He had a couple of aluminium panniers, a roll bag on the back, a spare tyre and a water bottle hanging round his neck and a determined look on his face. I was inspired, and hoped that one day I might be able to do the same.
Three years later after paying off my debts from University and gaining some experience as a Chemical Engineer I bought my own brand new XT600 Tenere and quit my job. I then rode 12,000 miles and six months overland on my bike through Hungary, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria, Jordan and Egypt . I rode around the Sinai, through Cairo and east to the Sahara then down to Luxor and south to Abu Simbel near the border with Sudan.
On the trip down I had met other overlanders who had completed tremendous journeys and I learned a lot from them. I was hooked on the whole experience and had the holiday of a lifetime in off the beaten track places most tourists don't or can't get to.
I returned home and worked again for 2 years and in 1995 I took time off and flew to America for a 'short' trip Coast to Coast. I bought a Suzuki 1400 Intruder and rode with 2 friends 6000 miles to San Francisco and LA for 2 months. I sold the bike and flew home. It a was great trip and very comfortable staying in air-conditioned motel rooms all the way. The roads were perfectly straight most of the time and a big cruiser was perfect for the job, riding into the sunset each day.
I still wanted to realise my dream to drive all the way across Africa to Cape Town and decided to make this my next trip. I still believe its the biggest adventure (on and off road) you can have anywhere in the world, and with it on my doorstep I couldn't resist. Anyway this is how it went...
I started preparing the bike ( my 6 year old XT ). I enlarged the fuel tank from 23 litres to 45 litres by cutting a hole in each side of the tank, then cutting a 20 litre Jerry can in half and welding the 2 halves onto the tank.
It looked horrible but it gave me a range of 600 miles at a steady 55 mph. With this tank fitted my knees stuck out the sides and the 90°edges dug painfully into my thighs. I also fitted a cruise control so I could ride hands free, drinking coke and nibbling biscuits.
I had tank bags, neat aluminium panniers, camping gear, maps, a GPS for satellite navigation, spare parts and tools for 8 months and the classic book 'How to survive in the Desert' written mainly for Libyan Oil field workers.
The route I had planned to drive would take me into Morocco and down into West Africa then I would go east via Mali, Niger, Central African Republic and south into the jungles of Zaire (now Democratic Republic of Congo). From there I would go east again through Uganda, Kenya and south to Cape Town via Tanzania, Zambia and the Kalahari deserts of Botswana and Namibia.
The Atlantic coast route around west Africa was the overlander's only option left for a route into Africa from Europe. The Algerians had started killing tourists so the central Saharan route south to Niger was out.
The Touregs in southern Libya were confiscating vehicles for their forth coming revolution and leaving tourists in the Sahara with just their passports, so the route south to Niger through Libya was closed. The last route from Egypt heading down the east coast of Africa i.e. Egypt- Sudan- Ethiopia-Kenya etc. was impossible because the Egypt-Sudan border was closed at Wadi Halfa.
I caught the ferry to Spain from Plymouth with my totally overloaded bike. It was early September and it was boiling. I was heading to Madrid for the 'difficult to get' visa for Mauritania. When I got to Madrid the bike started overheating in the traffic jams and I struggled to get a cheap hotel with somewhere to park the bike safely in the centre of the city.
At the Mauritanian embassy the visa was not forthcoming as they only issued them for direct flights into Nouakchott the capital, not overland from Morocco as they couldn't offer security to cross the minefield at the border with Morocco. I solved this by getting a 'booking' of a flight from Madrid via Paris to Nouakchott. I showed them this and they gave me a visa to fly in. I had no intention of flying in. I just hoped they would accept this visa at the border.
I cruised on through southern Spain, it was nice to see other British bikers blasting past me with a wave on their sports cruisers. I got to Tarifa which is a town on a gorgeous 5 km beach near Gibraltar with campsites along the front. I felt lonely and didn't even see any other Africa bikers on their way south.
At an overpass near the rock of Gibraltar I could see Spain, Britain (Gibraltar) and Morocco in one view, a meeting of continents. Similar in ways to the Bosphorus sea where Istanbul (Turkey) meets mainland Europe which I saw on my previous trip.
To cross the straights of Gibraltar I got the ferry from Cadiz to Cueta, a Spanish enclave in Morocco. This avoids the druggy touts at Tangiers port who go mad and mob you as you get off the ferry. I drove off the ferry and out of the port then it was only a 5 minute drive to the Moroccan border and the beginning of the adventure.
At the Moroccan border and only a few feet into no mans land you feel Africa immediately - beat up old cars, crap everywhere, a lot of stares and a chaotic border system as everyone fights for attention at the little kiosks for the right papers and stamps.
My insurance company didn't do green card insurance for Morocco 'we don't like to...' they said. So I bought Moroccan insurance, about $60 for a month, probably useless in a crash anyway.
It was hard keeping a beady eye on the bike and gear whilst doing all the border paperwork, there were lots of poky little hands trying to get into my tank bags. I found picking up a stone with a mean look was very effective in scaring them off, this is what the locals did anyway.
The customs guy asked me if I had any guns in my bags and what my Bachelor's 'Beanfeast' was. I was also carrying flour and yeast for my plan to make Toureg bread on a campfire in the middle of the Sahara under the twinkling stars, but this was difficult to explain to the customs officials.
So I was in Morocco, the dope haven of Europe. I pulled away from the border and headed south. It was getting hotter all the time and my first stop was at roadside shack for a drink. Again the stares.
Every 10 Km or so there was a policeman in the middle of the road, in the baking heat, checking taxis for drugs. When I showed up they just waved me on. The Atlas mountains were towering above me as I drove into the town of Ouazzane were I pulled into the bustling market place for a look. I sat down in an open cafe surrounded by rather hopeless looking old men sipping tea. A guy sat down next to me to chat" You English? you know Diyahna?" he said, then I realised he meant Princess Diana who had just been killed in Paris.
I stayed in that town that night, following these two guys through dark alleyways to their favourite cafe where everyone was sitting around getting stoned, drinking tea and playing a complex form of 'Tiddly Winks'. Nice introduction to Morocco...
Over the next few days I headed west towards the capital, Rabat, where I was again collecting a visa, this time for Mali as there is no Mali embassy in Mauritania. If I didn't get a visa here for Mali I'd be stuck as the next Mali embassy is in Senegal and I couldn’t get there because Morroco and Mauritania don’t have Senegal embassies. (a Catch 22 situation)
Getting visas is one of the headaches of travelling and often it's a real restriction as their validity is limited and you're journey ends up revolving around visiting embassies in neighbouring countries which may involve massive detours. Usually the embassies don't like tourists crossing overland borders and usually want return air tickets shown and lots of paperwork done. You have to be resourceful to get what you want.
The campsite in Rabat is a miserable yard surrounded by a concrete wall next to the cemetery. Here most of the overland expedition truck companies stop for the visa run and this was my hope to meet other travellers for the trip into Mauritania.
I found cute cats round my tent and so kept them fed on milk from my supplies and generally hung around the campsite playing football while I waited for the Mali visa which I eventually got.
The embassies are all in a villa suburb of Rabat and impossible to find. Rabat is huge and spread out but amazingly there is an air-conditioned McDonalds and a cashpoint machine in the centre.
I met Paul and Crystel from Belgium on a BMW GS heading for Togo. Of course with Paul I went through the usual male bonding dance around the bikes discussing tyre choices, desert equipment, petrol tank sizes, aluminium box sizes, routes, etc. From my previous experiences the Germans are the worst for this game, judging your complete personality by how your bike is set-up.
This time Paul and I were square as he had ridden overland to India and Thailand on an XR600 and could rebuild engines in a Bangkok hotel, and I had desert experience in Syria, Jordan and Egypt giving me a respectable 50,000 overlanding miles on the clock.
They got their visa for Mauritania by signing a form disclaiming responsibility from the Mauritanian government if they hit a mine...We decided to meet each other in Dakhla, the last outpost before the border, in about 10 days.
I left Rabat and headed down through the Atlas mountains again to Meknes. On the road young guys would jump out of a bush waving a stick of hash for sale, or gesturing me to join them for a smoke.
