This is my first piece of reflective writing since I failed my year 12 English exam

You can either fear the unknown, or embrace it.

In the latter months of 2017 whilst temporarily residing in Taghazout on the surf coast of Morocco, I got chatting to an interesting English nomad who was camping on the beach in a small tent.

I asked him what his plans were after Morocco. He didn't know much, but there was one peculiar thing that he was looking forward to when he eventually made is way down to Mauritania.

He must have sensed my thrill for adventure as he told me that he heard a whisper that there is a 3km long industrial train that transports Iron Ore through the Sahara desert. He also mentioned, and I quote “If your balls are big enough, then you can climb up on top of a cart and surf the train for 12 hours with nothing but sand and stars.”

As soon as I heard this I was in awe. This train became an obsession of mine and I knew I had to pursue it.  

This next adventure of mine was about to take me to a colossal area of sand known as Mauritania. Most people have never heard of this North/West African country and even if they had, they probably would have no intention of actually visiting it.  Mauritania was once utilised as a trading route between Timbuktu and Marrakesh, transporting gold, salt and slaves.

Today it is one of the poorest countries in the world.  Active terrorism taking part throughout the country helped land it number 10 on Foreign office's list of most dangerous countries in the world in 2017. It was the last country to abolish Slavery in 1981 and only officially making it a crime in 2007 with the aid of international pressure. Slavery towards black people is still very prominent throughout Mauritania today with 4-20% of its population enslaved. 

Mauritania does not see a lot of tourism and I was heading there for only one reason, to train-surf the world’s longest iron ore train.

The three kilometre long train transports iron ore from the mines in Zouerat, deep in the Sahara desert, to Mauritania’s second biggest city Nouadhibou, on the North Atlantic coast. The iron ore train is not only renowned for its sheer size, but also as a form of transportation between regions for the locals who can simply climb on top of the iron ore for a free ride.  

My limited research came to a rapid halt as I grew tired of reading negative information regarding travelling to Mauritania. I quickly found out that Mauritania struggles with poverty, terrorism, escalating crime rates and heavily mined borders.

The above article was taken directly from www.worldnomads.com

The above information was taken directly from my own Australian government website www.smarttraveller.gov.au

Most of my friends in Morocco that I pitched my idea to had their uncertainties. But none of them had actually set foot in Mauritania themselves so I really couldn’t take their opinions too seriously.  

My common sense was pushing for me to forget the train and stay surfing in Taghazout, but my passion for new experiences and my constant ambition to escape my continually growing comfort zone was too consuming.  I thought to myself that when I am lying on my deathbed, I’m not going to wish that I spent more time looking at my phone or sitting on the couch. These experiences are what I will remember and that’s exactly why I decided to go ahead with it.

Left : Mohsin and Myself in Taghazout, Morocco       Right : My Surfboard and my $150 Motorbike in Taghazout, Morocco

During the next flat spell I started this epic journey, leaving behind my surfboard, half my clothes and my motorbike with my Moroccan friend Mohsin.

Being a typical backpacker, tight on money. I decided that hitch hiking the 1500km down through Africa towards this train was my most feasible option.

Indicative map of my travels through Africa

Previously conversing with some locals led me to the nearby city of Agadir. I was told that fruit and vegetable are shipped in from Europe to the market of Inezgane where it is then distributed down to different parts of Africa in a variety of trucks. I thought to try my luck hitchhiking with one of these trucks.

Stumbling around the market with mealy a backpack and very loose plan was the moment I realised that I was going to get to know myself better than ever in the days ahead.

Short video of me walking around Inezgane market

Even though my Arabic was limited to the poorer side of 10 phrases, I walked around trying my best to ask if anyone knew of somebody that I could hitch a ride with down to Mauritania. It turned out the Moroccan truck drivers were thrilled to have a bit of company on their long hauls and an hour later and I was profusely sweating while loading boxes of various vegetables onto my new found friend “Atmans” truck.

I FOUND A RIDE!

Another three hours later and a sense of accomplishment rushed over me as we were heading South on the N1 highway through Northern Africa. It felt like Allah was on my side. 

Not that I have spent a lot of time in a big truck in my home country, but my African experience seemed a little different.  Instead of fearing hitting Kangaroos, it was Camels. Instead of stuffing our faces with Maccas or at a roadhouse cafe, we stopped in the middle of the desert and cooked up some Tagine and drank Moroccan tea with Atman’s little gas burner. Instead of stopping for a power nap, Atman claims that he can power through for up to Three days and nights before secluding to some shut eye.  Thankfully I was not heading all the way to Senegal to witness this.

