“You’re my luck!”

Last year Manfred got a 600 dirham fee for speeding in the dessert. This year Flavio got 62 Euro fee for not stopping in time by the police checkpoint in Western Sahara. But it was clear that he’s Italian. He understand bribes and corruption in a way that I never could. Quickly he had turned the fee into 30 Euro.

The sun had set and the darkness embraced us. Far to the right we could glimpse the lights of Dakhla, to the left only an eternal black hole, stretching all the way passed the nomad villages in Algeria, Libya and Chad to Egypt.
I fell asleep in the car, dreaming I was in a bed. Every now and then I woke up, tilted the seat backwards, fell asleep again. As I opened my eyes once more the sun was up, we were bathing in a yellow shine in the dessert and a french woman was walking by with her dog. She waved good morning to me.
I stepped out of the car and realized we were standing in a long line. In the front was the border station.

They said it would open sometime around eight or nine. By half past ten the first cars started driving across the border, and by twelve we could get our passports stamped by the Moroccan staff. But with all the hassle by the border, many bribes paid to make it smoother, the time was past three when we could finally look at the Mauritanian stamp in our passports and get moving towards Nouakchott.

While driving through Mauritania the polices by the check points made us stop every single time. And every single time we had to give away copies of our passports, though I was the only one who had it. I wrote Flavios details on my papers, “ici monsieur, c’est pour l’homme.” we told the polices and we could drive by. Ibrahim in the car behind wasn’t as lucky. He had no copies, and at one stop the military made him take out everything in the car. He had a lot of things.
“You’re my luck!” Flavio said as we passed the controls, “thank you thank you, saved a lot of trouble.”

So remember, bring lot’s of copies of your passport. We had to give away at least ten just during the drive Nouadhibou – Nouakchott. Also, having a woman with you always makes it smoother, just because it’s a woman. Yes, IT’s a woman.

The real Starwars

Tantan; the city where Luke Skywalker grew up. But also the city where Morocco’s occupation of Western Sahara first becomes visible. The former sporadic checkpoints by the police are now in every entry and exit of the cities and they check all passports thoroughly. “Where are you going? What’s your profession? Where do you come from?”
It’s clear that it’s no cultural or social occupation. It’s about money, nature resources. The cost is human dignity and the suppression of an ethnic group.

We passes the city early morning. The last thing I remember from the night before is the sky over Tiznit. The sky bestrewed with stars seemed eternal, and sure the stars must have paired themselves with each other since I saw them last? They didn’t seem to be this many the night before.
When the crescent moon had sunk below the horizon it left a white glow like a glimmer in the sky. As an open diamond mine with a shimmer reminding of the existence of the universe.

Let go, and free yourself

Running across the street. Ten taxis, two cars. Me in the middle. The sound of the prayer from the minaret is overwhelmed by the traffic turmoil. Then, I stop. The clementines coloured as the midnight sun hang among thick green leaves on trees framing the streets. People walking by are happy, salesmen greet me in French when I pass them and I return the greeting in Arabic. They smile and I smile back.

Morocco’s capital is the most peaceful town in the country, although it is easy to be swept away by the daily lives which are as hectic as in any other capital. You can easily walk in the medina without the hassle, people are kind and no one will stalk you or ask you for marriage. It’s easy to get around: taxis are cheap and there’s an even cheaper tram. Five dirhams and it will take you across town. A ten minute taxiride is usually about fifteen or twenty dirham.

The vegetables at the markets are fresh and there are lots of good restaurants. As my french gets better life becomes easier and I could definitely live here for a while to learn it fluently. I love this life, but still. Traveling means meeting a lot of amazing people, who also travel. They aren’t staying and neither am I. You can always come back to the couch surfing hosts and meeting awesome people doesn’t mean you have to stay in touch with them forever. To meet a good friend and then let go is often much easier than staying in touch. Because how could you ever stay in touch with everyone you meet on the road? No matter how much you like them it’s better to use it as a comfort: there are millions of fantastic people out there. You don’t need to be with all of them. Just be one of them.

Food to stay warm

After our lunch Cristian dropped me off by the lighthouse in Rabat. I strolled along the beach for a while and watched the fishermen. The sky was cloudy and the air cold. I’m wearing thick stockings and trousers, a t-shirt, shirt, fleecejacket and another jacket plus a big scarf. Still I’m cold every day. Morocco is nice when it’s sunny, but this cold is awful and inside the houses it’s even colder than outside. Lots of tea and warm soup helps for a while, but in the end of the day I’ve still been cold most of the time.

On my way home I stopped by a man selling vegetables off his carriage. A bundle of beetroots, a bundle of white beetroots, a bunch of dried figs and some ginger: six dirham, or fifty euro cents. That’s enough food for lunch And dinner for a very good price. That’s why I love shopping at the markets and small stands such as this one. It’s a great way to practice French and Arabic, plus here in Rabat there is no need to bargain. You’ll get the good price anyway. And another positive thing about couch surfing: you have access to a kitchen.
Dinner today: beetroot soup with ginger.

