179 - The Tweedles (Dakhla to Nouadhibou — Western Sahara/Mauritania)
OUR DRIVER COLLECTED US AT 7:00 A.M. AND DROVE TO A CAFÉ FOR A MORNING NIBBLE. We were introduced to the other passengers, two brothers from England. They were headed all the way to the capital, Nouakchott, whereas we were destined for Nouadihbou. They were whizzing through Mauritania en route to Senegal for camping. Camping vacation in Senegal? Okey-dokey, pokey.
“We have entered the Twilight Zone. My alarm was set for 5:45am. While getting ready, the call to prayer sounded shortly before 6:30am. That struck us as odd, because it’s usually much earlier. We peered out the window to find it was pitch black outside; equally odd. Perhaps we crossed into a different time zone? It wouldn’t make sense, but then again, nothing does these days. To clear up the confusion, I walked downstairs to confirm the time with reception. The gentleman manning the desk turned on his computer and told me it was 5:23am. Puzzled by this, I returned upstairs, and informed Rich we were ahead of schedule. Thirty minutes later our driver came knocking. As we were leaving, the guy who gave me the time, just 45 minutes earlier, said it was now 7am. Seriously, people – what the hell is going on?”
Leslie Peralta, “Marathon – Part Two (Meet The Tweedles)…” Soledad — Notes From My Travels
After some cordial exchanges, I retold the story of the star-crossed Frenchman who’d traveled to the border of Western Sahara/Mauritania without a visa and was rejected by immigration officials. I was unaware I’d just taken a creamy shit on the jolly ole English blokes’ parade. Now, they looked like the Brothers Grimm. They didn’t have visas. They believed it unnecessary. At first, I stuttered, and then reiterated my “you never know until you try” philosophy, but also shared what I knew of the current situation. The border policy was somewhere between “ain’t no fucking way, gov’nah” and “go fuck yourself furiously” according to current intel. Not quite how I put it, but I did try to bring the point home gently. Better to turn back rather than plod on six more hours south. Mr. Dee and Mr. Dum decided to roll the dice.
Off we went. My visa anecdote sent tremors of foreboding across the Tweedles' faces. They were lost in a flurry of circumspection. Meanwhile, poor Leslie was the proverbial meat in the Tweedle sandwich, squashed between the big-boned dynamic duo. As for me, I sat shotgun and let my thoughts wander along the desolate landscape characterizing Western Sahara.
Every so often, we’d stop at a Moroccan security checkpoint, where our driver would conduct high-level talks that always resulted in a bribe. I only had his word, but this is the modus operandi in those parts. He’d return muttering something like “Police, bad. Fuuuuh!” in broken English. Not a happy camper. It was about this time the more outspoken of the Tweedles began indulging a nascent delusion. He seemed to think getting a visa shouldn’t be an issue. They were passing through to Senegal, they had British passports, they'd read it was possible, our driver hadn’t told them they needed a visa (he’d checked ours to be sure we had them), they were British… so on and so forth. I tried to be optimistic, but I had a sneaking suspicion they were in for severe disappointment. I kept my misgivings to myself. No turning back at that point.
Negotiating the Moroccan border was fairly painless, but by no means seamless. First, we showed our passports to a man dressed in plain clothes sitting outside a booth. We paid him five dirhams (dunno why) and moved on. Next, it was two Moroccan soldiers that took a gander, said hello, and ushered us onward. Then we were stamped out of the country, followed by a forty-five-minute wait next to our taxi while random guy after random guy wandered over and asked us identical questions. Some had uniforms. Some did not. One guy had a latex glove. One guy asked us if we had drugs or weapons. One guy just grunted. One guy made us remove our bags from the trunk and asked us if we had drugs or weapons. Another guy poked our bags with his finger after asking us if we had drugs or weapons.
Drugs or weapons? Yes, Mr. Moroccan Immigration Guy, sir, I have three eight balls, two pounds of hash, three bottles of GHB, my favorite hunting rifle, a .357 Magnum, and a grenade for each immigration official who foolishly gives us shit. Searching our bags appeared to be a distasteful task in the heat, but no one could usher us on before performing a cursory inspection. Did they want a bribe? Dunno. Were they bored? Probably.
