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When we realized that all three of our children were spending part of their vacation with various friends in Casablanca (remember: not a fun city), Donn and I looked at each other and knew this was a golden opportunity not to be squandered just sitting round Rabat. A kid-free weekend! (Ok, it was Thursday and Friday nights, but close enough)
We decided to go to Al Hoceima, on the Mediterranean coast. I did a little research online, but wasn’t able to find a hotel. I called a friend on Wednesday night to see if we could borrow a guidebook. “Go to Chefchaouen,” she said. “It’s one of my favorite places in Morocco!” She’s been here 8 years; she ought to know. We were easily convinced.
I did some research on hotels and found one that looked great—Casa Perleta, in the old medina. I meant to write down the info, but what with one thing and another I didn’t, in between finding sleeping bags and enough toothpaste for 3 kids who’d be sleeping in different places and packing for ourselves and deciding what books to bring, while Elliot was making chocolate chip cookies to eat on the train and I was making curry for dinner and trying to keep the onions out of the cookies. So it came about that we were several hours down the road when Donn said to me, “Which hotel was it we decided on?” I said, “Casa Perlita, Perlata, something like that.” “Where is it?” he said. “Do you have the address or the phone number?” “Uh…no…actually,” I said.
No worries. We like adventures. We turned off the autoroute at Moulay Bousselham and headed down a small pockmarked road into the countryside. There had obviously been recent rain, and all the potholes were filled with water. We bumped along for a long time, heading inland towards the mountains. At one point we came to a town where there was a roundpoint, quite new, but no signs. We guessed that we should turn, but the man we asked told us no, go back. We did and came to a second roundpoint, this one even newer, but still with no signs. We turned right on a whim, feeling that it looked more promising although the road was barely one lane wide at that point. Miles later, we asked a small boy, and he confirmed that we were right.
We went on and on. Eventually we came to a small city set on a hill. As we crested it, we were greeted by the unmistakable smell of grilled meat and the sight of tagines smoking away. We pulled over and Donn went to talk to the friendly man grilling meat. Donn loves mischwi, Arab-style barbecue. He ordered a plate of grilled meat and I opted for a tagine.
We sat down at a dusty plastic table, and soon a woman came to wipe the dirt around a bit and set down two pieces of paper to serve as placemats, along with napkins and forks to hold them down. The tagine had been smoking away so it was soon set before me, the lid lifted off with a flourish to reveal meat and vegetables in a savory sauce with just a hint of spice. The grilled tomatoes were the best! Soon, Donn’s plate of grilled meat was set before him. I ordered a glass of sweet mint Moroccan tea to finish up with.
It was a lot of food, but we ate heartily and did our best to finish. Everything was excellent, cooked to perfection, served with a smile. Our total bill was about $11. Abdul was friendly, letting me photograph him, insisting that next time we pass this way, we come to his house for couscous.
But now my family is calling me to watch a movie, so I’ll post this and continue it tomorrow.
Where were we this weekend?
I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow… (or possibly the day after)
Last week, we decided to take a trip up to Fes and Volubilus.
Donn and I have been to Fes before, but it was the kids’ first trip. We were visiting friends, planning to tour Fes’ enormous ancient medina and maybe visit the deep caves in Taza, a couple of hours north. We needed to plan round the different rhythms that govern day and night during Ramadan, which means that shops open very late and close earlier than normal. You don’t want to be out in the hour before sunset, when everyone is racing desperately to get home in time to eat the second that call to prayer floats out into the rosy twilight, and you take your life in your hands if you are anywhere near a road.
We got up to Fes in time for a late lunch with our friends, and let the afternoon get away from us as we sat and chatted. It was late afternoon by then, too late to attempt the medina, so instead we drove up past it, up into the hills, to visit the graves of the Marinids (an Arab dynasty that ruled Morocco from 1269-1420) from which there is a lovely view of the city nestled into its surrounding hills and olive groves. We wandered round, photographed, admired the view, found a weird hole opening into the side of the hill which freaked me out a little (was it a grave? Or what? It was apparently being used as a rubbish dump, but there were stones in it—and rooms.) The kids wanted to explore it but I thought better not, especially without a flashlight.
Looking over the ancient medina of Fes, the largest non-automobile area in the world. Just beyond it and to the right lies the modern city, paved and with cars and roundabouts and fountains and fruit shops and McDonalds.
Ancient monument
Ancient monument with modern children and graffiti.
