Once more across the Atlas...

I took the baffles out the KTM's exhaust today. In general we tried to minimise the attention we drew but amongst the Marrakech traffic I felt the more people looking the better, given shoulder checks were unheard of and mirrors scarce. Vehicles still pulled out, in particular the mopeds, but it felt better knowing they at least heard and glanced over to see their fate approaching! Five minutes had already been enough to convince me no one riding a moped in Marrakech had any intention of living anyway!
It was so hot yesterday, there was no relief from a breeze either, 38decC it said in a petrols station in the cooler evening and everything was sticky and clammy. Today was nearly as bad but with things to do we headed in to town with the intention of making a break for the mountains before long. Maybe it was because of the heat that after leaving the Unimog draining over night Jason found a big frog doing back crawl in the oil change pan this morning, poor thing!
As we found any area of Tarmac can be used for a vehicle in Marrakech, speed and safe proximity have no relation, priority and even driving on the right side of the road are optional and heaven help anyone who believes in lane discipline! In no time just to make progress we found ourselves throwing thoughts of roadcraft to one side and at least partially adopting the lunacy of those around us, the scary thing was that evidence of the driving style not working was also all around!
With some Googling, some scouting and some seeing off of an annoying tout with no teeth and bottle bottom spectacles (I've never seen Robin loose his temper before!) we found Cycle Afra, a couple of guys selling scooter parts who hid their angelic wings well, that's what they turned out to be when they said they could get shiny new Metzeler tyres to us by 11am the next day. We did wonder if that was on an African clock but after another night back at the camp site we were greeted with big grins and a MCEKaroo and Enduro3 for about the same price as back home, thanks guys! For anyone else in need: Latitude: 31.620492° Longitude: -7.990622°
Not only did it cool heading in to the mountains it started to chuck it down and in 30 seconds we were drenched, in 60 I remembered the bottom of my right pannier was still split open!
Splashing through the mud we found our way in to the colonnades of a part built shop where the workers were sheltering and a scooter or two joined us. I taped up the box and after half an hour or so we ventured out again, steaming and sticky in the sun.
The foothills of the Atlas enroute to Ouarzazate looked a bit like Scotland. The hills were rocky but dark green and sprinkled with sheep, what made them different were the cacti, earthen buildings and increasingly chasmic drops! As vegetation thinned to individual bushes on the hillsides the bottom of the valleys became filled with sheets of green and gold; billiard table flat overlapping terraces of crops like handfuls of giant beer mats sprinkled from up high.
Eventually the road climbed up over the jaggy volcanic teeth sticking out the top of the Atlas, it looked very similar to the hills in Edinburgh and I wondered if they shared a history. We passed number of victims be it a truck that had emptied it's guts in an oily mess, a sand filled lorry on it's side clinging to the crumbling verge or a crumpled post van opposite a truck driver climbing up the cliffside with some of the pieces. On every corner small piles of crystals and fossils were for sale gathered by locals, often teetering on the brink of a Tolkien-esque plunge.
We rode along a short ridge before dropping back down the other side, on both crossings the south of the Atlas had been more rolling and less rocky and by the time we took a shortcut off the N9 left to detour past the ancient city and kasbar of Ait Benhaddou the trail was a BMX track of compacted dry clay, great fun!
Up on the hill the terracotta town looked an ancient warren of towers and terraces. On reflection it would have been a fascinating place to stay but this evening our target was Ouarzazate. Unfortunately the Bikers Home promising a workshop, hot showers and cold beers was closed but we were lucky to find the friendly Hotel La Vallee who locked the bikes in a courtyard and did a great breaky for less than tenner a head. At the restaurant across the road we met the toughest kitten in town, he was beating up the other cats and even tried to get the dinner off our table, all while looking like the photo on a greetings card!
In the morning one of the staff Hamid told us a little about the pistes between Foum-Zguid to Merzouga as his village lay just past Zagora. Torsten had experienced quite an adventure riding from Merzouga to Zagora and it had made us a little apprehensive about the route, particularly as Gert had also offered to take the luggage and escort us in the Hilux! A compromise seemed to be to ride up the Vallee du Draa after Zagora and shortcut down from Tarzzarine, taking 70kms or so out of the rocky stuff.
From Agdz to Foum-Zguid the hills were gentler but the occasional canyon or plunge still took the breath away. There was less farming here and the cliffs and hillsides were beautiful stripped ribbons of sedimentary layers, as if the contour lines of the map had been painted on and then subsidence and weather taken their toll.
As we entered the valley just after Tasla it looked like everything was covered in a thin layer of chickweed, I had to stop and check, in fact the dark shimmery green was fingernail sized chippings of rock and we soon passed through what looked like a large copper mine. There were a few other mine shafts in the hills too and the green shimmer still tinted areas when we rode through the oasis and onto the piste of the N12 heading east.
This was a barren volcanic rock strewn plain between two jebels that could have been used for spoofing the Apollo moon landings; grey sand was nearly lost amongst the jaggy carpet of fist to football sized black chunks. In the complete lifeless-less silence we pitched camp in a sandy hollow, the sun disappeared and the clouds came over. With a few spots of rain a hot, moonless black duvet was drawn over us.

Escape from the Sahara

Bends in the road, curves, ups an downs, earth and green stuff, palm trees, even water, this wasn't desert any more! We turned right out of Tiznit and climbed in to the hills towards Igherm. The road swept and rolled through villages and and over summits, mostly good quality Tarmac it was an endless rollercoaster compared to the thousands of miles we'd just ridden. Contrary to the warnings though it was hot, very hot, one local told us the weather was unstable just now, it had just been raining hard the other day.
And it was nice to feel welcome again, kids shouting and waving and groups of village elders returning sageful nods. Only the women who seemed to be working hard everywhere were more reserved; in the first village all wearing black with gold hems, covering their faces as we approached and from there on dressed like bright coloured Japanese ninjas, all but the eyes veiled up. A lot of villages were dotted with billboards showing photos of the king.
As evening drew around us we found a track to a phone mast on a ridge and getting away from the road. Ruins of what looked like a walled farm complex sat on the summit and all around us were piles of eroded rocks, riddled with veins of hard quartz like medical teaching aids. Again we slept under the stars, this time looking across several valleys and villages.
The sound of a savage battle awoke us, it was impossible to tell who was winning; the donkeys or the cockerels in the villages below, both were making equally good efforts! With golden sun breaking across the rocks we got an early start to cross the Atlas mountains. Gert and Remmie has texted to say they would be in Marrakech the previous night so we arrange to meet them around midday, what we didn't factor in was the road ahead! 200kms, mostly single track, partly gravel, often victim to land slides and subsidence and climbing to 2400m up a near vertical wall of rock. This wasn't built by the Swiss, nothing was blasted through, it clung to the outside edge of every projection and only sometimes was a 10 inch wall there to hide a little of the fate awaiting the unwary! I've ridden a good share of Alpine roads but this was the first mountain pass that really gave me a touch of the vertigo wobbles.
With luck but also a little disappointment we found the northern side of the pass to be gentler gradients and easier on the tyres, brakes and survival instincts. It unwound from hairpins to rollercoaster to plains and by early after noon we arrived in the outskirts Marrakech.
Wide streets and the gps it was quite easy to find Camping de Relais where we had planned to meet Gert and Remmie. But as we got nearer we spotted them going the other way, a note left at the camp site said they had headed in to town and were then going to head south, it didn't look like our paths were going to run parallel after all. Right after that the KTMs fuel pump problem seemed to return, it was popping and banging and cutting out again, we just managed to limp in to the camping site.
Relais wasn't cheap but we treated ourselves to a 'nomad' tent, the PVC smelt like a bouncy castle in the sun but it was nice inside and over looked the blooming garden and pool. But one thing more than the others we were very aware of was this place was hot, we were baking without any breeze! In the slightly cooler evening we hauled the left tank off again and the fuel pump out, no obvious signs of plastic shavings this time but we tried giving the tank a good wash out just in case. After a swim the next morning I took the other tank off as well and began a battle that would last until the afternoon to pull the subframe straight and get the tanks fitting right without pinching the fuel hoses again. Luckily Chris came over to say hello, a young guy driving a 4x4 Transit camper south on his own (brave lad!) with an awning to get out the sun and a selection of bigger tools! He even had a bottle jack to spread Robin's pannier rack back out! Parked beside Chris were Jason and Claire in a most impressive UniMog camper that looked like it could go pole to pole without even noticing, their site is www.moglet.co.uk
By the time everything was shipshape again the head of the day was intense. Riding in to town to see the ruined Palac de Balaii, amongst the chaos of Marakech traffic with scooters coming out of both armpits, was all just too much and we gave up, settling for a walk instead and trip to the local supermarket. Luckily they sold both beer and ice-cream and after two lollies and riding back through a thunderstorm we had a barbecue with Chris, part way making up for all the beer denied to us over the last few weeks.

