r/wanderlust • u/InlandYears • 39m ago
The Saharan Mine Fields
The Saharan Mine Fields
Stuck in No Man’s Land. Western Sahara.
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The last stretch of Western Sahara before Mauritania was supposed to be simple.
It wasn’t.
We were approaching the border, which consisted of little more than three wind battered tents in the middle of the desert. My then girlfriend bottled about twenty grams of hash in a condom, which a few people in the group eventually found out about. So needless to say, tensions were high.
If that wasn’t enough, we were about to cross an active minefield.
“Passeports!” we heard from the van in French.
The desert was blindingly bright. Huge golden dunes stretched into the distance, and the heat shimmered above the sand. Around the border posts, Moroccan guards sat drinking small glasses of sweet tea, rifles nearby, while battered trucks sat in the dust.
Two border guards came onto the van. One walked the length looking under our seats while the other stayed in the front.
“C’est bon” we heard.
The area had been heavily affected by the Western Sahara conflict, and the Moroccan berm system had extensive minefields. We were heading toward Mauritania, but this was No Man’s Land. Literally. It’s patrolled by Morocco but it’s a disputed territory complicated both politically and geographically.
Once cleared, they told us we could go. There wasn’t really a road, just tire tracks disappearing in different directions. We had brought shovels, sand ladders, water and extra fuel for the desert crossing but no one knew what was in store.
A group of local workers were standing along the road trying to tell us where to go. They were yelling and pointing toward what seemed to be the correct path.
“Xxxx” ignored them and went the opposite way. He was convinced that he knew where the road was.
“Xxxx” was the mastermind behind the journey. We met in Prague. He had invited us, along with a handful of other strangers to drive through Europe and down to Timbuktu. It was a journey he had supposedly made many times before with his family. To his credit, he would go on to do it many times afterwards. This time, though, he drove straight into a sand pit.
We were stuck again.
It was the second time that day.
The locals immediately came over to help dig us out. They pointed toward another route and tried to explain which way we should go, but “Xxxx” still refused.
Everyone was getting frustrated. I couldn’t blame them; I was too. We were sitting in the middle of an active minefield while the people who actually worked there were desperately trying to tell us which way to drive. Eventually “Xxxx” gave in.
We hired a local guide and we were off.
The guide’s strategy was simple: “la gauche, la gauche, la gauche!!!!!!” or the occasional “aller à droite!” Basically screaming “left or right” in French. He was sitting right behind “Xxxx” while we were all white-knuckled peering over our seats behind.
Up and over dunes. Swerving at the last minute left or right. Eventually we started noticing wreckage; the remains of vehicles that hadn’t made it through. Rusted and bombed out chassis sat in the sand. Scattered metal remains poking out everywhere.
And then, the paths disappeared completely.
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Full story for free here:
https://inlandyears.substack.com/p/the-saharan-mine-fields
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