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Helen’s Take On… video of Cycling Across the Sahara

About time for some fun. Time to hit the gravel and leave a trail of dust.

Just out of Khorixas I got what I was looking for. But with gravel roads come corrugations. They are not so much fun. Time to shake, rattle and roll on slowly. Dust in my hair. Grit in my teeth. Time to grit my teeth and bear it. With a dramatic change of scenery and plenty to look at I now had to carefully watch the road. Lose concentration – lose contact with the bike. Simple. I was not about to fall off. But it was hot. Scorching. Draining. Must stop frequently. So I took lots of photos. Photos of rocks. An arid landscape of rocks. A few trees. Last week life was green. Now it ranged from golden yellow to a burned rusty red.

Damaraland

Selecting a route that passed through as many of the ‘sights’ marked on the map as possible was the plan. First the petrified forest. Clarification – pay some dollars to see a large lump of stone that looks like a tree trunk. Alternatively just pull off the road at night, pitch camp under some trees and see three chunks of petrified tree being used for cooking over a fire. Second the rock art of Twyfelfontein. Clarification – pay some dollars to see the child-like engravings of oryx, giraffe, lions and many footprints. Alternatively go for a walk in the mountains, and where you find rocks and caves, you find more animal outlines. Third – by this stage don’t even bother to see the ‘burnt mountain’. Clarification – this mountain looks like it’s burning in the setting sun. Alteratively keep your eyes open and see all the other mountains here glowing a similar hue at that hour of the day before day turns to night.

Sarcasm aside, this region, Damaraland, is simply stunning. And I might have missed it had those ‘tourist sites’ not been marked on the map.

Next stop. The Brandberg mountains. But first, getting there.

The sun rose in the blue sky and beat down without remorse on anyone or anything that dared stay out. Which as far as I could see, was just me. No shade. Nowhere to hide. Or take cover. Take a stand. Hold out. Endure the heat. What you know has an ending can be endured. It’s the same with a race or a bad book. With the end of the day, the sun’s siege would lift. But first it must get hotter.

View of Brandberg mountain from White Lady Lodge campsite

The atmosphere was alive. High voltage buzzing. Electric Static. But the air was dead. Airless and Dead still. Not an animal in sight. Only me. Not a blade of yellow grass moved. Only I tried. But then I would see a cloud of dust rising in the distance and I knew that a vehicle was on it’s way. Tourists in air-conditioned cars. In a bubble of cool, flowing air. They were not seeing the same scene I was. Same rocks rising out of the orange earth. Same yellowing grass and maybe a tree here or there. Maybe if there was an observant passenger he would see, as they rush past, the perfectly constructed weavers’ nests in that tree here or there. Unlikely. But what they see is just a real-time photo. Could be back flicking through the National Geographic. Your eyes cannot truly see the whole picture unless you can hear and smell and feel and taste it too. Hear the buzzing of the insects and smell the sweat that runs down your neck onto your salt-encrusted shirt and feel the hard earth defiant under your feet and taste the fine dust that sticks in the back of your throat with your tongue sticking to the top of your mouth that even a gulp of your sun-warmed water cannot moisten and never satisfies your thirst either.

I take a chance and take the back roads to the Brandberg mountains. Advised against it. Easy to get lost on the many tracks. Sounded like fun. Not possible to get lost as far as I could see. Follow any of the tracks in a downhill direction and eventually you get to the riverbed. Rivers do not defy gravity. Besides, I could see trees that must flank the riverbed, for trees need water, if only occasionally. Follow any of the tracks along the riverbed in the direction of the mountains. The Brandberg, the only mountains in that area, could be seen days away. I knew there was a lodge by the riverbed at the base of the mountains. Impossible not to find. Especially when you have a GPS!

So as the day wore on and the sun passed it’s zenith so I wore out and passed my peak too. A long day on gravel roads. But as the gravel turned to dirt and took a meandering course like a stream, and rose and fell and wound it’s way down so I could enjoy the biking. No more corrugations to shake and slow you down. Only your nerves and the strength in your legs to limit your speed. For me, just the strength in my legs and I still had more than enough (enough strength that is, I only have two legs).

Wild camping on the way to the Skeleton Coast

I pass a farm and stop. Best to get more water. A farm, falling slowly into decay. Fencing fallen. Cars stripped and rusting. Donkeys stood, heads down, dejected. The fierce sun has won this fight. Even the colour of the earth here was a faded greyish-brown. The survivors sat in the shade silently. All around was silence. It surrounded and enveloped as real as a blanket wrapped around you to keep warm. Only now there was a gentle breeze. You could feel it gently cooling on your damp skin and see it in the spiky yellow grass that rustled and you could follow the wind’s path like an animal in the undergrowth. A tiny red lizard would dart across the track and a curious croaking would cause you to stop and investigate the source of the sporadic sound.

Down by the river I kept a keen look out for elephants. But the only sign was of trees stripped bare. I dragged my bike through the dry, sandy riverbed. Sweating profusely. And push on up the other side. Eventually I reach the lodge and cool down with a cold beer and then warm up with a hot shower.

From the mountains I head to the sea. In between is desert. Not much else.

A pit stop to refuel in Uis and I take refuge from the sun in the shade of a bar. Late in the afternoon I leave this mining town and cycle west. The wind is strong in my face. Unrelenting and unforgiving. My shirt flaps wildly behind me. With the sun low in the sky, it is surprisingly cool now. But still I am sweating and barely moving on this gradual upward incline battling against the elements. Out of Uis and past a few weather-beaten shacks made of scrap metal and old wood. Large Castor oil barrels beaten flat and bolted together now someone’s shelter. And then into a barren wasteland with just one road and a line of telegraph poles running to the sea.

