ON GUARD OF JUSTICE (continued, part 2) Prior to Dakhla we reached at sunset. Rashid dropped me off at the city's main square, and finally - four months after my departure from the Canary Islands - I got into town, where chaos and debris were not familiar and inevitable phenomenon. I can not imagine someone would want to specifically come in Dakhla, but after the fleas, mosquitoes, mice, iron filings and a monotonous diet, this city you will find Venice on their honeymoon. Dakhla reminded me of the island of Fuerteventura (one of the Canary archipelago, approx. Perevi.): The same low-key at home with terraces, the same standing to the delight of surfers to the wind, the same coastal town with tiled roofs, and the same crowd of Moroccans. Young couples strolling hand in hand, and a group of girls without escorts have also helped to forget about the absurdity of the feudal-religious anachronism, thriving in Mauritania. I would gladly would have stayed here long, but I was only three days left, and from Marrakech I still separated 1500 km. The local joke? Laayoune more lively and dirtier Dakhla. There's something I've done my next stop. I am so very late, that here I could not stay for long. In the city I stayed only one day. At night, heading to the bus station, where I had to sit on the bus, which finally brought me in Morocco, I was involved in a nasty scene of social intolerance. Two girls were walking along the central streets of the city. One of them was a Muslim headscarf on the head, the other - no. They approached a man and started to say something. It was obvious that the girls would do anything, just would not listen to this monologue. I was pretty far away from the scene, but since I moved in the opposite direction to them, I was perfectly clear, as the girl winds the road, trying to get rid of the focus of such an unusual admirer. The man persisted to pester him with the full connivance of the bystanders. I stopped wanting to watch the scene. Girls, will continue its convoluted route, finally got to the place where I stood. With close-weariness and helplessness easily read on the faces of the girls. Nobody intervened. Indifference in its purest form. Something similar can be seen in any western country, when the bus comes to an elderly lady, and nobody gives her a place. Such callous behavior I have always greatly angered. I had not a hero, and, quite possibly, if I ever see what the crowd is adhering to a lonely passer-by, then turn away and pretended not to notice anything just to spend the rest of life with a sense of guilt and the knowledge that I coward. But in this case in front of me was just one person, not the demons of hell in its entirety. Laayoune night I cried a man in French, so he left the girls alone. All three of them froze on the spot. He turned to me and said something in Arabic (apparently doubted that my mother was a worthy occupation) and became closer to me clearly with ill intentions. But the balance of power has changed. One of the girls apparently Encouraged by the appearance of unexpected allies, finally found the strength to resist the Nahal. She threatened her tormentor forefinger. Meanwhile, others have begun to stop passers-by. A man who was going somewhere on his arm with his wife, became the second girl in her reproaches to squirt that in a moment transformed from aggressor into the victim. The guy quickly learned that nothing good its not here waiting, squeezed through the crowd and disappeared in an unknown direction. If he drew the attention of police or military patrol (in Laayoune, for political reasons, lack of both), it is likely to be taken to the police station. There he was, certainly, very clearly explained to that in Morocco, can, and do not particularly pay attention to the lack of respect for a woman with an uncovered head, but venturing a fight here with the tourists it will not be allowed. The windows of the desert handshake of gratitude - and here I am again on the road. Another sleepless night in the path of the infinite emptiness of the Sahara. Cities were similar to each other, although it is now between them did not have those of cosmic distances, which were common in the south. Then my journey went through the first coastal cities: Sidi Ifni, Agadir, Essauira. Always fun to watch as a huge area sweep outside the bus. They seem to not be part of your life and seem to be just a succession of strange pictures, replacing each other on the TV screen. In the end, I got to Marrakech. The very name of this city steeped in exoticism and magic of fairy tales "Thousand and One Nights." I was exhausted. More than a week I only did that progressed to the north, like a madman. I like extra-long distance runner, swept 2000 km. The last kilometers of Africa. Start material:
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