SETTING SAIL | June 10th 2008

patotenere/flickr

Migrants from across West Africa pile into cramped fishing boats to travel the treacherous 800km from Mauritania to the Canary Islands. Many die at sea, others are turned away soon after they arrive. Andrew Hickman and Maxwell Schmid chase the story ...

Once again, I am drinking tea while waiting on a sofa, this time in the Ministry of Culture and Communications. It is my first full day in Mauritania, but it is my third or fourth sofa, and I have lost count of the amount of tea I've been served.

The ministry's waiting room is full of staff and visitors sitting happily. Whenever a new person arrives, they shake hands with everyone in the room and join us on the sofa.

I have come to Mauritania to visit Nouadhibou, a port that lies on its northern border with Western Sahara. It is the main departure point for migrants from across West Africa who board small fishing boats, or pirogues, in an attempt to travel the 800km to the Canary Islands.

Unfortunately, my airline recently informed us that Nouadhibou airport is closed for refurbishments. I flew into the capital, Nouakchott instead.

As it turned out, this was lucky as the permission to work as a journalist, even for the short length of my visit, can only be obtained at the ministry's offices in the capital. For the second time today, I am informed that the minister is too busy to decide on my application to "take photographs and ask questions about migration". Having spent a few hours drinking tea in the ministry, it is hard to believe that anybody here is busy.

Frustrated, I head for the headquarters of the Mauritanian Red Crescent for a meeting with its secretary-general to discuss the role his organisation plays in aiding migrants. The use of pirogues from Nouadhibou began in the summer of 2005. Previously, migrants had travelled through Morocco and Moroccan-controlled territory before attempting to cross the Straits of Gibraltar. With tighter border and internal controls in Morocco and Western Sahara, this became more difficult, and the Nouadhibou route emerged.

The secretary-general tells me that most who make the journey come from Senegal, Mali and Gambia. In the busiest year, 2006, around 30,000 people tried. Between 40 and 50 people travel on boats built to carry four or five fisherman.

Many die at sea from dehydration, exposure or because their boats sink in the treacherous seas. Some arrive in the Canaries and are processed by the Spanish, with most then returned to Mauritania. Others are intercepted by Mauritanian or Spanish patrols and are returned immediately. While they are in Mauritanian detention, the Red Crescent provides food, a call home and basic medical care. Migrants are eventually taken to either the Senegalese or Malian border. Many immediately return to try again.

With time to kill, I head to Nouakchott's fishing port. Most migrants depart from Nouadhibou, but I have read reports of Mauritanian patrols catching pirogues further south.

I meet several Senegalese men who came here to work as fishermen. All of them know people who have attempted the journey by pirogue, and a few have tried it themselves.

There is talk of boats leaving from Nouakchott--doubling the journey time to the Canaries--because of increased security in Nouadhibou. It is clear from the desperation in many of their eyes that it will take more than a few patrols to stop these journeys.

Earlier, one of the men using the ministry's sofas told me that tonight was the opening of Nouakchott's annual music festival. I arrive early and find Ojos de Brujo, a Spanish band, finishing a rehearsal. While waiting, I strike up a conversation with a diplomat from the Spanish embassy and arrange to meet tomorrow.

Later, I am surprised to finally see the Minister of Culture and Communication--on stage, opening the festival. He gives a marathon, 20-minute speech. The crowd listens politely but does not applaud. Now I know why he was too busy to sign our papers.

Shortly afterwards, sitting on a colourful woven carpet in a cool tent, we talk to two members of Ojos de Brujo. They wrote a song called "Tiempo de Solea", which traces the fortunes of an undocumented migrant wandering the streets of Barcelona.

Our conversation ends abruptly as the band are called on stage. The crowd seems to like their brand of electronic flamenco. The minister, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps with the festival out of the way, he can attend to my papers tomorrow.

(Andrew Hickman and Maxwell Schmid are contributors to The Economist. This column is part of a week-long diary about Mauritania, published on Economist.com.)