Saturday, January 31, 2009
Marrakesh Express
My first stop in Morocco proper was Essaouira, a historic port town 200km north of Agadir. As I approached along the winding coastal road the landscape reminded me of the eastern Mediterranean (from southern Turkey through to Jerusalem): olive groves, rocky fields, crisp colours, especially the bright green of recently sprouted grass and leaves. Essaouira is an early example of something that I have come to loathe: the planned town. But since it was planned before the inception of motorised transport it's fantastically compact and full of character. A few main roads cut through the town whilst tight, dogleg alleyways radiate away to form little mazes and dead-ends that are fun to explore. The buildings, with their uniformly whitewashed walls and bright blue doors and window frames, also form a harmonious whole and afford plenty of opportunities for the amateur hack (me) to take snaps of everyday vignettes and catch brief glimpses through open doorways of tiled courtyards and domesticity. It being a port Essaouira is more cosmopolitan than its comperes, but even I was a little stunned to see, in a Muslim country, women in miniskirts lounging in doorways during one of my lost ramblings. It took me a while to realise that I had stumbled upon the red light district (how innocent am I?).
tradition incorporates an esoteric mysticism, like Essaouira is famous throughout Morocco (and even the world, for people who are interested in such things) as being the home of Gnaoua music, a genre of spiritual music (although Gnaoua incororates mystical elements like Sufism, as well) that is thought to have originated from the mixing of (black) African and Arabic traditions. I didn't really know much of this to begin with, but whilst ambling aimlessly this middle-aged local, who smelt distinctly of pot and alcohol, struck up a conversation, mentioned that he made musical instruments and offered to show me some. I had nothing better to do and so tagged along. He led me down a few alleyways before ducking into a low door and into his small home that he shared with his mother. His room was rather small and dingy, with a low table and a half-empty bottle of (local) wine. He pulled out his home-made bass - although it looked to me like something they used to make on Blue Peter I have since learnt that it was in fact the real deal - and jumped into some Gnaoua jamming. I'm no connoisseur, but I quite liked it (for a sample of gnaoua check out this site, or just do a simple search on YouTube).
From Essaouira it was on to Marrakesh, the final destination of my trip. As the bus headed eastwards and upwards the snowy peaks of the High Atlas became visible to the south, its jagged spine running parallel to the road and reminding me that it's winter back in Europe, and apparently one of the coldest in recent history, a reality I am not relishing. But until then I am planning to make the most of my time in the Red City (I've been trying, without success, to find a list of cities associated with particular colours: Jodhpur and blue, Jaisalmer and gold, Aberdeen and grey, Toulouse and rose, Jaipur and pink - there could be a book in there somewhere). The old city, or Medina, has survived the ages pretty much intact which gives it a special character. And it's no stale, preserved museum piece either, but a vibrant, living, chaotic jumble that is immediately endearing. The centrepiece of the city, both literally and figuratively is the Djemaa El Fna, a giant, irregular square (almost certainly the largest in Africa). The square itself is rather unremarkable, but what makes it unique is what goes on there: traditional storytellers, acrobats, musicians, snake-charmers, soothsayers, henna tattooists, dancers, purveyors of fetishes and traditional remedies, and tarot readers all congregate during the day and well into the evening. What's particularly satisfying is that they aren't there for the tourists but for the local population (because quite frankly I don't think the average tourist has any idea what the wizened Berber ladies with the funny cards are saying) and we, as visitors, are being allowed a glimpse into their world. In the evening over a hundred food stalls set up shop selling everything from your standard Moroccan fare (couscous with something) to the less expected (rather tasty snails).
Ho-hum, I would like to write more but it's 11pm and my plane leaves tomorrow morning and I need to pack. The next you hear from me I should be back in the "real world".
tradition incorporates an esoteric mysticism, like Essaouira is famous throughout Morocco (and even the world, for people who are interested in such things) as being the home of Gnaoua music, a genre of spiritual music (although Gnaoua incororates mystical elements like Sufism, as well) that is thought to have originated from the mixing of (black) African and Arabic traditions. I didn't really know much of this to begin with, but whilst ambling aimlessly this middle-aged local, who smelt distinctly of pot and alcohol, struck up a conversation, mentioned that he made musical instruments and offered to show me some. I had nothing better to do and so tagged along. He led me down a few alleyways before ducking into a low door and into his small home that he shared with his mother. His room was rather small and dingy, with a low table and a half-empty bottle of (local) wine. He pulled out his home-made bass - although it looked to me like something they used to make on Blue Peter I have since learnt that it was in fact the real deal - and jumped into some Gnaoua jamming. I'm no connoisseur, but I quite liked it (for a sample of gnaoua check out this site, or just do a simple search on YouTube).
From Essaouira it was on to Marrakesh, the final destination of my trip. As the bus headed eastwards and upwards the snowy peaks of the High Atlas became visible to the south, its jagged spine running parallel to the road and reminding me that it's winter back in Europe, and apparently one of the coldest in recent history, a reality I am not relishing. But until then I am planning to make the most of my time in the Red City (I've been trying, without success, to find a list of cities associated with particular colours: Jodhpur and blue, Jaisalmer and gold, Aberdeen and grey, Toulouse and rose, Jaipur and pink - there could be a book in there somewhere). The old city, or Medina, has survived the ages pretty much intact which gives it a special character. And it's no stale, preserved museum piece either, but a vibrant, living, chaotic jumble that is immediately endearing. The centrepiece of the city, both literally and figuratively is the Djemaa El Fna, a giant, irregular square (almost certainly the largest in Africa). The square itself is rather unremarkable, but what makes it unique is what goes on there: traditional storytellers, acrobats, musicians, snake-charmers, soothsayers, henna tattooists, dancers, purveyors of fetishes and traditional remedies, and tarot readers all congregate during the day and well into the evening. What's particularly satisfying is that they aren't there for the tourists but for the local population (because quite frankly I don't think the average tourist has any idea what the wizened Berber ladies with the funny cards are saying) and we, as visitors, are being allowed a glimpse into their world. In the evening over a hundred food stalls set up shop selling everything from your standard Moroccan fare (couscous with something) to the less expected (rather tasty snails).
