Desert Storm or
Waiting for the Sun -
16/04/07
Rosso is commonly touted
as the worst border post
in West Africa. A status
that it deserves.
Although the Senegal
side was hassle-free, a
couple of enterprising
young guys tried to
charge us 8000 Ougiya
(the currency of
Mauritania) each for a
pirogue to cross the
river to Mauritanian
immigration. The public
pirogue costs 200 Ougiya
and a public boat was
just leaving so we
managed to jump on it,
despite these guys and
the public boat captain
trying to stop us! We
were greeted by a
military escort who took
us to the immigration
official, a slob of a
guy who closely
resembles Jabba the Hut.
He sat cross legged in
his office, spitting at
the wall and stuffing
his face with camels
liver. We were lucky
enough to be offered a
taste. There were two
French guys who had been
waiting there for two
hours when we arrived,
they probably had a car
and were told the
official was very busy,
they were surprised when
we were finished within
30 minutes! I dread to
think how many “fees”
they would have paid.
One of them looked
definitely Vegan but
still managed to swallow
a morsel of the liver,
fearing the consequences
of refusal. Our
passports were passed
from pillar to post as
various people stamped
and scribbled in them, I
eventually gave up my
usual overseeing of
events, wary of
overstepping the mark.
Eventually we were free
to leave, however one
official would not
return our passports
until we agreed to get
in a private taxi which
he would arrange,
mutterings of needing to
eat lunch first
eventually convinced him
to hand over the
passports.
Entering Mauritania was
as if somebody had
switched on the desert
show. All of a sudden
the scenery changed to
bright sand desert,
dunes and camels by the
side of the road. A
shared taxi sped us all
the way to Nouakchott at
an average of 100km/h,
unheard of in Africa!
Mosque, Nouakchott
Nouakchott is a purpose
built capital city, with
a grid system of streets
and all one-storey
buildings that create
the impression of
needing to stoop or duck
constantly. There is a
nice mosque but other
than that it is quite a
boring city. The next
day we wanted to leave
for the Adrar region,
the jewel in the crown
of Mauritanian tourism
with weekly flights
direct into the desert
from Paris.
Unfortunately it was the
general election and
transport was very hard
to come by, eventually
we found enough people
desperate to get back to
their electoral district
(compulsory voting) to
fill a car to Atar. A
few hours later, 400km
and one very quickly
repaired puncture and we
were in Atar. The
puncture was my fault,
at the toilet stop I
remarked to Monika that
it was strange how we
had three brand new
tyres and one bald one!
Entering the Adrar
region is amazing, the
beauty is stunning, rock
formations, mountains
and desert oases all
around. Possibly the
most beautiful scenery
we have seen in all of
West Africa. We found a
private homestay in Atar,
sleeping in a typical
Islamic visiting room,
couches lining all the
walls, the rooms are
always empty but somehow
exude wealth.
Chinguetti
We soon squeezed into
the boot of a 4x4 headed
further into the desert
to the town of
Chinguetti, the 7th
holiest city of Islam.
This means that
everybody is trying to
make you visit the five
Islamic libraries in
town. It is also the
tourism centre of the
Adrar and is full of
stressed out French
exec's looking for peace
in the desert by way of
camel treks and
paragliding. I can think
of worse places to go.
Apparantly there are 300
tourists each week but
we hardly saw any. It
may be due to the fact
that it was raining. In
the Sahara. Mauritania
has an annual average
rainfall between
December and May of 0mm,
we had three consecutive
days of rain. The family
we stayed with in Atar
contacted a Moroccan
family in Chinguetti who
put us up and fed us
here for a very
reasonable rate and we
sat on the dunes waiting
for the sun.
Sahara
Desert
Whereas the journey to
Chinguetti was
uncomfortable, the
return trip was
decidedly dangerous. We
perched first on the
roof and then on the
outside edge of a
pick-up crammed full
with goats. The owner of
the goats was very
protective so we (Monika
and I, two old guys and
a bunch of kids) were
forbidden to touch the
goats as we hurtled
along the dirt tracks,
everybody clinging to
everybody else. It was
freezing and I could not
feel if I was holding on
or not. It was briefly
worth it as we had great
views descending the
pass and from the base
of the pas sit was
barely half an hour to
Atar and safety. We
decided to pay more for
the journey onwards to
Choum, reserving seats
actually inside the
vehicle!
The
Adrar
Choum is a dirty little
town that happens to be
a stop on the railway of
the longest train in the
world. The train is
about 3km long, carrying
iron ore from the mines
to the port at
Nouadhibou. Most of the
train is freight (the
ore going one way,
petrol and other
necessities making the
return journey) but
there is one passenger
car on the end. The
train is so long that
the passengers must take
a jeep from Choum to the
end of the train to
board. The conductor has
no problem with anybody
who wants to ride on top
of the ore. An American
guy, Darren, did exactly
that, told the conductor
he would not be buying a
ticket because he would
ride freight, the
conductor barely
battered an eyelid, like
a throwback to the
beatnik 50's. The train
should pass through
Choum at 6pm daily, and
arrive in Nouadhibou at
7am the next day, an
average speed of around
25km/h. Apparently it is
very reliable. Of course
the day we took the
train the 6pm did not
have a passenger cart,
indeed did not even
stop, so we had to wait
until 11pm, constantly
surrounded by kids with
dirty faces. We were
invited for tea on a
blanket with some other
passengers, an offer
that is very hard to
refuse. Tea drinking is
as much a part of
Mauritanian society as
it of English. The seats
int he passenger car had
no cushions so we
balanced our arses on
the steel frame and
tried to keep warm as
the icy desert winds
blew through the car,
everybody cocooned under
a mass of blankets and
clothes. There was a
slight incident in the
morning, perhaps a
freight car spilled its
load, and eventually we
rolled into Nouadhibou
at 2:30pm.
