Waiting for our cam in Agadir
Agadir definitely proved to be a very laid back and relaxing city. We found a nice little terrace under the shadow of orange trees where we could watch the world pass by and enjoy our French breakfasts. There was a public car park right in front of our table, just a few marked spaces to park by the side of the road. We had plenty of time to watch a very little guy who
obviously had appointed himself as a parking valet. He was attempting to declare himself "official" by wearing a blue mechanic jacket and an old sailor cap too large for his head and he was gesticulating all day, stopping the traffic to make room for departing cars, prompting them to reverse, arranging space when the place had filled up and pocketing tips from every driver. Quite a sight he was with his very convincing gestures and his amusing but well experienced tone of authority.
Everybody seemed to know and appreciate him around the area as he used to take breaks, smoking cigarettes and chatting around happily with waiters and shop owners. A self-made man in a way... I couldn't help but be amazed by his ability to actually make a living from a complete dream he had built with his life. There was no real use for his services there, the
little car park was just on the side of a large avenue, anyone could park and reverse easily without disturbing the traffic at all, nothing blocked the view, there was plenty of space even for large 4x4 pick-up trucks, but no one seemed to mind the daily presence of that little guy in his funny homemade uniform. It was like all the people of the area had decided to play along and become part of his act. He had found his space and his function there, better, he had created both... quite admirable.
The sheep festival soon emptied the city. Aïd al Adha was roughly reminding me of Xmas and Abby of Chinese New Year as kids receive presents and everybody looks a bit uneasy wearing brand new clothes. All the shops closed down until late in the afternoon, the streets were empty. It was very quiet.
Agadir having been rebuilt in a European style after the 1960 earthquake, lots of people live in buildings, so they have to keep their sheep on their balcony. In the evening, people would buy a bit of straw to feed their temporary pet. It was very strange, at night, to hear the sound of these sheep echoing in corridors... until the fatal morning when, after the 6am prayer, they all died, killed the halal way.
I expected to hear some children cry. After all, I would have been very loud myself if my dad had killed that lovely sheep I was getting acquainted with on my balcony since a few days. But nope, no cries. Just a sudden silence. No more "Heidi" recalling echoes in the corridors.
Soon after, the balconies were cleaned by ladies and, as suspiciously looking liquids fell down onto the sidewalks, it became pretty wise to walk in the middle of the streets where traffic had disappeared.
We found only one coffee shop opened that day, safely located away from any balconies. A German guitarist was sitting there with an English gentleman and played some songs from the 70's. We soon introduced ourselves and requested some more titles from our youth. Soon a Danish lady joined in. Everybody seemed quite worried to hear about our African trip. It was quite something, we didn't have one single positive encouragement from anyone we met since our departure. Our families are totally freaked out, friends multiplied words of warning, we received dramatic e-mails, we met folks along the way who show us horrified faces as soon as we mentioned our projects but as we always told them, it was just a project, there was no guarantee we would be able to make it. For a start, was our Transalp going to last that long ? There were tons of reasons why we might not finish that tour around Africa, what if one of us got ill or what if we suffered a bad crash ? If I broke a bone, that was it with the riding, Abby wasn't tall enough for our bike. What if we found Paradise on the way? Or Hell? So it was just a plan, no use to freak out, if things turned sour then we would just skip it and if happened to be hit by pure bliss, then we would simply stay there. We weren't here to accomplish any sort of exploit for the Guinness book. It had to be cool. If not then bye! Meanwhile, we wanted to take a look still... gotta see to believe, it couldn't be worst than travelling in India in ruined buses or sleeping in Bombay subways like I was doing when I was young.
We said good bye to our new mates - "Don't go to Africa" said the guitar player one last time - and we set back to our room where I had work to do.
On balconies, fresh sheep skins were drying up in the sunlight. Kids were "cooking" sheep heads, directly on wood and cardboard fires, on the ground, at every corner of the streets. The smell wasn't exactly like barbecue and the sight reminded me of my first Rolling Stones album "Goat Head Soup".
Since the Aïd al Adha Festival was going to take a while, I had decided to backup our films and photos on DVDs and send them to Robin, in Hong Kong, like I had done, last time, from Chefchaouen. That kept me busy for a couple of days and then we went to the Post Office to mail our naked pack of disks.
"You have to show it to the custom." said the employee.
Ok, of course, no problem, we had been there before in Ouarzazate, no surprise, just, where exactly is that custom officer?
"In the room next to you" the postman said, pointing his finger to a cubicle on the right.
The door was open, I knocked still. Two persons were in the room, a man and a lady, none of them wearing uniforms. I walked to the lady since she was the one behind the desk.
"Bonjour Madame. I would like to send this box of DVDs to my friend in Hong Kong" I declared.
"Yes", she nodded "Are they blank?"
Damn, I hoped she couldn't read my mind right then - it's very easy apparently - because I wasn't too impressed by her question. The last thing Hong Kong needs from Morocco is blank DVDs, I'm ready to bet on this.
"Non Madame, they're used."
"What did you put on them?" she asked.
Now that was new ! I had never had any custom officers asking for the contents of my data before. I could just picture the lady officer and me, sitting for days in front of a computer screen, watching the contents of the 44 disks I had just burned.
"Oh, just some films" I replied.
"Films of what?" she insisted.
I was tempted to make silly jokes involving Japanese underground cinema and illegal downloads but I remembered in time where I was.
"Well, you know, tourist films we shot as we travelled through your beautiful country."
"Oh, that's ok then."
"Merci Madame, bonne journée."
Maybe they're really scared about journalists smuggling pictures of the Laayoune events but come on, we're passed that age, I don't think journalists use post offices to send their films any longer.
And I do not look like a journalist either, I look like Ali Baba !
So then, time to pack it up. I returned to the postman, wrote my friend's address in the destination area on the cardboard box, my parents one as the sender in case of delivery problem, paid and off we went... only to learn by email, a week later, that my parents were wondering what that parcel to a certain Robin was doing in their hands.
Maybe I should keep my distance from Moroccan post offices although each time, it seems to give me something funny to write about.
We felt lazier and lazier in Agadir, waiting for our camera to come back from USA. We took a few rides around, up the mountains, to Immouzeer, where the temperature was much cooler but the honey proved to be delicious. It was made of thyme flowers.
We started to be a little worried however. My visa was about to expire and that cam wasn't showing up. GoPro support had sent it about ten days ago, where could it be !? Our guess was: at the Moroccan customs.
We decided to check if we could get an extension right there, in Agadir. We went to the Immigration office and were told an extension was possible if we could provide a bank statement and a proof of accommodation. Then the next day, we were told that we needed a local bank account and a contract of rent. Yeah well, so basically it was easier to simply ride back to the border, wasn't it?
Great. There's nothing like a good ride on highways to clean up carburetors, let's wait until the end of the week and ride back to Ceuta.
We arranged to leave most of our stuff at our hotel, gave instructions about the eventual arrival of our camera, took contact numbers and off we went, on a perfectly empty highway... back up North.
Again.
There definitely was a curse on this trip. It just never stopped. It took us ages as we hanged around to go South and when we were finally there, whoof, we just had to zoom back North in one go. Oh well, we really just had come for a free ride anyway, so North, South, as long as the road was cool, we were happy bikers.