In Meknes I camped in a gorgeous campsite within the walled palace there which had huge decorated wooden doors called 'Baabs' all around.. A waiter came up to me while I was unpacking and offered me dinner. He brought me a tray of rice and kebabs to eat in amongst my dirty tools, boxes and oily gear.
Leaving Meknes I headed out onto the now more desolate roads and settled into my day of riding. I had my cruise control on and was quite settled into my adventure. Suddenly up ahead I saw a bike with its lights on coming towards me ...hmmm... what’s this? Low and behold it was a Brit. on a Honda Transalp headed north.
We stopped to chat and I found out he was desperate for petrol and was pretty unhappy generally. He was heading back to UK after a rather miserable time in Morocco suffering from culture shock more than anything else. I tried to persuade him to travel south with me into West Africa, but he was not a happy man and left in a hurry.
Further east in Er-Rachidia I stopped at the track that leads you across the desert to the sand dunes of Merzuoga. At last some off-road driving. Nervously I booted up my GPS, filled up with water and asked directions from a local shopkeeper in the town. This was going to be an easy 40 km since there were power lines to follow. It would also be a good test driving the bike fully loaded off road.
I plugged in the co-ordinates of the dunes into the GPS and set off, regularly marking way points into the GPS along the route as I drove. Doing this I would easily be able to retrace my route if I got lost. The expanse of the desert is terrific and getting lost is easy even here in Morocco. I heard later that only the summer before two Italians had got lost here, they got their 4WD stuck in sand and unable to get it out they died from thirst.
Occasionally I fell off in deep sand and struggled to pick up the bike with its full tank of fuel. I followed my GPS arrow and sure enough I arrived at a small range of large dunes. I felt rough, dirty and exhausted from the heat but quite pleased with myself.
At the base of the dunes were some muddy buildings where I spent the night. I hung out with the local guys there speaking Arabic with them. They were here to take tourists who were brought out here for camel rides around the dunes. I slept on the roof of their house but during the night I froze and the constant wind hammered sand into my ears and eyes.
I decided to continue, going from Erfoud to Tata, a journey of about 230 miles of off-road driving via the oasis town of Zagora. The 'road' was a well used rocky track with an occasional muddy village to pass through. At times I had to stand on the footpegs and pick my way through boulders and dried up river beds.
As I drove the bike was getting well hammered and things started breaking - water bottles were leaking, food was coming out of their containers and after a few low speed crashes in the sand the frame holding my panniers broke. I fixed the frame up as best I could and continued.
In the sand I found the bike was most stable in 3rd gear while giving it plenty of revs to get the front wheel lighter. This feels like 'surfing' in the sand which is easy and feels great. When you get to really deep sandy ruts you have a choice of blasting through or slowing down and paddling through with your feet.
Blasting through usually ends in a major wipe-out when you hit a rut edge and results in a broken luggage system. The alternative of paddling through in soft sand for hours overheats the bike and burns the clutch out.
Most of the time the terrain is rideable at speed if you take care and have a tight grip on the bars. I made it into Zagora covered in dust and found a tourist campsite, which being an oasis town had a swimming pool. I dived straight into the luxurious, cold refreshing water. Wow! Heaven!
I was back on paved roads again and I went west towards the Atlantic coast through the villages of Tata and Tan Tan. The road now had more and more checkpoints along the way and I had to hand out my pre-printed form with all my passport/family details on it at each check point.
When I got to the sea I kipped down well out of sight of inhabitation on the beach and brewed some tea and boiled up some tortellini (good biking food), It was nice and cool and I slept well.
In the morning when I started the bike up I got bogged down in the wet sand. I met two fisherman wandering by, they volunteered to lugg all my gear by hand up the beach while I was busy digging the bike out. They didn't even want any payment!! My faith in Moroccan hospitality was restored!
The road south from here hugs the Atlantic coast which is really another 'skeleton coast' like in Namibia. There are massive abandionned ships washed up on the shore being slowly eaten away by the waves.
There were more checkpoints now as I got nearer Layoune, the capital of Western Sahara. The UN were here in force keeping the Western Sahara rebels away from the Moroccan government forces. It was in Morocco's interest to keep this road south open for travellers as it strengthened their position politically, so I was quite welcomed.
The beach campsite in Layoune was called 'Camping Champingion' which was $25 a night- a fortune out here! So I kipped on the beach again with my tea, tortellini and Walkman.
Two local guys Saad and Lieth, camping nearby, came by to chat to me, then they invited me to their tent for tea. I stayed with them for 2 days eating communally and discussing each others lives. Lieth was Western Saharan who initially was suspicious of me because I was so ignorant about their struggle for independence. He spent 2 months each year by the beach because it was his 'vacation' from doing nothing else the rest of the year. We had a really good laugh and we drank loads of sickly sweet tea filled with mint leaves.
Back in Layoune I found a back street workshop and had my bike rack repaired and strengthened with a massive strut welded across the back. I was about 2500 miles from home now and one month into my trip, only 13,000 miles to go…! I could feel the hugeness of the continent beneath my wheels and kept thinking about the adventures and nightmares that lay ahead. It was marvellous to be there.
The road south got quieter and lonelier and descended into wilderness. The terrain either side of the road was a golden sandy desert. I occasionally saw supply trucks going the other way. The road then passed through huge sandy flats with sea either side as I rode onto the peninsula of Dakhla.
In Dakhla the 'overlanders' all meet in the one and only campsite. I had to do all the usual border paperwork in the town and then prepare for the next few days of travel without supplies. At the campsite there was an Austrian guy with his wife and dog in a massive 4WD expedition truck with such good ground clearance you could camp underneath it. There was also a German guy heading for Cape Town in his similar 4WD, a Mercedes Unimog with his wife and kid high up in the cab.
I became aware that these two guys weren’t getting along, obviously their male bonding dance around the vehicles had gone wrong and they both started dismissing each other as unprepared and ignorant.
I met up with Paul and Crystel again on their BMW. We exchanged stories of the trip down and decided to stick together for a while. The next stage of the trip was for us to be escorted by the Moroccan military to the border over the next 2 days.
Lining up for the trip were a couple of French guys in a Peugeot 405 heading for Mauritania to sell their car and pay for their holiday. Their car was pretty crap and I wondered if they would make it across the sand. I did hear that a week earlier two Germans in a Trabant made it through, so it couldn’t be that bad.
There were also Mauritanian ‘smugglers’ there, bringing food and supplies to sell back home. They were driving very old Land Rovers (which they pronounced 'Luntrofair'). They had their water in goat skins hanging off the sides of their vehicles. There were a couple of expensive Mercs and a Mitsubishi Pajero with Kuwaiti number plates - The drivers were Kuwaitis carrying falcons and going to Mauritania for hunting.
That morning while lining up for the convoy Crystel had bad guts and threw up all the ice cream she had for breakfast. It was a shame because it was really nice ice cream, perhaps the last we would have for a long while. Suddenly, I heard a screaming ‘miaow!’ of a cat but couldn't see where it came from, I didn’t think anymore of it at the time except it sounded painful..
The convoy moved off with about 30 vehicles in total including 2 motorbikes, the big trucks, a French cyclist riding from Paris to Dakar and a couple of Canadian backpackers going around the world for 2 years.
While keeping Paul in my mirror, I saw him screech to a halt, but it was too late! Crystel had spewed up inside her helmet. We all stopped to give her some help and she ended up in one of the cars for the day.
Further on the convoy stopped at a roadside shop and chicken slaughtering place for a break. I heard the howling ‘miaow!’ again this time everyone jumped. After rummaging around we found a tiny kitten trapped under the Kuwaiti's car just by the drive shaft. It was in one piece but shit scared!! poor thing... It must have been there at least 8 hours. We found it a good home amongst slaughtered chicken pieces and another cat that had just had kittens. We never new if the adoption worked but we were pleased with ourselves.
After a lot of sand and heat and a frightening night drive dodging dunes blown across the road we stopped for the night at an army camp. The next day we left the tarmac and went into the mined dunes. Without warning the army jeep leading us disappeared and left us there. We stopped, then a man in red overalls appeared at the top of a dune and waved a flag at us. He gestured ‘Boom!’ so we knew we had to be careful and followed his directions.
A sentry outpost appeared and a Mauritanian guard inspected my passport. He said "ah goooooood, you have a visa!". I was in.
