In Ore of Mauritania........

 

After a quiet night at the petrol station I joined the short queue of cars in one lane alongside a longer queue of lorries at around 9am when the border opens as the sun created a luminescent sky. Nothing then moved for 2 hours but eventually I was waved through for the first of a number of checks starting with the gate guard. Over the next couple of hours I received contradictory instructions so waited patiently, as a huge dust storm blew up, walked between various offices, stood at various windows, presented my documents to numerous officials and was finally directed to the line for the scanner. This included the HGVs so took a while and was followed by a customs' dog inspection, all the while the fine white sand getting in to everything. This finally included the various computers being used so everything had to be started from scratch using paper records meaning that it took almost 7 hours to finally be waved through on to a rough track with almost zero visibility. I carefully followed a truck's tail lights for the kilometre or so at a snail's pace until we reached the Mauritanian border which felt very different. The officials were all dressed in a military garb with head turbans and dark glasses- quite intimidating. I was aware that this border shut in 2 hours and didn't want to stay overnight in a no man's land so having read on the iOverlander app about a trustworthy fixer called Cheikh I was pleased when he sought me out and arranged for his father to guide me through the formalities for 20 euros. First we joined a number of others in the Visa Room where after fingerprinting and a photo, plus 55 euros, the relevant visa was glued in to my passport. Some Korean women tourists looked absolutely shell shocked by the continuing dust storm which battered all and sundry. Then a 10 euro TIP for the van (Temporary Import Permit) was procured : far cheaper than a Carnet de Passage after which  the guy introduced me to another man offering money exchange discreetly and a Mauritanian SIM with some credit. The rate was not too bad and he got the card up and running in my spare phone so I could set up the usual hotspot. After a Customs inspection we crossed the border with my guy running ahead and directing me to the insurance office where I took out 20 days of cover. We then settled up and I gave him and the phone guy a decent tip as their efforts had saved me hours and I would be able to drive in to Nouadibhou before sunset. Fabi had been in touch to say their hostel (Auberge Sahara) in the Senegalese quarter had a yard big enough for me to park in so I set Google Maps to work as by now I was off the sat nav. The hour's drive, still in a ferocious dust storm passed dozens of wrecked lorries and cars in the border environs, apparently they are abandonned as people then try to head across the frontier illegally - a risky business as it is claimed to be heavily mined .

 

Where the road crossed the railway line a friendly enough check point was happy with my pre printed fiche and I then drove in very limited visibility down the peninsula to the town. The contrast with Morocco was immediate with the dry, barren landscape, a line of decrepit tents on the outskirts with huge rubber water bags lying alongside on the ground giving way to the various vehicle repair workshops followed by a manufacturing section with wood and metalworking, then fabrics and bedding and finally shops and various offices all on a small scale and in a state of disrepair. Almost every vehicle seemed to have escaped a demolition derby and the traffic was a chaotic throng of bangers, ancient Mercedes taxis, donkeys pulling carts, three wheeled motorised trailers, busses, lorries and of course mopeds and scooters all honking and swerving, ignoring all traffic lights and road signs and yet as always no one actually coming to grief. By driving as they do you can emerge unscathed and I was soon in a maze of dusty streets looking for the hostel sign. It was in a residential area of shoddy shacks and hastily thrown up buildings with rubbish and debris everywhere - it felt worse than India 40 years ago and yet people seemed happy enough. I spotted the sign on the hostel gate so nipped through the pedestrian door and soon heard Fabi and Anthony chatting on the small terrace - it was good to meet up and I then spoke with Fanta the owner who said parking inside was fine. A youngish guy then came and opened up allowing me to reverse in tightly to the small dusty compound. Fanta offered tea and announced a rate of 300 ouighars - about £6 a night - which was fine by me. I met a lovely French lass : Juliet and John from New Zealand and given the time we all decided to head off in search of a meal. We found a very simple shack that produced a surprisingly good fried chicken and chips but would have scored null point for food hygiene but at £6 for four of us what would you expect. We hatched a plan to get a taxi down to Cap Blanc the next day (Saturday) and I retired to the comforts of the van after a remarkably diverse day.

The chants from the mosque at dawn stirred me from a good sleep and I was out early in search of bread and an ATM but only had a result with the edible dough as both nearby ATM's were out of order. Our taxi arrived and the four of us piled in to what was left of a Mercedes saloon for the half hour south passing the fishing port, an industrial quarter, the wharves for the iron ore trains and then some oil and gas storage depots. Beyond this point the tarmac stopped and our young driver seemed unsure of the way so again Google maps came to the rescue bringing us to an entrance arch for the Natural Park. Almost immediately we spotted a huge vulture who took off at leisure as a gardien armed with binoculars arrived for the £4 entrance fee. The original plan was for the taxi driver to leave us to walk back but as it had been further than expected we negotiated a good price for the round trip and invited him to join us. I shared out the oranges I had brought before we dropped down to the beach to admire pelicans, a large flock of gulls and another vulture. The all too depressing plastic littered the beach as it had in town and two fishermen were occupying some very flimsy shacks and were also grateful for the proffered oranges. Up on the cliff top there was a small shabby museum dedicated to the monk seal colony that lives just up the coast and the gardien was keen to show us round and play a couple of videos.

