Traveling aboard the Iron Ore train at night is painful, literally. We have seat backs, but the upholstered seats themselves have long since been removed. Were it not for Sheldon’s blow-up mattress, we could add sore bums to the list of discomforts we endure. For a start the window does not close, so sand constantly swirls around the carriage, creating our own little private Saharan sandstorm. Also any time the door to the carriage opens (which happens frequently) a viciously cold cross-wind is formed and the sand swirls ever faster. Moreover, Christi, Sheldon, Ahmed, and I are squeezed into a space meant for three people, yet during the night our carriage compatriots Moulay and Mohamed insist upon insinuating their feet onto our limited bench space as they no doubt seek to find comfortable positions. I repulse the invasion repeatedly. Inevitably there are delays; the journey should have been 12 hours, but we do not arrive into the coastal town of Nouadhibou until 9:30 am (a total of 16 agonizing, uncomfortable, sleepless hours – that’s two nights in a row).
Ahmed lives in Nouadhibou and insists on arranging our onward travel to Dakhla in southern Morocco (also known as the disputed territory of Western Sahara). He invites us to his house to rest and eat while we wait for transport. The transformation in Ahmed the Finger as his children rush out to greet him is quite remarkable. Gone is the inscrutable Tuareg warrior, replaced by a family man hugging his children and enjoying their company. His home is surprisingly simple; guiding tourists is not as lucrative as I’d imagined. In the main living area mats covered the dirt floor and we sprawled out on cushions. Ahmed’s wife, Millmoun, is even more insistent that we stay and enjoy their hospitality and she rustles up a very tasty fish and chips in short order. The bathroom features another squat (god I hate that design) and offers a bucket shower, which the fastidious Sheldon and Christi soon enjoy. By this point I must be smelling quite rank, but I’m holding out for a hot shower, a sit-down toilet, a bed with clean white sheets. Such a decadent western fantasy.
Finding transport to Dakhla is problematic. It’s a long journey and no sept-place taxis in Nouadhibou will do the journey today. Actually that’s good news as far as I’m concerned, because my last experience in a sept-place taxi (from Dakar to The Gambia) was miserable. The best that Ahmed can do is a taxi to the Moroccan border; he thinks there will be onward transport from the Moroccan side. Needless to say, there are plenty of police checkpoints on the way to the border and Ahmed negotiates them all for us, even though our tour is technically over. Exiting Mauritania is straight forward, but then we enter 3 km of no man’s land. Some say this land is under the rule of the Polisario, the Western Sahara independence movement; one thing is for sure the road is an not maintained crumbling track, but warning signs abound not to stray from the main route because the area is extensively mined. That suddenly makes the journey a little more interesting as does the sandstorm that appears from nowhere. The taxi can only go so far and Sheldon with his two backpacks slung across his front and back not to mention a daypack (this guy does not travel light) and Christi and I trudge the remaining distance, heads bowed to avoid the worst of the billowing sand.
Moroccan immigration is a nightmare. They are shocked to see three pedestrians arriving from Mauritania in the middle of a sandstorm no less. The border is not closed exactly, but the ongoing geopolitical unrest means that tourists are a rare breed hereabouts. Our paperwork is studied extensively; our bags receive endless attention. Between immigration, customs, the police, the army and numerous other shady characters from Moroccan officialdom we are stopped six times in the space of 100 yards, although quite what they are expecting to find is beyond me. Once we finally and officially make it into Morocco we are still some 200 miles south of the first recognizable town, Dakhla. Our only transport option for Dahkla is a Mercedes grand-taxi, which sounds much more impressive than the reality. Four paying passengers, including Christi, Sheldon and me contort ourselves into the back of this beat-up Mercedes, touching hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, while three (including the driver) sit up front. The journey is four excruciating hours with nothing to look at apart from flat, featureless rubbish-strewn desert. It is dark when we reach the bright lights and tall buildings of the man-made Dakhla oasis – an outpost of civilization. And to us civilization is a bed with clean sheets, a shower with hot water, and a TV. The TV does not actually work, but two out of three ain’t bad. Dakhla also sees the parting of the ways for Sheldon and ourselves. Masochist that he is, Sheldon is determined to push on into Morocco after only one night in Dakhla. We share a last supper together and then say goodbye to the crazy, loveable bastard.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes
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