We crossed the railway line that marks the border and drove through shanty towns into Nouadibou. It was quite shockingly different to Moroccan towns. There were meat sellers showing off their fly covered meat and children in rags were playing in the road. Ancient trucks went by looking more like tin cans held together with bits of wire, belching out black smoke and rolling along on buckled wheels.
At the 'Sahara Lodge' we fought for the shower and then, in the secure walled yard, I checked the bike over. I fitted a larger rear sprocket and put a rim lock on the back wheel. The rim lock stops tyre 'creep' while driving with low pressure in the tyre. Without this the tyre would ‘creep’ around the wheel until the valve gets ripped against the rim and blows the tyre.
The next day there was more paperwork to be done in the town. I had to sign a letter 'promising' not to permanently import the vehicle. I also had to buy more useless insurance at $10 for a month. Immigration, as usual, quizzed me over my nationality. My father is Iraqi and my mum is English but this time they said " Good! Saddam very good man, very strong…". I agreed wholeheartedly of course…
We put our bikes on the back of the iron ore train which heads east into the interior with empty ore wagons. It takes 10 hours to Choum. Going by train saved us the grief of the 400 km journey on the deep sandy track that runs alongside the railway lines. The track is covered in metal splints from the worn out railway lines so we also avoided hundreds of punctures. Afterwards I realised I could have easily ridden between the railway lines as long as I didn’t get flattened by a train...
These trains are an impressive 5 km long and sitting on the open wagon all night was horrendous. The dust and blowing sand was inescapable. We were constantly worried about falling off in the middle of no where and only by using my GPS could I tell how far we had travelled.
At Choum the train stopped to let us off. We were at a small village with muddy buildings and people gathered to watch us. Around us the terrain was sandy with rocky outcrops and a range of mountains were due south. There were no roads out here. The flight charts I had of this area showed it to be a wilderness of desert. We were fairly close to the centre of the western part of the Sahara near the ore mines of Zouerat.
Its worth remembering the Sahara is absolutely enormous, the whole of Australia can fit within it. Distances have suddenly become days of travel between villages. Food, water and supplies had to be carried at all times.
Travelling by camel is most common here and the routes that are travelled go from well to well and stop at camel grazing areas each evening.
My aim was to travel from Atar to Chinquetti then north about 100 km to Ouadane to visit a 45 km wide crater made when the earth was hit by a meteor millions of years ago.
I would then return to Chinquetti and travel 400 km east to Tidjikja across a hostile rocky desert. Here I could stock up on supplies for the last section going south east about 350km to Oualata and Nema and onto my next country Mali.
This journey was straight across the middle of the Sahara. It was a 1500 km off-road desert trip with only 5 villages on the way and only 2 petrol points. It has never been done solo on a motorbike before.
We paid a ‘departure’ tax to the guy at the off loading ramp. There were a few other men hanging around hassling us to be guides for the trip to Atar, telling us how dangerous it was and difficult. But we felt confidant and set out alone.
I headed straight into the desert, glad to be on the bike again, with Paul following close behind. I was enjoying the new terrain of firm sand but Paul was struggling with two on the bike and he was exhausted as we got into Atar. His face was bright red.
After the boiling ride we headed for the first store and I cracked open a delicious frozen coke. It was an unforgettable experience, the icy slush melted as I gulped it down. Coke has become a commodity that competes with gold, another delicacy is icy cold orange juice. Cold pineapple chunks in juice is also ‘sacred’.
At the ‘Tourist’ lodge we slept on the roof of the building but slept badly with the stench of the vented sewer nearby wafting over us. It was a really bad smell and I was wretching in my sleep. The next morning the Austrians with their truck rolled in after fighting with the sand for 5 days on the track alongside the railway line we had avoided. "Never again!" they said. They had done a lot of digging to get through. They were Hilmar, Jeanette and their dog Nando from Vienna.
We teamed up and went east to Chinquetti up an incredible rocky pass. At points the truck was almost vertical going over the boulders. As all my gear was in the truck my bike was luxuriously light and nimble.
After the pass the track was smooth and level and, with my luggage in the truck, I blasted along at 70 mph in a Paris-Dakar rally style. This was great, the bike was taking off at times and the wind rush kept me cool.
We arrived in Chinquetti where we were instantly mobbed by the locals. The kids charged after us as we drove around looking for coke. The Austrians had brought gifts and so we stopped and in the sweltering heat Jeanette gave out sweaters as presents...
Meanwhile the truck had a flat tyre so we had another much needed Coke while we changed it over. It took five of us to lift the wheel off. It was huge.
That day we continued a long way north out of the village blasting hard through the deep soft sand. We had some spectacular crashes and I blew out my front tyre on a rock. Paul and I repaired it in 25 mins flat.
I lost sight of Paul in my mirrors so I stopped to wait for him. After a while I decided to go looking for him and soon found his tracks. I traced them back a couple of km to find him sitting there waiting for help with half his BMW buried headfirst in a dune. It was quite unbelievable.
The tracks leading us 100 km north to the crater were hard to follow and the clumps of desert grass would knock the front wheel and throw me flying off a couple of times.
Eventually we stopped and camped at the foot of huge dunes. The noise of the engines died away to the incredible silence of the desert.
Over the next two days small nomadic settlements would appear in very desolate areas. The site of 2 motorbikes and a huge 4WD truck turning up gave them a real shock. I realised that there must be shortage of condom machines out here as there were children everywhere. We shook hands with every one and I handed out my supply of sweets. Jeanette gave away more sweaters...
We finally arrived at the meteor crater, it was so staggeringly huge that you couldn’t be sure if you were in it or not, the edge was a range of hills in the distance 25 km away when viewed from inside looking out.
On the return journey to Chinquetti we decided to take a direct line across virgin desert on a GPS heading. This was to be a big mistake as the dunes got bigger and deeper and we had real trouble getting the truck through. For three days we pushed and dug out the truck when finally we decided to turn back. We retraced our steps all the way back to the main piste for 2 days.
In Chinquetti we stocked up on water and pineapple chunks and then negotiated with a local guide who wanted about $200 for the tough 400 km trip to Tidjikja. Against the advice of the local police we decided we could manage without him.
We took 'directions' from the locals which consisted of a bloke pointing and telling us go 'that' way. A couple of hours out of the village the sky darkened and then amazingly it started pouring with rain.
The truck had gone ahead and when I caught up with it I found two naked girls dancing around in the rain and covering themselves in soap for a wash. It was Crystel and the Jeanette of course. I also noticed they had hairy armpits... It howled with rain that night so we ate in the truck and for desert we had some Austrian chocolate, ummmm....
The journey became much more intense as the days passed. We were constantly making sure we were on track although at times there were no tracks, then there were tracks everywhere. In order to set out alone in these areas there are a lot of factors to consider.
We had to balance our ability to find the way with:
· The fuel supplies enough for unexpected things like back-tracking when lost
· Long stages of heavy deep sand which doubles fuel consumption.
· Water levels enough for five of us (and a dog!) to work in 40 degrees heat digging out a huge truck and two motorbikes when needed. Note that the truck carried 1000 litres of water (1 tonne).
We bumped into the odd camel caravan and once recruited a nomad to ride in the truck to see us across some of the way. It was hard going across the rocks and it was critical to cross ridges at the correct points as there was often only one way through.
One evening we were just looking for a good spot for camp when we came across a man walking towards us with a 5 litre can of water in one hand and a small cloth bag. He looked extremely pleased to see us. In Arabic he told us he had just walked 30 km from his Landcruiser which had broken down.
One of his wheels had sheared right off and destroyed the holding bolts. He had decided to walk back the 80 km to Chinquetti. We were really worried about him and offered him a lift to Tidjikja in the morning. We gave him food and I chatted to him in Arabic, he started to calm down a bit and said this plateau we were on was a landing strip for the Paris-Dakar rally support planes. It was difficult to talk to him because Every time we asked him a question, his response was the same " ya, ya, umm, umm, ya..."
We decided to camp there and Paul pulled out his petrol stove to make tea. He fought hard to get it working, he had to pump the handle while preheating it. The Mauritanian guy just wipped out a couple of sticks from his sack and with a lighter had his tea brewing before Paul had his high tech stove doing anything. Paul lost this race badly and was forever furious with his pride and joy stove. My petrol stove worked perfectly I might add...