Beach bums

The encampment in the park D'Arwin was truly a little bit of heaven on earth, I kept thinking of how much Maria would love it with the birds and waves and creatures in every pool. The fishing was good and the guys had started at 6am and were pulling out as many fish as they hung hooks on the line, not all to their eating taste with a lot of small sharks and catfish which were let go. By the time they returned there was more than enough for lunch, meanwhile Robin and I did a cooked breakfast which was a surprising success given what ingredients were available!
The shy older guy who looked after the tents, Silvo, helped prepare the fish and they were barbecued on a drift wood fire pit dripping in Remmie's marinade. Remmie pulled out the stops and presented the fish on a big dish piled with rice and cucumber and we ate together in the coolness of the tent. This really was the life, if only we had a few cold beers!
It grew dark quickly and we re-stoked the fire, Silvo joined us with his tea making equipment and brought a carpet and some chairs, I got the feeling he was pretty lonely as he didn't actually live in the village and enjoyed the company. Again master chef Remmie got on the case and between them we went to bed full of omelette and sweet tea.
The group got an earlyish start to tackle to route back. Robin and I made good progress this time despite some wandering dunes and thankfully this time without major incident made it back to the Total station in an hour and a half. The Hilux had just arrived and they were pumping the tyres back up, we'd completely passed each other in the desert without noticing. With some quick goodbyes again Torsten negotiated with a truck driver heading south and the Belgians took off north, with luck we'll see them again in Morocco.

Robin had received some sad news about the loss of a very close friend's mum while we were in Senegal. At 11am, to coincide with the funeral in the Uk, we headed in to the desert behind the station and had a quiet moment, facing north. Two curious donkeys came and joined us while Robin said a few words about Sheila.

Back in the station about twenty early 90 Mercs had arrived as this years German Dust and Diesel rally, driving down to Dakar before back to Mauritania to sell them, if only Torsten had waited half an hour! We ate breakfast and got on the road.
It was strange to see the landscape changing again in reverse, even the types of cars and encampments rolling back, like some kind of test to check it had all been real the first time. The storms must have passed and the sky was clearer again and mercifully the air cooler, in fact as the road turned along the iron ore train line to head back towards Nouadibou the temperature fell noticeably, the wind now coming from the sea rather than the desert. We met the dodgy looking road block again at the turn off for the frontier but could see they were real gendarmerie in the pickup this time, a document check and away across the rail track where the air was now properly cold.
Since I had done the Mauritanian entry I elected to do the exit, which all went surprisingly quickly after a wait for the end of lunch break. It was quiet today and these guys had all been a lot more professional last time than their southern counterparts, in an hour we were back in no mans land, determined not to buckle another wheel on the rocks or plough it into a other sand pit!

We rode past the wrecked cars and piles of pillaged goods, along the sand tracks and past a few cars and lorries picking their way in the other direction. When we reached the money changers in the central clearing Robin stocked up on a few Dhirams before we rode the last section to arrive in palm tree lined reception alleyway of the Moroccan frontier. If Senegalese border posts were Ford Fiestas and Mauritanian BMWs, Moroccan felt like a Bentley. Efficient, polite, smiling (maybe they could send over a few interns from US immigration). With a chat and a laugh and a 'Bon voyage!' we were back in to Western Sahara. The Bureau de Assurance closed at 6 so arriving at 5.45 the guy had already gone to the pub, there was nothing for it but head up the road to camp.
Learning from last time we found a pile of rocks marked with a rag and headed down the track towards the Marine post, turning to head along the beach a bit. We had a very friendly visit of course to check who we were and cooked dinner, washing up in the crashing waves on the rocks beyond the small sandy cliffs.
The way back seemed a lot longer than the outbound leg, unwillingly my mind started playing games trying to guess the next petrol station or land mark. I remembered the sand eaten rocks, hollowed out by the whipping winds, the herds of shaggy camels looking grumpily at the noisy vehicles, towers of rocks built up by shepherd boys, great slabs of sandstone stood up and hand scrawled with an advert, but I hadn't noticed the emerald green sea, streaked with blue and topped with long racing white horses. Sometimes it appeared between the cliffs or dunes others it dropped away and I stood on the pegs to catch the last glimpse, it was beautiful in the sunshine.
The KTM was getting a bit of a wobble on so I pulled in to a petrol station to check the tyre pressures, low front, very low, then we spotted the thorns, about twenty of them from the desert. In fact just as we'd pulled out two that had made it through the 4mm inner tube and patched them under a tree Robin checked his front tyre and found the biggest thorn of all, deflating the tyre instantly when he pulled it out. It was going to be slow progress today!
In the next petrol station a man in crazy glasses and juggling trousers approached us, he was Portuguese and with his friend riding two GSs down to Burkina Faso. He asked about Mauritania, if we had experienced any problems and told us they had just had three days of rain through Morocco. Further up the road we could see the evidence, the desert was flooded on to the road, bowls and oueds in the landscape now full of redish brown water, some areas of green looking brighter beside the dark wet ground. It seemed crazy, mud, in the desert!
We spent the next night in Boujdour, a fishing town come military base, being served by a mini Joey form Friends just down the road from the traditional Moroccan styled hotel El Qoeds, tiled blue with hand carved plasterwork, the bikes even got a garage.
The sand kept rollin past but now there were less dunes again. Laayoune was full of white UN 4x4s and minibuses. They helped us locate the only bar in town, hidden through a network of passageways at the back of the smart hotel. In the dim illicit surroundings a few business men wobbled about served by an old school barman with everyone on a tab, we drank the first beers since our most southern point in Senegal. The interior decor must have originally matched the rest of the hotel but it was obvious it hadn't been touched or even cleaned in a long time, like the shady black sheep of the family, lead astray but still reluctantly included in the establishment.
It was no easy task trying to find the southern entry to Plage Blanche from El Ouatia along the coast behind Tantan. An old guy with deep sunken eyes told us by the beach in town that he hadn't heard of it but that the coast further north was full of US military playing war games. This tied up with what the French lads had said last time we were there, they had stood and negotiated access from a side road to the beach. We headed up the track along the clifftops and passed through some abandoned earthworks, it was stoney and hard going on the DR, with the odd surprising muddy puddle! Climbing a rise we stopped to discuss progress and an APC appeared from no where grinding it's way at a steady speed across the track! Looking around there were more of them, spinning, driving, going in every direction at once like a box of windup toys let loose. A jeep bounced over with an irate older guy and a smiling middle aged driver both in uniforms, it was indeed now ALL a military zone and these ten tonne ballerinas were the toy soldiers the old man had meant. More than a bit disgruntled I told the officer a road sign might have been a good idea, we got an apology but not much else, just a lumpy 10km back to town.
Turning inland the countryside instantly became greener and we pulled up hills and across plains, overtaking lorries stacked high and old Renaults burning oil. We were out of Land Rover land again back in to the world of the hard worked Mitsubishi truck. As the sun got low we found a sandy washout behind some rocks cut through by the main road, it was surprising how quickly the sound if the road disappeared and then stopped as the traffic wrapped up for the night. The stars began to poke out and Robin decided to break out the last of his 'gift' shortbread, it had survived the miles of desert for a fitting end; sitting on the rocks with a nice cuppa overlooking the valley.

