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 impressive Hassan II Mosque.

We are back in the Arab world! After a quick red-eye flight we find ourselves now in Morocco. Everything is a fascinating mix of French, Arabic, and Spanish. As if I wasn’t already confused with the 3 languages as it was, now here they all are jumbled into one. I have had a hard time keeping my French and Arabic straight but ironically it makes me sound quite local by switching it up. We’ve heard many people switch every 3rd word between the two languages. I ordered my tea saying “je voudrais thé ma nana”…and it worked very well!

We are both exhausted, the flight was too short to sleep well. We have twelve hours or so to kill but are glad we are in Casablanca. It has a good vibe to it. People are very nice and it has a much slower pace than anywhere in Egypt. There are so many different kinds of people here also. It is a mix of European, Arab, and African. We’ve seen some men wearing flip flops and shorts and others wearing gelabayyia robes. Seeing moms in hijab walking with their daughters uncovered is also common.

The airport in Casablanca conveniently has a train terminal in the basement that connects it to a main terminal from which you can hop on a train anywhere. We got into town easily and visited some of the sights. We also had the best schawarma outside of Damascus (ironically with a picture of Assad hanging so they must be Syrian!). Jet lag caught up with us pretty quickly so we returned to the airport to try to find a spot to camp. We luckily were permitted to enter the VIP lounge and got some couches to sleep on. Only a few more hours until we are in Sub-Saharan Africa.