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(24) 30 March. Home and Goodbyes

Without doubt the last few weeks have been a fantastic experience and we have met some wonderful people and made some good friends. We have also taken two-wheel drive cars to places that they should surely never go.

We left Morocco yesterday after a last morning with the other groups – and promises to keep in touch - before we all went our separate ways (although most were on the same flight as us, for the first part at least).  It was a short run to the local airport and the trip to Casablanca and where we had our first twitch as the guys doing passport checks seemed to be confused and suspicious of our in-and-out in a day routine from yesterday. Still, it was resolved and we were allowed to get our bags, move 200 yards through the terminal, and then wait seven hours for the next plane. Of course there was still the question (for Sue at least) of whether the process that acknowledged her having ‘exported’ the Audi actually worked. Happily all went swimmingly and we arrived in Gatwick as planned without further problems.  

Trips like ours are made by the people so we would like to say a big public ‘thank you’ to the other groups we hung out with, helped us on our way and generally made the last two weeks as memorable as they have been. To John and Terry and Mark in the Peugeot who were unquestionably the best organised of us as far as any car emergencies were concerned; they managed to produce something to help all of us out of a crisis at some point when the rest of us had run out of ideas. To Hugo and Tom, the Irish guys in their Mercedes which seemed to stand in as a portable Morrisons; we all loved the moment at the border when the guard asked all the British to come to the front of the queue and you willingly counted yourselves in our number. And to Robin, Ian and Nigel in the other Mercedes (the one with head gasket problem); great ‘doers’ and ‘fixers’ and between them generous to a fault. It has been great trip guys.  Thank you.  

And finally a ‘thank you’ to those of you out there who have been supporting us in raising money for Great Ormond Street and sharing our adventure. We both hope that in some small way this blog has allowed us to share the fun, the frustrations and the thrills of the last two weeks.

Now with Added Photos!

We have now added a few pictures to the appropriate blog entries including a video of us driving on the beach. Or as the marketing people would have it: ‘we have added new media product to enhance your blog-reading experience.’

(23) 29 March. Car Selling Part 2 - Moroccan Madness.

Just before we left Morocco we were approached by a 'likely' looking man who said he would buy all our cars and could we meet him just past the main crowd of dealers. He would pay Euros and offered a good price. Of course once across the border and in discussions with Robin, our nominated negotiator, he and his colleagues had all sorts of reasons why a fraction of that price is all that would be offered. Despite spending ages in discussion Robin felt that we were not going to get a worthwhile price and so we drove back towards the main throng and dived in...

Firstly, let’s be clear about it, there is no genuine market here and you soon realise it. What you have is a bunch of people largely working together within a frenzy of activity that suggests you have a chance of getting a better price if you try someone else. They are continually trying to put you off balance in your discussions: you are surrounded by people and surrounded by shouting; they agree to pay in Euros but have only Moroccan dirham; and they happily offer great prices in Mauritanian ouguiya but these we knew are unchangeable outside that country. They also suggest great prices to others in the group to try and start multiple negotiations and hence cause further confusion amongst us sellers as to where you are with things. 

There never seem to be people in front of you bargaining for the same car yet there is always someone ‘over here’ who they want you to talk to as they try to distract you and to drag you away from stalling negotiations. The only time you have two people in negotiation with you is when one is after one car and the other is – funnily enough – after the other three. And in both cases they are full of ‘reasons’ why the cars they do not want are not very good. It seems that the people with whom you are talking are never the people who want the car – there is always a need ‘to check with the boss’. In fact, there seems to be only one or two genuine buyers and the rest are ‘rent-a-crowd’. No matter what you do or with whom you negotiate it seems you can not get the price above a certain level despite the madness of shouting and money thrust towards you and the arguing between the dealers. But above all, these guys know that the border will shut in two or three hours and that you do not want to face a night trapped in no man’s land. Take a step back and you realise that they are, in fact, all in it together and they know they have you over a barrel.

We argued the merits of right hand drive cars, of diesel against petrol, and how maintainable the cars were (they would use any excuse to justify lower prices; one of them tried to argue that as one of the cars was a diesel turbo it would be more difficult to run than a petrol car despite us having got it to the border and diesel being widely available). We bartered in English and Spanish and French using mobile phones to pump in the prices being sought and offered. And we worked in groups and as individuals selling cars singly or as a job lot. Eventually we had to settle on a price and make the sale. We made £600 for the Audi, somewhat more than the paltry £300 originally offered but not quite the £1000 plus that we understood it might be worth. But it is all money in the charity pot and we at least now had a fighting chance of getting back across the border before it shut. So, with the main aim of the trip now complete and everybody feeling somewhat frazzled from the previous three hours, we sauntered back towards the border and the last couple of hurdles: getting back into and then, ultimately, out of Morocco.

