2500 miles - Last stop in Morocco

We stopped 50km before the border at a service station to get the tank filled up and buy lots of bread for the desert. We were joined by Nelson and Jose, the Portuguese team, in their Renault 19 dune-basher, making our group 5-strong.

Since our quite-wonderful and to-date always-reliable Patrol is not as fast as the other cars (because if we go over 70mph we really start guzzling diesel), we decided to leave the station a bit before the other teams. The Lavvies overtook us 2km before the border and the rest of the group appeared as we arrived - perfect timing.

We arrived at the Moroccan side of the border at 11am. The timing was just right - in principle - to make it to the Mauritanian side before their lunch break and avoid getting stuck in no-man's land (the partially-cleared minefield between both countries). What we did not reckon on was the number of tourists that we already queuing there... amongst others, we saw a group of eight battered Austrian-German Mercs from our previous campsite, a convoy similar to ours, four British blokes in two Landcruisers who had done the Banjul run last year, and a fancy French family of three (all women) from the Cote d'Azur, driving a rather posh Mercedes ML320 and an expensive caravan.

It seems that we can run from the Riviera, but we cannot hide! Our French friends seemed to be taken straight from a postcard from the Caribbean. Dressed like they were going to beach, with posh sunglasses and very "proud" attitude. Just to exemplify: they arrived last at the Moroccan border control before lunch, and the passed it first (we suspect after handing the Officer a nice amount of money...)

It appears, however, that bribery is not always the fastest route through. By the time we had finished our bureaucratic-yet-friendly procedures (it took a while), these French ladies were still on the border waving their hands and pouting. The Moroccan police had decided to give their cars a thorough going-over...

Between Morocco and Mauritania, the minefield starts. At this point we met the guide that we had lined-up two days ago (not a bad idea eh). He goes by the name of "Bamba", because his real name is incredibly long. He is the head of the guides in Mauritania and was been in charge of guiding the 2006 Amsterdam-Dakar rally. He explained that we were would be best to wait for one hour, until 3pm, for the Mauritanian border to open after lunch. So we had a picnic in the minefield, and waited.

There is a strong contrast between Morocco and Mauritania - Mauritania looks extremenly poor by comparison. Despite the obvious lack of cash, the Mauritanian policemen were working very professionally and being so helpful (to the point of filling out our forms for us if we couldn't do it ourselves) that it was almost embarassing. Ana had her visa in advance from Spain, I had to get one on the border; in fact, Ana had more problems as one of the officers read her paperwork wrongly, and thought that she had it bought in the black-market. After an apology and some jokes about her name, plus Jose Maria Aznar and Zapatero (they are pretty aware of Spanish politics), he let us go with a wave. Pas de problemes!

After clearing ]the border (the complete process took 5 hours) we headed towards the junction to Nouadhibou and onwards into the desert to set up camp. The Transit excelled by being the first to get stuck in the sand, a whole 10 metres from the asphalt - fortunately it turned out to be the perfect shape to push (although I still think a Volvo estate would be a good alternative - maybe next year!)



The group set up camp behind a dune, a mile from the road, and I went into town in the Patrol with Bamba to change money, get Mauritanian car insurance, and fill up with diesel!