Ho-hum, I would like to write more but it's 11pm and my plane leaves tomorrow morning and I need to pack. The next you hear from me I should be back in the "real world".
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tale Of The Unexpected
The best day of my trip so far began rather inauspiciously: I arrived in town after a gruelling 24 hours of travelling, and the town was just supposed to be a rest stop between overnight bus journeys - it has no sights to speak of and is at least 1000km from the nearest UNESCO world heritage site. What the hell was I going to do in Laayoune? But first, how did I get there, and where is it even?
I got up early on the morning I wanted to leave Nouadhibu as it was the last day before my visa expired and I didn't want to get any hassles from the Mauritanian authorities. I scurried over to the transport garage where bush taxis leave for Dakhla, the first town of any note on the other side of the border, made my intended destination known and sat down to wait. [At this point I think I ought to point out that to the north of Mauritania lies Western Sahara. It was a Spanish colony until 1974 when they finally moved out, but instead of leaving the Sahrawis to themselves the Moroccans and Mauritanians moved in to annex the newly vacated territory. The Sahrawis managed to repel the Moors but not the Moroccans and so the territory has effectively been annexed by the latter which has also sent a wave of settlers to occupy the territory, effectively making the Sahrawis a minority within their own country. The UN has been on the ground for the past 18 years trying to get the sides to agree to a framework for a referendum but so far to no avail. Naturally the status of Western Sahara is a touchy subject in Morocco and is officially referred to as the "Saharan Provinces". There are distinct parallels with the Palestinian situation, but oddly enough the Saharan situation doesn't elicit a similar response from the Arab community.] And wait I did. And then some more. Despite turning up at 8am the taxi didn't leave until 2pm. We were a motley collection of passengers: a Senegalese tour guide heading north to meet his French girlfriend, a Guinean off to see his brother in Casablanca, a portly Sahrawi woman (for Moors and Sahrawis traditionally the plumper the lady the more beautiful she is) and her hyperactive 5 year-old son, an old Moor and myself, bringing up the rear. The authorities on the Mauritanian side are notoriously corrupt and my black-African travelling companions had to shell out cash at several checkpoints (of which there are many throughout the country), but once their greed satisfied we got through quite quickly. Between the two countries the no-man's-land is just that, with no side claiming responsibility for it, and so the 4km stretch between the two borders isn't even graded, let alone sealed. Cars, and even large, articulated lorries, gingerly pick their way through the desert and pray they don't get stuck. A good half hour later we reached the Moroccan border and the difference was immediately evident. Here there was order, respect, rules. There was also a tight adherence to them and a thoroughness that was lacking in their their counterparts to the south. Unfortunately this meant paperwork and bag-searching, which lasted over two hours. By 6pm we were on the road and heading to Dakhla and we reached the police checkpoint on the outskirts of the town at 11pm. As the police were taking our details a bus heading north trundled along and I (and my Senegalese companion) jumped at the chanced and hopped on for another 8 hour jaunt to Laayoune, the regional capital (by all accounts Dakhla doesn't have particularly much to keep the curious visitor busy).
So I arrived in Laayoune at 7am. The bus dropped us off in the central square just in front of the nicest hotel in town, used as a HQ by the UN. I could tell because there were over 25 UN vehicles (most of them new Landcruiser Prados) in the parking lot. I had little information about Laayoune and that which I had read something like this: "there's nothing there". Armed with this information I planned to to spend the day there before taking another night bus north to the coastal city of Essaouira. My only ray of hope was the number of a CouchSurfer who may or may be in town. I waited until 8am to call Ali. Luckily he was in. Unluckily I had woken him up. Once this little faux pas was ironed over he said that he'd come over and meet me in town. He took me to a pleasant cafe to have some breakfast and a conversation - he turned out to be both an informed and eloquent individual and it was fascinating to get his views, not just on the Sahara question, but on life in Morocco in general.
We then returned to his flat to drop off my rucksack and check on the plumber (he was having his bathroom redone). The town struck me as being neat and clean (though Ali reminded me that I had just been in Mauritania and that all things are relative), the houses, though rather boxy, all painted in a not unpleasant combination of rose and white, but it all seemed unfinished and missing something.
"So there you have it," said Ali once we had arrived at his place.
"What?"
"Laayoune. There isn't much to see. To get a real taste of Western Sahara you need to go out into the countryside with a car. But ... my friend is getting married today so we can go round and you can see a local wedding, if you want."
"Sure," I said, "as long as it's not imposing."
So we went to his friend's house which was nearby in a residential part of town, an unremarkable building except for the people spilling out onto the alleyway. My meagre Arabic, which was stretched enough as it was, broke down underneath the onslaught of the multitude of elaborate greetings; instead I just shook hands with my left covering my heart (a sign of goodwill and friendship) whilst beaming manically. The fact that there was a random foreigner at this most intimate of celebrations didn't even seem to raise an eyebrow (I try and picture the reaction if our roles were reversed and I brought a stranger to a wedding in Britain). We penetrated deeper into the bowels of the house until we reached the groom who was holding court with his friends. The small room had a low table in the middle, piled high with dates, nutty, bite-sized pastries and drinks (UHT milk and fruit juice) and around the outside sat the young men leaning against a series of cushions (the youngest was in charge of making the tea, a purely male task). The groom was lounging on some mats dressed in a white boubou and white leather sandals next to a suspended cotton sheet which separated a small corner from the rest of the room (it was so innocuous that I didn't notice it at first). After greeting the groom and paying my respects I was given a couple of light lashes to my back with a small, tasseled whip that dangled from his wrist. Only bachelors get whipped and it is supposed to bring about their marriage more quickly. Then I was liberally sprayed with not one, but two different eaux de cologne.
