178 - Visa Confirmation And Bus Ride Titillation (Casablanca to Dakhla)
WE FLEW FROM TUNIS TO CASABLANCA in furtherance of our Mauritanian visa quest. For some inexplicable reason, we were upgraded to business class. Guess we just looked important. I know my shaggy appearance screamed debonair. Upon arriving at the airport, I was delighted to discover my ATM card didn’t work. It was Mastercard. The machine accepted Mastercard, just not mine. Why would it?
“Rabat is all business. It’s well organized, relatively clean, and surprisingly modern. It was a decent place to stay while dealing with our visas. Monday morning rolled around and we were ready to go, bright and early. We arrived at the Mauritanian embassy shortly after 8am, assuming it would open around 9am. When we arrived there was a small line outside.
We met a handful of other travelers, most just passing through to destinations farther south. Everyone seemed genuinely concerned about the current security situation due to various travel warnings. We shared in their concern, but decided we’d take our chances and proceed with caution. A little crazy? Perhaps. Only time would tell.”
Leslia Peralta, “Ready, Set, Go” Soledad — Notes From My Travels…
I received a variety of error messages, including one referencing the card’s expiration. It was true. It had expired months before, but I thought this would only matter if I tried to use it as a debit card to make a purchase. I had been using the expired card to withdraw money in Tunisia without problems. Even back in the good ole USA, I never had a problem with an expired card at an ATM. Admittedly, I’d just started using this card after the recent purloining of my wallet. I hoped against hoping hope I could find a machine in town with lower standards. Wish in one hand, shit in the other. I was forced to get a loan from the International Bank of Leslie. I had a co-signer.
We hopped a train to Rabat, where we believed we could get a Mauritanian visa from an existing embassy (as opposed to an imaginary one). Mauritania likes to play “visa office ping-pong.” Over the years, it had moved from the embassy in Rabat to the consulate in Casablanca, and then back again. I found a picture online of a guy flipping the bird at the consulate sign in Casablanca. Not such a good sign. I should also mention we’d lost track of the days. In our rush to get that goddamned visa, we neglected to notice it was Saturday until boarding the train in Rabat. Visa office opened on Monday. Dumb.
The embassy was rumored to open sometime around 9:00 a.m. (The fact we couldn’t pin down office hours speaks volumes.) We arrived a little after eight to discover folks already queued up. Many travelers pass overland through Mauritania on their way somewhere else, which explained the line. We’d read it was possible to get a visa at the border of Western Sahara and Mauritania in the past, but there were conflicting reports. We decided to play it safe. It was a wise decision. We met a French gentleman who’d traveled to the border sans visa, was summarily rejected, and then forced to make the three-day trip back to Rabat. Oops. Also in line were dudes from Holland, a couple from Bulgaria, and a Moroccan named William. We all swapped travel plans, anecdotes, e-mails, and discussed the security situation in Mauritania. Most were wary, only passing through to Senegal. We had other plans, deciding security threats were overblown. More dumb, perhaps.
We filled out the forms littered with ridiculous questions (e.g. the last ten countries visited), paid the fee (340 dirhams), and were told to return at 2:00 pm that day. Although we'd requested six weeks, we received the standard one-month tourist visa. Our visa began the day of our application, instead of the day we entered Mauritania. I guess they assumed we possessed the power of teleportation. We didn't. Bastards.
Nothing titillates my tits more than the prospect of thirty hours on a bus from Casablanca to Dakhla in the Western Sahara. We could’ve split the journey into legs and taken in a bit more of Morocco, but the clock was now ticking on our visa, so we put our heads down and soldiered on. It wasn't a pleasure cruise, but it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. The bus was new and reasonably comfortable, so, in many respects, we were fortunate. Still, a thirty-hour bus ride will deplete your life force considerably. My chi faded in and out.
“With the clock ticking, we boarded a train to Casablanca the next morning. We opted to upgrade our accommodations, as we were in desperate need of a decent night’s sleep; sleeping pills had failed us, and we would be slumming it for a while. After consulting our LP guide, we decided on Hotel Guynemer. The staff was wonderful, but our room was the size of a tiny jail cell or Manhattan apartment, making it difficult to move around and repack.
With only one full day in Casablanca, we had a lot to accomplish. We managed to secure bus tickets for the 31 hour trip to Dakhla, Yellow Fever vaccinations at a local hospital, find a bookstore with a few English titles, and get the necessary goodies for the road. Needless to say, it was a long day.”