As it turned out getting in was relatively straightforward. As we moved through the various check points questions were raised about us having not gone into Mauritania so we just played along and told them we had not been allowed in as we had no visa. It seemed silly really as it was clear what we had done – and what we had done was not illegal so why even bring it up? We can only assume they were testing us to see if they could intimidate us into handing over a ‘cadeaux’. They got none.  And neither did Mr Shady who was busy in his little office processing people leaving Morocco as we walked behind it on the way back in.  Despite knowing we were on the correct side of the law the few yards from the open back door to his office and the border marker seemed like an eternity and it was a relief to step onto the road beyond the border that we had arrived at nearly eight hours earlier.

Finally it was a cramped four hour taxi ride back to our hotel (five in a four seater – two on the front seat) followed by a night out together with the other groups to celebrate our adventure, new friends and a safe trip home. 

(22) 29 March. Car Selling Part 1 - Leaving Morocco

Today has most definitely been an experience. I expect there are few people who can say they have bartered hard with Arabic second hand car dealers in the middle of a desert minefield. We are now part of that lucky (?) few.

The day started as planned at 4.30am so that we could get to the border in time for opening and hopefully make an early crossing. There is little to say about this long and steady drive, the prelude to the excitement to follow. We arrived, joined an already well established queue and waited. There is little at this remote outpost other than a petrol station, a small and faded building masquerading as a hotel and beyond the gate a couple of small official buildings. Beyond these buildings the road stops and becomes a sand track through 7 miles of mined desert before you reach the Mauritanian border.

The gates opened (somewhat late) and slowly we inched ahead as they waved cars on, one by one, for processing. After over two hours it was our turn and after parking up we checked out the protracted process for leaving the country - who to go to for what and in which order. It was then into our first queue outside one of the buildings for passport checks. I thrust Sue’s and my passports through the narrow window and waited for them to be processed. And then the ‘problems’ and the banter to resolve: we had no Mauritanian visa - we did not need one as we were not entering that country; we were selling our cars? – yes, but this was perfectly legal; it would be difficult to process the passports without a visa – I was sure a man as competent as he would be able to resolve that issue. And with that a packet of cigarettes was palmed through the window and our passports were returned suitably stamped. 

It was then across the road to the office that would remove the record of Sue having imported a car (there was no way to leave the country and return home without this being done). Sue went inside, I sat outside in the dirt and the sun along with a couple of casual and cheerful border guards, extremely tattily dressed and with a rifle that was in such a state it was probably more useful as a club than a gun. We spoke falteringly about the weather - my French was up to little else - although I did manage to blag a glass of mint tea off them on the basis that ‘Je suis Anglais’ and ‘en Angleterre nous buvons beaucoup de thé’. So different to their shady colleague a matter of yards away. 

We went back to the other teams, who seemed to be stalled at the passport control hut along with a big pile of cigarette packets by the window hatch. I stuck my head through the window and asked my shady friend if we had a problem. It seems that more cars and more people doing the same as Sue and I was something we needed to talk about. With that he waved me round to the rear of the small building and through the back door into his office, locking me in with him and shutting the window blind as scenes from the film Midnight Express ran through my mind. We were there in the tatty office, walls lined with dirty, A4 dot-matrix printouts of head shots showing Interpol’s most wanted - looking more like Roswell aliens than human faces - and within 25 yards of signs in Arabic decrying bribes, and between us proceeded to perform a dance of words: 

‘Have I offended you, sir?’. ‘Why would you think that?’. ‘Because you have not invited me to sit down and I am in your office.’

‘I would like you to bring be back some Mauritanian coffee monsieur.’ ‘Why would you want Mauritanian coffee sir when you have a cup of fine Moroccan coffee on your desk?’ ‘I think monsieur you are not as stupid as you pretend.’

It was all smiles and friendliness and eye contact during fifteen minutes of verbal sparring as we both tried to score points off each other. And it was also strangely enjoyable while all the time we both pointedly avoided discussing the guard getting a token cut of our profits yet nevertheless moved forward to a point of agreement on the fact. 

After more words and smiles and comments from each of us on how decent the other was my partner in corruption let me out. We could all now finish the process of leaving Morocco: the others had their cars deregistered, then customs and finally another police check. Then we drove into the desert where the dealers awaited…

(21) 28 March. At Dakhla!

We awoke this morning with the moon sitting low and shining across the water. For the first time on this trip everything was a bit damp - from sea mist - but I suppose that is the price you pay for the pleasure of camping on sea cliffs.

