Dag 69: Nouadhibou na Bir Gandouz, Wes-Sahara

(English Translation Below)

Dag 69: Nouadhibou na Bir Gandouz, Wes-Sahara
 
Ons vertrek met sonop. Die see-bries waai koel teen ons lywe. Maak mens bly dat jy op 'n motorfiets is en nie verskans binne die kapsule van 'n kar nie. Met die lae hoek van die son wat net-net oor die landskap loer, het alles skaduwees. Selfs die klippe. Die riffels oor die sand. Die briesie se rimpels oor die see hier aan die stil kant van die Nouadhibou-skiereiland.
 
Die grenspos verloop vlot. Veral aan die Morocco kant. Dis ons mees georganiseerde grensposervaring nóg. Let wel: Moenie die naam Wes-Sahara by die Morocco grens noem nie. Moet ook nie daardie naam-wat-nie-genoem-mag-word-nie enige plek op jou dokumente of jou reisplan laat verskyn nie. Morocco erken nie Wes-Sahara as 'n onafhanklike land nie. Maar hulle wil onafhanklik wees en min of meer die hele wêreld, insluitend die Afrika Unie en Suid-Afrika, ondersteun hulle pleidooi.
 
Terug op die pad tref die skoon oopheid ons weer. Hier waar ons ry is dit 'n strook van klipperige woestynveld afgewissel met strepe sand. Alles dieselfde kameelkleur. Bossies hier en daar. Dit strek sover mens kan sien na die see se kant toe. Aan die ander kant, so vyfhonderd meter land-in, grens hierdie klipperige kameelstrook aan die lakenwit sandduine van die Sahara. Dit terg mens. Want jou oë wil net nog meer daarvan sien, maar nou-en-dan is die duine te ver. Dan weer sigbaar. Dan heelwat nader, vol belofte. Dan weer weg.
 
Skielik draai die pad reguit see se kant toe, oor 'n rantjie, en 'n wal seelug tref ons vol op die bors. Vogtig en koel en nimmereindig skoon. Ou Psalms wel onwillekeurig in my op. Dis onmoontlik om deur Afrika te ry en nie oomblikke van intense bewustheid van die Onbegryplike te beleef nie. Die Kalahari. Die Kongo oerwoud en rivier. Die Atlantiese Oseaan. En nou die Sahara.
 
Bir Gandouz kan seker nie rerig 'n dorp genoem word nie. Dis 'n klompie halfgeboude beton-huise, tussen die klippe en gras en brokke beton van geboue wat reeds gesterf het.
 
Ons stop by die Barbas Hotel. Kry vir Ian. Dit lyk of hy besig is om die malaria te wen. Ons ontmoet ook vir Jamie. 'n Britse argitek op 'n Royal Enfield wat Suid ry. Hy't gedink hy gaan by Portugal stop. Maar toe hy weer sien is hy in Morocco. En nou trek die magiese kontinent hom al verder in.
 
Day 69: Nouadhibou to Bir Gandouz, Western Sahara
 
We depart at sunrise. The sea breeze cool against our bodies. It makes one grateful to be on a motorcycle and not enclosed within the capsule of a car. With the low angle of the sun just peeking over the landscape, everything has a shadow. Even the rocks. The ripples over the sand. The wrinkles of the breeze over the sea here on the quiet side of the Nouadhibou Peninsula.
 
The border crossing goes smoothly. Especially on the Moroccan side. It's our most organized border crossing experience yet. Note: Do not mention the name Western Sahara at the Moroccan border. Also, do not let that name-that-must-not-be-mentioned appear anywhere on your documents or your itinerary. Morocco does not recognize Western Sahara as an independent country. But they want to be independent, and more or less the whole world, including the African Union and South Africa, support their plea.
 
Back on the road, the clean openness strikes us again. Where we ride, it's a strip of stony desert alternating with stripes of sand. All the same camel colour. Shrubs here and there. It stretches as far as you can see towards the ocean. On the other side, about five hundred meters inland, this rocky camel strip borders the sheet-white sand dunes of the Sahara. It teases you. Because your eyes just want to see more of it, but now and then the dunes are just too far. Then visible again. Then much closer, full of promise. Then gone again.
 
Suddenly the road turns straight towards the sea, over a little ridge, and a breeze of sea air hits us right in the chest. Moist and cool and endlessly fresh. Old Psalms involuntarily well up in me. It's impossible to drive through Africa and not experience moments of intense awareness of the Incomprehensible. The Kalahari. The Congo rainforest and river. The Atlantic Ocean. And now the Sahara.
 
Bir Gandouz can't really be called a town. It's a cluster of half-built concrete houses, scattered among the rocks, grass, and fragments of buildings that have died already.
 
We stop at the Barbas Hotel. Look for Ian. It seems like he's overcoming the malaria. We also meet Jamie. A British architect on a Royal Enfield. Riding south. He thought he was going to stop in Portugal. But before he knew it, he was in Morocco. And now the magical continent is drawing him in.

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