And you thought transport in the desert was just camels...

Just to fill you in a bit, the Western Sahara is not actually Morocco. It used to be a Spanish colony, but in 1975 the Moroccans crossed the border in an attempt at obtaining the oil rich land for Morocco. The Spanish and Mauritanians withdrew in time but some were left that just wouldn’t go. This, of course, resulted in a war that lasted until 1991 when the UN got a cease fire going, with the understanding that the people of the Western Sahara would decide between independence and joining Morocco. Apparently this hasn’t happened yet. Attitude in Morocco is ‘It’s ours.’ Seems Dave, the Californian, saw a map of Maroc in Casa with a big black line drawn through the Western Sahara name with Morocco written overtop. You really want to root for the underdog, don’t you. Like living in the desert isn’t hard enough.

This would explain all the mine fields though.

As I had stated in my last blog, we found transport fairly easily. This was for 250 dirham (about 38 CAD) to get from Dakhla to Nouadhibou on the border of Mauritania (in Mauritania). The distance was a whopping 367 km but all through the desert and then along a dirt piste across the border that is heavily mined.

We were picked up at our hotel at 9am by a taxi, one of those sort of covered, can fit people sitting upright but still a small pickup truck kind of taxis, and taken back out to the police post just outside Dakhla. Lots of checkpoints in this area, to the point where you just don’t bother putting away your passport. It was here that we met up with our van. It looked decent enough, had windows, could see the desert. But then all the bags went in, including this mama’s huge crates of potatoes and enormous bags of potato chips (my guess was resell). All our packs were precariously perched atop these crates and we spent a bit, ok, most of the ride making sure they didn’t topple over atop us. We were then all crammed in along the floor of the van. I think there were 9 of us trying to fit in the back of the van that was mostly taken over by luggage. Now this looked so darn comfy that the policeman who checked our passports kicked up a fuss over it. We had no idea what was going on at first. He just seemed all pissed off and you could imagine the thoughts going through my head. He called us into his office, lit a smoke (cause that’s really where one smokes, in a cop shop), then started ‘interrogating’ (seemed to me) the Spanish girl, Christina. The rest of us were shuffled out into the hall where we strained to hear, and decipher what was going on. Luckily, everyone but me speaks Spanish. Basically he wanted to know if we were ok being crammed into the back of the van ‘like sardines, like animals’. Ok, two questions: are we paying too much for this transport and what else can we do? Turned out the price was very good, he was quite impressed with us getting that price, and well, we could just wait and see what else we got. Whatever. We rearranged a bit; got Theresa, Dave’s mom, into the front seat (2 in the front with the driver, but more comfy and you get to see outside) and the rest of us piled into the back again. This time though Dave got seated beside the Muslim mama and she was just not happy about that. Can’t sit beside a strange man. So she just kept pulling away into her corner, which was fine really because that created more room. She had been a real space hog before when I was beside her.

This was all good actually, crammed into the back with everyone. Until the portable gas stove got whipped out. No…they weren’t really going to light a stove in the back of a moving van that was chokers with people sitting atop a carpet, that was definitely flammable. But it was tea time and they were serious about getting some. Dave immediately squished in closer to me, trying his damndest to get as much space between him and this flame. We all moved as far away from that stove as we could. And then they lit it. Completely oblivious to the dangers of doing such a thing. Just really needed some tea. And they even poured it with the Moroccan flair; pouring 2 or 3 small glasses first before offering up a glass for consumption, twirling 2 glasses between the fingers while doing it. And it didn’t even taste that great. I mean, if I’m gonna blow up while drinking tea, I would like to at least enjoy it.

