DAY 35 WEDNESDAY 10th FEBRUARY 2010

Today is definitely a day to remember for many reasons...
I woke at 6.00 am as the barman had insisted that it got light at 6.30 am. I left Zebrabar at 6.45 am still in pitch darkness and it finally got light at 7.30 am. At 8.00 am I had reached the Diama bridge just as the customs and police were opening up. Both sets of officials were quick and efficient so it obviously paid to get there early. By 9.00 am I was into the National Park and was paying the €10 to the park police. By 10.00 am I was half way along the infamous Diama off-road piste and by 11.00 am onto the tarmac road to Noackchott. I lost a bit of time in the chaos of Noakchott but was still well ahead of schedule. My very ambitious plan for today was to get to Noakchott by lunchtime, the border by tea time and get to the hotel in Dakhla by 9.00 pm in order to do all of Mauritania in one day. I raced through the empty desert at 85mph as there is no traffic and little wildlife apart from the odd camel to worry about. I had marked the only petrol station in the middle of the Sahara into my satnav on the way down and I was confident of reaching it with fuel to spare. I had not bothered to refuel in Noakchott as I did not have any Mauri currency and thought it was easier to use Moroccan dirhams when I got further north. With my 41 litre capacity fuel tank, I should be able to cover about 400 miles on one tank full. Unfortunately, I was wrong and the bike spluttered to a halt after riding only 360 miles, still about 10 miles short of where the petrol station was. I don’t think the petrol attendant yesterday in Senegal had completely filled the tank, instead he had just stopped when it reached a convenient 20,000 CFA and there was probably still room for another litre or 2. Also I had used a tiny amount in my petrol stove last night to cook my dinner. Also my high speed riding had undoubtedly increased the fuel consumption. Without all these issues, I would have made it easily to the petrol station. Instead I was now stopped in the middle of the Sahara without fuel. The first vehicle that came towards me stopped and asked if he could help. I explained that if I could lean the bike over to the right hand side, the fuel might flow into the side of the tank where the fuel pick up pipe was and that might be enough to get me the last few miles. They helped me lean the bike over and my solution half worked, it got me another five miles down the road but still five from the garage. I waited for ages but ages but nobody came so I realised that I would have to sort this out by myself. I removed the entire luggage off the bike and laid the bike down completely on the right hand side. Once all the remaining fuel had drained into the right hand side, I used a small set of locking pliers to clamp off the balance pipe to prevent the fuel flowing back. I struggled to lift the bike up and reload it but my plan had worked and the bike fired up again. I crawled slowly towards the petrol station but got stopped in a police check half way there. I was massively relieved to finally coast into the petrol station and roll to a halt alongside the unleaded pump. I was slightly concerned about paying due to my lack of any Mauritanian ougiya but felt sure they would be happy to accept either Moroccan dirhams or good old Euros. I waited for someone to come out to serve me (as is normal in Africa) but nobody came so I walked in the cafe to confirm that they would accept dirhams. “No problem, Dirhams OK” they replied. “Great then can I get some petrol please”, I asked. “Ah, big problem. We have no fuel until tomorrow afternoon”. Oh dear! Things were starting to look bleak at this point; I explained that I was completely stranded as it was impossible for me to go any further. To make matters worse, I was right in the middle of the route that the Foreign Office had said to avoid at all times due to kidnap risk i.e. the coast road between Nouadibou and Noakchott. This is the area where a total of 7 Westerners have been kidnapped in recent years so I wasn’t too keen to be stuck here for a second longer than I needed and certainly not overnight! The station owner came over and personally apologised for having no fuel and said he would arrange for his brother to drive 240 kms from Nouadibou to bring me back 20 lts. I asked how long that would take and when his brother would get back and he told me 10.00 pm, “Then you can go”. The thought of riding on that road after 10.00 pm scared me to death so I made the excuse that my headlight was terrible and I could only ride in daylight. He immediately suggested that I could spend the night there as his guest and he offered me the full use of all the facilities including showers if I wanted them. He then ordered me coffee and food and could not have been more welcoming. I was still very worried about spending the night at this location but it appeared that I had little choice and just had to make the best of it. Moments later, an excellent meal of fish and chips arrived which was much appreciated as I had only eaten bananas and snack bars all day in my rush to clock up the miles. A glass of crushed ice came with a cold can of fanta so I was being extremely well looked after. An American writer called Elias started chatting to me, telling me how he was hitchhiking down to Cape Town and writing articles on each country. We both agreed that the Mauritanian people were amongst the nicest we had met so far and he reassured me that I would be safe in their hands.
