Suddenly, a silvery flash on my left. Between the last two dunes, I saw it, for just a moment, struggling to believe it after imagining it for so long. The moment is savory, I take my time and readjust my cheche, as if before a solemn encounter. A few more steps to reach the summit of that famous dune, and across the endless flatness, I finally discover Saint Jean Bay, a sheet of still, blinding mercury. The sun begins its descent from its relentless zenith, moving westward, blinding me as it has each afternoon for three weeks. The moment is essential—it took 500 km of walking to reach it. Five hundred times one thousand meters of walking, for the 21 bipeds and 33 quadrupeds that make up our caravan. Such effort to see the sea!

And yet, a few months earlier... "But why are you going there? It's flat, there's nothing!" I had heard this remark before, but this time, coming from an experienced colleague, it gave me pause. And the maps left me skeptical. Have you ever seen precise maps of Mauritania? Not those of the Adrar or Tagant, but the others—the ones that show only a pale yellow rectangle, adorned with 2 or 3 obscure names, accompanied by "temporary brackish water" of dubious promise. Not very motivating, is it? And yet, we went anyway. It's true that this absence of relief and information concerns only a stretch of the route. Barely 250 km of a 500 km journey. I remain skeptical and warn potential travelers that the central part of the journey will be "of great monotony, a beautiful monochrome." A fine turn of phrase that doesn't deter the candidates who, in fact, are more numerous than I can take. So, for those who couldn't come and for the others, here's an account of what happened.

The story begins at night, far from the coast, in the village of Chinguetti on the Adrar plateau. The town is asleep; we are tired after a long drive from Nouakchott. At the village gates, thirty-three camels are tethered, seven Moors busily pack the equipment, food, and baggage to have everything ready by dawn. On the appointed day, after a quick visit, we are ready to march. While Chinguetti is not a fishing port, it is where our crossing of the beach begins. The village is strangely calm: the tourist bustle of recent years has subsided, the oasis dwellers have returned to normal occupations, palms, and goats. We take the track, already heading southwest. The mighty cliff of the Adrar forms the coast of Mauritania. Between the rocky shore and the ocean itself, Mauritania is an immense beach at low tide. For now, we travel the paths connecting palm groves and pastures in the heart of the country, those highlands that offer permanent water—an essential refuge for crossing the cruel summer. A first day in the dunes, to get our legs moving, break in the caravan, adjust the saddles. The sky is heavy, a few showers season the first night. Already we leave the Erg Warane behind us to reach the "chain" of Zerga. A chaotic relief born from a distant past when the plateau was crowned with an ice cap. The atmosphere is warmer and more arid today; although temporary gardens flourish here, favored by last summer's rains. And yet, something intrigues: the pasture is decent, the gardens planted, the palms rustle in the breeze... and yet the Adrar is empty. Empty of tourists, which was expected, but also empty of its inhabitants, which troubles the travelers. In the palm groves, water abounds but no one, not a goat, not a camel, not a child's laugh. On the plateaus, the grass is relatively abundant, the acacias green, and our camels feast. But where are the herds? someone asks me. The answer will come later, further on, but this observation gives me confidence for the rest of the journey. Because if people aren't here, they must be elsewhere, right? And if they've left, it's because they found something better... Further south lies Erg Amatlich, the great spillway of the southern plateaus. On each side of the long dune belt stretch rivers of palms. The landscape is magnificent, that of the great palm groves of the Adrar. Again, not a car, not the creak of a shaduf well. The caravan passes, but there's no dog to bark. Yet a donkey causes a stir. The adventure continues, or rather truly begins: we are at the extreme tip of the Adrar, in the flood zone of Graret Lefras. This vast flat-bottomed basin is adorned with short grass—more Irish than Mauritanian. We aren't deceived: ahead lies the unknown. Mohamed Salem, honest and confident, tells me: "now you are the guide to the sea." A trifle, it's only 300 km of beach, and besides, it's all straight...

The Beach

One pitfall on this beach: while it's easy to move in a straight line and hard to miss an ocean when walking toward sunset, you absolutely must find pasture each day—"the camel's fuel," as they say here. A necessity to manage while ensuring each day's march is of reasonable length. So you must advance like nomads—knowing how to seize opportunities—and be efficient like Europeans to avoid missing your flight home, a scenario unlikely to occur. On the logistics front, everything runs flawlessly. Mohamed Salem leads his caravan perfectly: each morning he accomplishes the feat of getting all 33 camels moving at 6:59 AM. The cook grumbles but moves with astonishing speed and organization. The travelers are no slouches either; everyone manages their own pace with complete serenity. I couldn't have dreamed of a better caravan. The vast plains are empty, true, but full of surprises. The first is aesthetic: the variability of the great emptiness is impossible to describe, but it exists. Harmony of grays, purity of horizon, essential barrenness. The emptiness is enchanting, horizontal vertigo, absence offers freedom. Only constraint: maintain a constant bearing of 260° that permits only slight diversions toward evening pasture. Because vegetation does exist; we found it. Helped greatly by the herders we met, who constitute our second surprise: there are people everywhere. Everywhere... admittedly the density is low, but each day we encounter one or two tents. These are the Adrar's inhabitants at pasture, like moving to summer grazing in the Alps. This is true Mauritania, that of herders who exploit harsh but vast lands. As soon as we spot a tent's white patch, we detour to pass nearby. Exclamations, brief but cordial encounters that—to the camel drivers' delight—invariably conclude with: "yes, if you go that way, you'll find grass this evening." Baraka accompanies us; we needn't detour or lengthen days excessively. Determined yet fluid, the caravan advances; the days are full but not exhausting. The kilometers slip past. Something new on the plain: the dunes of Erg Akchar narrow and this morning we throw ourselves into an aklé, a dune chaos that winds the caravan through. Far ahead, I search for the best passages, try to find logic in the chaos. The sand is soft, the pace brisk, the horizon blocked by a wave of sand. We must get through in a day and reach the Tijirit plain on the other side. Imperturbable, the caravan progresses without a halt, without weakness. A large patch of vegetation and we finally stop, a brief rest with no shade. And before evening, the endless plain resumes. The trick of Tijirit is this fleeing forest. Explanation: at Tijirit, you travel on perfectly flat, firm ground. The trees rarely exceed camel height and are spaced 50 meters apart. At ground level, the human always sees a forest on the horizon. As you progress, you cross scattered trees but never penetrate the forest. Which is actually an optical illusion, since the trees are contiguous... under the soil thanks to their incredible root system.

The Ocean!

The harmattan spares us in the final stages, yet its constant breath brings more dust than iodine. How long this beach is! How far the sea... Since we passed below the psychological threshold of 50 km to sea level, we await it, we watch for it—this Atlantic, our Atlantis. Every rocky outcrop, the smallest hillock, the tiniest dune... we climb every terrain feature with the hidden hope of finally discovering something other than scorched earth and stunted vegetation. Muffled phantoms of waves and salt water haunt us. Yet it's not over. We traverse the long ridges of Erg Azefal. Climb the dune, descend the dune. Give directions from afar to the caravan—here, to the left, further on, to the right. Climb the dune, descend the dune, and this sun that never stops sinking in the west, over the ocean. And then, finally, on my left, a silvery flash...