As we were ‘enjoying’ our glasses of tea, we heard a loud bang. That’s right, we had a flat. In the middle of frikin nowhere, we had a flat. Luckily we had a spare, unluckily we had no tools. Try to picture this, we are in the middle of the inhospitable windy no-shade Sahara, that is actually quite cold because of the wind. Yes, we had tea, but we stupidly had no food…although we did have the crisps…And you couldn’t wander off to far, for entertainment purposes or to pee, cause of land mines. Turned out to be rush hour along this road and a car came along which miraculously had tools. Got it all fixed in a jiffy, paid the driver of the car (can you believe they had to pay some bloke to use his tools in the middle of the desert? Not so giving, huh?) and off we went. All of this actually produced a bit of camaraderie amongst us and Dave’s guitar was pulled out and we had a bit of a sing along (Dave and I softly chortled various words out to various songs, and then this Moroccan dude serenaded Christina with some Spanish songs). My decks of cards came out and a rousing game of gin rummy, Moroccan rules occurred (only pick up the last discard, and you put your discard in front of the next player, which at first just looks like a mess but is a pretty cool idea). I find it amazing that all these card games make their way around the world.

By now Dave and I were dying for food, and loudly discussing the big bags of crisps when baguettes and cheese immerged and we ate like bulimics. Thank god for that bread too, cause we would have faded away to nothing without it. Love Moroccans.

Finally got the border of Morocco. Made some nice chit chat with the officer there, was offered some bread in fact, which is just not something you expect to happen when you’re at a border, let alone a border in the middle of the desert his and off we went into no mans land. You should have seen us. We had all been sleepy and groggy from driving so long. Certainly became bright eyed once we entered that mine field! We all stood, well, stooped, and tried to see as best we could outside the window. This is when you are happy to have a driver who really really knows the route. Of what route we saw! Honestly there were tracks going off in all directions; I mean, you know the ones that end at blown up vehicles is probably not the right way, but what if they flew through the air? And most of those cars belonged to germans, by the way. Don’t know why, but bad things tend to happen to german people.

We made it to the Mauritanian border without a hitch, or blam or boom, and were welcomed by touts offering accommodations in Ndibou (too tough to spell each time). There we were, blowing away in the wind, surrounded by mine fields, not even stamped into the country and the touts managed to smell us out. Amazing ability, sniffing us out like that. Oddly our van mates became quite protective of us and basically planned on sticking with us till we were safe and sound at our place of choice and would not let these touts annoy us any further.

What a boring place to work though. These border guards must have been plenty disappointed when they learned of their post. It’s not like you could even take a stroll when you got bored or annoyed with your workmates. Land mines!

Got stamped in and managed to avoid giving a cadeau to the officers, meaning bribe, which they like to do in these parts. Got away with it because the first person they asked was Theresa and she honestly didn’t know what or how much they wanted and wanted to ask our fellow passengers how much. At one point an officer overheard her complain of having a headache (probably dehydration) but he must have though it was the bribe that made her ill and he interrupted an officer just as he was about to ask D for one. Brilliant move on T’s side, deliberate or not.

While we were filling out our currency declaration forms, you know, to declare all the gold bullion you lug around with you, one gentleman officer who spoke some English was asking various questions. When asked where we were staying we answered Auberge Abba (chosen because of it’s name) he became very excited. “Tents”, he exclaimed and made a peaked shape with his fingers just above his forehead. “You stay in Mauritania house which is a tent! Tent!”

We arrived in Nbidou without any trouble, just nearing sunset. Have to say the highlight of entering that town was seeing a camel riding in the back of a very small pickup that was driving into a gas station.

Checked ourselves into Abba, got some money changed thanks to our local Moroccan friend (Tina’s serenading friend) and made our way into the very exciting town for some fairly expensive grub. Kinda crazy how pricey Mauritania is, but then there’s not a whole heck of a lot of farm land or anything.

Our plan was to leave the next day on the night ’bus’ for Noaukchott, to get D’s visa for Senegal (US and Canada are free) and basically mission it through Mauritania for Senegal.

Woke the next day and had a lovely breakfast thanks to the kitchen we could use (we’re dying for Theresa to make some tortillas though; she’s from New Mexico) and headed out to sightsee. Basically Ndibou consists of a port, one side of the town is a no go area filled with land mines, and then there’s the train station that’s actually just a small square building on one side of the land mines. The iron ore train that stops here is the longest in the world, approx. 2.3 km long, and we got the pleasure of seeing it. It seemed to go forever. Unfortunately we didn’t get to see the mad rush of the passengers that attempt to board.