I was very lucky: not only was the groom happy to have me tag along, but he was an English teacher as well so communication was easy (I also think he appreciated the opportunity to talk to a native speaker). Having an in-depth, varied conversation with a local who isn't trying to sell you something is one of the rarest, and most rewarding experiences when travelling and trying to learn about and understand a different culture. And when that conversation is during such a joyous occasion and punctuated with liberal doses of sweetmeats and tea, well that's just the icing on the cake.
After about 20mins the groom partly pulled back the sheet to talk to someone on the other side. I was more than a little bewildered to find out that the bride was in the same room but hidden, which caused no end of amusement for the others. Later I was asked if I wanted to eat. I looked at the pile of date pits, sweet wrappers, nutshells and remains of sweet millet porridge in front of me and wondered if this was some sort of Sahrawi joke. But no, apparently the main meal was happening elsewhere. There were about 200 men in the small hall, elders around the outside on chairs and the others in small groups on the floor. To get us in the mood more dates, cakes and sweet tea were passed around. An elder then spoke, at length, about various topics - like most weddings most people weren't really listening. Then, announcing the imminent arrival of food, a group of waiters went round dousing the guests with a variety of pungent perfumes. I don't think I have smelt so good on this trip as I did then! The first main course was composed of whole, roast chicken sprinkled with olives. This was then followed by slabs of roast camel (the hump, which was diced up, is solid fat, but tasty nonetheless). The Sahrawis, living a nomadic, desert lifestyle as they do, don't have much room for vegetables. Being a bit of a novelty at our table I was bombarded with questions about religion and politics, which I have learnt, over the years, to diplomatically answer without lying.
I was holding my stomach for the rest of the day for fear that it may burst. And although I was invited to attend the evening festivities (Sahrawi weddings go on for several days) I knew that I wouldn't be able to and keep to my schedule (my flight home is in a few days and I still have a couple of stops on my itinerary). So it was with a heavy heart that I said goodbye to Ali and set off for the night bus to Agadir. Despite just passing through and not even staying a night, my time in Laayoune will stay with me as long as my other, more illustrious, destinations on this trip. Which goes to show that amazing things can, and do, happen in the most unlikely places - you just have to keep your eyes open for them.
I got up early on the morning I wanted to leave Nouadhibu as it was the last day before my visa expired and I didn't want to get any hassles from the Mauritanian authorities. I scurried over to the transport garage where bush taxis leave for Dakhla, the first town of any note on the other side of the border, made my intended destination known and sat down to wait. [At this point I think I ought to point out that to the north of Mauritania lies Western Sahara. It was a Spanish colony until 1974 when they finally moved out, but instead of leaving the Sahrawis to themselves the Moroccans and Mauritanians moved in to annex the newly vacated territory. The Sahrawis managed to repel the Moors but not the Moroccans and so the territory has effectively been annexed by the latter which has also sent a wave of settlers to occupy the territory, effectively making the Sahrawis a minority within their own country. The UN has been on the ground for the past 18 years trying to get the sides to agree to a framework for a referendum but so far to no avail. Naturally the status of Western Sahara is a touchy subject in Morocco and is officially referred to as the "Saharan Provinces". There are distinct parallels with the Palestinian situation, but oddly enough the Saharan situation doesn't elicit a similar response from the Arab community.] And wait I did. And then some more. Despite turning up at 8am the taxi didn't leave until 2pm. We were a motley collection of passengers: a Senegalese tour guide heading north to meet his French girlfriend, a Guinean off to see his brother in Casablanca, a portly Sahrawi woman (for Moors and Sahrawis traditionally the plumper the lady the more beautiful she is) and her hyperactive 5 year-old son, an old Moor and myself, bringing up the rear. The authorities on the Mauritanian side are notoriously corrupt and my black-African travelling companions had to shell out cash at several checkpoints (of which there are many throughout the country), but once their greed satisfied we got through quite quickly. Between the two countries the no-man's-land is just that, with no side claiming responsibility for it, and so the 4km stretch between the two borders isn't even graded, let alone sealed. Cars, and even large, articulated lorries, gingerly pick their way through the desert and pray they don't get stuck. A good half hour later we reached the Moroccan border and the difference was immediately evident. Here there was order, respect, rules. There was also a tight adherence to them and a thoroughness that was lacking in their their counterparts to the south. Unfortunately this meant paperwork and bag-searching, which lasted over two hours. By 6pm we were on the road and heading to Dakhla and we reached the police checkpoint on the outskirts of the town at 11pm. As the police were taking our details a bus heading north trundled along and I (and my Senegalese companion) jumped at the chanced and hopped on for another 8 hour jaunt to Laayoune, the regional capital (by all accounts Dakhla doesn't have particularly much to keep the curious visitor busy).
So I arrived in Laayoune at 7am. The bus dropped us off in the central square just in front of the nicest hotel in town, used as a HQ by the UN. I could tell because there were over 25 UN vehicles (most of them new Landcruiser Prados) in the parking lot. I had little information about Laayoune and that which I had read something like this: "there's nothing there". Armed with this information I planned to to spend the day there before taking another night bus north to the coastal city of Essaouira. My only ray of hope was the number of a CouchSurfer who may or may be in town. I waited until 8am to call Ali. Luckily he was in. Unluckily I had woken him up. Once this little faux pas was ironed over he said that he'd come over and meet me in town. He took me to a pleasant cafe to have some breakfast and a conversation - he turned out to be both an informed and eloquent individual and it was fascinating to get his views, not just on the Sahara question, but on life in Morocco in general.
We then returned to his flat to drop off my rucksack and check on the plumber (he was having his bathroom redone). The town struck me as being neat and clean (though Ali reminded me that I had just been in Mauritania and that all things are relative), the houses, though rather boxy, all painted in a not unpleasant combination of rose and white, but it all seemed unfinished and missing something.
"So there you have it," said Ali once we had arrived at his place.
"What?"
"Laayoune. There isn't much to see. To get a real taste of Western Sahara you need to go out into the countryside with a car. But ... my friend is getting married today so we can go round and you can see a local wedding, if you want."