Another ride

This morning I overslept. I was supposed to wake up at quarter past five and go to the embassy, instead I woke up at quarter to eight and threw on the clothes before running to catch a taxi. In the car the driver and one of the other passengers said “she’s crazy to go to Mauritania now. You’re not staying there are you? It’s fine for transit, quickly through, don’t stop.” “Well I am stopping, I’ll be there for a month or so,” I said. “Crazy. Crazy.” the driver sighed.

By the embassy the line wasn’t as long as the other days, but still long. I met Cristian from Holland, a young guy driving his motorbike to Senegal. “You could have gone on the back, but there’s no space.” he said, but when the embassy closed he gave me a ride to the medina where we had a late breakfast/early lunch.
In the line I also met a man from Italy and another from Pakistan, the later one and myself will hitch-hike with the Italian to Mauritania tomorrow when we have our visas, inshallah. We’re meeting outside the embassy at four am.

Update on Visa

I stood in the line outside the embassy in Rabat at seven in the morning. At eight they opened the gate and let 60 people in, thereafter they closed it again. Some asked when they will open again, later today perhaps? “Inshallah” was the answer. At eleven o’clock officials told us they won’t open again until tomorrow, and let another 60 people in.
They have changed the way it works to get a Mauritanian visa in Rabat.

Until one week ago you had to wait for 24 hours and they surely let more than 60 people in. Now they don’t, but in return the ones who do get to go in through the gate and hand in their papers get the visa the same day.
How to become one of those 60 people?

Some Germans told me people started queuing by midnight, “so bring a warm blanket and a chair, make yourself cozy and sleep outside. That’s what I would have done.” one of them said. I won’t do that.
The man giving me a ride south tomorrow (Inshallah) is sleeping in his car outside the embassy tonight, so when I get there tomorrow early morning he is supposed to be standing in the line and hold a place for me. Inshallah Inshallah, right now it feels as though anything can happen. I might be in Rabat all next week too, that’s how I feel.

Happy thoughts.

Getting a Mauritanian visa

It is possible to obtain a visa for Mauritania in Europe, but it’s both cheaper and simpler to do it in Morocco.
Here’s a guide on how to obtain a visa for Mauritania in Rabat, Morocco:

What you have to bring:
– Your passport
– A copy of your passport
– Two passport sized photos
– About 350 Dirham

At the embassy you will get a form to fill in. There is a guy outside selling them for 10 dirham, but it’s also possible to get one for free in the small room by the counter. There are two sides to the form and both has to be filled in correctly. There isn’t any in English so if you don’t read French or Arabic you’ll have to ask someone there. Now there’s always lots of people there to get visas: Europeans traveling to either Senegal or Mauritania, Senegalese people with European passports who no longer can cross the border without visa and so on. There’s more people than one might think traveling through the desert.

Be there Early. The embassy opens at nine, but be there at half past seven or earlier. The line is long and they close at eleven no matter how many people are left. They might just as well close right in front of you.

Today I went there to get my visa. I had forgotten to bring two photos and went to the small photobooth down the road, right opposite the petrol station. It was broken. So I went down the road to the left of the booth and crossed another big road, then shortly on the right hand side there is Wafa Photo. The store normally opens just before nine and when I came in there were already five people waiting for their photos, and it took almost an hour for the printer to warm up so we all could have our prints. But its rather cheap, 20 dirham for eight photos.

The time was then quarter to ten and we all hurried back to the embassy. After another hour in the line they closed, and we have to come back tomorrow morning at seven. But the waiting wasn’t all bad. In the line I managed to organize a ride all the way to Nouakchott with a Frenchman driving down in his Renault. According to him we will have our visas tomorrow at three (the last thing I know is that it takes 24 hours, but he says not anymore). We will see tomorrow. Maybe we’ll leave in the afternoon, maybe we’ll have to wait another day. I’ll keep you updated.

the rising sun

”Monica, Monica pssst are you awake?” it was 6:30 and my host stuck his head inside the room where I was sleeping. I got up and got dressed. He was taking me out for breakfast to watch the sunrise over Rabat.

I didn’t bring neither my phone nor camera so I can’t show you any pictures. But as the sun coloured the white, grey and brown walls orange the people came from their morning-prayer to have tea or  unpack delivers to shops. The streets smelled of yesterdays fish and the garbage bags were lying in every corner waiting to be picked up.

We sat down by a cafe close to the parking where Bartek and I almost exactly one year ago got into Manfreds car to drive through Western Sahara.
We had coffee and croissants.

Slowly, Rabat was awakening.

To know about Morocco

· Always demand by the taxi driver that he switch on the taxameter. If you can’t see one it’s either in the box or he’s not a taxi, and then you must change car. The law says every taxi must have a taxameter, that’s to keep people safe and minimize corruption. Also it spares you from the constant bargaining.

· Moroccoans are very helpful, polite and kind people. Don’t be afraid to ask anyone when you wonder something. Though young boys can be a hassle for solo traveling girls.

· Khalas (pronounced with a deep kh in the back of the throat) means leave me alone or go away. I don’t remember which one, but either way it can be helpful.

A changed mind

It took me ten minutes in Tangier to completely change my mind about moroccoans. I don’t know what has happened, but suddenly everything went really smooth and easy.

Getting off the ferry meant not a single taxi driver jumping and screaming to the foreigners to choose them.