The next day, we set off much later than intended for Volubilus. Volubilus is a Roman town, started by 300 BC if not earlier. It was a thriving little metropolis set amongst vineyards and rolling hills until about 300 AD, when it began to decline. By 600 or so, it was deserted, and now it is just a collection of columns and arches and mosaic floors and lizards and tourists and piles of rocks bearing witness to the passage of time. It has a ruined temple, forum and triumphal arch, bearing witness to Octavius’ decision to grant tax-free status to the village. Uh, yeah. Those were exciting times.
We drove hours through a tan countryside–wheat-coloured, straw-coloured–and then turned a corner and saw this enormous lake!
We had a map and directions from our friend, so we decided to attempt the back road. I’m so glad we did. Morocco is full of charming vistas off the autoroutes, of sleepy hamlets reachable only by donkey, of sudden lakes blooming blue out of a baked tan landscape, of rolling hills moulded by groves of olive trees, of herds of sheep blocking the one-lane road you are treacherously bouncing along, of the skinny fingers of minarets poking above the tops of the hills. We weren’t entirely sure that the tiny potholed lane we were on was actually the one printed on the map when we came upon this village, built into a ravine, glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. I fell in love with it; I thought it was so charming. (The children did not fall in love and hope to continue to live in a place where American fast food is available in case someday their parents actually let them eat it)
Eventually we made it to Volubilus. Abel came into his own. For some reason, he loves Roman history, and he chatted away about Roman baths and triumphal arches. He and Ilsa ran around shouting “COME! SEE THIS! HURRY!” as the rest of us moved with agonizing slowness, at least in their eyes.
Our friend had told us to bring water to rinse off the mosaics. It was good advice. The mosaics are roped off, but I leaned over and splashed what I could. We sat back and watched as pinks and reds and olive greens bloomed under the layer of dust. But we didn’t have much water with us, so were limited in what we could do.
I took this to show you how the mosaics looked without water.
This is one splashed with water. Notice the brighter colours. Both this and the previous picture were part of the same floor, showing the 12 labours of Hercules.
This was in a different part of the village. Its humourous description of a man riding his donkey backwards earned it the name “The Acrobat’s House.”
We pretty much had the place to ourselves, except for a busload of tourists who walked through the temple area at one point, then went on to the triumphal arch, while we continued to explore at our own pace.
Tourists and temple
Some sort of bath, I believe
This was called “The House of Columns.”
I believe this was the entrance to the market.
Stork’s nest on pillar.
The hills beyond the ruins.
Abel
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains…
P.B. Shelley; “Ozymandias”
Photo taken in Volubilus, Morocco
At the end of June, Donn went to the Mauritanian border and met a fruit truck with all the things we’d left in storage there 2 years ago. This is the final segment of his story of that journey. Read parts one, two, three, four and five here.
Yes, this is the truck
I’ve been meaning to ask Tim who drove from Nouakchott to the border. Saied 1 drove from the time we met, mid-day, until 2 AM when we stopped at a gas station that I think was in Layoune. Here we installed a massive gas tank on the left hand side of the truck and filled it with over 800 liters of diesel fuel. We had dropped our hitch-hiker somewhere along the way and S2 slept in the small bed behind the seats for 5 to 6 hours until he took the wheel in the wee hours of the morning.
He drove for an hour and a half and then pulled off the road where we slept for about 3 hours. When we woke, S1 took the wheel again and drove most of the day. S2 went back to lying down. Traveling with Saied 2 was like trying to row a boat with an anchor hanging off the back. At least that was the image that came to mind.
For breakfast we pulled into a small restaurant and had tea and fried eggs from a communal plate from which we pulled bits of egg off with our bread. At each café, S2 found a group of men to socialize with after the meal while S1 and I waited around the truck. This wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for his insistent wrist slapping at the border. I fought the urge to gesture towards my imaginary watch. Instead I waited by the truck and imagined pouring molasses on a cold day. The Saied Brothers apparently made up for lost time by keeping a stack of 20 dirham notes in a cubby-hole in the dash board and shaking hands with the officer on duty at every checkpoint. This seemed to save us bags of time which could be better spent loitering around truck stops.
S1 and S2 at breakfast
S1 played Berber music intermittently throughout the trip. Not being musical at all, it really is beyond my ability to describe but I’ll give it a shot. Only know that you need to then find some Berber music and listen to it. Ok, so it’s repetitive. The rhythm, the melody, and the vocals are all repetitive. Everything in it repeats not twice or thrice but until you stop counting. There is a musical phrase that winds through a constant, dare I say repetitive, rhythm over and over again while the singer presumably tells a story with each verse ending with the same phrase. It was not entirely unpleasant. Traditional Mauritanian music has no reference point for western ears, but the Berber music Saied 1 played was ultimately kind of catchy. I mean it was no Bob Dylan but seemed a propos to the drone of the highway, the many Mohameds I’d met, the number of times America’s shortcomings were the topic of conversation, and the multiple goat tagines that blur in my memory. At one point, S1 scanned the radio for something western. We found the theme to Flashdance. It’s hard to feel stupider than driving through the desert with two men you can’t communicate with while listening to Flashdance. I think even S1 understood that because after one song it was back to the hypnotic strains of his cassette.