Kites going home to nest at sunset

Stopping just before sunset, I pitch my tent and watch the kites against a orange sky. They leave the thermals and fly over my tent to their nesting grounds. Hundreds of them. They watch me watching them until they have all settled on the ground and it is too dark for me to see any more.

Predictably, the wind dies down in the night too and the morning brings with it a beautiful sunrise. Smoothing and soothing this stark desert landscape. I would like to linger longer but the longer I leave it the more pedalling under the intensely hot sun and unforgiving headwind.

The road is long and straight. Gradually the peaks of the Brandberg disappear out of sight and the landscape is flat far out to the horizon. The rocky ground is now bleached white. The coastal fog lingers low in the distance but where I am the air is crisp and clear and the sky a bright blue.

Road to the coast

Kilometre after kilometre is the same. Mindlessly following the road. Empty thoughts. Eyes seeing everything. The goshawk on the telegraph pole. Gems for sale at unmanned roadside stalls – large rocks of crystal pink and jade green. The rusty shell of a burned-out car and blown-out tyres now marking some unseen track into the desert. A pool of water shimmering in the road ahead… but this is the desert and there has been no rain here. As Ernest Hemingway said, “In Africa a thing is true at first light and a lie by noon and you have no more respect”. He is talking about “the lovely perfect weed-fringed lake you see across that sun-baked plain. You have walked across that plain in the morning and you know that no such lake is there. But now it is absolutely true, beautiful and believable.” In the heat of midday your eyes truly can be deceived. And so when I see the outline of buildings faintly flickering through the haze I am not sure if I really am seeing the town of Henties Bay on the coast or just seeing what I want to believe.

Henties Bay in the haze

But it is Henties Bay. And now it is cooling down again with the refreshing salty sea air. I cycle towards Swakopmund and camp on a lonely stretch of beach. Watching the clouds come in and the last light fade over the white crashing waves and the fog slowly envelope a wrecked ship in the distance that I had passed earlier and spoken to the solitary fisherman sat by his bakkie sipping a sundowner and admiring the harsh beauty where the desert meets the Atlantic sea.

After that, it was a real slog south to Aus where I planned to take a rest. But Aus was a disappointment and so I continued to the coast for Luderitz, which is lovely. And on the way I saw the wild horses of Garub and also stopped by the ghost town of Kolmanskop.

I was definitely ready for a break from the gravel roads, incessant wind and irritating hordes of flies that would get in my eyes and ears and occasionally swallowed or snorted if I closed my mouth and breathed through my nose.

But at least the scenery was lovely. Here are some pics:

Photos from Damaraland. From Khorixas, through the petrified forest region to Twyfelfontein with some cool rock engravings and then on south towards the Brandberg mountains along 4×4 trails… Fun!

Dusty streets of Timbuktu

The Traveller

The day after arrival we wandered through the sandy streets to the northern edge of town. Here there are no streets. Extra sand though. And a hotel called ‘Sahara Passion’. On arrival, we sat on a mat inside the cool mud walls and drank tea (yes, that sickly sweet bitter tea) and talked with Shindouk and his Canadian wife. Shindouk is a traveller. All his life, since the age of 13, he has worked with the camel caravans crossing the desert, the Saharan sands; through Mauritania, Algeria and Niger. The desert of Mali he calls his backyard. A desert traveller he may be, but nothing will entice him back onto a plane after his one and only flight to Canada.

I think now I can understand that. The desert is space. Space gives you freedom – freedom to explore wild lands. Freedom also to delve into the depths of your mind – for the desert is also about discovery. How can someone who has no concept of boundaries (to Shindouk the country names he has visited are meaningless – it is all one and the same desert he has travelled) be confined to a seat in a small metal tube for hours. It’s cruelty. Like caging a wild bird.

Shindouk is a fountain of knowledge when discussing travel in the region. He knows anyone worth knowing. A good person to discuss our options for leaving Timbuktu. According to a man in Kourioume, the port on the river, we could take a pinasse on Friday. According to the Mali tourist office, it is too far into the dry season and the river is too low to travel by pinasse at all. Shindouk informs us that it is possible, but it could take from four days to four weeks to reach Gao downstream.

The Plan

We decide to attempt to get half-way. Pinasses travel the route, arriving in each village on their market day. We are going to market hop our way to Gourma-Rharous. There, we will try to find a 4×4 to take us south along a piste back to the main road. Shindouk informs us that there is a pinasse leaving on Saturday. Thursday is market day in Gourma. Market hopping, we should be in Gourma on Thursday.

In Timbuktu we were fortunate to be invited to stay at the family home of the amiable man who drove us in the 4×4. He’s a chauffeur. We called him ‘le chauffeur’. He grew up in Gourma-Rharous – it’s where his family live. He gives us a name, but we don’t expect to need it.

The Departure

Saturday arrives. We wait by the road to hitch to Kourioume on the river. Eventually, a 4×4 stops. Papa and his two friends say they will take us. In Kourioume they enquire about the pinasse. No pinasse was leaving Kourioume that day. We should try at Hombi-Bonga they say. Where? There’s no village by that name on my map. There is a village called Kabara just 7km downstream though. Yes, Kabara – that is Hombi-Bonga. Of course. Papa drives us there and again asks about transport downstream. Success.

We can go by public pinasse to Mandiakoy. Mandiakoy is half-way to Gourma-Rharous, which is half-way to Gao. The cost will be 2,000CFA each. The cost became 5,000CFA each when the pinasse owner saw we were white. We all agreed on 4,000CFA each and that racism was rife in Mali. He was not ashamed and we were not surprised.

