Oh dear. Christi is not feeling at all well. She has rebellious intestines that kept her up most of the night. She swears it wasn’t the tajine or olives or dates she ate yesterday, blaming it instead on a dodgy piece of fish she ate in Choum 3 days ago. That’s one hell of an incubation period. Either way, she has lost her desire for exotic foods, which is a shame because Christi was looking forward to the culinary temptations Morocco had to offer. Equally, we have to decide whether to risk a long bus journey or stay another day or two in Dakhla. Faced with that option, Christi swallows an Immodium and says let’s get the hell out of here.
We leave Dakhla mid-morning for the 9-hour ride to Laayoune, the largest town in Western Sahara, which lies close to the border with Morocco proper. Long bus journeys give you plenty of time to think and reflect and in my case to try to appreciate the 2 months we spent in West Africa (technically Mauritania, Western Sahara, and Morocco are part of the Maghreb, or Northwest Africa. The Maghreb marks a switch from Black Africa to Arab Africa). Perhaps the most appealing aspect of out time in Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali, Senegal, and to a lesser extent The Gambia is the richness of its culture and its ethnic groupings, more than the presence of iconic tourist attractions. The traveling was certainly tough, but the rewards far outweighed the inconveniences (I can say that now!). I’m not sure Christi would agree that we left all our troubles in West Africa, however, as her stomach continues to be unruly – and unlike the wonderful buses of Argentina, our current CTM bus service lacks a toilet or a food service. The lack of food is not really a concern for Christi, but we are keeping our fingers crossed that there are no emergencies.
With all these distractions, Christi and I failed to immediately notice that a large number of uniformed police also boarded the bus in Dakhla together with several swarthy looking characters. They sit at the back of the bus and keep themselves to themselves. Another layer of security we have to endure are the military checkpoints, especially as we leave the peninsula on which Dakhla is situated. Fortunately, the bus stops every few hours at strategically located service stations and Christi dashes off to use the squat, the poor thing. I nibble food discreetly. For the moment, at least, I have recovered from the heat-stroke and bacteria-inspired explosions in my gut, so traveling is quite pleasant again. As the police alight at the first service station, we see that they are handcuffed to the other men – perhaps 10 prisoners in all. I have no idea if these prisoners are murderers and rapists, political prisoners, or innocent men. They certainly appear happy and relaxed, but any contact is discouraged. This does beg the question as to why prisioners are being transported by public bus. Can’t the police afford a van to transport these people? The journey procedes amid a frisson of excitement. Perhaps the prisoners have comrades lying in wait somewhere planning to hijack the bus and rescue them. This is about as exciting as the journey gets, though, because the coastal road north is long and tedious. The terrain is flat and featureless as if a giant steamroller ironed out all the valleys and the mountains. The sand is the color of milky coffee dusted with dirty green scrub that extends out to the eastern horizon or crashes into the Atlantic from precipitous 50-foot cliffs to the west. In all honesty I cannot fathom why anyone lays claim to Western Sahara let alone that disputes exist between rival, warring factions.
We arrive in Laayoune on time at 7:30 pm. And our first destination is the local prison, which is located in a dark and seedy part of town. The prisoners wave as they disembark, but I think after 9 hours we’re too tired to care. We plan to sped the night in Laayoune and continue on to Essaouira (a resort town on the Atlantic coast) tomorrow. The city center is full of bright lights and busy people and looks pleasant enough. We have no idea where we will stay, though, or how we will get to Essaouira tomorrow. Our bus continues to Agadir (it’s the same service Sheldon took a few days ago), which would put us only 3-hours from Essaouira, but that would also mean traveling through the night again. Decisions. Decisions.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes.
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