A Sahara Beach Party

Introduction

Coen van Wyk explains the background to this piece

I was sent to the Western Sahara as part of the then OAU observer team, to supervise the UN updating of the voter's roll. Your readers may remember that the Western Sahara was in dispute since the 1960's, just like South Africa. Annual UNGA resolutions put pressure on Spain to do something, so they conducted a very comprehensive and complete census in 1974. The International Court of Justice in 1975 gave an unexpected Advisory Opinion allocating the country neither to Spain nor to Morocco, but to the indigenous people, who were to decide by referendum whether they wanted to remain independent, or join with Morocco. Morocco stated that the decision favoured their claim and invaded: The famous Green March, Spain got out, and the indigenous people, the Saharawi's, rose against the Moroccans under leadership of the POLISARIO Front. The war lasted a short while, and then became a stalemate.

With South Africa jouning the OAU in 1994 Morocco announced that they would allow the UN to update the census with a view to holding the referendum, provided that South Africa, whom they believed would favour their point of view, would be part of the supervisory team. It was believed that thework would be done in three months, and the Government nominated Mtutuzele Mpehle, an old hand from the ANC External service, to the OAU Observer team. After three months he asked to be replaced, and Ebrahim Saley, later Ambassador to Tunisia, was sent, again for three months. However both the Moroccans and the POLISARIO representatives kept finding reasons to stop the registration of voters on one pretext or another. When his time was up Saley asked to be replaced, and I was sent.

My six months there was very interesting, but with long periods of total boredom, to the point where you decide not to iron your washing today otherwise you would have nothing to do tomorrow.

I was not replaced at the end of my time there, and Minister Nzo tried unsuccessfully, and based on my reports, to break the stalemate, up to visiting King Hassan of Morocco. The stalemate still drags on, and the Saharawi people are still in the refugee camps.

Start of his article for the Meintjeskop Courier

BPs (beach parties) are, so I am told, part of normal human life. I would not be able to confirm this, but I can report on a memorable one in the Sahara. Now if you were well brought up you will know that for a BP you need three ingredients: beer, meat and a beach. The last is not so important, ours got stolen by the tide, but by then it did not matter. Who cares anyway?

After months of frustration, inactivity, waiting for the work to begin, a sizable team of party goers decided that the only thing to do is to have a hell of a party.

The journey

We leave Laayoune in a convoy of seven vehicles. No doubt the Moroccan security get their knickers in a twist, send out air survey teams to determine the intention of the convoy, etc. We eat dried sausage from South Africa, and drink Moroccan beer to cut short the distance, and get into practice for the main event.

After 50 klicks (this passes soon in the desert, read: at the second camel) you turn left. No, right. If you turn left, you must first cross the Western Sahara, Algeria, Chad. Sudan, and then get to the beach, but what is five thousand km between friends when you want to get to the beach? On the other hand, if you turn right, you have five km to do, and you are at a fishing village entirely constructed of driftwood and its modem equivalent, plastic, and filled with waving inhabitants. Another klick down the track, at 4x4 low ratio, and there is the beach. A bite out of the desert, where the Atlantic is relentlessly grinding down the continent, sending the rocks as sand and dust blowing back to the Red Sea. A soft sandy

shore lies at the bottom of a steep cliff, accessible only by a narrow winding track. The Civ Pol (Civilian Police) contingent do not believe in roughing it, they have a generator on the back of one of the trucks to run  the cassette   player,   and a barbecue, complete with bags of charcoal is soon brought into operation. The charcoal and grill have to be dropped down the cliff face, ten metres to the beach, the two girls protest at being dropped down as well, and insist on going down the narrow track under own steam. Strange.

Eat and be merry

Soon the chicken is being incinerated, Jurgen asks for assistance to put beer cans under the grid to stop the chicken from burning (‘drink quickly, you quys') and the bottle of KWV Chenin Blanc goes down singing hymns. If you do not think this is fun, then you were not brought up right.

