The Time’s Ticking For The Two Toubabs...

First and not so simple things first is that the word ‘toubab’ is a West African term used to describe a white guy, with the translation apparently meaning either ‘gentleman’ or if you believe Wikipedia ‘rich white traveller,’ or probably most likely refers to how much the colonial Englishman paid the girl after use…’two bob.’ Interesting that there doesn’t seem to be a name for the many western middle aged women here doing pretty much the same…
So then, having finally got to the Gambia and hooked up with Mick and staying with David, the first couple of days were had catching up on food, beer and sleep. In between this we visited a reptile farm and met an expat named Ray who’d broken his hip nine weeks earlier and needed to go back to the hospital as the ‘treatment’ that he’d received was, as expected, third world. Despite the people being a far lot cheerier than those that I’d encountered so far on the way down Gambia is still an extremely poor country. This couldn’t have been highlighted to me any more than the visit with Ray and the boys to the hospital. God forbid either of us become ill here or anywhere else (except SA) for that matter as the conditions were absolutely dreadful. Ray’s outcome was basically go back to the UK to get fixed asap.
Next up was a visit to the Nigerian embassy for our visas. Once inside, confusion reigned as to why/where we were intending to go there and what we needed for our application, whilst being told that the 60 euro application fee is not refundable should they not be approved. In order to straighten all this out we had to wait to see the consulate who after what seemed like an interview, a security brief and a presidential speech rolled into one informed us to put in our applications which would take a week (A WEEK!) to hopefully be approved. At this point I started to think about the possibility of jumping on a plane to return home to sort out my still ongoing second passport issue but…of course they have my passport so there was nothing else for it other than to wait around and be part of a robbery.
Yes a robbery. It had to happen at some time and will no doubt happen again, however as a nice little warm up it was only David’s laptop computer that was taken from the room in which I was sleeping. As well as David’s computer, all mine and Mick’s possessions were half on show including GPS’s, ipods, netbook computers, documents and money. Maybe satisfied with his/her (there’s equality for you) booty or maybe scared off by David’s wife that saw a torchlight and shouted out they legged it. Leaving a shocked household checking what else was taken along with discovering that the padlocked outer doors were, despite their appearance, not actually all that secure. After that particular episode we stumbled upon a local political rally which was kind of interesting seeing all the different tribes in costume playing and singing their different songs.
Since then the bikes have received a half service, mine’s washed and (especially for you Scott) I’ve had a repack which has included moving a few spare parts around the bike to spread the load and make the panniers and roll bag more manageable. Des’s rear tyre is pretty much worn out but with Mick’s ‘Lonely Planet’ showing just over 7000 miles still to go to Cape Town I reckon with a bit more out of this one along with my spare I should be OK. Should.
STOP PRESS: We’ve finally got our visas after 4 days, my passport has been approved and should be at home by the end of the week and we plan to get moving again tomorrow (30/3) morning…