'We can't stop here, this is bat country!'

The landscape changed again before we hit the main road that would take us along the Mauritanian border towards the crossing again. Some sort of irrigation pumping station by the lake was feeding the surrounding land through network of canals, the results were green fields filled with crops and people working hard in the sun. The piste was packed firm here but still full of potholes, not the kind of potholes that might buckle your wheel but more that might swallow it whole! Small bridges crossed the canals every so often and were like motocross jumps.
The main road was narrow due to years of erosion. It was built high off the ground and gave a good view of the green Senegal to the south and dry yellow Mauritania to the north. Sections were under repair and the traffic was diverted down temporary parallel pistes which was adding time to our journey. By the time we reached St Louis for some fuel, provisions and a post box it was after mid day.
At Diama our old friends were waiting. I drew the lucky straw and was through the customs within five minutes with a smart young officer with a flying stamp. Robin wasn't so lucky but managed to wait out the police demands for bribes and when it came to the bridge again I named our personal friend the bridge engineer I had been talking to last time we were there to half the 4000 Ougea each the guy wanted. We even managed some money changing with the guy.
The Mauritanian side wasn't so easy, the police were demanding their 'weekend' (Friday and Saturday) rate of €10 a bike, an unpleasant skinny scruff of a chief with black teeth liked to make himself feel important from behind computers and scanning equipment labeled 'EU Donation'. Eventually I got it to €5 each but he demanded crisp smart bills, customs were not so easy but then there had been what seemed a more legitimate €10 when we entered at the northern border.
Outside two Belgians had arrived in a black Hilux and were trying to get in to a yellow Jeep, they had parked it there at the start of the year and a friend was supposed to have driven it back to Nouakshott but it hadn't happened. Our outlays were small beer compared to their five months storage 'fee'.
We paid up and were away, getting as far as the police check up the road with the park warden. This time the price was €10 each, when we laughed at him it became €5, when I went to get the original ticket out my luggage it was back to 1000 Ougia again (€2.50), the only problem being we didn't have any Oogs left after the border! Eventually we settled with €5 and 2000 Cifa, disappearing in to his pocket right in front of the watching gendarmerie. He joked and laughed the way we learned corrupt officials always did after they got at least part of their way and headed off in to the park.
He piste was as rutted as before, keeping the speed up with the ktm was tricky as the wild pigs darted out the reeds on one side and across the plain on the other. Robin again took to a track alongside where more mobility but less suspension travel was better suited and it wasn't long before we were passing through the deep sand of Keur Maceine. With no cash we kept on going and found ourselves again dodging camels along the spectacular rise and fall of the Diama Piste, this time in the soft sand diffused light of the sunset.
A bit further and we stopped at a small village to ask to use the well, while Robin filled the bottles from the 10m deep shaft the kids asked me to read all the writing in English on their clothes, from the reactions I'm guessing it sounded pretty funny to them!
Before the main road and leaving the park we turned off in to the desert landscape and rode three or four hundred meters round the back of a small rise to pitch camp under a spiky tree. The usual pasta and sardines under a half moon sky.
The next day I found myself in a familiar comforting place as check points came and went; the crap at the border had made me feel far away from home and I was really missing Maria, back on the black top and sitting behind the bars of the bike I had my music on and could watch the landscape rolling past again, knowing every km that shot past was going in the right direction. Each salute from a professional and friendly Mauritanian officer felt reassuring, the Senegalese corruption had only infected the country so far.
The desert rolled back again from orange to white sand and we rode in to Noukashott and navigated through the dusty streets to the old pizza place opposite Auberge Saharah, today didn't feel like a day for experimenting.
As we ordered who should arrive but the two Belgians from the border Gurt and Remmie! They joined us for some over cooked pizza and it was great to hear some of Remmie's stories about teaching in Dakar and Gurt's about organising various rallies across Africa while we all ate. They invited us to join them for a couple of days up the coast on the beach in Park D'Arguin, Gurt was a keen fisherman and Remmie a keen cook, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. We'd actually heard of the place from David and Hana but hadn't had the courage to go off exploring in the 'badlands' of Mauritania by ourselves.
We scrubbed our plan and headed across the road to join them at the Auberge. As the gate of the courtyard drew back a familiar German numberplate came in to view, closely followed by the smiling face of Torsten, he'd survived riding the iron ore train! Hugs and handshakes, it was good to see him safe and well and we introduced him to our new friends. He had a couple of his own too, another Belgian, LouisJean driving a truck back down to Mali loaded with a prototype jet boat for use by customs on the river Niger and Abraham, a retired and converted Londoner returning from studying Islam with his Imam in the desert.
The evening was good fun, it was nice to have familiar company while we fixed the truck, swapped stories, visited the fish market, got some more welding done on Robin's pannier rack and finally went out for something to eat. A plan formed for Torsten to join our fishing party by taking the Hilux north and hitching back south afterwards, it was looking like it would be a great few days!
Morning came and the key for my luggage bent again. I grabbed a taxi in to town and returned an hour later red faced and pissed off. The locksmith had started by breaking the key, then messed up cutting a new one, then tried to swap the levers in the lock to make them match then finally, before restraining him, trying to cut down the levers. It took physical effort to get the pieces back and I told him I would return with a new barrel and would use his workshop to fix the mess he'd made. He looked pretty sheepish getting caught, ironically the Obama poster above his bench in the tiny workshop read something like 'truth and justice'.
The mess had delayed our departure long enough so I suggested the guys head off and I catch up later since i had the gps coordinates for the 60km route through the dunes. Nicely Robin joined me heading back to the locksmiths where luckily the boss had arrived and took no time to right the mess his apprentice had made. He showed me pictures of his bike which were both sadly rotting in a garage, can't get the parts he said, a piston and a big end bearing for a kx125. He took the web address off my Straightliners Tshirt and we swapped emails, he was a nice guy.
After fuel we were on our way again. I kept the level low as there was a station right by the turn off in to the desert and reducing the weight of the bike would help in the sand. I couldn't find the tracks of the 4x4 at first but once we got on the the waypointed route they became apparent. I struggled to get back in to the sand riding again until Robin convinced me and we started making better progress. The route snaked about dodging the biggest dunes and dotting between dark areas of sand which marked firmer ground and a resting point. Just when it was all going really well it went horribly wrong!
Pulling through some tall dune grass the way ahead opened up to deep sand ploughed in to ruts by dozens of 4x4s, these weren't going to pull the bike side to side, they were going to sink it up to the axles! It dropped in to the first one and I kept it on the power and in line for several meters then another track crossed the path and the suspension compressed and unloaded over the furrows, as the bike came back down to earth the front dug in as the bars went lock to lock and there was no where for me to go but over the top! Luckily the bike flipped over to the left but I tucked ready to slide, it being soft sand however I dug in too and went end over end like a well tossed caber! Quite literally as the dust settled I got to my knees, the world was awash with sparkly colours and my head felt like lead, I turned round to look back up the tracks and saw a black and blue heap fifty yards back, Robin had done the same thing! I beeped the horn and he returned my thumbs up, we walked towards each other, hugged one another with relief and sat down laughing about how it must have looked, sand was quite literally all over us!
The reality of it was it had been a lucky escape. Robin landed on his chin and wrenched his neck, his sunglasses grazing him just below his eye, I'd be knocked even sillier than usual and had a pain in my ribs and the bikes both had bent bars, the DR a cracked screen and twisted forks and the KTM a broken indicator, creased screen, squashed gps and bent front subframe. It was however all rideable, as were we!
We had learned our lesson and gave any signs of tracks a wide berth, riding a few hundred meters off to the sides of the gps points. We got our confidence back and soon the village appeared across a wide plain of deep red sand, it was tough going with the throttle wide ploughing through, certainly not somewhere to stop! Behind the village were the big dunes and behind that the Belgians 4x4, a row of traditional tents and the crashing sea. We paid our 3600 Oogia to the park ranger on the quad and drove down to the beach. The sky was yellow and orange with sand blurring out the sunset while opposite it was still blue, feeling triumphant I did a victory lap of the wet glistening beach through the bright green weed waving at the guys fishing on the rocks at the end of the dunes. It felt great to have made it!
They were pretty surprised to see us. Gurt said the tracks had all but gone since he routed them and he'd had to change his course to get the Hilux through. They expected us to get 500m and turn around and Torsten had guessed a half or whole days ride to cross it.
We unpacked in to the tent which was lined with carpets, mattresses and pillows just as films always said they should be and had a great evening, with the tide in the long rolling waves washed the beach just feet from the back of the tent.

