Soundtrack: Grace Jones – I’ve seen that face before
I could describe West Africa with words, but I think the photos below speaks better alone…
Amazing view when waking up in the morning (Merzouga, Morocco).
Fighting against the heat. (Southern Morocco).
Out of water… One consumes enormous amounts of liquid during the day
(Southern Morocco).
El Aaúin city, more clean than most Moroccan cities (West Sahara).
One of my favorite photos. From here it is straight
South to The Gambia (West Sahara coastal road).
There are long distances between gas stations, so one better be prepared
with extra fuel-cans (West Sahara)
Settled down for the night close to Laayoune Plage (West Sahara).
Now you have an idea how far the distances can be between civilization
in West Africa (West Sahara).
Just a stone’s throw from the road and the landscape takes an amazing
change (North of Dakhla, West Sahara).
Don’t go for a pee! (West Sahara).
“No Man’s Land” is the zone between Western Sahara and Mauritania.
No rules here other than staying on the track to avoid the danger of mines
(No Mans Land).
Taken by Ana Filipa Monteiro when crossing Mauritanian border.
Photographing at borders are often regarded as spying, so you better
not get caught (Mauritania).
Sleeping in an old abandoned house. The stars seemed like one could reach
them in the dark desert night (Nouadhibou, Mauritania).
Erik Lathouwers from Belgium took care of me when I was out of money
(Nouadhibou, Mauritania).
Sunrise in the desert. I slept out here on my way from Nouakchott to Atar
(Mauritania).
Stuck in the sand, I waited 30 minutes for help to pass, luckily Alquada not
came by that evening (Mauritania).
The famous Rosso border between Mauritania and Senegal One of the most
feared and hated border crossings in Africa. I must say that things here are
total chaotic and all they want is to unburden you of your cash. If this was
not enough I made my entry by tossing the bike in the sand in front of
hundreds of people (Mauritania).
At the popular “Zebra Bar” (Senegal).
This beautiful tree fascinated me as all the area behind
me was full of garbage, but right at this very spot
everything was perfect (Dakar, Senegal).
View from my hotel room in Dakar city. The locals slept on the roof’s during
the night (Dakar, Senegal).
Please feel free to explore all the photo’s of West Africa:
Morocco photo set
West Sahara photo set
No Mans Land photo set (Border crossing between WS & Mauritania)
Mauritania photo set
Senegal photo set
If you enjoy reading about my journey and find the site giving, why not help a motorcycle traveller to go even further? You can support me by visiting this page.
Thanks for sharing with you…
mhoey
Soundtrack: Santana – Samba Pa Ti
I believe the Gods were with me that day in Tamtatoucht…
It was early morning when I opened my eyes and got out of the comfy bed. I looked out of the window of the Kasbah Essalam Auberge. The sun was shining and the sound of the rushing river was replaced by birds singing, and Dominique doing his morning rituals in the bathroom. A rather unpleasant sound compared to the birds.
Maybe the flooding had stopped because of the Auberge owner whom had promised me to include us in his prayers the night before. Earnestly I didn’t know, but one thing I was perfectly sure of, it was going to be a hell of a day to ride a red VFR to Merzouga.
After a tour in a 4×4 around the town, or better described as a small village accompanied with the Auberge owner I was ready to give it another shot at the river.
The bikes were still in the yard, we hadn’t spend any energy putting locks on them during the night 
as our friends at the Auberge had given us their words that the bikes would be there the next morning, they were right. Two dirty Honda’s were still present in the yard, ready for sandy roads in southern Morocco, what instead should become a very wet experience.
We said farewell to our nice host’s got on the bikes and rode down to the river. The water was gone which made crossing a piece of cake. I belive I could have passed the day before, as the now visible tarmac looked perfect, no potholes.
Thinking back I do not regret taking a night in a real bed, perfect Moroccan meal followed by live music (the Auberge owners playing on flute and drums) a very good experience and indeed a great company.
