20 Nov; I receive an email from my dear friend and film producer, Rhoda Grauer, regarding a proposal from our partner and filmmaker, Mario Gianni, to join him on a trip to film a group of artisanal fishermen,  in the Islamic Republic of Mauritania, a developing nation in western Africa where the Sahara meets the Atlantic.

I know little of Mauritania; I’m uncertain where or when I first heard the name.  Internet research becomes an immediate necessity.  The decision to film our series’ first episode there will be determined by the quality and quantity of the fishing and my ability to connect with the Imraguen, the traditional fishermen who are Mario’s primary interest.  Either way, he will get the footage he needs to create another episode for his documentary series on Italian TV.
 If we can combine our two objectives, we’ll have ourselves an adventure and our first episode of Aware Angler.  

Mauritania is a developing country on the western edge of the great Sahara Desert, so, one assumes, it must be hot and dry.  This will be the first of my many misconceptions dispelled during our journey.  It is also one of the world's least-known and least-visited countries.  There are few, if any, dedicated guidebooks, and it's one of the few remaining countries that still preserves a genuine nomadic culture.  It was a French colony from 1814 to 1960, and they referred to it as La Grande Vide (The Great Void) and in many ways, it's still uncharted territory.

Information regarding sport fishing there is virtually nonexistent, since so little of it has actually been done.  I contact Meg Gawler, an extraordinary woman who worked on the original idea and consequent formation of the National Park, Banc d’Arguin, where the Imraguen fishermen currently reside. Through our emails, I discover that sport fishing was part of her original plan for the park, and that the Imraguen were expected to act as fishing guides.  But Ms. Gawler has not been personally involved with the progress of the Park for years.  I am very grateful to have so distinguished a contact with whom to consult, and she is very encouraging and wishes us success with the series, but can add little information regarding the fish and fishing we’ll find in the Park.

After days of diligent research, we have discovered some on-line photographs and satellite images that suggest the presence of sea grass and mud flats in the park.  There are also field reports from some eco-scientists referring to vestigial mangroves and large crustacean populations.  I’m encouraged because where there is bait, there are fish.  Life will always cycle.  This is the beginning of inspiration, but still not sufficient evidence upon which to base a TV episode and purchase non-refundable plane tickets.

There is still insufficient data upon which to make a clear choice.  I’m hoping some unexpected event, bit of evidence, or information will effectively make the decision for me.  In the weeks since Mario’s proposal we have confirmed little, including our travel dates, which are tentatively set for the last 3 weeks of February.
It’s getting close to the cutoff point for purchasing our tickets.  If we wait any longer, the fares go up and seats become unavailable, and still nothing is certain. 

Perhaps it’s the weeks of research, or the dozens and dozens of emails, but for no particularly compelling reason, the decision is finally made to purchase the $2500 ticket.  I’m now committed to a St. Valentine’s Day departure date, two weeks from now, with a March 8 return.  Mario has typically made his own travel arrangements, independent of mine, and emailed me his itinerary, which also typically, he will soon change.  This is the first of many itinerary changes he will make before the end of this adventure.

I cannot get a grip on what it is I’m feeling that is causing me so much ambivalence.  Whatever it is, it’s alive and lives inside me.  Foreboding is too strong a word, apprehension is the better descriptor.  Whatever the word, it sucks my attention, and puts just enough edge on the day to keep my anticipation of the journey from being exciting, or even enjoyable.  Perhaps my steadily progressive meditative state has attacked my sense of adventure.  This is certainly not an inspiring self image, especially considering my expectations for the success of our new series.

The next day, I receive an early Valentine’s gift from the passport office.  Travel in some parts of the world has certain restrictions.  Mauritania is just such a place. The bad news is that, since my passport will expire in less than 6 months, I cannot be issued the requisite Visa.  The good news is that I can renew my passport and get my visa for only $500 in expedition and administrative fees.  This will, however, require days more of hoop jumping, arm twisting,  and long distance phone calls, negotiating with officious bureaucrats speaking foreign languages.
For the moment, I am reflecting on the inconvenience I continue to manifest in my life.