Before lunch I made contact with Elizabeth who informed me of Michael Jackson’s passing. I tried to communicate this news to S1 & 2 since in my experience, pop music icons seem to be one of the most common points of reference for North Africans on the subject of The West. That and America’s failings.
I pronounced his name the way I would say it. MY-kul JACKson. Then I tried the French, or at least the Peter Sellers way. Mee-shell Zhjackson. And then the incredulous way. “C’mon guys. Michele Jackson. [falsetto] ‘Just beat it!’” Nope, Nothing. In simple phrases, trying both Hassynia and French: Il est mort. No? Hua matt. No? Unbelievable. I gave up. Shortly after that we pulled into a truck stop, perused the menu and decided on the goat tagine. A television anchored to the ceiling was on showing….. Michael Jackson. “You know him?” I asked. Of course they knew him. What a stupid question. “He died today.” “Really?” All of the sudden S2 decided to understand a few words and related it to S1.
When we reached their home town of Agadir, we pulled off the highway onto a street lined with trucks. This was the kind of place one could find a truck to rent and I was a bit concerned they were going to try and off-load me. They had already broached that possibility with Tim and I was really wondering what was going on as we pulled into this truck mall with no explanation. Fortunately, we only changed the oil and were off again. As we left Agadir, we wound up behind an empty truck from Kenitra which is a city just north of Rabat. S2, now driving again, gestured at it repeatedly and spoke at length about it. I didn’t understand a word and yet I feel I know the jist. S1 occasionally replied to S2 and we kept driving northward.
Near Marrakech I was in regular contact with Elizabeth estimating the time of our arrival, planning who would be there to help unload, etc., when…. we turned around. What??? We spent half an hour driving up and down the same section of road lined with truck stops. Are we looking for a specific goat tagine? I imagined their conversation as something like, “You know, these guys drove the old Cup-o-Tagine guys right out of town.”
Apparently, we were looking for a friend of S2’s. He had been on the phone coming into Marrakech and had arranged to meet a friend, so back and forth we went, looking for him. (I had imaginary friends too, but I outgrew them) S1 explained it to me with a Berber word but I didn’t understand. I forget the word now but when we stopped, I looked for someone that spoke French (and presumably Berber). “Excuse me, do you speak French? What does this word mean?” “Friend.” Are you kidding me? Ohhh. I wanted to slap more than his imaginary watch. S1 and I waited round the truck for another ½ hour. I tried to exude annoyance and wondered if S1 would ever find a new partner. He is using you, Saied.
Eventually S2 sauntered over to the truck and we all piled back in. Language barriers can be a gift, I suppose, as we rolled on in silence.
On the other side of Marrakech, we had our final and best tagine. This was technically a michwi, not a tagine, michwi being grilled meat and tagine being more a stew. It was actually phenomenal. Grilled mutton chops with onions, tomatoes and salt. Soo good.
Choosing our michwi, pre-cooking
Back on the road, I calculated our time to Rabat and called Elizabeth. Looks like we’ll be there around 3 AM, assuming Saied doesn’t have any “friends” in this neck of the woods, I told her. Earlier I had realized we wouldn’t be there at a time when anyone would want to help so Elizabeth suggested we stop somewhere and sleep. “You want me to prolong this?” I asked. If I was scheduled to be released from prison, would she say, “Boy, tomorrow’s not a good time. See if you can stay another week.” I suggested to Elizabeth that she let Elliot have a sleepover. The more the merrier! “Have fun, watch a movie and at 3 am boys, we’re going to unload a truck!” It’s amazing what sounds fun to young boys if pitched the right way. I felt a bit like Tom Sawyer but hey, it worked. We rolled in at 3 AM, woke everyone up and unloaded. The guard on our street, who was awake (!), also pitched in and it took us about 2 ½ hours.
We’ve discovered we’re missing a few small items including Elliot’s Louisville Slugger baseball bat, which Elizabeth saw in the truck as we were unloading, but all in all, it was a successful trip. I made it home alive and we have our STUFF. Was it worth it? I don’t like to think about it. Would I do it again? Not without putting something about “friends” in the contract. Does Elliot miss his Louisville Slugger? Yes. I only hope S1 uses it to keep S2 in line.
