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/).

Borderdash

Desert for miles and miles. Today we managed 400 in a dash towards the Mauritanian border. The police checks came more frequently once even 100 yards apart as bureaucracy dictated both jurisdictions collected the same info. Luckily we had received good advice and the 'fiche' templates we'd photocopied (name, age, birth place, reg, VIN, underpants size, no but nearly!) had the stops down to just five minutes or so. 99% of the stops were very friendly, even offering water, almost as if the poor guys posted into the wilderness were just pleased to have someone other than occasional truckers to discuss distant lands and of course football with. Just one time Robin got a guy disgruntled that he'd overshot the 'Halt' sign by five yards, for myself a nervous guy checked over the paperwork before sidling up with shifty eyes, "hey, you have any whisky?", his first and only words n English! None the less they were all very smart and proud and we usually departed with a salute!
Petrol is a carefully measured commodity now and we fill up at every opportunity, even if the Ktm is only 20% (8 litres) in to a tank, either of us could need the fuel if a couple of stations were shut or only selling diesel. Stations feel like wild west frontier posts; drivers snooze in the shade or throw water over their face, inside the spacious dark cafe silent men nod as you walk in, spurs jangling on the tiled floor and shafts of light shining through the desert air.
The desert itself changes from dunes to stones to stoney dunes and back again, occasionally we get a glimpse of the blue sea crashing below the overhanging cliffs. Red and white radio repeaters follow the road now that the power transmission towers and telephone lines have run out, each with a bank of photovoltaic cells within the small compound wall and often a nomads tent and grey Landrover sheltering in the lea.
I've noticed my waist and left arm getting sore simply from pressing the bike in to the westerly wind, it rises and falls but never really quits. It affects the fuel economy too and the tyres seem to be wearing quite fast now after the beating they took ploughing the sand and rocks in the desert, the front of the Ktm took one rock through the tread, out the wall and in to the rim, luckly just grazing the ply.
This evening we arrived in Dakhla just as it was nearly dark. The last check point told us it was 200kms to the next hotel and seemed pretty keen we turned up the 40km peninsula for the night. It means one more day in western sahara though as the border will be out of reach for the required mid day crossing time.
We watched a very dramatic AlJazira newscaster reporting from Libya as we ate camel burgers in a cafe. The news here is full of war and conflict, even the computer game intro style graphics have iconic GI images from the Vietnam war and I can't help but feel there is a focus on the glory rather than the suffering, which contradicts the general attitudes of the people we have spoken to. The bombing in Marrakech the other day also seems very contradictory to the general views of the people. BBC seem to have the wrong end of the stick as well, reporting the protests as being 'against king Mohamed', yet people frame his picture and say he is a champion of the poor. A few people say politics and business are trying to tie his hands and stop his reforms coming through, reforms that would benefit the impoverished and bring greater equality, it sounds like an old story, repeated the world over.
This morning we drink coffee by the beach and this afternoon move within reach of a midday border crossing at Diama.

Run from the sun!