The
Worlds longest train
The glory days are over
for Nouadhibou since the
opening of the road all
the way from Dahkla to
Nouakchott back in 2005.
Prior to this everybody
had to cross the
treacherous western
Sahara route to
Noudhibou, recover here
and then continue on the
equally treacherous
piste to Nouakchott.
Nowadays the cars hurtle
along the highway 400km
from Dahkla to the
border and then bypass
Nouadhibou down to
Nouakchott. As a result
Nouadhibou is like a
ghost town, plenty of
modern shops and
restaurants but all
without wares. We
provoked a fight between
various drivers wanting
to take us to Dahkla,
choosing a desperate
Moroccan over the
conniving Mauritanians.
The Moroccan had been
waiting for days to fill
his car and just wanted
to cover his costs to
return to Dahkla. The
Mauritanians had been
promising him each day
that he could go
tomorrow whilst creaming
a serious profit off
their passengers. One of
them tried to shield us
from the competition by
escorting us everywhere
but we managed to escape
and travelled in
comfort, just us and a
crazy Japanese guy in a
spacious Mercedes. The
Japanese guy was crazy
because he had just
travelled from Cape Town
to Nouadhibou, overland,
in two and a half
months, a quick flick
through his passport
revealed an average of
three days per country!
The border, hassle-free
but stringent, the only
problem came when I
wandered off into the
desert to go to the
toilet and when I
returned before
relieving myself I was
told not to walk in the
desert, that the
landmines start about
300m from the road, I
held on until we found a
toilet. We picked up a
Danish guy who is making
a documentary about the
guys that drive all the
cars from Europe to sell
in West Africa.
Mauritania only wants
Mercs, and the
20-year-old Peugeots and
Renaults head further on
to Mali, Burkina, etc.
Senegal recently closed
its borders to any cars
older than five years,
the Indian company Tata
putting pressure on the
government in an effort
to sell more trucks.
These guys, mainly
French, drive this route
about eight or more
times per year, for next
to no profit. Anders,
the Danish documentor,
was finding out why. He
had had a hard time in
Islamic countries
following the Danish
cartoons scandal, people
trying to fight him,
insult him and some in
Mauritania even refused
him tea.
The
road to Dahkla
Dahkla is a very nice
town if a bit modern and
faceless. Western Sahara
is a disputed territory
and technically still a
war-zone and in order to
placate the residents,
and to try to slow the
popularity of the
separatist Polisario
movement, the Moroccan
government has poured
billions of dollars into
Western Sahara. Of
course the locals still
resent Moroccan control
and looking at the
desolation you wonder
why anybody s fighting
over it. There are
hundreds of kilometres
of nothing, albeit quite
pretty nothing, except
the odd modern town all
the way from the border
to “real” Morocco. We
took a bus all the way
through from Dahkla to
Marrakech, kilometre
after kilometre of
deserted coastline,
beautiful water one side
and the expanse of
stunning desert on the
other.
Marrakech
Marrakech was cold and
rainy, a sharp contrast
to the 40 degree heat
that I suffered there
last time. It was for us
however a photography
paradise with all the
details and bright
colours. It was also for
us a food heaven,
gorging on olives, fried
aubergine, lamb kefta,
fresh yoghurt and orange
juice after the cuisine
of West Africa.
Marrakech has
experienced a boom in
tourism in the past few
years since the
introduction of low cost
flights and every hotel
has at least doubled in
price. Furthermore we
arrived, unaware, in the
middle of the Easter
holidays meant that
everywhere was also
full.
Hassan
II mosque, Casablanca
It was the same story in
Fes, where we headed via
Casablanca to see the
Hassan II mosque (still
stunning). We arrived
late at night to find
the hotels either full
or charging ridiculous
prices. We found a
private house to stay in
but had to keep a low
profile because
Moroccans are very nosy
and everybody was
interested in why we
were entering and
leaving a private home
in the medina. I hated
Fes last time and only
came this time to see
our friend June, who has
been researching return
migration from Holland
to Morocco here for
three months. It was
good to see her again
and actually Fes was not
so bad as last time. We
got to see the tanneries
as well which was a
highlight.
Tanneries, Fes
We managed to escape on
the night train to
Tangier. The whole train
was full of Spanish
tourists however so we
could only find a space
in the corridor. During
the night the toilet
overflowed and washed
our bags with urine,
perfect preparation for
our forthcoming
hitch-hike across
Europe!