The Pinasse

We sat on the sand, surrounded by locals. It was the end of market day in Kabara and stalls were slowly (for everything is done slowly under the hot desert sun) being cleared up. Eventually it was time to leave. We boarded along a long, slippery plank of wood with water and bread for the journey. Despite it being market day in Kabara, there was only bread to be bought for our on-board dinner and breakfast and however many more meals would be needed on our pinasse ride of indeterminable length.

The Pinasse Interior

Like our leaking pirogue from the Niger River paddle in Guinea, this pinasse also had a layer of filthy water settled in the bottom of the boat. Branches laid across the boat act as a raised, uneven platform. On top of these branches a mat was placed. This mat was our space for the journey. We were ahead of the women in the centre who gossiped and laughed and cooked over a large stove which sent eye-stinging wood-smoke through the pinasse insides. One underweight old man had the thankless task of periodically emptying excess water with a jerry can. I say thankless because he was never thanked for his efforts. I was very grateful for without him I would have awoken in the night lying in a rising pool of water, which is what happened to my bag. We were in front of the group of older men, Tuareg, who sat quietly wrapped in blue, sheathed swords lying nearby. One of these old men had a filthy habit of clearing his nostrils down the inner side of the pinasse. Occasionally this effluent would get carried by the wind. Occasionally I would feel small droplets fall on my arm. We were behind the younger men and the driver. They were regular passengers and had a good system of sacks and boxes on which to dryly rest.

Tuareg traveller

The pinasse chugged down the smooth river, away from the setting sun. Once dark, except for the stars, the engine was cut. Silence. Now was the time to sleep. Sleep as well as you can wedged between two branches just an inch above the leak-water.

Morning came, the sun rose, bodies rose, people prayed, the engine started. Further down the Niger we travelled. We stopped to collect passengers in small villages. Rice sacks piled high by the river meant we were to stop there. At each stop, the women on board left the boat with their bags, laid out goods on the sandy bank and so began the bartering and trading. A mobile market.

Mobile Market

We passed fertile green pastures with cattle grazing and horses resting. The river is a lifeline through this otherwise barren region.

Mandiakoy

Eventually the driver called to us, ‘Mandiakoy’. We looked over the side to a sandy bank. There was no village here. There were no boats here either. Unsure, not wanting to be stranded with no means of escape, we looked at the driver quizzically. He assured us this was the stop for Mandiakoy – the village was 2km away. We were in luck – Dr Sidi (a student medic) was going to his home in Mandiakoy. We followed Dr Sidi. Followed him north, against the wind, away from the river, away from our way out of this desolate place.

Mandiakoy was to be the end of our journey by river. The following day was market day in Mandiakoy. There would be transport leaving for Gourma-Rharous at the end of market day. We could travel by 4×4 with a friend of Dr Sidi.

We were in Mandiakoy for little more than 24hours. One hour ws enough to explore all of Mandiakoy – it’s two sandy streets, it’s under-stocked shop, the market that is like all other markets in Mali and the small river (an offshoot of the Big River) which must be crossed by all coming to market. I spent some time watching the people arriving – turbanned Tuareg, boys beating donkeys, light-skinned nomadic families of Berber origin.

Remaining time is spent in the compound of Dr Sidi. Sitting inside, shading. Sitting in the shade, reading. Occasionally talking. It’s too hot to do much more.

And then the frenzy began. We may have been sat all morning, waiting. But now that we are sat eating rice for lunch it is time to leave. For an unknown reason we must leave immediately. There is barely time to eat, collect our bags, say thank you and goodbye before being herded into the back of the 4×4. Once bundled in the 4×4 we sit waiting again. Eventually we leave town.

Gourma-Rharous

Driving over sand, alongside the river is much faster than travelling by boat. We reach Gourma-Rharous the same day. Days after leaving Timbuktu, Gourma-Rharous appears the height of modernity. There is electricity. There are street lights. There are shops. Lots of them.

The driver of the 4×4 stops in a side street and calls a man over. This is where we get off. This is the man we are visiting, we are told. We do as we are told and go with the man. He is a friend of the chaffeur in Timbuktu, who has informed him that ‘Deux Blanches’ would be arriving in Gourma by 4×4 from Mandiakoy and that since we were his friends, he was to help us. Mobile technology carries news faster than the wind, faster than camels and faster than we could travel.

The chauffeur’s friend has been tasked with feeding us, accommodating us and finding us onward transport to Gossi. He needs to go to Bamako and so will be joining us on whatever transport he can find. His need to go means we find a vehicle leaving that same night.

Under cover of darkness a group of people is assembled. All people wanting to get to the main road. A 4×4 has been cruising the streets of Gourma for a while. I know this because I was sat on a bench waiting and the 4×4 s distinguishable by it’s one working headlight. This 4×4 stops and we get in the back. We don’t get the option to pay extra and sit in the cabin. Instead, I crouch in the back, bolts in my back and bags under my feet.

It’s a full moon and it is dimly lighting up the desert through which we are travelling. I am unable to appreciate it though. The wind is strong and the dust plentiful. I put on a long top to keep warm, wrap my kaftan inelegantly round my head and put on my sunglasses in a vain attempt to keep dust from my eyes. Even then my eyes are too sore and I keep them closed until we reach Gossi.

Gossi – The Main Road

We arrive in Gossi in the middle of the night. We have made it back to the main road. We have made it out of Timbuktu. But now there is nowhere to go because it is the middle of the night.

We put the tent up behind a shack, among piles of rubbish, and sleep soundly until daybreak.

