12/11/2023 Bikepacking Mauritania Day 125 : Atar to Tidjikja Part 3 of 4

It was still dark when I woke. The fabric began flapping louder in the Harmattan winds. The Harmattan winds blow over Western Africa during the dry season, and are sometimes called “doctor winds” due to the damage that the 5% humidity and particulates can do to your health. It produces a dust cloud that extends out into the ocean and can be seen from satellite.

I needed to eat early because my blood sugar was too low, so I turned on my headlamp and began to spread margarine onto some bread that I had packed.

Rashid was awake now and he squatted near me. I could barely see him in the dim LED light. I offered him my bread and margarine, and he made a little butter sandwich. I told him I was very grateful for his hospitality.

“I am Muslim. It is my duty to help others”

Does that sound familiar? I’ve posted it at least once before, but whenever I have said thank you for something big, people always reply that it is their “duty”. For my non-Muslim readers, when you help others, why do you do it? Where do you feel that urge comes from? Is it out of a sense of duty? Maybe it is just semantics, but duty makes it seem like an obligation, whereas I feel like my desire to help comes from somewhere else.

It was time to say goodbye. The winds outside were still raging, but everyone had agreed that there were tiny villages and tents - not on any map - where I could get water and take cover. If I hid from the wind another day, I’d be leaving Janet hanging without notification even longer. There were still 180 miles to go before I would have any communication with the outside world. Remember, this was “Route C” with no prior information, except a satellite image showing 30 percent of the route buried in sand. Everyone promised that the road was open.

I remember learning as a kid that when you meet someone, you should stand up as a sign of respect. Somewhere, in the back of my head, if someone stays on the floor to shake you hand it “feels” disrespectful. I said goodby to a few people lying on the floor; in their culture, I don’t think this means disrespect. I bought some more sardines and bread, and said goodbye to the omni-smiling and giggling uncle. He was my favorite one here.

As I pushed hard into the wind, I noticed something was different. The Achilles pain was suddenly 5 percent of maximum instead of the 80 percent it had been last few weeks. How had it healed overnight? I don’t think it was the camel milk (which by the way did not cure my diabetes). It could be due to me trying to emulate the contorted postures of my tent companions. I noticed yesterday that when people sit, they tangle their skinny legs up into such odd positions; as if they are doing yoga on their floor. Often, they will bend their hands backwards (farther than I can do), their palms easily making a 90 degree angle with their forearm. As I copied them, and listened to their conversation, I would massage my Achilles. This morning, the lump was gone and the pain almost entirely vanished. I could finally pedal harder now - and strong cycling would be necessary.

As I set off this morning, a Mercedes drove past me. It would be the one and ONLY car that passed me “going my way” during this 10 hour ride. Let that sink in for a moment. Why does this road that you could ride on a road bike even exist if so few use it?

I guess it is how supplies are trucked in, but apparently nothing comes in on a Monday. At the little store yesterday, I was able to find the same food seen everywhere else: Candy, bread, margerine, dates, sardines, tea, water, rancid peanuts, sugar, and cigarettes. If I had a stove, the remaining options are macaroni, shriveled carrots, tomatoes, and Mother Hubbard Squash. If you put all the options together, it’s complete nutrition. I don’t know where the little piece of fish in yesterday’s grab-plate came from, but it had bones like the fish in a Tom and Jerry cartoon meaning it wasn’t from a can of sardines.

Margarine seems to be the only concentrated source of fat I can find. It is probably unfit for human consumption right off the shelf, but after it melts into a bag in the desert heat and re-solidifies during the night, it certainly converts into something toxic.

As a fat adapted athlete, I am having trouble finding the fuel I am used to; fat is in scarce supply, which is why I buy margarine when I see it. I’ve been buying bread to make up for the shortfall in calories; It’s yet another thing from home that I am having to “let go.” Mid-day, I felt that awful margarine nausea coming on. Because this is the 3rd time I’ve felt this way, the cause was obvious: the margarine becomes rancid when it melts. I poured the golden oil from my bag into the desert sand. Luckily, I didn’t throw up this time, but had hypoglycemia again with the nausea.

It was a day of hard pedaling into the wind, but finally at around 4:30 PM, the wind slowed to a reasonable ~12mph. It seemed like the majority of my progress was made in those last hours of the day.

As it got darker, a substantial building appeared on the horizon. I set my tent on windward side of building (hidden from the road, otherwise I would have preferred the leeward side). Tent people saw me, and within 30 minutes came to check it out. They sent some kids to fetch the village chief. He arrived in his clean white robe with two golden stripes, inspecting the situation. One of the smiling teenagers ebulliently pointed at their own tents and made the sleeping symbol. I think he really wanted a sleepover party. I was so exhausted from last night (the regurgitation, not the people) that I kept doing sign language indicating I would rather stay here. Plus, I had spent so much time battening down the tent. I had even put rocks inside all around the edges to bolster it against the wind. It would be a lot of work to dismantle. The chief gave his approval, and the “interpreter” gave me a “thumbs up” and a smile, meaning I could stay. It was all very pleasant with their smiles. The only intelligible words exchanged between us were, “c’est bon” and “shukraan lak” (thank you). I decided to adopt the hand-clasping handshake from the woman in the Bedouin tent yesterday as I went around to thank each one.

The wind remained relatively calm for the next 8 hours of night. It concerned me that Janet would be worried after 3 days without communication, and today’s effort had taken so much out of me that the idea of doing the remaining 70 miles to cell service in just one day seemed formidable. I knew I had to push, but I was frankly loving being off-grid in the desert… in spite of the physical hardship.