*just realised my last post said border crossing at Diama, missed out Mauritania oops! Meant to say near Nouadibou ;)
If we were giving out awards for one liners in the face of adversity on this trip first nomination would have to go to Mr Pairman. We were leaving Dakhla, a surfers paradise peninsula on the coast of western sahara, when we passed again through a speed trap we'd seen the night before on the way there. Keeping perfectly to the national limit of 100kph we kept on, slowed and were pulled over. Just a document check surely. No, the smart copper insisted the zone was an 80! I was confused, was he saying there was no delimited sign or was he saying 80, delimit, 80 was actually all 80? Either way he seemed insistent we were in the wrong. 'What are we...' he gestured to us three conspirators ...'going to do now?' he said, surely this was a pointed question. Robin came up with the award winning reply: 'Tourismous, nous être touriste', exactly as he answered each time a checkpoint enquired what was he doing in the country! The policemen paused, then looked at the ground, then burst in to laughter shaking his head, 'go, go, go hehe! What a stroke of genius from the man on 'Le Mutton'!
Dakhla was a little disappointing to be honest, we had thoughts of golden beaches, bars and cafe life but it was much like every other western Saharaian military filled town, just on the coast. The red and white concrete kurbstones and sand free concrete streets were not exclusive to Assa after all but seemed dependent on two things; being in/near western Saharan and largely occupied by military. We had stocked up on provisions and continue on our way after some R'n'R at the Palais de Bedouine.
The road continued much the same for another 400kms or so. We had been given the name of a motel attached to apetrol station but after all the time in town we headed down to the beach 80kms north of the border for one last night in Western Sahara. Getting across the sand was reasonably familiar but the surprise came when we reached the other side of the dune, two encampments on the beach! It really was beginning to seem that behind every dune was a Bedouine tent :) picking a spot between the two but set back we had something to eat with the sunset over the sea and put up the tent at night fall. Two friendly looking men approached as we did, waving. It was the Moroccan Royal Marines! Nice guys we had a chat and two of their guard dogs decided to stay with us until we went to bed, it felt almost homely :)
We got to the border about midday after passing the tropic of cancer, we'd been warned it could take a while and risk was that Mauritania would close at five and could leave people stranded in the 6km of desert wasteland. Actually after stamping the passports and white export sheets in the office we passed through three document checks and were out of Morocco tout de suite, released in to the wilderness.
All our advice warned the area could still be mined from years of conflicts. Stick to the tracks was fairly easy advice to follow but which tracks, it was a warren! Most of the tracks were actually sheets of white rock emerging from the dust but there could be deep hollows of sand between waiting for the unwary, as were the guides and helpers ready to dig out a stranded traveller! Cresting one rock I did get caught out and then the friendly guys helped right the ktm but we were determined to do the crossing ourselves and with waypoints on the gps it wasn't too bad, I also cheated a little and took off after a black Merc that seemed to be disappearing in the right direction!
About half way we met some money lenders, guys in blue sheets waving handfuls of green and blue notes. They surrounded the bikes waving mobile phone with exchange rates on the screen. From 300 Ougilias per Euro we got a couple up to 350, later we actually managed 400 at a bank but we needed 40 Euros worth now for the formalities at the border. Compared to to Tangier or even Sebta every body was pretty relaxed and most took a 'no merci' first time, maybe the intense heat may it all just too much effort.
It was still a relief after riding past the menacing wrecks of so many cars abandoned in then holocaustic landscape to see the red and white striped bar and buildings of the Mauritanian border.
A passport and visa check on the left then in to the army building on the right for the bike documents. It could have been worse but was still military beurocracy, announce your presence to the office, get roughly shown out, get paper when they are finished tea, lots of finger snapping and eventually get called up to the boss mans desk. No chance we were messing about with any cigarettes here! They laughed, drank tea, chewed toothpicks but eventually stamped things in the right places, a great relief as I was pretty unsure about some of the questions in the form and just waiting to get sent back like poor Peter at the consulate in Rabat! Tip is to bring a couple of pens; it's expected and I wasn't sure I was going to get mine back at one point, even worse I'd already borrowed it off a thankfully very chilled out tout! 20Euros and I was off, where it went I had no idea but Robin thought he had read about it being genuine before.