As we were closing in, near Rabat, the right side of the fairing began to flap in the wind, held only by one single tiny screw.
Ha! It had been a while since this bike had requested our attention... at least one week. Nothing unusual then. I simply readjusted the plastic panel and held it with my extended leg all the way to Rabat where we found a Honda concessionary, on the side of the road, that was happy to help with a bit of silicone and tape. Just the time for a cup of hot coffee as the
temperature seemed to seriously turn cooler and we were ready to carry on with our journey.
We just had time to make it to Larache before nightfall. By then, the rain had begun falling and we weren't feeling too warm at all. We dropped in the first hotel that could provide a safe parking for the Transalp and we quickly crashed in our bed after a frugal dinner of cheese omelets.
We wanted to cross the border as soon as we could, the next day, and come back down right away. The North of Morocco had turned too cold for what we were wearing.
The ride back to Ceuta was very refreshing indeed and the rain began pouring again as we passed Tetouan. We approached the custom, Abby took our passports and bike papers to the counter. After a short while, she called me.
The custom officer she was dealing with wasn't looking very happy.
"You have spent three months in Morocco!" he said with an accusing voice.
"So what?" I thought.
"Er... yes. Why?"
"That's it, you cannot re-enter, you're only allowed to stay in Morocco three months per year."
"Oh but I have to return, we're on a journey to Mauritania, only we got delayed by a broken camera we had to send back for repair, we're just waiting for it to return and we're off, you can see our Mauritanian visas are ready in our passports."
"You have to see the chief. Counter 5."
Not a nice person that chief, behind his counter 5... he couldn't care less, didn't see any way around either, just told me I had to get out for at least two weeks before I could try to return. Abby and the bike, however, could go back to Morocco if they wanted to. Abby still had one month visa since she had renewed it on her British National Overseas passport two months
earlier, the bike was good since vehicles receive a six months visa but the rider, me that is, nope... stranded out, on my own, in the cold.
Well, never mind then. Let's go and have lunch in Ceuta, we will return in the afternoon, the custom staff should have been shifted by then and we might just be allowed back in on a strike of good will.
That didn't work either. I went to see a totally brand new chief behind the ol' counter 5 but he said exactly the same as the morning chief, with the absolutely same tone of voice... unpleasant that is.
Back in Europe! - Cadiz (Spain)
It's not that we really cared, after all staying in Andalusia for a while wasn't a bad perspective at all, but it's just that horrible weather we felt reluctant to be pushed back into. North's no good!
The rain was getting worst, we decided to sleep in Ceuta and take the ferry the next morning.
Unfortunately the rain was even worst the next day and by the time we parked the bike inside the ferry, we were completely soaked. The sea conditions took our attentions away from our own sticky state but we made it safe to Algeciras where we landed with an impression of déjà-vu that felt as if we had just been vomited by Africa.
Not to worry though, it's not as if we had to go back to work the next day, was it!? We had chosen Sevilla over Cadiz on our way down, let's visit the latter now. On the way, there was a town called Bologna, we could always have lunch there and check if they served spaghetti bolognese.
Well they didn't. In fact the whole Bolognese population seemed to be entirely absent from that tiny coastal village which is quite understandable considering the amount of wind and the cold. The whole region was covered with fans, huge electricity generating white fans. We sat on our bike there, on top of a hill, watching those fans spinning at full speed. The ride ahead would not be a breeze. I was glad we had left half of our stuff in Agadir and just tried my best not to get blown off the tarmac by that bullying wind.
When we finally arrived in Cadiz, I was dead meat. Abby wasn't feeling much better. She tried to get off the bike, lost her balance, grabbed my arm, my foot slipped on the wet ground and down we went. No harm, we're well protected but damn, it's hard to get ones leg back from underneath a fallen Transalp! Some passersby kindly helped us getting our bike back up. The
right side of the fairing was just a bit more cracked than before and the hand brake shifter was bent. No big deal.
We booked a room in a nice hotel. Being the low season, prices for accommodations were reasonable. After a well needed hot shower, our priority was to find food, some warm clothes and an umbrella.
That's how we first discovered the maze of Cadiz, series of small streets crossing each others and sided by Andalusian stylish houses and fancy balconies. Cadiz is almost an island, only linked to the mainland by a thin strip of land. The whole space is therefore occupied by tiny streets that reminded us of Moroccan medina. The Cadiz people we met seemed very soft and
kind.
We further visited the city, as the sun finally showed up the next day, and both Abby and I were totally seduced by its charm. Oh yes, we could settle down here. Her grand piano, my fancy bike, our taste for calm, kindness and quality life would be perfectly adapted here. We're old enough for this sort of living now. I could see us riding sometimes South for a bit of African exoticism or North for a taste of luxury, it would be perfect. We went to Cadiz University of Philosophy and Literature but we couldn't find any job openings. The price of rents however looked interesting. We spent long hours simply walking through the maze of Cadiz, discovering more and more charm to it, spotting flats for sale, very tempted to stay.
Maybe we should get serious about studying Spanish language.
We bought a couple of spider nets for the bike and warmer gloves for us from a tiny little motorcycle shop where the owner offered us straps and clips for free. We took the Transalp to the nearby Honda shop to have the fairing and the brake lever fixed and again, we were very kindly treated, despite the language barrier which would have quickly frustrated any French
mechanic I know.
One day, as we had paella at the terrace of a restaurant on a quiet and lovely square, we suddenly spotted a "brother" as we call other overlanders like us. Our type looks quite different from other bikers. We take lots of space on the road with our extended side panniers, we look bulky with our top boxes and tank bags. Our bikes are higher above the ground. Far dirtier too. We don't have chromes but we tend to be a tad bit heavy on colourful stickers. We always wear good protection gear but we look filthier. Finally, due to our weight, our riding style is somehow steadier and our manoeuvres slower than other more sporty riders. But this "brother" topped us all! Damn, he wasn't having side panniers, he had hooked two huge Samsonite shell
suitcases to the sides of his BMW600, plus a large hard top box and a tank bag. There wasn't an inch of his bike that wasn't covered with stickers and even flags were flapping around. He looked like a old veteran compared to us. Big dude too, wearing fatigues and a thick winter jacket. He had a black helmet, just like us and as he disappeared at the corner of the square,
Abby and I looked at each other, quite impressed, thinking we could surely learn a thing or two from this lonely rider.
We soon paid our bill and resumed our quiet walk. As we passed the same corner where our "brother" had vanished, we saw his bike, parked in the middle of the pedestrian street. He stood next to it and was finishing turning it into a display of his journey with a world map showing his itineraries and a long list of countries he had crossed, flags, pictures, explanations, the whole set.
Abby and I approached his BMW.
"Hello" I said "I'm Nish and this is Abby." Then, pointing at his bike and the Samsonite cases, I added:
"Wow, this is quite impressive, Man, but isn't it too heavy ? where are you from ? How long have you been riding like this ?"
He didn't reply. Instead he pointed at his mouth and showed me a paper he'd pulled from his pocket. I read:
"I'm Vladimir Yarets, 69 years old, from Belorussia. I am deaf and mute. I ride my motorcycle around the world since ten years. I want to be the first deaf and mute rider to visit every country in the world so as to figure in the Guinness Book of Records. Can you help with a few coins to buy petrol? Thank you!"
I looked at Vladimir with big round eyes.
