I notice a new person enter the tent. He looks like a journalist, I think. Hi. “Hello,” he responds promptly. What’s your name? “Eduard, and you?” Where are you from? “France-” What are you doing here? The unprompted interrogation is moving so quickly it transcends my common courtesy. Poor joe. “I’m a journalist.” Nice to meet you, I’m Cas.
I sit with Eduard. He does the journalist thing and interviews me on tourism. I’m the first tourist he’s met in his time here. He’s been living in Nouakchott, the capital, for two months now, having left his post in another country due to unsafety. Here, he works for the RFI (France Media Monde). He is covering the development of Mauritania’s tourism, agriculture, and business as tourism here remains an untouched venture. He is the only french representative for journalism stationed in the country. He is just stopping by the oasis before heading out to Atar to interview some officials in lieu of the presidential campaign. He also wants to go to La Source. I go with him and we bathe and talk and laugh. He tells me of his journalistic endeavors, and he inquires about my ending up here. I enjoy his company. We, too, exchange contact. He offers to bring me to Atar, but I know I must stay one more night. Plus, I’m awaiting on Sidi #2 to clue me in on his hometown, Chinguetti. So, we rendezvous back at the tree base and eat a meal together. His guide instructs me to absolutely not ride the train alone. He says it is not safe for a woman, alone, for so long in the night. “There are thieves and potentially more dangerous people,” Eduard translates. I take his comment very seriously, I ponder, and I thank him for his advice. I tell him, I must be honest, I still plan to take the train this way. "OK, of course, no problem.” Eduard instructs me to call his Mauritanian number if necessary and he will contact my embassy. I thank him. He wraps his turbo. I wish him luck as he discovers more and more - about himself and these countries.
Jemal has us sit for tea again. Did I mention that, in Mauritania, the custom for drinking tea is that you do so roughly three times a day at three cups a sitting? Three, three. The power of it. We take a small rest as the sun activates it’s strength. In the truck, Jemal and I steer off into the flatland to see ancient cave drawings from, as Jemal claims, 4,000 years ago. Along the way, burnt orange sand tangles among white dunes bombarded from behind with the fury of black tinged mountain plateaus. We carve offroad with his truck at a strategic speed, mounting terrain I’d have thought to be unscalable by vehicle. We walk over the Mars-like earth, mountains fading, bleeding into the horizon and the sun beginning to silhouette the rocky structures. Here, we come upon a barbed wall and padlocked door. He unsheaths a key and a rock. The key, to unlock the padlock and the rock, to open it with brute force. Once open, he shows me the paintings, calling them by name in french: camels (chameau), donkeys (âne), women (femme), sun (Soleil).
I ask him, Who built the wall? He says he did to keep the children away from the drawings - they like to take rocks and carve over them. I ask him, How long ago was it that you found this? “Six years.” He’s known this part of the desert like no other, taking daily trips for what I can assume has been most of his life. He is a nomad, after all, and a Chief of his tribe, of his land, nonetheless. When he came upon these paintings, he was beside himself. I take time with the wall, running fingers over the stone. He is patient with my wonder. He is still in wonder, too.
Back to the car. I take many photos of him against the terrain. He is unphased. As we traverse the return drive, a rock pops our tire. Together, we manage to prop the car up and give it a good change. Though, first, I make sure to document the beauty of the experience. It is said a flat tire is so common here that most people stick to their donkeys. We make a few photo stops, listen to some arabic desert music, and return to camp. Here, we sit for tea and eat with the family and workers. I feel so lucky to have come at this time. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to know these people like this, despite our language barrier. There is nothing that loving intentions cannot transcend. Musa, one of Jemal’s farm hands, scrolls through the photos of Mauritania and laughs at the men he knows. Everyone knows everyone who knows travelers here. He’s silent when he likes a photo. He snorts when one is bad. The moment is shattered when Jemal’s daughter, Bowbie, shouts “Agrab! Agrab!” Musa stirs up as if a fire lit beneath him, smacking the earth with his shoe. I look at Jemal. “Scorpion,” he clarifys. I run to the scene and marvel at the twitching threat. It is so small. I can’t believe I’m seeing a scorpion with my eyes, not behind glass, not from afar, and only a mere five feet away from where we sleep in the sand.
Now, I sit and write and use pillows as a tripod. I’ve never known stars so intimately. I tell Jemal I would like to sleep in the open sand beneath the stars, and he so willingly and kindly obliges. That’s where everyone else will be sleeping, anyway. For now, I am contented, in the full context of the word. As I write, I know this passage is not the most picturesque nor on an elitely profound level so as to be transcribed into history, but I know this information and knowledge of the present during the present will come in handy in the future of artistic documentation. At least in this lifetime. I’ve got to get it out before it gets out of me. So I say to you, you, goodnight and so long until tomorrow.