Not a single person came to offer his services as guide or husband. (the taxi driver called me when I had walked a bit and kissed in the air)

The guy who exchanged some of my money did not try to fool me.

Everyone spoke English.

Buying the train ticket was almost too easy (no one flocking, only one person in front of me).

The train is almost empty.

How can Everything change just like that? It feels like a blessing. Everyone is So polite. That hasn’t happened to me here before.

You’re already here.

The bus to the other port was supposed to leave now. Instead it will leave at three. The ferry would leave at two. I’ll be on the one at four.

Why? Because the company didn’t sell enough tickets for this departure.
I’m in Spain, but already feel like Africa. I do find this amazing. Let go of the stress, do something else for a while and you’ll get where you’re going eventually. The man next to me is furious and demand a new ticket for another company.

Something amazing: I just held a whole conversation with a moroccoan woman in French!

Africa, oh you dear love

”That’s Gibraltar. And you see the land next to it? That’s Africa.” Ana pointed to our left as we went down the coast of Spain.
We had half an hour left to Algeciras where she would drop me by the port.

The highway was nearly empty. ”It’s because you have to pay, the other road is full of cars. But it goes through the cities, traffic lights all the time.” she said. We talked about polices (when two suddenly stood there) and the crisis, work, surroundings… I’ve always said I need to become better at small-talk, and I think it’s slowly getting there.

In two hours I will be in Morocco. And my stomach is tickling with excitement. I’ve got a host waiting for me in Rabat and in a week I will be on the road to Mauritania.

Hitching strangers

Of course I was worried about the hitch-hiking. Spanish people are known for not picking up strangers. I could be standing in Malaga for hours, not arriving in Morocco until long after dark.

I stood by some traffic lights, calculating my time as the lights switched between red and green. A sign was counting the seconds between the two. 137 seconds of green light, then I had a 40 seconds break while the pedestrians crossed.

Half an hour I stood there. Counting the seconds, waiting. Then Ana  picked me up.

It was her third time picking up hitchhikers. We stopped by a petrol-station, had a sandwich and some coffee. Her two dogs having a short walk, stretching their long furry legs.

Time to close this year

“But hitching didn’t die a natural death — it was murdered. And there’s little evidence that it was as dangerous as we think.”

Said the New York Times earlier this year. And during 2012 I have done a lot of hitch-hiking. My thumb has taken me traveling in Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, France, Morocco, Western Sahara, Mauritania, Zanzibar, Malawi and Zimbabwe. All in just one year.

Most of the experiences has been good, only one man turned out to be over-sexual (and of course it was in Switzerland, where else but in the rich of richness?). During the year I’ve met people born into slavery and refugees trying to get into Europe, but failing.

While sorting out old diary-notes lying around I found this piece:

“I was sitting behind him on his bike. He was going so fast down the hill I couldn’t bare keeping my eyes open. ‘There’s Malawi!’ he shouted. ‘What?’ I screamed back, slowly opening my eyes. ‘There’s Malawi!’ He screamed again and pointed at the lush green hills in front of us. I was awestruck.”

Three days later I found myself trekking up the hill to Livingstonia, monkeys chatting in the trees for company and an old man who spoke no English to show the way through the shortcuts. There was more climbing than walking and at one point my backpack pulled me down backwards, down the cliff, and balancing on a root and grasping for another one to cling to, I was ok and got myself back onto the track. I will never forget than nerve-killing moment.

2012 was also the year when I got malaria for the first – and hopefully the last – time of my life and nearly died. I’ve met the best couch surfing hosts I’ve ever had. I got a bachelor in journalism at the Mid Sweden University, freelanced for radio and magazines, got my heart broken for the first time and I buried my cat who’s been with me for sixteen years. I was homeless and spent five months on couches and mattresses at different friends. I also found a home, a place to which I want to return to after trip after trip.

And thanks to all of you who has read my blog. You who has been with me from the beginning, and you who dropped by during the year. Thank you. Now I look forward to a new year with travels, challenges and friends. Happy new year!

Sweet memories.

I just remembered something. The sugar pieces we got in Morocco with the tea, they weren’t normal sized sugar pieces. They were gigantic. Take a normal piece of sugar and multiply it by ten, then you have a Moroccan piece of sugar. And people put it in their tea, and then they actually drink it.
There should be a lot of work for dentists over there, and doctors specialized on diabetes and researchers doing research on the effect of sugar on the human body. I liked it when they prepared the tea for you at the cafés, but when they started serving just hot water in a teapot with the mint leaves and sugar on the side I started to realize what it was we actually drank.

Cheers for mint, but thumbs down for the sugar combo. Mint tea is perfect as it is, without sweetening. No wonder I got addicted to that stuff.

African border crossings

Corruption, bribes, hassle… hitch-hiking, bus, walking. There are many ways to cross a border in Africa, here is a small guide from my own experiences.

Morocco – Mauritania
You have to organize a visa at the embassy in Rabat, it takes 24 hours and cost 350 dirham, cash only. It is not allowed to walk across this border due to it being an old mine field, if you don’t have a car you need to organise a ride in Dakhla (about 400 dirham) or hitch-hike.