Djenne is a sleepy place. Except for Mondays. Monday is market day. Market day means hundreds of people arrive in town, congregate, congest the streets. They usher in goats and sheep, set up shop on the street floor to sell anything (everything afterall has a price and if it has a price it can be sold). They barter, bicker and trade. Fresh fruit, dried fruit, neatly arranged vegetables, spices, millet, rice, nuts. Cloth, second-hand clothes – Drogba football shirts and Obama campaign regalia, shoes. Torches, batteries, bike parts. Toothpaste, cuddly teddies, sweets, cigarettes. You want something – it’ll be there.

Locals know Djenne for the Monday market. Tourists know Djenne for the Great Mosque.

Djenne Great Mosque and Monday Market

The Great Mosque is famous because it’s the largest mud-brick building in the world. The first mosque here was built in the 13th century. The mosque I saw was built in 1907. It’s a replica of the original.

But it’s just a big mud-brick building. When I was there, a crumbling mud-brick building. Each year the outer mud layer gets eroded by the rains and then cracks and breaks in the ensuing hot and cold (well, less hot) temperature fluctuations. To prevent eventual total collapse, the residents of Djenne repair the walls annually. Wooden scaffolding is erected. Mud plaster is mixed in large pits by the children, carried by the women and plastered by the men (an excellent example of division of labour). I visited just before the walls were repaired, scaffolding up. I’m not a Muslim so I’ll never know what it looks like inside.

Public Transport – Take 1 – Djenne to Sevare

In short, I could have cycled faster.

Walk from hotel to where the transport leaves – uneventful.

I see a mini-bus. I’m optimistic – it looks relatively new and roadworthy. I’m equally pessimistic – there are a lot of seats to fill. I know that nothing leaves unless fully-loaded.

Ticket buying is painless. Waiting, tedious. (Although amused for a short time by small child trying to palm off a sticky ball of peanut dough to Wotto, which he had been moulding in his grubby hands.)

Mini-bus leaves empty and a smaller but in shocking condition bachee takes it’s place. Conclusion – more likely to leave Djenne today but less likely to arrive in Sevare.

Out of the blue… no…. Out of the dust… people move from idle bench-sitting to active baggage handling and people-loading into back of the vehicle. There’s me, Wotto, three Japanese, a middle-aged well-to-do Mali couple who turn their nose up at the inevitable invasion of private space, the old guy with several teeth missing, another man opposite me and two large ladies taking up most of the space on my left. Perched at our legs on top of bags are two more people. One young guy hangs off the back. He ensures the luggage on the roof stays there. Nine months ago I would have said there was space for six people in the back. I know now better.

We stop in every village. We even stop between villages. Eventually we stop in Sevare.

Dogon Country

We hitched to Bandiagara and arranged a short three-day tour walking through Dogon country along the escarpment. We visited small villages with names like Djguibombo, Kani Kombole, Teli, Ende, Yabatoulou, Indelou and Begnimata. Just as each name sounds intriguing and individual, so is each village’s character.

Funereal Mask Festival in Djiguibombo

According to my Guide to Mali, the Dogon country is a highlight. Having visited, I have to agree.

I could not even start to describe, let alone explain all the intricacies surrounding Dogon culture. Not in this update anyway. Perhaps you will be partially satisfied by some of the photos I took.

Public Transport – Take 2 – The Road to Timbuktu

From Bandiagara we took a bachee to Sevare. The 65km journey took a couple of hours. Significantly more time was spent sat on a bench by the roadside waiting for 14 passengers to assemble and subsequently be squeezed into the seven seats in the car.

At Sevare, a bus was leaving for Douentza a couple of hours later. We bought our tickets. A couple of hours later, baggage was loaded into, under and on top. Another hour passed and people were loaded in too. No seat or aisle space remained. The journey to Douentza was uncomfortable, hot and slow.

To get from Douentza to Timbuktu we needed to find a 4×4. Eventually one was assembled, together with cargo (passengers). In hindsight, we made a wise choice – we paid extra to sit in the cabin. Most people perched in the back of the pick-up, at full mercy to the wind, dust and bumpy dirt track. We were told it would take about four hours to reach our destination. I think sometimes it does. But we left at 9.30pm and so reached Kourioume on the river in the middle of the night.

Sunrise at Kourioume

There was no boat to take us to the other side. Wotto slept on the back seat of the 4×4. I slept outside. It was a surprisingly cold night (how I long for another one of those). 6.00am brought with it sunrise, coffee and a boat to ferry us to the other side. A mere 10km further and we arrived in Timbuktu.

Timbuktu

I can’t remember the first time I heard the word ‘Timbuktu’. It was a long time ago. For a long time I didn’t realise it was an actual place, not just some myth or legend. I know now – Timbuktu (or perhaps you prefer the spelling ‘Timbuctoo’, ‘Timbouctou’ or even ‘Tombouctou’, all of which refer to the same town) is a dusty town sitting on the bend of the great Niger River in northern Mali, on the edge of the desert. It’s easy to know you’re on the edge of the desert – there’s sand everywhere, slowing piling up.

The legend of Timbuktu as an important trading town and famed centre of Islamic learning encouraged many early European explorers to go and see for themselves. There were several failed attempts – both Mungo Park the Scottish explorer and Gordon Laing as Brit both perished before they returned home to report their findings. Rene Caillie, a Frenchman, in 1828 was the first to make it out alive – but he had to disguise himself as a Muslim in the process.

Today, despite concerns of kidnappings by Islamic militants in the region, it is relatively safe to reach and leave Timbuktu. I can confirm though that it’s still quite time-consuming (unless you opt to fly, which is apparently an option).

There’s not much to do in Timbuktu. There’s not much trade anymore. Or learning.