FIN
We’ve been traveling so this is somewhat delayed. For those of you just joining us, this is an account of Donn’s trip to the Mauritanian border and journey back in a fruit truck, complete with 2 drivers and all our stuff in the back. Read parts one, two, three, and four here.
Saied 1 was slight of stature whereas Saied 2 was at least twice his body mass, a good 2 feet taller and bigger all around. I had asked Tim to put the particulars of the agreement in writing—i.e. final destination, Rabat; payment in Rabat; amount of payment; etc. Saied 2 attempted a few last minute renegotiations, suggesting things like perhaps when we got to their hometown of Agadir (an 8 hour drive south of Rabat), I could find another truck to take me the rest of the way. No. Oh, and aren’t I paying their travel expenses in addition to the amount agreed on? No. I said good-bye to Tim and climbed in with my new travel companions. We were set, cleared for departure. A port worker–perhaps sensing an opportunity about to pass–pressed me for a gift. I declined as Saied 1 behind the wheel pulled out of the border into the wasteland that is the Sahara.
There are no features there except windblown rocks that are permeated with holes. I didn’t stop to photograph them on the way down as it was not worth the gamble to stop Mohamed’s car, and I did not photograph them on the way up as the truckers were anxious to get going and I didn’t want to advertise that my bag held such electronic treasures such as a digital camera. I thought of various ways to describe these rocks. Petrified swiss-cheese. A hard, dry dusty sponge. Or my first impression, which brought to mind a walk I once took on the beach of Mauritania where I found a 3 or 4 foot tortoise shell, badly decomposed. Its basic shape was intact but it was shabby and full of holes. This was the sole distinguishing feature of the landscape during the 5 hours between the border and Dahkla.
We stopped at the café where Mohamed and I had broken down the day before and had lunch. There was a group of truckers and Saied 2 chatted with them after lunch while Saied 1 and I waited by the truck. The truck had a bench seat with two places and a spot in the middle with not enough leg room. It also had a small bed area behind the front seats. I thought, “This is going to get uncomfortable, but here I am with our stuff after 2 years in storage. This is the final part of the journey. I just need to ignore any discomfort, deal with boredom and get home.” Just then, Saied 2 appeared with a hitch-hiker. “Are you kidding me?” I thought. “Where is he going to go?” The 4 of us climbed into the cab…
We seemed to stop at every truck stop on the route and at each one, we met the same group of truckers, drinking tea, smoking, using the bathroom, talking. It was kind of like a pub-crawl through a desert wasteland. One named Mohamed spoke French and wore a dress-shirt. He seemed out of place, like a business man in a field. He asked where I was going and as I explained, I mentioned some of the attempts on S2’s part to renegotiate the particulars of the agreement. I wasn’t altogether sure I’d heard the last from Saied on it and I find it helpful, when possible, to get the reaction of locals to various situations. Are they surprised? Amused? Resigned? He immediately went and talked to Saied. To me as an American it seemed heated–I don’t use that tone or volume except when I’m put out–but in this part of the world, that’s often how people talk. After 10 minutes he turned to me and said that everything was settled. “I wasn’t thinking to talk to him about it, I just wanted your thoughts on it. Was he angry?” I thought, “I’ve got ride with these people! Worse, I’ve got to close my eyes and sleep next to these people.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “We are all brothers.”
And the topic didn’t come up again, at least not between me and Saied. However, he and our hitchhiker talked incessantly, again in a tone and volume I don’t usually use, and except for recognizing an occasional Arabic word, I didn’t understand it at all. To watch someone’s monologue totally detached from the meaning of what they are saying, detached also from cultural clues and context, is a truly bizarre experience. To me, it seemed Saied laughed much too loud and too frequently for a grown man. The hitchhiker joined in and I watched Saied 1, driving, who never cracked a smile. This was definitely the most uncomfortable part of my trip.
The communication barrier between S1 and myself, linguistically speaking, was total. He didn’t understand a word of Hassynia or French. Nevertheless, he made an effort to be civil, encouraging me to eat from our common plate, pointing me towards the sink or bathroom. Conversely, Saied 2 seemed to understand me if he had to but chose to associate with me as little as possible…
last installment tomorrow, insha’allah…
This is part four of a guest series by my husband, Donn, of a trip he took to the Mauritanian-Moroccan border to get our things. Read parts one, two and three here.
