Regrouping in Nouakchott

Impressions of Nouakchott were good. A heaving, developing capital home to more than half of the country's population where Arab and African cultures meld and often clash. As sure as the wind blowing off the Sahara pumps in a fine dust that covers and penetrates everything, so too a steady stream of migrants flow in looking for a better life than the barren surrounds can offer.

With a median age of only 20 years and wealth in fish, iron, oil and gold I felt inklings of hope for this drastically underdeveloped country facing poverty, terrorism and poor governance. As always I was encouraged by the resilience, ingenuity and entrepreneurial spirit of everyday African people.

I'm sure my optimism was partially personal because I had overcome the dread that I had felt in my final days in Morocco as I prepared to head south into the unknown alone, additionally burdened by the oppressive fear of potentially failing an attempt at the railway track to Choum. Having since tackled both entering and virtually crossing this country so slandered in Western "travel advisories" I was feeling much more at ease, confident and open to new experiences. Picking up a crew of English-speaking rat-bags along the way had also made it all much more fun.

There was a bit of debate as to whether I should continue to tag along with the others and head east to Mali or go south to Senegal first and then do Mali solo. As I'd need a visa anyway Mark chaperoned me to the appropriate embassy to help with the formalities and (being the charmer that he is) we enjoyed a nice chat with the very jovial and somewhat enormous Malian ambassador—an educated and enthusiastic lady who was very keen to hear about our travels and welcoming of our interest in Mali.

As much as I was enjoying being part of a crew, I knew I had my own mission to be on and so in the end I decided to stick to the plan and make my own way to Senegal where I could also get a few more visas and some new heavy-duty tubes.

I'd been given a recommendation for a Senegalese tube supplier by Willem the Suzuki-driving Dutchman. A couple of days earlier he'd come across the finish line of some sort of desert race on a beach just north of the city. One of the competitors was a guy called Madou, who owned a bike shop in Dakar which was apparently the only place between Spain and Togo that would be likely to stock anything KTM-friendly. Willem had even kept a business card for me. Although I had by this stage managed to find a 21-inch "chambre" to replace mine with the super-glued stem, I wasn't hopeful that it would last all the way to Cape Town.

While waiting for the same-day visa processing (a treat!) I took a drive out of town with Mark and Eric to the beach that Willem had mentioned to see if we could catch any of the action. The rally had already packed up and shipped out and it was back to being a sleepy spot with a lone "tiki bar" hosting a few tourists and a stereotypical group of boisterous, wealthy Arab men (which, it seemed, had managed to get hold of some contraband alcohol, making them even more obnoxious). After yet another delicious meal of something and rice it was back to the embassy to pick up my visa and for everyone to get ready to head out the next day.

There are two border crossings between Mauritania and Senegal. The first, and largest, is a ferry across the Senegal River (where it dissects the town of Rosso) and is absolutely notorious. It is considered by some to be the "worst border in Africa"—a transport bottleneck through which land transport between Europe and West Africa is squeezed through two chaotic, corrupt border posts on either side of a small, rickety ferry that can only take a couple of trucks at a time packing all manner of cars, carts, people and animals around them.

I was going to opt for the reportedly much more laid back crossing over the wall of the Diama Dam, a small, quiet post further west which is generally out of reach of the trucks due to a detour along a sometimes muddy road. I was advised that this sleepy border post was much easier than Rosso. Although there is still some dodginess to contend with for those in four-wheeled vehicles (due to the creative interpretation of some Senegalese legalities) for bikes it's deemed to be OK and if you have the time to play "bribe chicken" with the officials you can even get through without any palm-greasing.

The boys set off for Mali in the morning and before leaving for Diama I went to meet Mohammed, the enthusiastic cyclist I had met previously on the side of the road in Nouadhibou when I pulled over to take a picture. I had been dodging Mohammed's WhatsApp advances for a few days and felt guilty that I hadn't made contact with his brother in Atar (Mohammed had insisted I stay there). Mindful that we were in the birthplace of the tourist-kidnapping industry, Jens had cautioned me against giving away too much information on my whereabouts to people I didn't know, but Mohammed had called me to express his disappointment so I felt I needed to split the difference and honour the second invitation.

Mohammed's driver met me near the city's sports stadium in a very non-Nouakchott Audi A6 (with an aptly cracked windscreen and a few scrapes and dings) and I followed him down the dusty streets to Mohammed's compound, a walled city block encasing his grand, palatial home, a peaceful garden and quite a number of attentive and professional staff.

I enjoyed a bountiful breakfast, seated on the ground in the traditional tent in front of the main residence with Mohammed and a friend of his—a large, robed man with a booming voice very keen to know what I thought of Islam and whether I had considered converting. Mohammed was dressed smartly in suit and tie, the lack of turban revealing a diminutive, bald man with an intense zest for life. He kept brushing his friend off and telling him to leave me alone, that I wasn't interested in such things and that I be left alone to speak (ie., listen to Mohammed). They squabbled over me while I enjoyed fresh eggs, olives, dates and camel milk from Mohammed's family farm near Atar—avoiding the graciously provided Western option of Corn Flakes.

Mohammed had recently seen a documentary on Al Jazeera about the culling of thousands of feral camels in Outback Australia. It had brought his father to tears, he said, and many Mauritanians were outraged at the fact that such beautiful, treasured animals were simply slaughtered from on high, their productive lives wasted and their valuable meat left to rot in the sand. He implored me to do something about it when I returned to Australia, and that he was ready to buy "up to 10,000 camels immediately" if I could orchestrate a deal.