Trying to escape Senegal - and border heaven into the Gambia

Before I left the UK amongst some of the text messages I’d received from Mick was one that said I’d either love Africa or hate it. So far, for me, it’s pretty close to hate. Apart from northern Morocco where it was clean, picturesque, with nice people and as I said quite Turkish since then it’s been grim. Beyond central Morocco it’s difficult to imagine how people live in such conditions. The heat, sandstorms and the environment are just so inhospitable it’s untrue. After about five days of nothing but this it soon made me feel like I’d had enough and of course that included Mauritania which when I finally did pass through a proper sized town in Nouakchott, the poverty and general state of the place was horrendous. So with some green slowly appearing on the landscape Senegal offered some hope that I’d fall in love with Africa. Nope. After the terrible border crossing I found a guesthouse in St. Louis which was good enough for what I needed. The people there were nice enough and after I checked in we watched a African wrestling final which apparently was having an audience of 45 million people. Two huge guys dressed in traditional tribal bits of cloth and string grabbed at each other for 10 seconds until one fell over and that was that. Cue mass hysteria within the packed stadium and in the streets here and just about everywhere I reckoned. So Senegal then, I packed up and left the guesthouse around 9am and within a kilometer I stopped at a police checkpoint where I was immediately fined for “going too fast.” I decided to stand firm, however after around twenty minutes it was clear that these guys just didn’t care. With my driving license and insurance in their possession it was clear where the balance of power lay. 15 euros this time negotiated down from 45 euros pretty much had me down to my lowest point so far and with a full tank of fuel able to just about carry me across the border some 500km away I intended not to stop in order not to set foot in this terrible place again. Having bad experiences with bent officials is one thing and I know that it’s not a fair way to judge a place or its people but I have to say Senegal didn’t come across as a nice place at all. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is Africa but even in some of the poorest places in the world people still make an effort to be clean and friendly. Not here.
Finally, finally the GPS ticked down to less than a hundred km to the elusive Mick with Dr David Levine in the Gambia but first up another border crossing. I must have come across as a right nasty bit of work as scarred from the last episode I treated everyone with distain. However, things were looking up. I didn’t get charged at all on the bent Senegalese side and as for the Gambian side well oh my god the change in people was staggering. English rather than what has been and will mostly be French was the language spoken but more than that the people were clean, very friendly and just generally appeared happy! By the time I’d ridden the 10km or so to the boat and crossed I had five email addresses and invitations to come again for a holiday and stay with them, go out for drinks, assistance if needed etc etc. The initial chat that I’d had so far indicated that they were very much proud to be a former English colony and that corruption was not the way things were done. After all this friendliness I made it to Dr Levine’s house and finally met him and Mick. Great guys. Mick is 31, Danish, a former aircraft technician and one of those travelers that wants to try and absorb as much of what he can from a place. David is 60 odd, working on a voluntary project, a biker (GS650) and generally a very interesting guy. I enjoyed a much needed meal, a few beers, bike chat and a travel chat. It seems like the plan is to stay on here for a few days with a few activities planned…things are finally looking up.

Trying to escape Mauritania - Day 2 and border hell into Senegal

Packed up at first light and while waiting about 30mins for a suitable looking southbound car to follow I only had one thought in mind. Get to the border and get out. Partially dehydrated and with what has now become my usual breakfast of a malaria pill and a vitamin pill I eventually followed the car that turned up. A high speed blast behind the car to Nouakchott and then alone a further 200km to the border was met with relief at having got there major problem free. Big thanks to my friend Richard for having the panic button on standby. Having researched where I could for my route I was aware that the infamous crossing at Rosso to Senegal was a horrific experience to be avoided. Due to my ‘Tracks4Africa’ GPS card not arriving in time I’ve had to make do with a map and some very basic GPG mapping which only shows the main roads. As a result I couldn’t find and then subsequently missed the 60km turn off along a ‘piste’ (track) which apparently leads to a much more civilized crossing. So I arrived at Rosso which I can only compare to a scene in Mad Max 2 (below) whereby there is no order whatsoever and a nightmare just waiting to happen. Last year I experienced some terrible crossings with one even lasting ten hours but the big difference here was that they were all down to nothing more than former communist red tape. This was corruption, robbery and threatening all rolled into one. To start with the solo traveler is met with a big set of locked gates into a ‘compound’ which you assume is the border crossing. To make matters worse, inside there’s a small ferry ride involved which has no schedule. So with said solo traveler approaching the gates he/god forbid she is surrounded by a crowd of border leeches all desperate to have the money out of your pocket one way or the other. Amongst this lot was a uniformed official who I selected to help me. The biggest problem by far is not knowing exactly what’s what. I mean, if said official says it costs 50 euros to complete ‘all formalities’ including customs fees, police fees, vehicle something fees, tax and shipping costs etc than who am I to say it’s too much? 50 euros handed over and things appear to be going well despite the crowd of hangers on following us around and all wanting a piece of the action. After a couple of random bits of paper and a stamp matey then disappears, presumably with a nice bit of bunce in his sky rocket. Of the remaining locals one young guy seems to be the superior and later even mentions that his father is one of the high ranking officials that I have to wait two hours to see. He probably was. Despite the young lad trying to impress me with his new Samsung phone and Senegalese music while waiting for two hours for ‘a stamp’ it’s clear than I’m pissed off, knowing that I’ve probably been stung and on top of that his mates or whoever they were trying to rip me off with insurance for 120 euros (3 months for most of Africa) when I know from Mick it’s 50 euros and I even show them the text! With each declining of the offer price tensions rise…
Finally on the boat, accompanied by the chief’s son and another young lad (who to be fair I actually quite liked) who’s learning the ropes we cross and enter Senegal border control (control?!) Again, mob rule ensues and somewhat relived matey makes it clear to them that I’m his punter and sets about his work. This time it’s another 50 euros for police, customs, various ‘stamps’ and a couple of ‘taxes.’ By this time I’ve had enough and tempers are raised. But again if the official demands say 20 euros for a stamp what choice do I have? And they do. Finally the insurance is bought for 55 euros which is about right but one particular guy within the group does it. Each time a price is mentioned or questioned he gets more and more vocal and animated. Words were then exchanged between us and a flashpoint happens. Some squaring up, eyeballs and a minor scuffle later it’s all about to go belly up big time. Bear in mind that there is no rule here at all, this is a long way from what we’re used to. Perhaps worried that he won’t get his ‘bonus’ my ‘fixer’ then separates us and yells at me to “go go go” while the other guy is restrained. Off I hurry without some documents. “Shit.” I stop 200m up the road to ponder my next move when suddenly ‘fixer’ arrives with my missing documents and for his ‘bonus.’ Convinced he’s already had a nice day’s earning but also relived that he removed me from that situation I give him and the young lad who to be fair did a good job of looking after my bike throughout 10 euro each. So, 120 euros then probably 80-90 more than it should have been but what can you do? Refuse and go nowhere? Fortunately I managed to lower the loss by £45 in a way that only my closest friends can discover but even so not a pleasant experience. None of this has surprised me and it’s not hard to see why most of the world just doesn’t want to get involved with Africa, instead just leaving it to fester in its own pool of corruption and hopelessness. Still, things can only get better, tomorrow I should finally meet up with Mick in the Gambia who not only has had time to acclimatize to all this but also has some contacts along the way…