The policemen play soccer and American football on the beach, some Irish (from County Cork nogaf) , Austria, Poland, (if we had won the war I would have been German) and Hungary. Austrian oompah music for now. The pale sun shines down through a high cloud cover, and the wind swirls from inland, blowing a fine spray of sand over the cliff, sprinkling the food and drink. Who cares? Some roughage is good for you. After the chicken, we wait for the kebabs. The CivPols play bocce. Of course one of them throws the jack onto the cliff, and the others follow. No, they did not put one of the balls through a window, only onto the back of a truck. Then back down again.

Music and laughter

The cassette player is dreaming about California, and the small waves are translucent in the weak sun. Quite a sight to see burly men jostle each other, playing like little boys. One of the Austrians grabs the Pole, throws him over his shoulder, and staggers into the surf with him. The Pole retaliates in the only way open to him, and pulls down the Austrian's pants. At which they collapse into the milky white foam, laughing at the fun of it all.

The Saharoui children (who said the desert is empty?)  parade around, but after a kebab each they disappear. Some guys play football again. ("Watch oot, here coomes the fooker") The KWV is gone, a Moroccan white wine follows, Sima.. something. Not bad. They say that wine after beer brings pain, but beer after wine brings pleasure. What about wine, then' beer, then wine, then ... ? Who cares anyway? The Beatles sail along in their Yellow Submarine, and Oh, I love you dearly, more dearly than the spoken word can say.

More music and song

By now we are all quite happy, bumping through to the stops. The generator runs out of fuel, and I team up with one of the Irish, who has brought his mouth organ, and we play a few songs we both know, such as “Wooden Heart," "Lili Marlene" and "When Irish Eyes". Who cares if he does not know Meadowlands", you know, AmaTsotsi Boy? Then I play “Cherry Pink, Apple Blossom White”, and somebody actually knows it. So I play it again. He plays an Irish song, which has the Irish contingent tapping their feet, singing lustily along, crying out their longing for their wives who have to handle the kids and build the new house while the men are here doing nothing, waiting for the work to start again, and feeling helpless in the meantime. Then we play "Erica" which has the Germans crying and the Austrians smiling. 

Much later ...

The sun is setting now, and the light is like oyster shell, laced with a delicate, caressing pink that tries to soothe the hurt and regret and the futility of it all as the small waves in the crosswind curl and push the foam over the charcoal and the tracks of the football players, and Ingrid, two weeks out of Austria and due back in two weeks tries not to be shocked as her husband-ta-be gets crying drunk, and wrestles his buddy into the waves, and the gulls look for something to scavenge, but they have to wait until the tide has turned up the bones we have buried, and the Irish carry down a fresh dozen beers to celebrate something. The party gets into telling jokes, and the girls cuddle up to their guys to tell them all is OK, isn't it? And the rest of the chaps pretend not to notice, and wrestle, and push each other into the surf.

Sunset  

Now the sun sets and we struggle the equipment back up the passage and go dune Jumping. This is not yet an Olympic sport, but if you judge it on fun levels, it soon will be. We line up, and all run along the hard back of a dune, holding hands, and jump as far as we can down the front of the dune, landing, and rolling over in the dark, in the soft sand. It is a crazy feeling, and the most staid police officer collapses into a heap of giggles. Candice tries to video it, it must be the biggest dune jump yet, and something for the Guinness book, but the light is too low. But we jump again, just for fun. Then we clamber to the top, and the girls get thrown down, just for good measure.

Someone has driven up onto the dune, and now he gets stuck, but many hands are helping and soon he is on the go again. Then the race is on to the main road, trucks jumping like goats over the dunes, hidden hollows and small bushes, shedding generators and barbecue equipment, but who cares? Once on the road, police training tells, and everybody keeps to the 80km/hr speed limit. This is a real BP. You end up at the hotel, sand down to your undies, and filled with beer, wine, adrenaline, and what not. Fun, FUn, FUN'. If you do not like it, well, you were not properly brought up. Pity, that.

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