At sunrise the Mauritanian had gone, just disappeared. We never saw him again.
We broke camp and continued on until we saw a large lake of water about 20 cm deep. I jumped off my bike and stripped down to my pants and dived in. …ummm... so nice to get the sand out of my ears. Later we came across the stricken Landcruiser. We were amazed to find that the car was sitting there overloaded with 15 people on board and heavy bundles of their supplies. It was like a desert ‘bus’ not just a couple of travellers on a trip. A nearby water pool had collected rainwater so I knew they had plenty of water to drink.
After some heated discussion the Austrians refused to carry anybody in their truck. This upset me and I said I would at least take someone to Tidjikja on my bike to get help. So I took Hameed on the back of my bike wearing all his blue robes. It was hard going off road with two up on the bike but it had to be done. I couldn’t believe the Austrians’ selfishness and our friendships turned sour. They could have carried all 15 on their roof. But they felt that the stranded passengers were negligent and the problem was of their own making, the additional weight of the passengers would spoil their trip. Paul was on my side and we shared the messenger between us while Crystel went in the truck.
As the day began to fade we looked for a place to camp. We started unpacking when suddenly in the distance I saw three vehicles. I jumped on my bike and blasted over the dunes to the leader. They saw me and stopped. They were at the top of a dune. I gassed it towards them but the dune face was desperately steep...too late to stop!! I opened the bike up full throttle and flew into the air as I crested the dune, when I landed the front wheel dug in deep and I flew sideways off the bike. What a sight! Right in front of everyone! I got up a bit embarrassed, picked myself up, put the bike on its stand, then walked over to the group.
They were tourists on an organised trip, they were amazed to see me. I told one of the guides about the stranded passengers and they agreed to take Hameed back to Chinquetti in one of their vehicles.
This was a huge relief and a good overall solution. The guides were also going to look out for the wandering driver walking back to Chinquetti. I chatted to the group for a while, they told me one of their Toyota Hilux’s had got stuck crossing a river bed 30 km back up the track.
It had sunk up to the windows in mud and they had spend 8 hours digging and pulling it out with the other cars. Their eyes were gleaming with excitement, they certainly got the adventure they came for, along with the entertainment of me landing on my ass in front of them that day.
The next day we set off again. It was one of the best days of riding. The terrain was so variable, at one point we passed through a valley with a high, steep dune wall either side and I blasted right up the sides with a turn at the top and an exhilarating rush down the massive dune and up the other side. I was flying. It was a dream come true. I was only a speck on the dune face so you can imagine. At points the dune face was undulating and I went into the air, landing nicely - i.e. back wheel first. Like surfers looking for their ‘Ultimate Wave’ I had found my ‘Ultimate Dune’. My bike had handled perfectly and I had realised a major dream. This is where I wanted to be, I felt this was all mine to enjoy and all the preparations and effort now seemed worthwhile.
As evening drew near we drove along alot of river beds and Paul and I had to drive really hard not to get bogged down. We would then stop and wait for the truck to catch up. We came to the shallow river crossing and found a huge hole in the middle where the Toyota Hi-Lux car had sunk. It was an impressive hole. It gave us a real idea of what they had gone through. But now it was our turn, we had to get the truck across.
Soon the Hilmar (the Austrian trucker) started getting irritable and kept ordering Paul and I around to collect brush woods to harden the mud for the crossing. We then had a terrible row with him and He threw out my luggage, water and fuel from his truck and told me to carry it myself. Shit! This meant I was on my own again out here in the desert. After more talk Paul decided to stay with me, sending Crystel ahead to Tidjikja in the truck. The real reasons for the break up are still unkown to me –I think Hilmar was fed up of carrying our gear and seeing us drive the dunes while he plodded through with the extra weight.was too much.
Meanwhile the truck started up and he headed for the crossing at speed, I prayed for his truck to sink, but he made it across easily. He had worried and panicked for nothing. They drove off into the sunset leaving Paul and I behind - bastards.
Paul now had a flat front tyre and so we decided to camp there by the river crossing. I was pretty upset by the whole situation and didn’t fancy riding my now fully loaded bike the last hard 20 km to Tidjikja.
A local nomad who had been watching nearby came over and gave us some dates. He pointed to his head and motioned ‘crazy’ about the Austrian guy.
The next day was one of my hardest desert biking days. It started with my front tyre also going flat and we both set to work fixing our punctures. Eventually after a lot of work Paul had found sixteen punctures and I had eleven in my tube! These were from all the Acacia tree thorns we had picked up on the river beds. Every time we fixed one we found another.
That day we continued with both fully our loaded bikes along the piste, now easy to follow. It was really hot and we were fed up. I was way ahead of Paul now and the ruts began to get impossible, at one point I hit a rut and fell, my bike landed on top of me. “Aaaah!” I yelled in my helmet. My left leg was twisted and trapped under the bike, my ankle was about to snap. It was agony. I tried to move the bike, impossible! “Help!!” I yelled, no sound of Paul. I couldn’t believe it. I had to do something. I managed to heave the weight of the bike slightly and stuck a tiny stone between the end of the handlebar and the ground, phew! The pain eased. While lying there under the bike I built a tiny stack of stones one by one between the ground and the handlebar heaving the bike each time. I reached behind and dug the sand away from under my trapped knee so I could untwist my leg. Phew!! More relief! Eventually I pulled my leg free and climbed out. I was stunned, exhausted and boiling hot. I just sat next to my fallen bike. A while later Paul rumbled over, he had fallen off too, he had broken the frame for his aluminium boxes and had to fix it with some twisted wire.
We got going but stopped for rest and water under a bush. We drank tons of water. We were both destroyed.
Again within 10 metres I hit a rut and landed sideways in a really thorny bush, I had thorns in my shirt and everywhere - it was hell, like being attacked by a swarm of bees. Paul stopped and looked at me “can’t you stay on that thing?!!” he asked, we both burst out laughing! It was a good stress relief.
We struggled on then came to a long sandy hill, both bikes had to be unloaded, and all the gear carried up. This was miserable and exhausting. We then rode the bikes up and repacked.
We had both been in first gear all day and now Paul’s clutch was slipping and burning badly and he was worried as his bike had also started leaking oil.
As the sun set we could see a red flashing light in the distance- it was an airstrip!! We had made it through! Normally a three day trip with a guide, we had taken seven !
We met up with Crystel again and the Austrians went off south without a goodbye. In Tidjikja we registered with the police and the chief rented us a building with a fenced yard to stay in.
We had a good few days rest, rebuilding the bikes, doing chores and drinking cold coke. Paul did a massive strip down of his BMW looking for his oil leak but had no spare seal to repair it. I changed the sprocket plate bearing on my XT.
I decided to leave Paul and Crystel here and continue to east to the next desert town Tichit. They were going on the supply tracks south to Mali. We agreed to try and meet the capital Bamako in 2 weeks. I never made it...
I fuelled the bike up from someone’s back yard supply and filled a 30 litre drum with fuel. Now I had a massive 75 litres. Eventually I found a supply Landcruiser heading to Tichit and rented space for my fuel drum on board and would follow them early that evening. They would be my guide.
I said a fond farewell to Paul and Crystel and set off after my Landcruiser, now carrying ten people and supplies for the remotest and oldest town in the Sahara called Tichit. As night came they didn’t stop and I had to keep going even after another puncture and my obvious reluctance. It was hard and I had one high speed wipe-out where I flew off badly and I hit the ground so hard that my left side was bruised for days afterwards. I also couldn’t believe the bike was basically undamaged after crashing and flipping over a couple of times.
We stopped at a small tent to drop some folks off by a well, but there was an emergency, a young child there was very ill, so we unloaded the Landcruiser and they left us at the tent and disappeared for the long journey back to Tidjikja with the boy. I was made very welcome, I ate communally with the Mauritanians and paid nothing. I was well watered with tea as well. Out here everyone was welcomed regardless.
24 hours later the car was back and we reloaded. The journey now became wild and remote. Open plains of sand stretched out and I rode next to the car at high speed waving at the guys on the back, it was exhilarating. I would then blast ahead and stop to take photos of them as they passed.