"Wow Man! This is quite something! Damn! This is very cool!"
He smiled. He could read on my lips.
"Where are you going now?" I articulated.
He took me to his world map, taped along the side of his bike and points at the Canary Islands. He then made a boat with his two hands and pointed at himself. He then pointed to his bike and drew the shape of a shipping case in the cold air. Then he showed me the ground and acted shivering cold. Finally, pointing at the Canary Islands on the map, he gave it the thumb up. Alright, I was getting it quite easily for someone who knew nothing of sign language!
But then, why wasn't he going to Africa instead?
I pointed at Abby and me, pretended riding a bike with Abby behind me, then showed Morocco on the map and our route down. He replied by repeating my mimic on the bike and opened his hands as if asking a question.
"Honda Transalp" I said "It's parked at the hotel."
No he couldn't read that on my lips. "Ok, never mind, hold on, Abby, have you got a pen?"
Oh now he did get that! He pulled a pen from one pocket and a sheet of paper from another.
I wrote down our names and our vehicle. He raised his thumb up, pointed to the map and opened his hands as an interrogation.
I showed him roughly the route of our journey but he shook his head, no, that's not what he was asking. He wanted to know where we came from.
I wrote down "Hong Kong" on that sheet of paper.
His face brightened up and with a big smile he made a sign for me to wait. He opened his top case where he searched among a pile of photo albums. He selected one, browsed through the pages and showed us pictures of himself standing next to his bike, in an Hong Kong avenue, while some smiling Hong Kong police officers in uniform surrounding him.
How the hell could he have made it to Hong Kong!? I had been looking for a way to leave home on my bike for ages and had to finally give up, that's why we had flown to UK first. How had he done it? That could prove helpful on our way back, I thought.
He pointed at the map. He had been taking a boat from Vladivostok to Japan, then another from Japan to Taiwan and finally to Hong Kong.
That dude was a hero! I was stunned! 69 years old, deaf and mute and still, able to ride his way around Chinese administrative dead-ends. It blew my mind. I showed him my respect. He smiled, browsed through more photos and pointed at a Chinese guy smiling next to him on a picture. Vladimir obviously still felt thankful for this dude, he took his pen and wrote his name
for us: Ken Wong. He raised his thumb up, then joined both his hands, the way Chinese people do when they're grateful.
Meanwhile a good amount of passersby had stopped to look and, having understood what it was all about, showed faces of disbelief and admiration. Several euros landed in Vladimir's pocket this way. This was just incredible. He even could live from his show, what a guy!
I asked him if he had been able to travel that far and that long with that single bike he had there but he made me understand that it was in fact his third. He asked me how many CC our Transalp had and, seeing my reply, showed me how his BMW wasn't any more powerful.
600cc, just like us. But then I pointed at his huge suitcases. Aren't they too heavy.
"No problem" Vladimir gestured.
"Yeah, you're tougher than me, Mate!" I gestured, comparing the size of our arms.
Still, I couldn't understand. I looked at Vladimir's itinerary while Abby gave him ten euros. He had been about everywhere, Asia, Australia, Europe, South and North America, Canada, East Africa but I saw no route marked along West Africa. That was pretty odd. Why was he looking for a hotter climate in the Canary Islands rather than just riding down to Senegal like we were planning ?
He had never been there either.
I managed to make him understand my question. When he did, his face changed. He looked reluctant and made strong signs of denial that I roughly translated by something like... NO BLOODY WAY!
"Damn, why's that Matey?"
Well, at that point he had plenty of new signs language for me to learn. They all basically meant: thieves, beggars, stupidity, madness. He pointed at Morocco and gestured: "Fine". He then pointed at further South and said "no" with his index finger.
Hmm... that felt a bit like a blow to us. I mean alright, so far everyone had horrible stories about Black Africa, we were still to hear a single positive one about it but... could it be THAT bad? I mean, if even that guy couldn't make it... bloody hell, where were we putting our feet into? On the other hand, we could hardly see how Vladimir could make it in extremely poor countries anyway if he had to survive with just his street shows... maybe that was the reason why he wasn't going there.
We spent happy days in Cadiz, nearly a week and we felt a little sad to leave. But hey, we've had a cam to grab - we had called our hotel in Agadir to make sure it was there - and we'd better make it to Mauritania before our visas expired! Enough of that nonsense, let's go to Black Africa now and see what that general freaking out really was all about! We couldn't build our opinion on others anyway.
Let's play it safe, we weren't going to return to Ceuta and face the same counter 5. This time, we'll catch the ferry in Tarifa and disembark in Tangier's new port.
Cadiz enjoys a sort of micro climate. As soon as we were back in the mainland, the temperature felt like winter. Oh, damn, it IS winter! Brr, can't wait to be back in Agadir!
Tarifa looked like a pretty little town too. We really should try and see if we could move to Andalusia one day, it seemed to fit very well with our feelings and desires.
The crossing was event less. The Moroccan custom was on board this time and the officer stamped our passports with no hesitation whatsoever. We disembarked in Tangier, crossed the custom with no hassle and could even renew our bike insurance right at the exit. Fast, efficient, no stress. Everyone of us got brand new visas even the Transalp.
Back in Africa!
The sun was shining. The cold had faded away. We were dry and happy to be back in laid back land. We didn't want to use the same highway on our way back so we headed to Chefchaouen. I found my way through the medina back to the riad Baraka as if I had always lived there and we spent one more night with Joseph, Trevor and their mom. The riad was full, business seemed to kick in very well.
But Chefchaouen was very cold. The blue walls of the medina that are so refreshing to look at in summer are unfortunately having exactly the same cooling effect in winter. It was even colder than Cadiz and there was no heating systems in XVIth Century riads.
We left to Fes via Ketama. The ride is long but the road is marvellous. But cold. As we climbed up into the mountains, we eventually met snow and frost but not as bad as to make it unsafe to ride.
All the region of Ketama is a hashish producing area and crowds of people waved and yelled and head lighted us for a sale. We're not talking about buying a spliff or two here, it comes more by the kilo so we made sure not to stop at crossroads for too long.
We arrived in Fes at nightfall and found a riad in the old medina. Wow, I have no idea how old this one was but I felt like an oriental prince in our exquisite suite, sleeping in a bed surmounted by a thick canopy and surrounded by delicate ceramics. The view from the terrace was astonishing. Fes is a big imperial city but we could see it all while having our breakfast up there. What a treat!
We didn't spend too many days visiting Fes though as it wasn't too warm there either. We were surprised to finally find a city that wasn't much traveller oriented. We had trouble finding any decent restaurant and the usual Arabic "Made in China" tourist gear seemed to be missing. Smaller Meknes has our preference over Fes.
Alright, enough time spent in the cold. Let's get down to Agadir quickly. We rode like mad from Fes towards Rabat and Casablance where we almost ran out of petrol. Stations are easily found on national roads but on highways, one can sometimes ride 100km or more without seeing a single one.
As the Transalp was shakily sipping it's very last drops of gasoline, a miraculous Marjane (the local brand of supermarkets) appeared and, holding the gear lever down to use the last bit of our speed, we managed just to pull into the station for a relieving refill. Phew, close shave!
