12/12/2023 Bikepacking Mauritania Day 126 : Atar to Tidjikja Part 4 of 4

I had camped near a very tiny village with maybe 5 tents. After putting away my tent, I began to flatten my fish cans to pack out - crushing them into five flat discs with a rock. As I was finishing, Mohammed, Hasib, and Ahmed walked over to check me out. Right away, Ahmed wagged his finger “no”. He pointed at my cans, and the pointed at the desert. I was pretty sure I knew what he was saying, but let him persist. He made the “give me” motion, and I handed him the stack of cans. He tossed them like 5 frisbees into the desert, quadrupling the amount of proximal trash. There is hardly any trash here because packaged food is expensive. Not for my readers, per-se, but when 1000 calories of freshly baked bread costs $0.10 and 200 calories of canned tuna costs $1.00, it’s easy understand the lack of litter.

Mohammed must have been 17 years old. His beautiful face was as dark as the midnight sky. I say beautiful because he had a munificent smile that never disappeared. Hasib and Ahmed looked to be about 7 or 8 years old. When I got their names, I wrote it on paper to verify the spelling. When I showed it to them, they looked confused - they didn’t even know how to read or write their own names.

Hasib and Ahmed looked to be brothers with their olive Mediterranean complexion. Clearly they were not related to the older Mohammed. Nevertheless, the three held hands affectionately as they talked to me. It looked like one of those “big brother / big sister” commercials from the 80s, except that the skin colors were reversed and the affection was not staged.

Mohammed understood Arabic from my app quite well, and he translated to the two boys. I loved watching how he interacted with them, and how they looked up to him and trusted them. It was adorable.

Down the road, I saw a broken down Jeep. It occurred to me to make a little joke video which I will post here. It took a while because I had to do two takes in an attempt to muffle the wind noise. It was barren sand dunes as far as the eye could see, so I jumped when two slender women approached from behind. Where did they come from?! They were both as tall as me, but 50 shades blacker. I’m seeing different genetics in the South of Mauritania. I’m also seeing different behavior. After so much contact with only men, I’ve gotten a little afraid of women - especially after the (almost) psycho-killer handshake with granny two days ago. I spoke to the women using the Arabic app, but I do not think they understood me. I pantomimed photographing the abandoned vehicle, and they nodded in understanding. Their clothing was so clean, how do they do it? I’ve never seen anyone washing clothes here, and there isn’t a shower in any of the tents. It’s an unsolved mystery - especially because I took a bottle shower yesterday and still have sandy boogers all over my arm coolers. It’s a bit embarrassing to look so filthy.

An hour or so later, three women approached me while I stopped. They were giddy; giggling at the clown that had arrived in tight clothes. They asked me something about my chest (maybe “are you cold with your zipper down?). They had a few words of French but no Arabic. I get that the older woman is their mother. The boldest sister seemed to be asking to ride my bike. She tries, but the bike is too big. It is hilarious; the three roar with silly laughter. So different of an interaction compared to further North.

The sisters grab their breasts and feign a cough. Then, they point at mother. I had noticed that the mother had a rattling cough. Did she have lung cancer? Breast cancer? Given the AQI, it could be the former. Given the breast grabbing, possibly the latter. They pointed at my bags and made the eating sign. I said, “ nouritoure?” (food?) And the bold sister says “oui” (yes). They laughed when I pulled out the last of my food: Two cans of sardines. They laughed even louder and said “sardines!!” Who is this clown? Nevertheless, the mother accepted them and pointed at my other bag and did the same sign. I showed them that all I have left Is clothes and tent. They accepted this. I actually did have a secret stash of dates but needed that for any glycemic emergency on the 6 remaining miles to Rashid. That will be a hard earned hour in this wind.

As I came close to civilization, I was a sad to be leaving this section. A pack of 20 boys came running. Fear filled my heart - I couldn’t run away because of the wind. They ran alongside me and yelled “Bonjour monsieur!” No rocks, sticks, or ask for gifts. Just smiles and cheers. The way it should be.

I am not going to laud this route for the quality of the riding, at least in the conditions that I experienced. In still air, this route has the potential to be one of the best rides you have done - but in the wicked conditions I suffered, it is feasible that 99% of humans would have given up - presuming they could. Of the ~8 vehicles that passed me in 4 days, they were all full of goats or people - even people on top of cars.

Ironically, although I suffered nearly every inch of the path, it was one of the best things I’ve done: PRECISELY BECAUSE OF the hardship. The slowing winds forced me to interact with the villagers.

I know that my decision to ride here is erasing ink from the right hand side of my life’s timeline. Between blood sugars unhealthily vacillating between 40 and 240… and breathing in this sub-micron sized dust, I am withdrawing heavily from the bank account of my time to be alive.

I remember being with Janet after she ran her one and only 50 mile ultra marathon in Utah. I hugged her when she finished and she began to cry powerfully. I said, “why are you crying? You just finished! And you finished well!” She said, “sometimes when you do something that is so hard, you get very emotional.” At the time, I couldn’t really remember having felt that way, but the visual of her experience stuck with me.

I’ve shed more tears in the last month that I have in the last 3 years. But none of them have been tears of sadness, really. They have been these tears of powerful emotion, accentuated by the hardship, followed by the relief. It’s ironic, because the more life I erase from that inscrutable timeline, the more I FEEL alive with powerful emotions.

This 4 day stretch of Mauritania was totally unique. Not one kid opened my bags to look for candy. With just the one exception of “Rashid,” no one else asked for money, gifts, or photos. His request (though not the amount) was justified The one request of food from the women felt different - especially considering they actually accepted real food. I had finally found an unpolluted chunk of Africa where I could just focus on mostly genuine human interactions.

If you are reading this on my blog, using it as a route guide, I really don’t care too much if you throw your polluting cans into the desert. But please, PLEASE don’t pollute the people and treat them like zoo animals like what has already been done in so many other places along sections North of here. Please meet them on equal terms.

There I go again, dripping tears on my cracked phone screen. Better stop here.