Those Train Travelin' Blues

So, now it's time for the great transport blog, or at least the first leg of it. Two trucks, a train, a car, a bus, and I've covered something like 2500km of desert in under five days. I think I've had more travel time than sleep this month, but now that I'm in Morocco, I hope to make up for it in one long, marathon nap.

But first, let's recount this trip. I awoke in the dunes of Chinguetti with the prayer call at 5:30 am on May 1st. Tromping a couple kilometers through the desert's sands, I was met by a pickup truck, the ever-present Toyota Hilux, on it's way to Atâr. Growing up in the Midwest, I'm pretty used to crazily careening down gravel roads in the back of a pickup, so this was actually a bit of a treat, taking me back to my youth and adding a bit of excitement: Indiana doesn't have roads winding around desert gorges, only inches from free-fall cliff edges. Made it to Atâr in about an hour and a half and had a couple hours to wait to catch the next pickup to Choûm. Four hours through the desert, with the sun beating down and the sand in my face, I still somehow managed to fall asleep. I don't know when narcolepsy became part and parcel of all my public transport ventures, but it does help to make the trip that much shorter.

All this discomfort was rather easy to take, as I was to meet my real goal in Choûm: the iron-ore train from the mining town of Zouérat to the port city of Nouadhibou. It's one of the longest trains in the world, sometimes stretching to over two kilometers and, fully loaded, weighing several thousand tons. Though it's not even offically meant for passengers, but dozens jump the train every day for the 24-hour trip between the two cities. It's really the only means of transport in this stretch of desert, but for me, and for the few other travelers who've done it, it's an adventure impossible to forgo.

I arrived in Choûm around two in the afternoon, hot, dusty, and in need of food. Unfortunately, Choûm turned out to be little more than a train platform in the middle of the desert. "Dix heures, onze heures," the train would arrive, according to some local kids. However, in Africa, I knew this wait would be a bit longer, and unfortunately, Choûm had little to offer other than shade and a woman selling tea. It was the perfect picture of a town at the end of the earth: dusty, wind-swept, barren, with nothing but a few crows croaking from atop the telegraph wires (I don't actually know what these poles were, but I'd just like to take the time to reimagine Choûm as a lawless, Western boom town.)

So, I settled down beside the tracks to wait for the train. And sleep a bit. Wait a bit more. Wander around the six or eight houses in town. Visit the boutique. Can't buy anything because the shopkeeper's passed out on the concrete floor. Sleep a bit more. Five more hours of this? I'd throw myself in front of the train if one ever went by. Around ten at night, I heard the rumblings in the distance, but my neighbors said only, "Nope, not until 2am." And indeed, this train, loaded full of ore and roaring by for what seemed hours passed us without even slowing. Four hours later though, with a screech and a hiss, a train stretching into the darkened horizon pulled in at our lonely little outpost and, not wanting to pay for a seat on the floor in the one passenger cabin, I climbed into an open iron-ore hopper with Moussa and Mohammed, two kids on their way to Nouadhibou to sell African toothbrushes (those of you who've spent time in Africa know these are sticks).

I expected the iron ore to be bound up in rocks, the hoppers full of uncomfortable stone that I would have to, in some way, tolerate for sixteen hours through the burning desert sun. So I was quite surprised, upon landing in the hopper to find myself sinking slightly in heavy, black sand, the iron ore filings which are processed in Zouérat and shipped in Nouadhibou. However, unlike sand, the iron ore stuck to everything. The first thing Moussa did was to put down a tarp, which we shared for the trip, and wrap himself up in a heavy blanket, something I mimicked immediately as the train took off, the wind catching the lighter particles of iron and sending them flying in clouds of black soot.

For all the romanticism of this trip, which so few in the world have ever heard of, let alone taken, the train was pretty unromantically dull. I spent the night getting the best sleep I've had on public transport. Despite the cold and the wind, the iron ore was quite soft and comfortable, and I, cocooned in my sleep sack, had little trouble with the heat come daytime. Sheer boredom was the primary drawback. The desert was beautiful by moonlight, but in the day, the sun baked the iron ore and just made for a generally dirty, uncomfortable afternoon. But, by the time Nouadhibou peeked over the horizon, I knew I'd done something special and, coated in black dust, tired, half-starved, I knew that this would be a memory I'd carry with me for a while: one of those true "African experiences," i.e. one you're glad you've had, but not necessarily ready to ever repeat.

Desert Meditation

Through La Porte du Desert and on to Morocco. Well...almost. I have over 1000km of desert to cross, and cross in fashion! I'm in Dakhla, Western Sahara now, and I'm not even halfway home. While I could use this time to write about similarities, difference, and inevitable comparisons with West Africa, I think I'll save those for a later date, especially as even remote outpost Dakhla seems, in many ways, more developed than Dakar. I don't want to make any more comparisons though until I'm well into Morocco and I realize there's little to compare.