                                      A camel crossing the road, or a road crossing the desert...

After 20+ hours of Arabic top 40 and second hand smoke I decided to take Atmans advice and check out the beautiful city of Dakhla in West Sahara.  He dropped me at the crossroad that lead towards there.

It took me three hours standing in the blistering sun with a vertical thumb for a German couple to pull over in their van and take me the remaining 50km into the kite surfing Mecca of Dakhla where I planned to spend a night.

I spent the day cruising around the beach and watching talented kite boarders, while at night I went on a quest to find a way to cross the infamous border crossing of West Sahara to Mauritania.  A man in a restaurant advised me to be at the front of Hotel Sahara at 7am the following morning where there might be an unlicensed taxi making the journey, but only if there were enough people wanting to make the same voyage to fill the drivers car.

The next morning I returned before dawn. Before long there were three dodgy looking characters fighting each other for who was going to take me. I chose the least persistent guy and settled at 300 Dirham for the Seven hour journey.  

After awaiting five more passengers, I soon had that sense of accomplishment again while being squished up in the backseat with three older local women who awkwardly refused to make eye contact with me the entire journey. Driving out of Dakhla along the peninsula that morning is one of my favourite memories of Africa. The silhouette of Kite borders gliding freely along the bay with the sunrise behind them over the desert was simply breathtaking.

The boarder of West Sahara and Mauritania has a dangerous reputation with some labelling It "The most dangerous border in the world with armed men waiting to rob you" and other stupid exaggerations. I believe this status is mainly due to other travellers who want to sound extreme so they throw a bit of mayo on top when they tell their experiences.  I was more excited than nervous for what was to come, but being alone and all, I still felt the urge to ask my driver about his experiences with it all. He insisted “No problem, no problem, no stop, no stop”... what words of relief. 

In the car speeding across the desert 

After several hours of nothing but sand, a few old buildings started to appear in the distance and I could make out some big patriotic flags. The Moroccan side of the border consisted of a few cafes and military posts. 

Crossing these types of boarders can be awfully time consuming. There is a lack of coordination and regulations are rarely followed. I can guarantee money talks in these situations and I have seen bribes with my own eyes. Patience is the key and you should always expect the worse as absolutely everything is out of your control. 

We were not the only ones trying to get into Mauritania and when we arrived at the border my driver was livid about being stuck in a line of 20 trucks deep.  I was already out of the car walking around stretching my legs when nature started to call. I decided to head out into the sand dunes off the highway to relieve myself.  I only made it about 10 metres before I heard a big commotion. To my surprise there was a tall black man in formal uniform yelling and waving at me.  I wondered what the hell this bloke wants, just let me piss in peace.  I started to walk back to him with a puzzled look on my face when he shouted “No out there! There are Bombs!  

My heart stopped and I froze. I thought straight away of the two Frenchmen that were killed a few years ago when they were crossing the boarder and realised they were on the wrong track and naively decided to make a U-turn in the soft sand, hitting a landmine.

Standing there like an idiot while scoping the adjacent sand for any signs of a landmine. Luckily I could vaguely make out my footsteps, which I carefully retraced back to solid asphalt while panting nervously. 

A warning sign for landmines in the area

Leaving Morocco was a piece of cake and automatically that sense of accomplishment started to build again.

My sense of accomplishment soon shifted to nervousness as we entered “No-mans land’ between the two borders. I can only describe this 4km stretch of land as something out of a Mad Max film. An apocalypse like scenario with a series of sandy tracks riddled with hundreds of burnt out cars and tyres to mark the location of unexploded land mines.

Neither country claims this land as their own so officially there are no laws.

Reading about this region and actually experiencing it was vastly different for me. Growing up in the nanny state of Australia, you spend your whole life surrounded by laws and regulations. Then to actually enter a vicinity where all that is officially thrown out the window, is quite a surreal feeling.  A feeling of raw freedom mixed with uneasiness.  

There are multiple tracks in the sand and no signs to illustrate the safe passage to dodge the landmines.

Short footage of my voyage across 'No-mans land'

Even though no one really spoke throughout the car ride here, when we entered 'No-Mans Land' it felt like a different type of silence. Our driver seemed more concentrated and a little on edge.

Everyone crossing this vicinity seems to do it as quick as possible.

I am not sure what made me more nervous at the time, the hagly men living in the back of some of the stagnant cars or the strange noises coming from our own engine.  With clenched teeth I prayed to Allah that we would not break down and get robbed, or even worse.  I promptly changed my thinking process and let myself embrace the unknown. I told myself that these poor men living in the beat up cars are just chilling and are not out to get us. I wondered what kind of life they have had to end up being trapped between two countries like this. 

