Christi and I are left to our own devices today – no Sheldon or Ahmed telling us what to do. Our plan is three-fold. Move to better accommodation; explore more of the Old Town, including the Friday mosque of Chinguetti; and take a peek at the Sahara Desert, which is, well, everywhere. But all that is for later. Sheldon leant us his mosquito net last night, which at least kept the mosquitoes from violating my body, although I could still hear them plotting my demise. Sheldon gets up early (and noisily) to begin his walking / camel safari, which has been abbreviated to two night because of my unfortunate mishap in Atar. By the way, the Lonely Planet guidebooks to Africa take great joy in describing all the health calamities that might befall the unsuspecting traveler. And if you weren’t feeling sick before you began reading, it’s pretty easy to convince yourself that death is imminent as you suddenly develop a whole bunch of lethal symptoms. I made the mistake of browsing through the information this morning, and while it confirmed that my seizure was the result of a rather extreme case of dehydration, I do also have the symptoms for Dengue Fever, Leishmaniasis, and Sleeping Sickness so the chances of me living until lunch time appear pretty remote. As I lie on my mattress absorbing this gruesome information, my stomach begins it’s daily grumble. I grin and bear it until my intestines feel they are about to explode and then I plod despondently to the squat.
I think my continued ill-health is an affront to pharmacist Christi who makes it her mission to cure me today. She begins with a medical history: no fever, no bloody stools, and no severe stomach cramps (apparently only women ever truly endure severe stomach cramps), so my diagnosis is a mild case of diarrhea. Are you kidding me? Christi reluctantly admits that the diarrhea is persistent (more than a week now) and equally reluctantly suggests immodium, more rehydrating salt water (which is supposed to be restoring my electrolyte balance, but which I think is driving me mad) and a course of antibiotics (the flavor the month is ciprofloxicin twice daily for 5 days).
The manager of our hotel, Cheikh, is disappointed that we are planning to leave and tries to arrange another program for us (a program being any mechanism possible to extract more money from us). We decline and he watches unhappily as his only source of income disappears in a minor Saharan sandstorm for Le Maure Bleu, which comes highly recommended by the Lonely Planet. But it’s a disaster. La Maure Bleu is four times as expensive as the Auberge La Rose des Sables for only a little more comfort – and most of that comes in the form of a western sit-down toilet. I do shed a tear as I say goodbye to the toilet, but then it’s back into the welcoming arms of Cheikh Ould Amar, who promises to find a fan to make our stay more comfortable.
Later in the day we escape the watchful gaze of Ahmed and Cheikh to explore Old Town on our own. We cross the wadi again and head up the sandy streets to the 13th century Friday mosque of Chinguetti. At its center is a square, stone minaret capped with five ostrich egg finials dominates the skyline. Supposedly it is the second oldest minaret in continuous use anywhere in the Muslim world. The Friday mosque of Chinguetti is popularly considered the national emblem of Mauritania, but not being Moslem we do not get to poke around inside. The fact that we stand admiring the building for two minutes appears to be a signal for the local hawkers to harass us so we move on to the Sahara Desert. Clearly Ahmed is concerned that Christi and I will wander off and die a horrible death in the desert because he and Mahmoud follow us at a discreet distance. The desert around Chinguetti is archetypal Saharan scenery: endless rolling sand dunes – the so-called sand sea (or erg in Arabic), which goes on for miles. And after wandering up and down a few dunes (which is hard work in my delicate condition), we gratefully accept a ride back to the hotel where Cheikh has prepared couscous and some seriously chewy camel for dinner. We eat for longer than we had anticipated and then retire to our room, which now boasts a fan and a mosquito net. Not only can the evil little bastards not bite me now, but the noise of the fan drowns out the sound of their frustration. Sheer bliss.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart, a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes.
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