As we went longer down south towards Tinghir, passing Ait Attouch things became more heavy than the rushing river from yesterday. This time we had to pass or wait it out, there was no way back! Bridges was washed away because of heavy rain in the Atlas Mountains. Long convoys of old beaten up trucks, cars and people on donkeys were 
trying to pass the river in alternative ways or simply waiting until the damages were repaired. Dominique and I agreed that being two we could pass the obstacles. I can say with confidence in my voice that we both were eager for a little excitement…
You can have a lot of opinions about the Moroccan people, but I must admit that I was amazed about the effectivity they repaired the damaged bridges and roads. 15-25 people working in a team taking care of the problems, so the normal day life can go on. I talked with one of 
the guys helping me passing a damaged bridge and was told that it was one of his ways of making a living, repairing and helping people to cross. The roads are very important for them to get food, goods and other supplies to and from remote cities.
After a hard day of struggle with a heavy Honda sport bike across rivers, stones and washed away bridges I said goodbye to my French friend Dominique in the city of Tinghir. Dominique was heading West, I was heading South East. To be more specific I was going to the desert in Merzouga, where you can get the first sight of the desert dunes. On my way I ran into a Dutch couple, both riding Honda African Twin’s. They were testing the bikes for their “RTW Journey” in 2010 by taking a trip around Morocco to see if something unexpected should happen. My nature says me that the unexpected things are a big part of the trip. If all things goes by the book, there is nothing excited about it!
We shared a tip or two including a little curse about the alu boxes from Hepco Becker before we said goodbye by wishing each other a great journey.
Looking at the map it told me there was about 175 km to Merzouga, which could be achieved before sun set. Short before Rissani I met another flooded road, children were guiding people through, trying to score some Dirham. Most cars that passed ignored them, The Netherlands people had warned me about them saying that they shouted, whistled as they went through. As I slowly drove by the kids, I could hear the common sentence “Dirham, Dirham”, that was all.
The day before I was adviced to stay at the ”Petite Prince” in Merzouga by a couple of French guys on Yamaha XT500’s. As usual nothing goes as planned, short before Merzouga, south of Rissani I met another two guys from The Netherlands on BMW FS800’s. One of them going off-road and the other cruising on the road, they stopped when we met a cross-section. As keen as I always is to get into a talk with fellow travellers I immediately saluted them with a big smile and started to ask where they were heading? But without any success, it was like speaking to a door, they only replied with a word or two before they went off in the horizon! After standing in the dust of their slip stream, a guy on a Bimmer 1150 Adventure came blasting by. He hardly manage to stop when I waved at him. His first impression of me and my bike was to laugh out loud, saying in perfect English “You out here on that bike”. He kept laughing about that for the rest of the day, his name was Sven. Sven was a massive build 40 year old police officer from Hamburg, German. I really enjoyed his type of person and company.
We arrived with furious speed in Merzouga me trying to hang on to Sven’s insane pace. 
Suddenly the road ended and only dunes of sand lay in front of us. There we were, and no signs of the Petite Prince! Before I noticed it a smoking two strokes moped with a fat guy on came up beside Sven and me. The tout spotted us arriving and sitting on the bikes in the sand looking out in the horizon on what seemed like the end of Moroccan soil and start of Western Sahara. He knew right away what we were looking for, a place to stay! It was easy, two guys looking for a place to stay with 20 kilometers to the nearest town, and it was starting to get dark. We were sold for the lowest bid…
“Are you looking for an auberge?”, the tout asked ”No, a camp site. Do you know where we can find the Petite Prince?” I answered him back. “No, but if you ask the British guys we had staying here yesterday, they will tell you that they enjoyed our hospitality very much”. “Of course you have to say that” I replied him. “Do you have beers?”, I asked again. Sven was now laughing more than ever. We both knew what the answer would be! “Yes, how many do you want?”
These touts simply say anything to unburden you of cash. Of course two beer drinking guys from North of Europe didn’t make the situation much better.
We manage to agree on a good 
price with the tout which was later doubled by the owner of the Auberge. He invited us in for a cup of Moroccan mint tea after we parked the bikes and packed out our things. A rather perfect tactical situation! He knew we wasn’t going anywhere once we had settled down and kicked of our dirty boots.
I was about to leave because of my nature, my temper was about to explode, I was in 30.000 ft. for the first time on my journey. I finished my tea and was about to head for the door, when Sven asked me to take it easy and sit down again. Sven manage to make me stay, which I today are more than happy about. I learnt that the first thing to do is to negotiate a price, and then have the owner stick to it, which I had better success with afterwards. Looking back, I must admit that had I been there alone, I would have packed my things and left.
