Undoubtedly the worst travel day of my entire life. Read on to learn the gory details. The rooms and the gardens at the Auberge de Caravans are actually quite pleasant, but I had a miserable night there. I’m either being bitten by mosquitoes (because the net which is draped from a hook in the ceiling does not completely encircle my mattress, thus making me a tasty target for the damned bugs) or I was plodding through the gardens repeatedly during the night on ever more desperate visits to the heinous squat. Needless to say I did not get up at dawn (unlike that man of perpetual motion, Sheldon Cooper) and neither do I have any noticeable enthusiasm (again unlike Sheldon). Sheldon hopes to organize a multi-day desert safari in Chinguetti (a medieval trading centre located several hours further north) and is keen to be on his way. I thought our itinerary allowed for a whole day relaxing at the nearby Terjit oasis (which is about all I can manage right now) but Sheldon and Ahmed have been talking and in order for Sheldon to complete his desert safari and the other elements of the itinerary in the time allotted we can only make a brief visit to the oasis. I’m not happy about this change to our plan, but equally, I don’t feel well enough to argue, so after slowly packing our bags, Christi and I join Sheldon, Ahmed, and Mahmoud for the short ride to the palmerie. Incidentally, unlike Sheldon, Christi and I have no intention of slogging through the heat of the Saharan desert for several days so we will follow a slightly more sensible itinerary while he fries.
The scenery around Terjit, which we missed yesterday due to our night-time arrival, is starkly beautiful. Plateaus and ridges rise up out of the desert, a little reminiscent of the Bandiagara escarpment. And in the midst of this arid wasteland is the palmerie of Terjit. A gently trickling stream, soaring palm trees shaded by an overhanging escarpment and some pools to splash around in to cool off. The Auberge Oasis de Terjit seems to own the rights to the place and we are charged a UM1500 (US$6) entrance fee (the currency in Mauritania is the Ouguiya and good luck pronouncing that by the way. It’s something like oo-gee-ya). The entrance fee actually pays for a tent for the night – or in our case a couple of hours. I explore briefly and toy with the idea of relaxing in the pools, but my stomach is proving so burdensome that I retire to our tent and try not to move. Ahmed is becoming concerned about me and frequently inquires about my condition. I keep a British stiff upper lip and smile weakly; his enigmatic frown deepens.
By mid-afternoon we begin the 3-hour ride to Chinguetti via Atar, the regional capital. We stop in Atar for Sheldon to buy supplies ahead of his camel safari and for Ahmed to photocopy our passports. Ahmed says (translation courtesy of Sheldon) that providing copies of our passport details to themyriad police checkpoints should speed up our progress. Christi pokes around the shops as well, while I stagger out of the car in hopes of finding somewhere more comfortable to sit for a while. I’ve only taken a few steps when I become light-headed and have to stop. The sun is beating down and Christi insists I move into the shade of a nearby internet cafe.
I sit; I feel nauseous; and then…nothing. Christi says I experienced some sort of seizure or convulsion. My arms went rigid, I began shaking, and my eyes rolled back into my head. I became unresponsive and ultimately lost consciousness. She said she was very scared. I’m not sure how long I was unconscious, but I eventually begin to hear Christi’s voice. It’s vague and distant as if she’s calling to me from a different room. I don’t hear everything she says; her voice is hazy and fuzzy. I open my eyes (I don’t remember closing them). Even in the internet cafe the light seems very bright. I can’t focus immediately, but I do hear Christi shouting my name. She starts to fire questions at me: who am I; where am I; how old am I. Her questions are annoying. I respond slowly, irritated by the effort required. As the mental fog clears and I become more cognizant of my surrounding, Christi bursts into tears. There’s talk of going to a hospital, but I refuse. Instead, I’m taken to the nearby Auberge Bab Sahara and installed in an air-conditioned room (actually a tikit or stone hut). Here Christi delves into a bag of pharmaceutical tricks and makes me drink the most disgusting rehydration mixture. It’s like drinking sea water. I nibble on Pringle chips and slowly recover enough to join our group for dinner. Mine is a blissfully boring white rice dish, but at least I’m still alive to eat it. And despite what you may be thinking I did not collapse on purpose to ruin Sheldon’s camel safari.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test-tubes.
Speak Your Mind