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My most memorable border crossing didn’t result in a stamp, at least not quite. Here is the Mauritania story:

My stepson, John, and I were at the hotel Hendrina Khan in Tombouctou enjoying a chat with the owner. He was waxing with satisfaction over the (then) peaceful situation in Mali and went on to detail the problems in all the surrounding countries. When he got to Mauritania he casually mentioned that “next week they are going to execute the dictator.” I was going to be in Senegal next week and hoped to cross into Mauritania for a brief visit. Hmmmm…

I got to Senegal and was on the way to Saint Louis, the old  colonial era capital of French West Africa.  From looking at the map it appeared that you could cross over into Mauritania at the north end of the City of Saint Louis, on the Langue de Barbarie peninsula side, but my guide nixed that idea by saying, “No. If you go there they shoot you. They are not nice people.” No chance of getting your passport stamped there. Soguie Wade, my guide, softened the blow by saying we could drive about 90 kilometers up river to Rosso where there was a ferry that would take us across. There would be a cost for extra fuel for the car.

I said I would be glad to pay.

We set off at 7:00 AM on a Tuesday morning over a good paved road that suddenly turned into a potholed mess after about 30 km, but we made it to Rosso within about an hour and a half. Rosso was a ragged border town. Nothing there but a gaggle of nondescript buildings, the ferry to Mauritania and a long line of trucks and cars waiting to get on it. Diesel exhaust and dust and sand were everywhere; all the buildings were beat up. The streets were busy and we were immediately surrounded by a group of would-be guides and experts and Soguie started dealing with them. I was able to just point to him when they approached me, and that was a relief.

It turned out that we would have to get a guide, get me stamped out of Senegal border control, change some money into Mauritanian currency, cross on the ferry and see it they would let me land on the other side of the (Senegal) River. There was this problem: I didn’t have a visa for Mauritania. But we were going to try. Everything had a cost of some amount of money. I went to the Senegalese customs office and got stamped and was entered by hand into the book of those who have crossed over. We engaged a guide and paid him; he then disappeared never to be seen again. We then headed through the milling crowd toward the ferry and as we approached it people began shouting; the ferry was beginning to move out.

We started running down the ramp and the gap between the shore and the ferry began to get wider and wider. It got to the point that I thought I would not be able to make the jump and Soguie and our driver both thought the same so we skidded to a halt at the last second and watched the ferry churn away.

After a brief discussion, we decided to hire a pinasse that would take us across and wait to bring us pack (payment of CFA 4000—about eight dollars US—to be made upon returning to Senagal). We made the hire and headed across the river along with four other passengers who, sensing a free ride, had jumped aboard. The Senegal River appeared to be at least a quarter of a mile wide at that point and as we about midway across I was taking some photographs. Soguie quickly told me I couldn’t take any pictures in Mauritania and had better put my camera away now or they would take it from me. “They are not nice people,” so my only pictures of Rosso, Mauritania, show it as a gaggle of low buildings on a distant horizon.

Our pinasse grated to a halt on the Mauritanian shore and Soguie and our driver (Tidiane Badiane) hopped off, right in front of a uniformed soldier who had spotted us coming across and was waiting, gun slung over his shoulder. They showed their passports (being Senegalese they did not need visas) and explained to the guard that I was an American who did not have a visa but wanted to make a very brief visit.

I was poised to step on the shore, not sure the guard was going to let me onto the sacred soil. I was close enough to spit on Mauritania but might not be able to put my foot down on its sandy beach. But after a few seconds of reflection, the soldier decided the thing to do was to take me to the lieutenant’s office. So I stepped into Mauritania, walked across the sand to the headquarters building and into a dimly lit and grubby office (where there was at least one laptop in use). On the way Soguie kindly suggested that I stand at attention in front of the lieutenant. He would expect it because, “they are not nice people there.”

As an old Navy guy I knew how to stand at attention, so I stood respectfully in front of the lieutenant’s desk while Soguie explained the matter to him.  The lieutenant thought about this highly unusual diplomatic problem, and made a phone call to higher authority. Could the call have been straight to the not very nice guys who were about to assassinate the dictator any minute now? (As it turned out they did not assassinate him that week; they waited about two weeks until he flew out of the country to an international meeting and just told him not to come back. He got the message and escaped the leadership change with his life.)

After the conversation was over I was told that the lieutenant would hold my passport, and I could look around for up to an hour, come back and reclaim the passport and leave the country. I’ve heard a hundred times that one should never surrender the precious passport, but I thought what the heck, if they are going to make me rot in a Mauritanian jail they will go ahead and do it passport or not.  I gave it to him.

We left the lieutenant’s office and walked out through the gate around the port security area, down the only paved street, and after a long block turned off onto a dirt street. About a block down that street we turned into an alleyway that was lined with shops on both sides. There was nothing I wanted to buy but Soguie and Tidiane both made armloads full of purchases (prices are cheaper in Mauritania). I realized now why it had Soguie had been so quick to suggest a way to get me into Mauritania.

Within forty minutes Soguie had completed all his purchases and began to get antsy about being sure we got back within an hour. He pointed out that they were not nice people in Mauritania and added that if I overstayed my hour by just five minutes they would probably accuse me of being a spy and clap me in that jail I had contemplated earlier. I got the message loud and clear so we started back. When we got to the security gate at the port area, the guard wanted to see my passport, which, of course I didn’t have. He wouldn’t let me through the gate so I had to wait in the heat and milling crowd while Soguie went to the lieutenant’s office to try to get my passport. I spent about five extraordinarily long minutes of hanging with the guard and being stared at by scores of locals as they crowded through the gate—I was the only white person in that part of Mauritania so I tended to stand out in the crowd. Soguie came back with a sergeant who got me through the gate and took me to the lieutenant’s office where we waited standing at attention (by then I knew full well that was the thing to do because “they are not nice people here.”).

We waited, and when he was good and ready, and without a word, the lieutenant shoved the passport toward me. I quickly picked it up. There was no stamp, but I wasn’t about to risk having my head cut off—or worse—by asking the august personage for a stamp.

We went back to our pinasse and the same guard was there, asked for my passport and asked where the exit stamp was! Soguie explained the deal to him and after dithering around for an interminable few seconds he gave the passport back to me, we stepped into our pinasse and beat it the hell out of Mauritania.