A parking charge outside (genuine) then more passport checks in the police office on the left. The final soldier was wrapped head to toe in olive green, he seemed to like the invisible man effect of only the sunglasses being available to intimidate the visitors, from his hands he looked like a kid underneath At last we were in Mauritania but it still took an hour to sort insurance at the office on the left (6.50 Euro for 10 days) and register with the tourist authority on the right. The tourist guy was a smart young man in a shirt and tank top, he talked with pride and enthusiasm about his beautiful country and showed me videos and photos, I felt awful we were only transiting. In fact the news had just arrived about Gadafi's sons being killed so were were going to have to keep abreast of developments and possibly even curtail our time unfortunately. The pictures and videos he showed painted a beautiful picture of desert landscapes, canions and ancient histories and civilisations.
We'd given different destinations to everyone but the officials and headed towards Nouakchott past a ramshackle road block with a pickup at the junction with the main road from Nouakchott and Nouadibou, unlike the military or police. After 5kms we turned around, better spend the night in Nouadibou, pressing on and spending the night at the motel we had heard about wouldn't have gained us anything anyway as we could reach Noukashott the next evening anyway.
Nouabidou was a city of goats to first appearances, the were everywhere! Along the road, on the road, eating a polly bag or a flipflop, a number even wearing a mono-bra over their udder, tied neatly behind the back! Everywhere was sandy with plastic waste blowing about, this was a very different town to back over the border. One real lane became two and half, lined with sand it was a game of chicken with joining traffic. The difference in vehicles was extreme, fairly smart mercs and pick ups jostled for space with forty year old renaults missing headlights or suspension.
Ver nicely Hotel Saida helped us find Auberge Abba which was a little more in our price range. When we arrived drums and singing echoed round the dusty courtyard from a Senegalise wrestling competition over the back wall, the receptionist communicated this with a demonstration!
In the courtyard we spotted an alloy boxed dr 650 belonging to a German chap, Torsten who we went out for dinner with, of all things getting a great Chinese meal round the corner! His plan was to ride the iron ore train inland and invited us to join him. It sounded like a great trip sitting on top if he wagons but given the political situation we regrettably had to decline. I'm looking forward to reading about it in his blog though and keeping in touch! (http://www.tottys-race.de/).
If we were giving out awards for one liners in the face of adversity on this trip first nomination would have to go to Mr Pairman. We were leaving Dakhla, a surfers paradise peninsula on the coast of western sahara, when we passed again through a speed trap we'd seen the night before on the way there. Keeping perfectly to the national limit of 100kph we kept on, slowed and were pulled over. Just a document check surely. No, the smart copper insisted the zone was an 80! I was confused, was he saying there was no delimited sign or was he saying 80, delimit, 80 was actually all 80? Either way he seemed insistent we were in the wrong. 'What are we...' he gestured to us three conspirators ...'going to do now?' he said, surely this was a pointed question. Robin came up with the award winning reply: 'Tourismous, nous être touriste', exactly as he answered each time a checkpoint enquired what was he doing in the country! The policemen paused, then looked at the ground, then burst in to laughter shaking his head, 'go, go, go hehe! What a stroke of genius from the man on 'Le Mutton'!
Dakhla was a little disappointing to be honest, we had thoughts of golden beaches, bars and cafe life but it was much like every other western Saharaian military filled town, just on the coast. The red and white concrete kurbstones and sand free concrete streets were not exclusive to Assa after all but seemed dependent on two things; being in/near western Saharan and largely occupied by military. We had stocked up on provisions and continue on our way after some R'n'R at the Palais de Bedouine.
The road continued much the same for another 400kms or so. We had been given the name of a motel attached to apetrol station but after all the time in town we headed down to the beach 80kms north of the border for one last night in Western Sahara. Getting across the sand was reasonably familiar but the surprise came when we reached the other side of the dune, two encampments on the beach! It really was beginning to seem that behind every dune was a Bedouine tent :) picking a spot between the two but set back we had something to eat with the sunset over the sea and put up the tent at night fall. Two friendly looking men approached as we did, waving. It was the Moroccan Royal Marines! Nice guys we had a chat and two of their guard dogs decided to stay with us until we went to bed, it felt almost homely :)
We got to the border about midday after passing the tropic of cancer, we'd been warned it could take a while and risk was that Mauritania would close at five and could leave people stranded in the 6km of desert wasteland. Actually after stamping the passports and white export sheets in the office we passed through three document checks and were out of Morocco tout de suite, released in to the wilderness.
