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 me as odd, because it’s usually much earlier. I 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?
Confused, we hopped in his Mercedes and headed to a nearby café to meet our travel companions. When we arrived, we were greeted by two cranky Brits. Let’s just call them Tweedle Dum & Tweedle Dee, or The Tweedles for short. Their stop in Mauritania would be brief, as they were headed to Senegal for a little camping extravaganza. With three weeks to spare, they were on a tight schedule. They allowed themselves two weeks for transit in order for one week of camping. Poor planning if you ask me, but then again, it’s not my vacation.
After an exchange of names, I found myself sandwiched between the two in the backseat. Meanwhile, Rich stretched out his long legs and enjoyed the view sitting shotgun. Being 6’4”, he manages to avoid these types of situations. Me on the other hand, I barely scratch 5’4”. I suppose I have my parents to thank for that.
A little ways into the ride, Rich shared a story about a French man we met in Rabat, who had to make the journey twice, because the first time he arrived at the border without a visa. Little did we know, he was pissing all over their parade, for they were sans visa as well. The overall mood in the car was headed South… waaaay South. Instead of going back, they decided it was best to soldier on in hopes of obtaining it at the border. Unfortunately, their decision would prove to be costly, as this is no longer an option for anyone, regardless of your nationality.
Getting out of Morocco was time consuming. When we arrived at the border, we flashed our passports to a guy guarding the entrance, who asked for 5 dirhams. After that, we were directed to a window where another guy gave us the once over and stamped us out. This was followed by a 45 minute wait next to the car while everyone and their brother took turns with us. Some were dressed in uniform, while others were not. Most asked questions, which we couldn’t understand, and others just wanted to partake in a staring contest. Eventually one of them busted out a latex glove and it was business time. They opened the trunk, removed our bags, and asked if we were transporting drugs and/or weapons. To me this just seemed silly. If I was in possession of either, do you really think I’d just give it up that easily? Not a chance. After a few pokes, they grew tired, and gave us the green light. It would have been a good day to be a smuggler – mental note for next time.
We made it about ten feet before being stopped again. This time, they wanted to review the driver’s registration and license plate. All was good, so we moved another ten feet, where we were stopped once more. This pattern continued for a while. At the last stop, all eyes were on me, and a little flirting ensued. I could have pretended that Rich was my husband, but what fun would that be?
During this time, The Tweedles had convinced themselves that they were surely getting into Mauritania, because they had been stamped out of Morocco. The only problem is that Morocco is a different F-ing country and doesn’t care if you have an onward visa. If you want out, go right ahead – they’re not going to stop you. It’s not their job to deny you entry into an entirely different country. If you get denied, they know you’ll just come right back.
The no man’s land separating the two borders spans for 6km. It looks like a sandy junkyard littered with rusted vehicles, garbage, and a large number of refrigerators. Yes, refrigerators – still searching for an explanation to that one. There isn’t a road, just a very rocky path. If you were to veer off this path, chances are you’d be blown to smithereens, as there are landmines everywhere, due to the Western Sahara debacle.
Fortunately, we made it to the Mauritania border safe and sound. One by one, we entered a small room where our passport information was recorded, and we were questioned about the nature of our visit. Dum & Dee managed to make it through this stop, which surprised all of us. Their relief was merely temporary, though.
Stop two was another room filled with serious military folk. Within minutes, the bad news was delivered, and the more outspoken of the two tweedles attempted a tantrum, but the officer wasn’t having any of it. No means no, even if you’re British. Disappointed by this, our driver put them in another vehicle headed back to Morocco. We’re not sure if they received a partial reimbursement – my guess is no.
I probably seem heartless, but then again, you didn’t have the pleasure of spending all day with them – I did.