Running the gauntlet - Mauritania Day 1

Not the best two days coming up so in order of events here’s what happened…
Left Dakhla pretty sharp as there was a big day ahead and I hoped to save a day by riding direct to Nouakchott to meet ‘Mohammed’ rather than a round trip detour of 100km+ stopping in Nouadhibou. On the way to the border I was thinking to myself how few other distance bikers I’ve seen so far, with none going my way and only a couple coming the other way. Then suddenly on this totally desolate road that I seem to have been on forever now, two Teneres approach. We look at each other and think about stopping but the moment has gone. Within five minutes another two! This time me and a Spaniard riding the red one stop.
“Bonjour”
“Hello”
“You speak English?”
“Of course”
“Where have you been, where are you going, how many of you?”
“Malaga Spain from Gambia, eight, Kudu”
“Kudu?”
“Yes Kudu”
“Who’s the leader”
“Lee, English, a few Kilometers behind us”
“OK thanks, adios” At this point for those that don’t know, my trip last year was arranged by Kudu and Lee is the owner. So a further few km down the road at a remote fuel station there he is, with the same support truck that followed me around the world! I rollup detecting a few puzzled looks. When I’ve stopped I unmask, a bit like a Scooby Doo villain, much to his surprise. After a brief chat and photo we’re off. I’m not quite sure what sort of advert I was for him, now travelling alone, but I hope it was a good one.
So with that surreal moment behind me I got to the Mauritanian border which was a bit slow, but not too bad all things considered. One thing that has been highlighted though is my forgotten skill of off road riding, especially though sand. Between the Moroccan and Mauritanian borders is four km of no man’s land where the usual dodgy people hang around. Not a place to fall off or stop as there is absolutely no jurisdiction or rules. Despite coming close I kept Des upright and made it to Mauritania. Once through, albeit a bit later than I’d hoped and with, at last, a tailwind I decided to give Nouakchott a shot, about 300km. Now then, some important information about this country that I’ll be honest I’ve seriously worried about and have chosen not to tell you as it would’ve just made things worse. Mauritania currently has a highest UK FCO warning about UK citizens entering for security reasons. Over recent times, as recent as a few months ago there have been a spate of kidnappings of westerners by an Al-Qaeda cell, some with grave consequences due to ransoms not being met. The road from top to bottom is still desert and impossible to police properly due to the size, remoteness and inhospitable conditions. For those like me that have been mad/brave enough to do it, then the absolute golden rules are: 1, never ride alone and 2, never ride in the dark. Having done the calculations I reckoned on it being close plus when I found a battered up ford with two cheery Senegalese guys and a policeman in the back seat I tagged along…not a great decision. The policeman got out 100km later at a checkpoint and a further 50km later the ford broke down for good I suspect. Despite trying to help where I could I realized that that very deep stuff that I’d mentioned was about to swallow me up. Still many hours from ‘Mohammed’ and with darkness about an hour away I had no choice to press on alone. Eventually, around 40 minutes later I reached a police checkpoint (in the area where some Spanish people were abducted last November) where I asked if I could stay overnight with them for security. After hiding my bike I was given a room in a very small building to sleep on the floor. All fine and very Bravo Two Zero as I settled down for the night until…I was woken by the voice of a lady in the next room on what I think was her mobile phone speaking in Arabic. Now I don’t know about you but when I hear people speaking a foreign language and the odd English word appears in conversation I sometimes find it quite funny. However, when the words “Al-Qaeda” and “Yamaha” appeared in the same Arabic sentence suddenly I didn’t quite feel like laughing. I had about two hours sleep all night listening intently as each vehicle in the night approached the checkpoint, policed by a few ‘kids’ with only a solitary AK47 under the driver’s seat of their police pick up between them. Perhaps the lady was just gossiping to a friend or relative but whatever, it was a night that I won’t forget in a hurry.