Sven and I had a great evening that day, temporarily repairing my alu box which suffered hard during my crash a couple of days ago. A beer or two might have added the final things to this perfect evening, but the great company made this evening a memorable day.
The tout that followed us to the place had vanished into nothing, and I didn’t see the shadow of him while staying, which you might say was in luck for him.
TO BE CONTINUED..!
Recommanded to en(hoey) with a beer or a cup of coffee!
Thanks for sharing with you…
mhoey
Soundtrack: Suede – The Power
Yes I am alive and doing good, so is the VFR, though it is totally disassembled, maintenance is what I spend alot of time with here in cold Spain.
Take a look at the link above, while reading the lines below. This song is by Suede from their album “Dog man star”. It was the favorite song in my ears and my mind during my adventures in West Africa. I guess I did not have the power back then, but who knows if it will come again one day..? The lyrics can be seen here
I know I owe you readers a brush up on my experiences of Africa as I saw and felt it, and here is the start, while my memory is still fresh:
Exit of Rabat with a visa in my pocket was not that hard, just one have to loose the tail of begging people and avoid straight on collisions with taxi’s, people walking across the street without noticing you. I do recommend not going there in the Ramadan period, it is hard to get something to eat during daytime!
Off I went from the hotel and guess what the fucking guys at the hotel was waving me off, I guess they were not that bad. My compass was heading South-East towards the Atlas mountains. I wanted to see these great mountain crest’s situated from North of Algeria to the almost Southern part of Morocco, and I had a little less than one month to reach the border of Mauritania, the 
start date of the Visa stated 18th of September, and today was 24th of September. The clock would start ticking when I reached Mauritania giving me 30 days to explore the country. But until then I had plenty of time to kill in Morocco and Western Sahara.
The roads were okay near Rabat, but as I progressed my way out in the countryside they became more and more demanding. But what an experience, I met many nice people on my way, and saw a lot of funny things, including totally overloaded Mitsubishi and old Mercedes-Benz trucks transporting everything from people to goats. On my way I encountered a heavy thunder-storm and rain I has not seen it before. But I was lucky, I stumbled into a nice group of road maintenance men who supplied me with shelter from the rain and nice food not to mention a strong pipe of tobacco (hashish). Moroccan people are great, and one soon get the feeling if they 
are trying to hustle you or if they are doing you good.
The first night sleeping underneath the stars after leaving the hotel in Rabat was nothing to write home about. First it started to rain, next thing I remember was waking up almost doing the brown thing in my boxers (I guess diarrhea is something you just have to live with in Africa), it was a hard night, not much sleep. I was too lazy to put up my tent and instead I just used it as a tarpaulin to keep me dry from the rain.
Next day it was time for me to lend a hand to a bunch of people in an old wornout Mercedes (yes they love Mercedes-Benz down here). It had blown a seal. aqua (water) they needed, and I had plenty with me, one never knows what is over the next hill side? That is what I love about travelling…
One thing that struck me hard about Morocco, was the condition these people lived in. When entering most of the cities, it was like stepping back in time, stepping into an “after war situation”, when thinking of the towns these people lived in. The buildings were literally falling down on their heads. Gas stations totally ruined, shit and garbage in the streets. People riding donkey drawn carriages, totally chaotic, maybe too poor for some Europeans to experience. But even though, people still smiled and came over to me for a chat, I guess it was normal for them. The children playing around and probably skipping school. For me this was adventuring, I had laid Europe behind me and all the safe things. This was the place on earth were everything could happen, and it did. Every second something took place just in front of my nose, something I had not seen before. The life they lived was not to be compared with any life in Europe. They lived 
under much more extreme conditions, and they had adapted to these, they simply had to!
Anything can happen in Africa, and it does. But remember, there are always solutions….
I ventured on towards Khemisset and Khénifra and the roads began to take an even more demanding shape, and so the weather, it was getting more cold, and I had to stop and get more clothes on, not to freeze.
