I was thankful to see the road after a stressful border crossing.

Woke up to a surprisingly dewy morning in Nouadibou and we even needed to wait for the tents to dry out before we could pack up.  While paying the bill, I asked the receptionist to mail me stamps for my collection since we were never able to make it to a post office during opening hours.  I have him a self-addressed envelope and the last of our small ougiya bills, hopefully I will get them after all.  We drove around looking to spend the rest of our money on diesel and cokes before we cross into the Western Saharan part of Morocco.  We weren’t quite sure what to expect as it is disputed territory and the Dutch family we met had mentioned there being all sorts of refugees in the border area.

The road to the actual border was very quick and the Mauritanians actually were the most speedy in processing all of our exit documents, we got through immigration, customs and gendarmerie quicker than it usually takes just to get through one.  The road that connects Mauritania to Morocco is not obvious at all, it is more like tangle of rocky and sandy trails without any road at all.  I guess the two countries could not reach an agreement on who would pay for the road to connect and decided to just leave it empty.  There were no refuges at all, actually there were barely even any cars at that point.

When we reached the Moroccan side, it seemed modern and had the air of efficiency; paved, painted, and spotless.  However, the simple and dusty Mauritanian side proved to be the better of the two, it took us about 2 hours longer to clear the Moroccan side.

First, we registered with the gendarmerie.  One person only is permitted to go with the passports and carnet.  I was given a number, # 40, and was told to wait with the other people who were lined up against a wall to try to get some protection from the sun while the officer was meeting each person at a table under a tree.  The staff called numbers but not all were present, it probably would have been quicker to just line up.  I waited my turn and once I got to the officer it passed quickly.  This however was only just the gendarmerie and we still had customs and immigration to clear.

We drove to the next point where we would clear customs and immigration which was much more chaotic.  It was just a mass of people waiting between a door and a window.  I started asking people and I learned that there was no line, so we assumed it was just a matter of pushing our way in.  Bobby started pulling me through the door, and just like the good old times in the Middle East, a little and very wide lady in hijab was plowing right through me.  Bobby got curt with me for not being more aggressive in the crowds and that made me quite aggressive towards him…still not helpful.  When I finally reached the officer inside I asked what the procedure is and learned that all the forms we filled needed to be in duplicate, of course.  So I rushed back to finish the forms and handed them back to the officer along with our passports and then had to go back and wait in the sun.  Bobby brought an umbrella out for me to try to shield me from the sun while the rest of the group waited over by the car where it was cooler.

Eventually, we learned that the passports are brought to a window protected by metal barricades, similar to Disney World line barriers but much shorter.  The officer would call your name and then stamp your passport there.  The officer called a few names and then  said “ok, fini, a demain!” and started to close the window.  The thought of waiting until tomorrow to get our stamps seemed impossible so I guessed that they were just closing for prayers or lunch and that they would re-open in an hour or so.

Shortly after, I heard Peta’s name being called so I ran in to fetch her passport.  I was led into a dark room and then they realized that I wasn’t Peta.  They became very upset and demanded why isn’t she here.  I explained that it was very hot outside and that she was waiting in the car and they demanded I go and get her.  As I began to run out the door to call for Peta, they began to call Robert Kent in the next door.  I popped my head in the room and began to explain that he is my husband but before I could finish they shouted “GO GET HIM!”  I ran to the car hollering for everyone to come.  Peta goes in to her designated room and Bobby goes to the window.  Peta then calls me in to translate.  The first time was to establish where she was born; still no one can understand a white African.  The second time she called for me was when the trouble began.