After two days of driving through the Western Sahara my mind was as relaxed as it could be, but still a small sting of nervousness hit me as we stopped by the ghost town (built by the Moroccan government for the Western Saharians who doesn’t want it) closest to the border. I was hitch-hiking with Viktor from Holland and he had done the crossing many times before. But still, my visa wasn’t valid yet.

To get the good bye stamp in Morocco was easy and without any hassle, then we had to drive across no mans land on a non marked out road, avoiding the soft sand which would get us stuck and causing a storm of people rushing to help us in exchange for money. What all those people were doing there between the borders? Viktor said they are luck-seekers and thieves, too lazy to work. One man waived at a car, pointed on some tracks asking the car to choose that way. The driver did. Two minutes later he was stuck in deep sand reaching the doors, and seven people ran up to help them dig after some hard negotiations on the price.

We drove through with no problems. Once on the Mauritanian side of the border the difficulties started. If Viktor wasn’t there with me I would have no clue where to go. He gave a man a bottle of perfume, another one some chocolate and water. He took me with him into a room with two officers, talked and smiled a lot, pointed out that they had nice computers while the Moroccan officers had only pens and paper. The men smiled back, stamped our passports and we were in.
If I had done that crossing myself, I imagine it would have been the worst experience ever. Be prepared if you go there with a car, have all your papers ready and be prepared to go through many doors, talking to lots of people and getting very confused before you can take your car with you. And practice both your French and your Arabic.

Mauritania – Senegal
Europeans don’t need to get a visa before hand and it’s free at the border.
I came with a taxi from Nouakchott, had no idea where to go but a guy from the Gambia took me under his wings and showed the way. It’s pretty close to where the taxis stop, and the exit is clearly marked. Once in the border-area walk to your right and a small office will be discretely marked out on your right hand side. Getting the stamp is without hassle and then all you have to do is wait for the free boat across the channel to pull in. Or pay a small fortune for one of the banana boats to take you across.

Once on the Senegalese side it’s easy to get through, though I had to wait a long time for the immigration officer to get to the office and a lot of people tried to push themselves in front of me in the line. By then my elbows had become pretty sharp though and I’ve learned how to keep my spot in line. Don’t be afraid to push, everyone else does it and so can you.
Just outside the border area some guys are selling sim cards and there is an office where you can buy air time. People with horses and carriages, taxis and bikers are all willing to get you a ride to the bus- and taxi station for a small amount of money.

Tanzania
Europeans don’t have to organize a visa before getting there, but it cost 50 US dollars and is only payable in cash.
Organization is not my strong side. I came by airplane and I did look it up, read that “Swedish citizens do not need a visa” but totally missed the paragraph saying you still had to pay for it before entering. I only had Senegalese CFA and my bank card, they accepted none of it. “You can come back tomorrow.” the one officer told me. “Tomorrow? I should sleep here tonight?” I said, pointed at the floor. The two officers looked at each other, shook their heads. “No, it’s not good.” the other one said. They would actually let me get into the country and come back the next day to pay, but I didn’t want to. I know myself, I wouldn’t come back and pay and I would have problems when getting out of the country.
Solution? My friend waiting outside came in and paid the fine.

Tanzania – Malawi
Free for Europeans, no need to get a visa in advance.
My favorite border crossing. From the taxi I paid a guy with a bike to take me to the border, we went fast down the hill and he pointed at the office where I would get my good bye-stamp. I walked inside the gates, got the stamp, went to the exchange bureau to exchange my money and then walked across the bridge. It was a nice walk, about 100 meters, under the bridge a wide brown river flowed and I felt a strong sense of freedom.
At the Malawian side it was just as easy to get my passport stamped. The only difficulty was to find a ride to Karonga, there was a bus leaving for Lilongwe and thinking about it now the bus probably made a stop in Karonga. Anyway, I paid for hitch-hiking and fell in love with the country and its rice plantations, green hills, bikes, bikes, bikes and lovely people.

Malawi – Zambia
Cost 50 US dollars, only payable in cash. No need to organize the visa in advance.
I was on a bus this time, and although I KNEW that I would need 50 US dollars to cross, did I have them? Of course not. I exchanged my Malawian money at the black market, borrowed some dollars from the friends I traveled with at the moment and eventually I had scraped the 50 dollars together. Yet another example of how I never learn.
This crossing is very easy, the bus stopped just by the offices on both sides of the border, there were people selling fruits and vegetables and drinks. In total it was a very peaceful and pleasant crossing.

Zambia – Zimbabwe
The visa is supposed to be free, but you still have to pay 50 dollars to get through. Only payable in cash.
This one is the easiest. I was with Alex by the Victoria falls and after the sunset we simply walked up to the office, got our stamps out of Zambia and walked towards Zimbabwe. It was about a kilometer to walk I believe, maybe longer, and we were told later on that one should never walk there at night since the monkeys can be pretty aggressive. We had no problems with animals though.
By the immigration office in Zimbabwe we had to pay for our visas, the officers were nice and happy (probably because we were too, although I nearly let a comment about African corruption slip through my mouth as we had to pay). We got our stamps with no fuss and caught a taxi to the hostel in the town of Victoria Falls.