On my way to find shelter on a cold Friday evening in the dark Atlas mountains I ran into a funny French guy riding a Honda African Twin. The guy’s name was Dominique and he was hiding in the area of Ali Ou Ikko and had found himself a nice place to camp for the night (which can be hard to find in West Africa. Trust me, it is even harder when you get further down South, people are everywhere, even where there are not supposed to be people). As I went off road and spotted a perfect place which could not be seen 
from the road, Dominique came out of his tent and was quit surprised of seeing a guy on a street bike in these harsh areas. We spoke for an hour or so and he supplied me with a hot cup of coffee while I manage to get my tent up. Dominique was on holiday alone and toured Morocco, his wife was back home in France. After a nice meal which consisted of way too expensive meal (they hustled me) I bought in a small village earlier the same day I felt asleep after a cigarette or two. All in all, what a great day…
Waking up early in the mornings is normally something I hate, but while travelling I had found a good rhythm getting up at around 6-8 o’clock, taking some breakfast which consisted of coffee/tea and some bread with cheese. It is also necessary to get the things packed down and hit the road before the temperature reaches too high Celsius when you get further down South. I 
waved Dominique off, hearing the V-twin buzz down of the road. I finally had the chance to take a shit now that I was alone again, I found a good place and left my mark, I had not been the only one doing that. Dominique had left his mark too (you should not be a girlie travelling like this). Neither did we find the same place to camp for the night, we also found the same place to take a dump!
After packing down my things and hitting the road I didn’t ride for long before I met 5 bicycle riders near Ait Hani, some kilometres from where I’ve been camping the evening before. They were talking about which road to take. Many of the roads in East Morocco near the Atlas mountains were either blocked by water or bridges that had collapsed due to the heavy rainfall in the last couple of days. Most of the guys in the group wanted to take the easiest route back 
home, due to low finances, two of them wanted the hard way. They had plenty of bucks left and wanted to continue. While speaking with them the police came by and stopped for a chat. One of the officers was very keen to get a ride on my VFR. I tried to tell the dude that it was not handling like a normal bike due to all the weight. He finally gave up bugging me after one of the Moroccan guys on the bicycle told him nicely to piss off. I asked my new friend on the bicycle which way was the best to go. He told me that he would advise me to take the main road because of the bad weather and not the smaller off-road leading up in the mountains. I choose not to follow his advise and instead I took the dirt road leading up to something that would become very interesting and challenging on a street bike. What the hell I was out for adventures not the Autobahn… It turned out to be more demanding than I had thought to begin with. It was like 
riding on soap, totally muddy. The front wheel skid on the road and suddenly I was lying underneath the heavy Ussel Mammut. The right hand alu box collapsed like it was made of butter. Luckily I was okay and my laptop was still alive!
After some 50 kilometers and a couple of hours I met two French guys on Yamaha XT 500’s, fighting their way in the other direction. We all stopped and had a chat. One of them was Gégé, a French guy that had travelled down to Cape Town and up again on his XT many years ago. While we were talking a couple of European 4×4 came by, also French dudes, and very organized.
Later the same day I met Dominique and the two bicycle riders again in Tamtatoucht, while I was trying to cross a river where the water was streaming with furious force. Dominique had crashed his bike on the dirt road like me. We agreed to turn back to the nearest Auberge and let time fix our problem and return the morning after. TO BE CONTINUED..!
Soundtrack: Arcade Fire – Intervention
Grand Hotel, room 221, Rabat, Morocco. GPS: N 34°01.209′ W 006°49.883′. 17SEP-24SEP2009 (Thanks to Najib for open Wi-Fi connection).
I packed my belongings on a sunny but windy day in Ceuta, said farewell to Patricia. She had been so kind to make me a bag of juice and fruits, so I had something to consume on my way to Tanger. Before I arrived to the border, I filled up the gas tank of Ussel Mammut. I was told that the fuel prices in Morocco were more expensive than in Ceuta, Spain.
Next issue was the money, Morocco is still very much a cash society. Only place to use your credit card is at the bank’s ATM’s. So first important thing was to get some cash, to buy the nessasary gas and food on my way to Rabat (Visa for Mauritania). First I had in mind to exchange my US Dollars at a bank in Ceuta. The Dollars had been stored in my pocket all the way from home. I felt it was more safe than do it at the border. After I had been to the second bank, I gave up. The lady at the bank told me they didn’t have any Dirham. Funny I thought! and asked her. Why, when Morocco is your neighbour country no further than 4 km from here? She told me that the normal way was to exchange at the border. “You know there are money exchangers there?” Incredible the bank telling you to exchange your money at the border on the black market. I guess it is like an everyday-thing to do down south. I remember as a child my parents did it at a campsite in Hungary when I was on holiday. Many years was to pas before I figured out what they exactly where had been doing?
