a day of rest

We had a quiet day today, resting weary bodies and letting skin recover and rehydrate from the weeks of blasting.

A short trip to the Marche Capitale offered some interesting sights and smells. We were particularly amused by Ty's discomfort when we informed a local watch seller (is there one of these in every market?) that Ty desperately needed a new watch. We had to admire the guy,s persistence as he harangued Ty mercilessly throughout the markets for nearly forty-five minutes. Ty was finally forced to fork out 100 ouguiyas as a bribe to cease and desist.

We did spend considerable time negotiating on some swathes of fine cloth in one of the stores. As with all things in Africa, this process must be conducted slowly and with great theatrics. Seats are taken, calculators are flourished, brows furrowed, and there are many protestations of poverty from both sides. From an initial asking price of nearly 100,000 ouguiyas, we eventually shook hands at 12,000 ouguiyas, each confident that we had wrested the best possible deal from one another.

into the workshop

Into the workshop today to prep the bikes for long term storage. We negotiated some space at a local garage, allowing us to use their facilities but not their mechanics.

Each bike gets a full service and safety inspection prior to storage. Ty performs the visual inspection for us, and his airframe training has been invaluable once again. His detailed inspection revealed a sheared subframe bolt on Gary's bike that would have led to a catastrophic failure of the frame if left unattended. Nouakchott does not have the specialist equipment required to extract the broken bolt, and we will need to spend a day before next year's trip effecting these repairs.

The mechanics had never seen bikes like these before and made all sorts of outlandish excuses to the boss in order to leave their duties and assist us. With quite a crowd of mechanics around, it made light work to complete the services. They are a great team of young guys, and we are particularly indebted to Ameer, the Syrian supervisor, who acted as translator, advocate, welding supplier, and all round mate for the day.

Full workshop facilities for five hours, 12 litres of oil, and a veritable team of mechanics totalled to the princely sum of 5000 ouguiyas each ($22 Australian dollars). Fantastic.

The bikes are scheduled for a detailed wash and clean, before a final inspection tomorrow and then crating the day after.

getting organised

Only three days until we fly out, and lots to do in that time. The bikes must be thoroughly cleaned and serviced, repairs arranged, spare parts and consumables inventoried, and then bikes put into storage for twelve months at a secure location.

We will divide and conquer this morning, with Ty and Gary sourcing storage options while James and I focus on servicing and repair facilities. The plan is to reconvene back at the hotel towards lunchtime and compare notes before making any decisions.

It sounded like a good plan - now, if we can only find our damn hotel again .....

final push to Nouakchott

Yesterday was desert, desert and more desert. We had though that far southern Morocco represented the aridity of the Sahara, however it is apparent that sub-Saharan Africa is much more environmentally hostile than the dunes themselves.

We were travelling mostly on sealed tarmac, but the heat is blistering and the landscape is relentlessly monotonous, broken only by occasional herds of wild camel trotting along or across the roadway.

Fuel for the bikes remains a challenge out here. Most fuel stops only offer diesel, and the occasional one with unleaded (called 'essence') must be decanted from plastic drums. The fuel filter has truly been given a field test, with lots of sediment present in the filter mesh after each pour. Trying to keep the carburettors clean when dealing with contaminated fuel and swirling sand.

Lunch was a pleasant surprise, cooked and eaten roadside enroute. It was a delicious stew of carrots and camel meat, spoiled only by the ever present crunchy grit of Saharan sand. By that stage though, three of us were ravenous and it was poured down out necks without chewing.

No lunch for Ty though, who is suffering from recurrent dysentery, and this is making life on the road extremely uncomfortable for him.

The people of Northern Mauritania are desert people called touaregs. They are incredibly tall and quite fierce looking in their flowing blue robes, but then they smile and offer such a happy demeanour that it is in stark contrast to first impressions.

Arriving in Nouakchott in the mist of evening and after 500km of heat, we looked a very sticky and dehydrated bunch.

Nouakchott is regarded as one of the world's dirtiest capital cities. This label is perhaps a little unfair, given that it is perched on the doorstep of the world's largest desert which blows fine particles of sand all year round. The streets, buildings, and everything in them are coated in a film of silica that leaves a gritty residue.

