Aicha monolith and the Iron Ore train, Day 237

Not surprisingly neither Christi nor I slept particularly well last night as sand constantly blew into our faces. My only escape was to bury myself ever deeper into my sleeping bag. Sheldon, on the other hand, emerges from his tent quite refreshed, the bastard. Christi and I use wet wipes to scour some of the Sahara off our bodies before packing our bags. We are given 1 hour to explore the monolith, although no one has the energy or enthusiasm to scramble to the top. In essence Ben Amira is a gigantic basalt rock, surrounded by sand dunes and within earshot of the iron-ore train. It is easy to spot the effects of weathering as chunks of rock have broken free from the dome-shaped monolith. Other smaller monoliths dot the area, including the Aicha, the former wife of Ben Amira. So the local story goes, Ben Amira and Aicha used to be married but are now divorced and the large boulders located between the two are tears of mourning. At the turn of the millennium, twenty artists from around the world gathered at Aicha to create unique sculptures that express man’s relationship with woman. The artwork represents 21st century petroglyphs in an open-air museum. One wonders what future generations will make of the images. It’s a wonderful experience to explore with absolutely no one else around (aside from a few camels).

With time running out we leave the monoliths for one last desert safari to the train station at Choum. And a more depressing, disgusting group of shacks you could not wish to see. Quite why anyone, no matter how desperate they are, should wish to live here is inexplicable. There are zero tourist amenities and I think Ahmed persuades a random family to take us into their house and feed us for a few hours. Christi and Sheldon are pleased to find the house has a very basic bucket shower and they jump at the chance to get clean. I am more comfortable with dirt apparently and don’t feel the need to bathe, although I would pay a king’s ransom for a sit-down western toilet. Alas that option is not available. The toilet is outside – anywhere you fancy. The terrain here is flat and featureless desert apart from an odious rubbish dump and a heap of sand which is used to make bricks. It is my worst nightmare as I plod to the dump to make my own deposit. Choum does not possess a ticket office, a platform, or any sign (other than the train tracks) that a train might ever stop here. While Sheldon, Christi, and I nibble on carrot stew and seek solace in the shade, Ahmed is attempting to get us tickets. There is little information to be had other that the train is always full leaving Zouerat (5 hours further north). Zouerat is where the iron ore is mined and then it has to be transported out to the coastal town of Nouadhibou. The main business of this train is transporting iron ore; passenger freight takes very low priority. One carriage is a sleeper car; another has seating. People can, although it is not encouraged, travel on one of the 220 cars carrying the iron-ore. Be prepared to fry during the day and freeze at night, while sand storms and the dust from the iron ore continually attacks every orifice. The train isn’t much of an option, but it is the fastest way out of Mauritania.

We gather at the tracks near a sign saying passenger stop. Miraculously, an agent of Mauritania Railway appears and sells us 4 tickets at US$10 each, although we only have access to wooden seats not the sleeper carriage. The iron ore train arrives at 5:15 pm, the passenger carriages, which are at the rear, several minutes later. The scramble is intense, and it’s a steep climb into the carriage. Ahmed leads the way and we follow thrusting bags up and into unknown hands. All compartments within the carriage are occupied – with belongings if not people. We gate-crash one of these much to the annoyance of the locals and refuse to move until the ‘conductor’ finds space for us in another compartment. We are eventually crammed into a space meant to hold only three people and the floor in front of us is filled with boxes and coolers so there is nowhere to put our feet. Furthermore, I think the conductor actually ousted two young seemingly gay men so that we could have their seats.

Having placed our bags on the overhead racks and eked out space for our bodies and legs the questions begin. We are instant celebrities and in addition to the three other people in our compartment a crowd of curious onlookers stare at us from the corridor – and I do mean stare. It’s a little disconcerting. One of the fellow passengers in our compartment, a large black avuncular fisherman called Moulay, is particularly inquisitive. He wants our names, ages, occupations, and number of children we each have. Sheldon takes on the role of translator again. The fact that Christi and I have no children after 10 years of ‘marriage’ is met with looks of utter consternation. Moulay offers to arrange a second, younger, and more fertile wife for me. I agree enthusiastically, of course. One of the three passengers in our compartment is a woman traveling alone. Her name is Ayshe and she is returning to Nouadhibou after visiting her husband who works in the mines at Zouerat. I ask whether independent travel for unaccompanied women is acceptable in Mauritania. She says no problem; Moulay disagrees and scowls. Our final companion is Mohamed who appears to make a living by providing food for the whole carriage. I watch fascinated as he cuts up vegetables and camel meat and tosses it all into a pot sitting on a propane stove situated between his legs and mine. I then watch warily as he lights the gas. The train jerks and pulls us into another long and uncomfortable night, only this time conflagration is a real possibility.