Cruising on a ship of the desert

The French colonialists called Mauritania Le Grand Vide -- the Great Void. As far as they were concerned, this vast swathe of north-west Africa contained nothing but shifting sands and was fit only for their most maladjusted foreign legionnaires. Yet the isolation has preserved a nomadic culture already consigned to history elsewhere in North Africa and the Middle East.

However, things have changed fast here in recent decades. Considering that slavery was only outlawed in 1980 and the practice of force-feeding women, in the belief that big is beautiful, apparently ended just a few years ago, that's probably an understatement, but the recent discovery of oil means that the pace of change is accelerating.

I headed into the capital Nouakchott which is so sprawling and chaotic it could only have been built by nomads totally unfamiliar with urban living. Countless thousands have migrated here in recent decades, abandoning their harsh existence herding camels and goats in the desert, turning what was little more than a village at independence in 1960 into a dusty metropolis of almost 700,000 inhabitants.

I had joined a group organized by Explore, one of the few companies operating treks in Mauritania. "For most people, it's like a trip to the moon," the company's literature said.

In the midwinter sunshine of the Sahara, Dah, the local guide who would take us into the remote interior, sat behind the wheel of the Landcruiser wearing flowing blue robes and a look which suggested he couldn't get out of Nouakchott fast enough. "Nomads always wish to return to the desert," he said -- a point he emphasized a few hours later when he swung the jeep off the tarmac road and headed into the sandy wastes. By sunset the ever-changing peach,

apricot and coffee shades of the Amatlich dunes loomed ahead in unending waves. We pitched camp and I lay on the soft sand that I would still be washing out of my clothes weeks later.

After a starlit night listening to the hiss of sand, the arrival of our camels shattered the morning calm. These groaning and complaining creatures suddenly appeared over a dune led by a cameleer with an equally miserable countenance and even worse teeth. Salt, gold and ivory caravans of up to 32,000 camels once traveled the trade routes in these parts, but just four of them were more than enough trouble for us. Dah waited nearby, puffing a small pipe and facing the desert armed only with a stick and a good sense of direction.

Over the next few days we trekked through stunningly desolate scenery,

resting under acacia trees or camping among the dunes. The region seemed unin-habitable, but within minutes of stopping people would materialize, apparently out of thin air, and we would be surrounded by a noisy huddle of women in the multi-colored shawls of villagers or the dark blue robes favored by nomads. In this most sparsely populated country in Africa, you clearly have to grab your chance to have a gossip. Meanwhile, the cook would bake delicious if somewhat gritty bread in the hot sand under the campfire or haggle with a nomad over the price of some unfortunate goat.

We climbed on to the rocky Akdar plateau, sometimes stopping to haul a bucket of cool water from an isolated well surrounded by small allotments of millet and melons. These tiny wells are vital for the survival of the nomads, and trekkers too, but they paled into insignificance compared with our next destination. Behind a ridge, in an explosion of greenery, lay the beautiful oasis of Twera. Even the camels stopped grumbling as they slurped at the stream trickling beneath the palms. This magical spot seemed the only truly uninhabited place we encountered and I sat in solitude with my aching feet in a pool, eating sticky black dates.