We had decided before we left Rabat that now we were a team we would try the 520km piste between Nouadibhou and Atar which we had read about. The route follows a train track which carries Iron ore from a mine to the port using the longest train in the world, which goes past the second-largest monolith in the world after Ayers Rock, named Ben Amira. Sounds pretty epic.
We had as much food and water as we could reasonably carry, and a theoretical range of 600kms each based on our fuel usage so far. But on the way I had a paranoid turn and decided that we didn’t have enough water, fuel or skills. I told Laas I did want to do it, but only if we took enough water for a full extra day and however much fuel we could get our hands on. He agreed.
At the village where the piste begins we asked about buying petrol, and ended up basically paying some young guys to drive to a petrol station for us. This meant we could leave the tarmac with brimmed tanks and an extra 6 litres on top of the extra 5 we were each carrying.
I felt confident.
We asked where the piste begins and were pointed over a small, sandy crest which Laas promptly and confidently got stuck in.
I felt less confident.
After helping me get Laas out one of the guys said he’d show us the way to the train tracks, and that it would be easiest to go straight down them and miss out the piste altogether.
“So if there’s a train we get out of the way slowly and carefully, right Laas? Don’t want to rush and fall…”
Thankfully there are no sleepers between the tracks, they’ve all been liberated long ago and now hold up most of the structures in the surrounding area, so it was a good chunky-gravel track with an extra whiff of deadliness for the first 20km or so.
Then Laas indicated we pull over, and we got off the tracks where told me my luggage was coming loose over the bumps. As I got off to sort it out I noticed the train coming straight down the tracks at us only 50 metres away. I had been in front, and supposed to watch for oncoming trains, while Laas was behind checking his mirrors. Somehow I had become fixated with the immediate track and forgotten to look for the distant trains… Luckily Laas had been looking for the both of us.
We got back on the track but it was becoming more and more rutted, then as we passed a small collection of huts a guy came out waving and shouting that we were idiots and that there’s a perfectly good piste nearby and to stop risking our lives. Laas told him it was too sandy.
Some miscommunication between Laas and I meant that I hopped of the track in search of the piste thinking he’d follow me while he carried on the tracks thinking I’d follow. I said I thought we should at least look at the piste and if we couldn’t hack it come back, and Laas agreed to the plan.
The piste was sweet, and we were blasting along at over 60kph, but I would slow right down for even small and shallow sandy sections as I didn’t have the confidence and while I knew the theory of how to ride sand, actually doing it was another matter. Laas had much more confidence and would zoom over them at high revs (as you’re supposed to) while I was still trying to get a feel for it.
Somehow I got caught out riding straight into a deep sand drift much faster than I was comfortable, panicked, tried to slow down and sent the front wheel into a violent right-left jerk and the front wheel dug in and jack-knifed, sending me over the handlebars with the bike flipping over and landing on me.
Laas later told me when he saw it happen he’d assumed I had broken my neck.
But before Laas had stopped after rolling past I was stood up and turning off the ignition. So the sand had been my undoing, but also my savior – it’s blow-cushioning qualities had meant I escaped with only pulled arm and shoulder muscles.
I lifted the bike up and looked it over. My sketchy home-made wooden pannier rack had snapped and lost one fixture and the left hand handlebar electrics had been jam-packed with sand. “I can sort that out in Atar” I said confidently as I noticed the front wheel wasn’t pointing forwards anymore…
As I held the wheel between by legs and pulled the bars straight I had to curse it by saying “As long as the headstock is still true in the frame…” No comment.
My bike and body both survived amazingly considering, I felt lucky to be able to carry on – and with a new goal, to tame the complex beast, sand.
There were a few more sandy stretches that day and starting slow and working up I began to feel and understand the forces involved. I was still slowing Laas up, but he understood.
