Border formalities

A lot of banter in several languages was going on between the six of us. Two of the three Moroccan women were in the back with Gianni, Julian, Brendan and myself. Having been firmly shut in by a bar across the back door of the van we couldn't see much at all and were trying to talk above the noise level of the engine. Occasionally Gianni would peer out of the dirty rear windows and tell us that there were camels out there ..

I started reading my first guide book on Mauritania which Brendan had thoughtfully brought along. First things first; the import of alcohol was strictly prohibited into the Islamic Republic of Mauritania - did that include Bombay Sapphire? Would anyone take away my prized possession that I bought on the Algeciras-Tangiers ferry??
Secondly, no one seemed to know that if I could pick up a visa at the border if I needed a photocopy of my passport (I had one such copy) or a passport sized photo (which would have meant a long trek back to at least Dahkla). Gianni & Brendan being rather more intelligent than I; had picked up their visas in Casablanca. I was relying on information posted on Lonely Planet that you could now get your visa processed at the border.

The van was suddenly pulled off the road and we hit a bumpy track, I thought we'd reached the border, the guys came to the rear of the van and let us out; we'd broken down - in the desert .. nothing for miles, just the odd BMW whizzing past doing what seemed to be a test run at 200kph or so ... one of the guys lifted the bonnet, the ladies went off with bags and later called me to join them for tea.

Falling asleep on the blankets with my head happily banging the side of the van (I was up to date on tetanus!) I decided that if I didn't get my visa then at least I'd be able to keep my bottle of Bombay Sapphire ... the downside was that I'd let Julian do the same as I, so I would be responsible for his non-entry into Mauritania.

We arrived at the Moroccan border, complete bedlam with trucks everywhere .. I started realising that I was back in Africa, the Africa I knew and loved, the 'tsking' noises by the men, the warmth of the sun, the smells .. suddenly at this border post I felt like I knew where I was!

The customs guys got a little annoyed with us and slammed his door shut with our passports inside, then he called us in one by one, I was the first and he stamped my exit out of Morocco .. the others went in, after maybe two of them he came out and got me - and asked me which vehicle I had come in; I pointed out the van. He dragged me back inside and got my immigration card out and said 'that's a Mercedes not a Peugeot' - uuumm, well it's a van to me and I'd just scribbled down a make of vehicle - how was I meant to know it was a Merc?!!!

We piled back into the van, leaving the Moroccan border we were now on piste in no-mans land, with the comforting thought that if the van went off the piste, the area's got a few unexploded land mines! With a few bumps and unappreciative groans from the six of us in the rear, we made it to the Mauritanian post. Friendly faces all round, they seized Gianni and nicknamed him Monsieur Spaghetti so he & I returned the taunts with Messieurs Poissons - the Mauritanian coast is famous for it's fish! I handed over my 30euros for a visa, nothing else was asked of me; we refused the offer of a lift in the van down to the customs post 300m away where they weren't too worried about our bags. Funnily between the two posts there's a sign pointing into the dunes saying 'Auberge 500m' - couldn't see one but I was sure there were several land mines to negotiate if you did find it!