Desert Meets Ocean: Immersive Cultural Experiences in Nouakchott, Mauritania

Nouakchott isn't a city that reveals itself easily to outsiders. Unlike the well-trodden paths of Marrakech or Cairo, here you must work for your cultural immersion – and that effort pays dividends in authenticity.

My first morning, I hired Moussa, a local guide I'd connected with through a Mauritanian gaming forum (yes, they exist, though internet cafés rather than home setups are the norm). With his help navigating both language barriers and cultural nuances, I discovered Nouakchott's rhythm starts at the Port de Pêche.

Arriving at dawn, I witnessed hundreds of wooden pirogues – painted in blues, yellows and greens that would make any graphic designer's heart sing – returning laden with the night's catch. The orchestrated chaos as fishermen negotiate with buyers is a masterclass in community economics. When exploring this area, wear closed shoes that can handle wet sand and fish scales – my water shoes proved invaluable when I inevitably got roped into helping drag a particularly successful catch to shore, earning hearty laughs and an invitation to tea from a group of fishermen.

If there's one cultural practice that embodies Mauritanian hospitality and patience, it's the tea ceremony – or atai as it's locally known. Unlike the refined precision of Japanese tea rituals I've documented in Kyoto, Mauritanian tea-making is simultaneously methodical and wonderfully social.

On my third day, I was invited to the home of Aisha, a local textile artist whose intricate work I'd admired at the Marché Capitale. What I expected to be a brief visit stretched into a four-hour cultural education. The preparation of three rounds of tea – progressively sweeter, each with distinct significance – became a framework for conversation that traversed everything from traditional Mauritanian wedding customs to her son's fascination with Japanese video games.

The ceremony requires specific tools, and I couldn't resist purchasing my own tea set from the market afterward. While technically Moroccan, it's similar enough to the Mauritanian style to serve as both a practical souvenir and conversation starter back home. Aisha insisted I also take home a small bag of the local mint variety – markedly different from what I'd tasted elsewhere in North Africa.

Markets have always been my windows into a culture's soul, and Nouakchott's labyrinthine marketplaces didn't disappoint. The sensory overload of Marché Capitale – with its narrow alleys packed with everything from handcrafted silver jewelry to camel milk soap – requires both stamina and a good sense of direction.

I quickly learned that my normal approach of photographing everything interesting wouldn't work here. Many vendors were camera-shy, and I respected their wishes, instead purchasing a small travel sketchbook and watercolor set from a local art supply shop to capture the vibrant scenes. This approach not only preserved memories but created natural conversation opportunities as curious onlookers watched me sketch.

The less touristed Marché Cinquième proved even more fascinating. Here, Tuareg and Moorish traders sold desert-sourced goods – medicinal plants, handwoven textiles, and leather goods crafted using techniques unchanged for centuries. I spent an entire afternoon watching a leather worker create intricate designs on camel-hide bags, his fingers moving with the precision and confidence that comes from decades of practice – a craftsmanship ethos that reminded me of the distillery masters I've documented in Scotland.

When navigating these markets, bargaining is expected but should be done respectfully. I found starting at about 60% of the initial asking price and working up from there led to fair outcomes for both sides.

Perhaps the most profound experience in Nouakchott comes from understanding its precarious position between the advancing Sahara and the Atlantic Ocean. This geographic tension creates a unique cultural identity that's neither fully coastal nor desert-dwelling, but something altogether its own.

I dedicated a day to exploring this phenomenon with Ahmed, an environmental guide who's spent decades documenting the shifting relationship between sand and sea. We traveled just north of the city where dunes cascade dramatically into ocean waves – a surreal landscape that defies conventional categories.

"The desert is winning," Ahmed explained as we watched camel caravans navigate shoreline paths that were once several hundred meters inland. "Each year, we adapt our routes and rhythms to accommodate nature's will."

For this excursion, I was grateful for my sand socks which protected my feet from both scorching sand and sharp shells. I'd also recommend a sand-resistant beach blanket for comfortable sitting during the inevitable tea breaks your guide will suggest.

As the afternoon sun began its descent, we joined a group of local families gathering for evening prayers where desert meets ocean. The call to prayer carrying across the dunes while waves crashed in rhythmic counterpoint created one of those travel moments that no photograph or sketch could adequately capture – it had to be experienced.

My professional work documenting gaming communities across cultures has taught me that play transcends language barriers in remarkable ways. In Nouakchott, this principle proved true once again at a small café near my guesthouse, where I discovered a thriving community of players engaged in Awale (also known as Oware) – a traditional mancala game played throughout West Africa.

After watching several matches between elderly men who played with lightning speed and tactical brilliance, I was invited to try my hand. My initial attempts were met with good-natured laughter as I fumbled through the rules, but by my third game, I'd grasped enough basics to avoid complete embarrassment.

What struck me was how this ancient game created community across generations. Young boys watched intently as their grandfathers demonstrated strategies, absorbing cultural knowledge through play. I couldn't help but draw parallels to gaming conventions I've documented in Seoul and Tokyo, where despite the technological differences, the fundamental human connection through strategic play remains unchanged.

I was so taken with the game that I purchased my own wooden mancala set from a local artisan. While not exactly like the sets used in Mauritania, it's close enough to practice the strategies I learned from my patient teachers in Nouakchott. The vendor even threw in a small handwritten guide to regional rule variations – a thoughtful touch that exemplifies Mauritanian hospitality.