The Sahara – Dakhla

Day two of the three day Saharan crossing then started a little oddly with me dreaming that everyone on our little campsite was murdered except for me and Jordan who was also staying there too (but alas not with me) as it so happened. After that little episode I kept getting woken up by a goat that had parked itself up for the night next to my tent and continued to either sneeze of fart. I’m not exactly sure which it was as it was downwind of the tent. As you may have guessed from this drivel, I’m struggling to fill the page today. Again it was another tough day in the heat and the constantly strong head wind. I covered about 500km but it was slow going, mostly cruising at 100-105km (a true 55mph) as any more was just torture on my next and ears. I was going to use a scenario whereby you’re at work and someone’s constantly pressing against the side of your head with their foot, while the most uncomfortable wind and growling sound is played for 8hrs while you sit in the same sort of crouch position on a little chair, whilst the room’s air con is blasting out 40 degrees worth at full fan speed. But then I again most of you are at work while I’m not, therefore I guess me looking for sympathy is a bit of a waste of time as this was my decision and all that.
Tonight’s campsite is next to the beach in Dakhla. Very picturesque, a sort of wind surfers place. Better than the first campsite down the road that I saw where basically the old fat bloke there wanted 300 Dinar (£3) for me to pitch up the tent a car park?!
Looking at the map, I’m now starting to close in on Mick who by all accounts isn’t in any hurry as by the sounds of it he’s just sunning himself whilst knocking back cold beers in the Gambia. I reckon on three days to join him in what sounds like paradise, although there are three border crossings along the way so probably four days, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see...
Next stop, if all goes to plan, is to take up ‘Mohammed’s’ kind offer of assistance in Mauritania...

The Sahara – Laâyoune

What a tough day today has been. I rode about 550 km into a head & cross wind that lasted all day. Apparently the wind normally blows from the north but for the next few days (yes you’ve guessed it, until I’ve passed through) it’s coming up from the south. Great. And I mean a real wind, one that forced me to ride with my visor taped down or it just hurt. Apart from the first 100km or so it is now proper desert. The occasional lorry passes by and just in front of it is a giant wall of air that makes the bike even harder to keep on the road than it is already. Any sort of off or breakdown would be more than bad news. And then of course there’s the heat which is not too bad on the move but when stopped, me and the bike are all in black. Anyway, so the photos pretty much say it all really apart from a couple of meetings that are worth a mention. First up a old guy named Mohammed that got chatting to me as we were riding in Laayoune and being Mauritanian he offered me plenty of advice on the road ahead, the borders and even offered me a place to stay once there. What he did advise is picking up 400 cigarettes in order to make my passage more ‘smoother,’ which I did.* Sure enough within an hour a policeman tried to do me for 100 Dirams (£9) for passing a stop sign that was written in Arabic. Harsh! Twenty ‘Dunston’ (£1.50) later and I was off. I eventually got to Mick’s campsite he told me off which is miles off the main road and run by a Belgium couple(?!) Also here are three totally bonkers French couples, with three of them fully dressed in the ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ style! We all eat together and the Belgium lady cooked up camel and rice (shamel e ree, in French), which was very nice. And...I had a cold beer! I can’t tell you how good it tasted. He could’ve charged me 100 euros and I still would have paid. I’m still unsure of the situation with alcohol here but after a week without you really start to appreciate little treats like that or even running water. So here I am then bitten for the first 15 times tonight which will only get worse I’m sure but my belly is full, I’m clean, I’ve a full tank of fuel and I’m camped out in the desert with the most incredible view across the landscape and above all, I’m happy.
Tomorrow looks to be more of the same with a 500km ride through more bleakness to Dhakla, for the second leg of my trans Sahara ride.
Salude.
*It later transpired that ‘Dunstan’ cigarettes are unheard of, where of no use at the borders and the whole thing was a pretty standard scam on travellers, making them buy cheapo fags at a ‘friends’ shop for an inflated price!