Out to pasture...

It was the 10th and Robins Birthday, time for a day off riding! There was no better place for it either than Myriam's and the beach and lagoons beyond. We'd made a lot if friends the night before and it would be good to hang out in the bar another night too, with or without the entertainment of the two touting masseuse using gestures to over come the language barrier!
We did some bike maintenance then strolled down to the beach between two rows of breeze block buildings. The waves and tide were high, dramatic stuff and it made getting along the beach to the lagoon quite exciting, dodging waves and rocks. At one point Robin was left hanging by his fingertips as a wave hit the wall below!
Everyone on the beach wanted to talk, about their shop, about their drumming or other enterprise, or just to ask for money to feed a puppy in a plastic bag :/ A couple of poor security guards baked in the sun outside a posh hotel while guarding the helpless white whales that were washed up on the deck chairs, sunbathing wobbly bits while being spoon fed; it felt embarrassingly colonial. They were pretty much the first Europeans we'd seen in weeks. Further along the beach the lagoon was beautiful, the tide was turning and standing waves formed in the outlet to the sea, dogs played on the waters edge and several locals were jogging in the sand.
While changing money in town we bumped in to Muhammed, we'd actually met him briefly on Goree, a tall slim Rasta with a one love outlook on life. It was cool he recognised us and came over to drink Cafe Touba sitting on a wall in the square before going back to his house to hang out for a bit. Down a sand street it was a room in a divided house built round a courtyard, simple but he had plans to fill the place when he moved the rest of his merchandise from nearer Mbour. He insisted on a gift of a couple of the necklaces he makes and sells before walking us up to the internet cafe run by a guy who called himself of all things Mr Ben the shopkeeper, it wasn't a show I'd imagined being exported to Senegal! He was learning English and spoke pretty well, his favourite expression being to abbreviate 'we're together' to 'we be gether', in good humour! Other guys came and went and it felt like we'd met and chatted with most of Somone by the time we left in the dark, waving our goodbyes to the last of the locals, and walked down the sand at the side of the road. Live music was playing somewhere off in the countryside and it was really nice to hear it in come and go with the breeze in the peace of the dark street.
The reggae was playing back at Myriam's and we had a warm welcome from Sarif who'd taken up his position on the chair at the door, winter woolies and all. The bikes were still safe inside the courtyard and we joined the gang for their 'family' meal; a big dish of Senegalese rice beans and fish with pinches of chillies at one of the tables in the bar, we felt so privileged and welcome it was even harder to leave the next day!
An early start got us up to Bandia national reserve to catch the animals before they sleep after midday, rhino, giraffe and buffalo were promised wandering amongst warthogs and monkeys. A long red earth road lead up to the ticket and guide lodges beside a tall baobab. The entry cost was huge, it was going to be about £150 for a one hour tour so we settled down for a wait to see if we could share the 4x4 with anyone else who might turn up. From a seat with a cold drink in the restaurant it was possible to see the watering hole and everything but giraffes and rhinos passed by, by the time midday came and went without any other visitors we felt we had actually had a good slice of wild life so the disappointment wasn't too bad.
We missioned on up the secondary road from Sindia to Thies then east to Kbombole on the primary. To Baba-Garage (no sign for a photo unfortunately) to Darou Moustr should have been a secondary too but turned out mostly to be 4x4 trails through mostly sand, sometimes pretty soft! It was easier to ride along side, dodging the baobabs and thorn bushes and stopping in some of the villages, occasionally to the tune of 'toobob toobob!' (foreigner) sung by little kids voices. Villages as always were the most tricky where the sand was thickest and most trodden and speed needed to be kept low for safety, we felt pretty guilty spinning the wheels to get free while fighting not to make too much of a spectacle but still people smiled and waved back.
Camp was made just past Segata, rolling off 300m in to the land beside the road and parking under a tree in the sandy earth. It was a beautiful night without a tent and the first time we'd had moonlight as we cooked and got ready for bed.
Sunrise was a large orange circle hovering behind the Bonsai like trees on the horizon. It broight with it a friendly farmer, hand hoeing the land for the coming rainy season. He was elderly wearing a long brown woolen shirt and bobble hat with few teeth when he smiled at us. We offered him some tea and without any In Wooluf he asked for something to eat and luckily the mangoes from a village yesterday were on hand. He turned and started shouting to another farmer, 'petite petite petite!' he called and he came to join bringing a little fuzzy haired kid with wide eyes. The son spoke some French and we talked a little about the land and found out they didn't like the tea without shovels of sugar like the Moroccan Nana. Maybe it's individual experience or maybe it is the result if years of food and monetary aid from the west but people we were finding often demanded and got upset when they didn't receive money, at this point the old man began this and we decided to pack up the tea party and move on, but not before leaving some more mangoes. It was a bigger problem in Senegal than the other countries we had been to and it could be quite upsetting, usually it was the kids with tins but occasionally adults too. Knowing what to say or do was always tricky, particularly if we'd just asked for directions for example. Sometimes we could make a joke and get a smile turning tapping pockets in to a drum kit or saying 'yes yes for me please!' when they shouted 'cadeux!', others all we could do was say no, sorry. What was even more difficult to deal with was when an embarrassed elder chased them away with a stick. In fact something seemed to have suggested to people that every westerner simply oozed money, we had to negotiate some crazy prices some times, people thinking nothing of doubling or tripling the price and we heard a few times during negotiations 'but €10 is nothing to you', even when dealing with big businesses.
From Louga we kept north to Mpal where turned down a sandy street that lead out in to the Pal-merinaguene Sylvo-Pastorale Reserve. The map had again mislead us somewhat; there being no fuel in Mpal (we had to overshoot and return) and again a 'secondary road' being no more than 4x4 tracks in the sand! That said it was possibly the most beautiful ride of the trip so far.
The beginning just after lunch was the most tricky section, with no clear route we asked in every thatch built village. People were shy and occasionally a little scared at first when we stopped but always warmed up even without any french to help things along. We saw signs for 'Senegal Hunger Project' along the way and could clearly see how hard life could be in these rural areas, though the hospitality still extended to occasional invites for tea. Later when we couldn't stop in the sandy sections nods and waves were exchanged with smiles and sometimes shouts.
The name of the reserve was apt and most of the sand was topped with thin lime green grass which goats and bony cows roamed across.
Half way across we stopped for an oil change on the DR. It had been difficult to find anywhere during daylight where we could get a moments peace with the bikes to do it and the cool breeze beneath a spiky tree was a good spot, even if the sandy soil wasn't ideal conditions!
The last section of fast firm piste turned in to a quagmire of soft rutted sand 15km before we expected a nice Tarmac road, there was nothing to do but power through it to Kuer Momar Sar. Again the map was lying about the route and we were glad to have google maps downloaded on the iPhone to cross reference with!
The Tarmac took us north to G'nit and the potholes continued north, not just potholes to damage you're wheel but quite capable of consuming the whole thing! With the bikes we could mostly dodge round them but the poor locals trucks and 4x4s must have taken a beating.
Again we camped under a tree in what had now become Saharan desert again and again we were welcomed in the morning by a happy shepherd this time inviting us for breakfast. We'd already eaten so shared a little of ours with him before getting back in the road.