The next day we set a team-best early-leaving-record and for a few hours kept a high average speed on some smooth piste. After lunch it became more and more just dune, and while I did have a few sketchy moments I was gaining real comprehension of techniques and confidence in them and myself. Any stalls, wobbles or lack of control were caused by a loss of faith or concentration, and I knew I had to think calmly and zen-like to succeed.
By the time the track became really deep with opposing ruts and banks made by 4x4’s I was in a kind of meditative trance and no longer needed to think, look or concentrate – I just went.
I realized Laas had fallen. I had already stopped for a couple of stalls and seen him have some very hairy-looking wobbles, but I could see the fall had a big mental effect. The fall became the first of many, and it was a downward mental spiral. Struggling all the time with his heavy bike was tiring him massively as well.
“I can’t do it. It’s just too heavy.” He said, referring to his luggage weighing down the back end, hampering the floating effect needed.
“You just need the zen.” I replied, knowing he could do it with more calm and confidence. But there was nothing I could say to help his mental funk.
He wanted to ride the tracks again, but I pointed out we hadn’t seen a train in over five hours and one must be due. He couldn't ride the piste, I wouldn't ride the tracks and we knew it would be sheer idiocy to seperate. I eventually settled for riding next to the tracks, which looked a simpler sand track.
But Laas was already a state. After paddling, digging, lifting and wrestling with his bike he had become exhausted.
Once we got to the tracks, a guy waved at Laas from a shabby hut, and by the time I arrived on the scene we had been invited in for tea. This was fate, heaven-sent or whatever you want to call it. Laas stretched out on the camp bed with crackly Mauritanian radio in the background, and we had milk and nuts as we were told about the guys job on the railroad while he was performing the complicated ritual of making a Mauritanian cup of tea.
We gave him a box of the green tea.
There could have been nothing better for our minds, bodies and spirits. The combination of genuine, warm hospitality in a harsh and alien environment, nourish- and refreshment, and a cool comfortable space out of the sun was perfect.
When we finally got back on the road (apparently it’s polite to take three cups of tea) there was only another hour of sunlight, but the mood was changed entirely.
I went to sleep that night watching a field mouse hopping and scurrying over our stuff from my bivi-bag, under the almost unbelievably strong moonlight.
The next day we were both In The Zone from the start, there were lots more dunes, and we dominated them all. It was some of the most fun I’ve ever had with my pants on. We smashed it almost non-stop, pausing at the village by Ben Amira where a local kid got a photo of himself on Laas’ bike and we checked in with the local Gendarmerie (who weren’t best pleased when we told them we’d camped wild).
After the final stretch beyond civilisation at the village of Choum we were assailed by people selling food, drinks and petrol. We had tanked the five litres we were each carrying the day before, and I had the extra from the first village in my pannier. Or so I thought.
We got some bread, but I had said we didn’t need water or fuel. We were only 100kms from Atar, so carried on until I ran out of fuel. I calmly got off to get the fuel out of my pannier, and found the whole thing missing.
“I can fix that in Atar” I had said. Balls.
While the instinct was to stick together, by Laas sharing his fuel, but I reasoned that by doing that we could easily both run out of fuel and be stranded, and that the best bet was for Laas to go back to Choum alone, fill up and bring back spare for me.
We thought we’d probably only gone fifteen minutes from the village, so I said I’d ring Laas if he wasn’t back after 40 minutes (Choum had had the first mobile phone signal we’d seen for the three days). I found out after those forty minutes that I couldn’t call any numbers from Mauritania on my phone, and realized I didn’t have Laas’ new Mauritel number.
I saw one Hilux going from Choum to Atar, and they stopped to see if I was okay. I told them my friend was getting some petrol, but as soon as they were gone wondered if Laas had enough himself to get there...
After an hour and a half I was quite pleased to see Laas. I had also lost a full litre of water and my map.
Laas admitted that his eyes were getting very painful as the sand had been irritating his contact lenses, they were streaming more and more and we were both exhausted from two and a half days off-road riding.