"Sure," I said, "as long as it's not imposing."
So we went to his friend's house which was nearby in a residential part of town, an unremarkable building except for the people spilling out onto the alleyway. My meagre Arabic, which was stretched enough as it was, broke down underneath the onslaught of the multitude of elaborate greetings; instead I just shook hands with my left covering my heart (a sign of goodwill and friendship) whilst beaming manically. The fact that there was a random foreigner at this most intimate of celebrations didn't even seem to raise an eyebrow (I try and picture the reaction if our roles were reversed and I brought a stranger to a wedding in Britain). We penetrated deeper into the bowels of the house until we reached the groom who was holding court with his friends. The small room had a low table in the middle, piled high with dates, nutty, bite-sized pastries and drinks (UHT milk and fruit juice) and around the outside sat the young men leaning against a series of cushions (the youngest was in charge of making the tea, a purely male task). The groom was lounging on some mats dressed in a white boubou and white leather sandals next to a suspended cotton sheet which separated a small corner from the rest of the room (it was so innocuous that I didn't notice it at first). After greeting the groom and paying my respects I was given a couple of light lashes to my back with a small, tasseled whip that dangled from his wrist. Only bachelors get whipped and it is supposed to bring about their marriage more quickly. Then I was liberally sprayed with not one, but two different eaux de cologne.
I was very lucky: not only was the groom happy to have me tag along, but he was an English teacher as well so communication was easy (I also think he appreciated the opportunity to talk to a native speaker). Having an in-depth, varied conversation with a local who isn't trying to sell you something is one of the rarest, and most rewarding experiences when travelling and trying to learn about and understand a different culture. And when that conversation is during such a joyous occasion and punctuated with liberal doses of sweetmeats and tea, well that's just the icing on the cake.
After about 20mins the groom partly pulled back the sheet to talk to someone on the other side. I was more than a little bewildered to find out that the bride was in the same room but hidden, which caused no end of amusement for the others. Later I was asked if I wanted to eat. I looked at the pile of date pits, sweet wrappers, nutshells and remains of sweet millet porridge in front of me and wondered if this was some sort of Sahrawi joke. But no, apparently the main meal was happening elsewhere. There were about 200 men in the small hall, elders around the outside on chairs and the others in small groups on the floor. To get us in the mood more dates, cakes and sweet tea were passed around. An elder then spoke, at length, about various topics - like most weddings most people weren't really listening. Then, announcing the imminent arrival of food, a group of waiters went round dousing the guests with a variety of pungent perfumes. I don't think I have smelt so good on this trip as I did then! The first main course was composed of whole, roast chicken sprinkled with olives. This was then followed by slabs of roast camel (the hump, which was diced up, is solid fat, but tasty nonetheless). The Sahrawis, living a nomadic, desert lifestyle as they do, don't have much room for vegetables. Being a bit of a novelty at our table I was bombarded with questions about religion and politics, which I have learnt, over the years, to diplomatically answer without lying.
I was holding my stomach for the rest of the day for fear that it may burst. And although I was invited to attend the evening festivities (Sahrawi weddings go on for several days) I knew that I wouldn't be able to and keep to my schedule (my flight home is in a few days and I still have a couple of stops on my itinerary). So it was with a heavy heart that I said goodbye to Ali and set off for the night bus to Agadir. Despite just passing through and not even staying a night, my time in Laayoune will stay with me as long as my other, more illustrious, destinations on this trip. Which goes to show that amazing things can, and do, happen in the most unlikely places - you just have to keep your eyes open for them.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Long Train Running
Before coming out to Mauritania one of its main draws for me was the legendary train that carries iron ore from the northern mines at Zouerat to the port at Nouadhibu. Not only is it in the running for the mantle of longest/heaviest train in the world but you can catch a ride on one train a day which has a single passenger car stuck on its end like an afterthought. Of course, this being Africa, people don't stick to the passenger car and it is possible to ride atop the ore for free. But I decided against this as it would be potentially very cold, dusty and highly uncomfortable. Sometimes I hate it when I'm so right.
When I arrived in Choum, one of only three places the train stops, I was told that the train would come at 6pm. I sat myself down roughly where I thought the passenger car would be (there are no signs, no-one else was waiting and I had no idea where exactly it would stop) and began to wait. 6pm came and went, the sun set and it got very dark. I was getting a bit apprehensive and so decided to return to town where hopefully there would be other people waiting. The town was deserted and so rather than wander aimlessly I decided to wait there where there was at least some light. The train crept in so quietly that it had almost stopped before I knew it. I rushed up and realised that I was at the wrong end and that the passenger car was up to 3km away further down the track. There was no way I was going to run down there in the dark with my backpack - I didn't want to run the risk of missing the train entirely and having to spend a whole day in Choum, which, to put it mildly, is a shithole. I saw an ore wagon with a light moving on top and made my way to it and climbed aboard, thinking that there is safety in numbers. I was hauled up the last couple of feet into the wagon and was immediately surprised by the iron ore itself, which was ground to a fine, black dust, like soft sand. There wasn't much time for introductions as everyone was hollowing out little niches for themselves to shelter from the wind that would come on the journey and so I did the same. Then I pulled my sleeping bag out, set my back pack vertically to act as a windbreak and backrest, wrapped my keffiyeh totally around my face so that I could barely see and buried myself in my sleeping bag. Up until now I had been somewhat regretting bringing a 3 season bag which has been a little too warm for Malian nights, but it certainly helped make the train journey at least bearable. The combination of the wind, chilly desert night and the ore and metal wagon which suck heat away from you make the trip very cold indeed if you are not properly prepared. Luckily I was able to get a few hours fitful sleep. The other discomfort is the sand and dust that fly everywhere and make it hard to see and breathe without a proper face covering.