We rolled into the border about 90 minutes later. There is a small strip of shops and two cafes claiming to be hotels at that crossing. Mohamed was eager to head back so I paid him, said good-bye and surveyed the shops for what was available. I’d already been informed of the latest news from Nouakchott: that the drivers had not gotten their truck unloaded by 7:30 a.m. as agreed and so were running late. It was about 1 p.m., and I figured I had at least 3 hours before Tim would be there, so I settled on a café and asked about a room in the back. I only wanted to nap for 3 hours but it took some negotiating to get from the day rate to the napping rate.
The room was typical of a road-side inn in West Africa. It was marginally cleaner than some I’ve been in but the bedding definitely didn’t smell of soap. The door didn’t lock so I moved a heavy coat rack from the corner in front of the door, and closed it as best I could. I lay on top of the blanket and put my arm through the strap of my bag next to me. The three hours passed like the time waiting around Mohammed’s car; or like the day wandering Dakhla; or like the night before cut short by the need to sleep replacing actual sleep.
After 3 hours I went out front and ordered a goat tagine. Although it was one of the more gamy tagines I’ve had, I ate most of it and checked in with Elizabeth. I had not been able to get through on any of Tim’s numbers and consequently had been conducting all communication through my wife who relayed messages both ways. She had just been informed that the truck drivers said it was too late to leave Tim’s. “They haven’t left?” “No, they’ll be there tomorrow.” I quickly went and renegotiated for the full night’s rate.
I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a plastic chair like the ones in the previous post, except that these were on their first life, drinking water and coffee. The border population was 98% male and I was the only obvious foreigner. Do you ever get the feeling you are being watched? I don’t think it would be paranoid to say that my prolonged presence was widely noticed. Eventually, the waiter sat down at my table and started talking to me. I used as much Hassiniya as I could as the effort to speak the local language is usually appreciated and it also conveys right off that you’re not entirely new to the area. Nevertheless, these conversations invariably progress beyond my abilities and I’m left plugging along with Franglaniya (a mélange of French, English and Hassynia spoken by a select few).
Soon three others joined us, so that we had 3 Mohameds (which beats two-pair) and a Serien. The conversation was light and friendly except for the occasional helpful comment about what was wrong with America. This was becoming another theme of my trip. If you want to know what’s wrong with America, take a road trip in a non-western country. One difference we’ve noticed living overseas is that when it comes to politics, we as Americans tend to be very aware of our domestic policy–which is logical as it touches our lives so directly—but others judge us almost entirely by our foreign policies, which we often put little effort into understanding from the perspective of those on the receiving end.
Mohamed in Dahkla, upon learning my nationality, had told me he loved America, had no problem with America EXCEPT he had been in the process of preparing to study in Britain when Sept 11th occurred. His “life-long dream” of studying abroad was apparently a casualty of the flurry of new restrictions on Arab/Muslims traveling to the West. Whatever the actual details of his situation were I don’t know, but his disappointment was still clearly visible in 2009.
As the border was closing, some left while others joined our table. I had a long conversation with a policeman named, oddly enough, Mohamed about the role of language in understanding a culture. (i.e. what do a culture’s word-pictures, idioms, and proverbs tell you about how they think?) Eventually his “chief” came and we had a pleasant 3 hour conversation about sight-seeing in Morocco, recreation, man’s universal need for hearth and home and America’s annoying habit of meddling in other countries’ affairs. We split a gamy goat-tagine and had tea. Also named Mohamed (who says Arab names are hard to remember?), he told me he would look for Tim tomorrow and help get my things across the border.
Nouakchott is 5 hours from the border and Tim & co. had left in the middle of the night so as to be early. The border opened at 8 and I waited as the 10 or so vans and trucks that had lined up in the early morning made their way across to Mauritania. I sat in my plastic chair with a clear view of the border. Nothing seemed to be coming the other way. Around 11, I eventually got a hold of Tim who told me the Mauritanian side had just opened. Tim appeared around noon. I entered the Moroccan side and met him in the middle. There were crowds of people at various windows and it took some figuring out as to what formalities we actually needed to engage in. Tim wasn’t actually going to Morocco, I wasn’t actually going to Mauritania, and the truck wasn’t ours, so certain windows could be avoided. Tim and I hadn’t seen each other in 2 years and the souk-like atmosphere was not conducive to catching up, particularly given the magnitude of recent events such as Chris’ death 2 days earlier. The truck drivers were working on their own paperwork and Tim and I chatted as we bounced from one station to the next, realizing more often than not that we didn’t actually need to stand in that line. It was a surreal experience having two vastly different events occurring simultaneously.