 

Eventually we all piled back in to the car which lacked suspension for the return trip and I later walked out in search of working ATMs. Even those that were working would not accept my card, I think Mastercard was the problem and I only have a credit card on the Visa system. However I eventually found a money exchange office where the rate was better than the border and probably even the bank after withdrawal fees and other charges. We all went out to eat again at another small shack with meat filled baguettes the only choice and then bought water, nuts and biscuits for the planned trip on the iron ore train. Two young Polish couples had arrived in an ancient Merc estate car with the intention of reaching Sierra Leone and then selling it to cover their air fares home - good luck with that plan and an Italian couple had just finished cleaning off the residue from their ore train experience and had some useful advice. On the Sunday the same taxi lad turned up with even less of his car and managed to get five of us plus luggage on board by the simple process of placing one case on the roof and driving one handed. Its owner was hopping out at the bus station for a ride to to the capital Nouakchott after which we stopped for the others to get their passports photocopied and to seek out some blankets for the train. No one wanted to shell out for new ones so in the end the driver took us to his house and found some old ones which the others promised to return. I'd got an old picnic rug, Thermarest and fleece throw to use and had made a couscous salad in a Tupperware box with spork for simplicity.

 

A few miles north of town the taxi dropped us at the single station building in a dusty and somewhat desolate area with a few people selling snacks and sweets and a tea stall. A gendarme glanced at our passports but we did not need tickets as riding the wagons is free. Some trains have a small wooden passenger compartment with few comforts that women and children use but we all preferred the alternative. No one was sure exactly when the train would pass through so we walked a few hundred yards up the track passing various locals all patiently sat alongside their various loads. Fifty or so goats were also penned in and we met a guy Mhen who suggested we join him and his two friends. After an hour or two we heard a horn and saw the 3km long train approaching out of the dusty haze. The 3 locos rumbled past and after several minutes the 200 or so wagons came to a halt. There was then a frenzy of loading with us getting our bags in first freeing us up to form a chain to load the other guys cargo. They had collected a bag of sand from the trackside, poured some in to one corner to make a base for a fire and placed the bag with the remaining sand in an opposite corner - le pissoir.

 

Two loud blasts of the horn, a very dramatic lurching as the couplings took up the slack and we were on our way with 10 hours and 300 miles to go to Choum where most of us would be getting off. The train carries on to the mine at Zouerat another 100 plus miles, is filled up and then returns. There are numerous trains running 365 days a year with a load of 17,000 tonnes and the line has been running 60 years - do the maths. We ran parallel to the border road for an hour and then as this crossed us and headed north we trundled on east in to barren scenery with infinite sandy expanses. Mhen produced tea and we all got used to the various alarming jolts and loud bangs as the empty wagons rattled around - obviously the suspension was designed for when fully laden. On a passing loop we slowed to a halt and were considering hopping off but Mhen said it was too dangerous so we took his advice. Within half an hour another fully laden train passed us with a few people sitting on top of the iron ore dust - literally a taste of things to come on the return journey....More alarming jolts saw us underway again and this pattern was repeated as the sun set and we began to consider trying to sleep. It was too exciting to drop off really and by moonlight we could still see a fair bit and late in the evening we suddenly slowed in the middle of nowhere and came to a halt. Mhen had borrowed my head torch and was signalling wildly to headlights in the distance - we'd seen no sign of any settlement in three hours so assumed they were nomadic people living in the desert. We helped off load most of the cargo and were left with one guy going all the way to Zouerat, fortunately we'd been told it was OK to jump off for the loo but didn't hang about as it would be suicidal to try and climb back up the 4m high wagons once underway. At 3am we reached Choum having passed nothing in the way of civilisation, no lights in the distance and just the odd tent erected near the track that mostly seemed unoccupied. More 4x4 pick ups appeared to collect people and goods and we as a group were walked in to the tiny village by a guy who said we could sleep in a large low room for 100 ouighars each. It was hot and sweaty with loads of flies but preferable to crashing outside but by 7am we were awake again largely due to the calls from the mosque. My intention was to return by the next available train whilst the others were looking for a ride to Terjit where they hoped to stay on a small commune. Thus by 9 I was on my own and spotted a derelict hut near the track that would provide shade as I waited. A young gendarme came over and said that no trains would stop until that evening as it's only the one with the passenger wagon that stops. Thus began a long day of patience and reflection with various kids coming over to be both nosy and friendly. I walked in to the main body of the village (which amounted to a hundred or so very run down mud huts)  but didn't want to stray too far from the line as the gendarme said he had called the railway operator up to see if they would make a special stop - this seemed unlikely and of course didn't happen.