After an hour I was getting hot in my bike boots so decided to take them off as I wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Suddenly, a local put his head around the door, stared at me and asked if I was the motorcyclist. For a second, I wandered if this was the start of something terrible and whether I should hit the emergency button on my Spot satellite transmission beacon. Instead he explained that he had run out of petrol in the morning and had now arranged for two 20 lts cans to be delivered for him. He said he only needed 10 lts to get him to the next station and I could have the rest! Wow, I didn’t need asking twice so I buckled up my boots and ran outside. First I checked with the station owner as I didn’t want to offend him as he had already made arrangements for me. He was happy for me to accept this other fuel as it meant it would get me on my way before dark. I quickly poured all 30 lts into my empty tank and turned to pay the owner whatever price he wanted as I was so grateful. He looked taken aback when I offered to pay him and told me that he would not take any money as it was a gift to get me out of trouble in the desert. He said something like “Thank Allah” and explained it was his duty to help me. I then went over to the station owner to thank him for all his help and also to pay for the food and drink but again he would not accept any money and said it was Islamic hospitality to someone who needed it. I don’t know very much about Islam but these two gentlemen were great ambassadors both for their religion and their country. Incidents like these really do a lot to restore your basic faith in the goodness of people to help each other and made me feel very humble.
By now it was nearly 5.00 pm and I was determined to make the border before nightfall. In little over one hour I added 100 miles to my daily total mileage despite 3 or 4 police checks that I had to stop for. The turn off to the border was shut with a barrier across the road but the soldier on duty let me ride around it and continue the last 5 miles to the frontier (well he sort of let me, I just waved at him and rode around the barrier). The customs official was the same friendly one that I had dealt with the last time although this time his face was unwrapped unlike last time. I told him and his colleagues about the petrol situation and how grateful I was for how friendly and helpful everyone in Mauritania had been to me on both visits to the country. I felt a bit guilty and embarrassed that my passport showed that I had entered his country at exactly 8.00 am that morning and was leaving it again later the very same day. They completed the paperwork without delay following which the police did likewise. I was just about to ride off when I got stopped at another office (not sure who or what) and they wanted to input all my details into a computer, I assume this is an attempt to automate the immigration process and might one day replace the manual writing of all details into the big books. Once completed, they told me to hurry as the border would be closing soon. I jumped back on the bike and roared off into the no-mans-land/minefield, feeling confident that I knew my way now on the rock path on the edge. Unfortunately, it rapidly got dark by the time I was about half way across so I got lost. What a perfect way to end an already eventful day, lost in a minefield in the dark! Just then a car came towards me flashing his lights and telling me that the Moroccan side was shut so I would have to turn around and head back into Mauri. I hoped the Mauri end wasn’t also closed or else I would be stuck in the minefield overnight (can it get any worse?). Luckily, the Mauri border was still open so I rode past the cars queuing up for entry and straight into the compound. Various police all started to shout at me for jumping the queue but I explained that I had already completed the paperwork. The problem for them was that my passport said I had left Mauri on the 10th Feb but here I was coming back in and wanting to stay until the 11th. I was too tired to discuss it then and agreed to sort it out in the morning. I managed to get one of the excellent border tents and was supplied with a cooked meal and drinks (coke and bottled water) brought to my tent. The sandy area that we had struggled with two weeks before had now been concreted and this made it simple to ride my bike in, turn it round and park it up securely in the locked compound.