We made it across to the Mauritanian side with ease. The usual questions arose during customs. “Where have you been? Where are you going? How long are you staying? What is the reason for your visit? Why does your bag look like military? Are you in the military? Do you have gun?”

No I am not from the Army and I do not have a fucking gun, I’m just here to train surf. They would not see a whole heap of westerners so naturally they were a little sceptical of me. I was also supposed to obtain a visa to enter Mauritania at the embassy in the Capital of Morocco, . I already knew this from reading online but Rabat was eight hours North of Taghazout, I thought I could play dumb and apologise and sure enough I was let through.  The sense of accomplishment was starting to build again.

Arriving in Nouadhibou was a complete shock.  It was prominently different from any other place I had previously been. It looked reasonably big on ‘Maps me’ and I assumed it to be a big bustling city.  I was wrong.  Being there felt like a real African experience. Three inches of dust layered the ground.  Weathered concrete shacks suffering heavily from the nonstop blistering sun and wind. The streets were coated in a rancid smell of trash with goats grazing around and a crazy old man throwing stones at them.  

The streets of Noudiabou where I got dropped off

I felt like a fish out of water standing in the middle of this street with shorts and a T-shirt on.  I thought I was going OK with my tan after two months surfing everyday in Morocco, but these men were looking at me like I was a ghost.

I did not having a single cent on me as I gave away my last Moroccan Dirham to a homeless man at the border.  I also stupidly assumed that Nouadhibou was a big city and would be riddled with ATMs.

I attempted to ask a few men on the streets the whereabouts of an ATM.  Obviously the language barrier was an issue so I was quick to playing charades with my card, slotting it in and out of an imaginary ATM.  Shaken heads was all I received.  My CHO-CHO train charades was more of a success and I found out the general direction of where the train left from.  

I was in possession of two litres of water, three cans of tuna and some fruit. I had to make a decision whether to catch the train or try and find an ATM. I did not have time to dwell as it was approaching 330pm and the train was supposedly leaving around 4pm. I decided once again to embrace the unknown and try my luck with the train. 

Running on excitement I arrived at the train tracks and positioned myself between two groups of Mauritanian men that were already waiting for the train.

Waiting for the train

Word quickly spread that there was a foreigner awaiting the train, so gradually the local people started to come over and suss me out. With my poor Arabic, the conversations never went much further than ‘Salem Alaikum’ Which translates to 'hello I give you peace'.  

The 3km Long Iron Ore Train

The train finally arrived as I was about to experience my first Mauritanian Sunset.  I could see the train coming from the distance. As it got closer it got louder. The three locomotives steamed past me followed by some 200 freight containers.

Excitement was an understatement. As soon as the train come to halt, I looked over to the locals who were already hurling their bags of who knows what into a cart. No more than five seconds later and I was climbing up the ladder of the closest cart. The cart was cold, dirty and rusty.  They had been emptied at the docks in Nouadhibou and now on their way back towards the mines.

Inside the empty cart

I was finally on my train. The sensation of achievement triumphed through my whole body. Screams of joy erupted as I smacked my hands on the side walls of the cart in celebration.

Overly excited to be on the train

I was so pumped and full of energy that I could not stand still. I was so intrigued by the over sized train that I started to observe all the mechanical elements of it. The couplers were the size of a basketball. 

Eagerly waiting for the train to take off, It dawned on me that the when I jump off this train tomorrow I will be roughly 500km deep in the Sahara desert, in the vicinity where Terrorist organisations operate, with mealy the clothes on my back. I had no idea what to expect out there but I was ready for what ever came my way.

Finally I felt what I assumed to be the releasing of the breaks and we started to slowly roll. I poked my head over the side to get a glimpse at the wheels to see if they were moving.  Little did I know that this was a moment where you’re supposed to brace yourself. A soft clunking sound appeared in the distance from miles up ahead.  It grew exponentially louder as it shot down the train in a domino harmonic fashion. Before I could comprehend what was happening I was thrown completely to the ground, I quickly regained my composure while integrating a valuable lesson.

Ill admit I lied when I said I was ready for what ever was coming my way because I was definitely not ready for that.

This was a common occurrence over the next 13 hours. Every so often the driver would put on his violent and capricious breaks to slow down for a bend. This would cause each cart to catch up with the one in front and slam into it. You could hear the full recoil shoot along as the entire 200 carriages of train. Giving you about 1-2 seconds to grit your teeth and brace for when it reached your cart. 