 

In fact more worryingly apart from one northbound train of empties with, to my surprise and intrigue some flat beds carrying a few cars and a lorry, there were no trains at all and I began to wonder if there had been a derailment in which case my only option to return to Nouadibhou would be 300 miles by road to the capital Nouakchott and another 300 back up the coast. Then to my surprise I saw a dozen or so westerners making their way down to the trackside. I went over for a chat and learned that they were on an organised trip to ride the train which they'd been assured would turn up at 6. This was very reassuring and as they returned to the village to get refreshments and their baggage I relaxed a bit. The train eventually arrived at 9pm scuppering all photographic opportunities and revealing to those with snazzy tinted ski goggles that after dark there was a flaw in that plan. They took over two waggons and I jumped solo in to another and began to level off the dust at the front to create a place to spend the night. The dust got everywhere and had an unforgettable smell but at least the ride was smoother and the jolts less severe.as we got underway. Again it was an incredible experience rolling through a vast empty landscape but finally sleep caught up with me and I dozed fitfully. Around dawn I began watching the sun attempt to shine through the hazy atmosphere and before long we were stopping at another passing loop - this time however one of the crew walked back a kilometre from the locos and said we would all have to get off  - apparently one engine had failed and they needed to split the train in to 3 separate sections. He wasn't bothered about us - after all it is a freight train and passengers travel on the hoppers for nothing. In fact I think had we waited they would have parked two thirds of the train in the loop, hooked up the remaining third with the coach and taken us the final fifty miles some hours later. However the leader of the organised group had called their 4x4s to come out and recover us and in due course 4 vehicles arrived and were kind enough to allow me to ride on top of the luggage with two Mauritanians also off the train perched alongside. An hour later they were dropped off at the station but I remained onboard in to town until they veered off to their hotel. I hopped off, thanked them profusely and walked the final 3 miles to Auberge Sahara where my absolutely filthy state caused much amusement.

 

 

I took a long hot shower in the hostel and did my best to remove the dust and ore from my belongings, the Thermarest and blanket having been left in the wagon for someone else to use. I walked back in to town to change some more euros for my onward trip but then had some useful exchanges with fellow travellers. Apparently there was now a scam at both crossing points in to Senegal with 250 euros being demanded from foreigners with vehicles on top of the usual costs. As it would be a thousand mile round trip to get there and being disinclined to pay I began to review my options. My euros would soon run out if that sort of bribe was required and if I couldn't pay for fuel by card I could end up stranded a very long way from a solution in a hugely impoverished country with huge distances between any towns. I walked down to the port on a very brown overcast evening with the heavy skies flattening out all the light for (illicit) photos of the chaotic scene as hundreds of painted boats returned with their catch. All manner of huts and shacks were repairing nets, fixing outboards, welding carts, weighing fish and so on in quite the most remarkable deprivation - it was a thought provoking and moving sight that tugged at the emotions.

Thus after reviewing the situation I decided that doing the train was reward enough for getting down here and left the following morning for the border. Whilst still in a desolate nomansland the dust storms had eased and with fewer formalities I soon had my passport stamped with the van's exit also noted and then arrived at the Moroccan border where things were a lot smoother other than a misunderstanding over the scanner procedure. One gendarme seemed very intrigued by my large number of paperbacks and I offered him one as he was keen to improve his English. This returned a dividend half an hour later when in the small shop I bought a Moroccan SIM but the guy didn't seem interested in helping me set it up. The aforementioned gendarme happened to come in, recognised me and made it clear to the lad that I should be helped...

Anyway I then set off north having passed both borders in under two hours and by mid afternoon turned off west on to an arrow straight stretch of tarmac that led to a new port. At the end where the road looped round to cross a flat dry riverbed to get to the port I stopped to look for a track down to the point where overnighting was allowed. After a few false starts I rounded a corner and to my amazement saw perhaps 20 or so vans tucked against a wall or dotted around the cliff edge. I chose a more secluded spot, no surprise there, and settled in for the night. Later a Spanish plated van arrived with Salvo and Sylvie coming over to say hello and in fact it turned out they were Italian coming from Sicily and Sardinia respectively but lived in Cadiz and had run a successful ice cream parlour for 12 years before selling up to hit the road. They had done a lot of 2 and 4 wheel off roading in Morocco over the years and were trying out the van as an alternative but so far felt they were missing out in the remote stuff. It was good to chat and again I reflected on how much choice and opportunity we have thrown away with the decision to leave Europe.

 

After another quiet night with the waves crashing in just below I set off for a walk across the riverbed to the new port which was half finished passing dozens of the brightly painted boats hauled up above the high water mark. Salvo who used to be a diving instructor had got talking to the construction workers - apparently after constructing the new breakwater the currents had altered and the harbour mouth was now constantly silting up so another breakwater was being installed. I really couldn't see what benefit any of this would bring to the shanty village back on our side where people (men only it seemed) live in the humblest, most precarious of shacks with no utilities of any kind, just two or three sparsely stocked kiosks and an incredible amount of waste and plastic everywhere. Under the continuing brown skies and sepia lighting it was a disturbingly thought provoking place. On departure the next morning I got myself well and truly bogged in deep sand but fortunately Salvo came over with his rescue ramps and with a slight tug from a French quad I was out and soon on my way - thanks guys.