The village was at the top of a steep hill protruding from the desert and nearby dunes the size of mountains were encroaching. There was no doubt they were doomed the dunes would eventually swallow the town. It was a sad place too - children everywhere, watching my every move, no hope, no future.
I was a star attraction here. I ate with the head of the village amongst the terrible flies in his house. We crowded around a communal dish eating with our hands. It made me feel a bit ill but I ate the goat meat and rice politely and the bits thrown at me by the others.
I stayed 2 days in Tichit basically waiting for any 4WD’s heading east to Oualata. While I was there I was hounded by children. They threw stones at me and at one point I had 40 kids outside my hut chanting ‘cadeaux! cadeaux!’. A friendly face appeared to chase them away. He was a black Mauritanian guy who came over and chatted to me. He invited me to his courtyard house for some meat and cous cous in the evening, I accepted. Later I found his house and entered. We had a pretty miserable meal and afterwards I was just sitting there chilling. In French he started saying how clean and quiet and private it was here. As the conversation went on he kept wanting invited me to stay the night, he pulled out mattresses and made me sit on one and then put his right next to mine and lay down. He then tried to stroke my leg. Shit! I jumped up and walked out. God! I was really prissed off. I had to get out of here. The next day I prepared to leave regardless.
I left Tichit with the intention to make it 350 km across to Nema. I had a full tank (45 litres) of petrol, 30 litres of water and food for two weeks. I was desperate to get out of there and be on my own again. I drove following the tracks of the Paris-Dakar Rally route planning truck which I heard had been through a few days before me and they were clear, decent, unmistakable tracks to follow.
I was alone in the desert now and totally reliant on my self for survival, similar to being alone at sea I guess. The tracks were easy to follow and were fresh. At one point the route went up a small pass and with the bike so heavy I kept getting bogged down.
The desert around here was awesome and extreme. I felt a sense of joy once I was through a tough leg. The boggy sand gave way to endless white sandy desert stretching out flat and calm with small blades of grass blanketing the ground. It was beautiful and I felt privileged to be there. Within a few minutes driving I was back into deep sand. It was frustrating to experience going from joy to hell every few minutes.
At one point I hit some soft sand, the front wheel dug in and the bike fell over. I was furious, I kicked the bike, screaming abuses at it as loud as I could. I was exhausted and my back was killing me. I just couldn't pick it up. I was out here in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t pick my bike up.
I though for a while then I took off my panniers, kit bag, water bottles, tank bags, the seat and then the whole petrol tank. I stood the bike up and then rebuilt the bike. I then carried on after drinking 5 litres of water. I had about 10 litres of water left now and without a drop in sight. I was determined to carry on but I realised I would be relying on the tracks to follow. I followed them up onto a rocky plateau then spent about an hour and a half just looking for the continuation of the tracks after the plateau. I did a lot of walking and drank tons more water. I found only my own tracks.
Later I realised I had been following the tracks of a lost driver looking for the main track. I followed his tracks back a long way and was jubilant when I rejoined the main tracks. I cheered inside my helmet!
I could see a tent in the distance and a check on my GPS showed me to be near the well called Aratane. Some kids ran a long way over to me. They asked about the rest of the group and the supply truck. "No" I said "Only one...me". They just stared at me in disbelief. After a while I got fed up with them and threw stones at them to stop them hassling me for presents.
I then camped for the night in a nice open plain by a large rocky boulder the size of a cathedral. The rock had spooky holes cut into it over millions of years by the wind. The holes formed eyes, ears and noses faces and they watched me all night.
The cool of the evening was a relief and I felt peaceful. In the morning. I rechecked my IGN map and decided to find the well. The kids returned and I gave them a pen in return for directions.
I packed the bike and started the cold engine. I went down the track then up a little rise. I saw a pool of water, stopped and stripped off for a good wash! It was nice to be clean! I was just drying off when I became suddenly surrounded by a herd of camels. I was embarrassed because I was completely naked and they were having a good look. I got out of the way then a nomad wandered up to have a look too. I put my pants on and went to talk to him. I followed him and his camels another km to the well and he helped me fill up my water cans. I realised that I had no real way of getting water out of the well as there was only the hole in the ground and a 7 metre vertical drop to the water. Who would think of this when planning a desert trip? String and a plastic cup would have been my only effort. The nomads used leather bags with string made out of inner tube strips. Anyway I now had a huge 30 litres of water on board.
Later that day I lost the tracks again and stopped on a cliff edge. It was a rocky surface and there were no clues at all. "Shit!" not again. I could now only back track using my GPS to the last well. Suddenly I heard a shout and looked across to see a man in a blue robe running towards me! How is it that people just appear out of nowhere out here? The sound of the engine must be an amazing sound to hear and the prospect of a present or curiosity would bring locals running for miles.
The man reached me and said he would show me the track. He ran hard and fast a long long way over the rocks like a mountain goat. It was hard to keep up. When I got to the tracks I realised I had been way off by a long distance and was so grateful I gave him one of my 'Fast Bikes' T-shirts.
Later I came upon an abandoned Toyota jeep stripped bare. After going around in circles I found the tracks led of into a sea of dunes with no tracks to be seen, they were all blown away by the wind. I parked up just by the jeep, made some shade and consoled myself with a lunch of tea and biscuits. This was hard going, I definitely didn’t want to turn back and slog it all the way back to Tichit and wait weeks in the hope of more fuel for the bike for the return to Tidjikja and then the (also difficult) piste south to Ayoune.
I had enough fuel to go forward and complete my amazing Sahara crossing on my own and was just about at the point of no return on fuel. Where are the tracks? I had to make a decision whether to go or not. In a while the decision was made for me when I saw two nomads on camels. I ran over to them and asked for help. They said there were no tracks for 40 km across these dunes, but after crossing them I would reach a ridge where you can pick up the piste again to the next well which was called Tinigar.
Right! I felt positive, just 40 km across the sand. Little did I know this 40 km would take three days and would nearly be the end of me. As sun was setting I packed up and set a precise course for the well into the GPS and set out into the virgin dunes on a heading.
There are many arguments for using a GPS in the desert, it's no real substitute for a experienced guide. My intention was not to 'blindly' accept GPS directions. As with any tool it should, in my view, be used to maximise its benefit to you which means having a good knowledge of the extent of its usability. This knowledge can be mostly gained by experience. The limits are basically set by:
· Map maker's accuracy,
· Human error when reading the co-ordinates from the map grids with respect to map scales.
· ‘Selective Availability' of the signal from the orbiting satellites. This is controlled by US military (they can limit the ground position accuracy from 5 metres up to 100 metres)
· Number of satellite signals received on the GPS
I expected that it would bring me to within a km of the well. From experience there were nomadic settlements usually around the well and also the main camel routes run from well to well, so there are bound to be people around to see and ask directions.
I started driving with the bike top heavy from my 30 kg of water. The sand was OK but soon it became a bit hilly and clumps of desert grass kept knocking the front wheel away from where it was supposed to go. I had to move at exactly the right speed balancing the bike on the throttle, keeping it 'floating' but not too fast or else 'whoompf' I was down. I got stuck a few times and by the evening I stopped my self from going on. I had only done 7 km from the jeep. I had an unsettled night camping in those dunes alone.
In the morning at sunrise I got up and packed in minutes. I kept looking into the distance to see the size and shape of these dunes and decide how I would take them.
If I could just pick my way round carefully in 1st gear everything would be all right. "Keep going for the well" I reassured myself. Within minutes I fell off again as the dunes had become bigger. I went to the right a little more and picked my way up each dune around the clumps where the sand was firmer then down the other side. But the dunes got really big and by the evening I had done an exhausting 15 km and drunk loads of water.
My body was shaking and all I wanted was the cool of the evening to have a chance to recover. It was hard to find the energy to cook some food, but I did manage to boil up some soup. I kept wanting to drink but was put off drinking because the well water was slightly salty, it made me wretch.
I realise now in hindsight that I was already dehydrated and that my thinking was already clouded. My skin temperature was always hot and my body's cooling system was breaking down even though I forced a lot of water down. I was heat exhausted.
In the morning, my third day in these dunes I decided to be extremely careful not to drop the bike to save precious energy. This is what I did all day:
· Take off my biking gear and change into T -shirt and shorts, Drink
· Walk through the dunes about 300m carefully marking a clear rideable track with my footprints
· Retrace my steps back to the bike marking direction arrows along side my tracks.