Furthest from home...

We chickened out or riding the bikes in to town this time and hailed a cab, the driver was a silk pajamaed harlequin and listened to us saying 'Dakar Marina', repeated it, demonstrated boats floating, and then took up to the airport. Everyone we spoke to said that the best visitor attraction in Dakar was the Isle of Goree, reputedly once involved in the slave trade but now a beautiful period village full of resident artists and mostly Senegalese visitors. After checking the customs office really was closed on a Sunday (had a chat with the security guard just in case as the pass avant finished today) we waded through the sea of belt and watch sellers that formed around us with 'no merci's and progressively less sympathetic looks. At first we thought it was another rip when the boat price was three and a half times more for foreigners than locals :/ but the visit was worth it.
What an amazing place! Painted houses either side of narrow streets were planted with flowers and lined with paintings for sale, birds of prey circled overhead, people were playing on the small beach by the pier and drinking outside restaurants. On top of the isle is a huge double barrelled piece of artillery from 1902, installed by the French and decommissioned when they left, leaving the network of posts and tunnels around the top of the rock for the squatting community of artists. In fact there was a buoy the boat rounded before drawing alongside the pier and Brahm, one of the five brothers occupying the gun, told us it was marking a wreck where 600 people died the last time the gun was used in anger. Brahm was a great guy who leapt about talking with enthusiasm about his adopted home while we talked about lifestyles, peace and war, art and Braveheart! I plan on dropping him a postcard from Edinburgh to say thanks for the tour of his home, I hope Brahm @ the Big Gun works as an address!
Monday and there was no escaping it, we had to pack up the flat and get an early start to hit the Doune first thing. It was surprisingly easy to find again and we only got pulled over once, luckily the officer loosing interest and walking off without even asking for papers! The other nice surprise was while sitting in the Place de Independence, surrounded by kids learning how to set KTM tyre pressures, Robin returned to say the customs didn't want a bribe this time! There had been a fixer this time but he did seem to have made the difference.
The bike tyres were passing the halfway wear point and we had been trying to sort out replacements by email but with no luck. A French guy on a 990SM had come and gone but only had the same contact I'd been emailing at Saudequip. At that point as luck would have it a loud quad 'baruped' in to the square and nearly ran over a bollard stopping to talk to us, it was a young guy who wanted to buy the Ktm! This was the second time I'd been asked in Senegal and wasn't the last either, there was demand for big bikes it seemed but a shortage of supply. Max turned out to be an importer who now lived in itay most of the year, except when easing shipments in to Dakar. A few phone calls and we were on the road having our eardrums blown and precision riding testing trying to keep up with the quad through the streets. Unsurprisingly we got pulled but the officer looked at the pass avant and walked off, strange but it wasn't until the next day before we realised why; apparently our fixer had got us put down as family of the ambassador to Guinea, we were visiting dignitaries!
Max's pal Issa had been a mechanic in the Dakar Rally twice before it was lost to South America. His yard was down some small streets and was full of bikes and engines in various states of dismantle, half a dozen guys were working around the place and the street outside was busy with people buying and selling. No luck this time on the tyre even with a few phone calls but Robin noticed a bend on the rack of the DR which Issa had welded up with a brace in no time. I promised to pass on his details for any other visiting riders needing a pit stop!
Issa Minou Motos
776347859, Latitude: 14.676157° Longitude: -17.453499°
We said our goodbyes and Max lead us to a petrol station beside a post office for fuel, stamps and postcards, with a handshake and a cloud of burnt rubber he returned back towards Issa's.
It wasn't long before got in to conversation with a huge guard on a tiny scooter from the prison we hadn't noticed next door. It sounded like a harsh place and he said it was home to three Scots as well, mercenaries with life for murdering a taxi driver while trying to get to the war in Sierra Leone. He was very philosophical about it, he said they'd had plenty of time to think about it too.
The Lac Rosse was next up, a pink salt water lagoon if the sun and humidity are right, traditionally the Dakar Rally had finished beside it. It was a great missed opportunity that at the end of the dusty potholed road there seemed to be nothing but salt works and beachside hotels. No finish mound, no plaque, just trucks. A kid on a horse came past on the shell piste and made it leap in the air, we waved and took photos of ourselves where we thought the chequered flag should have been, jumping about as well.
As the daylight slipped by it was time to get south, our furthest away night from home would be spent along the coast north of Mbour, recommended by a number of people. The sun was just beginning to set when we rolled in to Saly, it looked like a real seaside beach town fuelled by bars and quad bike hire, finding a reasonably priced place to stay was more elusive until the jolly round face of Salif greeted us at the door of Residence Myriam in Ngaparou, shaking us firmly with a mittened hand and grinning from bobble to bobble under his wooly hat. We met the whole crew too, Ali, Camo, Baysha and the guys welcomed us in, fed and watered us and made us part of the family to a soundtrack of Bob Marley and Senegalese Ballack.

