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...