More riding a very long, hot, dry, straight road punctuated by police roadblocks and camels crossing eventually took us to the Moroccan/Mauritanian border, which we accidentally stumbled into after dark, looking for somewhere to camp.
We turned back and snuck behind a newly-built, as-yet-unused service station less than 500m away to shelter behind its walls from the Atlantic winds. We laughed it up over dinner, assuming we’d be the first to leave Morocco in the morning as no-one could possibly be closer than us. The next morning we rolled up to the back of a thirty car queue at 8.30 am and noticed the attached motel we’d missed in the darkness.
Someone (or everyone?) obviously slept through their alarms as the Moroccan customs opened over a full hour late, but once inside the compound, we were spotted by an eager official and ushered in front of all the other vehicles.
Once we had got off the bikes and joined the back of a queue outside the first, still-closed, booth we were greeted by a friendly official who wanted to know if either one of us was Laas.
When Laas confirmed being himself the guy revealed he was Mohamed-from-Dakhla’s friend, and urged us behind the booth where he ordered two guards to fill in our Moroccan exit papers for us, before ordering another to run the paperwork to the next booth to get stamped, and said he’d be waiting for us in his office.
Once everyone had done all the work for us we were ushered into the office where the guys giant book held details of every vehicle to pass the border. He asked us about our trips, and how we knew “the chef”, then processed our paperwork while others queued outside the window (and had paid for the privilege to be “first”). He wished us safe travels and we smugly smiled at all the people queuing at the booths and offices as we left the gates of Morocco for No-Mans-Land.
It’s a 5km stretch which looks straight out of Mad Max, littered with burnt-out, stripped-down or rolled over cars, vans and trucks. The track was bad, with boulders, broken glass, sand drifts and car body-panels blocking the way. You have to stick to the treacherous track as well, as either side is littered with landmines (as one Italian biker found out tragically a few years ago).
On the Mauritanian side it was simple enough, just with the added complications of a few “fixers” trying all manner of ways to help you to make you indebted to them, or sell you Ouiguyas (Mauritanian currency) at shocking rates.
It really wasn’t a tricky entry, just a slow one. There wasn’t really a lot we needed to tip or bribe for or around except possibly the attempted smuggling of tea!
We rolled into Nouadibhou and found the chilled-out “Camping chez Abba” where the awesome Mohamed Tikrit treated us to our first Mauritanian tea and sorted some Ouiguyas for us at a good price.
Laas gave him a box of tea.
No comments:
Post a Comment