Zimbabwe – South Africa
Free and easy.
In Zimbabwe our CS-host told us this is a Real African border crossing. He had never been to West Africa, obviously. Sure the ques were really long and it did take a very long time to get through, but it was very easy. All we had to do was to stand in line (except for Alex who had to prove that he’s from South Korea and not north) and get our passports stamped.

Conclusion: if you want an exciting border crossing, go to north west Africa. If you prefer it easy and smooth, go to southern Africa.

Aerobics with the mail-guy

I am sitting at a restaurant about twenty minutes walk from my hotel. It’s a quiet place with nice staff. I’ve had an omelet and mint tea, and I’ve long ago decided that when I come back to Sweden I’m gonna start to grow my own mint and make the tea every morning. But with less sugar. Much less sugar.

I am a little tired of being here, I would like to continue my travelling. Waiting like this … I did it last week in Rabat, I’m doing it now in Dakhla. I want to get going, keep on moving. Restless soul. It’s a nice city, but I’ve met few people who speaks English. Yesterday I managed to buy some paper, envelopes and stamps so I can start writing letters to send home. It took me a lot of sign-language and arms-waving to get it, but I did. The man behind the counter also waved his arms a lot and it must have looked as we did some new kind of aerobics for people watching us. I do love it, but still. I want to get going, I’ve been waiting for too long now.

I keep on wondering who I will meet for my trip to Atar, will I go alone or will someone show up to join? I miss my fellow travellers a lot, both of them are in Mauritania now. I wonder what they are up to, how they are doing. Yes, I really really miss them.

I’ve got a camel-buddy!

I have been thinking so much more than I’ve written. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking of, mainly memories I suppose. And what is to come. What is here? All this sand. It’s all. The sand.

I now dream of having my own donkey and carriage, going through the city. My donkeys’ name would be Albert or Flexi and we would be very happy together. Every evening I would scratch him behind his ears and we would laugh together. He would have a very donkey-like laugh and it would make us laugh even more.

It’s a strange dream I guess, but all men here with their donkeys seem so happy and pleased with life. I think I would also be very happy and pleased with life if I shared it with a donkey. Or a camel. The camels are the hippies of the desert, they are so cool I love them to bits and pieces. They always smile and no matter what they are always the coolest. I made real good friends with a camel the other day, a bunch were standing by the road as reindeers do in north Sweden. I stopped the car (‘cause yes, I was driving it!) and we got outside to the camels. I walked up to one of them standing by the ocean. As I came up to him he turned around, looked at me with his big eyes and smiled that camel-smile. I took a photo of him, and he followed me while I walked along the ocean. I stopped and he came up by my side, continued walking pass me. M came up to us and took a photo of the camel and I, me standing with my hands in the pockets looking a little nervous but still relaxed, the camel just as cool as always. Why can’t I be that cool all the time? Just relaxed with whatever is going on and not jittery and bouncing.

Anyway. The desert does strange things to the brain and it makes me think a lot. Of all and of nothing.

About to get married in Senegal

I sat by the ocean for a few hours this morning, just watching the waves, ships and relax. Thinking and contemplating. What to do? How to do it? I don’t know. I walked back to the hotel, talked with one of the guys at the there (the only one that speaks English) and he invited me to have lunch with the staff. Sure, what’s cooking? Fish and vegetables. Ok, I guess I’m a vegetarian who eats fish while I’m in West Africa. It’s too much fish here.

We had a chat and he was nice, though I couldn’t stop asking myself what he wanted. Was all this just because he was nice?
As we walked down by the ocean he said “you know, you’re a very smart girl and very cool. I like your style. “ I got a feeling of wanting to run away as fast as I can. But he works at my hotel so it’s not like I can hide anyway. “You are very… very very… very, beautiful. I know when I see a person for the first time it’s a good or a bad heart. You have a good heart, you are very kind and honest. I love you, I really do. I really really do love you.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I said but you don’t even know me. “But I know you have a good heart.” he then said. I told him about my husband-to-be and asked him to respect that I am engaged but yet my fiancé is not with me all the time. It is far from the first time I get this, and I am so sick of it. Why can’t all men just respect that some women does not want to stay by a man’s side all the time, that some of us needs freedom to breathe? He said “your fiancé is not here with you, you must be very unhappy with him.” I told him I’m very happy, but that I do not have to be with him all the time but can go away by myself also. I have freedom. “No, you must be unhappy. I can make you happy.” “No, I am already happy. Good bye.” I said but we had another hour of discussion before he accepted that we can be friends, buddies, but nothing else.

Now I’m sitting in my hotel room listening to African revolution by Tiken Jah Fakoly. Half asleep.
I asked a man from Ivory Coast whom I met by the embassy in Rabat what he thought about Tiken jah, if he liked his music. “Yes I do. I am supposed to like it. He sings about my country, about our struggles and our freedom, if I want freedom then I must like his music because that is what he sings.” I guess that is true. What does the melody matter if the message is what you get? “We want a revolution, young people revolution. Intelligent revolution, must be African education.”

This crazy lot of sand… I’m in Dakhla.