Two days before my departure, the necessary documents arrive from Washington DC via overnight mail. Mario has postponed his arrival until the day after I arrive, and although he has arranged with the hotel to be picked up at the airport, I am on my own to do so. I depart WPB without knowing what arrangements my new office manager, Paula Matthews, will make for me when I arrive in Nouakchott.
The situation can only get better.  After all this research and preparation, I still don’t know if there is suitable fishing, or that I will find a single fish. Welcome to fishing adventure.

I’m extremely busy, if not productive, for the entire week before my departure. 

Packing for the desert

I have the usual three tackle types from which to choose; fly, spin, and cast, so I decide on all three.  I pack all day Sunday and into the night.  I think and rethink my tackle choices, having little or no idea of what species I will be fishing for.  Since travel restrictions require that my gear be kept to a minimum, I have decided to focus on spinning tackle.  Although I prefer casting, we know that wind will be a factor, making spin tackle the wiser choice.   I have redesigned and rebuilt two of my 2-piece, 7 ½ ‘rods to fit in my travel case.  The airline limits rod cases to 62 inches, but my case is 46” which is just long enough to accommodate a 2 piece,  7 ½’  rod, and sufficiently small for ease of carry.  At the last minute, I purchase a third, 7’, factory built, casting rod for 20 lb class tackle.  Finding this type rod in a tackle shop was unexpected, since it is such an uncommon design.  It will be essential since tarpon, possibly large ones, are likely, especially in the grass flats we expect to find.  Tarpon, we know, are caught in both size and quantity 100 miles to the south, in Senegal. Many maps and photos from my Internet research appear to show mangroves on the mud and grass flats in the national park we will visit.  My other choices include 6 and 12 lb. tackle.

Where are all the mangroves?

I discover that only two of my travel rods will fit in my rod case.  Next trip there will be a new one.  I decide to leave the 6 lb rod and take extra spools of 8 and 10 lb. line for the 12 lb rod.  I also pack lots of extra line; premium monofilament and braids, expecting that it will be unlikely to find replacements there, since few recreational anglers fish Mauritania.  For terminal tackle, I assemble my specialty; a reasonable assortment of leaded jig heads and soft plastic bodies that I expect will address all conditions.  I also select a combination of plugs, feathers, spoons and hooks which is everything I can imagine for every eventuality. 

 I’m packing an 8-weight fly reel and 5-piece rod which fits neatly in my big suitcase.  Since I tie my own, my fly inventory is limitless and so I pack many, from small bugs, bunnies, and Clousers to poppers and large streamers. Since so few sport fishermen have visited the park, I expect none would likely have used fly tackle.  I have visions of being the first someone, to do something, fishing someplace in Mauritania with a fly rod.

 I finish packing at 3 AM. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, except for the things that wake me as I remember them during the night.  It occurs to me that I have no dive mask.  I will need one to see how to operate the underwater camera Mario has purchased especially for this trip.

New York to Paris (JFK/CDG)

Waiting on board the Air France flight from New York to Paris.  I’m looking out my bulkhead window seat #5B, which is big and soft and wide.  I congratulate myself on the decision to upgrade to business class, using the sky miles I’ve been accumulating on Delta for the last 20 years.  I was torn between arriving rested or returning rested, and I pored over calculating the relative merits of each.  Considering the importance of the last few days, this was definitely the better choice.  The bulkhead in front of me is wont to accommodate my large, shoeless feet; enjoying and effortlessly facilitating full leg extension.  

New York is as I remember it from my working days here….. Cold, not bitter, but brutal in the long term.  It’s raining now, and on the ground crew.  They’re standing patiently, with Skywalker-like flashlights, waiting for air traffic control to release the plane to the runway from the gate.  These guys are dedicated and/or union members; cold, wet and professional, in airline issue raincoats covering warm work clothes, well worn and familiar.  These guys have done this for a while; I recognize expertise when I see it.
The mania of the past few weeks is subsiding. Some, if not most, of the butterflies are either landed and asleep, or have expired.  Blessed awareness.

We pound and bump down the runway on takeoff from Kennedy toward what feels like the East.  As the runway transitions from airport to narrow peninsula, through the tunnel view of the plane’s window, this could be a Florida departure, save for the residual snow on the shorelines where white sand and juvenile coconut palms would be.  Launching skyward, the lagoon below looks shallow and stained with a reasonable collection of dilapidated wooden docks and piers, which would elsewhere encourage recovering populations of sea trout and redfish.

