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.