We made it back to our hotel in Agadir before sunset having been on 800km of road for nearly 8 hours. The receptionist was happy to see us back and gave us our parcel with a big smile on his face. Of course it had been opened by the customs at the Post Office and we were still suspecting that to be the cause of the delay but finally, we could turn that page! What a fuss
it had been for such a tiny cam! Next time something fails, no hesitation, it goes straight to the bin, warranty or not.
Although, in this particular case, we were quite happy to have a new one... action cams aren't too well distributed around here. Let's hope this one last longer than the first one.
Western Sahara - Tan Tan Plage
Agadir wasn't as warm as it used to be. We stayed only a couple of days and decided to hit the road to Mauritania. That meant riding 1500km in the desert along the Atlantic Ocean which we didn't expect to travel in just one go. We first took a reasonable ride to Tan Tan. We pushed to Tan Tan Plage 25km away, which probably was a mistake. Tan Tan looked like a welcoming little town while Tan Tan Plage was rather gloomy with factories blowing tons of waste into the air. There were several mobile homes parked in the campsite where we were lucky to find a room. We had to wait for it to be cleaned though and by the time we could unpack our stuff, two hours later, the night had fallen. The whole place was held by a Mauritanian with strange manners. He abruptly approached me at one point, and, pointing his finger at Abby sitting next to me, roughly asked:
"She's your wife?"
Er... why? You want me to park her somewhere else?
Nice dinner of fish though... once we had it on the table.
We woke up early the next morning, happy to escape our depressing looking room where about everything was broken and filthy.
We met a French couple, around breakfast, on their way back to France after having failed entering Senegal with their car. They didn't look very happy. Apparently Senegalese authorities had changed laws regarding car importation but we should be good as long as we ride a bike. Abby and I are considering Plan B, skipping Senegal all together and take a short cut to Mali
from Nouakchott in Mauritania. We'll see how things go. Let's hit the road!
By then, the roadsides had turned into a vast rocky desert with the odd sand dunes from time to time. Being close to the ocean, we didn't feel too hot nor too dry. The petrol stations were coming up regularly enough, no sweat this time. Apart from a few windy sections, the ride was a pleasant one. Sometimes the landscape made us feel as if we were doing some sort of moon riding. At other times, we were treated with amazing views of sharply cut cliffs along the ocean. We crossed the path or overtook very few vehicles, mostly trucks and some rare army jeeps. We didn't see any other "brothers", in fact last time we had, it was Vladimir in Cadiz. A few camping cars could still be spotted, driven by their usual retired folks, but not many.
Tarfaya
Our next stop was Tarfaya, just a three hours ride or so, away from Tan Tan. That little town was dear to our hearts as it is the spot where Saint-Exupéry wrote "The Little Prince" as well as "Courrier Sud". To us, it meant another mythic place of pilgrimage, like Santiago de Compostella, Manali or Goa.
As soon as we arrived, we spotted a little sign to Hotel Cap Juby - that's the old name for Tarfaya, the name mentioned in Saint-Exupéry's books. We stopped and booked a room there. We were extremely well treated. Mohammed who takes care of the few rooms as well as the boutique made sure we were well fed and properly set. His brother being in charge of the Antoine de Saint-Exupéry Museum, he called him and arranged for the doors to be opened for us. As we walked our way to the museum, after an healthy portion of tagine, we took a few pictures of the buildings around us. The style had changed. The windows were much smaller, the colour of the walls was almost always sandy but sometimes a bright spot of red, yellow or blue would revive the streets. On a wall, a tag in English said "Fuck all people here" so I guessed we were approaching the Little Prince's home and indeed, the museum showed its gates a few yards away.
We were welcomed by Mohammed's brother who sold us a sample of the "Little Prince" and stamped it with a Tarfaya chop looking like it had been manufactured at the time of the Aéropostale.
"Saint-Exupéry's family comes here every year." our host proudly said "and a plane festival is organised in Tarfaya every autumn. They stop here on their way to Saint-Louis in Senegal."
The museum is just a room, full of posters, envelopes and letters topped with two life size photos of Saint-Exupéry dressed as a pilot.
"A new museum will be opened in 2011" Mohammed's brother mentioned.
"That won't be a luxury" I thought. "The Little Prince" is the fourth most read book in the world after the Bible, the Koran and Karl Marx's "Capital". Isn't it sad that the three first generate so much activity but the fourth, the best in my opinion, the purest at least, has materialised so little. Couldn't it at least make Tarfaya a decent happy city ? Every single person we met there was friendly and smiling but damn, is that city poor looking! As we walked towards the ocean, we saw Casa Mar, that strange building standing with its feet in the sea. Kids were playing football on the beach. Walls had been built to contain the sand but it had piled up to the top still; it all looked like a lost battle. The seafront had been paved with ceramic tiles but was covered with thick sand while the benches had begun sinking into it. Is there any hope for
this little town?
We carried on walking through the few streets and discovered a coffee shop. Surprise! There was the Little Prince peacefully sitting at the terrace, his scarf around his neck and his blond hair shining in the sunlight. Did he finally come back from his tiny planet as Saint-Exupéry suggested at the very end of his book? We sat at his table to investigate. The Little Prince
was Danish and had arrived in Tarfaya after a long ride by bus from Marrakesh. We were the three only tourists in town, a Danish Little Prince, a Chinese Sheerazade and a French Ali Baba... what a sight for the locals!
After a good night sleep, we packed up and were about to leave when Mohammed insisted on giving each of us a little present. Abby being the first Chinese who had ever slept in his hotel, he wanted to thank her for having written a nice note in Chinese in his guest book. Abby got a key holder and, for having translated that note in French, I got a photography of the planes that had gathered in Tarfaya during the first festival in 2004.
"There were lots of planes then" Mohammed said with a sigh "but this year..."
I guess that's how a financial crisis can still hit remote little sandy towns far from anywhere. Not fair.
Dakhla
The next stop would be Dakhla, a long ride away, so, as we left Tarfaya, we filled up our jerrycans for the first time, unsure as if we would find enough petrol stations on our way.
As we approached Laayoune, we were stopped by a police block. Usually they wave us through but not this time. The first one to stop us had been in Tan Tan so we were prepared. Abby gave the policeman a sample of the information paper she had recopied ten times since road blocks were due to multiply. It contained every detail a cop could possibly want to know about us and our bike and it saved us lots of time.
Laayoune would have seemed like a nice quiet city if the heavy presence of the military had not reminded us of some recent reports of Sahrawi camps being badly hassled. However we were free to cross the town and everything was peaceful. Another police check point slowed us down at the exit of the city, then a quick refill and the rocky desert soon surrounded us again.
As we were nearing the next city, Boujdour, I spotted another roadblock. I killed the throttle, tried to get down to fourth gear and found my foot floating free. The gear shifter had gone! I had to use the brakes to stop the bike near the cops where I could further investigate what had happened down there.
To my relief, the shifter was still there, just hanging miserably, it wasn't lost. But still, that was bad news. I got down the bike to fiddle with it a bit. The rims were dead, it didn't hold anymore, I couldn't change gear. At the same time I noticed how the chain seemed very loose and how the teeth of the back crown had turned sharp as knives with some even starting to bend in their extremities. The entire chain kit was dead as well! Damn, was that sand lethal! It just grinds
everything to dust, and in a very short time too! It looked like we had more repairs to do ahead of us but the most urgent was to fix that shifter. But for that, we would have to get into the city first. How was I going to start that bike, fully loaded, with Abby sitting behind me, in fifth gear?