Slowing down was only half the trouble, while readjusting yourself after the impact you dread knowing that the train must accelerate again, with an equally forceful punch.

Being built in the 1960s you could imagine that even between these unexpected random jolts, the train was constantly loud and bumpy.  The inside of the cart was riddled with leftover mounds of iron ore. The Gale force winds at night turned the cart into a whirlwind of sand and iron ore which was very irritating.  I previously read a blog online that mentioned this so I came prepared with a head scarf and sunnies.

What I naively underestimated was how cold the desert can get at night.  I had camped in the Sahara desert before in Morocco and it was beautiful sleeping under the stars, but that was in the heart of summer. The winter months are the complete opposite with the wind chill factor resembling the top of a ski lift on a frosty morning.  Hypothermia thoughts were starting to kick in as I attempted to throw on every single piece of clothing I had in my back pack.

I managed to fit on Two singlets, Four T-shirts, a skivvy, Two hoodies, a spray jacket, a woolly poncho, a throbe, Three pairs of socks, a Pair of pants, shorts over the top running down to my knees and another pair from knee to ankle.

All this clothing and I still felt the need to attempt to curl up and squeeze into my undersized back pack for a desperate attempt to block the wind.  

Though I knew it was a stupid idea even by my standards, curiosity got the better of me and I was soon removing some clothes for some mobility so I could climb along the moving train to suss out what the other local men were doing.  I knew they were about Seven carriages or so away and the stars and moon illuminated the train just enough to have some confidence in jumping across the carts. Gripping the rails as hard as I possibly could and nervously listening for any sign of upcoming jolts in the train before making each jump. Cart hopping across the moving train was one of the most adrenalin filled moments of my life. 

I reached the cart and found all Seven men huddled under a collection of heavy duty rugs. I startled them a little when I jumped into their cart, yet they were extremely hospitable and promptly offered me some blanket when seeing how cold I was and without hesitation I nestled in. It was not their first rodeo, they were well equipped for the journey and even had a portable gas burner to muster up the legendary 3 parts foam 1 part Mauritanian Tea.  Conversations were kept to a minimal and I politely declined the Tea offer as I could just see me spilling it all over myself.  I enjoyed being warm under the blanket for an hour or so but I was eager to get back to my cart and be alone with the stars.

My new friends were opposed to the idea of jumping between the carriages for obvious reasons, but I had no choice but to disappoint them as I regretfully left my back pack behind in the original cart I climbed into.

The return to my carriage felt a lot longer than the way over. It seemed they magically added some carriages while I was curling under that blanket. I finally found my bag and rapidly made use of the rest of my ensemble.

I attempted to settle in for the night with my whole body tucked underneath my poncho and using my bag as a cushion. I leaned my back against the front wall bracing for the random jolts. Leaning my head against the wall was torture as the vibration of the train was making my face itchy, the same way as if you rest your face against a bus window.  

The whole night I was in agony from the cold. I kept looking at my phone, praying for the hours to have passed but in my sad reality it was never more than 15 minutes between observations.

I laid back and gazed up at the clearest milky way I have ever seen and reflected on where I was in the world. It made me realise how alone and insignificant I really am. I was naïve to think I was ever going to sleep on this train and for the next Nine hours I sat curled up in a ball trying to mentally block out the cold and praying for the sun to come up.

When first light appeared, the phrase ‘tomorrows a new day’ never felt so relevant.  I stood my frozen body up and shuffled my way to the edge. Gazing into the distance, eager to know what 500km deep in the Sahara desert looked like. Over the next half hour as the stars started to fade and the light from the sun grew more intense I could start to make out small shrubs scattered against the rolling plains of sand.  From Horizon to horizon it was just desert, I knew it continued for another 100 times over in every direction before reaching any form of civilisation. Apart from this railway, the whole area had never been touched by man.

It was so surreal to experience such natural simplicity. As the sun came up and the wind dropped off, my body temperature rose. The noise and bumps of the train seemed to fizzle into the background as I stood in awe. Leaned against the side wall gazing endlessly into the horizon, just appreciating the vast size of the world we live in and cherishing how insignificant this moment made me feel.  I couldn’t say how long I stood there for, but it was generally one of the most wonderful moments of my life.  The best things in life really are free.

I really got a grasp on how long this train actually was. I could not even see the front of it.  The carriages gradually shrunk and faded into the distance ahead until my eyes could not distinguish train from sand through the hazy air.

I was a little confused when the train slowed down in what seemed the middle of nowhere. People started to throw gas tanks and numerous other transported goods off onto the sand.  I was unsure if this sandy settlement with a few brick buildings was in fact Choum or not. I repeatedly shouted to a man on the ground if this was Choum until I got a nod.