You can wander the dusty streets past houses where European explorers once spent time. It’s easy to tell which houses these are – they look just like all the others, mud-brick with with large wooden doors, except for a metal plaque with a European name inscribed on it.

Wooden doors in Timbucktu

You can wander past the mosques and visit a small museum. The reason to go to the small museum is to say you have seen the ‘Well of Bouctou’. One theory says that Timbuctoo was named after a lady called Bouctou who looked after the well there . ‘Tin’ apparently meaning well. But this seems to be a European explanation that has been adopted by the Mali tourist industry. You will find as many different theories about the origins of the name as there are locals wanting to talk to you, historians writing books on the subject. Each ethnic group has it’s own slant.

Once you have wandered and wondered, there’s little left to do but drink tea. Not a mug of Earl Grey or PG Tips. A shot glass of sickly-sugar-sweetened, strong bitter green tea. The same tea I can no longer stomach after spending months in the company of locals in Morocco and Mauritania. It’s rude to refuse though.

So we spent the days sitting on a carefully laid mat on the sandy floor, passing shot glasses back and forth and sipping tea. Bitter-sweet.

Public Transport – Take 3 – Leaving Timbuktu

I had thought getting to Timbuktu was time consuming – 12 hours after leaving the main road and we arrived in town.

I knew nothing then about how long it can take to leave Timbuktu – it took us 64 hours to get back to the main road and that didn’t include the two days we spent in Timbuktu waiting for transport. Admittedly, we decided not to return by the route we had arrived but that journey I shall leave for the next update….

Apologies there’s no pictures, but the internet is incredibly slow today… check back at my last two posts though and there’s plenty to look at there.

Bush-taxi epic

It took the best part of six hours to get from Choum to Atar, a mere 120km, by bush-taxi. I’ve been cycling this distance in the same amount of time and feeling less exhausted at the end of it too. Bush-taxi is a local term for a 4×4 (Toyota) pick-up truck overloaded with people and things. More care is taken with securing the ‘things’ in the back of the truck than the people – and essentially what this meant was that it took an inordinately long time to pack everyone’s belonging into the back of the pick-up, with my bike balanced unstably on the top of the heap and the panniers hanging precariously from their straps. I was then left to perch on top of this top-heavy load, feet dangling in the cool night-time air over the edge. Despite hurtling along the bumpy desert tracks, the entire cargo of things and people made it to Atar. Doing as the locals do, I even managed to sleep a little. Unable to keep my eyelids open, I’d occasionally wake with a jerk as my body slumped from it’s upright position and I’d find my self sliding slowly over the side.

Rain in the desert

My plan to cycle to the ancient caravan town of Chinguetti over the Amogjar pass changed abruptly when, through enquiries as to the state of the route, it became apparent that a recent heavy thunderstorm had washed away the road. It would be passable ‘tomorrow’… or the next day, I was told. I learnt a long time ago that ‘tomorrow’ is used to refer to ‘some time in the future’ and so with that, I decided to cycle to the small oasis of Terjit for some relaxation and since this was on the route south to Nouakchott I’d just continue my journey from there. Chinguetti just wasn’t meant to be (this time). The doorless nomadic tent I slept in was invaded by ants and mosquitoes in the night, but it was the bats that prompted me to get up in the darkness and put up my own tent. I could have coped with the bats too, if it wasn’t that one had decided to hang directly above me and I can only presume urinated on my face since it certainly wasn’t raining inside.

The Deserted Desert Road to Nouakchott

From Terjit to Nouakchott it was three long days on the bike, covering some 415km. The first day was hard – it was my first since Morocco where I was travelling alone – I was bored and I found the scenery uninspiring. The second day however, I crossed paths with two other cyclists – a German and a Frenchman. They said they were loving the scenery, which was constantly changing and once I got thinking about it, realised they were right and from that point on, my spirits were lifted and I started to enjoy the desert again. I think I had set my sights on getting to Nouakchott that I had forgotten the main reason for cycling – to see the country. This trip is about the journey, not the destination.

Dust Devil and Dinner

The first day I cycled until sunset and having found somewhere to camp set about cooking up a feast (well pasta and tuna at least). With dinner cooked, I sat down to eat by torchlight and as I did, out of nowhere, the wind starting blowing around me. It blew dust into my face and for a while I had to sit with my eyes shut, rubbing them furiously. A few minutes later the wind stopped as suddenly as it had started and shining the torch into my bowl of pasta found it was now heavily garnished with sand. I ate my pasta with added ‘crunch’ and then set about cleaning some of the dust off my clothes.

Dust Devil and Dunes

The second day I cycled until sunset and found a spot to camp next to a small dune by a radio mast. I enjoyed a dust-free dinner and the crumbs I dropped were soon attacked by a small army of ants. It was only once I had set up the inner of my tent and settled down for the evening that the wind started out of nowehere. This time, it was blowing in one direction only – over the dune and bringing with it substantial quantities of sand, which blew straight through the mesh inner and deposited on me and all my belongings. I decided to forego seeing the stars that night and put up the outer part of the tent as well in an attempt to stem the flow of sand that was gradually building up into little dunes next to my panniers and sleeping bag. This attempt failed. Throughout the night, the sand continued to layer up on me as it blew under the edges of the tent. Once again I had to put up with mouthfuls of sand and I didn’t dare try and use a hairbrush the next day!