Well, it's a Transalp, what can I say, it's built for these eventualities obviously. The engine didn't stalk, I helped it a bit, pushing with my feet while playing with the clutch lever and off we went. That V-Twin engine is a little miracle in itself!
I didn't think simply replacing the shifter screw would really last very long but that's what the Boujdour mechanic did anyway and it seemed to work so never mind, we had to make it to Dakhla before dark. If it could last until Nouakchott, we could, hopefully, replace both shifter and chain kit there.
We didn't manage to make it all the way to Dakhla on just one tank. We had to stop by the roadside and refill from our jerrycans which reminded us about the necessity to have a funnel as well. Pouring gasoline into a tank isn't an easy thing to do when the wind blows. Wasting the precious liquid all over the tank takes a whole new meaning in the desert. In Hong Kong,
when that happens to my shiny, brass enhanced, Kawasaki W650, I'm fuming because I'll have to clean it off and quickly to keep the bike immaculate look. Here, I was more concerned about having enough juice to finish the ride!
Well, next time we'll ride in a desert on the only road available around, we'll still turn the GPS on because about three kilometres after our hazardous refill, the crossroad to Dakhla showed up. Petrol wasn't far at all and we could have made it on the reserve.
Dakhla is situated on a curious strip of land that stretches into the ocean so the temperature is always pleasant there. With the proximity of the Tropic of Cancer and the humidity in the air, we could almost feel as if we were in Hong Kong... with our eyes shut that is. At the beginning of that strip of land, the rocky desert changes into a sandy one. It's very spectacular and beautiful. Such a treat for the eyes! It felt like a worthy reward after the 1200km of desert we had just crossed.
We were knackered. Strange though. The road had been perfect, good tarmac, no sand, no potholes, almost no curves... why were we so tired then ? There seemed to be no reason at all, we just had to sit there, on our blue saddle, hardly making any effort or movement at all. We weren't particularly thirsty, nor burned by the sun and we didn't feel too hot nor too cold.
Maybe emptiness has that effect on human souls.
We found a rather gloomy looking hotel where we could, at least, park the Transalp safely by pushing it into the hall. It was cheap, 130 bucks a night with shower and hot water. The sheets were clean so that was good enough for us.
Unfortunately, the mosque was just next door... it doesn't matter how long we stay, it still wakes us up at 6:30am. Which isn't bad after all, we gotta make a move to Mauritania early. Crossing the customs will, apparently, take us some time.
We liked Dakhla, its climate, its people. The city looks very cosy with its large avenues, its promenade along the ocean, its well maintained buildings and its numerous coffee shop terraces. We took our breakfasts at a cute place next to the sea, called Samarkand, where we watched the sun rise. For lunch, we had spotted a tiny local restaurant where we were served
delicious chicken and glasses of sour milk. One day, the restaurant owner stopped me on my way out to re-button my shirt!
"You have jumped a step" he said. How sweet is that!? Last time was my dad... I was 8.
A couple of days later, feeling rested, we packed our stuff in the early morning and departed to Mauritania, about 350km away, after a last breakfast at Samarkand. We had refilled our jerrycans just in case but the next petrol station appeared long before we needing them. By noon, we reached the last station before the border. I pulled in as gasoline is cheaper in South Morocco than in Mauritania and, of course, that's when that damn gear shifter decided to hang miserably again.
Well, little did I know that it had, in fact, chosen the most perfect time to do so as we were indeed in the last Moroccan spot with garage and mechanics.
The guys were very efficient, they just welded the damn thing back. I had no idea how the next mechanic would be able to mount a new chain kit after that but at least we were good to go. We had a nice quiet lunch there and got ready before our last stage in Morocco.
Crossing the border to Mauritania
About 80km later, we began spotting the Moroccan border at the horizon. At the first counter, the police officer told us to wait because, he said, Internet was down. Wow, that was some news! Had Americans gone that mad about Wikileaks? "Nah", he said, it would return soon.
Indeed, soon later, we found ourselves heading for the custom check. Abby produced all the required documents while I waited near the bike. I spotted two vehicles which I had noticed during lunch. They had pulled in the same petrol station as we did, one white car with a French plate and a blue German lorry. They were apparently travelling together. Soon later, I noticed
Abby talking with the French driver, a 65 years old looking dude as bold as I am, as they were waiting at the counter.
Philippe, as his name turned out to be, had lots of stories about Mauritania. He was on his way to Dakar to deliver his old Pajero to his young and charming associate, he declared, but he would be back to France as soon as he could because he couldn't stand Africa anymore.
"Why?" I asked "What's wrong with it?"
Sometimes it's enough to read someone's eyes, the meaning is clearer than words but still, he said with an exasperated look on his face.
"Phew! Africa is probably the place where one encounters the most extreme cases of stupidity, greed and dishonesty. I'm totally fed up with it. I promised that car a long time ago, so I'm going back one last time, but that's it. It's the last time and I won't return!"
"Tell me more, please. How can it be that bad?"
"Well, you don't need to go far, just wait until you leave the Moroccan border, they'll be waiting for you in the no-man's land. I've seen a guy there who just had an accident with his car. I don't know how he did it but he had managed to turn his car over and he had injured his leg very badly. They ran to him and requested 1000 euros to bring him back to the border.
Since he didn't have that much money with him, they just let him lay there with his car. And that's just one story out of a hundred I could tell you!"
"Wow, sounds promising!"
Oh well, there went another dark oracle. I had grown pretty blasé by now. We'd soon see by ourselves anyway.
It took really a long time to sort out all the stamps and requirements at the Moroccan border. I had plenty of time to chat with some Moroccan guards while Abby was dealing with the last counter. They were pretty cool but them too looked at me with a little smile as I explained where we were going.
"I wouldn't take my "gazelle" over there" one said - a gazelle is the Moroccan way to talk about pretty girls - "It wouldn't be a good idea."
"Why not?"
"It's not safe and there's nothing for her over there. She wouldn't like it, specially on a motorcycle."
"Why is it not safe?"
"People, over there, they don't care, they rob anything, every time they can. Can't trust anyone."
Hmm... so that's how Mauritanians are considered in Morocco, I thought, trying to take it lightly. However, being just next to Mauritania, I started having a few doubts. Is it going to be that bad? What's with everybody!? They all seemed to agree.
Abby returned. "All clear, we can go." she said. But there was no excitement in her voice. I assumed she had heard her share of horrible stories on her own... damn, I never had so many bad reports about any place before!
She placed our documents back in the tank bag and I turn on the engine. Time to see by ourselves how things really were. At long last! We were the 14th of December. We had been in Morocco since the 28th of August. We still could make it to Dakar for Christmas as planned. Let's hit that bad mean no-man's land!
One thing we knew about that place was to keep on track. Landmines had been buried all along the Mauritanian border as some French drivers had recently discovered at the expense of their lives.
On track, yes indeed. The tarmac stops there, right after the last Moroccan gate. It feels pretty ridiculous really. We could see the Mauritanian border at the horizon and the road that stretched from it but between the two countries, nothing. Worst, the "track" was looking very bad, sharp rocks, deep patches of sand, no signs to keep the traveller in the right direction and, of course, a multitude of tires traces among which to get yourself lost.