Ok, I then needed some Euro, which she would happily give me instead of my useless Dollars. I exchanged my them for the Euro and left the bank with yet another worry on my mind, how would it turn out at the border? None down, still two to go! The exchange of the Euro to Dirham at the sleezy money exchangers and the border. By that point I didn’t know which was worst? Both was first timers for me.
I was very sceptic upon arriving to the place where the money exchangers were. I had been there the day before with Patricia. At least I knew about the currency rate. But would they give me false notes, run away with my Euro, once they had them in their hands?
I can now tell that the exchange went fine, no worries for those who are thinking of going to Morocco. I got the exchange rate of 11.1 Dirham to one Euro, which is fairly. The procedure went easy, the old guy took his time waiting for me to count my money, and asked if everything was fine? Afterwards we shaked hands and he took off to do more business, and I left was to head on for the next obstacle, the border, not the forget the officials.
The border to enter Morocco is another thing, it is more demanding than the exchange, but straight forward once you have tried it. I now know all the forms to fill out. One of them are already handed over to you on the ferry from Spain to Ceuta. Like on the plane just before you touch down on the land of the States. The white form from the ferry is about your personal details for visiting Morocco, name, date of birth and place of vist etc.
Upon my arrival an old guy in arabic dress (a tout) approached me, he had a fine plastic card on his chest, which he showed me. It stated his name. He then asked me, if I knew him, if I had been in Morocco before, and where I was from? Denmark I answared him, with a nervous voice, and yes I had been here before, the last was a big lie. Of cause I hadn’t been in Morocco before. I just wanted to get the wanker of my back . He told me that he worked at the border, and was going to help me by doing the paperworks, filling out the forms. I Immidiately replied him that I didn’t need his help, and I could do it myself. I had heard stories about others getting ripped by these touts at the borders, paying 20 Euro or more for nothing, than getting in front of the que. I didn’t have in mind to pay a single Dime, I had all the time and patience in the world.
Before I left Ceuta, Patricia had told me one more thing. This was about the touts trying to sell forms which are free, and a lot of people get fooled big time. I could tell that this guy was very eager to make a quick profit on me, he followed me all the way to the officials, telling me where I could park my bike and which official I should turn to first.I said to him for the last time that I was able to do the things myself and I didn’t need his help. It seemed to work, he finally went away finding another hopeless fool to rip off.
I parked my bike so it still was viseable from the officials shed. Took my tankbag and went over to the little office. The man behind the window looked tired. He didn’t give me much attention, though I was standing just in front of him flashing with my passport and my white document. He was more interested in speaking to his collegue. He finally grab my documents without saying anything. I asked him if Ramadan was soon to end? He mumbled “Yes” I bet that was why he looked so exhausted. After a short while he gave me the stamp that would let me into Morocco. I happily thought that all obstacles was over. I could begin my new adventures in a new country, a new continent – Africa was lying in front of me. I quickly got my arms down. I found out that one also have to report your vehicle into Morocco. It ment filling out another form. A young dude in modern clothes, t-shirt, jeans and snickers approached me, telling me, that I had to go to another counter and get the form. Before I could say anything he went and got it for me, and helped me filling out the details. Afterwards I got in line in front of another officials shed, handed over the form together with my registration certificate of the bike. The lady behind the desk typed all the details into the computer., using the “single finger method”. Finally when she finished I was ready to start my new adventures. I gave the guy helping me one Euro. He didn’t seem to be too pleased.