Despite this, the general vibe is upbeat and friendly. We seem to attract helpers everywhere, people just keen to have a chat and share some time with us. This African version of hospitality has been so invaluable in helping us navigate both streets and customs - I'm really enjoying their company.

random photos from the day

between a rock and a soft place

Today has been one of the most interesting and challenging days of adventure riding. We left Dakhla in the predawn, expecting to fill the tanks and bladders about 60km out and then set a route for the Mauritanian border post.

Riding out along the peninsula was ethereal as dawn broke, with the rock mirages slowly taking form over the quicksand and the dunes imbued with a soft champagne hue. The desert is at its best in the mornings, before the harmattan winds wake and tear the surface off the landscape. Rounding one bend in the track we came across a wild dog and its pup eating something just off to the side. Standing the size of an Alsatian and with dense, shaggy coats and heavily lidded eyes, they were ideally clothed to resist the daily sandblasting. They looked quite lugubrious as we passed, but I'm sure it is just the 20kg of sand that they must permanently carry in their coat that makes them feel that way.

We enjoyed this portion of the ride, stoping frequently to take photographs and cavort on the sand dunes. As a result, the Mauritanian border did not appear on the horizon until just after lunchtime.

As we approached the flags and stone arch of Moroccan emmigration; caution set in, radio chatter quietened, and we were conscious that this is considered a difficult and occasionally dangerous border crossing.

Moroccan formalities would have been straightforward had Ty not lost his number plate sometime during the day. With constant shaking and rattling, anything not screwed on super tight and then sealed with Loctite (a thread locking gel) quickly comes loose. This was the case with Ty's number plate, and it lay somewhere in the 300km of desert between Dakhla and the border.

We decided to try and make the best of it by bluffing our way through. For the half a dozen checkpoints in the last few kilometres approaching the border, Gary pulled up tight behind Ty to obscure the empty plate holder. With just a cursory glance at the bikes, we were waved through each time.

That all changed at the border post, with the Moroccan officials taking a great interest in the missing number plate. Eventually a swathe of paperwork and pleading convinced them that the bike was legitimate, and they released both us and the bikes into no man's land.

No man's land between Morocco and Mauritania is one of the most heavily mined stretches of land in the world. As you enter the sandy and rocky ten kilometre stretch, tracks crisscross in a multitude of directions. Torn apart and wrecked vehicles litter the landscape, testimony to those that made a poor judgment call.

Immediately on entry, you are set upon by a small horde of unfortunate stateless people caught in this region who are desperate to offer their services as guides through this treacherous stretch. We have heard stories of exorbitant demands for payment from these people and attendant violence when this is declined. We dodged their attempts to intercept us and sped quickly along one of the tracks.

It quickly became apparent that some of the tracks were well defined and clearly well used. Staying within existing tyre tracks as much as possible, we made our way through the minefield to the Mauritanian point of entry.

Sheer mayhem awaited us. This dusty and dirty outpost is a riot of shysters and conmen, all keen to make a quid at your expense. Realising that we could not possibly hope to navigate the convoluted process by ourselves, we selected one of the least villainous looking fixers and engaged his services. Over the subsequent four hours, we traipsed back and forth between cinder block cells posing as offices to acquire a bewildering array of stamps, forms and documents. Some of the officers we came to know quite well as we saw them on a number of occasions for different forms and stamps. We even built an affection for our smooth talking Gambian fixer; who truly knew how to wheedle, cajole and grease officials with the best of them.

We did have one light hearted moment during the process. Gary desperately needed to use the toilet and there were none available, so he grabbed his roll of paper and headed across the sand. The four African guys I was chatting with all went still and watched him. About 25m away, Gary squatted behind a small clump of vegetation to do his business. I asked the guys if anything was wrong, and one of them laughed. He said "out there is mines, another twenty steps and maybe his a'hole will go boom". They had been watching carefully, and about to sprint after him if he went any further.

By the time we cleared the last checkpoint and drove into Mauritania, it was close to 5pm and the wind was ferocious. Sand stung everything, rattling against the visors and coating nose, mouth and ears in a fine grit that crunches between the teeth like ground glass. It burns on the skin and rubs everything it can lash red raw. Sand wraiths cut swirling paths across the road, confusing the eye and looking like a liquid in their motion.

