Border crossing No 3: Morocco to Western Sahara: 
There is no border. It exists only on (non-Moroccan) maps, not on the ground. You just have to slow down for a rather redundant roundabout, and maybe wave to the nice policeman. Whether anyone else likes it or not, for practical purposes WS is a part of Morocco. 

This morning I was packed and ready to leave El Ouatia at 7am.  After yesterday I had a firm resolve not to leave without breakfast. But there was barely a sign of a living soul until 9.30am. Not in the hotel, not in the restaurant, not even on the street. I was close to giving up when food finally appeared.  

At 10am I was finally under way, but the Pan Africa Highway was still all-but deserted. Why do people here get up so late? You'd think they would want to work in the relative cool of the early morning and the evening - sleeping through the heat of the day. On the other hand, maybe I should exercise a bit of humility: I have been here for 3 days, and they have been here for around 300,000 years. 

There is nothing much to report about today's journey. I guess that is in the nature of a desert, it's mostly pretty monotonous and there is only one, fairly straight, road. Broken only by the odd sea view and a few dozing villages - with apparently nothing worth describing except drifts of plastic rubbish. 

The weather was unexpectedly mild though - with a cool breeze coming from the sea.  An overland biker coming the other way didn't deign to acknowledge my little bike, or maybe he just took it for a local workhorse. Later on a couple on gleaming big adventure bikes enthusiastically reciprocated my biker's greeting, and then some. Ships that pass in the night. Some local drivers, presumably noticing my UK plate, tooted and waved.  

For the first time I got pulled over at one of the many police checkpoints. A good-natured official checked some of my many documents and wished me "Bonne route".

I made it to Laayoune by 4pm, and washed my sand-encrusted shirt and trousers. The receptionist directed me to a bar, discreetly hidden at the back of a nearby western hotel. There a local drinker started chatting to me in good English, which (I am slightly ashamed to say) put me on my guard. But his wife had guests coming for dinner and he had to get home. Not before he paid for my first beer. It wasn't cheap. Nice man. 

What else? Oh yes: camels.