We arrived at the Mauritanian border and things went surprisingly well and fast. This was in stark contract to what everyone was trying to prepare us for. I did not have a visa to enter into the country hoping to get one at the border, and Abdullah, our driver said I should have gotten it in Casablanca for 200MAD because they will jack up the price to 1000MAD ($100 USD) plus a little pocket money for the Boss. I didn't even have that much money on me and this worried me a bit. But I left my worries in a prayer and enjoyed the adventure. I fumbled through my mind of things I could use , like clothes, a flashlight,etc as currency if need be. When it was our turn to go into the station my desert dwelling brothers were very excited to see a Black American in their country, stating we only go to places like Ghana and Nigeria but never to the desert, never to Mauritania (well there is a reason for that: 1) it's the desert, the Sahara Desert at that; and 2) it's Mauritania...known for....its desert).
I was happy that they were happy and approved my visa right away and everyhting was cool. David and Veronica, my Swedish friends had a little more difficulty, but I said that they were with me and they stamped their passports right away. This is where the Swedes and I are were to part for they were continuing on eastward and I needed to go south to Nouakchott. Enter Mack. This Englishman living in France decided one day to fix up his old work truck and drive from France to Africa, sell it somewhere and then return home. He said it was just too cold in France and wanted to change the weather, so Africa was one place he hadn't discovered yet. Mack was next in line behind us at the border and we chatted it up a bit, he said he was headed east from Nouakchott and accepted to give me a ride that far.
How do I describe Mack without being too insensitive.....hmmm....well the best thing I can come up with is this: he appeared like he was raised in Kentucky, moved to Arkansas and founded his own anti-government militia,complete with truck, flannel shirt (perspective: we are in the desert!!!), trucker's cap, long beard, long mustache, etc. Stateside the two of us rolling cross country would raise more than a few eyebrows, unless of course I played tamborine for his bluegrass band. But that is the beauty of being out here in the world, you meet all sorts of people from many walks of life, many different stories, many faces and you break free of your personal prejudices about who you think people are based soely on how they look. (But if someone calls me Bob Marley one more time...)
Mack had made it this far completely by himself and was starving for someone to talk to. The day had reached the hottest point and I had't really been to sleep from Dakhla talking with the Swedes the whole way, so I was hot and tired. I fought through it and we spoke about everything that is life and it turns out mack was a wealth of knowledge and wisdom, telling me about the mistakes of the '60s when he was sharing needles and in an instant nearly distroyed his life. I told him about Black life in the U.S., my reasons for being in Africa,etc. One recurring question from everyone I met is do i know where I was from in Africa. They are suprised when I say No. "How
could you not know" they inquire, "can'tyou just re-trace your history?" Uh...No! So then I ask them, how do you think Black Americans got to America? Italian Americans, got up one day decided to go. Chinese Americans, said hey family, lets' go to America. German, Spanish, Japanese, etc. all made a choice to be there at some point in their lineage. So how did we get there. It was like the horrors of history had been erased, not one person could fathom that there were people taken from this land and brought to the West and could not keep their own history. It was amazing to them, they knew about slavery, but had some notion that it wasn't so bad.
I could have been in New York having this coversation ( as a matter of fact I've had this conversation in New york), because it is something that world as a whole has forgotten and underappreciates. The effects of the slave mind is still persistent today.... (sigh!!)
Continuing on. We talk into the night, and I get to see for the first time wild camels everywhere and experience the Sahara Desert in all in wonderous glory. We got stopped at several checkpoints. The first question is "Nationality?" Mack said French, "let me see your passports!" (in a demanding tone) Mack thumbs over, "well he's American". "Go!" And we get to leave with no problem. It's amazing that I have never quite felt American, never quite African, just a misplaced soul wandering the earth with no real home. But to everyone outside of America, I AM American. It seems the the only hangups about American identity are those we have created within America. There is no Red, Black, White, Brown or Yellow out here...just Blue...the color of our passports. And in that, at least, United We Stand....
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