What a mess! One of the gloomiest road sight I had ever seen with ruined abandoned vehicles turned over everywhere as if a war had hit that little patch of desert precisely during a bad traffic jam. Some still had plate numbers on and to my surprise, I spotted several French and Spanish vehicles. What could have happened to their owner?
We passed a few shacks made of all sorts of material and apparently inhabited by some refugees from DRC, as some handwritten signs seemed to indicate. What were they doing here!?
I didn't really have time to think about it. The sand was beginning to be too deep for my liking. Abby wisely suggested that she'd get down and walk. I was grateful. Now I know what "sand rivers" mean. It means riding dead slow, trying to keep the front wheel in the "hardest" bits and hit the throttle in a succession of little accelerations, one after the other.
Of course, I learnt that trick after several times of having the Transalp almost bury itself deep into the sand. Fortunately, I was checking the back wheel often, never letting it sink down as much as having the chain touch the sand. Our chain kit was just begging to collapse, I couldn't afford that to happen, not here.
I managed to get the Transalp through to a spot of hard ground where, completely out of breath, I waited for Abby to catch up with me. As I looked around, I could see the French guy in his white car and his German mate in his lorry driving far away from me on the left. They also seemed to be waving at me to get closer to them. I had chosen to stick right and them left.
Was our explosion imminent? I didn't think so. As long as I followed traces of tires, there should be no landmines there. The Mauritanian border was still right in front of me. No worries... except for that bloody sand.
I checked if Abby was making it through. She was... as fast as one could wearing MX boots in deep sand. And what were those two DRC refugees doing, racing each others as they ran in our direction? And now they were being taken over by the third one in a car which he was driving like a total maniac. I guessed that must have been one of the abandoned vehicles because no one in his right mind would ever drive like he did. The rocks made it jumped high, he would slide it from left to right in the sand, I was scared he would hit Abby but he managed to avoid her and stopped next to me.
"You need a guide? I can guide you through to the other side" he said with a cunning smile "against a small fee that is."
I giggled. Wasn't he even more lost than us? The two other refugees had given up their foot race. The motorised one had won.
"And how much would that small fee be, my dear Sir?" I asked, still out of breath.
"20" he replied firmly.
"Dirhams?" I asked.
"No, euros!" he dared requesting.
Abby had now just made it to the bike.
"Then you must be kidding. See, I laugh: hahaha!" I said with an aggressive tone that surprised even me.
I guess I really don't like vultures.
"10 then?"
I didn't even look at him. Abby was back in the saddle, let's go!
I made sure to spray lots of sand from my back wheel onto the vulture's semi-stolen car and, half sliding, half pushing with the feet, I made it to the Mauritanian border where, to my great disappointment, I had to admit the French and German vehicles had made it faster than us.
The German driver walked to me and sermoned:
"What were you doing? Why did you go in the soft spots? You should follow someone if you don't know where you're going. It's dangerous!"
Sometimes, it's hard to remain polite and patient. It really wasn't the right time or place for a lorry driver to try to teach me how to ride my bike.
"There are soft spots the way you took too. What makes you think I didn't know where I was going? We're all perfectly fine ain't we!?"
He left and never said another word to us. No-man's land know-it-all!
I realised I wasn't in a very good mood and tried to chill out. Abby went courageously back at dealing with custom counters.
A tall, uniformed, gun wearing Mauritanian came to me as I was parking the Transalp and seriously, requested from me to let him have a go at it. "Just a little bit, around there" he said.
The presence of the gun prevented me from being more specific than my simple:
"No!"
He insisted for a while, trying his tone of authority, but never got any different answer from not impressed, rather exasperated little me. What was this place anyway, Looney Park ?
Frankly, I felt a little resentful for the simple fact that neither Morocco nor Mauritania had ever bothered to pave that no-man's land over all these years, let alone hiding land mines near it. This really goes beyond nonchalance.
The French man in his Pajero approached and took a look at the Transalp. We discussed about bikes for a while and pointing at my worn out chain kit, I enquired if he knew of any good mechanic in Nouakchott.
"Oh" he said "there's no longer any good one in entire Mauritania! There was one in Nouakchott who knew something about motorcycles but he died recently."
Why was everything I heard so gloomy?
"Where are you heading?" he asked
"Well, we might have to push it to Dakar then. We need to fix that sooner than later. Surely there are good mechanics in Dakar, isn't it?"
"Oh yes. Look, I leave you with my telephone number in Dakar but I'm leaving back to France in three days. If you arrive too late, call my associate, she'll help you finding a good garage."
"Well, thank you! That's extremely kind of you."
But I was still fuming inside because that chain kit was never going to make it to Dakar. C'mon, there's gotta be an half decent mechanic in Nouadhibou! How did locals repair their vehicles after blowing them on landmines... with tape and rubber bands?
Meanwhile, an odd couple had arrived, a blind French man and his Moroccan helper.
The French man had a backpack and a cane. His eyes were completely blank. He put down his bag and began visiting the area with his cane while his helper took care of the paper work. I observed the blind man for a while, trying to imagine what it was like, not to see the no-man's land, nor the desert around us, nor the forest of dead cars, nor the few refugee shacks, nor the unfriendly faces of uniformed gun holders. The noises around us were quite insignificant, just the sounds of a few engines, the chat of a few soldiers, no birds, no insects, no fruits nor drink sellers unfortunately, no particular wind in the desert. The air was dry and mildly warm. The ground was sandy but hard. It could have been anywhere. Is that why this gentleman was keeping a look of pure joy on his face? Anyone else looked concerned.
At this moment, I had to smile. I had just spotted a copy of myself rushing out from the customs office, the same rare long grey hair that floated wildly in the air, the same length of never-shaved beard and about the same age as me. He must have seen me smile because he walked in my direction and said"
"Ah, you're travelling on a motorcycle! I have a 1200cc but I would never risk myself on those roads with it... too dangerous. They've got holes that make you jump, you know. And they're always where you expect them the least! Oh no, I wouldn't ride my bike in this country."
"So you're off to Morocco then?" I asked my fellow lookalike.
"Yeah, that's my car there. I'm so fed up with Africa!" he replied passing a hand above his head to show me up to where he had it.
"Have a good trip then. It's cold up there."
"Have a good ride and... be careful. They're mad."
He didn't say who was but I got the idea.
Come on people, if you haven't got anything positive to say, you might as well leave me alone, I'm already not very impressed by what I'm seeing, don't make it worst! I might as well go and talk to that blind gentleman if I wanna brighten up my day.
I didn't have any time for that as his Moroccan helper came out from the customs office with the papers ready. He was followed by the French Pajero driver so he asked him if he could take the blind man and himself along to Nouakchott in his car. The Pajero owner didn't reply and, jumping in his car, turned the engine on instead and just left. The Moroccan helper had just the time to yell:
"We are French too you know!"
But the Pajero driver just raised his arms and accelerated.
"Do I really need this guy's contact in Dakar?" I thought by myself.
The Moroccan helper then was approached by a Mauritanian guy claiming to have a taxi.
"How much do you want to take us to Nouadhibou?" asked the helper
"100 bucks each"
"But that's double the price! On the other side, we had an offer to Nouakchott for 300 and that's a much longer trip. Nouadhibou is only 50km away!"