I left Sweden Friday the 13th of January, today it has been two weeks on the road. Two weeks filled with new meetings, new friends and differences. One week ago I had just handed in my visa application to the Mauritanian embassy, found out I have to wait until Monday no matter how much money I paid. I checked in at a cheap hotel in the medina suggested by a guy I met outside the embassy; B, from Poland. We ended up catching a ride with a German man; M, who’s going all the way to Mali. Both of them are now in Mauritania, while I’m here. In Dakhla, waiting for Tuesday when my visa is finally valid.

I’m sitting in my hotel room, listening to the bustle outside, Arabic music playing from some speakers. I’m tired. Very tired. Outside my window is a balcony. A woman comes out, leans towards the reeling and looks down at all the people. I can see her mirror in the glass of the window, she stands there for a long time. Watching.

Yesterday as we were driving through the desert on the straight road, mile after mile after mile… the sun made my face shiny and after some hours both M and I started to see things that weren’t really there. But it looked as they were, the vapor from the sea rising and that straight line of sand… suddenly I could see all the faces of people I’ve met the past year. Everyone appeared so clearly, I saw people behind my closed eyes that I thought I had forgotten what they looked like. Situations I had forgotten passed through my mind.
The desert does strange things to the brain.

We have been driving for four days. One day of hills and bushes, three days of desert. Our driver, M, telling us stories from his travels in Ethiopia, Sudan, Algeria… he has been all over the world, but it was the desert-countries he talked the most of. People he’d met, things that’d happened, situations, struggles and successes. All this sand. From where did it all come?

I have learnt so much from M. I can’t believe it! I need a few days now for it all to sink in. For me to remember. It has been so good travelling with him, and as he left this morning he said he’d give me a call in six months or so to check on how I’m doing. “I care about you, you see, I want to make sure you are doing well.” We also decided to maybe go to a festival in Niger next fall, I am so up to that!

We got a speeding-ticket in the desert

It was a good road, light traffic and the speed limit was 60. We were driving in 83, the polisemen said as we pulled over. Our driver tried to give them shoes instead of paying the ticket, but no. 500 dirhams they wanted, the information had been sent straight to the office in Rabat so there was no chance not to pay.

As M tried to talk out of the fine, me and B were still in the car. I was trying really hard not to laugh out loud, there was our driver, speaking almost no French, and the policemen who tried to tell him that he had gone too fast. They had patience. “Soixante monsieur, vous quatre-vingts trois” they said. “Sossante kattreväng? Jaja… Jaja…” our driver said. “Look here, look here. Come here.” He opened the trunk, showed them the shoes. The big officer shook his head. Told him in French that he must pay 500 dirhams. “Jaja…” our driver said. I held both my hands over my mouth, tried to think about something else.

There is no place on earth where I’d rather be right now.

Observations – driving through the desert

A man outside the hotel in Safi spoke Polish and English, has been to Stockholm and saw the Swedish king as he visited Safi a few years ago. Or maybe it was twenty years ago. Suddenly, M turned around and said “heey, I know you! I remember you, yes I remember you!” The man took a step back, starred at M. As our driver went to the car to take some stuff the man asked me “who is this man? Where did we meet? In Stockholm maybe?” “I don’t know”, I said. “I think you met here.”

An old man is riding his donkey, behind him in a rope a camel is walking. Over his hump there there are two big bags, stuffed with tools, a mat and branches.
Some sheep are grazing between the cactuses, a lamb suckles.
In the villages cars, men, trucks, horses and donkeys all share the roads. A young guy suddenly runs out in front of the car, crossing the street. It’s like this all the time.

Olives are harvested, pressed and in the oil potato, fish and all sorts of food is cooked. In a moment the flat landscape has turned into hills, mountains and valleys.

As we passed Tiznit a sign told us we have 1900 kilometers until Nouakchott. Suddenly it felt very good knowing I will have a few days rest in Dakhla before heading across the border. In Guelmim, as we stopped by a traffic light, our driver turned around. “I know this man! It’s him, the one I was telling you about!” This is awesome. We had tea with the man, who spoke very good german, and he tried to sell us tea. “In Mauretania you will give one bag of tea for a whole fill with petrol”, he said. It’s not true, our driver told us later. He opened the trunk and sold the man some shoes that he got from his sister. His whole trunk is full with them.

As the sand dunes stretch far beyond our sight, I feel so small. It gives a perspective on life, what do we live for? All this sand. It’s everywhere, but to the right. There is the ocean. The Atlantic ocean. Water stretching all the way to South America. It’s so powerful, I wonder what is happening. The desert does strange things to the brain I suppose. Makes me think. What is this?

Hitchhiking for a thousand miles

Monday.
I got my visa for Mauritania this day. Finally. And immediately left Rabat to collect my backpack in Agadir.

I met my Polish friend B by the ocean, he was sitting there reading a book when I came. We sat there for a while, talked about the fishermen and the world. We had some sort of brunch at a local a-place-with-a-guy-with-a-pot-and-some-sort-of-food and a cup of tea before heading to the main entrance of the medina to meet a German man, M, who I met the day before. He offered a ride south, for free, and the both of us decided to go with him.

As M came we went for coffee before heading to the embassy. A guy came up to us, started talking, and went with to the café and sat down. We have no idea who he was. He talked as if he followed the conversation, but as we talked about India, he talked about Europe. As we talked about fees in Germany, he talked about salaries and nodded his head. Then he thought we were paying his coffee, and the waiter had to call on him to get back and pay.
Oh well. Some things just can’t be explained. He disappeared as we got in the car, for a second I thought he would get in too and go with us, and we went to the embassy to collect our visas.
We left straight away, driving by the coast on our way to Agadir.

