11 Western Sahara- Canary Islands-Mauritania

Layoune - Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, Spain, Friday, Nov. 5, 1982

(HELENA) Very early in the morning Dan and I could hear Maureen and Shirley having a long whispered conversation.  When we got up, we found that Shirley had decided to return through Morocco, Spain and France to England. Last night she had tried for three hours to make a collect phone call to the USA to find out her father's condition. Ever since Rabat she'd been calling every other night because her father is in very bad health.  She never was able to call last night, and realized the situation could be getting worse, so she is returning. I am sure it was a painful decision. Maureen, Dan, and I are going to fly to Las Palmas and then to Mauritania. After breakfast I stayed in the room (we'd decided it would be best to always have someone there) while Shirley went to see about getting her permission to go back through the war zone.  Dan and Maureen went to change money and see about plane tickets. They were able to get the tickets, so we felt secure in knowing that we'd be able to resume our trip. At about 11:00 Shirley rushed in to say she'd gotten her permission and that her Land Rover taxi was waiting for her.  She hurriedly packed, said "Goodbye", and was gone.[1]

We packed more calmly, had lunch in the room, and left to take our taxi to the airport. We spent some unpleasant hours there before our flight. We waited for more than an hour in the security area, and then they told us that we should put our bags on the table to be checked. I have NEVER seen such a complete check in all my born days, especially with Dan's and Maureen's packs.  They took everything out and shook it to see there was nothing hidden.  They were especially interested in the books which they leafed through and asked what was in them. They took Maureen's camera and film to the police room, but did nothing with ours. We repacked with difficulty (especially Dan, since his is a top-loading pack), checked our bags and thought it was over. But no, now they had to go through our carryon luggage. They took our camera and Maureen's tape recorder and Arabic tapes. They only took the camera and looked no further for film[2]. They set it on the desk in the police room, and Dan and I stayed with it. After five minutes another man told us to hurry up to get our passports checked. We were very hesitant to leave the camera, so the man finally gave back the camera, and we went on through to get our passports stamped.   They didn't even look through our food bag or the rest of the camera bag. Maureen got all of hers back, but only after a guy had listened to segments of her Arabic tapes, some three times over[3].

When we saw what was happening with Maureen's film, she suggested I put ours in my pockets. I did, but then we decided to put it back in the camera bag. Lucky thing, because, after the passports were checked, a woman beckoned to Maureen and shut her in a room. She was searched and then I was searched, but Dan never was. Very strange! I'd say 90% of the passengers were Spaniards with the mining company Dan mentioned.

The flight took only 45 minutes. We were surprised at how arid Gran Canaria is. As we flew in, we saw next to no green, but huge fields covered with plastic and presumably irrigation. The airport is very similar to the one in Madrid. We took the bus into town (22 km.) and walked in the direction of a neighborhood suggested by our friend Geoff (of Africa on the Cheap). By luck we stumbled onto a hostel and arranged to stay in a homey place, although more expensive than we'd had in Morocco. It felt good to relax after that last experience in Layoune.

Our route from Western Sahara to Las Palmas de Gran Canaria to Nouadhibou.  Yellow is land travel an red is by air.

Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, Sat., Nov. 6, 1982

(DAN) We took it easy, as is our custom, and struck out toward the tourist office at 10:00.  Las Palmas is at least on the surface the wealthiest city we have seen in Spain. There must be a lower class because driving in from the airport we saw a lot of heavy industry and smog, but otherwise there are a lot of signs of money.  There is less trash on the streets than we saw on the mainland, but we've noticed that every empty lot is a garbage dump. In fact, when we had settled into our room (on the fourth floor of an apartment building) we handed the hostess our trash bag to dispose of.  She accepted it, then walked over to the window, opened it and threw the bag of trash into the empty lot next door!!!!

The city has several very nice parks, including Santa Catalina where we were headed. At the office we got our maps and some leads for looking into ships to Mauritania. The first place we tried handled a ship that left only last night. The second place would not have a ship until the 15th, etc. Finally we ran into a man who said they did not allow people to arrive by ship, only by air.  By that time all of the offices were closing down, so we settled on flying to Nouadihbou and striking out by land again from there.

Since we now have this stretch worked out I will outline our plans for the next few weeks. From Nouadhibou (formerly Pt. Etienne) we will go straight east on an ore train to meet up with the road that heads southwest to Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania. There is no direct road. From Nouakchott we will head south to St. Louis (the capital of Colonial Mauritania), Senegal, and Dakar.  We will spend a few days there getting some more visas. Then we will head for Bamako, Mali either straight, by rail, or making a loop through the Gambia. From Bamako we will go to Sikasso, and just across the border into Upper Volta to Orodara where our contacts live.  At some point Maureen will leave us and fly to Kenya where she is to meet up with her father.

Las Palmas, 7 November, 1982

(HELENA) Once again we proved that there is nothing open on Sunday morning in Spain, except the cafes. We finally ended up having a mid-morning café con leche with churros - a bit expensive for our taste. The three of us then ambled over to a plaza where our tourist information told us they had typical dancing.  Amazingly enough we went in and sat down at the edge of a big cafe and paid nothing to see some typical Gran Canaria dancing. The one word that describes it is sedate. At no time did the dancers actually go fast. The musicians played guitars, mandolins, a charango[4] sort of instrument, string bass, tambourine, and a row of bones that sounded like castanets. The music was several voices. I’m not sure how “typical” it was, but it was very pleasant. One of the songs sounded like a slow tango.[5]

Actually, the men too looked a little like gauchos. They wore white pleated skirts just a bit above the knees. They wore short socks and — get this  — leg warmers (or at least ancestors of them) up to the knee. The women wore dresses that really showed off the fancy lace and embroidery that are supposed to be characteristic of the islands. At the end of the program they walked out with the instruments accompanying a woman of considerable age that could really sing powerfully. While they were still onstage, we had noticed this older woman in black with a white kerchief, but it hadn’t occurred to us that she was part of the group.