The officer in the room was convinced her visa was expired since most visas to Morocco are valid for 3 months.  Her visa says clearly that it is valid until January.  I went back and forth fighting with the guy whether or not the visa was expired.  I thought for a second that this might be a corruption thing and I blurted out in English and then French, “What do you want!?! What do you want us to do?”  He suggested going back into Mauritania and go to the Moroccan embassy there to get a new visa.  I said again, “No, this visa is good; it says right here, good for six months, good until January.”  A second officer enters the room, this is the man who was stamping the passports earlier.  He seems to agree with the other officer, that visas are valid only for 3 months.  I reiterated that the visa states clearly that it is valid for 6 months, in Arabic and then in French.  Then a third officer enters.  He is confident that Peta’s visa is in order and is indeed good until January.  Officer #2 then touches my forehead, I guess to calm me down, and then began to ask why I speak Arabic and what my job is.  I explained that I studied Arabic in Syria.  He then asked where my parents were from and was surprised when I replied “Lithuania”.  I guess this exchange helped gained some respect because after this he gave Peta her passport, ready and stamped and welcomed her to Morocco.

Bobby then got his passport back with no problem and David’s was next in the pile.  Everything had then just stopped.  Just when I was barely able to tolerate another second of standing outside in the sun, David’s name was finally called up.  After stamping David’s, the officer tried to skip mine.  Bobby hollered to the man that we are all together and he did everyone’s but mine.  This was luckily the officer that was I speaking in Arabic to before.  So he then found my passport and called me over.  I asked him in Arabic if he could stamp elsewhere and began to turn the passport pages to show him where.  I was running out of pages and so needed to be careful to put as many stamps on a page since I still needed to get home and get my Australian visa.  The officer not only was willing to help but also let me actually stamp the visa myself!  We were nearly free; the last step was to have customs check the car with a sniffer dog, who diligently attempted at humping my leg after his inspection of the vehicle.  I tried to be gentle in getting him off my leg, especially since we were still not officially in the country; God forbid we have come this far only to be denied due to some dog bite or something silly.  However, I was not as nice to the second dog that was not employed by the government who came by to sniff my freshly humped leg.

Dakhla was a surprisingly developed town considering it is disputed territory.  It was actually shockingly nice, considering how it has all of the same environment and resources as Nouadibou has just across the border.  We stayed in a khaima at a bizarre surfing campment that was recommended to us by an English couple we met in Mauritania, we were so exhausted that we weren’t keen to search for another place even though there was no water or power on the premises.

The road to Nouadibou.

Today we set out to take the un-road; crossing the Sahara to get to Nouadibou.  We spent the night in Atar at the Auberge Bab Sahara and spoke to some other over-landers who have just come from the route we are hoping to take.  They gave us some GPS coordinates from them just to ensure we are on the right path while crossing the desert.  The road was straightforward for a while; it was even paved for good deal of the way.  Once the road was bumpier, David decided to get off onto the sand and the next thing we knew, we overshot the waypoint of the GPS markers we had.   It doesn’t take long to get misdirected in the desert.  Luckily, we came across tire marks and followed those until we came across another set that appeared to be main one and thankfully reached the village where the train tracks began.  The train tracks will lead us the rest of the way to Nouadibou.  From here on, the route is simple, we will camp at the monolith like the over-landers suggested and just continue to follow the tracks until we reach Nouadibou.

Ben Amera, our campsite for the night.

When we arrived at the monolith Ben Amera we set up camp for the night.  It is election night in the US and hopefully the shortwave radio will work to let us know the results.  It is very windy here and I’m not sure if our poor tent will withstand the pressure.  I’m a bit worried.  We tried to bury the edges with sand and rocks to keep it secure from blowing away but considering we have only a stick taped to the side of our rod for support I am not sure how the rest of the tent will hold up.