We had unwittingly hired a taxi/guide. Had no intention of doing such a thing but it came about by us trying to explain to the driver that we wanted to see the shipwrecks on the beach just near the train depot. Basically I asked for hi to take us to ’the plage avec mort bateau’. No? Good, I thought, but then my French bites the big one. I quickly looked up the word for ship in my not so handy phrase book and repeated mort (insert French word for ship). David came up with an excellent pantomime, a la Houses are Tents, and placed his hands vertical against his face, and tilted his head to one side. “Mort bateau, oui?“ Finally he got it, but not until he took us way too far. Whatever. Now we had to find out if it was safe to walk along the beach to see the boats. This was actually quite easy. Just a simple fingers walking, Boom sufficed. It was ok, sorta. Off we went, along possibly the windiest, shell strewn beach ever. These little shell bits almost cut our skin in this breeze. But there was certainly a number of dead boats to see. Good, cause it was a highlight for Dave.

We got to the gare routiere around 4 to catch our bus, which was a rather large van set up with 2 long benches running the length of the van. We were told the bus would leave in 10 minutes and too hurry it up. The bus left at around 7. D and I managed to get seated close to the front, away for the square barred window that would definitely be cold throughout the night. Unfortunately Teresa and Christina were by that, with David across the aisle, sandwiched between 2 Mauritanians, who provided great warmth for him throughout the journey. There was about 20 people seated, with the front taken over by a family; mama seated on top 2 tires, with the young mom and her baby on the bench across us, and the youngest daughter and dad.
Passes the best billboard on our way out of town. It was a painting of a child walking towards a land mine. Then a painting of that small boy blowing up, followed by a picture of the child with one leg. Horrible, I know, but it was very amusing at the same time. You just had to see the painting.

It was a stunning night for a trek through the desert. First the red sunset. We had to stop during this for the passengers to get out and pray along the side of the desert. This was indescribably beautiful; the men’s blue robes flowing in the wind. Then, as we began the drive again, the full moon rose over the chilly expanse of the desert.
We had heard that a road had been built to Nouakchott, which was partially true. It ended quit often and we drove bumpily across sand pistes in the light of the moon often; again thankful for the knowledge of the driver.

The ride was as comfortable as you could imagine, seating on a bench squashed between people with no backrest, but during one stop the mama on the tires rearranged her arrangement and set out the 2 tires along the aisle, placing a blanket atop and thus creating her own bed, completely stealing our leg room. There was really no where to put my feet so I put on my ipod to save myself from certain insanity. I was actually inspired by David who had already put his on, and was sharing his tunes with the dude beside him. After awhile of personal music enjoyment I decided to do the same with the boy on my side. He really enjoyed drums and as we listened I would tell him where each artist was from. He, as everyone who’s heard him, really enjoyed K-Os out of TO. Then Talvin Singh came on and he exclaimed ’Singh! Ma musique!’ Thanks Kirk, for providing entertainment for people all over the world (he had sent me music for my journey the day I flew out of Toronto).

At around 2 am we arrived at the restaurant that we would be sleeping at for the night. This was actually a small wooden hut beside a huge tent (house?). It was absolutely freezing and we all headed into the tent and tried to stretch out while enjoying each others body heat. We were awoken 2 hours later and told we were leaving, but found the van wouldn’t start. So there was a lot of pushing the van up a slight slope and pushing it as quickly as possible for it to wake up. Finally it revved and off we went again, smooshed into the van one more time.

We finally reached Nouakchott at about 7:30am, with D winning the lotto. We had created an eta game for eta sleep and eta arrival time as well as eta for leaving sleep. Found our way to Auberge Sahara, which is an excellent little oasis of a lodge in Nchott, and D went to get his Senegal visa. Have to say I didn’t do much in Nchott. The place was so comfy and we had a kitchen once more so…

We stayed for a couple days. The place was crawling with French gypsy types and I was quit glad to leave the moochers (Do you have tea I can have? Any sugar? How bout garlic? How bout you go to the store across the street.) We left for the frontier of Senegal, Rosso with a Senegalese bloke and his French girlfriend. This is a whole other blog though and I’m tired so until then….

By the way, this was written on a laptop in the comfort of my auberge in Senegal thanks to Teresa and David. Love it. And it explains the sheer length, doesn’t it?

Love and misses,thi