After rounding up my bag and disembarking the train, I joined the scramble with everyone else who was scurrying for a spot in the van or the pickup truck. The cars were waiting for us to onward our travel to Atar, the major city of the Adrar region.  Even though I was visibly not from around there, the locals did not bat an eye lid and I was hushed into the van while my backpack was thrown onto the roof.  The driver boosted across the sand for about one kilometre and then stopped in front of one of the mud brick buildings. Kicking half of us out of the car and driving off shortly after with my bag still on the roof. I was left a little confused as I couldn’t understand much Arabic but I was fairly confident that he was coming back so I didn’t make much of a fuss. 

A man and his Donkey cart a water barrel around the main street of Choum

As everyone waited patiently I started to get curios of my surroundings and began to wander around.  Without taking 15 steps down the road a local guy in his mid twenties with a worried look on his face anxiously signalled for me to come join him in the garage he was standing in.  My heart sank and I rushed over and out of sight. My first thought was do I need to be careful of ISIS or other criminals? Maybe word has spread that a white tourist come off the train and the assholes might come and get me.  My thoughts were all over the shop and my heart was racing.  I nervously pointed to the ground and repeated Choum, C’est Bon? C’est bon?  ( Choum, Its good? Its good) in a poor attempt in French of asking if I’m safe here. I could not make out the expression on his face under his head scarf but he nodded his head and carried on smoking his cigarette.

After feeling distressed for a few minutes I calmed myself down and come to the conclusion that he must have told me to come into the garage because it was hot out there in the sun.

Me trying to fit in with the locals

The Van returned after a few minutes with more passengers. 

My next destination was Atar, the main gateway to the ancient Moorish cities of Ouadane and Chinguetti. I was hoping I would find an ATM there but I was worried the driver would not take me if he knew I had no money.

I eventually managed to strike a deal with him that I would pay him 2000 Mauritanian Ouguiya (5 USD) when I get money out from the ATM in Atar.  It was interesting being squished up with 10 Islamic men inside this Van.  They were all talking to each other in Arabic and I could not determine if they all knew each other or not but I was too tired to care. I shut my eyes leaning against the seat in front and fell straight to sleep. During the three hour drive I was woken on three separate occasions by the police checks. They were not interested in anyone else in the van besides me. They took all my passport details, all the drivers’ details and the registration of the car. They wanted to know where I was coming from and where I was going. This put me at ease. The police were generally protective of me. I was not used to this kind of treatment.  In my experience travelling through other poor countries the police generally just want some of your money.

Some of the little villages we passed on the highway made me feel so far from home. Think of the most African place you can, then double it to make it even more African. These places are exactly that. There were donkeys carting around water drums and kids playing with old car tyres.

                                                              Some small African villages 

Even though Atar only has a population of 25,000, after my last 24 hours I felt like I was driving into Beijing.  People flooded the local markets, shops riddled the sides of the streets while old men sold rugs and traditional clothes.  The napping in the van had made me even more tired. I was also covered in iron ore and dust from head to toe. All I wanted was to dive head fist into the ocean that was 600km away, I would even have happily settled for a muddy lagoon but considering that this place receives an annual average rainfall of 1.3 inches, I was in high hopes.

The heavy military presence put me at ease. I no longer felt unsafe as I walked along the streets en route towards an ATM, as the trustworthy driver waited at his garage.

Yann decided to join me on my quest to get cash out. Yann was a 19 y/o small Mauritanian guy that could speak a reasonable amount of English. He spotted me as soon as I hopped out of the Van and didn’t leave me alone for the rest of the day. He was a breath of fresh air, finally someone I could communicate with.  Even though he was quick to assure me that my Master cards were useless in Mauritania and Visa was the only card that works there, I still persisted to try every ATM in town.  Yann clearly didn’t have a busy schedule for the day because he was more than happy to stick with me and make humour of my situation.

I was 600km deep in the Sahara Desert with no Internet, no access to money, no food or water and I hadn’t showered or slept in two days. It was a rough moment. To top it all off I had to go back to my driver and explain that I had no money to give him. My mind was frazzled and I had no idea what to do.

Sensing the confusion on my face, Yann started to cheekily giggle at me.  “Its not funny dude, I literally got zero money, I can’t even buy water!” He went on to ensure me that it’s OK and that I can eat with him and his family.

Returning to my driver, I openly explained my situation to him. I proposed a deal, that he can have my portable phone battery pack in exchange for the lift and if he takes me back to Choum the next morning so I can catch the next train back. He agreed and told me to return to his garage at 8am the next morning

Yann suddenly had somewhere he had to be but insisted that I meet him back on this corner at 2pm and he will take me to meet his family.

