177 - Mauritanian Windmill (Tunis, Tunisia)

[A strange thing happened since my Tunisia visit—the world lost its shit. Even before Covid upended our world, the Arab Spring upended the Middle East. Leslie and I missed the “festivities” by about a month. Some would say we dodged a bullet, but I can’t help feeling like we missed the boat. How often do you have the chance to watch history unfold from the front row? Yes, I could almost taste repression in the air, but if you told me the powder keg was about to ignite, I’d have been incredulous in the extreme. Yet, there it was, boiling just beneath the surface. Keep this in mind. It makes for a fascinating subtext.]

DON QUIXOTE HAD WINDMILLS. WE HAD THE MAURITANIAN EMBASSY. Decision time. Go east or west? Our first choice was Libya, but the embassy wouldn’t see fit to grant anything greater than a three-day transit visa. (Keep in mind, this was when Libya had an actual government and before someone sodomized Gaddafi with a bayonet.) This would not do. We wanted to experience Libya, not blast though like contestants on the Amazing Race. The ideal plan was to spend weeks there, confirming or dispelling our limited (and likely biased) misconceptions of a world pariah. After that, we’d take Egypt, the land of the pharaohs, by storm, going neck-deep in all kinds of archeological and anthropological nerd shit.

It wasn’t meant to be. Had we taken this path, we would’ve had a ringside seat for the Arab Spring. Part of me wishes we’d witnessed a totalitarian regime unravel. The other part breathes a sigh of relief we didn’t get trapped in the countryside without a reliable system of law and order. The shit most certainly hit the fan. Alone? Maybe. With an attractive American female at my side? No fucking way. We would’ve been a target for sure. Who knows how our lives might’ve changed had we zigged instead of zagged?

To the west, young man!… and woman! But where to? After considerable research, we targeted Mauritania for exploration. The allure of surrealistic desert sandscapes and a foreign culture we little understood was enough to seal the deal, though not before extensive investigation into the safety situation. Though Western government websites cautioned against a visit (American, British, and Australian to name a few), recent accounts from fellow travelers and correspondence with expatriates (i.e. Peace Corps Volunteers) made us reasonably confident we’d be okay. So, Mauritania it was.

Mauritania requires a visa prior to entry. And where do you get a visa? Bing! At the embassy, of course. All you have to do is find it. After doing an internet search, it wasn’t clear Tunis had a Mauritanian Embassy, odd on its face. It does or doesn’t, did or didn’t, right? In a perfect world? Sure. I found a lead on Visa HQ, but the information was suspect. A search fostered no results, but as I scrolled I saw an address and two phone numbers. Other websites failed to even list an embassy for Mauritania. I found this a mite queer (as in odd or strange).

So, I took what I thought was the most logical course of action—I emailed the US Embassy in Tunis and inquired about the address. It's America. They have to know, right? They promptly provided a location and phone number. I felt no need to continue searching. After all, it's America, right? America knows everything. Fuck yeah.

The next morning, we hailed a taxi and thus began the crucible. After a brief explanation, the driver and I agreed on where the hell it was we were trying to go. He had the address. He knew the street. Rock on. He began by screwing us right off the bat. While I had my nose buried in a map (looking for the street in question), he tinkered with the meter and added about four dinar to our fare. I made a mental note. He seemed to know where he was going, so I figured I’d raise Cain after we'd arrived. We never did.

We located the address provided by the US Embassy. It was a residence, not an embassy. CIA safe house, perhaps? My driver inquired at the dry cleaner next to the faux embassy and was told something in Arabic. We turned right a short distance from the dry cleaner and found nothing… except a Tunisian postal worker who claimed to know the current location of the embassy. He didn't.

Our driver began asking folks on the street. No luck. He questioned a few policemen who provided conflicting answers. One said it was in a certain area, the other had a differing opinion. His method of inquiry involved repeating “Mauritania” eighty-five times.

Finally, the driver got back in the car and informed us he’d been told it moved… again. I remember thinking, Fucking thing must be in a Winnebago. We managed to find the South African Embassy and the Embassy of Yemen, which would be ideal had we been competing in an embassy scavenger hunt. We weren't. We drove a few circles in the neighborhood to be sure. Another policeman said it wasn’t there. A guy at the South African Embassy told us it was somewhere else. Pangaea?

We searched. We inquired. We shoved thumbs up our asses. (Our own, not each other's. That'd be gross.) I had noticed on the map there was an area of Tunis where the streets were named for countries—Rue de Cameroon, Rue de Liberia, Rue de Canada, Rue de MAURITANIA, etc. Hmm… coincidence? A policeman suggested Rue de Mauritania, but our driver wasn’t buying it. I started to think our “helpful” driver was more than willing to buzz around the city indefinitely with the meter running. If I were a bettin’ man…

When we arrived at Rue de Fictitious Embassy, we bid our cabby farewell. I caught him off guard by pointing out his meter adjustment. He tried to protest, but the smile on his face gave him away. Fucker. In the end, I gave him fifteen dinar, which wasn’t much more than a Tunis tour would’ve cost. I didn’t feel too bad about letting him get away with a little excess. He did assist our star-crossed quest, after all. Still a fucker though.

We found the embassy. It just happened to be the Danish one. I started to enter (the Danes are quite competent with English) but was stopped by a Tunisian man who implied it wasn’t the Danish Embassy. The huge Danish flag and reserved parking spot for the ambassador must’ve been an elaborate hoax. No matter. I asked him about Mauritania. He had no idea. I'm not even sure he knew what Mauritania was. Super.

I kicked myself for not bringing the phone numbers the US Embassy provided. A simple phone call by the taxi driver could’ve solved the problem…. or not. Later, I tried the numbers and got nothing. Surprise.

Down, but not out. We'd read, in the absence of an embassy, the French Embassy could issue visas for Mauritania. The following morning, we gave it a shot. Outside the embassy, we spoke with another policeman about getting a visa. He was confused, so he enlisted his English-speaking friend to translate. He denied the possibility of getting our visa at the French Embassy and reiterated the existence of a Mauritanian one. He even drew a map. I felt pretty good. But not really. I wanted to go inside the embassy to inquire, just in case, but didn’t want to risk pissing off Barney Fife. All he had to do was take one step inside the entrance and ask. But then again, why should he in the face of bone-crushing certainty?

I later analyzed his map. It didn't correspond to reality. Why would it? I generally shun reality myself, but in this instance, it seemed unavoidable. Back to the internet. Remember Visa HQ? Well, I tried those phone numbers for shits and giggles. No one answered the first, and the second was answered by a very confused woman… who wasn’t the ambassador of Mauritania. Fiddleshits.

Plan B. Fly to Morocco and get a visa from the consulate in Casablanca or the embassy in Rabat. I’d read the process was relatively easy. (Um, no.) After that, head south and invade Mauritania by land. We crossed our fingers and toes, then squeezed our assholes tight. Rock n’ roll.