A Desert Romance

When I was in the UK, back in the early stages of planning this trip, the idea of travelling through the Sahara had a certain romantic appeal to it. I had images of me cycling alone through the desert wilderness expanse, cooking up a sumptuous filling meal out in the open and later looking up from my sleeping bag at the vast African night sky and the millions of stars realising just how insignificant you are in this universe….The reality has been somewhat different! Having said that, I have loved the desert experience and would swap a city hotel room for sand in my tent in the Sahara any day. Me and the desert closer resembles a 25-year marriage (from what I’ve seen of other people’s marriages that is) – there are good days and bad days and sometimes you have to work hard at it, but in the end, it’s an enduring love and I’ve no doubt I’ll be back to the desert in the future. I’ll probably be complaining profusely about the sand again but it doesn’t mean I love it any less.

Not a lot in Nouakchott

I arrived in Nouakchott, Mauritania’s understated capital, on the third day and eventually found Auberge Menata which had been recommended. I opted for camping in my tent on the terrace and was surprised to see a tent identical to mine already pitched. I was even more surprised when later on, I bumped into Lars (the Swedish guy I’d been cycling through the Western Sahara with). He was even more surprised that I was surprised to see him, since it was his tent on the terrace I had seen and his bike, which I had failed to spot, was parked directly in front of it. Top marks for observation skills!

My intended one night in Nouakchott turned into four. There’s not a lot to see and do the capital but that’s probably why I was happy relaxing there for a while. I could happily chill out in the auberge courtyard in the shade of the leafy trees without feeling I should be exploring the city. I explored as far as was necessary to find good food, which wasn’t far. What I really wanted was a beer though, but this city of Muslim Mauritania is as dry as the desert.

I left the exploring for the resident tortoises whose tunnels from the auberge expand into a network that lies beneath the city – they were here long before the city was built in the 60′s – connecting a number of these tortoises who live in various large garden residences over town. This network of tunnels would remain unknown if it wasn’t for one slight, inebriated Frenchman who, at the suggestion by a resident Glaswegian called Barrie, decided one time to go and investigate, armed only with a headtorch, where the tortoises used to disappear to at night.

Two Take to the Road

Since me and Lars are both cycling, both cycling in the same direction and seem to get on quite well, we decided to continue travelling together. And so, after three (or was it four or five nights?) in Nouakchott, we took to the road again, south towards St Louis in Senegal.

A Passport Check and Proposition

Leaving Nouakchott we came to a military checkpoint and a little further on to a customs check and then a little further on the police check. Travelling through the Western Sahara and Mauritania, showing your passport and answering the standard ‘where are you from?’, ‘where are you going?’ questions at the numerous checkpoints has become part of the routine on the road.

A short distance before this checkpoint there was a small shop selling cold cokes, which Lars stopped to buy. I rode over to the police with our passports, so they could begin the slow process of copying all our details onto file. I went and got my coke and returned to the police shack. I was called over by one of the guards who began asking the usual questions, while holding our passports firmly in both hands behind his back.. I was beginning to think there might be some problem. The questions then moved on to ‘are you married?’ – this is quite a common question when I’ve been cycling by myself, but not when with Lars. I say no. ‘But why not?’. I say I am married to my bike. He laughs. ‘Divorce your bike and marry me’. I say no. He is really quite serious and asks if I’ll marry him again. He does afterall have a good job and could take good care of me. I say I prefer to take care of myself. I notice the three other police guards standing a few feet away, closely watching this conversation. I’m wondering how I’m going to get our passports back without a wedding ceremony. I then spot Lars walking over with empty bottles in search of water. I decide to change the direction of this conversation and ask if it’s possible for ‘mon amie’ to get some water. ‘Oh he is your boyfriend?’. I want my passport back so I say yes. He asks why we aren’t married. And so the conversation continues until Lars reaches us. Getting bored of the marriage chat, I ask directly if there is a problem with the passports. No problem and he hands them back, fills up our water bottles and wishes us ‘bon voyage’.

If ever I decide I want to settle down, get married and have children, I have found an easier, quicker way to go about this than the slow process of finding a boyfriend in England, going out for several years, moving in together and then waiting for him to pop the question. Just fly out to Morocco or Mauritania and judging by my experiences on this trip, I can guarantee that by the end of the day you’d have three proposals. It would be like flying to Vegas, getting wasted on Tequila and within 24 hours you could be married by Elvis to some guy you met at the slot machines. This way however, you avoid a hangover!

Crash Land in Africa

Aday after leaving Nouakchott and we had by this stage, well and truly left the desert behind. No more sand or camels. Instead, small wooden huts and screaming children chasing us down the road, green fields and the stereotypical symbol of Africa – the acacia tree.

With so much variety, I wasn’t spending much time looking where I was going when cycling. And so it was, as we passed a village, watching two women watch us and then go running in the opposite direction, that I cycled straight into the back of Lars’ bike, panniers colliding, me swerving uncontrollably. As my front wheel left the road, I left my bike – careering over the handlebars to land face down in the gravel. Smooth.

For the next fifteen minutes, I sat cross-legged by the road, picking gravel out of my bleeding palms watched on by an increasing number of villagers – children, women and men – and passing cars also slowing to see what was going on. And as I sat bandaging up my hands, Lars kindly went to great lengths to document this part of the trip, camera-laden snapping away. Thanks!

Corrugations and Flat Tyres

Towards the end of the second day after leaving Nouakchott, we turned off the main road and began following a piste directly towards the Diama bridge crossing to Senegal. The piste was hideously corrugated, which is a nightmare for cycling on but preferable by far to just continuing on the main road with speeding cars overtaking occasionally. We camped that night under acacia trees and were awoken in the morning to the chirping of birds and baying of donkeys.