I then proceeded to spend the majority of the day browsing the streets of Adar. I only crossed paths with one other Tourist, 45 y/o Tomas from Cezk Republic. Tomas had been in Mauritania for a few weeks now writing and shooting for National Geographic. He was being escorted around with a Tour company in a decked out Jeep and a handful of Tour guides.  I would have been thrilled to been able to join him and venture even further off road but Tomas was as strange as they come and I had no money for food anyway.

I was so desperate for water that it became my only priority. I dwelled on drinking the tap water and risking exploding from both ends for the next 24 hours. I was immune to the tap water in Morocco at the time but considering that public toilets are not a concept in this part of the world and the thought of being stuck on that train for 13 hours with no control of my bodily functions got me second guessing my iron stomach. I wasn’t game enough to risk it.  I opted to just ask for a mouthful when I seen someone with a bottle. By now everything about me genuinely resembled a Hobo. Everything I owned was on my back and I was begging people for water.

I eventually caught back up with Yann in the afternoon and I accompanied him to his uncles Mohumad’s house. He had an area for camping on his property that is open to overlanders and tourists for a small fee.

He used to work on fishing boats off The Canary Islands in his younger years so between us we could hold a limited conversation in our mediocre Spanish.  

Alike the majority of the Mauritanian people, this family were very poor.  Apparently tourism had been low for a few years due to the travel safety warnings.  According to Mohammad, the majority of travellers that do decide to venture past these warnings do so with a guided tour. The sight of the nomad backpacker lay few and far between. This family relied on Tourism for an income. I felt a little poignant as I had absolutely nothing of material value to give them yet they offered me so much hospitality.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon as Mohammad’s shadow.  I accompanied him as we ventured back into town to get some things from the market.  After the market we sat down at a make shift restaurant to drink some Tea.  Mohammad was a popular man and seemed to know half the town. Every second man that would walk past stopped for a chat.  He insisted that I join him for his prayer in the city’s Mosque. I was somewhat nervous about this because I had no idea what to do in there and I am in no way one bit religious.  It was an interesting experience for my first and last time in a mosque during prayer time.

I was invited to stay for dinner back at the house. Anyone that knows me well is well aware that I will never pass up a free feed and you can bet your bottom dollar this was no exception.

To no surprise the wife was head chef of this household and Kefta Tajine was on the menu with enough bread to sink a battleship.  We all sat on the floor around the dining table and ate from the same plate.  Dinner was my first meal of the day so my stomach must had shrunk because I was full after a few mouthfuls. It was immensely satisfying. Some traditional Mauritanian Tea shortly followed dinner.

                                                                           Mohammad pouring Tea

I started feeling a little anxious when the television was turned on due to the constant coverage of military undergoing training, patrolling the streets and combating terrorist groups.  

Little bit different to the Simpsons....

I slept outside on a rug next to a wall for wind protection. Mohammad gave me a blanket which was much appreciated. It wasn’t the best night sleep but after the previous night I really couldn’t complain.

In the morning after thanking my hosts, I grabbed some bread and made my way into town.

A quick selfie while I hitched a ride with some school kids

While in town I noticed a man sitting down with his back towards the table he was sitting at. I sneakily walked past and stole his 1.5L bottle of water sitting on the table. It wasn’t my proudest moment but I had no choice.

I arrived back at Choum at 10:30 am with the train expected to come past at 4.00pm. I set myself up near the railway track with a book. I spent the hours waiting in the sun and fending off an extremely annoying goat that was under the impression my bag was eatable. Discounting the goat and constant wind, Choum was as relaxing as it gets. It was a complete ghost town. Occasional the odd solitary turbaned figure would amble seamlessly across the distant sand with no apparent purpose. I saw more tumbleweed than people during my stakeout.

Where I set up camp in Choum

Hunger pains started to kick in around 2.00pm. I packed up camp and went browsing for something to eat. There was one convenient store in Choum, but no one was there and it was all locked up.  I knew I had to find some food soon as I was about to ride on a train for 13 hours. I noticed a rusted old Bin down the street. The thought of going bin diving took me back to the primary school days when I used to eat Twisties off the floor. The most appealing thing I could find in there was some crusty old bread, but when you’re that hungry, anything tastes good and the bread was no exception.   Sitting back in my spot I noticed a lot more movement in town. I assumed school had recently finished because all of a sudden I was bombarded by several African children.  It took them a while to comprehend I couldn’t speak their language. The only common words we knew were Messi and Ronaldo. It was a simple connection between us and they were extremely cheeky. After what seemed like hours I eventually grew tired of kicking an empty can of beans around and arguing over whom was Messi.  They were extremely persistent and were not willing to leave me alone until I gave them something. The children finally continued on their way with all of my wrist bands that I had on. 