Our plan for the next couple of days keeps changing slightly: we know the border does not open until 8.30 and we must cross it to sell car. But between the border and Dakhla there is little but 300 miles of desert. Our original plan had been to camp near the border and drive in early but we remembered the small detail of the land mines that litter this area from the conflict over Western Sahara and which have yet to be fully cleared: going 'off piste' is not a good plan here, especially as you get further south. So now it will be a drive into Dakhla and a very early run for the border. Today's drive then would be relatively short with more of the same rocky desert views on this isolated road. Of course, we would always have the joy of police checkpoints every now and again.

We made the journey in good time without any 'infractions' and hence no fines. In fact, apart from the inconvenience, these check points are generally fine and manned by the 'Greys' with whom you can share a laugh. We soon reached the turn off for Dakhla.

Dakhla itself lies at the end of a 24 mile long, narrow spit of land off the west Africa coast. It is quite isolated. Apart from one or two small resorts that specialise in kite surfing, making use of the beautiful white sandy bays and strong winds on the protected side of the spit, there is nothing until you reach the town. We tried to stay at one of these places (which would have saved us a bit of time in the morning driving out) but for various reasons ended up in the town itself. Nevertheless, we drove back there in the evening to make the most of high classbeach resort comfort, great views and to watch the sunset with cocktails! Here we met Freya, an expat who sometimes helps teams like us on this trip (although some of us had heard not quite so glowing reports on just how altruistic that help was). But she was not pushy and was a mine of information on local politics and the region in general, although with a somewhat strange angle on things it has to be said: apparently the police put all the check points in for our own protection so they can monitor our progress through the country and call out search teams if we fail to reach the next one...yeah…right…

Tomorrow we sell the car. None of us are quite sure what to expect but we hear it is madness. It seems to be a bit of an event too as, during our travels in the south,we have been approached by locals in towns asking us if we are heading to the border to sell our cars and pressing us to contact them. Whatever happens we expect the whole process will be weighted against us. Watch his space. 

I’m now off to my comfortable bed and hopefully a good sleep before our 4.30am start.

(20) 27 March. Southward Bound

As we were driving along the isolated coastal road in the dark last night, avoiding the Insha'Allah driving of those coming at us on the wrong side of the road around corners, we passed a neon lit hotel advertising 3-star luxury. It was too tempting, even if we had not reached Sidi Akhfennir. So this morning we are clean, rested and, as it turned out, on the edges of the town.

This morning, after strong coffee from the cafe one side of the hotel and freshly baked bread from the bakery on the other, we set off. Today promised to be a long day with the aim simply to reduce the miles between us and the border. We would be driving hundreds of miles along a long straight road that cut its way through the edge of the desert within a stone's throw of the Atlantic: mile after mile of featureless rocky, shrubby desert with occasional views of the Atlantic rolling onto huge wide beaches and no civilisation save the occasional nomadic tent. It could have been very tedious if it had not been for the police.

Since being in Western Sahara we have seen so many checkpoints; they seem to largely crop up every time you enter and then leave a town. I reckon we passed through eight today. Generally they were friendly and we had a laugh and a joke and they took off us only our pre-prepared paperwork giving the usual details about passport number, name etc: nothing to raise concerns. But there are so many different types of police and sometimes checkpoints are within yards of each other and the only difference between them being the uniforms of those manning them.

You can tell how you are going to be treated by the colour of the uniform: grey and white (friendly and liked a joke); green ( friendly but dull); black (came across as steely but appreciated friendly approaches); dark blue (officious and looking to find a problem); and the big daddy of them all, white coats (they got us yesterday). With the last two it was as if the guys have nothing better to do than to find fault and try and get you for any minor infraction in your driving. We seemed to be working our way south breaking every petty rule out. We stopped at the side of the road to check plans ('Monsieur, Il est un infraction'). We did a U turn on a perfectly clear road to head back into town ('Monsieur, Il est un infraction'). We supposedly passed another stop sign at a check point and the Irish guys also got pulled over for speeding (they seem to have the world's supply of hand held radar guns here). There is no reasoning with these guys, trying to persuade them that you are a visitor, it was not dangerous or it was only 5 kph over the limit and anyway, where were the signs? They just get their officious head on and look to fine you. The way to deal with them is to hope they don't speak English and pretend you do not know French, just as the Irish guys did: 'Excess vitesse, Monsieur'. 'You want my exit visa? But I have not left the country yet'. 'Non, non Monsieur, vitesse, vitesse'. 'No, sorry, officer I really don't understand how you can expect me to have an exit visa when I am not planning to leave yet'. You will have to keep it up for five or ten minutes but eventually they get bored and send you on. As a group we managed to get away with only one £10 fine today although we did get lots of harsh words.

We are now camped up off road on a small, sandy cliff top overlooking the Atlantic. We can hear the waves crashing down below and the cicadas chirping all around. The moon is just about to poke her head above the hill behind us and as ever the sky is clear and full of stars. There are only a couple of days to go though before we have to return home to the strictures of our regular lives and to the snow.