Tuesday.
We reached Safi, many hours after we’d gazed over the landscape, coloured orange from the sunset. We passed a small village where to stopped to eat. At the restaurant they seemed only to serve meat, so I walked around the market and found a stand with bread and another with vegetables. For only four dirham, about forty euro cents, I had my whole dinner. I borrowed a knife from B and made a nice sandwich.
When we ate the cats attacked us. I gave them paprika, they spit it out and attacked me again. I’ve got nothing for you, you don’t like it, I tried. But the one cat continued attacking my legs until M threw him a piece of meat.

Safi is a strange and different city that stunned all three of us. Apparently it’s very famous for its ceramics, especially tangine-pots. As we arrived in the city it looked like any other Moroccan city. Then somewhere in the middle there was this huge roundabout, we took a couple of rounds while reading on the signs, trying to find the medina for a hotel. We found some sort of city center with people, movement, bread and vegetables and butchered animals hanging up side down and some random body parts of animals waiting for someone hungry enough to buy them.
Then we reached a part of the city which looked like a hurricane just went by. The houses were half torn and constructionsites witnessed of tries to build new in the middle of the old.

Eventually we found a hotel, and as we woke up the next morning we looked out the window. There it was, the ocean. Right next to us the whole time.
I will write about the crazy people we met outside the hotel another time, now it’s time to sleep.

B left us today, catching a night-bus to Dakhla. This is definitely the longest ride I’ve ever had hitch-hiking! We are leaving tomorrow morning, arriving in the evening.
And oh, we got a ticket for speeding in the desert today.

A good morning.

It’s Sunday, and the morning is just as cold as all other mornings. I got up at eight o’clock, went for a walk in the calm and quiet medina as people just started to wake up. Some people were sweeping off last nights garbage from the ground, others stretched out and yawned before starting to make their shops ready for another busy day.

I walked to the small fishing harbour and sat down on the ground, inhaling deep breaths of the salt water air.
A fisherman was cleaning out his boat, another angled from land.

After a few minutes a man came up and stood beside me. He threw big pieces of bread into the sea, no point in that I thought for myself, there are no fishes in this dark green water.
But I was wrong. Not even one minute later a fish shoal with at least a hundred fishes revealed it self and the fishes started eating of the bread. They were all slim, about a decimetre long and shiny dark grey. As the man threw more bread into the ocean the fishes all dove far down, scared from the sudden splash and movement from above.

I sat there, watching the fishes, for twenty minutes. Then the man was out of bread, and seagulls started circling above the surface. If they wanted the bread of fishes, I don’t know. They sang their seagull-song and the fishes disappeared. The man shook his bread-bag and the last crumbles fell into the water as he left the harbour.

It’s a Sunday morning in Rabat, Morocco. Tomorrow I will get my visa for Mauritania and I can leave this city for Agadir. That’s where my bag is, I was only supposed to be here for about 24 hours. When I get back I will have spent six days away from Agadir. Planning has never been my thing, really. I can’t wait to get back. Rabat is nice, but Agadir is much nicer.

My pillow.

I really miss my pillow. It has been my most trust worthy companion through all my travels the past eight years. Then all of a sudden it decided to leave me, at Gatwick airport. If at least it had warned me, then I would have clinched to it tightly, never letting go.

If you see it, please keep it with you and let me know. I will come wherever in the world you are. The pillow used to be white, now it’s just dirty, with text in the one corner saying “vi älskar dig” (“we love you” in Swedish) and there are two straps sown on to it which I use to tie it to my bag.
My grandmother made me the pillow case and my aunt wrote the text just before I was leaving Sweden for my first big trip in life, South Africa for one year as a sixteen years old girl from the Swedish countryside. A big step for me, that changed my way in life. And the pillow means A lot to me.

Please spread the word and help me find The Pillow. I will be forever thankful for every effort.

Arriving in Agadir

I’ve been to Morocco before, at that time they didn’t ask me where I would be staying or anything. But this time they wouldn’t let me in without knowing the exact address and ID-number of the people I was staying with, And the person who would take me into the city.

I was hanging out with my friend Jonas in London, went to the jittery Camden which exceeded all I expected, I decided cucumber is my new licorice (what a combination that must be!) and after a couple of hours of sleep I went to Agadir.

After the cold of north Europe the heat, beach and sea was far more than welcome. Though Morocco hardly wanted me to come in, at the border the police man said “oh this is not gonna be easy…” as I couldn’t tell him where I would be staying. Not until he got the ID-number of the one I was staying with And the one who brought me into town he was happy to let me pass through.
It was thanks to Adil that it worked out. I sat next to him on the airplane, and he helped me through it all, translating and talking with the man. He gave me a ride into town and his parents invited me for lunch, they made vegetables just for me since I don’t eat meat. I am so grateful and I hope that I will be able to return the kindness if Adil, who lives just outside London with his wife, and his family comes to visit Sweden sometime.