For now though, I'll turn back to Mauritania and the wonders of the desert.

I don't know exactly when I fell in love with the desert. It may be as early as the first time I climbed the dune north of my village in Niger. Or it might be as recently as the drive through the smooth, serpentine folds of windswept ochre sand and past desolate, rust-colored, rocky plains from Nouakchott to Atâr in Mauritania. There's something about the desert, its isolation, its indifferent, ever-changing yet immutable character that has evoked retrospection for generations. It's no question that Jesus retired to the desert in search of clarity, and Mohammed, of course, brought his new faith out of Arabia's sands. There's a reason for this: the sense of the infinite, and our place in it, is palpable in great, open spaces such as the desert.

Nowhere is this more evident than in Chinguetti, the seventh holiest city in Islam. Chinguetti was once an important caravan stop, linking West African gold, ivory, salt, and slaves to North African and European markets. In its heyday, the city was a center of great learning, with a population of over 30,000, mostly Islamic scholars and merchants. I doubt that Chinguetti has even a tenth of that number now, but like other scholarly cities, Timbuktu and Djenné, it is still crammed full of ancient Islamic manuscripts, many of them still held by local families in their own homes.

However, with the desert caravan days long gone, I think most of Chinguetti's spiritual energy these days comes from the majestic dunes that encircle the old, stone town. It's easy to walk only a few kilometers outside the city and be amongst the heaped masses of sand, the wind quickly obliterating any footprints and any sign of a world outside the desert's horizon. It's possible, from Chinguetti, to walk over 350km east and see nothing but classic Lawrence of Arabia-style dunes. While this would lead to certain death, it's hard to argue the appeal of a night spent amongst the dunes, under the cool light of a brilliant full moon, with no noise other than the sound of your own heart beat.

It's a wonder then, with my love for the desert and after sweating it out through two hot seasons in Niger that I never fully appreciated the phrase "like an oasis in the desert" until I visited an actual oasis in the desert. God is big. Part of the Sahara's spiritual appeal lies in its extremes, from scalding day-time temperatures to freezing nights. After a few days in Atâr's stifling heat (42C in the shade most of the day), I marveled at the green paradise of the Terjit oasis, the perfect stereotype of all you've seen in Hollywood films: a bubbling spring cutting its way through a desert gorge, watering a vast, shady date palmerie. For all the desert's hardships, the oasis is that much sweeter a reward at the end of a long stay.

But that wasn't quite the end of my time in the desert. I'll have more in another post. Coming soon: Sterling's epic 500km free ride on top of the world's longest train.

Bringing in the New Year at the Festival in the Desert

Totally exhausted, but, in this case, it's the best feeling in the world. I've averaged less than four hours of sleep for three days straight. I've suffered through freezing desert nights to see some of the best in West African music, and I loved every minute of it. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it was an awesome, possibly once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everything just seemed to come together for an amazing start to the new year.

Well...let's back up a little bit. Actually, the new year didn't have such an auspicious start. I spent the first three days down with bacillary dysentary and felt like hell. Happy New Year. However, after two years in Niger, a little dysentary isn't the end of the world.

After I recovered, I took a trip up to Hombori, one of West Africa's premiere climbing destinations, and eventhough I don't climb, it did provide some great hiking opportunities. I didn't stay too long though as I didn't have a set ride up to Timbuktu, the Mysterious City, and the setting for the Festival in the Desert.

Hombori to Douentza. The dustiest bus ride I've ever taken, but within minutes of arriving in Douentza, I found a Land Cruiser filled with white people going up to the Festival. Four Australians, two Poles, a Dutch man, a British girl, two Malians, and me. None of us had reservations at any hotel or tickets, but things just worked out. The festival grounds were only a fifteen minute walk from our campement.

I wish I could describe this experience better. Let's put it this way: I was in Timbuktu, which I think we all feel must be the end of the earth after all the mythos of our childhood. I've got to say, as a tourist destination, Timbuktu seems to be relying on faded glory. It'd be a great archaeological site if people weren't still living there. Our campement was run by a Songhaï guy who was just freakin' stoked to learn that I spoke his language. Who ever said Peace Corps couldn't grease the wheels?

Like I said, the concert venue was a fifteen-minute hike from our campsite into the desert. I wish I could describe how amazing the whole experience was. One guy I talked to said it reminded him of an African Woodstock, which is pretty good considering the guy had actually attended the original. I wish I could say more about it at the moment, but I'm completely wrecked: exhaustion and three days of overstimulation. For right now, I'll just post the link. I'll try for something more later. Until then, enjoy this and look up some of the artists, though I'll tell you now, seeing them live was an unforgettable experience.

http://www.festival-au-desert.org/schedule-artistlist.html