Eventually one of the drivers came up, slapping an imaginary watch on his wrist in an attempt to communicate his desire for us to hurry. “Oh, these guys are Berbers. They don’t speak any French,” Tim informed me. At the market where he had hired the fruit truck and its drivers, Tim had specifically requested a driver that spoke French and was assured one of them would be a French-speaker. They also spoke no Arabic, so my Hassiniya wasn’t going to help either.
Finally we were directed to the customs office where I had to produce a list of my personal affects. I was afraid of that. The stuff had been in storage for 2 years and I remembered the big items but not the specific contents of each box. I quickly jotted down a list of what I could remember and it seemed to work. The customs agent seemed to be juggling at least 3 activities at any one time and so our interaction was interjected with long pauses. As he looked over each piece of paperwork and got to my passport, he said, “American?”
“Yes.”
“You know, every great empire eventually comes to an end.”
“That’s true.”
“Rome, Greece, Britain.”
“That’s true,” I said, “All earthly kingdoms will eventually come to an end.”
After this bit of historical perspective, he gave the list to a field agent and sent him out to the truck with me. The agent directed the driver to bring a box from the far end of the truck. The box said “Books” on the side. “Des livres?” He asked me, pointing to “Livres” on my list. “Oui.” He motioned the driver to put it back as he surveyed the other boxes. “Do you have guns?” he asked me. I always want to joke at times like this. It’s a strange form of vertigo I have where I’m tempted to plummet myself into a chaotic, legal situation simply for the value of making a joke. I pulled back from the edge. “No,” I said as we walked back to the office.
The final stamps landed on my paper with a thud. At moments like these, I always feel like Lucy in A Charlie Brown Christmas dancing to the sound of shiny nickels. “Oh how I love to hear those old nickels PLUNK!”I feel that way about stamps on official documents.
Out at the truck, Tim formally introduced me to the drivers. “This is Saied. “What?” I thought, “Not Mohamed?” Turning to the other driver, he said, “This is also Saied.”
Well as long as I’ve got two of a kind, I thought…
…to be continued
In which my husband Donn recounts his trip to the Moroccan-Mauritanian border and back. Read parts one and two here.
Day Three:
It was not yet light when I climbed into the taxi with Mohamed, leaving the dimly lit Sahara Regency diminishing behind us. Mohamed didn’t speak French; apparently the area around Dahkla had been a Spanish enclave during the colonial period of French West Africa and he was conversant in Spanish but had virtually no French. My limited Hassiniya worked to some extent and we got our basic thoughts across. Fifteen minutes out of town was a check-point. In yet another situation where I seemed to be the only one laughing, we discovered that passport control had not actually stamped my passport coming into Dahkla. This discrepancy seemed abnormal to them. How had I gotten to Dahkla? No, really, how’d I get there? After explaining myself about 3 times they accepted the fact that there I was, no stamp, and probably someone had simply not done their job. All in all, they were very nice about it and soon we were on the road again.
Mohamed’s car had a blinking oil light which beeped audibly 3 times per second. Exactly. I counted it numerous times. I also did the math in my head. At the end of our journey, I would have heard it 48,600 times! He assured me there was plenty of oil; it was actually an electrical problem. Comforted, I settled in, counted, and did the math again. Yep, 48,600 times. Yes, I thought, this could very easily drive somebody insane.
About 9 am we stopped at a café where we had coffee, eggs fried in oil, and bread. Back in the car, we discovered that it wouldn’t start. It had been beeping right along but now… nothing. We did all the looking and poking that two non-mechanics can do and then enlisted other non-mechanics to see what they would poke or wiggle. Of course we tried pushing it and this got us well out of the café parking lot but not much further. “Problemo,” Mohamed said as he lit a cigarette. Southern Morocco is desolate; there aren’t a lot of options. The gas station attached to the café had no mechanics so we waited around, thinking, Mohamed chain-smoking, and uttering, “Problemo.” Occasionally I’d add a “Mushkila” which is Arabic for problemo. Mohamed would nod in agreement. “Mushkila.” Light another cigarette and exhale, “Problemo.”
Tim told me once that one of the effects of living in Africa for 20 years is that when his car breaks down in Minnesota, he finds himself scanning the side of the road for something useful. I knew what he meant. Africa is a land of improvisation. Something discarded always has another possible use. Shortly before leaving Mauritania, I started photographing chairs on the streets of Nouakchott, which are often made up of 2 to 4 of their broken, discarded predecessors.