In Morocco, a harsh bargain would have then begun. Not here, the Mauritanian driver just left.
The helper finally turned to me and asked where I was going.
"Nouadhibou but I'm riding a bike. Sorry."
Abby soon returned, all papers done, accompanied by a Mauritanian "guide" who advised us to go to a campsite called "La Baie des Lévriers" in Nouadhibou.
"There are two Swiss tourists on bikes there. Maybe you can get more information from them." he said.
"Ok, thanks, we'll check it out." I replied cheerfully. That was good news as we didn't have much chance to meet many bikers so far, apart from Vladimir.
After wishing the blind man and his helper good luck and "bon voyage", we jumped on our Transalp and left that gloomy spot.
We were happy to be back on the road. It had taken three hours to travel three kilometres! We had seen better days but at last, there we were, in Mauritania, a brand new country to discover!
A few kilometres later, despite the landscape being exactly the same as on the other side of the border, an empty desert of rocks that is, Abby took our Canon Ixus out of its case and began shooting our Mauritanian entry.
Not long after, we spotted a messy gathering of cars and trucks on the road ahead of us. Abby was aiming the cam at it when, all of a sudden, an army uniformed and sunglasses wearing pedestrian appeared from behind a truck, walked to the middle of our path and signalled us to stop.
"What are you doing ?" roared the guy from behind his shades, with an aggressive tone of voice.
"Hello. We're going to Nouadhibou."
"That's not what I'm asking. Are you playing or what?" he roughly asked, taking me completely by surprise.
"Playing ??? What do you mean?"
"So you people think you can come to this country and feel free to do whatever you want?"
"I don't understand. Really. What's the problem ?"
"Your camera, are you playing or what!?"
"No. We're taking photos."
"For what?"
"Er, we're tourists, tourists take photos... you know."
"You cannot take photos here, open your camera."
"I can't. What do you mean?"
"I want to see the film inside."
"This is a digital camera."
"A what ?"
"Oh never mind!"
"Give it to me."
He took the cam from Abby's hands and passed it to another uniformed dude who had come to the rescue. He said something to him in Arab, probably ordering him to open our camera case.
"So you people feel free to do whatever you want in our country!?"
"Look, I didn't see any signs about not taking pictures. If you want tourists to be aware of it, then put some signs. We just didn't know ok?"
Meanwhile, the uniformed colleague of our shaded aggressor had admitted his inability to find any film inside our digital camera and was being yelled at for it.
"Open this camera!" he insisted, handing me our Canon.
"It cannot be open. It's digital."
"Then, the photos inside, you must er... phew!"
"Delete you mean?"
"Yes!"
"Sure, ok. No problem."
"Where are you going?"
"Nouadhibou"
"Then go but don't do it again!"
What a difference from the Moroccan cops we met! That dude was completely loco! In a flash, I saw the sort of Benelton poster we were composing, the three of us, in the middle of nowhere, the Black, the Yellow and the White, and it looked as if one of the three strings was somehow being completely out of tune. We left quite stunned by that rather tense and unexpected
encounter.
Abby and I didn't talk but a big grin came to my face three kilometres later when she started filming again. I love this girl! But we missed filming that incredibly long train that crossed our path on our right.
I touched her knee soon later though because there was another road block coming up! Damn, could they put bars and restaurants instead, we've been in the desert all day!
Alright, this time the cop was in a good mood. After asking all sorts of personal questions about Abby and me and then telling me that she couldn't leave Mauritania without me making her pregnant first, he let us go on our way.
Had we landed on "Beep Beep"'s road by any chance!?
Then we understood why they build deserts in Mauritania, that's about how much is needed to escape the hell of cities on weekends.
Mauritania - Nouadhibou
We suddenly left the desert to be surrounded by people and walls. I can hardly describe the difference any better. The dust and the sand were still there, the lack of sense as well, with just the road in the middle. But now there were people and cars and goats and dirt everywhere. The goats were eating the dirt, the people were crossing from one empty side of the road to the other empty side of the road... dangerously. Cars were in conditions yet unknown to us. The carts that were pulled by galloping donkeys looked better and cleaner than them. There was nothing new, freshly painted, beautiful or simply clean to rest the eyes on and therefore, a big feeling of depressing hopelessness was the first impression Nouadhibou gave us.
Riding the Transalp suddenly took a new meaning as well...sort of Russian Roulette meaning, with vehicles travelling fast towards us in the same lane while others forced their way from the multitude of dusty paths and blind corners on the sides. Using my horn became a sour joke, I might as well have taped it down instead. I had no time to check my mirrors because of the anarchy in front of me but I wasn't very optimistic about what was probably happening at my back, hearing how some engines sounded close. We were riding on our luck. Going aggressively meant a sure crash. Doing it gently was a sure crash. I just had to adapt to the constantly changing traffic as we came through. I wasn't riding, I was avoiding accidents.
The atmosphere that we generally sense from attitudes, expressions and eye contacts didn't raise our spirits either. What a difference from Morocco! There was not much kindness, laid-back spirit nor hospitality to be felt around. Lots of blank expressions or stained by impatience, tiredness, lack of care nor enthusiasm. As much as Hong Kong is able to generate motivation from even the laziest bone in the universe... me for instance, as much we felt this place could drain the working power from even a Chinese immigrate.
Actually, the whole city reminded us of that room we had in Tan Tan Plage!
Uneasiness began to kick in. I've got alarm bells since an old misadventure I once had in Nepal, and they were beginning to ring loudly.
We found "La Baie des Lévriers" just as the night was falling. First the boy at the entry of the campsite seemed reluctant to let us in. But I mentioned about the Swiss tourists and he finally agreed to open the gate. We entered a courtyard covered with sand but found a patch of hard ground to rest the side stand. We looked around us. An orange VW van from the early seventies with Swiss plates was parked under the campsite only tree, next to the toilets, and a caravan mounted on the chassis of a lorry, Swiss as well, could be seen on the other side. Four persons were drinking "apéritif" next to the van, "Ricard" if I could judge from the recognisable smell that floated in the air to my suddenly mouth watering nostrils.
I immediately went to introduce myself and Abby but I was unfortunately too late and was left standing dry. Tss, they weren't even bikers as that guide at the border had claimed! Bikers don't drink "pastis" in front of a thirsty brother who's just spent the day riding in deserts 'til dry!
Never mind. We'll fix the thirst later. Let's unpack.
The boy opened a door and showed us our room... a windowless cubicle that is, that contained two suspicious looking mattresses thrown on the dirty floor and a camping table which feet had been fixed with first aid tape. The walls had seen paint but probably not since the first world war. In fact jails in Kathmandu looked better than this. A hundred bucks for that dump!? For thirty more we get at least a bathroom with hot water in Morocco!
But it was dark and too late to find anything else.
After having discovered that the campsite offered nothing to drink let alone to eat, we found a little restaurant nearby. In Morocco, when we're dead thirsty, we sit at the terrace of a coffee shop and we're served mint tea within ten minutes for a maximum of six bucks. In Mauritania, we realised that if we did ever let ourselves be dead thirsty, then we'd be dead indeed by the time something liquid would be brought to our table. Of course that works for dead hungry too. Our spaghetti were served like two hours after ordering with that explanation for the delay:
"It wasn't easy to make."
And the bill wasn't easy to forget either.