After just two hours I found myself taking a rough piste down off the main N1 to drop down steeply to a beautiful beach with a level space to park up on. There was nothing there but a small military hut and after taking a photo of my passport and the accompanying fiche the three young conscripts were happy for me to stay in the most amazing place - Plage Portorico. Earlier I had stopped on a long empty stretch of the N1 to assist a couple from Senegal in a heavily overloaded estate car with even more stuff piled on the roof. A rear tyre had shredded and two Moroccans had stopped as they were prepared to sell them their spare wheel and take the rim away to get another one put on. However their flimsy jack had collapsed and the rear quarter of the car was on the tarmac. My low level trolley jack was able to get the car high enough to chock with rocks allowing me to reposition the TJ and get the car high enough to remove the rim and replace with a tyre. Then I used my 12v air compressor to get everybody's pressures up to scratch before we went our separate ways. The Moroccans had wanted to buy the TJ and AC but I explained I might need them myself and they seemed surprised I didn't have 2! Later I stopped for a small French 4x4 who had also shredded a tyre - he was carrying forty 5 litre bottles of water which he'd removed before jacking the vehicle up and seemed confident he would soon be on his way so I left him and his wife to carry on.

 

Anyway the cove and beach were superb with a view west to the peninsula that Dahkla sits on and I enjoyed the warm sea and a walk along the shore line, pleased that I had made this decision as Mauritania had turned out to be quite a challenge even in just the week I had been there. Two friendly gendarmes pulled up to stretch their legs but otherwise it was all very quiet and very beautiful.

At the point where I'd picked up Fabi and Anthony I turned off and headed south to Dakhla, they had been in touch a couple of times with worrying news of problems at the 'commune' in Terjit : apparently it was all a bit misleading and the owner was making very clear his intentions towards Juliet. It was in the middle of nowhere and they asked if I'd be able to head there and collect them all but by now it would have meant 100 miles back to the border, more protracted procedures and expense and a 600 mile drive with little money to then try and cram four plus luggage in to the already heavy van. I could see this escalating in to another drama so apologised and felt I had made the right decision. I gave them the contact details of a friendly guy I'd met whilst waiting in Choum who spoke some English and might have been able to help more effectively, advised them to stick together at all times, have somebody awake at night and let as many people as possible know their whereabouts.

On the north west side of Dakhla I found the place where overnighting is allowed and pulled in amongst a melee of European surfing vans whose occupants were mostly out in the impressive waves that rolled in regularly. There were no facilities on what was effectively the prom and some half finished buildings lay across the waste ground but it was in fact a lovely spot and I settled down to sit out the heat (hovering around 30 +) with all windows open to admit the fresh breeze but many flies. As things cooled down local families appeared, two mobile coffee vans parked up and the evening developed in to a colourful scene of enjoyment and music. The range of vans was impressive from a Belgian RV costing about a million euros apparently, with integral garage for his quad through to two ancient Land Cruisers rigged out for off roading and various more run of the mill vans, many I suspect being borrowed by the offspring of the owners for a few winter months away searching for that elusive break.

After a quiet night I noticed a French guy working on his large Iveco van - his rear caliper cradle had seized which had worn one of the pads to the metal causing his brakes to screech and overheat. I offered to help and we tried various methods to free off the recalcitrant pin. I had the same problem on my old van in Western Australia as the arrangement was similar but it refused to budge. After some lateral thinking I reckoned that if we put a bolt through with a big washer at each end and then a nut we could replicate a press and force it out. However neither of us had a bolt quite long enough so as I was planning to ride in to town anyway I set off in search of a droguerie. Town was the usual bustle of streets and shops, already more affluent than Mauritania but bear in mind all things are relative. The bits were easily sourced and I also found a place that filled the plastic bottles locals came in with with good drinking water and he was happy for me to come back with the van next day. I had taken water earlier from a roadside tank that the army were also using to fill a bowser that supplies the numerous look out huts but it was salty and not really good enough to drink.

 

Back at the surf beach Alex had decided to put everything back together and go for a drive round but was soon back as the metal to metal contact was getting very hot and would affect his wheel bearing if left unresolved. I suggested we left the solid pin and cradle in a dish of diesel overnight and then left him, his partner and their 10 month old to enjoy the cooler evening. Again the locals came out en famille for a very enjoyable scene and I again considered that family time together seems to make people happier than possessions and media. This morning - success : we managed to free off the pin which would allow Alex to install both the new pads he sourced in town a day or two earlier so I left him to reassemble everything knowing they could be on their way soon enough. Having dropped a pin on Google maps, and memorised certain points on the ride back I soon found the water place and had my hose hooked up. It was quite a slow process and I'm not exactly sure how much went in but I think it was more or less full but didn't want to hold up others arriving with their bottles so paid my 30 dirham and headed out of town. Dakhla sits at the southern end of a long peninsula and has an airport linking to Fez and Marrakech almost a thousand miles away but the inherent beauty of the blue seas and golden beaches are in danger of being overwhelmed by the sheer number of half (or less) built hotels and apartments. I can't see where that number of tourists would come from and  it would certainly burden an already limited utility infrastructure in this very remote place.