Despite the horrid conditions, the ride from the border into Nouadibou offered some gorgeous scenery with endless red sand plains and creaky white dunes. It was impossible to use a camera in those conditions but we will try again tomorrow.

The final approach into Nouadibou is a stark reminder of the tribalism that has always beset Africa. The Nouadibou peninsula is on a long thin spit of land spearing down into the Atlantic ocean. Less than a few kilometres wide at some points, it is divided down the middle into Mauritania on the east and disputed Western Sahara on the other side. The Mauri side has evidence of new housing developments, civil infrastructure and commerce. This is juxtaposed against the Sahwari people living on the other side of a razor wire fence in camp slums an desperate poverty.

All heads turn in the street as we ride in on the bikes, with a mixture of wide smiles and menacing glares. It's a hard place to read. We have found a local hotel that will lock the bikes up underneath to be less conspicuous, and intend to venture out for food after a proper clean up.

What a fascinating day.

(photos to follow in a subsequent post when I can get a wifi connection)

busted and busted

We have been delayed by one day in Dakhla because we accidentally got a local trike driver arrested. It has taken a full day of officialdom to sort it all out, but I think we finally have it underway.

We asked a local chap to run us down to a nearby cafe, and he obliged us for a fee of less than a dollar. Unfortunately the police caught him for not having a 'taxi' license, put him in gaol, and confiscated his trike. The hotel said he will stay there until he can find the costs to release himself and the bike, but it could take his family a long time to do so.

We've dealt with the police officer, the commander/commandant, surete nationale (the gaol), and an insurance company; and have walked the entirety of Dakhla in the process. James' command of French has been invaluable in sifting through the officialese involved.

The total amount involved is about $30, but trying to get it all done and still keep to our schedule has been a real challenge. Everything is friendly and considerate, just slow and bureaucratic. We will stay one more day in Dakhla to try and get him and the bike released, but will then need to move on regardless.

It's probably just as well, because we have needed the extra time to effect repairs on James' bike. The morning inspection revealed that the base of his back box had torn through the bolt holes and one more good bump may have sent the whole lot running down the road. A local supplier of aluminium stock has been located, and currently cutting and shaping a 5mm plate to brace the entire base of the box. That should resolve the problem once and for all.

The small hotel is comfortable enough, has a hot shower and wifi - so there's not much else we can ask for. Just settle in for a day or rest and recovery.

a solution

Don't worry, worked out what a minenfeld is. We've given Gary a long stick and are staying well back.

anyone want to hazard a guess what a 'minenfeld' is?

random photos from the day

quicksand and other fun stuff

There are many myths about the Sahara desert, including that it is completely barren and lifeless. In reality, the Sahara changes constantly, and supports an astonishing variety of fauna and flora. Some of the flora is twisted and stunted into fantastical forms to accommodate the extremes of temperature and other conditions. It is not unusual to crest a large dune to discover a sea of dark red ground cover or a tiny clump of green moss that is somehow eking out a sparse existence.

As we have moved through the Saharan region, the ground has changed from dramatic rolling dunes to a stony piste that stretches as far as the eye can see. The rocks are a flat slippery shale that crunches under the tyres and can be treacherous for the incautious.

On one stretch near the coastline, we spotted a series of shipwrecks along a small cove. With nothing in reach for hundreds of kilometres, we were left wondering whether this was the work of pirates several decades ago, or whether this location is favoured by Atlantic currents for depositing ships that have foundered at sea. The wrecks were all large sea-going vessels of several thousand tonnes each.

When we arrived out our first fuel location, we were informed with a sad shake of the head that there was no. 'Sans Plomb' (gasoline) available for us. This didn't present a serious problem for us, as we always have fallback contingency plans. In this instance, we simply proceeded to the next fuel location.

You can imagine our dismay when we were also informed that this location also had no fuel for us. We were faced with the dilemma of not being able to reach our next fuel point. It is not like travelling in Australia, where fuel is readily available from shiny petrol stations. In remote North Western Africa, fuel supply is not always guaranteed and drivers purchase fuel to top up their tanks whenever they have the opportunity. Diesel is more readily available than unleaded.