Not long after Laas got into a huge slide on some gravel and when his back wheel gripped again I thought he was going to high-side it and be catapulted from the seat. Somehow he caught it, but only to go down low-side the other way. He was going at least 60 kph.
He skidded quite a way on his side and his foot was trapped under the bike when it stopped. I got to him, helped pull the bike off his foot and turned off the ignition. Luckily his protective gear had done its job and he was only shaken up.
He said he’d been riding with only about one-third strength vision, and by the look of his eyes I believed him. He washed out his eyes the best he could, lost both lenses in the wind (I found one) and carried on with just one.
We made it to Atar before dusk, but it felt ridiculous calmly explaining where had come from and were going at the police checkpoints back on the tarmac roads without describing any of our trials and tribulations – it had felt like a huge adventure, which we had narrowly scraped through.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Frontiere Mauritanie
More riding a very long, hot, dry, straight road punctuated by police roadblocks and camels crossing eventually took us to the Moroccan/Mauritanian border, which we accidentally stumbled into after dark, looking for somewhere to camp.
We turned back and snuck behind a newly-built, as-yet-unused service station less than 500m away to shelter behind its walls from the Atlantic winds. We laughed it up over dinner, assuming we’d be the first to leave Morocco in the morning as no-one could possibly be closer than us. The next morning we rolled up to the back of a thirty car queue at 8.30 am and noticed the attached motel we’d missed in the darkness.
Someone (or everyone?) obviously slept through their alarms as the Moroccan customs opened over a full hour late, but once inside the compound, we were spotted by an eager official and ushered in front of all the other vehicles.
Once we had got off the bikes and joined the back of a queue outside the first, still-closed, booth we were greeted by a friendly official who wanted to know if either one of us was Laas.
When Laas confirmed being himself the guy revealed he was Mohamed-from-Dakhla’s friend, and urged us behind the booth where he ordered two guards to fill in our Moroccan exit papers for us, before ordering another to run the paperwork to the next booth to get stamped, and said he’d be waiting for us in his office.
Once everyone had done all the work for us we were ushered into the office where the guys giant book held details of every vehicle to pass the border. He asked us about our trips, and how we knew “the chef”, then processed our paperwork while others queued outside the window (and had paid for the privilege to be “first”). He wished us safe travels and we smugly smiled at all the people queuing at the booths and offices as we left the gates of Morocco for No-Mans-Land.
It’s a 5km stretch which looks straight out of Mad Max, littered with burnt-out, stripped-down or rolled over cars, vans and trucks. The track was bad, with boulders, broken glass, sand drifts and car body-panels blocking the way. You have to stick to the treacherous track as well, as either side is littered with landmines (as one Italian biker found out tragically a few years ago).
On the Mauritanian side it was simple enough, just with the added complications of a few “fixers” trying all manner of ways to help you to make you indebted to them, or sell you Ouiguyas (Mauritanian currency) at shocking rates.
It really wasn’t a tricky entry, just a slow one. There wasn’t really a lot we needed to tip or bribe for or around except possibly the attempted smuggling of tea!
We rolled into Nouadibhou and found the chilled-out “Camping chez Abba” where the awesome Mohamed Tikrit treated us to our first Mauritanian tea and sorted some Ouiguyas for us at a good price.
Laas gave him a box of tea.
We turned back and snuck behind a newly-built, as-yet-unused service station less than 500m away to shelter behind its walls from the Atlantic winds. We laughed it up over dinner, assuming we’d be the first to leave Morocco in the morning as no-one could possibly be closer than us. The next morning we rolled up to the back of a thirty car queue at 8.30 am and noticed the attached motel we’d missed in the darkness.
Someone (or everyone?) obviously slept through their alarms as the Moroccan customs opened over a full hour late, but once inside the compound, we were spotted by an eager official and ushered in front of all the other vehicles.
Once we had got off the bikes and joined the back of a queue outside the first, still-closed, booth we were greeted by a friendly official who wanted to know if either one of us was Laas.