The white-gloved flight attendant has just handed me a hot, moist towelette  She has a small silver tray in one hand and tongs with which to handle the hot towels in the other.  This is in preparation for the meal about to be served.  The menu was presented to me even before leaving the gate, printed in both French and English, explaining in beautiful fine print at the bottom of the page, that the meal will be served soon after takeoff.  The hors d’oeuvre is Foie Gras De Canard (duck paté).  The main courses are steak tournedos grillée or a turban of sole and salmon, and following that is a gourmet cheese plate, a baby greens salad, and an exotic dessert.  To drink, a carefully chosen wine list which includes Champagne, two kinds of sparkling water, two still waters, 5 tea choices carefully selected from around the world, coffee or espresso, 5 soft drinks, and 3 kinds of juice.

I am suddenly aware that I have a problem with all this; a problem which I will gratefully exchange for the butterflies that accompanied me here.  The problem is that I’m really loving all this luxury and decadent attention to detail. I’m beginning to suspect that I may become too accustomed to all this.  Three weeks from now, the desert will have provided me with a great appreciation for life’s simpler pleasures.

Walter K*.

Rarely does air travel afford one unadulterated rest, much less sleep, but the extraordinary comfort this flight offers, plus its 8-hour duration, adds up to an irresistible opportunity.  The row in which I’m seated has only 2 seats, so the likelihood of avoiding conversation with my row
mate for the entirety of the flight is slimmer than the flight attendant. 

As much as I would like to socially connect with my fellow traveler, I'm eagerly anticipating the luxurious decadence on this next leg of the journey, so I devise the reasonable strategy of getting acquainted during dinner, then politely pardoning myself after the dessert, for a therapeutic respite.  He has been on his cell phone until just before takeoff and it’s clear from the conversation I just overheard that he is pleasant, educated, well-spoken, and his family is concerned about him. 

Walter K. was married for 35 years; his wife passed away 5 years ago after a long illness,
 he is now living in an apt in NYC, and he has recently retired from the State Department as a military attaché in Washington, DC.  Walter is 75, but cryptically claims to be older, which his bushy white hair doesn’t belie.  He is a self-described liberal, neurotic, and non- practicing Jew, and in the course of our acquaintance, I discover he is also a well-connected friend of Bill Clinton and many other Notables.

This is his third trip to Paris to meet a woman to whom he was introduced by his daughters.  He is very excited by the promise of this visit, since he has become hopelessly enamored of this 49 year old, mother of 2, who is separated from her husband. Walter is, for all the world, like a kid again, for the first time in a very long time, in his long life.  He is clearly loving every minute of his affair, and is damning the consequences.  When he pulls out his wallet to show me a photo of his beautiful inamorata, I notice his credentials which verify his age and connections.   

Several times during our flight, Walter brings up the subject of marrying her and tells me of the concern his daughters have about his relationship with his new love. All this sounds more like Walter’s kids concern about losing their inheritance, than gaining a stepmother who is their junior.

By the time Walter gets around to telling me that the expensive gifts he has given her have his daughters believing that she is a gold digger, the flight attendant is telling me to fasten my seat belt in preparation for landing.  So much for my therapeutic respite.

*No, not his real name

Arrival in Paris

Arriving over the City of Lights at 6:56 AM, it has been 25 years since my last visit.  I was madly in love then, with a fashion model who kept a pied-á-terre in the quatrieme arrondissement.  I spent some magical weekends in this city when my schedule allowed.  Out my window, I can see long strings of commuters’ headlights aiming toward the centre de ville.  This homecoming would be much more pleasurable if just a little dawn were breaking, and I hadn’t listened to Walter all night.
                                                                            
I wanted to thank the stewardesses upon disembarking, for making the flight so wonderfully enjoyable, but thought better of it from being so fatigued.  Stepping out of the fuselage into a cold, wet, and rainy Paris dawn changed my mind, and I went back to thank Nicole and her crew and in return received some warm handshakes and smiles.  Gratitude and appreciation verified a worthwhile gesture

At the bottom of the stair ramp, plastic chains guide the drowsy drove to a waiting transfer bus; the kind without seats….there is SRO.  Because of Nicole and crew, I was nearly last aboard. There was almost enough room for me and my carry-on, as I ascended the steps inside the bus’ doorway.  An haute-coutured young Frenchman with his back to me is chatting away on his cell phone, and committed to creating an impasse, as the driver simultaneously slammed the bus into gear and me in the butt with a cold wet door. 

Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France

The transit terminal is nearly empty, save for my fellow fliers.  Up a couple flights of stairs, I find an impeccably uniformed agent seated at the Air France counter, and she directs me to gate 49 for the Nouakchott flight.

I appropriate a hard plastic bench seat near the gate, upon which I uncomfortably recline, using my carry-on as a pillow.  I’m awakened two hours later with a stiff neck, as the terminal starts to stir.  Having only 6 hours sleep in the last forty is taking its toll, and my suspicion that Walter has been resting comfortably since our Paris arrival affords me little consolation. 

It’s lighter outside, but not light.  A typical Parisian February, the City of Lights will barely earn its sobriquet today.  The flight to Mauritania leaves in two hours, so I do the zombie-shuffle into a coffee shop for a caffeine fix while exploring what the transit terminal has to offer in the way of Parisian souvenirs.  Twenty minutes later, I’m a paper cupful of cappuccino and a croissant heavier, and eight bucks lighter.

 Exploring further, I discover that smoking is allowed in designated areas of the terminal, strategically located to insure the blanket distribution of a nightclub-at-closing-time fragrance throughout.  It occurs to me that a designated smoking section in a terminal is as brilliant as designating a peeing section in a swimming pool.

Flight from Paris to Nouakchott

Immediately after takeoff, I’m restless and uncomfortable.  Feeling really exhausted now, I’m the kind of tired that evolves from fatigue, to pain, to just-don’t-care-anymore-what-happens-to-me.  If I could just get some sleep; and my thoughts return to Walter.  I have a bulkhead seat.  There are baby cradle brackets on the bulkhead in front of me, so moms can get a break from holding their infants, and apparently, I’m the only person in this row who does not have one.

I’m seated between two mothers presently nursing their offspring, and I’m so tired I don’t even notice that breasts are being bared for feeding all around me.  The youngster on my right is also restless now, and I’m being soundly beaten by him and his mom who is trying in vain to subdue him.  The guy behind me has so much peace and quiet and elbow room that I seriously consider paying him to switch seats with me.  Mercifully, the baby-wrangling mom takes her little darling to the back of the plane for the remainder of the flight. 
 
The flight attendant, appreciating my distress, reveals the personal TV monitor which is hidden in the armrest of my seat.  I pull it up, turn it on, and surf around a bit, rejecting Happy Days reruns dubbed in French and news in languages I don’t understand,  before discovering the channel dedicated to an onboard camera mounted on the belly of the plane and pointing down at all beneath me. 

Initially showing only clouds, when we get over the Sahara, the clouds disappear and I enjoy the experience of flight  over a great desert. The vast sand expanse reveals a myriad of fascinating and beautiful patterns and an occasional discernable figure of a man, or camel, or date palm.  After staring at the screen a while, I see a caravan mirage and wake up three hours later with arms and legs thoroughly  numb from lack of circulation. 

Arrival in Nouakchott 15 Feb 2005

It would have been too easy for a ticket agent or flight attendant to tell us that we needed our boarding passes upon arrival.  I’ve never heard of a BP being used as an immigration document, and judging by my fellow travelers’ dazed amazement, I’m not the only one.

Inside the terminal, I’m amazed and relieved to see my name scrawled in large letters on a cardboard sign held aloft by a huge, dark man wearing a caftan, fez, sandals, and curious grin.  I’m mentally thanking Paula for a great job of making my hotel and ground connections.  After we exchange nods, he identifies himself as Samba and whisks me through a side door, past the restless crowd, into a small, sparsely furnished office, and straight to a neatly khakied immigration official with a pistol holstered conspicuously over his belt buckle.  This, I learn later, is Samba’s brother-in-law, which momentarily explains the preferential treatment.  Samba, however, speaks only two languages; Espanol and Hassānīya Arabic, and his brother-in-law only the latter.  Although I have French and Italian language books with me, neither will serve here.  I try to confirm that Samba has actually been sent by the hotel, to which he once again nods with a total lack of assurance. 