Senegal, the final frontier

Rosso as a border crossing we'd been told by all was a terrible place full corruption and impossible to pass though without excessive lightening of ones wallet. Diama on the other hand, 40km west and at the end of a piste that ran through a national park, was recommended as being less well travelled and generally more professional. The piste itself lived up to expectations with monkeys, wild pigs, birds of all sizes and yet more roving bovine roadblocks livening up the journey, but unfortunately the crossing was more like Rosso than expected. From the first meeting with officialdom on the Mauritainian side Robin had to face down the head of customs aka the Last King Of Scotland, a big imposing chap clearly well practiced in the use of amateur dramatics to intimidate those intending to depart the country. Outside I minded the bikes and gear while midday prayers were ramping up in a small walled area facing east, on the opposite side of the road the river that formed the border was visible. The 'King' slowly rolled off his mattress in front of the telly on the floor and went in to the office, muttering an instruction to follow. Robin did and an interesting game began.
-Olly

Scowling import guy demands passports, v5s and import documents for Mauritania from me. Once he has these on his side of the table he tells me the charge is 10 Euros each. I'm not convinced, we'd never heard of this charge and had researched well, something in his expression says he is trying it on. I tell him theres no charge for export but he insists, I tell him that's a problem as we have no cash, believable as Mauritania does not allow the export of currency, so essentially hes a victim of their own regulations. It's beginning a battle of wits. His eyes roll, his head drops, anyone would believe he's just heard the worlds ending. It's a game of chess but a tricky one, at any time he thinks he's loosing I know he might just throw the board out the window. I provoke the top his head by asking how can we resolve this and again he demands his bribe, the cycle repeats a few times until he says maybe you have a present for me instead? It confirms the charge is crap! I remember the expensive cigarettes from Morocco and pretend to turn ideas over in my mind; just our luck this is the one man in Mauritania who gave up smoking nine years ago! Maybe he can sell them on but he's not convinced. The assistant comes thinking his English can help but leaves five minutes later when no progress is being made. Eventually the King rolls his eyes one last time and says next time you need to bring me a camera or new trainers! I shook his hand and left.
The police office has a different atmosphere. Smarter uniforms, computers and scanners and efficient but friendly attitude. After ten minutes of writing details in the ledger, computering and stamping papers, he put the passports on the desk and demanded 10 Euros each. This was actually the same game again as with customs, with no police entry charge why would there be an exit one? I repeat the story, no cash until St Louis. Things here are quicker and again I have another no smoker but this time I'm shooed out the office with a scowl and importantly the passports! We hop on the bikes and are away on to the bridge before anyone can change their mind!
It's a temporary break as we cross the bridge before another self important official takes a turn at ruining our day. He wants 4000 Ougia each for crossing the bridge, twice the price of an auberge room for two! No price list but if we don't believe him we can ask at the police office, which I'm sure are going to back him up anyway, at least I'm past him even if the bikes aren't. I go to the police office but the bridge bandit follows me in and talks right over me, I tell him I want to talk in private and eventually he leaves so I can scope out the police. The officer says he can get half price bridge crossing but we still have to pay his 10Euro charge for each passport! Negotiations on this one are long, my story of lacking cash doesn't go far as he offers us a cab to take us to the bank, seems hard to wait this one out. Even though he's a smoker the cigarettes are only buying so much leverage. After more negotiations I persuade him to take both cartons of cigarettes to settle his charges and he agrees to order the bridge man to half his fee. The barrier goes up, the passports come back and he shakes my hand and praises my courage for standing firm throughout the proceedings! Mean while Olly has been talking to the engineer responsible for the bridge, an older guy he trained in Carlisle and says we don't have to pay the return journey if we mention his name, hopefully!
Only one obstacle stands between us and Senegal, the customs, the Doune! Things are moving slowly here, the arrival of two van loads of Belgians have backed up behind a Spanish couple and their dog who had been arrested two days earlier for giving up with the bribes and trying to run the border. Two days of prison beatings and a very large 'fine' later they are almost free but still taking the majority of the officials attention. A non uniformed fixer is floating around the office being officious enough to believably be a real officer, 50/50 chance. I already knew customs could be tricky for my bike as it was older than the limit for entry without a carnet but the 60Euro the fixer demands seems pretty steep. We eventually get to the front of the virtual queue and I speak to the head of customs. The youngish but senior officer dealing with the Spanish couple seemed to enjoy demonstrating his power over them but in our case he seems to be relatively approachable. He writes out permits for each of our bikes giving us 48hrs to get to customs in Dakar and complete the process and the sixty Euro charge has luckily disappeared as the fixer Is distracted elsewhere, leaving a legitimate 2500Cifa, 3.80Euro per bike.
With all the documents complete we clear the border as quick as possible and only stop 5kms down the road to breath a sigh of relief!
If we paid out every charge demanded of us during the day we'd have paid out 140Euro but playing the game got us the 300 yards for the bargain price of 18Euros and offloading the two cartons of cigarettes that been a burden for the last 2000kms! We were in Senegal!
-Robin

It was only a short drive in to St Louis which we would have to pass through to get to the Zebra Bar where we were planning a few days off the road. It was an amazing city full of people shouting hellos to each other, music playing, bright colours everywhere, a real contrast to Mauritania. And the other half of the chromosome reappeared; as we travelled south it was as if women had pretty much disappeared all together but not only did they reappear they were smart and elegant, no wonder the mauritanians we spoke to all said the Senegalese women gave them heart attacks :)
Big orange trucks with wobbly wheels and bent in the middle jostled with yellow taxis, wings and bonnets all replaced with other colours, bright blue and white Renault mini buses with gaping window apertures ferried smiling people through the streets painted with patterns, eyes, messages and 'transport de commune', tied up with tassels and ribbons. The contrast was dramatic; the happiness level was so much higher.
It was slow progress though, nothing got near the 40kph speed limit but the constant in and out of minibuses and starts and stops gave us time to take it all in. It was even more ironic then what happened next!
Leaving town it was necessary to cross a bridge to reach the unsurfaced road to Zebra Bar, just on to it a man in a yellow bib with a whistle and filthy bomber jacket jumped out, he was quite irate but there was no way past. 'who are you?' I demanded. 'your bike here!' he shouted back and pointed at the verge, 'you, who?!', this was going to wear thin quickly. I looked in the mirror and Robin had a similar guy in front of him. Was that a gun on his hip? 'policeman!' my guy started to shout, I was looking for any sign of it but with a gun in sight it was time to play along.
No way my grubby chap was a copper but the other guy seemed genuine enough, he was pointing at his cap and gun, they seemed to calm down a little when it was pointed out the lack of identification his friend had.
Then the bullsh*t started, another one with a badge in place of morals. Apparently we hadn't stopped for a policeman 3kms earlier, then it was we were reving engines through town, then we were speeding; none of the reality mattered one bit. The alternative of paying 20 Euros each at the police station got further away too, first it was 3kms up the road where his chief had spotted us then 12kms and three roundabouts inland where we'd been radared apparently, we even got to speak on the phone with his jabbering pal down the pub who had the disillusion he was chief of police. There was no point arguing anything, none of it mattered, we would wait it out.
He got more unsure he was going to get anything and hassled us more and more but we waited and the price dropped bit by bit, his inability to convert currencies worked in our favour. We found an Arabic looking man beside us in the same predicament with his pickup going the other way, 'this is africa' he said with a sympathetic look.
Eventually we were back on the road for 10Euros, the sun was going down and we still had 20kms of dirt road to cover so we had to make a move, but not before the policeman tried to get the same cash from both of us. We wished the pickup driver luck and headed out of town, vowing to jam up the bridge by driving so slowly!
Zebra bar was a pretty cool set up but all we saw was dinner and bed until the next day, arriving in the dark at the end of what had been a very long day.