In the end the journey 'only' took 15 hours (the train has an average speed of a little over 20km/h) before we trundled into Nouadhibu, Mauritania's main port. In the morning light I could see that the train was disappointingly short, only about a mile long and composed of about 120 wagons. But it was still an experience; one I was glad, in retrospect to have experienced, survived unscathed, and certainly wasn't planning on doing again! The town is situated in the middle of a long peninsula in the far north of the country, but the iron ore plant is at the tip. So I saw the town sail past as we continued past to the plant which resembles some dystopian, post-apocalyptic Hollywood movie set. Mad Max would feel right at home. Huge machines clank and whirr amid mountains of ore, rusted wagons litter the landscape like rotting carcases and the plant is a confusing jumble of pipes that reaches to the sky. Once I made it to the town I was glad to have found a CouchSurfing contact - another American Peace Corps volunteer called Eli. I was even more glad that he had a hot shower. After I had got most of the ore dust out of my hair and ears and off my skin I was ready to check out my new surroundings. Nouadhibu is a strange town. It is more cosmopolitan than other places in Mauritania, even Nouakchott, and the ever-present Moorish boubou (the national dress worn by most Moors both white and black, it is basically a large, cotton poncho - either white, light or dark blue - sown together at the bottom) is less evident. There is also a large expat community, both European and black African, as this is a popular jumping off point for attempting to reach the Canary Islands (and therefore the European Union). There are no real sights as such, but I was fascinated by a collection of rusting hulks in the bay just south of the port. Apparently they were given by the European Union to the Mauritanian government to help develop the fishing industry but they were never used. Instead they have just been left to rot and serve as a source of scrap metal. There are two stories as to the reason: either it was to collect the insurance money, or that the government didn't bother training anyone in their use and so they were just left. Either way it is a sad example of good intentions going to waste.
Tomorrow I head north to Morocco as my Mauritanian visa expires (and I only have 6 days to get to Marrakesh). My one regret is that I have been unable to visit the Banc d'Arguin national park which lies between Nouakchott and Nouadhibu. In winter the bay and its rich waters is home to the largest concentration of migrating birds in the world. Over 7 million birds including terns, plovers, spoonbills, herons and many more.
When I arrived in Choum, one of only three places the train stops, I was told that the train would come at 6pm. I sat myself down roughly where I thought the passenger car would be (there are no signs, no-one else was waiting and I had no idea where exactly it would stop) and began to wait. 6pm came and went, the sun set and it got very dark. I was getting a bit apprehensive and so decided to return to town where hopefully there would be other people waiting. The town was deserted and so rather than wander aimlessly I decided to wait there where there was at least some light. The train crept in so quietly that it had almost stopped before I knew it. I rushed up and realised that I was at the wrong end and that the passenger car was up to 3km away further down the track. There was no way I was going to run down there in the dark with my backpack - I didn't want to run the risk of missing the train entirely and having to spend a whole day in Choum, which, to put it mildly, is a shithole. I saw an ore wagon with a light moving on top and made my way to it and climbed aboard, thinking that there is safety in numbers. I was hauled up the last couple of feet into the wagon and was immediately surprised by the iron ore itself, which was ground to a fine, black dust, like soft sand. There wasn't much time for introductions as everyone was hollowing out little niches for themselves to shelter from the wind that would come on the journey and so I did the same. Then I pulled my sleeping bag out, set my back pack vertically to act as a windbreak and backrest, wrapped my keffiyeh totally around my face so that I could barely see and buried myself in my sleeping bag. Up until now I had been somewhat regretting bringing a 3 season bag which has been a little too warm for Malian nights, but it certainly helped make the train journey at least bearable. The combination of the wind, chilly desert night and the ore and metal wagon which suck heat away from you make the trip very cold indeed if you are not properly prepared. Luckily I was able to get a few hours fitful sleep. The other discomfort is the sand and dust that fly everywhere and make it hard to see and breathe without a proper face covering.
In the end the journey 'only' took 15 hours (the train has an average speed of a little over 20km/h) before we trundled into Nouadhibu, Mauritania's main port. In the morning light I could see that the train was disappointingly short, only about a mile long and composed of about 120 wagons. But it was still an experience; one I was glad, in retrospect to have experienced, survived unscathed, and certainly wasn't planning on doing again! The town is situated in the middle of a long peninsula in the far north of the country, but the iron ore plant is at the tip. So I saw the town sail past as we continued past to the plant which resembles some dystopian, post-apocalyptic Hollywood movie set. Mad Max would feel right at home. Huge machines clank and whirr amid mountains of ore, rusted wagons litter the landscape like rotting carcases and the plant is a confusing jumble of pipes that reaches to the sky. Once I made it to the town I was glad to have found a CouchSurfing contact - another American Peace Corps volunteer called Eli. I was even more glad that he had a hot shower. After I had got most of the ore dust out of my hair and ears and off my skin I was ready to check out my new surroundings. Nouadhibu is a strange town. It is more cosmopolitan than other places in Mauritania, even Nouakchott, and the ever-present Moorish boubou (the national dress worn by most Moors both white and black, it is basically a large, cotton poncho - either white, light or dark blue - sown together at the bottom) is less evident. There is also a large expat community, both European and black African, as this is a popular jumping off point for attempting to reach the Canary Islands (and therefore the European Union). There are no real sights as such, but I was fascinated by a collection of rusting hulks in the bay just south of the port. Apparently they were given by the European Union to the Mauritanian government to help develop the fishing industry but they were never used. Instead they have just been left to rot and serve as a source of scrap metal. There are two stories as to the reason: either it was to collect the insurance money, or that the government didn't bother training anyone in their use and so they were just left. Either way it is a sad example of good intentions going to waste.