When Laas confirmed being himself the guy revealed he was Mohamed-from-Dakhla’s friend, and urged us behind the booth where he ordered two guards to fill in our Moroccan exit papers for us, before ordering another to run the paperwork to the next booth to get stamped, and said he’d be waiting for us in his office.
Once everyone had done all the work for us we were ushered into the office where the guys giant book held details of every vehicle to pass the border. He asked us about our trips, and how we knew “the chef”, then processed our paperwork while others queued outside the window (and had paid for the privilege to be “first”). He wished us safe travels and we smugly smiled at all the people queuing at the booths and offices as we left the gates of Morocco for No-Mans-Land.
It’s a 5km stretch which looks straight out of Mad Max, littered with burnt-out, stripped-down or rolled over cars, vans and trucks. The track was bad, with boulders, broken glass, sand drifts and car body-panels blocking the way. You have to stick to the treacherous track as well, as either side is littered with landmines (as one Italian biker found out tragically a few years ago).
On the Mauritanian side it was simple enough, just with the added complications of a few “fixers” trying all manner of ways to help you to make you indebted to them, or sell you Ouiguyas (Mauritanian currency) at shocking rates.
It really wasn’t a tricky entry, just a slow one. There wasn’t really a lot we needed to tip or bribe for or around except possibly the attempted smuggling of tea!
We rolled into Nouadibhou and found the chilled-out “Camping chez Abba” where the awesome Mohamed Tikrit treated us to our first Mauritanian tea and sorted some Ouiguyas for us at a good price.
Laas gave him a box of tea.
Take off your tin foil hat...
The next day’s riding brought more desolate, Moon-like landscape and I think we may have seen more camels than people. At a service station somewhere North of Dakhla I noticed Laas talking to an official-suited-man while I was checking over my bike.
After a while they came over and the gentleman asked me the usual where-are-you-going, where-are-you-from type questions, unusually in good English. He casually mentioned he had a friend at the border, and he and Laas wrote down each other’s names, and I didn’t think much more about it.
I thought my clutch was a bit heavy when we had stopped, but that evening slowing the bike down the lever became unusably stiff, and by the time we had found somewhere to camp was totally stuck. I realized it was the oil. I had had a long conversation with Peter at Bikershome (quite the conspiracy theorist) about using car engine oil in motorbikes. Motorbike-specific oil isn’t available in Morocco, and Peter had said he’d never paid any attention, and for more than thirty years had been putting whatever car oil in his bikes and never had a problem with a clutch.
I had assumed you just couldn’t get a modern enough car oil with the additives which disable motorbike clutches in Morocco – not that it was an urban myth created and perpetuated by oil companies to sell slightly higher priced oil to Western motorcyclists (as Peter did).
So we were both wrong.
While Laas and I cooked dinner it got dark, and my engine cooled to a touchable heat.
I put on my head-torch and un-changed my oil in the dark.
After a while they came over and the gentleman asked me the usual where-are-you-going, where-are-you-from type questions, unusually in good English. He casually mentioned he had a friend at the border, and he and Laas wrote down each other’s names, and I didn’t think much more about it.
I thought my clutch was a bit heavy when we had stopped, but that evening slowing the bike down the lever became unusably stiff, and by the time we had found somewhere to camp was totally stuck. I realized it was the oil. I had had a long conversation with Peter at Bikershome (quite the conspiracy theorist) about using car engine oil in motorbikes. Motorbike-specific oil isn’t available in Morocco, and Peter had said he’d never paid any attention, and for more than thirty years had been putting whatever car oil in his bikes and never had a problem with a clutch.
I had assumed you just couldn’t get a modern enough car oil with the additives which disable motorbike clutches in Morocco – not that it was an urban myth created and perpetuated by oil companies to sell slightly higher priced oil to Western motorcyclists (as Peter did).
So we were both wrong.
While Laas and I cooked dinner it got dark, and my engine cooled to a touchable heat.
