, who gave me a letter to give to corrupt cops in the future - lovely man) we hit the border of Mauritania four days ago.

Since then it has been one mad whirl.  The bloke habib had teed up on got authority to sort camels and guides suddenly got cold feet and didn't want to help us.  We both suspect this had something to do with   him realising that I wasn't about to pay someone ten euros a day to lead my camels whilst I did all the navigating, cooking, and walking; and that therefore he wouldn't get his cut.  He also tried to charm us out in his tent with some fine looking camels; but here again price was just stupid.  Unfortunately it turns out that he is a linch pin in the local mafia, so after we had a parting of ways, it seemed all doors were closing in our face.

Fortunately, it is never wise to hustle a hustler, and Habib is the ultimate hustler of them all.  Through a combination of diplomacy, tact, bravado, and endless late night trawling of small nomad's houses, he knew the town inside out within 48 hours and had people coming to our door looking for him - which then allowed him to play the benevolent listener who may or may not allow a favour.  A class act if ever there was one. The end reesult is that I am now the proud owner of three seriously fabulous camels (twice the size of my last ones), and am setting off tomorrow.

Dad gave me a last minute crash course in navigation in Casablanca.  I was not remotely interested at the time, even though I knew I should be.  Thank God I forced myself to listen, though, and take notes; because tomorrow, my friends, I am off with my GPS and Compass.  I have a nomad who will be looking after the camels; but the hard bottom line here is, there is just nobody here who really knows the route to Atar.  From Atar (or Chinguetti) down, there are guides and camels everywhere; but this is a tourist town, and they only do tours of the park.  And the price they charge is ludicrous.

I have plotted the route and wells (don't worry Dad I will remember to add on the 11 degrees for this stretch to the compass) and spoken to nomads about the place, and it looks good.  Frankly, I couldn't care less how bad it looks - anything to get the hell out of here.  The one major bonus about corruption is that the authorities here really don't care - I went in to get papers stamped and to alert them of my presence, as was necessary in Morocco, and they pretty much laughed at me and told me good luck - and to look out for landmines, bandits, and four wheel drives (the latter, quite possibly, the most dangerous of all).  I like that kind of attitude in police.

Before anyone panics, the bloke with me is a good nomad who knows how to recognise good grazing and water country, and since we agreed this morning that he would come with me, he has been talking around and feels comfortable that he will manage the route well.  Both Habib and I feel he is on the level.  He is also friends with the guy we bought camels from, and he is a seriously good man.  (Mild funny story - we had to explain that even though we knew he wouldn't cheat us, we needed a paper written and witnessed by a Caed - local cleric - to prove that I own the camels, for any nosy police down the line.  After a long, very serious and touchy conversation, during which he expressed his outrage that we would mess with a system that has worked perfectly for the last two millenium - a handshake - we trotted off and sat in a courtyard whilst a very detailed letter was drawn up.  In Arabic, it is along the lines of "I, Mohammed Hassan Wasul, son of Mohammed Hassan Wasul, who was the son of Mohammed Hassan Wasul, born on the .." and goes on to detail camels, names, prices, location, birth dates, etc.  I am going to frame it when this is done.)

I wanted some photos to put up here but taking pics out there is a very tricky business; it's not like Morocco, where people are leaping to get in front of the lens.  I sat down in melekhva, subdudely behind Habib (who kept totally ruining my serene effect by making me laugh with comments in English tossed over his shoulder) and shut up whilst the MEN did their thing.  The very important business of camel training, guide finding, and money exchanging is no place for a woman, after all.  Particularly not a mad dumb tourist with a camera.

My current guide has sworn to help me find a guide in Atar of Chinguetti to Timbuktu.  I have in turn offered him my old pair of Birkensocks that I trained in, if he gets me there and does the right thing.  He can't take his eyes off them, fondling them covetously at every opportunity, so I reckon I am holding an ace. 

 

I have to go and pack the last of the supplies.  Will be out of range for most of the next month, unless the Sat coverage kicks in early, but will update the second it does, with pics.

Thanks for the Nav lesson Dad, and for the compass, Graeme.  I'm sure both will serve me well.  (And thanks for writing all that stuff on the map Dad).

A huge thankyou to Habib, who has worked tirelessly on my behalf, and without whom I could never have organised this.  If you fancy a camel trek, get yourself to his Hotel Sahara in MHamid el Ghizlaine, and enjoy.

Cheers, see you on here soon, GPS points and all.  How exciting.

 

Entry Filed under: trekking