The following day, short of food and unsure where we could get some, we came across a small village. I stopped to ask a young boy if there was a shop where we could get food; bread or biscuits for example. This was a mistake. Soon we were surrounded by a horde of children all demanding sweets and chocolate from us. Seriously – we don’t have any. If we did, I’d have been eating them. Deciding that no food was preferable to fighting our way through these persistent kids, we started to cycle off, boys following at a sprint closely behind. One spotted a bag on the top of my bike, with biscuit packets inside. He began tearing at it and had soon ripped it right off – thanks, I was wondering what to do with my rubbish bag. The other kids laughed as empty wrappers lay strewn across the path.

It was at this exact point that I realised something wasn’t quite right… 7,000km from England and it was while trying to make a speedy getaway from these thieving kids (one of the them had by this point managed to undo the straps on my back pannier) that I get my first flat tyre. Perfect.

For the next fifteen minutes I rifled through my bags searching out the spare tyre. And as I set about changing the tyre, pumping it up and keeping a close eye on my belongings, Lars kindly ensured the entire episode was documented in a series of colour photographs. Thanks!

Racing Warthogs

After this, things calmed down and the remaining journey into Senegal was simply wonderful. We cycled along smooth tracks through the Parc National de Djoudj, watching hundreds of birds by the waters of the Senegal river. Pelicans, flamingos, herons, wading birds and hundreds of smaller birds the names of which I don’t know. We raced warthogs along the tracks, their tails erect, tusks menacing, dust flying. Lars chased large lizards in an attempt to catch them.

We left the park late in the afternoon and with a slight quickening of pace, made it to Diama bridge and the border just in time to get our passports stamped. We were actually fifteen minutes late, but the Senegalese official said he would let us through since we were on bikes.

We camped a few kilometres further on and the next morning pedalled the last 25km.

St Louis

And so, having craved beer ever since arriving in Nouakchott (my last alcoholic beverage was in Essaouira, Morocco several weeks ago), we cruised into colourful, lively, bustling St. Louis just as it was beginning to get hot.

That first bottle of ice cold Flag beer, tasted so good. It was worth the wait.

Life here is sweet. But after four days, it’s time to leave again. Next stop, the Gambia.

After spending the best part of a week travelling through the desolate desert, arriving in Nouadhibou was an assault on the senses…. it felt like we had finally arrived in Africa: battered cars weaving down the dusty roads, swerving now and then to avoid an overloaded, donkey-pulled, rickety, wooden cart; the drivers beeping the horns for any reason, and no reason; streets lined with shops – shops selling a delectable array of tinned food and cold cokes, epiceries with the meat carcasses hanging from hooks, plagued by flies even in early in the morning; the occasional boulangerie with the smell of freshly-made french-style baguettes subtly wafting down the street, for a while overcoming the stale odour of rotting vegetables piled into a rubbish heap; slim, young, men in tattered clothes sitting, strolling, not noticeably working and buxom ladies in traditional, elegant, vivid, flowing print dresses and neatly wrapped head-scarves that remain perfectly in place regardless of the wind, purposefully walking with bags of groceries.

This is the place where Muslim north Africa and black sub-Saharan Africa collide and unite. This is the place I rode into town, seemingly unnoticed, just another face in the crowd. What a change from Morocco and the Western Sahara – my importance on the road instantly diminishing from red-carpet hollywood star status, where the passers-by and drivers all wave and smile at you, to ranking somewhere above the wandering goats, on a par with overloaded donkey carts, where you have to constantly watch out for cars turning, reversing, speeding or swerving.

Cafe, computers and kipping

I spent the best part of four days in Nouadhibou. It’s not a big town and there’s little for the foreign tourist to see and most overlanders only stay the night before continuing their journey south. Having said that, it is a lovely laid-back place to relax for a few days. I spent most of my time there in one of three places and wandering between them… the friendly auberge for sleeping, showering and washing clothes; the taste-of-Europe cafe with good coffee, tasty pastries, mini-pizzas and free wi-fi; and the Mauritanian-style fast-food restaurant and take-away for cheap hamburgers, fries and kefta sandwiches. Afterall, there’s little else the modern day cycle tourer needs than somewhere to recuperate with a comfy bed, internet access and copious quantities of high calorie food.

The great train ride

After Lars had departed, I continued to procrastinate in town, as I usually do when left to my own devices until something sparks my energy and enthusiasm. The spark in this case was to take a ride on, at 2.3km long, the world’s longest train – a series of iron-ore wagons which run along tracks following the border with the Western Sahara between Nouadhibou and the desert mining town of Zouerat.

I cycled the 5km south of town to the ‘gare du voyageurs’. Actually, that’s not entirely correct. True, I did cycle to the station and it was 5km out of town. However, while chatting to a local shop owner in town (if you’re a regular reader of my updates, you’ll have guessed that I was buying food) he had said that by bike, it would take 30minutes to the station and it did in the end take 30minutes – that’s because, taking him by his word, I was happily cycling along and sweating in the midday sun with head turned left, fascinated by the ship cemetery in the estuary on my left – large, rusting ships, run aground and now resting at a tilt with hulls visible in the shallow waters. I was a good 12km out of town before it was clear I’d gone too far and I confirmed this with the only other person around.

Rail tracks - Danger of Death

So I made a u-turn and pedalled back the way I’d come; looking to my left again, this time along the line of the train track to make sure I didn’t end up back in Nouadhibou. It’s not all that surprising I missed the station – it was nothing more than a small building beside the track. The large writing on the white-washed wall was the giveaway though – ‘Gare du Voyageurs’ printed in bold!

I pushed my bike over the sand and took a seat on one of the benches lining the walls on the three sides with the large room (the entirety of the building) opening out onto the tracks, along with a number of fellow passengers. In the centre of the room several ladies sat, each by their own small table, toppling with foodstuffs and fizzy drinks for sale, but they weren’t trying very hard to sell and nobody was interested in buying anyway.