Tomorrow I head north to Morocco as my Mauritanian visa expires (and I only have 6 days to get to Marrakesh). My one regret is that I have been unable to visit the Banc d'Arguin national park which lies between Nouakchott and Nouadhibu. In winter the bay and its rich waters is home to the largest concentration of migrating birds in the world. Over 7 million birds including terns, plovers, spoonbills, herons and many more.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Drinking Champagne In The Desert
From Nouakchott I headed northeastwards towards the oasis towns of the Adrar which form the cultural cradle of the Moorish civilisation. Along the way I've managed to hook up with a couple of crazy Slovenes (although, from my experience with their compatriots that's a bit of a tautology) who are driving down to Senegal in an old, bright orange Dyane. Slovenes seem to have different priorities from most people. Whilst it's true that they have a couple of spare wheels and plenty of other kit to fix the car, most of the space in the back is taken up with homemade preserves, salami, pickles, conserves and, taking pride of place, booze. Grappa, wine, mead, plum brandy and even champagne - anything and everything A particularly impressive achievement as Mauritania is an Islamic republic and alcohol is officially banned. "No problem," says Alfijo the driver, "10 euros at the border and they don't check." Amongst all the random flotsam they have, however, made a little space for me and taken me on board with a hearty handshake, smile and a couple of shots of slivovice.
Although the region is true desert it doesn't conform to the sandy, dune-filled stereotype. Instead much of the Adrar is a flat, gravel-strewn wasteland where a few hardy plants eke out a meagre living. The most revered town in the area is Chinguetti, which used to be on the old trans-Saharan caravan route linking the Ghana and Mali empires to the south with the Mediterranean to the north. Like its rival Timbuktu, which eventually superseded it as trade routes shifted, Chinguetti was a centre for Islamic learning and scholarship and to this day there remain a dozen private librariess each with envious collections of priceless, medieval Arabic manuscripts spanning a wide range of subjects, from Koranic study to mathematics. Chinguetti also claims to be an town of particular religious significance, claiming even to be the seventh-holiest city of Islam. Being a born pedant it was a claim that I was rather suspicious of and so whilst I was there I kept asking people what the other holy cities were (the first three are universally accepted to be Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem). Every person I asked gave me a different answer and in the end I had about 10 other cities that were vying for the three intermediate spots. I suppose it's a case of making a claim that isn't so improbable that it offends people whilst being impressive enough to attract them. Chinguetti lives from tourism and has been severely affected by a huge drop in visitor numbers (down to about 25% of their normal levels) due to the credit crunch and murder of four French tourists last year which also provoked the cancellation of the Dakar rally. This makes it easier to find cheap accommodationn, but theflip sidee is that there is greater competition for the tourist dollar which is manifested in being continuously hounded by women selling trinkets from local co-operatives who will not take no for an answer. We were followed for a good half hour by a particularly persistent gaggle, easily the most tenacious hawkers I have ever come across.
We also paid a visit to a secluded oasis hidden down at the end of a narrow valley which had one of the rarest and most valuable things in the desert: perennial water. Not only that, but as the water trickles out of the cliff and into the palm grove it's at a very pleasant 26 degrees - very nice on a Sahara winter morning where the temperatures can drop surprisingly low. Alfijo had visited the village a couple of years before and had such a good time that this year he wanted to give something back and so he had brought a whole trunk-full of notebooks, pens, games and other knick-knacks for the kids. The people running the campement where we were staying, however, warned us to give the stuff directly to the children and be careful of the teacher who would keep a lot of it for himself. This had me slightly worried and I understood as soon as we arrived at the school why. The teacher was black in an entirely Moorish community. After only a minute or two speaking with him it was obvious to me that he was a friendly, mild-mannered man. The invariable hangers-on who had followed us from the campement were trying to take control of the situation and boss him about despite their having no business there. I even caught a couple of them trying to pocket material destined for the kids for themselves. From what I have seen myself and having talked to several people who work for NGOs I have become sceptical as to the real effect such gestures. undoubtedly well-meaning and generous, actually have when there doesn't seem to be the requisite change in attitude and mentality that is required to make full use of them.
Last night was my last with Branko and Alfijo and they opened one of their two bottles of champagne to say goodbye, which really touched me. Travelling with them for the past two days has been a little bit crazy, somewhat uncomfortable, slightly strange but lots of fun. But one bottle of bubbly is nowhere near enough and so we polished off their bottle of apricot schnapps as well.
Although the region is true desert it doesn't conform to the sandy, dune-filled stereotype. Instead much of the Adrar is a flat, gravel-strewn wasteland where a few hardy plants eke out a meagre living. The most revered town in the area is Chinguetti, which used to be on the old trans-Saharan caravan route linking the Ghana and Mali empires to the south with the Mediterranean to the north. Like its rival Timbuktu, which eventually superseded it as trade routes shifted, Chinguetti was a centre for Islamic learning and scholarship and to this day there remain a dozen private librariess each with envious collections of priceless, medieval Arabic manuscripts spanning a wide range of subjects, from Koranic study to mathematics. Chinguetti also claims to be an town of particular religious significance, claiming even to be the seventh-holiest city of Islam. Being a born pedant it was a claim that I was rather suspicious of and so whilst I was there I kept asking people what the other holy cities were (the first three are universally accepted to be Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem). Every person I asked gave me a different answer and in the end I had about 10 other cities that were vying for the three intermediate spots. I suppose it's a case of making a claim that isn't so improbable that it offends people whilst being impressive enough to attract them. Chinguetti lives from tourism and has been severely affected by a huge drop in visitor numbers (down to about 25% of their normal levels) due to the credit crunch and murder of four French tourists last year which also provoked the cancellation of the Dakar rally. This makes it easier to find cheap accommodationn, but theflip sidee is that there is greater competition for the tourist dollar which is manifested in being continuously hounded by women selling trinkets from local co-operatives who will not take no for an answer. We were followed for a good half hour by a particularly persistent gaggle, easily the most tenacious hawkers I have ever come across.