                                                                                     Life in Choum...

As I had no access to money in Mauritania, I was hoping to make it back into Morocco the next day. My heart sank when I found out the expected arrival time of the train had shifted to 4:00am the next morning. This meant I was going to be stuck in Mauritania for another two days with no water or food.   

A man wanders along the tracks, Choum

As the sun went down, the wind got stronger and the air got colder. As expected it was a long chilly night waiting for the train. I sat in complete darkness against an old abandon building trying to shelter myself from the wind. A few Mauritanian commuters gradually started to join me in the wait for the train. The chill became unbearable in the early hours of the morning. Again, I was wearing every piece of clothing that I owned. All this and my legs were still numb. The howling wind made it impossible for any verbal communication between anyone. The sky was full of stars but they did little to illuminate anything. Everyone was sitting in utter darkness.  Occasionally a phone torch would be shone around and seemingly one or two more people would have magically joined the pack. It was a weird connection shared between everyone waiting.   Everyone was doing it tough in the cold which somewhat felt like it brought us all together as if we were part of a strange untitled kin. Hours passed by and being that uncomfortably cold for such a length of time really pressed its psychological toll on me. Minutes felt like hours and my thoughts started to venture to weird places, it was as if I was on LSD.

All rugged up

Nestled under my Poncho with my eyes closed I suddenly felt someone kicking me in the leg. While in a fright I scrambled out, to my surprise there was a figure standing over me and everyone else was running towards the train that had stopped about 200m past from where we were sitting. I urgently jumped up and ran for the train. I was fretting so bad that I was going to miss the train that I forgot I was all tangled up with shorts around my shins and I tripped face first onto the gravel putting a decent gash into my hand. Jumping back up and holding my shorts, I hastened over to the train. I was struggling in the dark to find a decent place to hop on. All the closest carts to me were big oil and gas tankers that had no room to sit down and I didn’t feel like holding onto a ladder for the 13 hour journey. 

I eventually spotted a small gap at the back of a shipping container and quickly hopped on. I was so close to missing the train as less than 5 seconds after I climbed aboard it started to move.  That familiar feeling of accomplishment rushed through my body. Two hours passed in the freezing darkness until a magical sunrise came from behind the train bringing with it much anticipated warmth. 

The most perfect sunrise

After another night of nonstop shivering I felt at peace knowing that I was on my way back to a civilised lifestyle in Morocco with my surfboard, motorbike and money.

Enjoying the ride

The next 10 hours will live long in my memory as the train snaked its way through the never ending Sahara desert. Passing wadis, jebels, dunes and wild herds of camels. 

Solitude is bliss

The train stopped once for a few minutes in a remote settlement for some local men to load some camels onto it.

The train also offers a cheap transportation service for Camels...

I arrived back in Nouadhibou about an hour before sunset.  I had to somehow get to the border without any money. I was afraid I would be enduring another sleepless night lying under the stars nudging hypothermia.

On arrival to Nouadhibou there were a few cars awaiting the train to on forward the passengers.  I tried my luck to see if any of them were going to the border. Fate had it that there were a couple of cars going in that direction and they were more than happy to help a foreigner. I was so stoked that I stupidly forgot that boarders are not open 24/7 and by the time we arrived, it had closed an hour prior.

It felt like the people who lived at the boarder were part of a tight knit community, almost like a permanent residency caravan park with everyone there all sharing a BBQ and socialising. I had previously run out of water back on the train and I had not eaten  anything since the bread I found in the bin the previous day. Two men were friendly and let me have some BBQ along with an abundance of Tea.  There was a building there where you could rent beds for 2 Euro/night, but having no access to money left me sleeping against a brick wall outside. I was out with the dodgy currency exchangers who fiercely tried to haggle money out of me and a crazy old man yelling at the dogs all night.  I slept on the sand against a wall out of the agonazing wind with all my clothes on and using my backpack as a pillow. I was beginning to see why this border has a dangerous reputation online. I decided to tuck my passport into my jocks while I slept, just in case. At one stage early on in the night there we groups of men moving around and whispering and I was wondering if I was going to wake up with my shoes on or not.

Having only slept one night in the last 3 days had really done a number on me and I went to straight to sleep not too long after I was settled.

