We thought that we had turned up for breakfast at 7.00 am and disappointed that the staff were not ready. Then the waiter pointed out it was only 6.00 am Mauri time and we were an hour early so it gave us plenty of time to get packed to get out of Noakchott early. The morning rush hour in Noakchott was the most manic and insane driving standards of all. It is funny how the week before we had thought Rabat was traffic was mad, but compared to Noakchott it was positively civilised. At least in Rabat they confined their driving to the actual road whereas in Mauri they use the dirt tracks beside the road to take shortcuts and overtake. Also the condition of the vehicles was noticeably worse with cars driven until they simply fell to bits, sometimes at a busy junction. At every police check all the officials were polite and welcoming.
About 30kms short of Rosso we turned off on to the new "road" which cuts across to the piste to Diama. This began over 50 miles of offroading on surfaces varying from soft sand to corrugated road. This was extremely exhausting due to th eintense midday heat so we had to stop frequently to take on water and get our breath back. We were fairly shattered by the time we got to the Mauri borderwhere we were swiftly processed (by African standards) by pleasant friendly officials. They even came to Bhuds aid when he dropped his bike and cut finger keeping up his tradition of bleeding in every country we visited.
The officials on the Senegalese side were the opposite, immediately confrontational and demanding money. Once across the bridge we were met with an official who demanded Euro 70 just to lift the barrier to allow us to proceed. We had read on various travellers website that this fee is negotiable so we made it clear we would not pay Euro 70 just for a barrier to be lifted. A stalemate ensued with all our bikes blocking the entrance whilst I walked past the barrier to the police control to enquire what documents were needed for entry into the country. Among the required documents was a receipt from the barrier man confirming that we had paid him. Welcome to classic African corruption, they are all in it together. I remembered the last time I had crossed this border and we had experienced similar problems. In that case we had managed to buy off the officials with copies of adult magazines! As soon as I had told barrier man that we wouldn´t pay his initial price he reduced it to Euro 40which still seemed expensive but at least confirmed that the price was open to negotiation. After a while, another police official was getting annoyed with us and threathened to have us all sent back to Mauritania if we did not clear the bridge. I related this info back to the group and we concluded our haggling with a final fee of our left over Mauri money amounting to around GBP 20. With hindsight we may have been better to pay up rather than be delayed for so long. The police chief then began the typical African practice of writing down all the details from our passports into a big book. I did wonder what the point of all this is? Does anyone ever look in these books to read who came in when and for what purpose? The customs documents I can understand as its purpose is to ensure that any foreign vehicle brought into the country is exported again and not sold in the country avioding import taxes. I queued at the customs window for an hour before he even took my papers at 5.50 pm and then he told me that the seven passports and logbooks would take a long time to process. Usually in Africa, you are told thatsomething will be be done in minutes and it takes hours so when you are told up front that something will take along time then you know they really mean it. They love their ribber stamps in Africa and this customs official had several in different sizes and colours. The countries are so poor that they can´t even afford new ink pads so the stamps in your passport are subsequently very faint and barely legible. Each bike needed a customs form which of course meant all the details from the logbook and passport written out twice, once on the formfor us to take with us and onceagain for their own records. The fee for this was supposed to be CFA 2,500 (about Euro 3.8) or CFA 5,000 depending on size and type of vehicle. Not surprisingly, our bikes were rated in the more expensive category but as we had no CFAs the fee was rounded up to a nice Euro 10 per bike making Euro 70 in total all of which went into the officials pocket. When the official completed the first form he stapled a receipt for CFA 2,500 to it but on the second formhis stapler run out of staples. Despite him repeatedly banging it on the desk it refused to work with no staples in it so no receipts were attached to any subsequent forms. I did not query this at the time as he gave the firm impression that you did not question anything he did. Over an hour later he finally handed back all the completed paperwork although by this time it was getting dark and we really didn´t want to ride on these roads at night but it appeared that we had little choice.
It was pitch dark by the time we set off towards St Louis with me leading on the treacherous roads. I kept on having toreduce my speed as I encountered all manor of obstacles and hazards inthe dark including unlit vehicles, donkeys feeding in the road, pedestrianswalking in the roaddressed all in black and crazy taxi drivers racing each other. Going into St Louis was like another Mad Max scene with some of the most beat up vehicles ever seen, many without any lights at all.
We were stopped in a police check and the first thing they queried was why we did not have receipts attached to our customs forms. We explained the situation but the equally corrupt police just openly told us we would have to make a contribution to the chief´s drinking fund.
Thoughts turned to getting a hotel in St Louis but I was determined to get us to Zebrabar which was 20kms south of the town. John had the brilliant idea again of hiring a local taxi to guide us through the chaos and take us directly there. We stopped in a petrol station and I began to haggle with a taxi driver just as a passenger jumped into the empty taxi. The passenger turned out to be anEnglish teacher who actually taught the children of the owners of Zebrabar. We agreed on a deal whereby we would follow the taxi as it drove the teacher home and from there the driver would guide us to the Zebrabar. It was a long 15 kms in the dark on rapidly deteriorating roads until we finally reached our destination. I shook hands with the taxi driver and thanked him profusely, I almost gave him a hug as I was so glad to finally be at the famous Zebrabar again. For a second I had the awful thought that it might be closed as there seemed to be little sign of life or any other guests but we soon found a member of staff to book us in. Glen as ever was the most organised amongst us and not only started to help sort out the chalets but also located the famous ice cold beers and got a round in. Well done that man!
The relief at being at Zebrabar with a cold beer was indescribable. When I had my annual medical check up in December, the nurse had warned me that my blood pressure was too high. She told me to sit calmly for five minutes and think of something relaxing. When she subsequently retestedme the results were normal so she asked me what I had thought of thathad relaxed me so much. I explained that I had dreamt of sitting on the terrace at Zebrabar with a cold beer in my hand. The nurse agreed that this definitely worked so I should hold that thought in my head. That thought had motivated me since I left home in Devon and rode through the snow and ice of England and France. It had kept me going when dealing with tedious African officialdom and now finally the dream was reality, Zebrabar and cold beer, almost perfect. The only part missing is my wife Ann who I have promised to bring to this little bit of paradise in Africa.
After a few more beers we all headed off to our chalets after avery tiring but enjoyable day.
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