We needed to decide whether to stay and wait for a tanker (possibly a week), or push on and then split the group in order to combine the fuel into just two tanks, take a GPS bearing, and then have two come back for the others with full fuel bladders.

In the midst of debating the merits of both options over the intercom, we rounded a curve to find a very old and decrepit fuel point in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The young guy who shuffled up to serve is grinned mirthlessly and offered no language that we recognised. Sign language needed to suffice, and james whipped out the fuel filter to accommodate a refill from the ancient, rusted-out petrol pumps.

Camels meander alongside the road in various parts of this region. Usually attended by a couple of watchful old bulls, the herds roam freely throughout the Sahara. Despite their bulk, they move in absolute silence on large padded hooves and can cover enormous distances relatively quickly. Despite their intelligence, they are utterly without road sense and will cheerfully lumber directly into the path of a car - or a motorcycle. With their dun coloured hide, they are cunningly camouflaged. It is possible to find oneself amidst a herd before fully realising it. A hilarious game has emerged amongst the riders whereupon the leader at the time will sound the bike horn, seeking to scatter the beasts into a headlong rush and causing general panic amongst the remaining riders.

The route today carried us past one of Africa's many large refugee camps, Whilst grindingly poor, this camp for displaced Sahrawi people did carry the semblance of order with structures streets and canvas dwellings. Missing was any form of sustainable agriculture, commerce, or other employment. It is chilling to think that these camps have existed for forty years, and now house some third generation refugees.

Some three hundred kilometres south of Boujdour, a crossroad appears in the haze and the image resolves into a military checkpoint as we approach. Pulling over to the roadside on instruction, James handles the peremptory questioning on this occasion. To "where are you going?" he replies "Dakhla". To "when will you pass here again?" he replies "we will not pass here again, we are going to Senegal then eventually South Africa. The officer insists that we must pass the checkpoint again, and James stridently insists that we will not pass again. This continues back and forth for several volleys.

Ty, Gary and I were falling about laughing by this stage, and the officer was also struggling to maintain his composure. Eventually the officer tired of the fun and said to James "mister, Dakhla is on a peninsula, if you do not pass here again, you will get very very wet". He then dissolved into giggles like the rest of us as comprehension dawned on James. A lesson in geography that will not be soon forgotten.

As we approached Dakhla, a vast expanse of dark, hard packed appeared to out left. It looked like a great place to have fun and let the bikes run loose for a while. Whooping, Ty and I slowed and swung the bikes off route and into the sand.

We realised our mistake within metres, as the bikes began to skate and slew uncontrollably before biting through the thin slick of sun-hardened crust into the soft quicksand beneath. With wheels spinning furiously and engines racing, we struggled to find some forward momentum for the bikes and the reach the sanctuary of the road surface.

It was to no avail and the bikes were stuck fast. I dismounted and trod gingerly across to Ty's machine, pushing and shoving from behind to release it from the sand's sticky embrace. We eventually manoeuvred the bike back to the edge, bouncing furiously on the seat to break the bond of the sand on the tyre.

By this time, James and Gary had parked, paused laughing, and stepped out gingerly onto the sand to help recover my bike. We paused to recover our breath once we had my bike back to safety and waved to a Swiss KTM desert rider who had appeared from the horizon. When he asked where we were riding, we pointed to the open expanse, and he said "but why, that is quicksand?" Indeed, and that advice might have been very useful a short while earlier.

We have now settled into Dakhla for the evening and are resting. The bikes are stored inside (literally)a new shop next door and look like decrepit merchandise for sale on the tiled floor. In all, a day filled with interesting and exciting new experiences.

a terrible truth

The various aid programs purporting to support African development have been described as "poor white people in Europe giving money to rich black people in Africa to put in bank accounts in Switzerland."

a day on the tools

Our day began inauspiciously with a bright green pool of coolant underneath James' bike. Further inspection revealed a loose hose clamp deep within the bowels of the engine bay, requiring significant dismantling to effect a repair. The front step of the hotel became a workbench, and the guard's chair was pressed into duty as a parts stand, while we delved into the motor to tighten this coolant hose. As a result, it was after 10am before we rejoined our route this morning.

