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03/04/04
Overland Trip To Senagal 2004, Day 4: Western Sahara
Thomas Morgan2006-04-26 11:31:50
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4 AM we are at some small village between Tan-Tan and Laâyoune. Sleep isn’t easy and the two successful attempts I’ve made so far have been interrupted by our being flagged down and boarded at a police check point. Name? Nationality? Occupation? Nothing is verified and we could have said just about anything. A minute after the policeman gets off the bus Ross is back into sleep. Bastard. It’s pitch black outside whenever we are not at the road side cafés so counting sheep is the only form of entertainment. Still, the excitement of the unknown awaits us and we still have no idea how we will get from Dakhla to Nouâdhibou. Six hours ago having spent 12 hours on the bus, a sign informed us that we were a good 600km from Laâyoune and 1124km from Dakhla. So we still have a fair bit of time left in here. From what I can see there is very little form of life out there apart from the odd bush, it looks very dry although I don’t think we have hit sandy desert quite yet. I’m about to resume the quest for sleep that I started since arriving in Morocco as we continue our charge southwards.
We’re in the desert, nothing but desert, total insulating punishing desert as far as you can see, mile after mile after mile after…
It’s 9.40 AM sleep was difficult if not impossible, doubly so when you are on the aisle like I was. The check points kept waking me up, or sharp break or turn or sudden noise. When we finally entered Western Sahara a man had to look at my passport and I had to fetch it from mon sac. Frenchy and I then went into this small concrete building where the bloke took some details, the only non-Arabs probably the only non-Moroccans on board. Certainly we’re the only whites in the town we stop at, Laâyoune, Western Sahara. Surreal and exhausted we are far away from anything we know. There’s a small café next to the bus stop. We sit there soaking up the early morning sun. The Arabs love their tea. Whoever makes it, and the silver things you pour the tea out of (“a tea-pot”)must be rich beyond their wildest dreams. A waitress comes and bien sûr they have croissant, 2 pour Frenchy, 2 pour moi and a glass of orange juice each, it’s more than we expected and only 25 Dirham. Frenchy pays as the bus beeps for leaving.
Many people have left and new people have replaced them. In front of us, where a middle aged man with a thick mustache and an old man in cap and glasses were, a woman and her little girl sit. She smiles when I make a funny face at her. Dakhla is still an age away, the desert is still recurring desolation dotted with fine lines, pylons and the odd petrol station. I need to brush my teeth and shower and put on some deodorant, and I wouldn’t mind an answer to a question Frenchy and I may not be able to answer: How do we get from Dakhla to Mauritania ? Camels in the desert on the left, the Atlantic Ocean, calm and blue on the right, we push south without much concern. Camels, we’re in the Sahara.
More desert, 10.40am. Checkpoint, guard looks at our passports for a minute but no worries. Pitstop of some kind in a desert town, poor and scorched by sun and wind, Boujdour. I get an orange for 2Dh from a café and watch the Arabic news that is on the TV. The little girl in front gives us a few laughs. Man Utd have just kicked off.
Stopped for lunch at about 13.30, had the usual bread with salad and chips, though had a bit of trouble ordering it. The desert continues to be everywhere and Dakhla is 175km away. I went to the toilet, a man asked me what I wanted, extending his hand to shake mine. It was odd. Flies on the bus go round and round.
See photographs from:
Western Sahara Gallery