I put on my head-torch and un-changed my oil in the dark.
Saharan salt flat
After a few more days on the long road South we had planned to stay at “Camping la Rue Bedouin” which had been recommended by many overlanders we had met, but with around a hundred kilometres to go it was getting dark.
We stopped to discuss breaking The Rule for the sake of a shower. And decided it was worth it.
It went without incident, and I won’t mention that Laas was concentrating so hard on the road that he missed the sign (Oh, wait…).
There was a four and a half km, poorly defined, off-road track from the road to the campsite and in our excitement we blasted it. With my awful headlight I could only see around two or three metres in front of me, so had to follow Laas’ line and hope his vision was clear and that he was still decisive and sharp after a very long days ride. He was.
The campsite overlooks a huge salt flat with a plateau in the centre, so the next day after sorting some things in the nearby town Laayoune and changing the oil in my bike (to a good, thick car oil I found locally) Laas and I set out blasting over the salt flat with a burning sunset on one side and the vast plateau on the other.
It was beautiful.
As we were about to climb the plateau in the darkness (and Laas' bike fell over in the soft sand) he went to take a pee, which confused me greatly, as we were about to climb something we could pee off.
Pointing this out started an interesting discussion which revealed the differences between us.
"and you didn't actually have to burn your pants the other day."
I had literally never thought of any other course of action...
We stopped to discuss breaking The Rule for the sake of a shower. And decided it was worth it.
It went without incident, and I won’t mention that Laas was concentrating so hard on the road that he missed the sign (Oh, wait…).
There was a four and a half km, poorly defined, off-road track from the road to the campsite and in our excitement we blasted it. With my awful headlight I could only see around two or three metres in front of me, so had to follow Laas’ line and hope his vision was clear and that he was still decisive and sharp after a very long days ride. He was.
The campsite overlooks a huge salt flat with a plateau in the centre, so the next day after sorting some things in the nearby town Laayoune and changing the oil in my bike (to a good, thick car oil I found locally) Laas and I set out blasting over the salt flat with a burning sunset on one side and the vast plateau on the other.
It was beautiful.
As we were about to climb the plateau in the darkness (and Laas' bike fell over in the soft sand) he went to take a pee, which confused me greatly, as we were about to climb something we could pee off.
Pointing this out started an interesting discussion which revealed the differences between us.
"and you didn't actually have to burn your pants the other day."
I had literally never thought of any other course of action...
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
"I just burnt my pants."
The Atlantic route South was beautiful, desolate and eerie.
One especially beautiful morning I awoke to the strange guttural clicks and whistles of a goat-herder trying to dissuade his 100-strong ensemble from eating our bikes and gear.
He was polite and relaxed, seeming very content with his wandering through the seemingly endless desert with his herd, and we asked him all about where he lived, had come from and was going.
Once they were gone, and without a care in the world I went for a morning pee on a bush I thought could do with a good watering. As soon as I started and without any warning my boxer-briefs filled instantly from the back with a sickly, hot, liquid ooze.
In total shock I tried to carefully and quickly get back to camp containing the dribbly, gushing warmth in my underwear. It was no good and the brown gunge was trickling down my legs from the seams by the time I retrieved my toiletries.
I found a convenient hole in the sand, and after a whole pack of cucumber-scented baby wipes (thanks Mum!) was left with a clean body and a very messy collection in the sand. I knew the matches in my wash-bag had a purpose, and I knew this was it. A single match and the polyester pants were blazing and making an acrid smoke which I tried not to inhale.
I walked back to camp and said, laughing, to Laas:
“I just burnt my pants.”
One especially beautiful morning I awoke to the strange guttural clicks and whistles of a goat-herder trying to dissuade his 100-strong ensemble from eating our bikes and gear.
He was polite and relaxed, seeming very content with his wandering through the seemingly endless desert with his herd, and we asked him all about where he lived, had come from and was going.