As I thought this was the end of all the paperwork, I realized I still had to pass the Moroccan police, which wanted to see my passport once more, and documention of the bike. This guy was even worse than the first guy checking and issuing my passport. I went over to him after sitting on the bike for a couple of minutes trying to get his attention. He didn’t bother looking at me to start with. But I guessed he couldn’t avoid me at the end, as I was standing just in front of him with my documents. He looked at me and the bike. And then asked me “No Pistola?” I got very surprised, but I answared him No, while I was shaking my head, I couldn’t help laughing a bit, which didn’t make the situation any better. Did he think that all European people bring a piece, when going to outside of EU? He gave me the final stamp which ment I was over all the hurdless and could begin my journey in a new country, Morocco, if it wasn’t because I had to pass another guy, taking one more look at my passport, he was in the same mood as the others, do I have to say more!
First I intended to go straight on the Tanger, but I changed my mind short after leaving the border. Instead I was heading inland towards Tetouan. My destination was Rabat to obtain my first Visa. The roads ahead to Tetouan was first mountaian roads, later they turned into country roads on the way down south to Rabat, leading you through cities on the countryside. The landscape is nothing I haven’t seen before, the roads are okay to start with. The temperature was around 20 degress celcius, which can be freezing cold, when one is used to 40 degrees celcius in Spain. I quickly got my inner lining in the Rukka jacket.
I did a couple of stops on my way to eat and smoke some cigarettes. The first times I did it in cover so the cars passing did not see. It was Ramadan, I soon found out that this was not nessasary. The muslims respect you, though you are eating or smoking during midday.
Later that evening around 08.00 pm I found a place off the road where I could wild camp without anybody noticing. I put up the tent due to a cloudy sky, one gets wiser after some time! Got myself some pasta with sauce, which Beatriz had supplied me with and finally fell asleep a couple of hours later to arabic music blasting nearby.
Next day I took time on my stop watch (the phone) to pack all the things and get ready to hit the road. 1 hour, 12 minutes and 10 seconds. One can do better, my goal is to get under one hour.
On my way to Rabat I took the oppertunity to refuel more often than usual, I wasn’t sure when or where the next gas station would show up? I soon found out, that they are not far from each other. The Moroccan’s sounded their horns when I came by, waving at me, or giving me thumbs up. I even got pulled over one time by two guys in a car. They wanted to know the price on a VFR in my origin country. I don’t have to say that they got very surprised if not terrified when I told them the cost of 11.000 Euro for a second hand 10 years old bike like mine. Now it is that I hope our great tax minister in Denmark, Mr. Kristian Jensen has become an adictive to this blog, and is waiting for me to do a new post, so he can get his fix. Please lower the taxes on motorbikes Mr. Jensen!!!
When arriving to Rabat it was the chaotic kaos like I had expected. I would compare it with close contact sports. The horn is your favorite weapon to get in front, and you better use it, if you aren’t interested in getting ran down by a truck or a taxi. The taxi’s are far the worst, they don’t respect you at all. I was lucky to avoid contact, not even the pedestrians walking out on the road just in front of me, making the bike almost set completely in the front suspension. I tell you, that one better watch the nine lives living down here, and pray couple of times t God or Allah before heading out of the door. Something tells me, that the worst is to come further down south!
Finding a cheap hotel or hostel is another thing, I drove around for an hour or so, before I finally gave up, and asked a young guy standing on the street. He pointed right ahead, and told me I could find two hotels in that direction, but he didn’t know the prices of them? I reached the first one, and another guy said it was closed, but he would show me the way to a hotel. That one turned out to be way too expensive for me. They were charging 550 Dirham (48 Euro) per. night. I was ready to saddle up and head to another part of Rabat, when my eyes dicovered a hotel just accross the street. It look sad, with only one star, the rest of the stars had either been taking off, or been paled by the sun during the last decades. That would be the right place for me and in a resenoble rate. I went into the reception, and yes, it was sad, believe me. But the manager was smiling and welcoming me (later found out that it was probably because I were his only guest). I asked of the price? To start with, he was asking 200 Dirham per. night. I asked him of a piece of paper and wrote 100 Dirham, which he didn’t accept. Instead he took the pen, paper and wrote 175. I shoked my head and took the pen from his hand. Wrote 150. He looked at me, and at the bike outside. “Where are you going?” he asked. 