Altogether a very memorable day but that’s what adventure motorcycling is meant to be all about. I can now add “running out of fuel in middle of Sahara” and “getting lost in minefield in dark” to my motorcycling CV.

DAY 34 TUESDAY 9th FEBRUARY 2010-02-26

Woken at 8.00 am by sound of dogs barking from French party parked in motorhome behind my chalet. Had breakfast on terrace and then sat there writing up blog detailing yesterdays epic ride. Very peaceful and relaxing environment as always at Zebrabar. The Zebrabar cat even came over and sat down beside me for a cuddle but suddenly spun around and bit me and hooked one of its very sharp claws deep into my thumb causing blood to drip out. After I had managed to extract the claw from my flesh, the cat was told to go away (or words to that effect). Decided to ride into St. Louis to get cash and use internet. Came across my favourite policeman at the edge of town and I was fully prepared for him. I rode well below 40kph hidden behind a lorry as I approached him, indicated when directed and then presented him with all my perfect paperwork. He remembered me from the week before and asked where all my friends were (probably meaning the rich ones who paid him Euro 50). I explained that they had all flown back and it was only me riding back. He asked me where I was going today and I told him the internet cafe. He asked if I would be drinking coffee and I wondered if he was inventing a new offense of riding with excess caffeine in your blood. However, he may have just been trying to be friendly as he let me pass with no further questions.
Parking outside the internet cafe, I soon acquired a “guardian” for my bike despite deliberately parking it right outside the door where I could see it whilst at the PC. He did do a good job of stopping all the local kids climbing all over it so I was happy to pay him the equivalent of one beer for his services. After a gentle ride back to Zebrabar, I had a very relaxing afternoon repacking my panniers and cleaning my gear. My jacket, bike trousers and crash helmet all smelled terrible after the hot sweaty conditions of recent weeks and there is nothing worse than having to put your head inside a dirty smelly crash helmet. Luckily, all the lining and padding in my helmet is removable for cleaning so I could give everything a thorough wash out. I decided that it was about time I used my petrol burning stove along with the ready meals I had carried for over 5,000 miles. I drained half a litre of petrol from the bike and cooked myself a tasty meal. Lessons learnt from the previous days ride meant I intended to have an early start on Wednesday as I have more borders and countries to cross so everything must be fully packed this evening and another early night in preparation.

DAY 33 MONDAY 8th FEBRUARY 2010

Breakfast at gone 8.00 am was way behind schedule considering I had intended to leave early. It had taken a while to get to sleep last night as I was understandably nervous about what lay ahead. Strangely I had no appetite for breakfast as the nerves had kicked in and I faced up to the enormous task of the return trip on my own. Glen and a few others saw me off from the hotel just before 9.00 am with the total mileage on the bike reading 39,248 miles. I managed to get lost in the back streets of Banjul and turned up at the ferry terminal a few minutes after 9.00 am just as the ferry had departed so I would have to wait for the 10.00 am crossing. Bought my ticket for 15 Delasi (about 38p) for motorbike and rider for the one hour crossing and thought how that compared with the cost of my Jersey to St Malo one hour ferry crossing with Condor Ferries. The vehicle alongside me on the ferry was a mobile hearing clinic based on a nice new Land Rover. On its door it said it was supported by “The people of the Island of Jersey”. I was able to tell the people around me that that was where I came from. In any crowded situation like the ferry, you get surrounded by dozens of people who all want to be your friend and all want your email and home address. It is difficult to deal with as it is impossible to help everyone but at the same time it is hard not to appear rude if you decline. One young chap told me that he was a trainee engineer working with solar panels so I took his email address and promised to pass it on to Mikey to possibly make contact when he is next installing panels in the Gambia.