 

A Shell garage provided a top up of VPower diesel but I noted a drop in mpg which I put down to the hours crawling through the border crossings, the extra load of the two hitch hikers, a very strong headwind heading south and some slow urban driving. Over the next few days I will monitor this as it could be a response to the huge amounts of dust last week that might have affected the air filter - I carry two spares and it's an easy enough job to change one over. Incidentally blocking all my gas drop outs beneath the van with pieces of fine mesh sponge has cut dust ingress by 90% and will I hope stave off the problems with the fridge and water heater last year.

Well that's been a long post covering many adventures, I am holed up above the clifs where I met Ken a fortnight ago with the fishermen in their rubber rings, a miltary post happy for me to stay and the passing gendarme seeming not to mind - this is at odds with stories I'd heard at Dakhla of people being moved on so I hope for an uninterupted night.

 

The change of plan means that with luck Mandy will arrive in 3 weeks with her brother who is over from Canada and currently in Portugal. He will join us for a week of Morocco's finest before we carry on in to March before heading back to Spain and France as Spring and Summer arrive.

 

Click for a pic or two 

 

And there's more - clicky again 

Video clips in both albums...

Western Sahara

 

Leaving the spectacular location above the Legzira Arch I missed the chance to say goodbye to Bibi but hope he will be there on my return north in 4-6 weeks. I rejoined the main road at Goulimim (or Guelmim) having avoided the temptation to stay at the remarkable Fort Bou Jerif and after a couple of steady hours with the usual caution over speed cameras and friendly police stops I arrived at Tan Tan and turned towards the coast for an overnight at a largish campsite at El Ouati. This was busy with dozens of European vans on long stay overs and a fair few vans, 4x4s and overland trucks all mostly heading south. One Brit couple were heading north having failed to get through to South Africa where they were hoping to start a new life. Plan B is to ship their van and fly themselves and their dogs instead, the later sounding like an expensive pavlova. Apparently in Guinea diesel was almost unobtainable having been largely seized by the military.

Anyway there were good hot showers enabling me to wash clothes and body, the necessary waste point for the loo and a potable water top up point so it made a useful service stop for under a fiver sans EHU. I joined another Brit couple, ex publicans from Dartmoor, for a useful evening of exchanges and conversation.

Leaving by 11 I did a small amount of shopping but failed to find any insect repellent in the pharmacies and was soon on my way for another shortish hop down as far as the Naila Nature Reserve where the usually arrow straight road loops around a vast lagoon. A mile of tarmac brought me out on to cliffs above the lagoon where it was OK to stay - there were already perhaps half a dozen other rigs stretched out along the tops with a jumble of perhaps half a dozen semi derelict block huts making up the village. Down below a few small fishing boats were moored up alongside a wooden jetty and a large heron stood silently at the water's edge. Eventually he flew offshore a couple of hundred yards and landed on a submerged bank - herons cannot take off from water and he obviously knew his stuff. 

 

Later Hassan a friendly soldier from a military blockhouse came over to take a photo of my passport but generally I
hunkered down for a couple of hours as the strong northerly was creating a dense sandstorm of the finest and finest Saharan sand. The wind eventually abated and I took a walk out along the cliffs to nose at other rigs and enjoy the remarkable views. On my return an old guy appeared from one of the shacks and asked for 20MAD to stay - absolutely fine by me in such a unique spot.

 

After a very quiet night under an amazing starscape I moved on for another relatively short hop to Tarfaya where overnighting on the promenade (as such) was allowed. It was a great spot looking out across to the Casa Del Mar, a fort built by the British in 1882 but now cut off at high tide and slowly crumbling in to the sea. After walking the short distance in to town for an excellent fish tagine I sat and read in the shade of the harbour wall for a few hours waiting for the tide to surround the fort. Back at the van a young German couple in an ancient T3 were on a fairly ambitious journey to reach Dakar and get back to Berlin, all in a month..... Later that evening the usual group of excitable kids came round in search of sweets or pens but seemed happy enough with one of my cards each to show their teacher. One lad was an absolute whizz on his rollerblade, and no that's not a typo. Earlier I'd walked past the military post and looked round what I think had been intended to be a new military complex - all the empty block buildings were inundated with sand and the project seemed to be at an impasse.