Agadair (dair dair, push pineapple, shake the tree)

The previous night in Rabat I was out like a light at 8pm hoping to wake nice and early for that done deal that was a 9.15am ‘chocs away.’ Here we go...but after waking up at 8.15am (?!) and then a further two hours of dicking about with everything I finally hit the road at 10.15am. I was disappointed with myself as Mick had given me some campsite locations further afield and not knowing the road and riding conditions along with not having the wonderful road mapping anymore on my GPS (instead just a distance by straight line and some roads that I never seem to be on) mean that I’m never quite sure what’s achievable in a day. The first half of the day continued along the same newly laid perfect tarmac that I’ve pretty much ridden since I entered Morocco but this eventually turned into a regular bumpy road through towns and villages with some corners! This was more interesting to ride but at the same time more dangerous and of course slower. I pressed on though, only stopping for fuel/snacks/drinks and made good progress all things considered. The visibility now doesn’t seem to be much more than mile or so due to what appears to be a constant low dust cloud. Also the air is getting much drier, with each breath it dries out your nose/mouth. That’s not all that’s changing, so to is the terrain which is a mixture of semi desert and then deep red mountainous tree filled regions. Tourists aren’t to be found except for the odd French registered car.6pm was decision time as I approached Agadair with 606 km still showing on the GPS for the next campsite I sensibly looked for a suitable place to stop. Now as many of my friends would testify I’m sure, I like a pound note but having found a nice clean motel offering everything that comes with it for 187 Dinar (£15) my hand was in my pocket. You see, I would happily pay someone £15 to erect my tent and pack all my stuff up in the morning so this was an easy decision, not to mention the time saving. Laundry and me washed  and assisted by the very helpful receptionist, I headed to a nearby restaurant for a proper meal, the first since I left the UK actually. And what a meal! They must have thought I was American as I did over order somewhat. The tuna salad starter would’ve been enough alone without the fish platter, chips and bread but thankfully I was joined by a cat who happily helped me out to spare my blushes! That’s about it for the day although I do have some thoughts about this place. With Mick waiting for me in Gambia I am moving along quickly and I did think that was fine as the Saharan ‘Arab Africa’ wouldn’t be as interesting as ‘Black Africa’ but now I am regretting the pace slightly. The similarities with Turkey continue and with Turkey being my favourite country of all, I like it here. The people are fantastically friendly and it feels very safe. My only regret and it is a big one, is not brushing up on my French before I left, for what looks like the spoken language for most of the trip. Yesterday though, I did buy a French/English micro dictionary and I’m trying as much as I can which of course goes down very well with the locals who seem to find it odd/amusing that I can’t speak their language.
D’accord. Apres moi petite dejourne a wuit heur deman matin, je allez!
Ps If you understood the ‘pineapple’ gag, then like me, you are officially old. Sorry.

