The journey for the next few days will be entirely on road. We are now deep into Western Sahara, and it is simply not wise to stray too far off-road with the menace of so many land mines in the region.
Checkpoints occur every 50-80km, with the military police telephoning the previous checkpoint to make sure that we really did pass that location previously. Our standard answer to 'where are you going next?' is "South Africa"; and to 'where will you stay tonight?' is a noncommittal shrug. We figure that a little bit of ambiguity might be the better part of discretion in providing that information.
Less than an hour after departure, we pulled into a small fuel stop. After enjoying a hot chocolate (think glass of lukewarm milk long life with a teaspoon of chocolate powder tossed carelessly in top), we noticed an elderly man acting rather strangely. He was seated aside a three wheeled contraption that was part motorcycle and part tip truck, revving the engine mercilessly and grinning like a madman.
With the engine screaming, he inched closer to us and patted the machine proudly. The Chinese contraption was encased in plastic and clearly brand new. He seemed inordinately proud of it, gesticulating wildly whist stroking the fuel tank and gauges. We made what we hoped were appropriately appreciative noises, and admired the machine extravagantly.
Eventually, another chap wandered over who spoke passable French. He explained that the machine was indeed new, but would "not go". No matter how hard he revved it, a slow crawl was its best speed.
We quickly introduced Ty as 'el mechanica', and James clambered aboard to operate the controls. Within no time, we had connected the clutch and adjusted the front brakes for him, playing to an appreciative audience of locals. There were claps and smiles all round when the old gentleman's machine not only went, but also stopped properly. We remounted our own bikes to a round of "shukrums" (thank you), while the local French-speaker confessed that the old chap also had no idea how to ride it. As we left, he was preparing to hit the highway.
Towards mid-afternoon, we rolled slowly into Boujdour, a small town approximately 500km from the Mauritanian border. Converging on a local establishment with tables on the sidewalk, we enjoyed a relaxing meal in the shade of a canvas awning. Gary and Ty both opted for camel steaks, something not readily available on menus in Australia. Whilst the camel meat was extremely palatable, the oil for the chips has clearly last been changed in 1993, and had the consistency (and flavour) of used engine oil.
Most meals, and indeed any other time you sit down in Morocco, are accompanied by sweet mint tea. At least on this occasion the sugar was served separately, but the size of the lumps demonstrates just how savagely sweet this concoction is. Some of the serves are more mint syrup than liquid and provide an instant but short-lived jolt of energy.
The 'cafe culture' is alive and well in Western Sahara. It consists of men sitting in rows of chairs facing the street, sipping bottomless cups of mint tea, and watching the world go by all day long.
The pace of life is slow - very, very slow. Even the simple act of a handshake takes an inordinate amount of time. Hands are clasped and held for a full minute as salaam's are exchanged. Both parties then give each other two full kisses on each cheek, alternating cheeks. Once complete, hands are clasped again before the hand is brought back to the heart. Only the can the real conversation begin.
