A few years later I was caught by a real
sand-storm at a campsite in the deserts of Namibia. It was an utterly eerie
experience. The mid-afternoon air was completely still, but a huge yellow cloud
was rolling silently around the side of the next hill and creeping across the
ground towards our small tent. From one moment to the next the stillness
changed into violent battering at the tent. Unable to see out, it was impossible
to judge the true strength of the wind, but it was quite terrifying. Opening
the zip a couple of inches in an attempt to peer out merely resulted in an
eyeful of blasting sand. We sat listening to the gale, hoping firmly that the
wind was not strong enough to pick the tent up like a sail, for the best part
of an hour. Then almost as suddenly as it had started, the wind dropped again
and the sun re-appeared. Everything was covered in a layer of sand but
otherwise it was as though the storm had never happened.
Progress next morning was slow. The terrain
was rugged, flat stretches rare, and each vehicle in turn frequently bogged
down in the sand. A new hazard was the occasional quite steep slope, up which
the cars slithered, slipped and sunk. Eventually it all became too much for one
of the younger drivers, and slamming his foot on the accelerator, he charged
his old taxi up the hill. Inevitably he hit a hidden rock, took off into the
air, and landed with an ominous crunch: the radiator was punctured, not an
ideal malfunction for the middle of the Sahara. The Tunisians switched to
Arabic.
After heated discussions, the only
reasonable solution was arrived at, and the journey was now complicated further
by the permanent need to tow one car on the end of a rope behind the silver
monster. Fortunately the terrain unexpectedly eased shortly afterwards, and we
were able to make relatively rapid progress. Finally in mid-afternoon the Niger
border post appeared.
Easier terrain near the frontier.
The frontiers between developing nations
fall into various types. In the first, the whole frontier is bristling with
hostility, guards, and barbed wire. For the traveler it may be somewhat
intimidating, but at least it is clear what to do and where to do it. In the
second type, between friendlier nations, the main challenge is usually to find
the border posts and get your passport stamped. Frequently the passport buildings
are poorly signposted and hidden away down back streets, while the main focus
of activity is the douanes/customs, which merits much higher priority because
of the opportunities it offers the customs-officials for personal enrichment.
There is usually a long, patient queue of parked trucks pointing the way to the
frontier.
The Algeria-Niger border was a new sort to
me. Set down in a flat sand-plain, the only buildings for at least a hundred
miles in each direction were a collection of small huts. Presumably its
location is determined by the presence of a well. A few hundred metres away, a
small group of varied vehicles formed a pair of ad-hoc campsites. The
Southbound campsite consisted entirely of European and Arab car dealers (plus
the junketing French removal van which arrived a few hours later), with their
dubious and battered ex-taxis presided over by the Silver Monster. Some
distance away, the Northbound campsite was more interesting: two rugged old
goods trucks were attended by a complete nomad village, complete with vast headman,
retainers, wives, goats and children, attired in blue turbans and robes.
Touareg, my companions insisted.
One of the Tunisians fetched his old camera
and took a picture of the nomads. Instantly, as if by magic, a uniformed Niger officer
materialized, snatched the camera, pulled it open and exposed all the film.
Apparently the border-post was a sensitive and secure area and photography was
forbidden. It was difficult to see exactly why this should be so. If I were to
plan a coup in Niger, the Route du Hoggar across the Sahara would not be my
preferred choice of access route. Subsequently, following the advice of my
guidebook, I presented myself at a police point in the capital to apply for a
photography permit. No permit was needed, I was told, but it was expressly
forbidden to photograph any government buildings - presumably therefore
including small border huts in the middle of the desert -, bridges over rivers,
soldiers, police or lastly, women bathing in rivers. I was made to repeat this
until I had the necessary French word-perfect.
I wonder how the ban would be enforced in
these days of digital photography? Maybe the border guards are trained to stamp
SIM cards into the sand. More likely the confiscation of easily resaleable
digital cameras is one of the extra perks of an otherwise tedious and very
isolated job.
The border official brusquely demanded to
see our passports. He looked at mine. “English?” he asked. I nodded. “Which
city is your home?”
“Nottingham, monsieur,” I replied.
“Ahhh.” Unexpectedly he suddenly smiled
broadly and switched to quite passable English: “Nottingham Forest. Very good
team!” In 1991 this was a genuinely true statement, so I had no problem in
agreeing. I looked at the border post again, and wondered if he knew what a
forest was.
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