The beach here is much quieter than in Asilah, where I was during my last trip to Morocco. There’s a lot more western tourists here too (in Asilah I was the only one as far as I could see) and many old people. A boy is jogging down the beach with his dog while the ocean splashes water over his legs, the dog’s fur is shining from silver salt-water drops. There is actually girls at this beach, and they are even walking around in bikinis, something I didn’t see at all in Asilah.

I am staying with a couch surfer who (very easily) talked me into the idea of going to Legzira over the weekend to surf. But first, I have to visit Casablanca to get my visa for Mauritania.

And hey, if you’ve ever played scattegories, you know exactly how much fun we had this evening!

just a little bit further

I’ve come a little bit further in my planning for the western Africa trip. Or let’s say, I’ve done all that I’m going to do apart from sending out couch requests.
I’ve decided to fly from Göteborg straight to London, since I realized last night that if I skip France, I will have another month in Africa, and that thought was too appealing to deny. From London to Morocco by plane and I’m already thinking about all that sick pollution that’s gonna cause. I’ll spend some time there, going to the camel market I missed last time I visited the country.

After Mauritania I will go to Senegal, visiting the Gambia for a couple of days before heading by bus Dakar -> Bamako. And, here’s another new idea, from Bamako there are buses running to Abidjan. How can I turn that down? I can’t. I will fly home from Abidjan, five months after the day my feet touches the streets of London.

Memories of another world

A moment of observation. I was just reading about my trip to Morocco last year as I stumbled upon this memory. I decided I want to share it with you. It’s from the small village Imlil, in the nature reserve Toubkal.
I arrived the day before after a long taxi ride along a narrow road, circled along the mountain often without fences between the dry mud-road and the precipice towards the river valley. This was all after a nine hour trip by night train to Marrakech from the town Asilah, a small town which used to be occupied by pirates right by the coast of the Atlantic ocean.

Imlil is one of many berber villages in the Atlas mountains, situated in the mountain just above a river valley. Despite the few houses there were people everywhere and everything one would need for a trek can be bought in the shop down the road.
My second day in town I sat beside the road, looking over the center of the village. The houses were built from the mud that surrounded them and they almost disappeared into the surroundings. It was dusty, and when some large rain drops fell to the ground they were brown and stained my clothes. The clear ocean in Asilah and the busy streets in Tanger felt as a rare and distant dream.

Beneath me was a small stream of water coming from the mountain. Women and children bathed, washed clothes and dishes. Bags of garbage was lying all around the water, some closed and some opened. Birds picked up trash and spread it all over the ground.
Two men walked pass me, carrying a freshly butchered sheep each. The taxi driver who took me here from Marrakech had told me that there was no place where one could get as fresh meat as in Imlil. He would stop himself on the way back to get some.

It is a memory that I keep close to my heart. Sitting there, with a bad stomach flu, in the heat. There were lots of thoughts running through my mind, and I knew from deep within myself that life can never be complete without these moments. Far away from home, all alone, discovering a culture totally different from the one I come from.

There was no artificial light in Imlil. At night everything was pitch black, and as the sun rose early in the morning the donkeys and goats seemed to have a fierce conversation with each other, at times interrupted by some roosters. Sheep were grazing beside the road and mountains sorrounded the village from all sides.

Sure there were some other tourists from time to time, all of them on their way to trek in the mountains.

the Bamako Challenge – a race through Sahara

I have a dream. A plan. A few obstacles.

I want to do the Timbuktu challenge to Bamako.
First of all, I need a partner. Second, I need a car. I would prefer a four wheel driven with some sort of space where one can sleep, either inside or outside the car. A roof tent is a good option. This is my first obstacle. The car must be donated to the Rotary Club Control Committee in Mali.
I don’t want to spend a half fortune on a car when I have to give it away after the race, not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t afford to.
My second obstacle is the cost. Petrol to get me all the way from Sweden to Bamako. Where will I find funding covering that?

It is a dream that today seems quite far away.

Why do I want to do it?
I want the challenge. I want the desert sand underneath my clothes and the heat from the sun burning my skin. I want the sweat the lack of water and food. I want the excitement in driving through the desert, everything looking the same and the uncertainness of not really knowing if we’re on the right way. I want the compass and the map and disillusion.

I want the people. I want to meet the people that live along the roads we will drive. I want to know who they are, how they live and what they think about life. I want to have their point of view on living and breathing, on day to day life. I want to ask them about what’s important, about war and civil war. I want to ask them about military and history and today. I want to ask them about politics, school, love, marriage and children.
I want to show the world who they are.

I want the culture shock. I want the language barrier and the traditions. I want the bitter tea with tons of sugar and the smiles. I want the children climbing the car asking for a penny. I want to feel the panic when everything turns out to be totally different and even more shocking from what I expected. I want the scarf tied tight around my head. I want all my expectations to be turned up side down. I want the surprises.

I want to develop. I want to realize that all the travel blogs I read before I left were only their experiences, and that mine can’t compare to that. I want to realize that traveling always has been and always will be what you make it. I want to realize that the world is not as bad as it seem to be when I look at it from a distance. I want to see that life can be good and that everyone doesn’t just destroy, but also create, even in countries run by military dictators. Especially in times like these we live in today.