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.