The Lion King Lives Here

Having spent an idyllic few days in Dahkla, and feeling quite at home in the street our hostel was on - complete with bakery, resturaunt that we ate in at least once a day, and an internet cafe (where I made the last post from) things have taken some unexpected turns.

On leaving Dahkla, saying goodbye to it and all the land,arks we had come to know our voyage towards the Morocco-Mauritania Border. It being nightime, and Tom Wait’s ‘Closing Time’ Cassette Album needing a second listen, finding the rewind button steered us of the road and into the dirt of the desert at high speed. Failing to regain control, we landed on our side, tyre marks on the road where we shot off it, driver’s sidewindows smashed, 3 wheels caput in the middle of nowhere. Scouting out the buildings whose outline we could make out in the distance (an army town) I was chased by a pretty mean-sounding dog back towards the car. We set up our - slightly broken - tent and decided to deal with our woes in the morning. (It is worth mentioning that both Nat and I are in full health - we were very lucky.)

It is a testament to Saharawis (Western Saharans) the amount of times our rest was interrupted by genuinely concerned, eager to help, passers-by. In the night we had a prophets double-act - one was a delboy, the other a mechanic - who within an hour of the crash had offered to fix the 3 decimated tyres. Their offer we declined at the time. Whilst Nat was arranging getting the car transported to, and fixed in Dahkla, I was with the car in the desert cleaning out the sand and smashed glass which seemed to have clothed the inside of the car and all of our stuff. This task was constantly interrupted by other drivers stopping to have a look, check that I was OK and offering me chilled water and food. Having done this a few times I had my tour of the damage all planned, drivers would stop, see that I was OK, see the three wheels and two windows damaged, and then I would turn the key in the engine to show them that the car was running fine, at which point our crash tourist would sit with me for 4-5 minutes (usually in silence, due to language barrier and lack of things to say) before realising that there was nothing that they could do, and that we had it under control as best we could. When the police showed up with a very camp english-speaking, film-making Moroccan it was just a matter of waiting to get the car into Dahkla and seen to by a mechanic.

Having patched up the car, we decided to drive to the border to get this stage over and done with that day. Then we got stuck in the sand whilst admiring a beach. SHIT. Having only read about getting cars out of sand in our ‘Overlanding Africa’ book, actually doing it proved a little more difficult. Having slogged and made no progress, and about to lose our tempers, three un-named, mute angels decended on our car, got the car out and then turned back the way that they had come. After this VERY VERY LONG day, on relatively little sleep, we scrapped our plans for the border and headed back to Dahkla. We only got about 500 meters before coming across a Kite Surfer’s beach-hut hostel thing.

Having arrived and arranged getting a tent, dinner was served communally, surrounded by only french, we made our friends and settled in there for a few days. This surfer’s rent-a-commune actually turned out to be 30 euro a night, not 30 Dhirams as we had been told. Having explained our sticky situation, the boss let us off one day’s cost and we returned on our quest to the border.

Having played a bit of table football - and been beaten - and pool - and been beaten - at the border, we got some Tagine, went for a wander and slept in the car. With little knowledge of what layed in store the next day.

Leaving Morocco and entering Mauritania, ignoring the excessive bureacracy, was more long than tiring. The hard bit was everything inbetween. Given that the two countries don’t really want to share a border, but still need eachothers trade, the 5km of No Mans Land between the two is desolate, mine-ridden hell.

There is no road, just sand and jagged rock. Everyone seems to choose thier own path through, and we followed a car, who got stuck. So in the sand we were beside two vulchers whose job it seems to extort money from people in desperate need. Sitting with a sand ladder (does what it says on the tin) and the belligerent requests of 50 euro for help. Fuck them. We slogged, basically copying our angels attempt as much as we could, and it worked. Having got ourselves out, and about 20m down the path, we found ourselves stuck again. We knew the drill, we did the business, the vulchers realised we werent going to pay them, so they pushed the back of the car as we sped off directionless. Having found a sort of path that some BIG lorries were using we followed, got stuck in the tracks but managed to drive our way out. Having reached the Mauritanian gate on the other side elated, on with the bureacracy. If the UN is good for anything, it should be for building a road between that border.

After all this, the car is not in a good state. Bashed and bruised by us and by No Man’s Land, it is currently getting a seeing to by the Mechanic. The drive down to Nouakshott (Mauritania’s Capital) through 400km of sparse desert stressed the car and it felt for a time like the car might not make it. The journey was hot and beautiful. The roads were littered with cars that we had crossed the border with which gave us a sense of security and community in this foreign (apparently dangerous) place. Regular police stops would reunite us with recognisable cars and faces. On the road these aquantances also occassionally formed into small convoys - based on the unspoken allegiance between the speed of the cars in the convoy and an array of uninterpretable light signals between cars which took a bit of time and observation to begin to understand.

After a tyre blew out and was quickly replaced without the raising of an eyelid, the car seemed a bit happier with its new wheel. Overall it has been more our mother than our child taking more care of us than we have taken care of it.

Now in Nouakshott, I hope she will carry us to Bamako.

Once the Mechanic is done, we will soon see. PS: it is my birthday, there is no alcohol in this country and I have no phone signal…… Oh well.