ON GUARD JUSTICE Marco Daprile, England After a train ride, I felt like a squeezed lemon. In Nouadhibou (the second largest city in Mauritania, approx. Perevi.) I stopped at a camp for foreigners and, after a much needed day of rest, I began my journey north, through Western Sahara to Marrakech (city in Morocco, ca. Perevi. ), where I sit on an airplane and will fly back to London. A plane ticket I bought more than a month ago, when everything else was in Mali, but I clearly underestimated both the size and unhurried during life in Africa. And now in front of me had a difficult task for the remaining six days to find someone who would have tossed me to the town of Dakhla (600 miles through the desert), in a northerly direction. Advice to those who are thinking about crossing the Sahara on your own car: Take the north-south. A few brave drivers, whom I met in Nouadhibou, invariably followed in Nouakchott (Mauritania's capital, approx. Perevi.) Without even thinking of moving in the opposite direction. All moved from Europe to central Africa. There was something illogical in all this: if all go to the south, then someone must also was to go back, right? But no. It seemed that all those who dared to journey across the Sahara on your own car, sold it as soon reached the destination, and returned to Europe by plane. My discovery of this strange patterns cast doubt on the implementation of all of my plans. Dakhla night desperation to cling to any foreign caravan, I began to mentally wander in the narrow maze of the remaining possibilities. The first idea to emerge from me, was the idea to try to find a truck that was heading to Europe. I was - so it seemed to me at least - into a major fishing region. The situation at the port of Nouadhibou, resulted in slight confusion: piles of rotting fish and bent people in national costumes, hand loaded and unloaded cargo holds of ships moored. The road that goes through the port - the only track that could pave this being in the desert country - was an earthen track, which is a continuous stream of trucks was turned into a mess. I stopped a passing truck, each with European numbers and asked the drivers (they were all Mauritanians), not whether they are sent to Spain. All of them were traveling south in Nouakchott. During one of my not quite safe attacks in the port area, I met with Juan-Manuel, a businessman from the Canary Islands, who explained to me that here they bring only a small portion of fish for sale in local markets. Most of the catch is delivered directly to the courts in Spain. And what's the point to unload the fish here, and then carry it through the two countries in the wilderness? He advised me to try his luck in the fruit market. Moors brought the fruit from southern Morocco in Nouadhibou, unloaded there, pick up empty boxes and sent back. Sit on a truck on the market will be easier, though, perhaps, have to pay the driver. Time was pressing me, so I had no time to talk about "The Art of hitchhiking and money." I've already spent two of the six remaining days, but still not moved forward either on the meter. So, I go to the market. I told everyone he met there that looking for a car to Morocco, and left his address, where I could find. Now we could only hope and wait. And only in the sand around 7 am the next morning I was awakened by fellow camp in which I lived. He said that the Moroccan cloth merchant go to Dakhla in the south, and he is ready to take me with him for the 9000 ugiya (monetary unit of Mauritania, approx. Perevi.), Which is about 27 euros. Equally impressive requests was nearly forced me to abandon his proposal, but in my situation specifically choose not necessary. Shortly before noon, Mr. Rashid has appeared at the gates of the camp in his pickup truck. I remember the end of the day as one of the most lengthy and tedious journeys in my life: 600 miles of sand, rocks and wind. The only notable event for all this eventful journey was crossing the neutral territory between two States where there is a strange used car market of dubious origin. Soon we entered the territory of Western Sahara. Along the road now and then appeared signs warning of deviations from the paved lane road - everywhere mined. Strangely enough, these signs have been installed not only on the stretch of road that passed through the desert, but also on the ocean coast. Really, the Moroccan army feared that the fighters Polisario (political-military organization, opposes the forces of Mauritania and Morocco occupied the territory, approx. Perevi.) Attacked from the sea? Maybe they have camels, who could swim? Deadline for material:
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