BORDER LAND: Searching For Surf Along Mauritania's Invisible Frontier

Looks like they couldn't resist making some tracks of their own.

As the sunlight gets too intense and the constant offshore wind starts blowing too much sand, Thierry and Brahim set up a traditional Berber tent right in the dunes overlooking the ocean so we can get some shade and rest. The subdued noise from the boiling water and the sweet scent of fresh mint leaves fills the tent once again, gently awakening us from a quick nap right in time for the afternoon tea and incoming tide: on the point the wind has dropped, the ocean is sheet glass and a thin layer of orange nuanced dust fog partially hides the shipwrecks. The sight of the first set bombing on the outside section is enough to mount a turmoil inside the tent, and soon the flies are buzzing and the smell of wax and damp wetsuits replaces the sweet scent of tea as we hastily try to suit up. By the time we get to the point the surf is truly going off and we trade long rides, shallow barrels, and good vibes right until dark. While attempting a crazy air mere feet from the shipwreck, Erwan loses control and dives shoulder-first into the reef. “I think I hit the reef with my shoulder, my wetsuit’s all bruised up” declares the Frenchman when he paddles back out. After a closer inspection of the damage, Sam offers his take: “You landed on a piece of boat Erwan, that’s rust on your wetsuit!”. Before it gets too dark we hit the road back to town trying to stick to the few existing tracks in the sand, a not too common in this remote part of the country. Our base camp in town resembles more of a Foreign Legion fort than a hotel: scattered around a sandy square are some tiny cells with a tin roof, a traditional Berber tent, a common area, some basic toilets, and the owner’s house; complete of a built-in goat pen on the roof. People, mostly Europeans travelling through the desert in oversized 4x4’s, usually arrive at dusk and set their camp for the night, gathering around a bonfire to talk story and share useful information. Through a little window in our bare room we catch glimpses of the fire and overhear stories that make us dream about the most legendary cities of the Sahara like Tamanrasset, Bamako, Chinguetti, and Timbuktu. Then, as the cold dawn comes, the desert travellers pack their stuff back on the cars and venture into desert, leaving us as the only residents of an otherwise desolate ranch. In a bigger scale, the same thing happens in town as everyone and everything seems to be transient: whether if they were born here or they came from far away, they all look like being in hurry to go somewhere else. Along the dusty roads of Nouadhibou, we meet all sort of migrants looking for something to do and hoping to pile up enough cash to jump on a fishing boat and sail the 400 miles north to the Canary Islands. After Morocco tightened its borders to the thousands of migrants from all over Africa, the dream route to Europe shifted south to Mauritania and its main harbor town, Nouadhibou.

Driving thru the local neighborhood every morning on our way to the surf, we must look like a funny bunch to the locals, mostly lycee students from a nearby high school and crazy wild taxi drivers, as they stare at us riding in the back of an overloaded and overcrowded Toyota Hilux truck complete with mandatory boards, diesel drum, water cans, and tent pole. Just around the corner from the ranch is the poorest slum one can think of, a cluster of basic shacks of scavenged wood and flattened oil drums where naked kids roam around piles of garbage alongside goats, donkeys and mangy dogs. It only takes a couple of minutes from there to get into the desert and the no man’s land where most of the land mines allegedly still are. Brahim has flawless desert driving skills, and it shows when it matters the most: we never get stuck for more than a few minutes, and never run over a landmine! Once we get to the surf, a picturesque Spanish castle overlooking a perfect point break, the one thing we crash into is bureaucracy as we get pulled over by a lone soldier in camoflauge telling us we’re not allowed to be here and to stop photographing.

He asks for a ride back to the post, and squeezes in the front row between Callahan and Brahim using his rifle to show the way while frantically speaking on his cell phone, and leads us to a nearby ghost town. Most buildings have either been destroyed by bombing or seriously damaged as they have been reduced to a pile of collapsed roofs, broken windows, and bullet holes. It looks like one those war movies where you stop in the middle of nowhere and, out of the blue, these angry military guys pop out and start asking for passports and grumbling in the local dialect. And that’s pretty much what happens next. We’re lucky that Thierry is here, as he speaks the local language and knows all the right people to get us out of trouble and back to the surf.

We return the next morning, and having nothing better to do in his ghost town, the Captain decides to escort us down to El Castillo and see for himself what we’re all about. The surf has picked up considerably overnight as we stare at some perfect righthanders peeling around the castle and into a deep-water channel. As we get our first rides on the overhead walls, the Captain goes into a state of overexcitement. Running up and down the cliff, he tries to take over from Callahan as photographer and shouts orders into the lineup for all five of us to take off on the same wave so he can get a better clip to show his friends that night. He’s so blown away by every tube ride of Raul’s, every nose ride of Sam’s and each power carve of Tristan’s he forgets his military status and only thinks about being a regular guy having fun at the beach.

“It’s better to be happy than to be King” reads a popular Mauritanian proverb, and that’s exactly what it feels like to be Captain Surf for a day.