The journey for the next few days will be entirely on road. We are now deep into Western Sahara, and it is simply not wise to stray too far off-road with the menace of so many land mines in the region.

Checkpoints occur every 50-80km, with the military police telephoning the previous checkpoint to make sure that we really did pass that location previously. Our standard answer to 'where are you going next?' is "South Africa"; and to 'where will you stay tonight?' is a noncommittal shrug. We figure that a little bit of ambiguity might be the better part of discretion in providing that information.

Less than an hour after departure, we pulled into a small fuel stop. After enjoying a hot chocolate (think glass of lukewarm milk long life with a teaspoon of chocolate powder tossed carelessly in top), we noticed an elderly man acting rather strangely. He was seated aside a three wheeled contraption that was part motorcycle and part tip truck, revving the engine mercilessly and grinning like a madman.

With the engine screaming, he inched closer to us and patted the machine proudly. The Chinese contraption was encased in plastic and clearly brand new. He seemed inordinately proud of it, gesticulating wildly whist stroking the fuel tank and gauges. We made what we hoped were appropriately appreciative noises, and admired the machine extravagantly.

Eventually, another chap wandered over who spoke passable French. He explained that the machine was indeed new, but would "not go". No matter how hard he revved it, a slow crawl was its best speed.

We quickly introduced Ty as 'el mechanica', and James clambered aboard to operate the controls. Within no time, we had connected the clutch and adjusted the front brakes for him, playing to an appreciative audience of locals. There were claps and smiles all round when the old gentleman's machine not only went, but also stopped properly. We remounted our own bikes to a round of "shukrums" (thank you), while the local French-speaker confessed that the old chap also had no idea how to ride it. As we left, he was preparing to hit the highway.

Towards mid-afternoon, we rolled slowly into Boujdour, a small town approximately 500km from the Mauritanian border. Converging on a local establishment with tables on the sidewalk, we enjoyed a relaxing meal in the shade of a canvas awning. Gary and Ty both opted for camel steaks, something not readily available on menus in Australia. Whilst the camel meat was extremely palatable, the oil for the chips has clearly last been changed in 1993, and had the consistency (and flavour) of used engine oil.

Most meals, and indeed any other time you sit down in Morocco, are accompanied by sweet mint tea. At least on this occasion the sugar was served separately, but the size of the lumps demonstrates just how savagely sweet this concoction is. Some of the serves are more mint syrup than liquid and provide an instant but short-lived jolt of energy.

The 'cafe culture' is alive and well in Western Sahara. It consists of men sitting in rows of chairs facing the street, sipping bottomless cups of mint tea, and watching the world go by all day long.

The pace of life is slow - very, very slow. Even the simple act of a handshake takes an inordinate amount of time. Hands are clasped and held for a full minute as salaam's are exchanged. Both parties then give each other two full kisses on each cheek, alternating cheeks. Once complete, hands are clasped again before the hand is brought back to the heart. Only the can the real conversation begin.

late night repairs

Thank you to the rest of the team who pitched in for a late night headlamp replacement on my bike. It's a bugger of a job on the KLR and having extra hands makes it so much easier.

sand blasted

What a day. Sand has ripped across our path for the last eight hours, stinging our legs through clothing and blasting any exposed skin like a tattoo gun.

I clearly recall telling people that we would simply erect our tents and bunker down should we get caught in a sandstorm. Now, faced with the power of this wind and the volume of sand that it can move, we realise just how improbable this is. There would be absolutely no way that a tent could be erected in this environment, the wind is just too ferocious.

We went off route and navigated to the coast in order to refuel at a small town called Terfaya. We can find absolutely no reason for this settlement's existence. There is no discernible industry, just a handful of people, and it is hundreds of miles from anything. What sort of a person chooses to live in a place this desolate and isolated?

A woman that we spoke with recommended that we hug the coast as we make our way south to see some interesting sights. Taking her advice, we set off back with the sand dancing and making ethereal pictures in the road surface.

Rounding an exposed headland, we were astonished to come across a shipwreck. It had obviously been sitting there for some time and was fast becoming a rusted hulk.

After this fun diversion though, it was back inland and a course chartered for El Alouin some 200km of hard riding in a southerly direction.