The ferry from Tangier
to Spain is ridiculously
expensive, about 40
euros per passenger for
the 8km or so crossing,
although it does take
two and a half hours due
to some circuitous
routing. It is supposed
to be much cheaper from
the Spanish enclave at
Ceuta but the Internet
suggests otherwise and
in any case there were
no buses from Tangier to
Ceuta leaving soon. We
missed buying tickets
for the 9:30am sailing
by one minute and then
managed to get on the
wrong boat, watching the
10:30am leave from the
comfort of the lounge on
the 11:30am.
Upon arrival we hitched
from Algeciras (near
Gibraltar) to Fuengirola,
not much further,
through the ultra rich
Marbella district, all
Ferraris and big
mansions. The next
morning we got to Malaga
and a guy picked us up
from Malaga to Madrid,
about 5 hours. He was
going to meet his,
pregnant, girlfriends
father for the first
time, her very religious
father.
We arrived in Madrid
just in time for the
whole of Spain to
celebrate Easter and
fill up their cars or
stay at home and drink
so we sat on the road
for the best part of two
days, not moving. Both
nights (one in
Fuengirola and one in
Madrid) we pitched our
tent in a secluded spot.
It was very cold and in
Madrid we cold see snow
capped mountains from
our tent.
Hitching in Madrid
On Sunday night we
decided to bite the
bullet and head by bus
to Barcelona, only to
find that the hourly
buses were booked solid
for three days. I asked
the salesgirl where
could we go and she sold
us tickets to Zaragoza
and joined the hordes of
people wandering around
with suitcases at 2am.
We bought the last two
seats from Zaragoza to
Barceloa for the 5am bus
and then at 4:30 a bus
left, half empty. If
only ALSA had a system
that could handle
transfers or at least
bus drivers that would
allow people to take the
seats of no-shows. There
were several hundred
people stranded in each
of Madrid, Barcelona and
Zaragoza, and probably
everywhere else as well,
for this reason.
We then hitched along
the Costa Brava, very
slow as we got a ride
with two Moroccan guys
and a Paraguayan girl
going for a coastal
tour, it was quite fun
though and the girl
shared her mate
(Paraguayan tea) with
us. We managed to get a
train to the French side
of the border before
evening, a train which
would have cost us five
euros direct from
Barcelona had we found
it in the morning. We
then bought train
tickets to Nimes and
fell asleep on the
train, waking up just
before it crawled
through Lyon. It did not
stop but we jumped off
the train anyway and
took another train to
Geneva. Following that
we wanted to see lake
Geneva so we took
another train to
Lausanne, before
hitching clean across
Switzerland to Zurich
(in three rides). Our
friend Stepan, works
there as an au pere and
has an excellent flat.
We stayed for a couple
of days before
continuing towards
Prague. Stepan took us
to a service station
where we had bad luck as
it was actually heading
away from the direction
we wanted to go.
Nevertheless a guy
stopped us and took us
80km out of his way to
the Swiss-Austrian
border. Here a Mormon
family picked us up and
took us straight through
to Linz. We were in Linz
by 5pm. A white van man
took us on to the road
to Prague and a
Cameroonian drove us
20km past his house to
the Austrian-Czech
border. He apologised
for being tired and
therefore not taking us
all the way to Ceske
Budejovice! Waiting on
the infamous E55
highway, alongside the
suspiciously brothel-esque
“night clubs” and
scantily clad girls
standing on the
roadside, we suddenly
spotted a Uk number
plate. I asked them if
they were lost and they
agreed to take us to
Vyssi Brod, where we had
missed the last bus to
Cesky Krumlov. This
meant we had to have a
delicious
re-acquaintance with
Czech cuisine and were
forced to drink Czech
pilsner before another
night freezing in our
tent. The next morning
we managed took
consecutive buses
through Krumlov and
Budejovice to Prague and
were soon back in Nove
Jirny.
So, here ends our West
African odyssey. Whilst
often a challenge it was
very enjoyable and a
worthwhile trip and
whilst the only country
I would probably return
to is Mauritania I do
not regret any part of
the trip at all, except
perhaps not being able
to visit Casamance and
not having more
time and money to
explore Mauritania
further. Finally, here
are the answers to five
FAQ's about Africa:
1. Do people really
carry around things in
pots on their heads?
- Yes, but not the
beautiful, tall ceramic
pots in the tourist
pictures, it is more
often a squat,
functional, plain
Chinese design.
2. Do people really live
in mud huts?
- Yes but they often
have satellite TV and
corrugated iron roofs.
3. Do people still have
to walk for water?
- Yes, but most
villages have a well or
lake nearby so the walk
is not so far, but they
still have to carry many
litres of water on their
heads.
4. Can you see wild
animals whilst you are
driving along?
- Yes, but normally
goats, donkeys or cows
and not zebras, giraffes
or elephants. Not even
monkeys which is a
surprise considering how
many monkeys you see
running around,
terrorising people in
other parts of the
world.
5. Do people travel on
the roofs of trains and
buses?
- Yes but again not
as often or as extreme
as in most Asian
countries.