We went from there to a beautiful but, alas, crowded beach. Maureen only stayed to look for a minute, but Dan and I had brought our bathing suits. We sunned ourselves, went into the water and watched the various beautiful and awful scenery parade by. This spot was particularly outstanding because you could see huge waves breaking a distance away where there was a barrier reef or something.

Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, waterfront.

As I write this I can hear the television going next door. The coverage of the Pope’s visit to Spain appears to be on 24 hours a day. One wonders how long he can keep up his busy (DAN NOW) schedule of original, inspirational oratories. We hear his voice constantly; his slow musical voice carries rather well.

We have seen the full spectrum of modesty the last few days. Less than a hundred miles away (in Spanish Sahara) the women hesitate to show their smiles and here on the beach they hesitate barely. A number of women on the beach were even topless.  Clearly, in cultural terms, we are back in Western Europe.

Las Palmas, Monday, November 8, 1982

We went to bed last night on the depressing note that we would have to wake up early to wash all of our clothes. It did not make it easier that it was raining when we awakened. Then there was no water! La señora told Helena that there are two companies that treat sea water, and that water was so scarce and expensive that they talk of importing water from Portugal. In any case there was so little water, that when we asked the señora the best way to wash, she offered to wash in her tiny washer. How civilized.  It took a while for it to fill for each stage in its cycle, but all we had to do was hang it out. She charged us ± $us 1.90 for two loads plus 3/4 box of detergent. We hung the clothes out on the roof. Once it started to rain and we had to bring everything in, and hang it out indoors, but still preferable to the old scrub-scrub. It is typical that it rained on our wash day. It does not rain in Las Palmas for months on end, but for us...

From the roof we had a good view of the city:  A lot of construction, a lot of mid-sized buildings, and a lot of condominium-type buildings up the steep mountain. We also had a good view of the garbage heap that makes up the hillside without buildings. The previously mentioned empty lot by our building has about two feet of garbage spread over it.

The afternoon was spent making reservations for our flight to Nouadhibou, and finding out that banks work 0900-1400 hrs., whereas everybody else works 1000-1400 and 1600-2000 hrs. Helena and I took a walk through the much older part of town. Very neat sea-town architecture built around granite framework. We had been amazed that in all our walking we had seen one church. But in the older quarter we passed several.

Las Palmas, Canary Islands- Nouadhibou, Mauritania          Tuesday, November 9, 1982

(HELENA) We  had our  last showers for what we think may be a while.  We packed most of our stuff and then all three headed out to find the bank with the best exchange rate. Strangely enough our best bet was a bank that charged us a fee for using American Express “travelers,” something you supposedly do only when buying the checks. Dan and Maureen had done all sorts of calculations so we wouldn’t end up with too many pesetas. We paid for our ticket, and shopped to stock up a bit on food and try to spend all of our pesetas except to pay for the bus to the airport.

Our only problem at the airport in Las Palmas was when a guy had Maureen take the lens off of her camera. He apparently was just joking and had no real authority, but in any case we couldn’t get the lens back on for anything. Our flight left only 7 minutes late: a 40-seat Fairchild for Air Mauritanie. We even got a small cheese sandwich and a glass of coke on the 2 1/3 hour trip. We were hungrier than that, so we went ahead and had doughnuts (which we’d gotten to celebrate Maureen’s birthday), milk, custard and an apple apiece. Shocking!

Mauritania

Helena and Maureen arriving in Nouadhibou airport.

 The airport at Nouadhibou is in the DESERT with dunes encroaching on the runway. Our arrival was very con­fusing because there was a crowd around the passport stamping place. Then we had to declare our money (it took ages). It is very difficult to change money into local currency, then it is officially impossible to change money back.  It appears that Mauritania does not want to encourage tourism. THEN we had to go through customs. Luckily the man just glanced at the packs and asked if they were personal effects.

Nouadhibhu airport control tower and environs

 We then set out walking to the Catholic Mission (once again on Geoff’s advice). We had no local currency (Ouguiyas), so the Mission had to be close by. It really wasn’t far at all. There didn’t seem to be anybody at the priests’ house, so Dan went to look around town while Maureen and I stayed with the stuff. Before long Père Bernard came out of the house. Maureen (poor woman gets drafted into doing all of the French speaking) asked if they could put us up. Certainly! His hospitality was something. He showed us to the brand new guest room (also with a stained glass window) and a brand new bathroom. A mighty nice welcome to a new country. All it takes to please us now is a smile, a floor to sleep on (we were given mattresses) and a shower.

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[1] Though it does not appear in the journal, as I recall it, she was officially headed to Darfur.  It was the first time I had heard of that part of Africa.  She figured, correctly, that in Mauritania, Mali and eventually Darfur her chances of communicating with the US would get more difficult.

[2] We had a “year’s” supply of slide film on us.

[3] In retrospect these would have been Moroccan security forces screening people leaving the war zone.

[4] A Bolivian instrument that is a cross between a guitar and a banjo, but much smaller than either.

[5] A few years later I would compare it to Morris Dancing in Britain.  Somehow we did not get a picture of this.  It seemed that every time we might take a picture of a person, we would worry that our film might run out, or some other excuse.