We also paid a visit to a secluded oasis hidden down at the end of a narrow valley which had one of the rarest and most valuable things in the desert: perennial water. Not only that, but as the water trickles out of the cliff and into the palm grove it's at a very pleasant 26 degrees - very nice on a Sahara winter morning where the temperatures can drop surprisingly low. Alfijo had visited the village a couple of years before and had such a good time that this year he wanted to give something back and so he had brought a whole trunk-full of notebooks, pens, games and other knick-knacks for the kids. The people running the campement where we were staying, however, warned us to give the stuff directly to the children and be careful of the teacher who would keep a lot of it for himself. This had me slightly worried and I understood as soon as we arrived at the school why. The teacher was black in an entirely Moorish community. After only a minute or two speaking with him it was obvious to me that he was a friendly, mild-mannered man. The invariable hangers-on who had followed us from the campement were trying to take control of the situation and boss him about despite their having no business there. I even caught a couple of them trying to pocket material destined for the kids for themselves. From what I have seen myself and having talked to several people who work for NGOs I have become sceptical as to the real effect such gestures. undoubtedly well-meaning and generous, actually have when there doesn't seem to be the requisite change in attitude and mentality that is required to make full use of them.
Last night was my last with Branko and Alfijo and they opened one of their two bottles of champagne to say goodbye, which really touched me. Travelling with them for the past two days has been a little bit crazy, somewhat uncomfortable, slightly strange but lots of fun. But one bottle of bubbly is nowhere near enough and so we polished off their bottle of apricot schnapps as well.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Moored
So here I am finally in Nouakchott (the capital of Mauritania). It took two and a half days to drive the 1500km from Bamako for a variety of reasons: the roads are not always the best in the world; with a 2.5L diesel engine Landrovers are seriously underpowered; and we only drove during the day to avoid wandering livestock and nutters in cars without functioning headlights. It did, however, give me the opportunity to appreciate the vast emptiness of of the country and the Sahara, which we skirted the southern edges of. The country is four times the size of the UK with a population smaller than that of Albania (although it does try an make up with its cows, donkeys goats and camels). As you drive through the southeast of the country you pass through vast tracts of Sahelian scrub alternating with rocky wasteland punctuated by tall, forbidding mesas that guard the way to the desert proper. There are, however, two constants: the incessant, dust-laden harmattan trade wind that blows from December through to March from the northeast and acts like a giant sandblaster; and the miserable villages composed of forlorn concrete boxes and semi-permanent tents that look as if they only offer token resistance to the driving sand. In all my travels I don't think I've seen any villages as grim and depressing as these and I was instantly thankful to just be passing through. As we approached Nouakchott the Sahel finally lost the battle against the desert and rolling sand dunes, of alternating red and white, took over. It was almost taking over the road as well and I think it's a continual battle to keep the roads clear.
Driving along one of the first things you notice are the cars. I immediately thought of Albania because the vast majority of cars (around 75%) are Mercedes; and just like in Albania they ll seem to be European imports (many still have stickers with a large D on them). It's obviously a profitable business as one of the people staying at my hostel is a young Frenchman who has driven down all the way from Bordeaux in a 4x4 to sell it on here. Although he has become so exasperated with doing business with Africans that he swears that this will be his last trip.
Nouakchott is a strange city. A place without history it was chosen by the ruling Arabs, who have their heartlands in the northeast in the desert, as a site for their capital in 1958 so that they could keep an eye on their black compatriots to the south more easily (more on this below). The Arab desert culture and disdain for the sea is evident from the fact that although Nouakchott is on the coast it's not really. A 5km strip of wasteland separates the western edges of the town with the beach and fishing port. A visit to the port emphasises this desert-centricness even more. First of all all the fishermen and people who work at the port are black, but despite the country having some of the richest fishing waters in the world the facilities are nonexistent. The fishermen go out to sea in nothing more than oversized canoes and have to land their catch on an exposed, windswept beach with no harbour. Instead of building up what could be a lucrative industry the government just sells the fishing rights to European trawlers so as to make a quick buck. Still, for want of any historical sites the fishing port is Nouakchott's main tourist attraction. And the bustle as the boats beach, the catch is carried ashore, and the fish are sliced, gutted, chopped and sold is certainly entertaining.
When walking about the town you don't get a sense of the litany of ills that supposedly befall the country (and I've got no reason to believe they don't) which sounds like a roll-call of problems faced by African countries. A non-functioning democracy (there was a coup in August), abysmal literacy rates, suppression of women's rights (female genital mutilation is widespread), and, in my view the most horrific, slavery is still very much ingrained in Mauritanian society (actually it is found to a certain degree throughout the Sahel, but the worst example is here). Despite being abolished on numerous occasions (most recently in 2007) it is estimated that up to 20% of the population live as slaves or indentured labour (all of these are black Africans). Not only is it shocking that in this day and age that such practices can still go on, but that it doesn't cause the outrage that it should.
Driving along one of the first things you notice are the cars. I immediately thought of Albania because the vast majority of cars (around 75%) are Mercedes; and just like in Albania they ll seem to be European imports (many still have stickers with a large D on them). It's obviously a profitable business as one of the people staying at my hostel is a young Frenchman who has driven down all the way from Bordeaux in a 4x4 to sell it on here. Although he has become so exasperated with doing business with Africans that he swears that this will be his last trip.
Nouakchott is a strange city. A place without history it was chosen by the ruling Arabs, who have their heartlands in the northeast in the desert, as a site for their capital in 1958 so that they could keep an eye on their black compatriots to the south more easily (more on this below). The Arab desert culture and disdain for the sea is evident from the fact that although Nouakchott is on the coast it's not really. A 5km strip of wasteland separates the western edges of the town with the beach and fishing port. A visit to the port emphasises this desert-centricness even more. First of all all the fishermen and people who work at the port are black, but despite the country having some of the richest fishing waters in the world the facilities are nonexistent. The fishermen go out to sea in nothing more than oversized canoes and have to land their catch on an exposed, windswept beach with no harbour. Instead of building up what could be a lucrative industry the government just sells the fishing rights to European trawlers so as to make a quick buck. Still, for want of any historical sites the fishing port is Nouakchott's main tourist attraction. And the bustle as the boats beach, the catch is carried ashore, and the fish are sliced, gutted, chopped and sold is certainly entertaining.