I awoke at dawn to over 30 trucks lined up bumper to bumper waiting for the boarder to open so they could cross over into Morocco. I immediately sprung up, shoved my belongings into my backpack and raced over. I was on a desperate mission to get back to Agadir, which was the closest major city but still 1600km away. I was feeling optimistic that most of these trucks were heading there, I just needed one of them to take me. One by one I approached the driver’s windows and politely asked if they were going to Agadir. Twenty odd trucks later and I found my guy. He only requested that I cross the border myself and he will pick me up from the Moroccan side. 

                                                       Waiting for the border crossing to open

The formalities of leaving Mauritania took a while. I was questioned and searched quite vigorously by the military. Apparently it looked a little suspicious that I was only in the country for a few days.

I was finally free to leave Mauritania and make my way back across that 4km stretch of ‘no man’s land’ 

I lost track of where my truck had gone when I was being questioned by the authorities. I started to fret that he might already be in Morocco. I didn’t have time to wait around for a passing motorist to ask a lift so I decided to walk. The Mauritanian guards were persistent on me to pay a ‘local fixer’ to take me to the Moroccan post in lieu of walking, but I had no money to pay for one.

I was a little sceptical on walking the journey and I started off on a fairly distinctive path through the sand with the Moroccan border scarcely visible on the sandy horizon

A few cars passed me leaving fresh marks on the sandy track which gave me something to follow. I was around 1km in when a passing truck suddenly come to a halt next to me. Nervously wondering what he wanted I walked towards it and a bloke stuck his head out the passenger window. With a distressed look on his face he yelled something in Arabic that I can only assume meant I shouldn’t be here as he repeated pointed to the back of the truck and signalled me to climb on. I pointed towards the Moroccan boarder and asked ‘Maroc?’ where he replied ‘Oui’.

You beauty I thought and I climbed up onto a ladder on the back doors of the truck. I yelled out ‘Cest Bon’ to signal I was ready and we started moving.  The ride was bumpy and slow and even though I was holding onto the back of a moving truck, It still felt safer than walking. 

Getting through the Moroccan border was timely but trouble-free.  Patience and common courtesy can be absent from the culture around there so it is imperative to hold your own when waiting in ques.

I could see my Moroccan truck driver still going through customs as I relaxed and enjoyed the feeling of relief being back on Moroccan soil.  Eventually I watched my truck pull up just past where I was sitting on the curb.  I strolled over to the front of the truck and stood awkwardly as a cigarette wielding, over sized bald man climbed out of the driver side door.

I politely greeted him in Arabic with ‘assalam alaikum’ while holding my hand to my chest. In a deep loud voice he responded with ‘Salem’ and then paused before boasting out ‘HUNGRY?’ ‘I laughed and replied ‘Fucking starving mate!’

I followed him over to one of the cafes where he bought me a coffee and some scrambled eggs.

Hopping into the truck was a shock, the inside of it resembled a five star hotel. It had a pull out fridge, sound system and bunk beds behind the hydraulic driver’s seat.  I was too busy scoping out the inside of the cab to notice another local man trying to climb into the cabin. He gave me a nudge so I moved over to the bed and he sat in the passenger seat.

The bed was the comfiest thing ever. I remember thinking ‘how good’s this!’ being able to lie down while we drive. My driver “Naam’ was an absolute legend. He insisted on buying me food and drinks along the way. He even offered me his hot spot for Internet and tried hard to tell jokes through his broken English. We spent the majority of the first day listening to 2pac until I commandeered the Aux chord.  Naam admitted he liked my taste in music but he preferred gangster rap.  

Inside the truck

I sat in that bed for 36 hours straight, aiding numerous random Moroccan men with free lifts along the way as we journeyed back to Agadir. We stopped along the way every few hours to eat and also pulled over once so Naam could take a three hour nap on the bunk above me.  We finally arrived in Agadir just after sunset. I tried to offer Naam some money for his troubles but he kindly rejected my offer.  I said goodbye as we parted ways at a service station. I really couldn’t have thanked him enough.

I had finally returned to the hustling bustling city of Agadir. I had travelled over 1500Km since the border and was only 30 odd kms away from where I wanted to be, back in Tagahzout. I felt so close, yet so far at the same time. After a few hours of hitch hiking and hailing taxis, I was finally walking up to my hostel.  I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions that I nearly cried.  That entire week was rough, my mind and body were completely drained. I felt copious amounts of Joy when seeing my expat friends and reflecting back on my experience.  I was so happy that I decided to go ahead with the journey and also glad I made it back safe.  

As I am writing this blog I feel somewhat nostalgic about the whole journey as it was one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life.

A Journey I Will Never Forget