Once they were gone, and without a care in the world I went for a morning pee on a bush I thought could do with a good watering. As soon as I started and without any warning my boxer-briefs filled instantly from the back with a sickly, hot, liquid ooze.
In total shock I tried to carefully and quickly get back to camp containing the dribbly, gushing warmth in my underwear. It was no good and the brown gunge was trickling down my legs from the seams by the time I retrieved my toiletries.
I found a convenient hole in the sand, and after a whole pack of cucumber-scented baby wipes (thanks Mum!) was left with a clean body and a very messy collection in the sand. I knew the matches in my wash-bag had a purpose, and I knew this was it. A single match and the polyester pants were blazing and making an acrid smoke which I tried not to inhale.
I walked back to camp and said, laughing, to Laas:
“I just burnt my pants.”
The Great Guelmim Tea Conspiracy
With our bikes prepped for the long road ahead and a scenic route to the West coast given to us by Peter we set off for Western Sahara.
Wild camping by night under the Milky Way, and getting more village-kid-high-fives by day we got to the coast with only one notably bizarre experience:
Sat eating brunch in a café in the town of Geulmim, Laas and I began talking to a pair of guys, one Moroccan and the other Mauritanian who were eager to hear about out trips and generally be sociable.
The Mauritanian had just come North to be with his Mother for the upcoming festival, so we asked if he had any tips for a quick and smooth border crossing.
“Tea.” He said.
“Lots of tea.”
And he explained how in the remote border area how everyday items become rarer and more expensive (except petrol), and that the Mauritanian Tea Ritual Obsession makes this the most valuable commodity, and that a kilogram would make us instant best friends with any guards and guarantee a speedy hassle-free experience.
This tea-trading concept appealed to me especially and soon enough Laas and I were leaving the nearest shop with two and a half kilos between us trying to squeeze it all into the limited luggage on our bikes. While we were doing this another guy came up loudly proclaiming that we didn’t have nearly enough tea, that we’d need it to buy food, water and petrol and that our money would only be paper in the Sahara. Apparently we needed to go to his shop to get more.
He laid it on so thick that the whole concept became ridiculous and unbelievable. We instantly felt like massive suckers and wondered how much of Guelmim’s economy relied on flogging overlanders Chinese tea with their ridiculous stories.
The original two guys were still being really friendly and talkative, and said they’d show us the best way through town to the main road.
So we got a low-speed-escort through town, our bikes covered in boxes of tea behind two 50cc pedal-start Chinese scooters, with a hearty farewell at the police checkpoint on the edge of town. Which was all a bit surreal.
Wild camping by night under the Milky Way, and getting more village-kid-high-fives by day we got to the coast with only one notably bizarre experience:
Sat eating brunch in a café in the town of Geulmim, Laas and I began talking to a pair of guys, one Moroccan and the other Mauritanian who were eager to hear about out trips and generally be sociable.
The Mauritanian had just come North to be with his Mother for the upcoming festival, so we asked if he had any tips for a quick and smooth border crossing.
“Tea.” He said.
“Lots of tea.”
And he explained how in the remote border area how everyday items become rarer and more expensive (except petrol), and that the Mauritanian Tea Ritual Obsession makes this the most valuable commodity, and that a kilogram would make us instant best friends with any guards and guarantee a speedy hassle-free experience.
This tea-trading concept appealed to me especially and soon enough Laas and I were leaving the nearest shop with two and a half kilos between us trying to squeeze it all into the limited luggage on our bikes. While we were doing this another guy came up loudly proclaiming that we didn’t have nearly enough tea, that we’d need it to buy food, water and petrol and that our money would only be paper in the Sahara. Apparently we needed to go to his shop to get more.
He laid it on so thick that the whole concept became ridiculous and unbelievable. We instantly felt like massive suckers and wondered how much of Guelmim’s economy relied on flogging overlanders Chinese tea with their ridiculous stories.
The original two guys were still being really friendly and talkative, and said they’d show us the best way through town to the main road.