Getting a sweat on in Rabat

It’s no longer cold. Although last night was still a bit nippy the days from here on in are going to see me chugging some serious amounts of water.
I had a day off the bike as visa applications were made. First up was the Mauritanian visa. Application in at 9.30am, collected at 3pm. As a bonus I’d already found the Mali embassy which was nearby and somehow managed to get that one immediately after, just before they closed! Result. However...for a long reason my second passport isn’t with me and it hasn’t arrived at home! The reason, the UKPA say, is they require further information and as I’m a sole director blah blah blah. This is very bad news. After today I’ve only two blank pages left in my passport which by my reckoning will get me about as far as Nigeria at the most and unable to continue. Plus plenty of other messes that I just don’t want to think about. After a couple of calls to the UKPA and my friend and accountant Sarit, HOPEFULLY, (I’m not religious but I’ll pretend if it helps) he’ll be able to ‘create’ what they require from me which will allow said passport to land in my hallway and then be whiskey off by DHL to somewhere where I can at last have it in my hands!!
As a distraction to all this and while waiting for the two visas today I explored Rabat by daylight and...it’s actually very nice. It’s pretty clean, with plenty of French colonial buildings, the people are very nice and the place has a Turkish feel about it. It’s maybe nicer than Spain actually.
I can’t help but think of most of the Spanish as a bit skanky, if you know what I mean? Having said all that, I haven’t had a shower for three days now and I reckon that I’m still not even half way from the next one. There are no facilities here at what is essentially a piece of waste ground that you’d expect the only guests to be the odd burnt out car. There is a tap somewhere so maybe later I could take a sort of wash. I was contemplating going ‘tackle out’ as no one’s around but within the last hour a dozen Germans and Austrians have just er, invaded. So I guess washing that way is now de rigour...
Early night planned as I prepare to continue heading south through Morocco tomorrow at 8am sharp. OK OK how about 9.15am for cash? Done!
Bon soir.

Pressing on into the dark unknown...

As per my last trip, some work needs to be done on my ‘efficiency of getting ready.’ I almost typed ‘organising’ but I think that would be unfair as I am organised but it just seems to take me FOREVER to sort myself out sometimes (isn’t that different?). I get the feeling my new friend ‘Danish Mick’ now waiting for me in the Gambia is one of those types that effortlessly just does his ‘stuff’ and so a compromise may have to be made. This was perfectly highlighted by my inability to get on the road for 8am sharp as two big rides, a boat crossing and a border crossing lay ahead. So then after defrosting my toothpaste and toes, packing up and of course three attempts at getting my earplugs just right I finally hit the tarmac at 10am.
A better ride followed but like the day before I remained cold all day. Not surprisingly part of this was down to the altitude which included riding alongside the impressive looking ‘Sierra Nevada.’ From there, Granada and Malaga passed and I was now into the Spain I know, it being ‘Andalucia.’ A visit into this region isn’t the same without passing into ‘Arroyo de la Miel’ to see my grandparent’s old villa and the Spanish neighbours that have lived in the same very small cul-de-sac for my lifetime and beyond. They include Juan who was unfortunately alone and of course Pepe and Maria who couldn’t be more Spanish if they tried. Despite Pepe trying to empty the contents of his fridge onto my bike and much chatting about absolutely no idea I re hit the road at around 3.30pm getting more than a little concerned about the time due to me needing to get to Rabat, Morocco by nightfall as a safe campsite (GPS programmed) and visa application procedures awaited...
No chance. A fairly quick boat trip was nearly slowed down by the usual Moroccan toe rags trying it on at the ferry terminal. Not sure which of the old favourites it would’ve been had I played along but I guess that was for someone else to find out. Got to Cueta pretty quickly on a sea cat across a very choppy Mediterranean sea but I struggled to find my way out of this Spanish enclave and onto African soil proper. Eventually I found the border and it was pretty much as I expected. Chaos. Last year’s trip with all its border crossings had prepared me though and I honestly think that without this experience I’d have come out of the other side three times slower, some euros lighter and possibly even missing a few items.
This still didn’t save me though from the horrible feeling that you know you can’t meet your objective, you’ve no plan b and not even any local currency, just in case. With my GPS not able to direct me by road now, some friendly policemen advised me on heading to Tangiers in order to then continue to Rabat which would take around three hours. It was 8.30pm and already very dark. The road from the border, like Bilbao, immediately headed ‘up.’ This time though it was a dodgy mountain road in bad repair in the pitch black. Not good when you have a tinted visor! So I was forced to ride in my sunnies and concentrate VERY hard. I’d like to comment on how Morocco looked but the following three and a half hours of almost terror behind my glasses didn’t allow me to see any more then that small speck where my not great headlights ran out of light in the distance. Actually, that was the only bit of real light the whole way to Rabat so not much to see anyway. The road did eventually, after 100km, finally turn into a pretty good (but still unlit) dual carriageway which finally got me to Rabat at 12.30am, still freezing and needing to set up my tent etc having found the ‘campsite!’ This wasn’t quite as hardcore as the 18hr ride to Kabarosk in Russia with Steve but just as worrying as any problems would’ve meant finding myself in the very very deep stuff. Fortunately ‘Des’ again, carried me through it like some growling gunship where we’re both having a day and a half off in Rabat whilst waiting for visas for Mauritania and Mali...