Train station silence

There’s something about train stations the world over…. set a group of strangers in a train station and they become self-absorbed, self-concious, introverted and unwilling, even incapable, of striking up conversation or interacting with each other in any way. There’s an unspoken rule that conversation but on no accounts be entered into. Put the same people in a park and they’ll comment on how lovely or energetic the dog being walked is followed on with how beautiful the snowdrops/daffodils are but they seem to be flowering very early this season and oh isn’t it a lovely day for a walk by the way. Put the same people in a bar and they’ll talk about the premier league football results or progress with the test cricket, indeed any significant sport which inevitably involves some discussion of the weather as this usually affects the results in some way. Put the same people in a market and they’ll comment on how unusually busy it is, but no-one seems to be buying anything and it really is a struggle these days for the local producers having to compete against the likes of Tescos and Waitrose, and of course there’ll be some mention of the weather – either because the bad weather made it so difficult to get into town or the recent rains ruined the latest harvest. The weather, house prices and the recent favourite being the recession are universal topics of conversation which are discussed by strangers in all manor of places… but never the train station.

Breaking the rules

And so it was in this train station of sorts. We all sat there in silence – staring blankly straight ahead, with the occasional sideways glance but making absolutely sure to avoid eye contact should the other person happen to see you and try to shrivel up and become part of the wall for fear that he might have to say something to this clearly odd person staring back at him. And it was while I was making a sideways glance I spotted two white faces – two Europeans. Maybe, just maybe, we could have something in common and just this once break the train station rules and strike up a conversation. And it was while I made a second glance at these two white faces that I spotted an Ortlieb handlebar bag laying alongside them – not just two Europeans but two cycling Europeans, here in the same station waiting to catch the only train in Mauritania. That was the decider. This time, I was going to break the unspoken, universal train station rules.

Lots to talk about

And so it was, that I got chatting to Ivor and Jamila, students from Switzerland on a four month cycle tour from home to Dakar. Of course we had plenty in common and plenty to talk about… cycling, cycling in Europe, Morocco and the Western Sahara and then of course we could talk about the weather, most notably the wind and the heat. We chatted about all sorts of things over the course of the next couple of days we travelled together, but it all began in the little white building that served as a train station, while waiting for the world’s longest train to come by and take us further into the desert.

The twelve hour ride

The train arrived, practically on-time (being only one hour late) and we clambered aboard the passenger cabin at the end of the ore wagons of the world’s longest train.

Iron ore wagons on the world's longest train

I decided to pay and take the luxury seating in the passenger carriage, rather than riding for free in one of the ore wagons, where I was guaranteed to end the 12-hour journey covered in entirety in a layer of iron ore dust. The luxury seating however, which surely had seen better days, now consisted of a bum-numbing, hip-crushing, hard-bottomed bench and although the cushioning of the seat-backs still remained in place they were rather faded and dust-encrusted. There were no doors and the windows were jammed in place, mostly open, and since the passenger carriage was at the very end of the longest train in the world, the sand and ore dust which was lifted into the air by the passing ore wagons, made it’s way into the compartment where I sat and there it settled… it settled in my hair turning it grey; on my clothes mixing with sweat to form dirty smudges over my once-white kaftan; in my lungs so that I breathed heavily as though I’d smoked since a teenager; at the back of my throat which became so sore I wanted to cough all the time and had to constantly sip water to calm the burning. But worst of all, it settled thickly on my bike… the one that I’d spent a good couple of hours cleaning that morning in the hostel; carefully degreasing, painstakingly scrubbing off rust from the chain with a toothbrush (an old one, I’ll point out, and not the one from my washbag) and then oiling so that it was like new. In a matter of minutes, all my hard work had been undone. C’est la vie!

The 12-hours went surprisingly quickly. The first few hours I chatted with my new Swiss cycling friends. We drank tea with the local passengers and ticket inspector – the elaborate, and on a moving train highly skilful, method of rapidly pouring the tea from pot to glass to pot and back in the glass from unnecessarily high heights being successfully carried out without a drop being spilled. I sat, very still slightly scared, while the guy next to me examined a huge, sharp knife while the train jolted forcefully as the wagons tried to close together and prise apart like a jammed concertina.

Window view - Seeing through the dust

I once put my head out of the window, but the blast of dust was too great and temporarily blinded me and made my eyes red raw. I even managed to sleep on the hard seats while the train rocked, vibrated, bounced, bumped, jerked, jolted, shook, swayed, creaked and squeaked it’s way through the desert. Each time we stopped, I would wake up and look to see where we were, but it was pitch black outside except for the stars – they were ‘official’ stops though because there would be 4×4′s waiting by the line to take the departing passengers. Where they went I couldn’t say – there must have been a village nearby, but no lights could be seen in the distance and there were no roads. The desert in the dark can be an eerie place for a stranger.

Bush-taxi

And so perhaps it was because of this, that when we arrived at our destination Choum (another stop where 4×4′s were waiting, the driver’s impatient, in the blackness with no lights to be seen in the distance and no roads either) I decided to put my things on the back of a bush-taxi like everyone else, rather than attempt the 120km of desolate piste to Atar, with no signs, villages, people or water along the way.

The bush-taxi to Atar was an interesting 120km ride but I think I’ll leave for another update…. it’s getting late here in Nouakchott now and I haven’t had my second dinner yet. I’ve bumped into Lars again here and we’re heading to Senegal on the bikes tomorrow. Hopefully, in three days we’ll be in St. Louis and I’ll be posting another update. Inshallah.

Good night.