Dakhla, Western Sahara, Day 239

After two months of intense tour-group travel, Christi and I are finally free. It is quite wonderful. Christi and I get quite ornery when we’re forced to travel with other people. We prefer to potter around at our own pace and do our own thing. Dragoman and Ahmed were useful to accomplish a lot in a relatively short space of time, but for the remaining 4 months of our Year of Wonder, Christi and I will be making lots of selfish decisions. And our first decision is to have a relaxing day (Sheldon, by contrast, has already boarded a bus to Agadir in Morocco proper). Let me explain that last comment. We are currently in the town of Dakhla, which is located in the disputed territory of Western Sahara. Until 1975, Western Sahara was a colony of Spain, but then the Spanish left (even repatriating the remains of Spanish citizens from the cemeteries) handing the reins of power to Morocco and Mauritania – without ever determining the wishes of the Sahrawi (the indigenous people of Western Sahara). The Sahrawis rebelled and under the guise of the Polisario Front they engaged in guerilla activities including bombing the Iron Ore train. Iron ore is much more valuable to Mauritania than Western Sahara and the Mauritanian government quickly gave up its claim. Morocco currently claims ownership of all Western Sahara (about 100,000 square miles), encouraging its citizens to settle in towns like Dakhla. The Polisario Front continues its political fight to regain control of Western Sahara, but there seems little will among the community of nations to allow the Sahwari to govern themselves.

Dakhla sits on a narrow peninsula, literally miles from anywhere. An airport connects it to Morocco proper and the town has developed from a traditional fishing port into a tourist resort for aquatic sports. Our room in the Tuareg Palace hotel (I think Ahmed would be horrified) is appealing on so many levels: sand does not constantly blow in our faces, neither are we targeted by vicious hordes of mosquitoes, and our beds (replete with soft mattresses and dazzling white sheets) do not move. I enjoyed a steaming hot shower last night and another this morning after sleeping 14 glorious hours. We also have great views out over the Bay of Dakhla and a pleasant promenade, but both the bay and the area in general is devoid of people. Aside from the Tuareg Palace there is little in the way of facilities (shops or restaurants) to encourage people to visit this part of town. And we seem to be the only guests in the Tuareg Palace.

Christi rather enjoys the local cuisine in each country we visit and she is particularly looking forward to sampling the exotic delights in Morocco. We therefore head off to the town center and poke around. There’s not much to see to be honest, although we do find some hole-in-the-wall authentic Moroccan restaurants and Christi goes for a lamb tajine with an order of dates and olives on the side. Christi has a broad taste palate, but for some reason she can’t abide olives. I give her credit for continuing to eat them in hopes that one day she will develop a taste for the damn things. But that day is not today. I ‘m a much fussier eater than Christi, I have to admit, and there is zero chance that I’ll be eating the olives or the dates. I’ve self-diagnosed myself as being texture-challenged and dried fruits of any kind immediately remind me of eating big juicy flies (which in turn makes me want to gag). Clearly I have deep psychological issues.

Dakhla is not high on our list of places to explore, so after securing onward passage to Laayoune, the largest town in Western Sahara, for tomorrow (if we are going to do nothing for a while, I’d rather do it in a town with some amenities and distractions) we return to the modest luxuries afforded to us by the Tuareg Palace. I bend the aerial on the TV and hit the screen a few times, but the TV stubbornly refuses to work, so I give up and begin reading our Lonely Planet guide to Morocco instead.