· Put biking gear back on, pack up bike, drink, ride along marked route.
Many times I still fell off and had to do the following in these steps (bearing mind I was usually stuck in a gully between two dunes)
It took ½ hour each time with rests:
· Take biking gear off (clothes, boots and helmet) off, change into shorts.
· Drink water
· Remove water bags and camping equipment from bike
· Remove aluminium panniers from bike
· Lift bike up onto side stand
· Start bike up and push along in 1st gear until free.
· Switch off bike and walk back to luggage.
· Carry luggage and clothes to bike and repack
· Drink water
· Put biking gear pack on and continue following my foot print marked route hoping I didn’t lose the front wheel again.
It reminded me of images I'd seen on TV of expeditions to the North pole when men would lug their sledges trying to get through the endless seas of rocky blocks of ice and crevasses for weeks at a time.
I covered some distance (about 8 km) and towards the end of the day I got the bike well and truly stuck between two dunes. I was drained. I just sat there for a while.
Suddenly there was a noise behind me and two camels appeared. I ran over to them and asked for help. It was an old man and his wife. They were also on a long nomadic trip and had there whole world on thos 2 camels. The old man was so frail but I begged him for a push. He was actualy really strong and pushed hard and I got out. He gave me some water to drink but it was just as disgusting as mine, it also had the taste of his goat skin hide the water was kept in. He told me I wasn't far from the well "Hook! He said, which means "That way!" He said it was only a few kilometres. I asked him to stay and be my guide and that I would pay him, but he mumbled something I couldn't understand then pointed at the horizon and just left. I couldn’t stop them
With my GPS reading only 7 km to go I decided to off load my bike to make it lighter. I threw away 15 litres of water, my spare tyre, chain, bags of rice and beans. This seems stupid I suppose but the weight of 15 litres is 15 kg -its just colossal and made the bike top heavy and almost uncontrollable. This made the bike much easier to handle in my weary state
I figured I had only 7 km to go and that I would be all right with only 5 litres of water left.
I camped in a daze of heat exhaustion, my mind was blurry and I felt ill and very weak, I remember it was a beautiful night, the stars were clear and bright and it was deliciously cool. But I couldn’t really enjoy it.
At sunrise I slowly packed up the bike and began driving. I made good progress and felt elated as I came out of the dunes onto flat ground.
Now there was only 2 km to go before reaching the well and the continuation of the main piste.
I carefully followed my GPS heading but it was heading toward a rocky ridge. I abandoned my ‘go extremely carefully’ routine and blasted through some small dunes and picked my way through rocks to the top...where is it?!! There were no settlements, no people, tents, goats or vehicle tracks - just flat rocks...
200 metres to go on the GPS...still nothing.... My heart was racing. I was totally dependant on this well for water, but I realised that no way could I see a small hole in the ground like this. I stopped the bike. I was worried and felt panicky. I rested for a while then I stripped down to my shorts and T-shirt and began walking, following goat tracks that seemed to lead into the distance over to the right of the plateau. I reached the edge of the plateau only to find the distance stretched out to the horizon as a series of hills and plateaus that you couldn’t quite see over. Confused, I decided to hike back to the bike to have a think.
Back at the bike I drank some water. Only 2 litres left. I decided to trace my bike tracks back down to the area by the dune field and use the bike to drive around looking. It would better than walking and more productive. I knew the well was there, just a matter of time and I would find it. I got the bike ready and I drove down the escarpment, almost crashing, and stopped at the flat area, I looked down. The surface looked like mud and I thought I could dig down for water if needed but a closer look showed it to be caked as hard as concrete. First rule of the desert - don't panic, but I panicked. I drank the rest of my water in one gulp and burst into tears.
I walked away from the bike I huddled slightly out of the sun under a thorny bush, feeling miserable and feeling a bit traumatised. I rested for a long time but I didn’t really have much sense of time. I decided on another idea.
I would try looking at the map again and take a more exact co-ordinate of the well. I measured as accurately as I could the co-ordinates of the blue blob on the map and retyped them into the GPS. The arrow was pointing back up the ridge and onto the plateau.
I geared up again and drove back up and followed the arrow to within an indicated 10 m, nothing. "No" I said to myself, "go back down to the plain and read the terrain. I drove back down over a small set of dunes, carelessly blasting it through but then hit really deep sand and the bike got dug in up to the axles. Shit. No way could I dig it out now.
I unpacked my maps, pulled off my GPS, marked the position of the bike and set off up the plateau, again, to look for the well. I just really didn’t know what I was doing. I was a bit delirious.
I spent ages wandering around aimlessly, I knew where the bike was, no problem, so could get back to it when I wanted. When I found heavy camel tracks in the hot sun I followed them and they led me to a crevasse in the rocky plateau. It seemed to be leading down to, maybe, a well. I clambered down into the gulley and saw some deep holes in the rock where about a litre of water had collected in a rock pool!
Yeah I cheered, I would be OK, at least it was some water. I can drink this. I was so relieved. I rushed with new energy all the way back to the bike, about a km away, took out my filter bag, cup, sterilising tablets and emergency flare.
Then I trekked back again to the gulley in the roacks and down to the water pocket and, exhausted, I began scooping the water complete with loads of dead beetles and goat dung into my filter bag. I filtered the water into my cup. It was messy and fiddley and a lot of the water I poured in the top spilled over into the cup. But I collected a cupful. It was yellow and completely rancid, so I threw in 2 tablets of sterilising tablets and waited a very patient 10 mins. Then drank some. It was the most awful thing I've ever tasted in my life. It was just a cup of chlorinated rancid piss like liquid. I immediateley spewed it all up.
I poured some of the water over me to keep cool and it felt good and rested for a while. I wandered around and found another hole. This one was huge and shady and was about ankle deep in water. I clambered in amongst the dead beetles. It was there I spent he rest of the day trying to filter and drink the water without spewing but most of the time I poured it over my head to keep cool. It gave me relief, but my body temperature control system was already completely finished.
I wearily explored the gulley I was in which led down further. I found some moist sand nearby and dug down with one arm to shoulder depth, nothing.
I followed the gulley a long way hoping the well might be at the end of it, but I got exhausted and returned to the sanctuary of the undrinkable water (I had already given up on this). The only thing I could think of doing was to go back to the bike again and get my stove to try and boil some water then collect the condensation. But I really didn’t believe I had the strength. It was just to much organise.
After hours in the hole I set off back to the top of the plateau, I was desperately depressed. I reached the plateau edge and scanned every inch of my view for nomads and camels, but I saw nothing
I was effectively nowhere for anybody. I set off my emergency flare (hand held smoke type) and prayed for someone to see it. It burned beautifully then fizzled out.
I’m going to die....
I sat there for a while allowing my misery to pass, then decided to go back to the bike and be in the comfort of my belongings. This last walk was really bad. I could only walk a few meters at a time then rest. It took ages, by the time I got there it was dark. I was in a daze and collapsed in the sand next to my machine.
Hours passed and then the cool of the evening brought me round a bit. I desperately wanted a drink, something liquid in my mouth.
I raised my self up a bit. Is there ANYTHING I can drink on my bike or in my belongings? I sucked my water bottles again, nothing, I rummaged through my medical kit. I had eyedrops in a little bottle, I drank that. I just wanted anything liquid. I opened a ampoule of local anaesthetic I had and tried to drink that but it was terribly bitter, I almost vomited. I had loads of insect repellent so I covered my self in that because the spraying the liquid ontomy skin kept me cool. I also had little bottles of perfume (for security gaurds at checkpoints) and poured them all over my neck and face.
I began to think about my last few hours, I probably only had about 24 hours left most of which I would be unable to do much. Slowly I rolled out my sleeping bag on the sand and got my pillow out and slowly and carefully made a very neat and tidy bed. I tidied up all the gear I had thrown out around the bike bit by bit and settled on my bed. It was cool and I relaxed a little. I got out my note book and wrote a letter to my mum explaining what had happened and that I loved her and told her to tell my friends and that I would be with them in spirit when they got together. I also wrote a note in French to anyone finding me there saying how I got there and leaving contact names and numbers. I stuck the notebook upright in the sand next to me. I drew a cross in the sand and said a prayer.