Leslia Peralta, “Marathon To The Border (Part One)” Soledad - Notes From My Travels…
Our marathon bus journey took us through the western edge of southern Morocco and into the Western Sahara. WS is a disputed territory and has been since its decolonization by Spain in 1975. Morocco stepped in (illegally) to fill the void, much to the chagrin of the indigenous Sahrawi people. Both the government of Morocco and the Polisario Front (Sahrawi nationalist organization) lay claim to the territory, although Morocco retains de facto control of the majority. The Polisario has gained recognition of its Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) from 46-ish countries (information on the web conflicts), including its closest ally, Algeria. Until 2020, no United Nations member recognized Morocco’s claim of sovereignty. Then, in exchange for normal relations with Isreal, the United States took the plunge. America. Fuck, yeah.
The situation took a violent turn just days before our arrival.
“In October 2010, Gadaym Izik camp was set up near Laayoune as a protest by displaced Sahrawi people about their living conditions. It was home to more than 12,000 people. In November 2010 Moroccan security forces entered Gadaym Izik camp in the early hours of the morning, using helicopters and water cannon to force people to leave. The Polisario Front said Moroccan security forces had killed a 26-year-old protester at the camp, a claim denied by Morocco. Protesters in Laayoune threw stones at police and set fire to tires and vehicles. Several buildings, including a TV station, were also set on fire. Moroccan officials said five security personnel had been killed in the unrest.
On 15 November 2010, the Moroccan government accused the Algerian secret services of orchestrating and financing the Gadaym Izik camp with the intent to destabilize the region. The Spanish press was accused of mounting a campaign of disinformation to support the Sahrawi initiative, and all foreign reporters were either prevented from traveling or else expelled from the area. The protest coincided with a fresh round of negotiations at the UN.” (Wikipedia)
As I sat staring out the window, eyes glazed over from ennui, I wondered what the hell people were fighting over. From my ignorant, ethnocentric vantage point, it didn't look like the winner would have much to celebrate. Western Sahara is one of the most sparsely populated territories on the planet. Deserts have a funny way of discouraging habitation. Huh. So, why all the hubbub? Phosphate for phosphorus? Oil? Political freedom? All the above? Shits and giggles?
During the journey, the driver popped in a movie: Meet Dave. Eddie Murphy plays the captain of a spaceship flown by miniature beings from a distant world. The “ship” takes human form (i.e. Eddie Murphy). I know it’s not PC, but this movie is fucking retarded. Not handicapped. Abjectly retarded. The funny thing is, the film was in English with Russian subtitles. Pretty sure no one could read Russian, and since we were the only ones who comprehended enough English to appreciate the retardedness, I assume the bus driver played it for our benefit. How delightfully random.
The bus dropped us in Dakhla with heavy eyelids and piss-poor attitudes. We arrived at our modest abode and immediately began investigating our transport to Mauritania. We met a Mauritanian gentleman who regularly transported folks from Dakhla to Nouadihbou (about 40 km into Mauritania) via his Mercedes. (A common enterprise). Cost? 350 dirhams per person. You can do it cheaper, but we were more than willing to fork out extra to avoid finding additional transport across the no man's land between Western Sahara and Mauritania, and then again from the border to Nouadihbou. One fell swoop was worth the extra coin. So far, so good. Super.
“I’m a sentimental person. I always have been, and I’m guessing, always will be. I’m especially sentimental when it comes to books. If I come across a book that I can relate to, I have trouble parting ways. Some will be read multiple times, others will only end up collecting dust; I know, not the best life for a book. A good book should be shared – passed through the hands of many.
One of my recent reads, which I mentioned in a previous post, was by Nick Flynn. I passed the book onto Rich, and he stumbled upon an interesting quote. At the time of my reading, I had no intention of visiting Mauritania, so it didn’t stand out or hold any significance, until now. Who knows, perhaps it was always in the cards and I just didn’t know it?
‘By the time I make my way to the border of Mauritania, to the edge of the Sahara, I see no end to being lost. You can spend your entire life simply falling in that direction. It isn’t a station you reach, but just the general state of going down. Once you make it back, if you make it back, you will stand before your long-lost friends, but in some essential way they will no longer know you.’”
Leslia Peralta, “Reading Between The Lines” Soledad — Notes From My Travels…
Wile E. Coyote, I presume?