 

 

 

New roads took me through acres of new infrastructure with streetlights, utility boxes and so on but no actual development and would probably have put me back on the new 4 lane RN1 but I chose the old coast road and was rewarded with the dramatic sight of a wrecked ferry that had come to grief in 2008 whilst crossing to the Canary Islands some 80 miles away and thus quashing the idea of a regular link to promote tourism to over here. A few miles further south I technically crossed in to the disputed Western Sahara - this issue being the main reason why every 2 kilometres saw a small military hut, many with a demountable living cabin tucked away out of the wind and a solitary bored looking soldier keeping watch. I passed for the second time and I think travelling separately, two cyclists, one on a recumbent and the other later on with a bike packing set up - the strong, sand laden southerlies must have been something of a challenge but both were OK for water.

So Tuesday saw me arrive at remote Layounne where again overnight parking was permitted in front of a hotel development that had not been finished. The long promenade and wide sandy beach was cleaner than El Ouatia which had shown Morocco's ever increasing and heartbreaking plastic waste problem at its worst. The place was deserted but along the beachside road there was a guy sat in a hut every 200m in an approximation to lifeguard duties but with no one on the beach let alone in the water. I bought some basics at a small shop and returned to the parking lot for an excellent chat with Alan from New South Wales who had shipped his Land Rover with camper box on the back to Southampton and was doing the UK and Europe. He'd just finished a Portuguese organised rally to Dakar but felt the mad dash across the Atlas and through Morocco had been too intense and caused some issues with his vehicle and his intention was to head slowly back to Spain to get various problems resolved. He was keen for tips as to where to go on his return journey so I traced out a rewarding itinerary that included many of my favourites from the last decade. He'd been in the navy for 35 years but even so was finding his camper box a bit confined and enjoyed a look round my comparatively sumptuous quarters. Later another couple from California arrived - they had shipped their van over as well and the young Polish couple doing it the hard way in a Mercedes estate car added to the UN atmosphere.

South of Layounne even the map abandoned all pretence of scale and jumped to 50 miles per inch but the sat nav, apart from changing to Mauritanian time a bit early, continued to do the necessary as I picked up the long route south through barren landscapes broken only by comms masts, a line of pylons, the regular military huts and occasional HGVs heading in both directions. Fresh water had been available at the park up and remarkably at the huge LPG complex on the edge of town I was able to get both my CG907 European cylinders filled for 80p each giving me enough gas for the countries beyond Morocco and until my return. 150 miles further south below Cap Boujdour I turned off on a dusty track, crossed a huge expanse of limestone and stopped to talk to a UK plated van occupied by Ken from Oz and his young lady friend Claudine. He'd already stayed a couple of nights and assured me it was fine to stop so I pulled over a few hundred yards further on looking down across a jungle of huge parts of the limestone shelf that had become detached and fallen away to the beaches below. Remarkably in amongst these vast chunks of rock various families lived with the menfolk earning a very basic living from fishing out beyond the breakers sitting in large lorry inner tubes. Two vans were loading up the day's crates of fish and octopus and later another van drove along the cliff edge stopping at each shack to sell bread, water and other essentials. Apparently the police come and burn down the shelters to discourage the fishermen so they have now resorted to digging caves in the soft sand beneath the limestone edge. As the sun set I watched tens of thousands of gulls flying north - Ken said they had been non stop for his two days so at a conservative guess there would have been over 2 million passing through, but even with binoculars it was difficult to ascertain the species.

 

 

 

This morning I took the first of my antimalarial tablets, an antibiotic in effect that also treats syphillis so covers many eventualities, and counted perhaps 80 inner tubes out at sea and another dozen or so attempting to get out beyond the breakers - absolutely humbling -  before joining the road again where within half an hour I saw two guys hitching for the border. Fabi from Germany and Anthony from Canada had met up back at Sidi Ifni and were heading through to South Africa eventually so they jumped in for the long empty run south crossing at one point the Tropic of Cancer almost unnoticed as we flashed past the single rusting sign. Later we passed three cyclists spaced a few kilometres apart - an older German couple and a young German lad, all were fine for water but we stopped anyway after a few more miles at the only cafe we'd seen for miles. It didn't provide food but the tea was welcome and I produced oranges for everyone including the owner which seemed popular. The younger cyclist arrived soon after and said he was intending to ride as far as the Gambia and then fly to Turkey before cycling back to Germany from where he had left in September.

After another two hours and only one friendly police checkpoint we arrived at the Morocco Mauritania border just an hour before it closed so I decided to call it a day and stay the night at the Shell fuel station as my crossing would no doubt, and according to information gleaned en route take longer. The guys decided to try for it so I walked the last km with them to get a feel for the place and bid them farewell with a loose plan for us all to meet up in Nouadhibou and try for the infamous iron ore train together. As they have not returned I assume they have made it so will hope to meet up with them again in a day or two - I believe the campsite is OK about leaving the van there for what will be a couple of days of torture.

