Into Mauretania

We met up with our French passengers, Marc and Carole, at 6:30 in the morning and set off in the dawn light. South of Dakhla there was even less traffic than normal on the roads, and at one point a good couple of hours went past without us seeing anybody else. Later we passed around five camouflaged Jeeps with no windscreens, the occupants being clad in headscarves and djellabas and carrying Kalashnikovs. They didn’t look like the regular military, and Marc and I discussed whether they might be Polisario. What they were doing on the main (only) road in this part of Western Sahara remained a mystery. I was slightly relieved not to find a bloodbath at the petrol station we came to some time later.

The landscape is vast, but for the main part we’ve not been through the traditional Saharan dunes. The land around the road is slightly scrubby, and the sand seems quite stable, perhaps due to the proximity to the sea. It is, however, vast, and we arrived at the border about mid-day. I think everybody else had aimed to be there at around the same time (we travel pretty slowly, so would have been among the first to set off), as we bumped into a Frenchman who had asked us for a lift the night before, a German Mercedes truck belonging to a diving instructor, a San Marino Land Cruiser, and some others we’d met along the way, including an enthusiastic English motorcyclist who left England a week ago and is aiming to be back there, via Gambia, in two weeks’ time!

The border is pretty friendly, but still confusing, but luckily we had Marc to translate all the complexities for us. You begin at the Police office, nearest the Western Sahara end of the compound, then move on to the Douane, who check your vehicle and sort out some vehicle-related paperwork, and finally Immigration, who sort out your passport. You then have all these documents checked before you proceed into No Man’s Land. Unlike most borders, this one was full of friendly, cheerful people and the officials were polite, helpful and jokey. I don’t think they’ll all be like this!

The road ends here, and there is 4km of “piste” – track through the dunes – before you reach Mauritania. This area is a minefield, literally, and if you stray off the piste you stand a reasonable chance of blowing yourself up. Andy (the chap we met in Gib) had told me to keep left, otherwise we’d get stuck in sand, so we did. Half way through there were two slightly secluded areas with cars & trucks parked there, alongside several burnt out or gutted vehicles. We’re not entirely sure what they were all about, but this piece of land is neither Moroccan nor Mauritanian, so who knows what laws it runs under! I have a feeling if you took somebody out there and shot them, neither the Moroccans nor the Mauritanians would be that interested.

Exiting at the Mauritanian end we had to get our passports checked, but the officials here weren’t that friendly, and asked for a “cadeau” to let us travel onwards. I offered them a chocolate bar or some pens, thinking they’d not bother, but they took the bar of chocolate, plus some cigarettes from Marc. They were actually after a jerry can of diesel, because they had a car but no fuel – unlucky for them that we run on petrol. You then drive 100 yards and stop at the next hut, where you register your vehicle; we have a Carnet de Passage, which makes life easier here. Finally, 100 yards further on, you reach Customs, where you declare your cash and get various papers stamped. We were asked for 10 Euros for the car, which Marc thought was an unofficial transaction and argued vociferously against, but according to some other travellers who turned up, it’s kosher, and they issued us a receipt.

And then you’re in Mauritania! You don’t get far before the first police check, but the policeman was very friendly and welcoming. We turned right towards Nouadibhou, the town nearest the border, which is on an isthmus, the eastern half of which is Mauritanian, and the western half of which is an out-of-bounds Western Saharan minefield. It runs alongside the track carrying the longest train in the world (2.5km long – lots of iron ore plus a single passenger carriage at the back), although we didn’t see it. The next policeman was wistfully hoping for a new memory card for his digital camera. Ironically I have one at home which I don’t use and he could have had, but it’s a long way to pop back for it.

Nouadibhou contrasts strongly with the Moroccan towns we visited. It’s much more “African” – goats running round in the street, donkeys tied up everywhere. Some of the goats wear little bras, I’m not entirely sure why – presumably to stop their udders getting trampled on. All the buildings are small, no more than two stories, and the cars are notably more beaten up than the Moroccan ones, which aren’t exactly pristine themselves. Almost all cars here are taxis. Mauritania is one of the poorest countries in Africa, so private car ownership is not common. The ethnic mix is notably different, with a lot of black Africans, who were traditionally the slave caste (and in some cases apparently still are), but were almost absent in Morocco. The Mauritanian Moors have darker skin than the Moroccans, and there is much less Western-style dress. Dust, sand and flies prevail.

We went straight to the local Securite office, to get our passports stamped, only to find you don’t need to any more. We then tried to buy insurance, and groaned when we found out that the insurance offices were closed, and wouldn’t open until Monday morning, plus we wouldn’t be able to leave Nouadibhou without the insurance documentation! Marc really came into his own here, discussing the situation animatedly with the officials, and translating for us. As we started to look for an open insurance office, a young local man said he could help us; after trying two or three closed offices, he popped into a little shop and got on the phone, and reported back that there was a single office still open in the town, and that they’d wait for us!

The young man came with us to the insurance office, which was just as well as we’d never have found it, even though the town only really has one street. His interest was as a money-changer, but despite that, he did go out of his way to help us, and I don’t think his reasons were purely commercial. Once we’d secured our insurance, which cost about 16 Euro for 10 days, we found a campsite he’d recommended, and booked in, with Marc and Carole taking a room here as well.

So, thanks to Marc’s sterling efforts and the helpfulness of the Mauritanian chap, we’ll head off to Nouakchott tomorrow, the Mauritanian capital, where we hope to pause for a while to start to enjoy the country.