This is no mirage; I really must wake up now.  Translating my halting Spanish into Arabic, Samba and I double team his brother-in-law, who wants me to collect my luggage before he will stamp my passport.  Apparently, he is also the customs agent, so we proceed to the baggage claim area on the other side of a dirty glass partition.  2 of my 3 checked items have arrived on the baggage belt; the big suitcase and the cordura backpack with our tents, but no rod case.  I’m feeling particularly clever for having brought my fly rod in the big bag; at least I can still fish.  Now appearing in the customs area, is an entire Japanese tour group who is missing most of their luggage, and suddenly my personal translation difficulties no longer feel overwhelming.

A short, round, Muslim woman, who appears to be in charge of baggage, has come and gone. After some shouting and confusion, the baggage belt starts up again and an elderly gentleman in a shabby sport coat/caftan combo emerges through the conveyer belt door flaps, cradling my rod case.  Apparently it was mixed in with the Japanese’ baggage, which was just headed off on its way back to Paris.  

After paying off customs, all finally seems to be proceeding along more smoothly. The customs/immigration guy stamps my passport and Samba, carrying my bags, leads the way to the other side of the terminal where, instead of loading me up in a car to the hotel Auberge de La Dune, he seats me at a table in the Airport bar, which clearly he runs, and probably owns.  Samba is now comfortably positioned behind the bar, serving drinks and collecting money, and I get that sinking feeling which harbingers that things are about to head south.

Farid of Auberge de La Dune

Magically, out of the clear blue Saharan haze, an optimistic, sparkly-eyed, Arab chap appears at my table and, speaking what might be English, asks if I’m Josef Jakob.  I nod affirmatively, and he says he is here to pick me up for the hotel Auberge La Dune.  This greatly upsets Samba whose game has just been busted.  He has somehow managed to hijack the communications for my hotel reservations, and me, from my rendezvous with Mario at La Dune.  Per my decade-long experience of life in the Caribbean, this is where the real fun usually begins, as I size-up the smallest guys between me and the nearest exit… mister, gimme two steps toward the door…

Arrival at Hotel Auberge La Dune

The little we see of Nouakchott along the way to the hotel is convincingly bleak; a dusty, dry, monochromatic, and clearly impoverished urban sprawl.  The local folk, fully half of which are women, congregate and move purposefully along the roadway.  American business suits and blue jeans, boubous, shorts, slacks, t-shirts and shawls, bright colors, fine fabrics, and rags; the variety of clothing styles indicates an obvious mix of cultures.

There is also much evidence, besides the minarets and mosques, that this is a Muslim community.  Most Mauritanians claim to practice an Islam of moderation.  Mauritanian women cover their hair in public but rarely their faces, are active in business and government, and make up the majority of voters in elections. 

Settling at the hotel bar, I quiz Farid about the city and himself until we hear the afternoon call to prayer. 

Canopy covered balcony Terrace

He shows me to a modest room with adequate bedding and a private bath; a luxury which consists of a shower head protruding from the wall and a standard American commode.  The inn is a mixed bag of bare rooms, some with air conditioning, some with private bathrooms.  Precious perks here include an on-site restaurant, internet access, secure parking, and a laundry service.

Now nearing unconsciousness from total exhaustion, and many light years from the luxury of   the NY/Paris run, I feel heartily welcomed by Auberge de La Dune.  Under the scrutiny of the obligatory chirping ceiling fan in my room, I inspect my baggage for signs of possible damage to my tackle and notice the missing nylon tie wraps I inserted in the pulls to lock the zippers.  The presence of the TSA notice and stickers doesn’t belie that my bags were searched, but a cursory inspection reveals everything is in place.

Mario arrives, Feb 16

I hear soft voices and whispers echoing in my head and the hallways outside my room.  After 4 delicious hours of deferred sleep, I don’t want to wake up.
 “Josef !”
 “Ciao, Mario” I hear myself reply, pretending to be awake, and anticipating his arrival.
Now 3 AM, Mario has arrived on schedule, complete our plan to meet here.  I need a moment to get focused and mobile, eventually stumbling up to greet him.  We immediately begin planning our next assault in loud whispers, when the concierge returns to remind us that we are not alone in this part of the hotel. We agree to reconvene at 7 for coffee, and I finally finish the good night’s sleep I began so long ago. 

Many great days of adventure await us, which Mario Gianni, Rhoda Grauer, and I envisioned, and planned for, and began creating, when we met 2 years ago at Mario’s house in Rome.  This is the culmination of that vision, and the beginning of a grand new  television series.