By the time we'd sketched out our camel contract Mohammed was late for work so he and his friend were bundled into a car and we said our heartfelt goodbyes. I'd asked if I could stay behind and borrow a square of the courtyard to replace my tube which was done with curious oversight and assistance by the various staff members, fascinated by me with all my ridiculous accessories and enormous motorbike.

Mohammed's main driver, a lovely man named Hadrani, even brought out a tyre inflator which he hooked up to a 200 Series Landcruiser that he found in the driveway so we could inflate my tyre. With a keen crowd looking on as I finished my fourth Mauritanian tyre change it seemed the pressure had gotten to me instead of the tyre. I had obviously pinched the tube while fitting it—it wouldn't hold air.

Hadrani wasted no time in dealing with the situation and shepherded me and my front wheel out of the back gate and into his personal Corolla. We scoured the city looking for a replacement tube, Hadrani navigating his network of contacts with the cell-phone in his right hand and the streets of down-town Nouakchott with the steering wheel in his left.

It took a few visits to various little parts kiosks before we could find anything remotely big enough, Hadrani explaining that we needed a tube for a "DT", ie. something with a 21-inch front wheel. Once we found a supplier we bought two (Hadrani insisting on paying for them) and we stopped to have it fitted at a local “Michelin” (a fixture found along African roadsides everywhere consisting of a dodgy compressor that can usually manage about 30 psi, a pile of used tyres, some vulcaniser and a group of willing young men).

Having now used up the best part of the morning I acknowledged that it was unwise to attempt the border crossing with such a late start so I resigned myself to another night in Nouakchott and headed for a hotel, this time to Auberge Samira, the more interesting option with a hostel vibe, friendly staff, comfortable rooms and great showers. They also offered delicious local food or a kitchen for preparing your own food.

Lugging my panniers through reception I met Ibrahim, a dark-skinned, thirty-something local in turban and boubou (the loose fitting, blue khaftan that typically demarcates a have from a have-not) slouching on the couch with Ray Bans on reading an English paperback. I wasn't sure if he was a member of staff, the owner, or a guest but he seemed a bit nonchalant to be working there. He was charming and likeable if a bit too cool for school, but he spoke great English so I was happy to chat to him and answer his questions about where I was from, heading and what I was up to. I told him about my false start for Senegal and the tyre troubles I'd been having, and about Mohammed's hospitality and generosity, and that I was going to have another crack at Diama in the morning.

Ibrahim mentioned he was originally from Rosso and his family was there, but that he was in Nouakchott to deliver his unwell mother to a specialist for treatment. He was due to take her home to Rosso the next day, possibly, if the doctors gave her the all clear and so we would potentially be heading out the same way for a while. He said I was welcome to convoy with him to the Diama turn-off considering the tyre problems I'd had, as there wasn't much by way of civilisation along the road if I had an issue.

Things didn't quite add up with Ibrahim but it didn't really affect me so I brushed it off. He told me he was a policeman, and had a brother who worked in customs at Rosso, but Ibrahim didn't strike me as the typical African official who one would normally find overstating the little bit of authority bestowed upon them, rather than downplaying it. I thought he was probably just bragging and liked to impress Westerners with his Ray Bans and his paperback and his being a policeman and everything.

I spent a couple more minutes chatting guardedly to Ibrahim and then went to grab my laptop so I could sit up on the balcony and catch up on some correspondence and sort a few photos for the rest of the afternoon.

Up on the balcony, as I chipped away at my life admin, a few of the other guests came and went for snacks, chats, and cigarettes and I met some interesting characters in various states of travel including a backpacking couple, he Canadian and she Argentinian, who had been travelling for near on a decade and had done a long stint in Aus. The Argentinian seemed interesting and clearly enriched by the exposure to so much of the world but the Canadian was an airhead and may as well have spent the last ten years smoking weed with his buddies in a basement somewhere.

After the backpackers left me in peace I caught the attention of a big group of French travellers, apparently all relatives, who had flown in directly to Nouakchott and were doing some guided travel around Mauritania. I wasn't getting much work done, so I excused myself to my room for a little while, and on the way through I found Ibrahim still milling around and talking to the backpacking couple who were by this stage doing their own forward-planning on the borrowed reception computer.

Ibrahim said that he had heard that his mother was out of hospital and he'd likely be heading back to Rosso tomorrow. If everything went to plan he was going to give the backpackers a lift there, too. He'd arranged with his brother in customs to give them a hand with all the paperwork at the border and that if I was interested we could all go together. He said that considering the problems I'd had with my tyre, it might be better to go to Rosso despite its reputation because the road to Diama is remote and anyway I wouldn't need to worry about the corruption and grifters because he could ask his brother to accompany me through.

I wasn't sure about the offer, because I'd made a pretty unequivocal decision to avoid Rosso and go to Diama instead, but I thought that it couldn't be too bad if the backpackers were there, too. At least we'd be able to stick together and avoid falling prey to any tricks or traps in the worst case scenario, and in the best case we'd have a man on the inside to help us with the formalities. I said I'd have a think about it and retired to my room to get sorted.

Later that night, there was a soft knock at my door. It was Ibrahim. He came to tell me that the trip was on, and that the backpackers would be coming with us in his car. We were to leave at 6am sharp to pick up Ibrahim's mother and allow for the 200km of potholed-to-oblivion road with enough time to spare for the border formalities. Although I had my reservations I thought that as long as we three Westerners stuck together nothing terrible could happen.

It was worth a shot.