Boat, Bilbao, Brrrr and Bed

The thirty six hours onboard ‘The Pride Of Bilbao’ were spent mostly the following: Two hours in the ‘International food court’ which served up, quite frankly shocking fare, sixteen hours in my cabin wondering how to lose a bit of luggage weight (which included throwing away a pile of medicines that I picked up in Russia and had absolutely no idea what they were for and of course my home laptop’s power lead that I decided to pack?!) whilst generally avoiding the grotesque English,Welsh and Scousers. And finally about eighteen hours sleep. No, Make that seventeen as I was woken by someone banging at 2am. Yes that type.

Bilbao then. Freezing fog, along with riding immediately up into the mountains and seemingly staying at altitude all the way to the southern coastline meant for a very cold and damp day. I managed as far as ‘Santa Elena’ which was a small village due east of Cordoba which I reckon was about 420 miles from the top. Not too bad really considering the conditions. I had a few issues camping though, the first being that I couldn’t get my stove to work for about 45 minutes and the second was that it felt like below zero and as a result my ‘three season’ sleeping bag and ALL of my clothes weren’t enough to stop me getting into a bit of a state through the cold. I eventually lost feeling in my feet and in the morning not only had my toothpaste nearly frozen but my toes had frozen together! Not a good start but then I guess it will warm up a bit...

‘...’ indeed!

So here we go again then. It’s all Ian Reed’s fault. You see, once I’d settled back into ‘normal life’ after finally coming home he went and bought me the ‘Adventure Motorcycling Handbook’ which is widely regarded as THE biking bible and a source of inspiration and information to fellow er, adventurers? As my old roomie Scott from last years RTW reckons ‘adventure before dementia.’ Damn right. So, fast forward ten weeks and here I am in my cabin onboard a P&O ferry to Bilbao, Spain and from there it’s 99.999% land to Cape Town. The intended route once in Africa is too long winded to write right now (I can’t remember) but suffice to say it’s through the Western Sahara and a west side route all the way to the cape and maybe 16,000 miles, I’m still not sure. This route is reckoned to be as about as challenging as they come especially from April-October when the monsoon (read MUD) seasons hit hard deep in the jungle in places such as Gabon, the Congo and Angola. Oh did I mention that I’ll be riding until early June? Hmmm...
So what this time then? A group? Solo? More unexpected Trance clubs? Bike?
Well no group but only solo for 3,000 miles or so. BJ had indicated that he was in but eventually he was out. That led me to email a Danish guy named ‘Mick’ who I was aware was about to leave on a similar trip as I hoped to do in a similar time. As it turns out he was leaving that very night (eight days ago) with a Greek guy who was only going as far as Gambia. One swift reply later and it was agreed that I’d remove my finger from inside something and follow Scott’s thought. The plan is that Mick will then wait for me in Gambia with cold beers at the ready (I like him already) and on we’ll go. Fast forward eight days to now and here I am, absolutely shattered, 96% prepared and making a first entry to the continuation of my RTW trip. There’s no WIFI though so it’s on a word document for now. There will be much of this though as I’ll be mostly camping out there. Sorry about the pictures by the way but there wasn’t really much else to photo, for now. Oh well here’s to a couple of days R&R at sea...
Oh yeah... Trance? I’m thinking no way but there was one in Mongolia so who knows?
And my bike? It’s ‘Des’ again of course! He’s feeling fine but this time he’s carrying more weight due to all the spare parts/extra camp stuff/medicine/worry. Still not sure about the racket he makes or the wind turbulence though?!?
I need sleep.
I really do.
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