My throat and mouth were totally dried up and felt like a rough piece of leather. I had a horrible taste in my mouth and decided to brush my teeth. This felt great but then I was left with a mouthful of dried up toothpaste.
I slept. I woke up in the night feeling frightened, I started hyperventilating then passed out. Hours passed and I came round. Towards sunrise I knew the sun would be on me soon. With a huge effort I managed to reach up and open one of my aluminium boxes. I got out my emergency blanket ( a silver plastic sheet ) and covered my self in it. I hoped it would beat off the sun and I could slip away without being fried. I cowered under the sheet as hours passed by.
The sun was beating down on me under my sheet. I was barely conscious now but quite comfortable, I felt peaceful as my senses were numbed. It was alright, not as bad as I expected.
In my sleep I could hear noises, camel noises It was the very familiar ‘mooo’ sound. My mind came into gear, this is real! I shouted “Aaaaaaaaay!” It was strange to hear my own voice. I kept shouting for about half an hour. I gave up exhausted. What else could I do to get their attention? Out here where there are camels there are herders. I thought about setting fire to the bike. That would be seen for sure, but I just had no strength to organise it. The Horn! of course, I reached high up to the ignition switch and turned it on, pressed the horn, nothing, it was jammed full of sand. I gave up.
I lay there and slipped back into my resigned state and drifted away again.
I came round when the wind picked up again and was blowing my silver blanket off me. I kept trying to gently shift to keep under it, but after a while I didn’t notice anymore.
I don’t know when it was but I started hearing voices. I heard a loud shout. I came round and looked up and glanced over the dunes. It was a camel!! More voices, shouting, someone’s here!! In my daze I saw a man running towards me! I raised a hand and waved. “Help!” For some reason I was sure these people would think I was dead and not bother to come over. I desperately wanted to let them to know I was alive and not to leave me there. Suddenly I was surrounded by three men and three or four camels.
I’m going to live...
I mumbled for water in Arabic, there was a lot of commotion and I asked again and again. They didn’t have any! I said ‘hassi...’ which means well, they made some shade over me. I undid my watch and I gave it to one of them. They went to get water and one guy stayed with me holding a blanket over me to keep out of the sun. I must have looked a wreck with toothpaste all over my mouth and stinking of perfume.
They came back and filled a bowl with water and I drank a whole load and felt instantly nauseous and faint but kept it down. It was that awful saline well water again. One guy took the bowl off me and started flicking water into my mouth which worked, it dribbled down nicely. They found my medical kit and showed it to me prompting me to use it to make me better. I found an alkaseltzer and put it in the water bowl. I could drink a few gulps and it tasted OK.
They were Mauritanian nomads dressed in robes. It became evident that they didn’t have a clue what to do with me. They kept looking at me for answers. I was looking at them in the same way. They understood my Arabic words but I couldn’t understand theirs.
After several hours I still couldn’t move. A couple of the nomads disappeared off into the dunes on their camels. Later they returned and told me they had a tent 3 km away. I really wanted to get out of the heat and sun and rest and when evening came it was agreed to go to their camp. I tried to get up on a camel. I climbed on the seat and when I sat up I fainted... I was now looking up at faces, I felt so soft and comfortable, it was lush, but soon I came round. They were patting my face.
xxxxx
The nomads went and returned with a freshly killed goat and built a fire by me and the bike. They made sickly sweet tea and ate. They tried to cook me my instant bean meals using my stove and pots. I gave them instructions to do it but I couldn’t eat. Then miracle upon miracles one them, Abdulla, who was a kinder non aggressive character, gave me some fresh camel milk. It was delicious, cool and my body heaved a sigh of relief.
I realised I was a long way from being all right and it was still up to me to save myself. I asked them to take me to their camp in the morning. I slept as you do when you’re ill.
In the morning (sunrise) I felt stronger and managed to get on the camel and for the journey to the camp. They packed up all my stuff onto one camel and three of them dug my bike out and moved it out of sight and covered it in desert bushes.
Arriving at their camp which was just one tent in the wilderness I collapsed on the ground exhausted. I rested the rest of the day under the tent. It was heavenly. I drank gallons and gallons of camel milk yogurt drink which very slowly rehydrated me.
That evening camels started arriving out of the desert to see the sight of this lost tourist. How all this happened I can’t figure out. This region is just incredibly remote, how did news spread?
I played with some of the kids by squirting them with water from one of my syringes - it was a big hit.
At the end of the big nomad meeting they approached me and offered to take me to Oualata on a camel, it would take three days and cost 500 dollars. I agreed immediately.
The next morning I set off with Sidi Mohammed, Mohammed, Abdulla and five camels. They kept bickering all day to me about how much the journey would cost. They all seem pleased with their win on the lottery and starting deluding themselves about how much they could charge. Of course I’m a rich tourist... how could I be a tourist and not very rich, that’s a contradictions in terms.
For seven days I hung on to the camel with my ass being pounded into a pulp. My ass started bleeding and became infected but everyday I broke the scabs as I had to get back on. It was all hell. Sometimes I could walk along in front of the group but progress was too slow. We passed through an incredible wilderness I’ll never forget. There were rocky outcrops. How they knew the way was a mystery. We sometimes crossed the ‘Shanti’ which was the 4WD piste that I would have been on had I made across those dunes. At the end of each day Sidi - Mohammed would run off and come back with a bowl of camel milk which basically kept me alive, I was so weak. They cooked rice for meals and threw in dried goat for taste and also saturated goat fat which stank. It was gross but I had to force it down.
One evening I drank half my bowl of camel milk and left the rest of it to cool, I fell asleep and woke up to a slurping noise next to me. It was a camel drinking my milk! Bastard! Too late, it was all gone! The nomads laughed for days afterwards when I told them. “Jemel ishrabu!” they kept saying, which means “the camel drank it!” I did laugh a bit.
After four days of travelling early mornings and late afternoons I was finished, I couldn’t cope anymore. I felt really pathetic and kept crying to myself. The nomads were completely perplexed by this. They warned me that they would leave me there unless I stopped. It was a mean trick. They were mean nomads intent on their money in Oualata that I promised them. The fee had now risen to 1600 dollars and I began to resent them for it, except Abdulla who kept quiet and was kind to me and warned me of the other two and their schemes. They had my passport, money and gear all tied and locked up on one camel and kept showing me the key that they kept for the locks. They were extremely careful not to take any of my possessions but just hold them ransom instead . I didn’t particularly care. I kept telling them to go ahead and come back with a Landrover and a doctor realised later they really didn’t have the capacity to organise this i.e. to change money and pay for it in advance would be a problem for them even if they could find a doctor or car, which would’ve been just impossible as I found out later there was basically nothing in Oualata.
After six days we reached a tiny village and I collapsed for a rest in some shade. I desperately wanted to stay there but after a meeting of chief nomads they said it was impossible.
I was sitting under a tree and a nomad carrying a rifle and leading 6 camels carrying salt came up to me speaking clear French. What’s the matter he said patronisingly, you only have a day’s ride to Oualata, its not far. I spent five years in an Algerian Jail and I’m here not complaining. I felt even more pathetic. He wandered off out of the village and into the desert.
Next in line was a black Mauritanian dressed in smart western clothes and a shiny watch and shoes. At last I thought someone who could help me. Picture this, I was lying there dirty, unshaven, exhausted and ill and he says “ Are you English?” I said yes and then he said “oh good I am learning English, do you a have a book I can have, it would help me very much”. I turned away disgusted. I wanted to punch him. It confirmed my theory that wherever you go in the world there is ALWAYS one asshole, and now I found him. It was pleasantly reassuring.
I reluctantly got back on the camel and settled back into the painful kick every 2 seconds. The nomads started talking about guns and got really excited, they asked me if I could bring them guns from Morocco when I returned...
I drifted into a dreamy world of cold fresh orange juice and thick strawberry milkshake, I fantasised about opening a cooler full of ice, plunging my hand into the cubes and pulling an ice cold can of coke out, dripping with icy cold water running down my arm and the ‘Cushhhh..’ as I opened it and took a cool sip, the cold liquid sapping the heat out of my dry mouth and throat...mmmm.
