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Deserted landscapes, rolling dunes, mountains of blazing sand stretching into distant mirages of beauty. Your typically vivid imagination of the Saharan desert is exactly the picture seen when peering out, beyond the borders of Chinguetti. A once major way-point of the pre-modern era, Chinguetti's proud history as a vital cog of the Tran-Sahara trade route is a stark contrast to the forgotten town of today. Mauritania is a land of desert, heat, sweat and despair. A beautifully cruel land, governed by thirst and a need for water, by no means a backpacker’s paradise. By some quirk of fate, I found myself backpacking across the deserts of Mauritania in search of reclusive ascetics, historic academic manuscripts, and life altering experiences, all done with my younger brother in tow. Ranging from: crossing the most corrupt border in the world; visiting 120 year old ascetics; a 11 hour train ride across the desolate Sahara; being offered a slave for purchase; almost being smuggled across a border; to being 'hosted' overnight at the police station with our passports kept aside (forcefully so) for 'safe keeping'. Limitations being what they are, I narrate just a few incidents. Chinguetti, captured both the mind and heart. A beautifully desolate town, cut off from any major route, travel to it is only with specific intent. A far cry from its glorious heyday, the town today is a picture of tranquillity and peace. Desert sand making up the roads, sandstone buildings, the call to prayer ringing from the few minarets, and the sound of camels at dusk making their way back to bed in for the night are the sounds of a town deeply rooted in peaceful contentment. We travelled to Chinguetti in the hope of visiting some of the Manuscript museums the town was famed for, keyword, 'Was'. The value of proper research before any trip cannot be understated. Most of these museums have closed down, or moved to Nouakchott, the Capital. Another highlight of the Grand Saharan epic, would have to be termed more of a blunder. Makes for brilliant memories, but the 'here and now' was less enjoyable. To get from Choum, in the North East, to Nouadhibou, in the North West, a train would have to be taken, no ordinary train though. The longest train in the world. The train carries iron ore from inland, to the coast, and as per Mauritanian custom, it is always delayed. Sometimes by 5 to 6 hours. There are two options in catching this train. 1. Pay for a place in the fairly squashed, dark and sweltering passenger carriage. 2. Jump on one of the open carriages carrying the iron ore, in comfort and luxury under the stars on a bed of refined ore. Intrepid adventurers that we are, our choice was simple. With heavy backpacks that discouraged much walking, we found a spot towards the rear of the train, and thus began our 5 hours wait for the train. When the train finally arrived, we noticed many locals atop the many carriages close to the front of the train as it sped past. Curiously, many of them were waving for us to make our way to the front. In mild confusion, we lumbered towards the forward carriages, we hadn't gone far before we were forced to get on where we were, or risk missing the train. Clambering up the nearest carriage, the reason for their concern was self-evident. Anyone wishing to hitch a ride on this train, please note: The front carriages are filled with processed iron ore, like beach sand, making for a comfortable trip. The back carriages however, are filled with unprocessed iron ore, chunks of rock that made for the most uncomfortable, painful and difficult 11-hour trip of my life. The number of times I dozed off, just be jolted awake by shifting rocks, the number of times I dozed off, just to snap awake in panic, wondering whether my brother is still on the train, or somehow contrived to roll off in his sleep. A lesson for the would-be adventurer, never underestimate the value of research. Plans will never be followed to perfection though, adapt and move on.