After leaving the office, we were bombarded again by men in robes looking to change our money; it truly seems to be a national pastime here. The most troubling part of the day happened at the local pharmacy.  I was asking to get additional packets of the oral contraceptive that I take, a pretty standard thing.  The male employee began to gather the pills and ring up the transaction when another male worker rushed over asking in French, “Why do you want these?  Are you married? Where is your doctor?”. “This is my prescription, this is my husband, the doctor is in the car (Peta is a OB/GYN)”.  “This is your husband?”  “YES!” and I proceeded to take out our passports to show our names, “Kent” pointing to mine, “Kent” pointing to his, “Husband, ma fi haram (Arabic for it is not forbidden)”.  He began asking again Bobby if he understood that this is a contraceptive and I had to explain to him that he doesn’t understand him but yes, he knows what this is.  Then he began asking me why we don’t want children and I was so flustered I began prattling on something like we have no work or something unintelligible while I was pushing the payment for the pills in front of him and we go out as quickly as we could.  I was so shaken by that encounter that I realized that I left a one month pack of pills on the counter despite having paid for it, it only cost about $2 and I wasn’t willing to go back inside to get it back.  They did a pretty good job trying to intimidate and embarrass me from getting my birth control pills, which is actually not prohibited in Islam from what I understand but socially, men here certainly do seem opposed to women practicing family planning.  I have purchased my pills abroad for the past five years through the Philippines, Honduras, and Mali; this was the first time that anyone asked my husband’s permission or if I was married at all.  This would be a pretty effective technique to shaming women out of family planning.

After 58 nights in our tent, something was bound to break at sometime.  As we were packing up, one of our 3 rods cracked and poked through the fabric.  It is still functional and should still last for a while but it may need to officially be retired after this trip.  We have enjoyed watching the pelicans, storks, and ospreys at the national park.  We were directed by the staff of the hotel at the national park for a more direct route to Mauritania.  We arrived to the Rosso ferry quickly but the chaos started immediately as we pulled in.  One guy starts attempting to direct the car where to go while another steps up to Peta’s side (which would be the driver’s side except for those on the British system) and yelling at us that we can’t go this way, it is prohibited and we must line up behind the trucks.  These trucks are shipping trucks mind you and looked as though they have been there for days.  We ignored both of those guys and pulled up to the immigration building.  Once again they were puzzled by Peta’s South African passport, as had been the case at several other crossings.  The officers have a list of countries that they require visas to enter, South Africa is not on the list but they never seem to believe it.  So we wait a while until the officer is able to confirm all of this, despite the fact that she has already entered Senegal twice with no visa, so exiting should be no problem…but that doesn’t matter I suppose.  Eventually it was all sorted and we were off to the next step.

After driving down the street to the ferry terminal we were approached as usual by the young guys who are always filled with stories, demands, and are allegedly there to offer assistance (although who their services will assist is another matter).  The bumsters (as they were called in the Gambia) state all of the documents that we will need and we muster them all up.  Of course, they want to carry them, which I refused and brought them to the window myself.  It isn’t that they would steal our documents necessarily but they will demand payment for their services.  I’d rather stand up and walk it myself and not pay these guys an exorbitant fee.  I get to the customs window and the officer tries to tell me that the carnet is no good for Senegal.  Obviously false since we have already entered twice and are actually leaving.  After telling him this then the carnet was perfectly acceptable and he stamped us out.

The next challenge was to find out how much this ferry should cost and who actually works there, not like there are any uniforms or id tags.  The bumsters were saying that we need to pay 22,000 CFA or 50 USD, this seemed too high.  I had asked one car that was boarding how much they paid and they replied 4,000 ougiyas, or 15 USD. I chased down the cop who had our documents and asked him who we should pay.  He told me that we pay on the other side.  So we now know not to pay attention to the bumsters and just wait until we actually cross to the Mauritanian side.

The man who accompanied us while we walked our papers was now demanding his payment for his services.  He asked “all my work, is that supposed to be for free?” trying to shame me into paying.  In the sweetest voice I could muster I replied, “I would be happy to help you for free and I can see that you are a very good person…a kind person (he is nodding in agreement), such a kind person wouldn’t ask for money for helping someone”.  He stammered and ran off only to come back shortly after, this time I gave him 1,000 CFA and told him that he was lucky to get that and only got it because he is a good man; which he was compared to the other crooks walking around.