When walking about the town you don't get a sense of the litany of ills that supposedly befall the country (and I've got no reason to believe they don't) which sounds like a roll-call of problems faced by African countries. A non-functioning democracy (there was a coup in August), abysmal literacy rates, suppression of women's rights (female genital mutilation is widespread), and, in my view the most horrific, slavery is still very much ingrained in Mauritanian society (actually it is found to a certain degree throughout the Sahel, but the worst example is here). Despite being abolished on numerous occasions (most recently in 2007) it is estimated that up to 20% of the population live as slaves or indentured labour (all of these are black Africans). Not only is it shocking that in this day and age that such practices can still go on, but that it doesn't cause the outrage that it should.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Courtoisie
Woohoo! I got my Mauritanian visa today. After 4 days of waiting it was a little victory made all the sweeter by the fact that it's a visa de courtoisie i.e. free. Plus I met a friendly couple from the Midlands who are passing through in their Land Rover and have offered to give me a lift. So although I've lost 3 days I have saved 70 euros - not a totally even swap, but at least it's some compensation. So once I finish writing this I'm off to pack for an early morning start.
Rereading some of my posts I think people might get the impression that I'm not enjoying myself here, but very little could be further from the truth. I'm just highlighting some of the problems and difficulties that are found in a country such as Mali which is one of the poorest in the world. There are of course signs of optimism: in a region that isn't known for the fairness of its public institutions Mali is a rare beacon of (admitedly imperfect) democracy, and in this year's index of press freedom (published by Reporters Without Borders) it came joint 31st, above its ex-colonial master France. But its greatest asset is its people who are incredibly mild-mannered and joyous. Today I wandered over to the national museum where there was a free concert by a small, tourist brass band from southern France. The music was decent but far from spectacular, but what made the event special was the gaiety (in the original sense of the word) of the crowd who really got involved with the musicians, cheering and clapping them along. Back home the response would be altogether more staid and placid.
Anyway, that's it for Mali, it's onwards and northwestwards for me now. Hopefully my next post shall be from Nouakchott.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Stampless In Bamako
Getting to Bamako was relatively stress free and I've found a friendly CSer to stay with so life is cheap and I have people to talk to. I even managed to easily find the Mauritanian embassy. But that's where the plain sailing ended. On Monday morning I turned up at the embassy gates bright and early and set myself down with the other supplicants (2 French overlander couples and a Mauritanian imam with a Liberian teenager in tow to be indoctrinated into the ways of Islam) to await what should be a formality. An angelic patience is an important skill when dealing with third world bureaucracies not just those in Africa and here it was no different. After almost an hour of waiting outside we were ushered inside to a comfortable waiting room and our passports checked. So far so good I thought to myself. Two hours later and nothing had happened except for a few more additions to our group. This was beginning to get a bit silly and so I went in search of an official to shed some light on the situation. It turns out that they do not have the necessary fiscal stamps - and haven't for a week at least - to stick in our passports and so no visas can be issued. The stamp penury seems to be acute as none of the Mauritanian embassies in the region (Niger, Senegal, Gambia) seem to have them and so foreigners are unable to get in. I was particularly sorry for one of my fellow waiters, a trader from Morocco who only wants to transit Mauritania to get home and has been coming to the embassy for the past week. This is symptomatic of the aspect of life here that is most frustrating for me: the lack of commitment to good information. At the embassy we're fobbed off with "tomorrow, tomorrow" and when asking for directions I'm either told that it's too far and that I ought to take a taxi or given a vague wave of the arm to show the general direction. In the West we like to have all the data, if possible with some schematic drawing or map, so that we can make an informed decision. But people here don't seem to understand our obsession with such details. For them if something needs to be done it doesn't make much difference if it's today, tomorrow, next week or whenever. Funnily enough y old friend Mungo remarked on exactly the same thing 200 years ago!
So my sojourn in Bamako has been extended for longer than I had hoped, and although it's not an unpleasant place I would really rather be on the move. So while I have no new escapades to relate I thought I might lump together a few random observations that I haven't been able to shoehorn into my narrative so far.
For any independent traveller there are four main preoccupations that form the basis of over 90% of the problems that need to be overcome: what will I see? how will I get there? where will I stay once I get there? and what will I eat along the way? (underlying all these is the ever-present how much will it cost?) The first three have all been touched on to a greater or lesser degree in my previous posts, but I haven't really talked about food. Now Malian food may not be held in as high esteem in the pantheon of world food as Italian, Chinese, Mexican or even Slovenian cuisine; and there is a reason for it. Quite frankly it's nothing to write home about (although that's precisely what I'm doing). The main staple is rice which is usually served with some sort of sauce, usually peanut or tomato based. If you're willing to splurge they may add either poulet (chicken), poisson (fish) or viande (meat) to the sauce. I haven't rustled up the courage to ask directly but the latter generally seems to be goat. In the evenings little streetside stalls sprout up, like mushrooms after rain, where women sell spaghetti and beans (or lentils) from large tureens - a cheap and filling combination but not one to set the heart racing. That said I have been told that the Nile perch (known locally as capitaine), which can commonly be found grilled, is quite tasty, but as I'm allergic to fish I can't independently verify the claim. As far as fruit and veg go the selection is surprisingly limited and the quality is so-so. For the former there are decent bananas, dry oranges, papayas, guavas and the odd pineapple and watermelon. As for veg there is very little apart from the ubiquitous tomatoes and onions. Mali is definitely not a country you visit for the food. Surprising really as they were colonised by the French who are nothing if not obsessed by good food. Instead the only culinary traces left by them are baguettes and processed vache qui rit (Laughing Cow) cheese. No great legacy.
One thing that has disappointed me somewhat during my stay is that, despite the history of West Africa essentially being the history of Mali (at least until 300 years ago), there is very little to show for this heritage. However this is made up for by the warmth and friendliness of the people in a country where unexpected encounters, smiling faces and surreal conversations lurk around every corner.
