Nouakchott

Nouakchott is where the Sahara walks down to the Atlantic and the two pretend not to be surprised: a capital improvised almost from nothing in 1958 — 'the place of the winds' was mostly dunes and a well — that now holds a third of Mauritania, with sand drifting into the boulevards as a gentle reminder of the landlord. The city's great spectacle is the Port de Pêche at dusk, when a hundred painted pirogues surf home through the breakers and the whole beach becomes a fish market conducted at a run.

The sensible traveller times the fishing port for late afternoon and simply watches — the hauling, the auctioneering, the carts in the surf —; drinks the three glasses of Mauritanian tea in their proper order, bitter to sweet, an hour well spent; hunts the markets for malafa cloth and silver; and treats the city as the desert's front desk: the Banc d'Arguin's bird millions to the north, and the caravan towns of the Adrar — Chinguetti's ancient libraries — inland, where the Sahara keeps its paperwork.

The Guide's honesty: dress conservatively, everyone, everywhere — shoulders, knees, and patience —; the three teas are a ritual, not a transaction: refusing mid-round is complicated, so accept joyfully and budget the hour; desert travel wants a licensed operator, real water math and current advice — check conditions with your chancellery for the interior —; and the ocean's rip currents are serious: this coast is for pirogues and walkers more than swimmers.