Cape Town “Sud Africa” I replied. Ok, 150 Dirham, and how long are you staying? I showed him one and then two fingers, also replying him in my best French “Un ou deux” . “I have to find the embassy of Mauritania. You know where is? He didn’t!” (I later renegotiated the price of the hotel. After I had been told that the price should not be higher than 50 – 75 bucks. I got down to 115 Dirham, still too much. The manager didn’t speak to me afterwards…)
I went out to get all my things of the bike and returned to the manager of the hotel. Asked him for a secure place to store my bike while staying there. He waved at me and said “Suivre moi” French for follow me. We went down to a garage 50 meters from the hotel, it was full of cars, and an old dirty guy showed up huffing and puffing, pulling on his pants, he was about to drop. He was missing every second teeth in his mouth. Both the manager and the old dude asked me if 30 Dirham (2.75 Euro) was okay? I accepted! One does not negotiate with the price of parking the bike, when it is only at that rate. Instead I explained him in very simple English and also pointing with my hands, that he should watch the VFR with his life. He did indeed, he parked his own car in front, making it impossible to get to it.
The room at the hotel was nothing to write home about, like the girls down here. But it was a nice nest for the next time I had to spend there. Mostly because I found open Wi-Fi net in the toilet which was like a gift from the gods, you must think of, I had to kill 6 days in Rabat during Ramadan! constantly affraid of dropping it down on the street, trying to fine tune the signal to obtain the best result. I now think of the people living across the street. They must have thought I was completely insane, spending all these hours on the bathroom leaning forward out of the window while squesed in between the toilet and bidet, days and nights, getting most out of the siuation with free Internet. Or maybe they thought that the Danish dude was blowing in the big trumpet 24/7 due to a bad belly? I spend many hours in the toilet! Mostly surfing on the internet, drinking varm coffee smoking cigarettes and cooking with my stove in the bathtub…The Internet experince in the toilet was quit a show. If I held my laptop in an exact perfect position, I was able to find connection. To obtain it in a decent speed demanded that I held the computer outside of the window,
The second day in Rabat , I decided to go to the Mauritanian embassy. It ment taking a cab to the address of the Mauritanian embassy 15 minutes from the hotel. But one thing I realized on my way back with another cab, was that I had paid 3 times the price. This was the first time I got ripped off!
My entry at the Mauritanian embassy was great as usual. Like the time I went to Poland with my good friend Hassan. First we had been sleeping onboard the ferry, while it had been lying at harbour for a couple of hours. Second, I forgot my newly bought box of cigarettes in the cabin. Third, I thought the border was closed, due to no people present. So I found my own way trying to get beside of the bar. I manage to get some 20 meters on the other side, before a polish police officer came running out from a building, shouting at me, and was about to draw his gun! That day at the Mauritanian embassy was exactly the same kind of situation. I rang the bell when the door into the embassy wasn’t open at 9 o’clock as stated. After a minute or so a big black guy came out. He didn’t look too happy, instead he pointed at his watch, telling me in perfect English, “Never, never before nine” I looked at my own watch. “What is the problem, it is nine?” Once again I get fooled by the time zones. The times was seven o’clock! I returned back later that day, luckily I didn’t stumble into the same guy again.
During the 6 nights, which in the end went up to 7 at Grand Hotel, I also became witness to a yet the most bizarre situation taking place just beneath of my window pointing out to the traficated street. It started with a loudly bang which drawed my attention away from spending my time on the toilet in a rather cramped position. A car was parked in the middle of the road, and a scooter was lying on the asphalt. Two young guys were getting beaten up by several people on the street. People were gathered and one police officer showed up. The cop seemed like it didn’t bothered him at all. He just looked while he sat on his scooter as the guys got slapped in their faces, one of them got his T-shirt torn apart. Later when the cop took off it became more violent. One of the young gu
ys was now getting beaten up for real. Not just with the bare fists, but with a stick. The whole episode went on for about two hours, I could here him beg the guy to stop. At the end, the police showed up again, this time in a van. They picked up the scooter and one of the young guys getten beaten. I never found out what the whole situation was about. Later when I went down to the local store to get some cigarettes I asked a guy in the shop what happened, I noticed this guy on the street from my window and knew he had seen and heard it all. He never told me! On the seventh day in Rabat, I ended up paying the dentist a visit (amazing what you can get for 200 Dirham), due to a lost fillling, trying to conveinced the bank that I wanted to withdraw some Euro and Dirham, without using the ATM… It never worked out.