Really pleased to get here 2800 miles after leaving Sheffield five weeks ago (plus the Biscay mileage) and touch wood the van chugs on giving a steady 45+ mpg, using no oil or coolant and providing a comfortable refuge at night in some amazing places. It also today passed the total of 90,000 miles since purchased just over 6 years ago with a total of 120k on the clock. I've got 7000 miles until the next scheduled oil change so that should get me back to Spain but I carry the oil and filter anyway so at a push could get it done over here - all the Shell garages have a lube shed adjacent to the lavage.... stop sniggering at the back...

So tomorrow should be - drive 1km to Moroccan border formalities, complete: drive 1km of nomansland to Mauritanian border and then probably spend a few hours getting my visa, the van's TIP, insurance cover, a working Mauritanian SIM card and money exchange - the various blogs and chats seem to imply that with adequate French a 'fixer' is not necessary so we'll see. It's hard to guess the accuracy of information obtained as I'd been led to believe that military checkpoints were every few miles on the way down here, I've seen none, just the one friendly gendarme , and that a pre printed 'fiche' with all one's basic info would be advantageous : printed off 30, haven't used one. Just chatted to 5 adventure bikers from the Czech Republic who said it took 3 hours in total so we'll see and I've plenty of books.

No idea how much data or connectivity to expect in Mauritania so the next post may be a while, thus piccies  HERE will have to do.

 

 

 

 

Morocco Encore and a long run south....

A final ride from Camping Asseiceira (as by the time I return to the area Gary will have sold up and moved in to his very nice local cottage) took me across La Fontera in to Spain as I wanted more ready cash for Morocco and beyond. In Valencia D' Alcantara I tried various ATMs until one paid out without commission and more importantly I selected 'without conversion' as the better option. A coffee and cake in warm sunshine saw me ready for the return route passing an interesting dolmen and a craggy outcrop near the border where perhaps two dozen eagles were lazily circling high above.

 

Gary kindly took us out for a final meal and then I was away first thing Friday feeling quite sad that I would not be staying here again in similar circumstances - I have visited and stayed many times over the years and the site has left me a host of happy memories.

Anyway I was over in to Spain and again in search of gas to no avail but decided the ready availability of cheap Moroccan gas and cylinders rendered the CampingGaz unnecessary so instead rolled on to the walled town of Olivenza for a quick scout round including the stunning twisted columns of the Santa Maria del Castello church.

 

South again brought me to Jerez d De Los Caballeros with its three Baroque church towers followed by a lovely drive through the wooded hills of Tentudia where I stopped in Fregenal de La Sierra which has a remarkable bullring located within its castle walls. I pulled up at an aire outside the small village of Cumbres Mayores just down from a large Dutch 4x4 Merc van with a Hymer conversion. On a chilly evening I walked in to the seemingly silent village only to note families heading in to the centre. Here to my great delight I came across a carnival procession of about ten decorated lorries with children in various outfits throwing out small gifts to the crowds and a lively brass band adding to the occasion. It was all to celebrate the arrival of the 3 Kings at Bethlehem and made for a very entertaining couple of hours which the Dutch couple ensconced in their van had unfortunately missed entirely. 

 The Eber kept me warm overnight and I was away after breakfast calling briefly at a caravan place in Seville in search of a bathroom tap, mine having developed a split - it's not one I use so Mandy can bring one out from the UK in March. After the final run down to Tarifa I parked behind the beach on the long track that is popular with the kite surfing community. As always there was every size and shape of van and even lorry parked up and the shore was full of the enthusiasts and their colourful kit. I chatted to a couple from Auckland, but originally the UK, who had come over to explore Europe for a few months having bought a van. Their time was nearly up and a ferry back to the UK booked but both Jeremy and Abby were clearly inspired by the prospect of Morocco - next time perhaps folks. I walked along the beach to Tarifa for a welcome but pricey beer and then returned to the van for a lean supper as I had yet again been caught out by all the shops being shut for another holiday.

I was away before dawn on the Sunday, arrived at the Estacion Maritime in Algeciras as the sun rose and had my paper tickets in hand within ten minutes having steadfastly ignored the various touts trying to lure me to their booths. Sat in the queue for the ferry other vehicles turned up including 3 Portuguese 4x4 enthusiasts and a ludicrous 6x4 German truck.

 

Loading and departure was an hour late which made no odds and the customs, immigration and vehicle insurance formalities were as easy and efficient as last year. Thus after an hour's drive I arrived at La Ferma, a small hotel offering camping as well which we had used last year - it made sense after a long day to go somewhere easy and I was soon set up for a quiet evening. Next day after a quick shop in the nearby (and expensive) Marjane supermarket I withdrew more dirhams at an ATM and then headed west to reach the Atlantic coast taking care to avoid the occasional tortoises that were lumbering across the warm tarmac. I managed to swop my one blue and one red gas cylinder for two reds (the more ubiquitous apparently) for the ridiculously cheap price of 90p each (£48 in the UK!) and arrived after a busy town centre at the Kenitra Municipal Camping which was more or less full of Europeans, mostly French or Dutch.