Finally the ferry was in sight and approaching the dock.  A new guy now comes up to us and demands 5,000 CFA to get on the ferry.  I got curt and retorted, “ok, but who are you? Every person here tells us that we need to pay them and I still don’t know who works here.  I don’t trust anyone here”.  He leaves and returns shortly making the same demand and my reply is the same.  Finally we see him directing cars to load on the ferry and it was now clear that he is actually involved.  My refusal to initially pay anyone off led to us being overlooked for being loaded on to the first ferry.  There was only room for one or two more cars on what is now the last ferry of the day.  We gave him the money and within seconds we were on board.  The crossing is a ridiculous 15 minutes or so despite the several hours of evading extortion and bribery.  We reached the Mauritanian side only to start the fun all over again.  Some bumsters even followed us on the ferry to “assist” us on the other side also.

While on the ferry, Mauritanian officials collected the passports and driver’s license.  As soon as we were on shore, Bobby and I dashed off to find the office where our documents were being held.  We find the papers and greet “Salaam alykum” all around.  First guy inspects the carnet, stamps it, 5,000 CFA, DONE!  Next room views our papers, no money needed.  Run downstairs and the immigration tells us that it will be 10,000 CFA to process our passports BUT they are closing now until 3pm and need to wait until then.  A man claiming to work for the ferry tells me I need to go to another office, this one was the actual office for the ferry.  I was informed that I needed to pay for our ferry tickets now which will be another 10,000 CFA (the cop had informed me to pay on this side but we couldn’t get on board without the 5,000 CFA to the loader).  We don’t have any ougiyas at this point because all of the change bureaus are closed for lunch.  The officer is coaxing me to make the payment because I was just standing there dumbfounded.  I told him “Look, you say it will be 10,000 CFA for our passports, now this ferry ticket is another 10,000 CFA.  It is cheaper in ougiyas but we can’t get any because everyone is closed and I haven’t got anything other than this (showed my 10,000 CFA)”.  “Fine, just give it to him; you pay no more”.  I gladly forked over the 10,000 CFA note and even got a receipt and 500 ougiyas change!  The Mauritanian officer told me we will pay no more and to come back at 3pm to collect our passports but we must give him a good cadeau.  A bottle of Coca Cola worked.

We returned to collect our passports, a new officer arrived, not the one we gave the drink to.  He scribbled in our passports and asked us who we will vote for and we told him Obama.  The official informed that it is a bad idea to pull troops out and I said that I will make a note of that.  We were then whisked off to finally get our stamps so we can get the hell out of this place and the officer then asks me for 500 ougiyas. UG!!  I ran back to the car to get the sorry looking ougiya bill that I was given as change.  I was supposed to contest paying more but at this point I didn’t care and gave him the money, grabbed our documents and the receipt and ran as fast as I could to the car so we could bolt out of there before anymore payments are requested.  I literally had to push bumsters away from the car just in order to open the door to get in the car.  We got to the gate and one of the punk bumsters insists that he is customs (in an Emporio Armani logo t-shirt) and said that we didn’t complete the formalities on the Senegalese side and need to go back across.  David tells him “Piss off!” and drives past him.  We rush to the gate and find it closed.  Bumsters begin to gather once again.  I get out with our passports and receipts to find an official to let us out and I literally stepped out of the car onto the feet of one of the bumsters and stumble into him.  I unintelligibly start to rant at him but give up quickly since freedom is just a few feet away.  There were a few uniformed officers by the gate who Bobby and I approach and as if a miracle, the gates finally open.  Bobby and I literally race across the fence on foot with David and Peta following in the car.

We pulled into a Total gas station just near the border to ask about banks and everyone is asking us to change money.  Apparently it is everyone’s hobby in this country.  We got our money and carried on to Nouakchott.  There were several checkpoints along the way but they were all extremely nice and there wasn’t a single problem.  The desert began immediately; it is amazing how different the landscape can be after only traveling a short distance.  There were rolling dunes and khaima tents as houses.  Nouakchott was thankfully much more tranquil than Dakar and we found our auberge easily.  It was like a sanctuary after such a stressful day.  There were khaima tents on the roof for us to sleep in, wifi, the Belgian owner cooked us a marvelous dinner, and there was a delicious breeze.  It was the perfect reward for overcoming such a trying day.