Suddenly there was a shout “Aaaaayy!!!” I looked up. It was Sidi Mohammed running off through the bushes towards something. I looked and it was two cars in the distance!. God...at last...some help...I heaved a sigh of relief....
Sidi just made it to the cars and waved them down before they disappeared. It was a bunch of German tourists! I couldn’t believe it!
I got off the camel and went up to see them. There were frantic conversations with the guides in Arabic. Burkhard the group leader came to talk to me in English. I was very conscious of how pathetic I looked and was ready for patronising lessons for having gone out alone in the desert. But they were kind and gave me water (fresh) and one of them, a doctor, checked me over with his stethoscope.
They fixed up my infected ass wound (from sitting on the camel) and gave me a tropical fruit and nut bar, I ripped it open and stuffed it with shaking hands and into my mouth. I was weepy and they comforted me and genuinely seemed to care. It was just so overwhelming to meet someone who might understand my hell. Later one of them said ‘Karim, look I’m old enough to be your father...so I can tell you, don’t do this again!”, “OK...” I said.
We were 30 km from Oualata but they couldn’t take me there as was a limit to their fuel supplies and no fuel in the village, but they saw me off with lots of goodies.
Only 30 km to go, I knew I would be fine, my moral was improving, but I began dreading the ordeal of paying my rescuers.
We eventually wandered into the village, past a huge camel watering point and stopped by a shop. My hopes were high. The owner of the shop was a friend of the nomads and they put me in a light, airy room at the back. People started coming to see me, and I recounted my story loads of times, in Arabic and French. I had a wash and rested on a rope bed. Obviously I had caused a commotion here and I just decided to let them get on with it, I just couldn’t be bothered anymore.
Later I was taken to the military post, just a small building with a desk in it and a radio in the corner powered by solar panels on the roof. I sat on a chair in front of the desk. The chief, later to be known as Chief Asshole or CA, wearing a uniform sat down behind his desk. He started asking me lots of questions in French, I explained my whole circumstance and the amount which the nomads were to get for my rescue. This became a big issue because it was a HUGE amount of money for him, now at around $1600, and he just couldn’t comprehend it. I didn’t care about the money at all, I just wanted to be on my way. I felt like a prisoner in that dingy room. I had to wait ages while he would go for his afternoon nap. The nomads waited outside and kept looking to me for answers “where’s the money, where’s the money?”. I was really pissed off with them, I was exhausted, depressed and frightened. “Ask your chief” I said.
Later CA put me in the only ‘hotel’ in town which was a dingy room off a courtyard run by a fat black guy. This guy was so nice to me that I knew he was excited by the prospect of ‘big’ money from this ‘emergency’. His wives (or slaves ) brought me food and water to my room regularly, The food was basically OK. They brought me an oil lamp every evening.
I had all my stuff with me and while I was alone I realised that all this bickering over the money in the town could lead to trouble, so I hid my cash in my socks and carefully stashed travellers cheques in different places in my luggage. I wrote down the numbers of the cheques carefully and kept the list separate from the cheques. I wanted to be ready for the nomads going crazy and robbing me. This seemed a real possibility for me.
Next day I was back in CA’s office. I explained that I wanted to pay and leave, but I couldn’t pay the full amount without going to the next town, Nema, to change money at the bank. CA became angry and said I was not leaving the village. Then he decided I could leave the village with a guard and the 2 nomads to face a ‘judge’ in Nema who would decide how much should be paid. Shit, I thought, not more hassle! I haven’t done anything wrong. Its between me and the nomads I said, no one else. This I found out later was his plan to get a cut of the money with his mate the ‘judge’ in Nema.
In his office we spent about 2 hours going through every single item of my gear asking what it was. He catalogued everything in his report for the ‘judge’.
I got out all my money and he patiently wrote down every number of every bank note and cheque. I started coming out of my shell now, this was ridiculous.
I asked about a Landrover to go and get my bike. He said it may be possible. I can ask José he said.
I jumped up, who’s José?
It turns out that José was Spanish development worker in the village!. CA was a bastard. I had been there 4 days without knowing there was a compound here with foreign workers, electricity, satellite TV, food, showers and cold fridges and freezers with coke and orange juice in them. He had kept it a secret from me, and kept me a secret from them.
Later someone went and got José, he came to see me in CA’s office. He was a star, he had CA wrapped around his finger. He kept taking the piss out of him, he said when you’ve finished with ‘your prisoner’ bring him up to our compound. Don’t forget to write down his ‘condoms’ on the report.... José spoke perfect English and laughed loudly in CA’s face when he saw him writing down the serial numbers of my cash. José was understanding too, “You’ve had a bad time in the desert, come and stay with us, we have a fridge, you can have a coke, you can rest and I will help you sort this out., don’t worry, I have a satellite telephone, we can call British Consul at the capital.”
I stayed at the compound for two weeks. It was a great refuge. The workers were Moroccan and Spanish. I watched CNN, but there were no reports of me, maybe they would be waiting to interview me in Nema...? I chatted to the Spanish guys there.
One of them, Allejandro was an archaeologist brought over from the Canary Islands to build an authentic stone age oven from clay, although he was happier sneaking out the window at night to smoke some ‘tea’ he brought with him. He was hilarious after his ‘tea’ and he kept me cheery.
José and his team were creating farm land and solar powered well pumps to give to the locals who basically weren’t interested. Oualata was a sad place.
I organised a 4WD to go and get my bike, the agreed price was $1000. The driver and Abdulla the guide went off and came back 4 days later with my bike. They had a tough time and I realised why it cost so much, there was a big risk factor for a single vehicle going out there. They delivered my bike directly to the petrol station in Nema and promised it would be looked after by one of José’s friends.
I settled with the nomads myself. They agreed to take about $550 in French Franks as a ‘gift’ from me for their work. Abdulla, the nicer one got more as he was a guide for finding my bike in the dunes. The other 2 nomads were furious. I gave him my multitooled knife too. He was elated. He gave me a bag of (genuinely) ancient arrow heads and beads he had found from years of wandering across these wildernesses.
José confirmed that the British Honorary Consul (Nancy Abeiderahman) had been contacted in Nouakchott and she was doing what she could. Later when I met her she said the message came through that a British tourist was in a ‘coma’ after crashing his motorbike in the desert. She met the minister of foreign affairs at a party in the capital and asked about me, and why I was being kept against my will. He assured her I was not. The next day old CA (Chief Asshole) came up to the compound in his ‘important’ Toyota 4WD beaming with smiles saying he had arranged everything so I could leave the village. What a liar!.. we had arranged it via satellite telephone and his superiors had radioed a message to him to leave me alone.
I had to decide what to do now. My Trans-Africa dream was still a dream, so far I had had my share of adventure. I realised Africa would always be there, its wilderness always untamed, its deserts empty and undiscovered. I needed time to recover and absorb my experience. I needed more money and a travelling companion.
I caught a lift at dawn with José in his 4WD to Nema with all my gear. My bike was sitting waiting for me at the petrol station. It was exciting to see it and I wanted to get away quickly. I said my goodbyes to all the folks who helped me and spent the day in Nema getting organised with fuel, food, water, oil etc. The tyres were really flat and it reminded me of the trauma of those dunes. I had let them down to try and get unstuck.
As the sun was setting I nervously got on my heavy beast and drove to the main town exit and hit the tarmac road. This was the first tarmac road I had seen in 6 weeks since Nouadibou at the border with Morocco. It was SO smooth and lush! I was exhilarated. I had made up my mind, I was going HOME!!
Chapters
1 Dreams of Adventure
2 The Trip Down Morocco
3 Atlas Mountains
4 Merzouga to Layoune
5 Convoy to Nouadhibou
6 Train to Choum & Atar
7 Chinquetti
8 Chinquetti to Tidjikja
9 East to Tichit
10 Never go alone in the desert...
11 The Well at Aratane
12 Those 40 km of Dunes
13 No Sign of the Well
14 Preparing for the worst
15 Dreams, Voices & Camels
16 The Big Nomad Meeting
17 Tourist on a Camel
18 Almost at Oualata
19 Oualata and the Military Post
20 Ice Cold Coke
21 Rescue of a Motorbike
22 Decisions to be made
23 Nema (at last)