A fairy tale with an anti-climax

I’m curious about the dinner invitation by Coumba, the sister of the bride at yesterday’s wedding. Cora calls her for me, and as luck would have it, Coumba can make it tomorrow evening. The following day, Edgar and Katie invite Adrian and me to join them on a trip to an oasis, about 50 kilometers from Atar, called Terjit. Apparently it’s located in a ravine. Having already seen a stunning palm oasis in a ravine in Morocco (a Ait Mansour), I’m not terribly excited. As it turns out, my scepticism was completely unjustified; Terjit oasis is one of the most stunning places I’ve ever seen.

Happily ever after

Together we carry the table with the cakes onto the hotel courtyard / parking lot that serves as the wedding reception’s venue. A man with a video camera and a painfully bright construction lamp, whose job is to document every last detail of the wedding, follows and records our every move. This, of course, does nothing to reduce the pressure of carrying a table full of cakes under the watchful eyes of all the guests – about 300 in total, or six times the number that Cora counted on when making the cakes! The upshot is that Justus, the cook and I are instantly guests of honour. This means that whenever I’m looking for a seat, someone else gets told to make place for me, and whenever I try to take a picture, a spot with a good view of the action is cleared for me; no matter who might have been sitting or photographing in that place! Given that I’ve only known the bride for a week, I feel quite awkward about my newfound status, and I try not to abuse it.

Of women, bandits and a fake tan

Chez Zaida is run, ofcourse, by Zaida. She’s a veritable powerhouse of a woman; black, fairly muscular, dressed somewhat in between Western and traditional styles, and giving her almost all-male staff orders in a calm but extremely authoritative way; there’s no doubting who’s boss here. Not that Mauritanian women are generally the stereotypical meek lambs; despite, or perhaps because of, the Arab culture and Islam placing much of the power with men, many women here have a whole lot of attitude.

Echoes of songs

His voice isn’t a pretty one; it’s rough, dry, and has only a limited range before it breaks. Neither is he a particularly talented singer; he’s off-pitch much of the time (and not in the desired quarter-tones of Arab music either), and changes between high and low notes are never smooth. Still, it’s an evocative sound; full of soul, and with a sparseness that perfectly matches the desert around us. The pale pink light at the horizon announces another day; he just finished his morning prayers. Now he’s singing verses from the Quran, while making tea on the camp fire that drives away the morning chill. This morning is the same as countless desert mornings experienced by his father before him, and his grandfather before that. His name is Salima, and he’s from a centuries-old line of Moorish goat herders. Sometimes he makes some extra money guiding tourists on his camels. That’s why we’re sharing breakfast in the middle of the Sahara desert this morning.