Chairs on the streets of Nouakchott; used mostly by young men selling phone cards. Images © Donn Jones
Mohamed walked off a bit in search of something useful. I scanned the highway as well for something useful, such as a UN Land-Cruiser on its way to the border. Eventually Mohamed returned with a 20 ft strand of barbed wire, lit a cigarette and waited until a willing car passed by. A kind soul eventually stopped and Mohammed spoke with him, straightening the barbed wire. We attached it to both cars and began towing, pushing, hoping. It broke. But of course, a chain is only as weak as its weakest link. So we tied it together at the break and tried again, and again. And eventually we got rid of those weak spots and got enough speed to start the car! Black smoke billowed out the back. In a diesel engine, that’s unburned fuel. A trained mechanic might know what to do with that information. Soon thick clouds of white smoke followed. I couldn’t think of the significance of white smoke from diesel engines but vaguely remembered it’s not ideal. About a kilometer down the road we stopped at some empty buildings, one of which had mechanic scrawled over the door. Exiting the running car, M looked for life-forms. The car died instantly.
The place seemed as remote as the moon and I opted to stay near the capsule. It had that ghost town feel and I remembered a family vacation when I was a kid, our 69 VW bus breaking down on a long dirt-road outside of Bodie, CA. Problemo. Presently however, the same man that helped us the first time came back. He pulled in and we searched for something better than barbed wire. We found a strand of thick, blue rope. Got the car running again, quickly collected the rope, and rolled down the road. Mohammed lit a cigarette, shook his head and said, “Problemo.” It was a good two hours since breakfast and I was beginning to appreciate having left at 6…
…to be continued
Donn Does Dakhla: DAY 2
A continuation of Donn’s desert adventure in search of our things, left in Tim’s garage in Nouakchott for two years. Part One here.
One of the last things I did my first evening in Dakhla was to ask a policeman where Centre Ville was. He laughed and pointed at the waterfront in a kind of shrug, as if offering something that wasn’t much use, adding “Dakhla is very small.”
Morning in Dakhla is a quiet time. In contrast to Mauritanian shops which always seem to be open, many of the markets and hanuts were still shut as I searched for a cyber café. I found a few that were closed and so asked where the bush taxis gather. At the designated spot, a shop-keeper that was open told me there would be taxis later. At 10 a.m. it was still a bit early. I eventually found a cyber café open and seemed to be their first customer.
It’s always amazing to me how much English is used in places where the general population doesn’t speak it at all.
I called Elizabeth to see if there was news from Tim and she told me she had just gotten an email from friends in Mauritania about the murder of a friend there, just a couple of hours earlier. I sat stunned trying to make sense of it. Chris was a big guy with a bigger smile. I don’t mean to generalize but I’ve noticed living overseas that there are regional distinctives common to Americans. If we West-coasters are the standard of all that’s normal, Southerners I’ve come across really do have an out-going, social capacity that many of us have to work at. Chris had that trait in spades; a friendliness that was instantly present, natural, full of grace. I’m not just saying this because he’s dead, I’d become conscious of this years earlier. Chris’ biggest influence on me was the way he met the rampant, ethical deficiencies of Mauritania with patience and kindness. (I don’t naturally do that).
So Day 2 in Dakhla was spent, not just killing time as I’d planned (the flight to Dakhla was on Monday but Tim couldn’t meet me until Wednesday), but was spent sitting in the park, wandering around, trying to understand what type of person found kindness so threatening that they took Chris’ life. I had no answers (other than the obvious ones) and found myself repeating expressions of grief as the news of his death articulated itself in my thoughts over and over again.
Late that afternoon I received word that the drivers would need a paper I had with me on the Mauritanian side of the border. I returned to the three cyber cafes I’d found earlier in an effort to fax or scan the document. None had a working scanner or fax. I wandered by a small computer supply store and stopped to ask the man behind the desk (sitting next to a nice, new scanner) if he knew where a guy could find a scanner in this town. He offered to scan and send it for me. Mohammad had studied English ten years earlier and explained how he had no one to practice with in Dakhla. As we chatted, we scanned and emailed the document to Tim. I always marvel at how people who studied English 10 years ago and have no one to practice with always seem to speak it as well as my French, which I have been actively pursuing for the last 5 years.
Then Mohamed walked with me back to the taxi area and found a bush taxi that would leave for the border the next morning at 6 am. I knew I didn’t need to be at the border until late afternoon; couldn’t we leave later? The hotel doesn’t start breakfast till 7. I was counting on that meal and a full night’s sleep. No, Mohammad & Mohamed the driver assured me, it was best to leave early. I thanked Mohamed for all his kindness and we parted ways. On the way back, about 10 p.m. now, I stopped in a place called Pizza Rio and ordered a cheese and olive pizza. This was my only non-goat/sheep dinner of the entire trip.