All our advice warned the area could still be mined from years of conflicts. Stick to the tracks was fairly easy advice to follow but which tracks, it was a warren! Most of the tracks were actually sheets of white rock emerging from the dust but there could be deep hollows of sand between waiting for the unwary, as were the guides and helpers ready to dig out a stranded traveller! Cresting one rock I did get caught out and then the friendly guys helped right the ktm but we were determined to do the crossing ourselves and with waypoints on the gps it wasn't too bad, I also cheated a little and took off after a black Merc that seemed to be disappearing in the right direction!
About half way we met some money lenders, guys in blue sheets waving handfuls of green and blue notes. They surrounded the bikes waving mobile phone with exchange rates on the screen. From 300 Ougilias per Euro we got a couple up to 350, later we actually managed 400 at a bank but we needed 40 Euros worth now for the formalities at the border. Compared to to Tangier or even Sebta every body was pretty relaxed and most took a 'no merci' first time, maybe the intense heat may it all just too much effort.
It was still a relief after riding past the menacing wrecks of so many cars abandoned in then holocaustic landscape to see the red and white striped bar and buildings of the Mauritanian border.
A passport and visa check on the left then in to the army building on the right for the bike documents. It could have been worse but was still military beurocracy, announce your presence to the office, get roughly shown out, get paper when they are finished tea, lots of finger snapping and eventually get called up to the boss mans desk. No chance we were messing about with any cigarettes here! They laughed, drank tea, chewed toothpicks but eventually stamped things in the right places, a great relief as I was pretty unsure about some of the questions in the form and just waiting to get sent back like poor Peter at the consulate in Rabat! Tip is to bring a couple of pens; it's expected and I wasn't sure I was going to get mine back at one point, even worse I'd already borrowed it off a thankfully very chilled out tout! 20Euros and I was off, where it went I had no idea but Robin thought he had read about it being genuine before.
A parking charge outside (genuine) then more passport checks in the police office on the left. The final soldier was wrapped head to toe in olive green, he seemed to like the invisible man effect of only the sunglasses being available to intimidate the visitors, from his hands he looked like a kid underneath At last we were in Mauritania but it still took an hour to sort insurance at the office on the left (6.50 Euro for 10 days) and register with the tourist authority on the right. The tourist guy was a smart young man in a shirt and tank top, he talked with pride and enthusiasm about his beautiful country and showed me videos and photos, I felt awful we were only transiting. In fact the news had just arrived about Gadafi's sons being killed so were were going to have to keep abreast of developments and possibly even curtail our time unfortunately. The pictures and videos he showed painted a beautiful picture of desert landscapes, canions and ancient histories and civilisations.
We'd given different destinations to everyone but the officials and headed towards Nouakchott past a ramshackle road block with a pickup at the junction with the main road from Nouakchott and Nouadibou, unlike the military or police. After 5kms we turned around, better spend the night in Nouadibou, pressing on and spending the night at the motel we had heard about wouldn't have gained us anything anyway as we could reach Noukashott the next evening anyway.
Nouabidou was a city of goats to first appearances, the were everywhere! Along the road, on the road, eating a polly bag or a flipflop, a number even wearing a mono-bra over their udder, tied neatly behind the back! Everywhere was sandy with plastic waste blowing about, this was a very different town to back over the border. One real lane became two and half, lined with sand it was a game of chicken with joining traffic. The difference in vehicles was extreme, fairly smart mercs and pick ups jostled for space with forty year old renaults missing headlights or suspension.
Ver nicely Hotel Saida helped us find Auberge Abba which was a little more in our price range. When we arrived drums and singing echoed round the dusty courtyard from a Senegalise wrestling competition over the back wall, the receptionist communicated this with a demonstration!
In the courtyard we spotted an alloy boxed dr 650 belonging to a German chap, Torsten who we went out for dinner with, of all things getting a great Chinese meal round the corner! His plan was to ride the iron ore train inland and invited us to join him. It sounded like a great trip sitting on top if he wagons but given the political situation we regrettably had to decline. I'm looking forward to reading about it in his blog though and keeping in touch! (http://www.tottys-race.de/).
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