In to the belly of the piste

Nouabidou didnt seem as friendly as back over the border, people didn't smile when you greeted them, no one waved from the road side, maybe we had just been spoilt with the overwhelming hospitality of Morocco. Even the police and army used Tu rather than Vous.
We'd been told breakfast at auberg Abba was possible but in the morning were given directions to a cafe up the road instead, the owner Brahm offered to show us the way and we ended up Robin, myself, Torsten and Brahm eating pastries and drinking coffee in the dark Belgian owned patisserie. Brahm certainly liked a good story and didn't let lack of one stand in the way of telling it, we'll certainly have to check out the Mauritanian lions! On the way back he suggested sorting our insurance for Senegal in an office there rather than amidst the chaos of Noukashott, a great idea at a fraction of the cost, even better when Robin twigged and bought it directly with the agent and not through Brahms help :) It wasn't in any way malicious though in our culture it might be construed as such, it just seems to be the north African way, as we were learning. Any encounter is an opportunity to make money or a way to create an opportunity to make money. The guys we'd bought the cigarettes off for example had be helpful enough for real but it was a hustle (when we found out how cheap cigarettes are in Mauritania). It seemed it was just the way things were.
We said our good-byes to Torsten and wished each other luck.  The news had just arrived about Bin Laden's death in Pakistan and Maria and my folks back home were really worried about us being in Mauritania. The road ahead was listed in the foreign office information as 'high risk' so we had formulated a number of strategies for dealing with situations even though it was a fairly straight forward drive down to Nouakshott, stopping once for fuel and once to eat, ironically pulling off the road beside the giant skeleton of a camel.
Just outside Nouabidou we met the first check point, it was a bit odd this time. An older officer dressed a little different wearing sunglasses and a beret asked us for petrol, petrol for the police bikes! We were only 5kms from the last petrol station so it was pretty odd and we needed the fuel he could now see strapped to the back of Robin's bike to get to Nouakchott in case the half way station was dry. He starting slapping Robin on the head and made some joke to me and the other officer, laughing and shaking my hand, we tried to explain the fuel so I asked a little about the bikes. He wrapped his fingers in to my hand and lead me to a quad, proudly showing me the brake pedal before taking my hand again to lead me back, then stroking my face with then back of his hand like brushing off imaginary dirt. In the distance my imagination could hear banjos and a pig squealing.
'No essence?'
'Nous ave souffe seulement pour notre motos, excuse moi'
'Bon. Allee'.
And that was that!
The desert was really dry and barren round the Total petrol station when we got there. AlJazira was playing loudly on a tv above tables outside the restaurant at the forecourt, '...Bin Laden... America... Al Quaida...' blasted out to the half a dozen focused men below.
One man in blue approached Robin to tell him the attendant was away for lunch, just a few minutes so he filled Robin in on the 'sad' news reported on the Tv. Bin Laden was a good person he said, Mauritanian people liked him.
Checkpoints became less frequent along the near empty road which was just as well as the heat was building, the fresh blacktop radiated like a solar oven and riding over it was like swimming through a suffocating duvet, I found myself standing up just to escape from behind the screen into more airflow. Eventually the road dropped towards the coast and bits of green began to appear, the white sand and dust was sprinkled with lime green grass in places and trees and bushes more frequent. Mercifully the temperature also dropped maybe five degrees or so.
The dog/horse aroma of camel announced the approach of Nouakchott along what had just upgraded to an empty carriageway. Square breezeblock houses sat at all angles in the sand down both sides of the road, running off in to the distance and suddenly there were people, donkeys and patiently waiting camel trains.
There had been no lorries outside the town what so ever and only a few cars but following the road in the traffic seemed to be making up for lost time!
We had a business card from David and Hana for Auberge Sahara right on the main road and what a great place it was! The small courtyard was calm and friendly, the receptionist had a wide welcoming smile and enthusiastic handshake and the interior was cool and filed with traditional musical instruments, furniture, paintings and a happy little three year old called Anna. In fact it was quite a family vibe as staff came and went bringing Anna playmates, people drank tea or snoozed in the tent and the cats greeted visitors. Maybe too great a place; it was hard to get up the will to leave in the morning!
After getting another stack of fiches photocopied (we'd given out over forty so far!) we tried to follow the N1 marked as a line on the gps though the centre if Nouakchott. Eventually the Tarmac just came to two earth mounds and a hole blocking the road so we wove through the sand filled side streets, tricky riding as it wasn't possible to get enough speed up to deal with the deeper parts properly. Finding petrol was a challenge too, it took half a dozen stations before we could fill up with the dark yellow waxy smelling leaded 'essence'; using the nose was more reliable than reading the label on the pump!
At last we were back up to speed and the air felt good drying off the sweat of the city. It was a busy place and everywhere were trucks and vans, battered white vans with tiny barred windows and no back doors putted their last puts hauling huge loads of people hanging on where ever they could. Nouakshott defiantly had a different vibe to Nouabidou, things were getting friendlier and more relaxed in the streets. Out of town it continued and we had some waves and smiles. This was becoming west Africa suddenly, it showed in the people, the dress and the landscape. In the space of a few kilometres the sandy soil changed from white to orange/red with hollows of white and then suddenly we were in the orange and green landscape of television documentaries, half expecting real lions!
South of Nouakshott the road surface was more variable and any stop meant dropping in to deep sand at the side of the road, but people here offered directions even if a little nervous at first. We passed through villages of tumble down wood and corrugated iron spread out amongst the dry trees and as the green increased the camel population thinned and the cows took over. In one village a corrugated iron counter was labeled "Boucherie", tied to it were two sleepy and peacefully unaware goats.
Another check point, but a customs sign this far from the border? We slowed up and a man without uniform emerged from a small building with blue and white checks painted down the sides. He greeted us and asked for our papers, er no we thought. He wanted our insurance for Senegal, in Mauritania, why we asked, he didn't believe we had it, and then the crunch, he pulled out paperwork to sell us it! 'insurance sales man?' I said and pointed, he nodded, posing as customs! We were off, lesson learned to be even more selective who we stopped for, remembering the rule of thumb we'd read; if he's not got a gun or proper uniform ignore him!
150kms from Nouakchott we turned up to the right and onto the start of the famous Diama Piste, a group of kids were waiting to hassle visitors and we had to defend the water bottles bungied to the bikes until an older chap with a long beard in blue robes gave us directions and chased the kids away.
Staying straight it climbed from the main road becoming softer and sandier, I dropped tyre pressures and it became a roller coaster of ups and downs and camel and donkey dodging through the orange and green landscape. We were aiming for Kuir Macene, we had a business card for the 'Encampment', it was somewhere to stay but we weren't quite sure what!
When we met anyone we asked directions to be sure until arriving at an industrial site where the business card we had seemed to confuse the three men again in blue robes. Kuir Macene was had no hotel, auberge or camping but there was one up near the main road. At this point the national guard posted at the site became interested our little group and despite initial suspicion he actually called all the numbers on the card for us, even if unfortunately without luck.
The sun was low in the sky and turning orange by now and a dark blue gendarmerie pickup arrived, cab and back full of men. The driver spoke with the guard and offered to lead us to Kuir Macene but it was short lived; 30 yards later he stopped, got out and started arguing with an old man on a donkey cart taking a worried looking mother and child the other way. If our national guard friend hadn't been there saying I was ok we'd have been off as it turned in to a bit of a shoving match in the street and one of the men in blue had to restrain the driver! After a few minutes the old man jumped aboard and whacked the poor donkey, it took off as fast as it's little stick legs could hobble it and the driver continued to argue with the others, the pick up drove off and eventually the driver stormed away, leaving us just our original group standing in the dusty road, somewhat perplexed!
The village of Kuir Macene was bigger than expected. There were several shops to ask directions in which all lead us back towards the main road and the auberge the others had talked about. The sun was setting but it was a great ride back up a few kms of the piste before turning north, crossing a new road under construction and riding over the lumpy earth in to the setting sun. Everyone here was dressed traditionally and walking home or out for a stroll and seemed happy to greet and confirm our direction as we bounced through the tangle of tracks.
Out of the darkness a wall appeared then a man, we asked him and he opened a gate in then wall. With no moon it was inky black when a lady arrived to discuss room prices, Robin as even getting a bit of a discount for what we later found out was doing without the generators! The encampment was a walled set of buildings, a main dinning room surrounded by small thatched round huts with one side bordering the wetlands. The following day we found the apparently abandoned car park and swimming pools, faded glory from days of greater security and visitor numbers in the country, it quite sad to see. After settling in we cooked on the camping stove as the only guests in the complex, sitting in the middle of the main path, surrounded by stars, shadows of empty buildings and a full orchestra of birds, distant donkeys and amphibians.

