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Wind, unnaturally warm, whips grains of sand across the sprawling desert. Exposed skin, cracked from the sun, was now dark from weeks in the Sahara. A blessing, naturally pale, it would have been a tell that I did not belong. Now the locks of blonde hair that found their way through the knots of my scarf were the only indication that I was an imposter here. An outpost at the edge of the world. Rifle wielding locals manage to survive by what to the untrained eye looks like pure ingenuity. The wild west yet lives. I was here due to that consumer confidence imbued anywhere someone holds your hand and tells you how brave you are for it. Off a guided climbing expedition in the Himalaya, after too many years in a too much talking type of university, I felt invulnerable. I had found my way into Mauritania, known for being the least visited country on earth. The sprawling desert, bandits, and landmines all spur this reputation. As the sun set on Choum, a full moon rising over distant cliffs, like a pedal floating on dark water, I had convinced myself that what had been dumb luck was in fact some talent of my own. I grew up in SoCal. How could I have ended up here without some indescribable knack for maneuvering danger? I got this far alone, didn’t I? Hubris. Surrounded by laconic Arabs huddling small fires, I kept appearances by keeping quiet. Robes suggested the image of ancient wraiths, and in the moonlight, it was a world alien to my own, full of wonder I had not felt in many years. It is only natural, I think, to seek the most distant lands, when home has always let you down. As the night grew long, taking shelter in what decades ago must have been someone’s home, I found an electric orb approaching from the distant horizon. I knew my quarry was upon me. The Great Mauritanian Iron Ore Train, a behemoth of a machine, built by foreign invaders to aid economies arguably antagonistic to their own, now provided an economic backbone for the locals. It is a uniquely privileged form of insanity, to throw yourself into such danger, searching for some elusive high, when so many have no choice. As the searing head beam drew close, the engine, pulling perhaps millions of pounds of iron, was deafening. Screeching to a halt, I climbed aboard an empty ore car, as far as possible from my companions. I was safer alone I thought, I got this far alone, didn’t I? Breathing in particulate metal matter, the singularity of purpose of the rails gave me peace of mind. The train again began its sisyphean struggle across the wasteland. I slept despite the bellowing of the steel. I awoke, startled, to another in my accommodation. To this day I do not know how or where he was able to join me. Like an old man awaking to find the angel of death standing over his bed, I knew if he chose to harm me, I had no recourse. I did not speak to him, I did not want to. I got this far alone, didn’t I? I fell back asleep. With the smell of rotting organic matter, we pulled into Nouadhibou. Disembarking, I realized I had forgotten my scarf. I was exposed. Immediately, I was approached by a militant guard questioning me in broken French I could not understand. After a struggle to communicate, frustrated and alone, I lost my temper. He grabbed me by the collar, drug me over to his post, and shoved me to my knees, his gunstock pressed into my eyes. For the first time in my life, I did not see a way out. I am sure I am only alive today, because by chance or fate, I heard one. Yelling in Hassaniya, and then, “Hey Buddy, you need some help?” I looked up. The angel of death himself. Without his scarf his pale features suggested mixed European descent. He gave me a hand up. I realized then, I had made it this far, yes, but I sure as hell hadn’t made it this far alone.