'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.