Once across to Barra, I was the first one off the ferry and headed due north to the border with Senegal. The police and customs formalities for leaving Gambia were straightforward although I was disappointed and saddened that my very last experience of Gambia was a corrupt customs official asking for cash when he processed my form. At least the Senegalese make up a reason for a fine, whereas this chap just blatantly asked for a bribe, at least he was direct. I didn’t have time to argue so just threw down a 100 Delasi note (about £2.50) and told him it was all I had left. He actually seemed happy enough, pocketed it and thanked me profusely so not such a bad experience. I was expecting worse on the Senegalese side but instead they were very efficient (by African standards) and only took about 30 minutes to write out all the required forms and no bribes were asked for. The correct amount was requested for the customs pass and I made sure that an official receipt was stapled to the form. By now it was exactly 12.00 midday and I had hardly covered any miles at all. The road up to Kaolack was being rebuilt so I was diverted on to a very dirty, sandy and bumpy alternative which could only be ridden at about 20 mph. As each hour passed it looked increasingly unlikely that I would reach Zebrabar near St. Louis before dark. Progress was made worse when I got totally lost in Kaolack and spent ages on sandy back roads trying to find the correct road out of town. Today was also one of the hottest I have ever ridden in and I was soon soaked in sweat. Every time I removed my jacket, its weight was increasing with the amount of sweat it had absorbed. Eventually, I found the correct road and at last started to make decent progress on well surfaced roads. With no more wrong turnings at any subsequent towns, I was again confident of reaching Zebrabar. On the main road I was overtaken by a new Toyota pickup which was being driven very fast but very competently so I tucked in behind him as my escort all the way to St. Louis. He seemed to know exactly where he could travel at high speed and when to slow down for villages and police checks so I was happy to let him lead me to my destination. Approaching St. Louis, I noticed a turn off to the left signalled “Zebrabar 13 kms” so I obviously took it but almost immediately wished I hadn’t. It was through soft sand only really suitable for a good 4x4 and not at all suitable for a heavily loaded motorbike with a hot and exhausted rider. I rode on thinking it would get better but it got worse. I pushed through soft sand seriously worried that I might get completely stuck and eventually my strength failed and I dropped the bike on the right hand side. I looked at the bike on its side and wondered if I had the energy to pick it up. The other riders had told me previously that if I was not able to pick up my bike unaided then I must fly back with them rather than ride back. So this was the crucial test, not helped by the shoulder injury I was still nursing from the crash a week earlier. I swore at the bike a few times to get the adrenalin flowing and then with a mighty heave I got it back vertical. An even bigger challenge was trying to get back on it as I struggled to balance it and swing a leg over the seat. By the time I had accomplished this, my lungs seemed fit to burst and my heart was pounding. I knew I needed to get my breath back or I would simply drop it again through total exhaustion. Fortunately, I still had plenty of water left so at least I was able to stay hydrated. After wobbling for another km I could see the sun getting lower in the sky and I prayed that I would get out of this dreadful sand before darkness fell. Around the next sand dune I rejoined the surfaced road and a few minutes later I was parked up at Zebrabar. I almost collapsed as I fell off the bike and staggered to the fridge to help myself to a cold beer. Never had one been so needed or appreciated. The barman remembered me from the previous week and told me that he had never seen anyone looking so sweaty and exhausted. I peeled off my biker gear which was all soaked in sweat. The barman told me that dinner was being served in 15 minutes at 7.00 pm so I needed to hurry up and get changed. I took the keys to the same chalet (no. 3) that I had previously and enjoyed a shower and then changed into clean dry clothes for dinner. There were seven of us for dinner in the inside dining room comprising of Dutch and German nationals. Naturally, they all spoke perfect English and were very welcoming towards me. One Dutch chap, whose English was so perfect and unaccented that I thought he was English, was touring on a KTM 640 similar to one I had recently sold. He was planning on riding across the north of the Sahara to Egypt. I wanted an early night as I was shattered and I had still not even unpacked my bike in my rush to get showered and changed. I was in bed and lights off before 9.00 pm after a particularly long hard day covering all of Senegal.