The Thing About No Man's Land...

Apologies for the delay in our blogospheric contributions. A combination of gargantuan battles against tiny parasites, inordinately long bus rides, and juvenile behaviour has kept us from purging our story stash. But we digress...
We were all set to move south from undisputed Morocco into disputed Western Sahara. Things go south in more ways than one as, 9 police road blocks and 14 hours of bus riding later, our patience is thin. After passing a surprising number of empty prefab concrete communities in the middle of nowhere, we begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. The dispute has lasted 40 years, Morocco is blatantly in the wrong, and wasting money to save face isn't helping.
Another digression. Apologies.
We recharge in Dakhla and arrange a ride for our final kilometres across the border into the mysterious land of Mauritania. Aren't you excited too? Next morning we depart: Evan, Dan, one short quiet Mauritanian, another big jovial one, and our perky driver Issalamo. Against better logic and judgement, according to us, Issalamo decides on a departure time of 10am, perfect for driving in the hottest part of the day through the oven they call the Sahara. Of course, windows shan't be opened and A/C can't be workin'. Broken only by a quick tea and camel tajine stop, we reach the border 6 hours later soaked in sweat and just a little thirsty.
Now, nothing of major note transpired at either border, but it was what transpired in between that was of note. Five kilometres of land-mined, roadless, discarded appliance and gutted automobile strewn no-man's-land separate the borders of these desert nations. Our faith in Issalamo builds as he navigates the maze with cool confidence under his cool shades. Alas, we crest a hill and what do we find coming at us from the other direction but a truck with driver leaning out the window, waving frantically in our direction. Brakes slam. Confidence shattered. We reverse slowly, Issalamo shaking his head all a bit confusedly. After our detour we are assured it was only a sand pit but, eyeing up the twisted wrecks all around us, assurances were not going cheap. Talk either.
Headachen, dehydrated, and exhausted we arrive in Nouadhibou only to proceed for an hour to stop at various homes to pick up people, hunks of dough, bottles of cooking oil, and to say hi to Issalamo's friends dodging goats and children the whole time on the sand streets. As you might imagine, the hotel beds never felt better.
We've made it to Mauritania. And this feels a little more like the Africa we had imagined. The thing about no-man's-land is, you won't find us behind the wheel. Boy Howdy.

Photos to come, stories as well. Patience. That's what it's about here.

Heartwick Cup scores: Evan 3, Dan 4