Through the Looking Glass

Tuesday, July 22
Nouakchott, Mauritania

My visa expires tomorrow and I still have not found a caravan going north. I am getting concerned. I heard about a camion--french for "big ass truck"--that goes all the way from Nouakchott to Agadir, Morocco. That's about 1500 km for a very reasonable $100. I drove my bike down the Moroccan Market to ask around. I finally found a young guy who could give me some information. He said I could get on a truck that day--but I couldn't bring my moto. [start soapbox]


[in French]
ME: Why is it that I cannot bring my motorcycle?
MOROCCAN: You cannon take it. You can sell it to me.
ME: I will not do that. I will go only if I can bring my motorcycle.
MOROCCAN: Ah, it is decided. You will ride on the truck today and before you will sell me the motorcycle.
ME: [in English] You can suck my awful french diction.
MOROCCAN: Qua?
ME: J'ai dit que ce ne pas possible. Au revoir.

And that was that. Exchanges like this piss me off because in each case the local person's desire to make a killing off a foreigner stopped the flow of normal business. Each local who deals with tourists inevitably gets one big score from either a hapless or desperate foreigner. This leads them to believe that all foreigners are either stupid, fantastically rich, or desperate. This guy would have benefited from a compromise, but his greed got in the way. When I suggested that he set a surcharge for the moto--I offered another $100--he just stonewalled me. To him, the mere chance of getting my bike at a favorable price set him salivating. In Africa, I ran into situations like this on a daily basis, but the difference in Senegal was that if I held firm the Africans were always willing to settle for a reasonable price--one that was higher than for locals, but less than extortionate. Unfortunately for both of us, the Moors and Moroccans were as stubborn in their ways as I am in mine. [end soapbox]

Inexplicably, Mauritania is somewhat similar to America--in purely negative ways. If Alice fell through the evil looking glass somewhere in Kansas, she would inevitably end up in a David Lynch nightmare world in Nouakchott.

To wit:
Moors drive big cars
Moors live in soulless tract houses
Moors--at least the Arab half--are unaccountably fat*

*A few weeks later I talked with a Canadian hotel manager who relayed a rumor that Mauritanian girls must get fat before their father can marry them away. She went on to tell me some stories about mothers force feeding their daughters that turned my stomach. Stories like these may or may not be true, but they often tell us as much about the culture that tells them--white expats--as it purports to tell about the local population.

This is my last negative Mauritanian post. Promise. I actually love the place, but just had a few bad experiences...