Back at the hotel, I packed and went to bed with that sense of needing to get as much sleep as possible, you know, that sense of urgency that keeps you awake. At 5:59 am, when I’d been up for 14 minutes, Mohamed the driver called from downstairs. Yes, I’m coming.
A leisurely morning was not for me.
Checking out of the hotel was uneventful except for a small game I’m starting to recognize in my travels in N. Africa and Southern Europe. I won’t go into all the details as they’re more petty than interesting but I include the general experience as a heads-up for other travelers. It’s the lies-about-the-credit-card machine-so-that-you’ll-pay-cash ruse. I’d recently had similar experiences in Spain and Gibraltar where at the last minute, for one reason or another, businesses that take credit cards suddenly don’t and “couldn’t you pay cash” and it was just becoming too familiar. In this case, I was told, sympathetically, “The connection is down.” Of course that’s possible but it seemed disingenuous. My gut feeling was unsympathetic so I refused to come up with any alternative despite the clerk insisting 3 times that the connection was down. Finally I suggested that I could send him the money someday. “Well, let’s try,” he finally offered. Voila! It went through perfectly, first time. What a miracle! Taxi’s waiting. Receipt? Thank you. Good-bye.
…to be continued
Donn Does Dakhla
Yes, a guest post by Donn, in several parts.
Repetition can have a soothing effect, like swaying palms, the gentle pressure of massage, or Enya (for some people). Repetition can also drive you crazy, like the legendary dripping of water, Ground Hog Day (the movie), or Enya (for some people). The road to Mauritania and back was full of recurring events, small details, and the light sensation of déjà vu, forming the monotonous rhythm of my journey. It began as I kissed the family and headed out the door to find a taxi. That afternoon, on the corner near our house, every taxi was full. Taxi after taxi came into sight, its particular details slowly resolving as it drew near, consistently revealing a passenger in one of the seats. The waiting began.
The plan was that I would take a taxi to the train, the train to the airport, and a plane to Dakhla. From there I would find a bush-taxi to the border, approximately a five hour journey. I knew I had little control over the events that would follow so I had determined to take them as they unfolded.
While train and plane had their share of boredom, I won’t try to prove it; you’ll have to trust me. Monotony began with only slight backdrop changes along the way. Images flitted past windows and venues changed, like flipping through a stack of unedited photos until you arrive at the last one and for that reason only, look at it a little longer. My first day ended in Dakhla with a few hours of light left. I wandered the streets looking for things that would add familiarity or significance to my two days in Dakhla. Dakhla is a small, open city, the southern-most outpost of civilization in Morocco. It is cleaner, and seemingly more relaxed than most Mauritanian towns I’ve been in, though ultimately it reminds one of other Saharan desert towns–if one has had Saharan desert towns etched in their mind.
My first glimpse came as I emerged from the stark rooms that record each traveler, into the beige and tan streets under a faint blue sky that mark North African towns like team colors. I immediately asked a policeman where I could catch a taxi to the Sahara Regency. He laughed and pointed at the end of the street that exited the airport. There at the end was the Sahara Regency.
I’d been told that the SR was the only hotel in Dakhla. I’d also been told it was a modern city. Hmmm…who to believe. There are other hotels in Dakhla but the SR is by far the nicest and the only one resembling a Western-style hotel. It’s not entirely Western, though. For example, the hotel operated with no fear of lawsuits. Definitely not American…. I digress, but when one of our kids was three, despite being potty-trained, he/she pooped in a pool at a condo in Hawaii. It was easily removed and the hotel admitted that they could chemically “shock” the water and deal with any impurity but that if any of their clients heard about it and got sick for any reason, they’d be sued. So they emptied the entire pool (on a week-end) and had it scrubbed and re-filled. Then they sent me a bill. I reminded them that by their own admission, they could have chemically treated the pool and that their fear of lawsuits was not my problem. Then I gave the bill back to them.
At the SR, there was a small but fun pool on the roof. The SR is possibly the tallest buildings in Dakhla and the pool goes right up to the edge giving one a great view of the city towards the sea but also the sensation that if the pool sprung a leak, one would flop out and down like a fish on a waterfall. But that’s not the lawsuit-waiting-to-happen that I have in mind. The pool is lined with fun Moroccan lights daisy-chained along the edge–that 2 foot frame around the pool that always gets soaking wet as people swim, splash, and exit the pool. I could only suppose that the patches of electrical tape on the wires covered bare spots. As I moved towards the pool, the waiter hurried over to unplug the lights…
…to be continued