Putting Morocco to Bedouin

*just realised my last post said border crossing at Diama, missed out Mauritania oops! Meant to say near Nouadibou ;)

If we were giving out awards for one liners in the face of adversity on this trip first nomination would have to go to Mr Pairman. We were leaving Dakhla, a surfers paradise peninsula on the coast of western sahara, when we passed again through a speed trap we'd seen the night before on the way there. Keeping perfectly to the national limit of 100kph we kept on, slowed and were pulled over. Just a document check surely. No, the smart copper insisted the zone was an 80! I was confused, was he saying there was no delimited sign or was he saying 80, delimit, 80 was actually all 80? Either way he seemed insistent we were in the wrong. 'What are we...' he gestured to us three conspirators ...'going to do now?' he said, surely this was a pointed question. Robin came up with the award winning reply: 'Tourismous, nous être touriste', exactly as he answered each time a checkpoint enquired what was he doing in the country! The policemen paused, then looked at the ground, then burst in to laughter shaking his head, 'go, go, go hehe! What a stroke of genius from the man on 'Le Mutton'!
Dakhla was a little disappointing to be honest, we had thoughts of golden beaches, bars and cafe life but it was much like every other western Saharaian military filled town, just on the coast. The red and white concrete kurbstones and sand free concrete streets were not exclusive to Assa after all but seemed dependent on two things; being in/near western Saharan and largely occupied by military. We had stocked up on provisions and continue on our way after some R'n'R at the Palais de Bedouine.
The road continued much the same for another 400kms or so. We had been given the name of a motel attached to apetrol station but after all the time in town we headed down to the beach 80kms north of the border for one last night in Western Sahara. Getting across the sand was reasonably familiar but the surprise came when we reached the other side of the dune, two encampments on the beach! It really was beginning to seem that behind every dune was a Bedouine tent :) picking a spot between the two but set back we had something to eat with the sunset over the sea and put up the tent at night fall. Two friendly looking men approached as we did, waving. It was the Moroccan Royal Marines! Nice guys we had a chat and two of their guard dogs decided to stay with us until we went to bed, it felt almost homely :)
We got to the border about midday after passing the tropic of cancer, we'd been warned it could take a while and risk was that Mauritania would close at five and could leave people stranded in the 6km of desert wasteland. Actually after stamping the passports and white export sheets in the office we passed through three document checks and were out of Morocco tout de suite, released in to the wilderness.
All our advice warned the area could still be mined from years of conflicts. Stick to the tracks was fairly easy advice to follow but which tracks, it was a warren! Most of the tracks were actually sheets of white rock emerging from the dust but there could be deep hollows of sand between waiting for the unwary, as were the guides and helpers ready to dig out a stranded traveller! Cresting one rock I did get caught out and then the friendly guys helped right the ktm but we were determined to do the crossing ourselves and with waypoints on the gps it wasn't too bad, I also cheated a little and took off after a black Merc that seemed to be disappearing in the right direction!
About half way we met some money lenders, guys in blue sheets waving handfuls of green and blue notes. They surrounded the bikes waving mobile phone with exchange rates on the screen. From 300 Ougilias per Euro we got a couple up to 350, later we actually managed 400 at a bank but we needed 40 Euros worth now for the formalities at the border. Compared to to Tangier or even Sebta every body was pretty relaxed and most took a 'no merci' first time, maybe the intense heat may it all just too much effort.
It was still a relief after riding past the menacing wrecks of so many cars abandoned in then holocaustic landscape to see the red and white striped bar and buildings of the Mauritanian border.
A passport and visa check on the left then in to the army building on the right for the bike documents. It could have been worse but was still military beurocracy, announce your presence to the office, get roughly shown out, get paper when they are finished tea, lots of finger snapping and eventually get called up to the boss mans desk. No chance we were messing about with any cigarettes here! They laughed, drank tea, chewed toothpicks but eventually stamped things in the right places, a great relief as I was pretty unsure about some of the questions in the form and just waiting to get sent back like poor Peter at the consulate in Rabat! Tip is to bring a couple of pens; it's expected and I wasn't sure I was going to get mine back at one point, even worse I'd already borrowed it off a thankfully very chilled out tout! 20Euros and I was off, where it went I had no idea but Robin thought he had read about it being genuine before.
A parking charge outside (genuine) then more passport checks in the police office on the left. The final soldier was wrapped head to toe in olive green, he seemed to like the invisible man effect of only the sunglasses being available to intimidate the visitors, from his hands he looked like a kid underneath  At last we were in Mauritania but it still took an hour to sort insurance at the office on the left (6.50 Euro for 10 days) and register with the tourist authority on the right. The tourist guy was a smart young man in a shirt and tank top, he talked with pride and enthusiasm about his beautiful country and showed me videos and photos, I felt awful we were only transiting. In fact the news had just arrived about Gadafi's sons being killed so were were going to have to keep abreast of developments and possibly even curtail our time unfortunately. The pictures and videos he showed painted a beautiful picture of desert landscapes, canions and ancient histories and civilisations.
We'd given different destinations to everyone but the officials and headed towards Nouakchott past a ramshackle road block with a pickup at the junction with the main road from Nouakchott and Nouadibou, unlike the military or police. After 5kms we turned around, better spend the night in  Nouadibou, pressing on and spending the night at the motel we had heard about wouldn't have gained us anything anyway as we could reach Noukashott  the next evening anyway.
Nouabidou was a city of goats to first appearances, the were everywhere! Along the road, on the road, eating a polly bag or a flipflop, a number even wearing a mono-bra over their udder, tied neatly behind the back! Everywhere was sandy with plastic waste blowing about, this was a very different town to back over the border. One real lane became two and half, lined with sand it was a game of chicken with joining traffic. The difference in vehicles was extreme, fairly smart mercs and pick ups jostled for space with forty year old renaults missing headlights or suspension.
Ver nicely Hotel Saida helped us find Auberge Abba which was a little more in our price range. When we arrived drums and singing echoed round the dusty courtyard from a Senegalise wrestling competition over the back wall, the receptionist communicated this with a demonstration!
In the courtyard we spotted an alloy boxed dr 650 belonging to a German chap, Torsten who we went out for dinner with, of all things getting a great Chinese meal round the corner! His plan was to ride the iron ore train inland and invited us to join him. It sounded like a great trip sitting on top if he wagons but given the political situation we regrettably had to decline. I'm looking forward to reading about it in his blog though and keeping in touch! (http://www.tottys-race.de/).