Leaving after a quiet night I followed the coast south to Rabat and stopped to visit the Botanical Gardens at Bouknadel which were lovely and contained a small vivarium with various snakes and reptiles that caused the three visiting school groups to shriek even more loudly. I decided that the chaotic driving in a city is far more risky for a dent or bash than the equally chaotic smaller towns where it is mostly pedestrians, donkeys or hand carts rather than vans and taxis so decided to hit the peage until past Casablanca. Ironically within minutes the bonnet of a BMW in front flew off and came at me like a giant steel frisbee. Fortunately with empty lanes on my left I was able to swerve violently and avoid the projectile and of course the car which had screeched to a halt. Anyway the tolls were very reasonable - I was classed as Class 1 due to size and was soon round Casablanca and following the coast once more.

At Oualidia I stopped in a large carpark with numerous other vans and paid Ali the 40 dirhams (£3) to stay the night. The superb beach ten minutes walk away was a real delight with beautifully decorated oyster stalls on the way up. The golden sands and crashing surf combined with a setting sun made for a remarkable backdrop to a horse and rider and the colourful fishing boats looked lovely hauled high above the tideline. Back at the carpark I chatted with Steve and Fiona who live off grid in Spain south of Valencia and were fascinated that I have lived van life now for almost twenty years.

 

Another steady day along the coast past a huge petrochemical works and port near Safi, took me through smart Essaouira and down to a surfing village at Sidi Kaouki where a few miles further south at Camping Azrou (see P4N) a young couple are making an effort to establish a small campsite just in from a superb beach. It's early days yet but they were friendly and enthusiastic and I enjoyed a quiet and warm night after walking the beach at sunset. In the scrubland behind the beach were a number of vans free camping but I feel we should support facilities if available as the majority of European vans can well afford it.

The N1 twisted its way inland for a while and after stopping to buy 20 kg of oranges for a tenner I stuck to it before taking a side route to Tifnite where overnight parking is no longer allowed. Thus I carried on in to Tiznit and cut through more hilly lands having glanced across at the rugged mountains of the Ameln around Tafraout. I had filled up with 70 litres of Shell V Power for £80 and the friendly pump attendant had offered me the chance to fill my fresh water tank which was good news. The steady driving had produced a remarkable 48mpg from BP Ultimate fuel and should save even more money as the always numerous police checkpoints now have far more radar guns than before - thus 60km/hr is the default for anywhere with housing and it's only 80km/hr on most of the other roads.

 

Arriving on the coast again I was soon pulling off down a dirt track to park at a previous favourite perched high above the stunning Legzira Arch. Sibi was occupying the small shack and keeping an eye on the few friendly stray dogs but said there was no longer any charge to stay. He was a really nice guy and had worked in Leipzig last year but decided he would rather live more simply back near his family.

There were a few other vans scattered about and I took the rocky path down to the beach to enjoy the spectacular natural feature as the sun set. Overnight a warm katabatic wind blew down from the mountains and quite a lot of dust spilled over those parked on the far side of the scrub.

I decided a break from moving on was justified having covered 2000 miles from home (not including the ferry crossing which adds another 500 or so) with about 700 done in Morocco. Layounne is another 300, Dakhla 600, Nouakchott a 1000 and Dakar 1500........................

Thus I walked down to the beach again, through the arch and past the simplest of shacks that fishermen occupy tucked hard against the cliff. Whilst rounding a headland I got caught by a rogue wave and my phone took a quick dip. The screen flashed up a raindrop icon warning that there was water detected in the charging port and advised me not to insert a charger until dry. This was easy enough in the warm sun but I shall have to be more careful in future. Another remarkable arch led through to a beach and a track up to the cliff top after which it was a fair walk back to the van. I passed a simple shack where presumably grandma was washing a few clothes and a beautiful young mum came out with her two infants to shyly say hello. How they live there with no water or power and stuck in the middle of arid rocky terrain I cannot imagine.

Back at the van an Austrian van had decided that parking right next to me and totally blocking my view was acceptable. Initially I though it was just for that all important Insta picture but when they set off walking I queried their intentions, received a dismissive response so decided to move fifty yards or so to be away from them : I am well aware of the contrast between my petty concerns and the hard life lived by the family I'd met just minutes earlier.

 

Later whilst doing this blog Sibi came over to borrow a small hex bit as he wanted to dismantle a rechargeable drill which we managed but to no avail as it was still kaput. I then put a meter on the battery which turned out to be flat. I could have easily charged it for him but the charging unit was back at his family home where they have basic solar power so we had to leave it. Later he bought over some tea and we enjoyed a good chat in 3 different languages. Finally I took another walk down to the arch as the sun set behind it before returning to cook a spag bol for the next few days and steak and veg for tonight's meal.

Tomorrow I will head south again but with two months until Mandy joins me at Agadir in March I have plenty of time to explore what for me will be pastures new south of Fort Bou Jerif. It's a long haul across the Western Sahara and my progress may well be determined by factors outside of my control so with luck I will post again in a week or so, meanwhile enjoy more piccies

 HERE