We finally piled into the car and drove on… for about ten feet. Then another guy checked the car's paperwork against the license plate. Off again… for another six feet. Now, two more military men checked our passports for the bazillionth time. It was just long enough for one of them to flirt with Leslie (after inquiring whether we were married, of course… How you doin’? And we were off again…
…to the customs shack (about fifty feet away). As we stood near the car waiting for our driver to take care of the formalities, the outspoken Tweedle cultivated his delusion. Why would the Moroccans stamp them out of the country if they weren’t certain to receive a visa from Mauritania? It must be so. After all, they had British passports, right? It might be different because we were Americans. Uh-huh. First, let me tell you why the Moroccans would stamp them out. Because they don't give a camel's asshole about their chances of getting into Mauritania! They know you can get back into Morocco. And what the hell did our passports have to do with anything? We had visas, for Allah's sake!
We cleared customs and ventured into the five-kilometer no-man’s-land between borders. I wondered if this was where Mad Max built a Thunderdome. (I couldn’t find it). As we left the Moroccan side, we saw a group of people standing around waiting for… something. Perhaps they were offering rides or waiting for them to the other side. The road between is unpaved, just a well-worn track through sand, scrub brush, and exposed rock. (Author’s Note: Part of the way now appears to be paved.) Thinking of veering off the path? Don't. Landmines are everywhere. Mauritania was once involved in the conflict surrounding Western Sahara. They mined the shit out of the border region.
The area is littered with junkyard-quality vehicles and refrigerators. Refrigerators? I have no fucking clue. The vehicles were probably left after whoever brought them failed to gain entry to either country due to lack of paperwork or failure to satisfy the import “tax” burden. Mauritania has a vibrant black market for cars. If you get through, you’ll make a tidy profit on a vehicle purchased or stolen in Europe. Case in point: Inside no-man’s-land, we witnessed a gentleman changing the license plate on his SUV. Upon seeing this, our driver replied, “Business.” Indeed.
After a few minutes, we made it to the Mauritanian side and, following a brief wait, strolled into immigration shack #1. Although I was told getting a visa at the border was impossible by a Mauritanian man peddling his guide services, I was shocked to see the Tweedles made it past the first shack without incident. For a moment, I thought they might make it. By this point, Garrulous Tweedle was starting to annoy the snot out of me. The delusion had taken over. We only want to pass through to Senegal. We have British passports. Why can’t we go to the capital and get a visa there? They can just call the British Embassy. Blah, blah, blah, yaddy, yaddy…. Get a fucking grip man! His justification boiled down to: We're Brits! They have to let us in! They just gotta! Bloody hell!
Alas, it was not to be. The guy in charge at the last checkpoint before entering Mauritania couldn’t stamp their passport without a visa. This did not make them smile. I tried not to, buuut...
Our driver set them up with a vehicle heading back into Morocco. They had paid him to get to Nouakchott, so I’m not sure how the refund scenario played out. No doubt he was aware they had little chance of getting in when he agreed to take them, but they may have “convinced” him otherwise. We’re British, remember? God save the Queen! Bloody hell! The immigration agent told Leslie people were bouncing back on a frequent basis.
How about some background? The two Tweedles had a three-week vacation—one week traveling to Senegal, camping there for a week, and then another week traveling back. Um, ‘kay. Talky Tweedle told me the British dole was enough to live on, but once they reduced it by forty euros, he’d need supplemental income. Um, ‘kay. Life is hell, eh gov’nah? They told Leslie if they didn’t get in, they’d camp in Morocco. Um, ‘kay. They seemed as suitable for camping as I am for space flight. They both spoke French, but didn't even when it might’ve assisted their plight. Um, ‘kay. Yes, I'm an asshole for bringing all this up. Um, ‘kay.
I would’ve taken more photos, but the border gang can get a bit ornery about photography. Yes, they can. Frown.