So we got a low-speed-escort through town, our bikes covered in boxes of tea behind two 50cc pedal-start Chinese scooters, with a hearty farewell at the police checkpoint on the edge of town. Which was all a bit surreal.
Friday, November 11, 2011
To Ouarzazate
Laas and I left Rabat later than planned (which soon became a habit) and had chosen a route straight over the Atlas Mountains.
It turned out to be an epic choice, and took us up to around 2500 metres with some amazing views, scary-long unguarded roadside drops and beautiful, isolated villages where the kids come running to wave and I got my first while-riding-high-five. This is not a particularly safe practise for anyone, but is supremely rewarding for all parties.
We got a tranquil wild-camp in on the way where we saw the Milky Way, then the following day broke The Rule "Never ride at night in Africa" in some style riding side-by-side as my headlight isn't good enough to see by and Laas'rear bulb had blown.
That was probably even less safe, but we survived to tell the tale and were treated to an amazing dinner by Peter and Nizeb when we arrived at "Bikershome".
We spent the next day servicing our bikesand hearing Africa tips and stories from other overlanders staying there.
It turned out to be an epic choice, and took us up to around 2500 metres with some amazing views, scary-long unguarded roadside drops and beautiful, isolated villages where the kids come running to wave and I got my first while-riding-high-five. This is not a particularly safe practise for anyone, but is supremely rewarding for all parties.
We got a tranquil wild-camp in on the way where we saw the Milky Way, then the following day broke The Rule "Never ride at night in Africa" in some style riding side-by-side as my headlight isn't good enough to see by and Laas'rear bulb had blown.
That was probably even less safe, but we survived to tell the tale and were treated to an amazing dinner by Peter and Nizeb when we arrived at "Bikershome".
We spent the next day servicing our bikesand hearing Africa tips and stories from other overlanders staying there.
Rest of Rabat
It turned out I had got my timing very wrong, and arriving on a Thursday evening meant I had to wait until the Monday to apply for my Mauritanian visa (the reason I was in Rabat), then wait two more days to receive it.
Luckily there were plenty of awesome people at the Youth Hostel:
I met Guillame, the self-confessed "Volcano" hitching from France, Lee who's made it to West Africa overland from his home in Korea, Sarah a New-Zealander on a worldwide Tea-Research-Mission, Andy an Englishman who'd cycled there from Portsmouth, Tarik the motorbike-mad Maroccan, Djiboutian-American Man-about-town Yusuf and most importantly -
Laas, a Dutch guy riding his Yamaha TTR600 on a six month Africa trip.
Laas and I got on and he said he'd happily plod along at my 85kph cruising speed for the sake of some good company until Mauritania.
I had a very relaxed week, with the only dramas provided by riot police violently breaking up peaceful democracy demonstrations and a very drunk Maroccan guy (we found a bar!) proclaiming me to be not only the nicest American he'd ever met, but actually an Extra-Terrestrial saviour being who holds the ket to world salvation.
He bought me all the beers I could drink. Then some more.
Luckily there were plenty of awesome people at the Youth Hostel:
I met Guillame, the self-confessed "Volcano" hitching from France, Lee who's made it to West Africa overland from his home in Korea, Sarah a New-Zealander on a worldwide Tea-Research-Mission, Andy an Englishman who'd cycled there from Portsmouth, Tarik the motorbike-mad Maroccan, Djiboutian-American Man-about-town Yusuf and most importantly -
Laas, a Dutch guy riding his Yamaha TTR600 on a six month Africa trip.
Laas and I got on and he said he'd happily plod along at my 85kph cruising speed for the sake of some good company until Mauritania.
I had a very relaxed week, with the only dramas provided by riot police violently breaking up peaceful democracy demonstrations and a very drunk Maroccan guy (we found a bar!) proclaiming me to be not only the nicest American he'd ever met, but actually an Extra-Terrestrial saviour being who holds the ket to world salvation.
He bought me all the beers I could drink. Then some more.
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