I was found wrong about Chinese immigrates in Mauritania. While expecting for our "haute cuisine" dinner, Abby met three Shanghai gentlemen working in Nouadhibou since ten years and they still looked healthy. What could they have possibly found to trade in this place for so long, plastic containers? Once again I found this Chinese determination almost scary. They were very kind however and Abby had a pleasant conversation with them. To my surprise, as I was watching them talk, I noticed how these four Chinese faces, despite their usual and polite controlled emotions, reflected more "joie de vivre" than anyone I had crossed eyes with since our entry in the country... damn, did I truly love Asia!
Abby too apparently. When she returned and ate her gourmet dinner, I noticed, to her reddening eyes, how homesick she really began to turn.
What I felt, then, having just read again the "Little Prince" from the sample we'd bought in Tarfaya, was an undermining urge to find a little yellow snake in the Mauritanian desert and be sent back with her to our tiny planet. No good!
"I totally hate this place" I said finally.
"Me too" she replied.
"I haven't seen a single thing I like about it since we came in."
"Neither did I!"
We had plenty of time to talk that night, Abby and I, as mosquitoes seemed to have set a seminar in our room.
We had always agreed that our trip should be a pleasant one. We weren't going to waste our time and money in places we didn't like or that made us feel unwelcome. It was a treat we were offering ourselves, not a mission from God. we wanted to spend time together, good time. We weren't pleased at all with what we had encountered once we had passed that nonsense no-man's land after Morocco and conditions would probably get gently worst up to Namibia from what we had gathered. Obviously it would be better and cheaper if we could be self-reliable in terms of shelter and food, let alone hygiene. That's probably why everybody was travelling in camping cars. Did we want to get ripped off every time the Transalp would need a repair? Or
bullied at every road block? Or left to die with a broken leg by the side of the road ? Were we willing to waste our good mood for the sake of seeing a few crocodiles? Nah! We wanted good rides, followed by good accommodations and meals, in interesting if not friendly environments. And sun. Was it too much to ask? Actually no, it had been like that for the past three months in Morocco. We could just go back there, spend winter visiting the areas we had not yet seen and then ride towards Italy and Greece in spring before heading back to Asia via Russia, Mongolia and Japan, if the Transalp could take it that is. We could then ask Geoff to build us a mobile home, possibly armoured, and come back to Africa with it. We could even hook an XR at the back. Yup, that sounded more like it. We would never make it the way we were set, let's just forget Africa for now and get back to having a good trip instead. After all, that's what riding free was all about. But first we had to fix that chain kit. Let's hope it would hold until Dakhla. Don't move, Darling, that mosquito's on your shoulder!
The campsite owner woke us up at eight the next morning, banging on our door, to claim his due, which, after the night we had enjoyed, didn't help changing our nocturne and radical decision. Both Swiss vehicles had already left so we packed our stuff and rode the Transalp to the same restaurant as the previous night to have our breakfast.
Half an hour later, we were ready to insert ourselves into the mad Nouadhibou traffic again and made it safe to the crossroad where, without a second of hesitation, we turned left towards the border, leaving the road to Nouakchott without any regrets.
The same mad cop stopped us again and asked if we had deleted our photos, tell me about a maniac! "Yes, of course Officer" was my reply "you told us to do so isn't it?"
"Ok then, where are you going now?"
"Well, back to Morocco where taking pictures is allowed without permission from any ministry." I said with a blank tone of voice.
"Alright, you may go now."
We rode back to the border and had our papers sorted out again.
"Why are you leaving so soon?" a guide asked.
"Sincerely? It's just no good value for the money, it's not worth it." I replied with an embarrassed tone, not eager to hurt this guy's feelings too much. "This just isn't for us. Sorry but we prefer to go back to Morocco. The bike wouldn't make it either anyway, we better change our plans before it's too late and we'll be better prepared next time."
I must have avoided hurting his feelings or perhaps he wanted to show us that not everything is bad in Mauritania, he said:
"You have spoken the truth. I will show you the way to the Moroccan border. Tell your wife to sit in the car with me and just follow me with your bike, it will be easier that way because there are soft spots of sands a bit everywhere."
"Well, thank you very much! That's really nice of you."
"Let's go then."
Once on the other side of the no-man's land, our guide stopped and got off to say good bye. He gave us his card and told us to contact him if we ever returned. "You're a good pilot" he said to me "I've seen you in my mirrors, you did very well in the sandy patches."
"Well, thanks a lot for your help, for sure your assistance made it much easier."
"You should come back with more bikes. I could guide you through the pistes. There's a national park here, with lots of birds."
Abby gave him a little present from Hong Kong we had brought with us. We promised we would come back one day, thanked him again for his help and hospitality and off we went, riding the few yards that still separated us from the Moroccan border.
We were welcomed there by the same custom officers we had met the day before.
"How come you're back so soon," one of them asked. "problems of visa?"
"No, er... well, we just didn't like it, we were missing Morocco too much, you people are so cool. What a difference from over there!" I replied with a smile.
Suddenly, all the tension had gone, we felt happy and relieved to be back on the right track.
"Hmm... can't blame you, I've been there once, it's quite horrible there. Morocco is paradise compared to it."
"Exactly. What's the point of going to hell when you can stay in paradise huh!? By the way, if this is heaven and over there is hell, then what's that?" I asked, pointing at the no-man's land.
"These are the gates of hell!" the customs officer replied with a laugh.
"Hmm.. yes, makes sense. Can't say we weren't warned after crossing those three kilometres!"
We continued our conversation while Abby was busy with the customs counters when, at one point, he mentioned that he had taken his first piano lesson the night before. Was there a piano here?
When Abby returned, I told her we had a little surprise for her. The three of us then walked into the customs quarters and entered a private room where an electronic piano was on display on top of a table. The owner, a customs officer too, turned it on, letting Abby play for us. She taught the two Moroccans a few chords on the go and, in return, the piano owner, who was
pretty good at it by the way, showed Abby how to play "Aïcha", a popular and quite excellent song by Cheb Kahled.
As I watched the three musicians having such a good time together, I couldn't help thinking: "There! We were all in tune again. That's what we were looking for, that's what travelling was all about." We had done the right move indeed."
We rode to the first petrol station after the border, next to Hotel Barbas - there's another one, brand new, next to it now - and had lunch there. Petrol is cheaper in Morocco than in Mauritania. Food too. Both are better quality. We stuffed ourselves with chicken and fries and the Transalp with premium grade gasoline and off we went back to Dakhla. Our visas had been once again renewed, we could stay until mid-March. Abby was back to all smiles mode, me too.
We're now enjoying quiet lazy days in Dakhla, waiting for the chain kit we ordered to arrive. It should be there tonight.
We're in no hurry to leave as the temperature is very pleasant while Europe is under snow and Hong Kong suffers 7 poor little degrees. We enjoy mint tea at the terraces of coffee shops while watching Sahrawis pass by in their beautiful traditional robes. We even take pleasure in the absence of any signs of Christmas, no damn "hohoho", no bloody jingle bells, just a
muezzin chanting verses of the Koran at 6:30 every morning. Life's good.
Allah Ouakbar indeed !
However, we do wish anyone who reads this blog a very Merry Christmas and an excellent new year 2011. Let's see what that one has in store for us huh!?
Cheers!
Nish & Abby
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