Getting up with the dawn we had our supernoodle breakfast. The sun rose directly opposite where it set and we'd noticed it seemed to have been passing right over head rather than sweeping east to west during the day; navigation by sun wouldn't have been easy out here.
After breaking camp the bikes hauled their way up to the nearby communications tower from where we could again see the village of Lebourate. It looked like one of the desert villages from Starwars, only this was the original, authentic deal.
A stoney track lead down, easy riding after the miles of deep ploughed sand behind us, and lead in to a sandy square, surrounded by a mixture of single story sand coloured buildings. The only things taller were the tower of a small mosque beside us, a concrete water tower opposite and the proud red Moroccan flag flying over a walled building in front. The building turned out to be that of the local military officer who directed me in Arabic to one of the others which was a shop, opened on the arrival of a customer by a shy smiling lady in traditional clothing.
By now the local kids had turned out and were asking our names and shaking hands, 'Sa va?' flew backwards and forwards as they practiced the French they had learned in the school beside the military post. They were smiling and laughing and seemed to love having visitors, especially strange ones with goggles and a furry motorbike, when they saw the camera they all wanted to see photos of themselves. After buying water one boy about six insisted he carry the 9 litres back to the bike, he was busting a gut when I thanked him and took it back half way across the square but grinning with pride ear to ear!
One man spoke French, a welcoming chap in his 40s with a moustache and long white embroidered jelahba, he spoke a little about the route ahead, said we had plenty of water and wished us luck but as we were about to set off he suddenly pointed to an alarming drip from the KTM, it was leaking fuel again!
The heat of the day was building and we pulled the tank off once more, the same pipe was sliced through again. It was looking like the Aqualine tank was expending in the heat of the desert so much that it was cutting the line by pressing the barb of the fuel tap in to part of the frame. The tanks had never fitted very well and after the earlier pump problem collective eyebrows were being raised about them. With the help of some curious villagers we shimmed the tank up 8mm to clear the frame but could only fit three of the five mounting bolts and now the glove box lid didn't fit right; it would have to do.
Just as we were about to saddle up a kid wearing a Mr Incredible Tshirt under his tiny jelabha insisted I see his school, I waved in the door and a dozen kids from about six to ten years all grinned and waved back, they all seemed pretty happy to be in school!  
Leaving through the village we hit deep sand, the bikes squirmed and bucked and we ploughed on, it would have been embarrassing to have stacked a bike without even making it out of town but if truth be told years of Land Rovering had turned areas in to proper deep sand pits!
Things looked up as the village dropped from sight, the sand firmed up and small rocks gave better grip and feedback, right before the first of many wide strips of deep sand appeared. We dropped the tyre pressures to 20/25psi but it was going to be a compromise with the rocks about and no rim locks on the wheels. It transformed the heavier Ktm but Robin wasn't so convinced about the DR. A few drops and a bust pannier lock had taken it's toll on his sand mojo and he suddenly felt a long way from civilisation.
Sitting under the shade of a tree looking at the box I realised I hadn't texted my girlfriend Maria back home; we had agreed every three days but tomorrow would be our third in the desert and there was no way O2 was serving up any cells within 100Kms of where we were. We decided to head back the 10kms to town, make the call and at least know someone was expecting a call from Smara in 3 days on the other side of the desert, the man in the village who spoke French agreed, it was worth it to keep your woman happy!
The phone was in the shop which was now full of women wearing bright cloth. A toddler was produced who stared open mouthed at us like we had just appeared in his porridge, it made everyone in the shop laugh as he gapped wide eyed!
Robin was a bit happier too and setting out again the terrain seemed to improve. There was no road out here but we did seem to be doing a better job of finding bigger tracks to follow. What was becoming apparent however was while bikes don't mind stoney sand too much Land Rovers tend to veer towards the flatter smoother but softer sand that sucks bikes in! We opened the bikes up and in a assortment of styles growled, barked and sometimes paddled our way through the succession of small dunes, rocky rises and stoney plateaus. I felt I was finding a rhythm, so long as I could come out of the softer sand now and then to get everything back in shape the bigger challenge was becoming navigation, features and tracks were pushing us south and further off course. In the distance I spotted a track up a rocky dune, it was dusted with slabs of flat blue/green stone that shone in the sun, looked promising and the occasional plastic or tin can beside it seemed to suggest it was used a good bit, it must lead somewhere? Climbing up we reached a saddle with a sandier dune behind, crested with more rock, and were greeted with the bad news: nowhere, the track just disappeared. At this point I looked at the fuel gauge I built for the Ktm and saw we were nearly half way through our supplies, the sand was burning 50-100% more fuel, on this terrain or worse we weren't going to make it.
It felt like disaster at first, we'd ridden over 110 miles of sand and desert only to have to turn around and ride a 500 mile loop to get the last 150. We lay under a tree and talked about anything we could but sand for the next hour.
But we weren't skeletons yet! Not conquering the desert could still be turned in to a great night camping beneath the stars, miles for anyone. After burying the DR up to it's back axle getting going we picked a spot under a tree and pitched camp, dividing food and tent duties. It was beautiful to watch the sun go down behind the dunes and hear the animals in this part of the desert waking up, crickets, some small birds and an assortment of big beetles.
I jolted awake in the middle of the night. Something was in the tent porch, clawing at the bags. I could hear 'mow mow' every few seconds and all I could picture was Simon's Cat raining havoc on our camp. What wild desert beast made a noise like that out here? It went on and on but every time I looked out it ran away.
In the morning Robin thought I'd dreamt it until we saw the paw prints all over the camp. He definitely believed it when he then heard it himself! After a few minutes the beast appeared; a white house cat, right out here in the desert miles from water and people. It seemed to want to be friends but kept running away, nothing we could do to help =(
Knowing there was cold beer back at the hotel the riding seemed to get easier! We got up speed across the virgin plains and were starting to power through the soft dunes, even the hard foot deep ridges of a washboard only stopped us when bits up luggage broke free. In less time than before we were back in Lebourate and talking in French with our old friend. He explained unfortunately Zag was a military zone and we would be turned back to run out of fuel in the desert so right back to Assa was our only option.
His name was Eriche and seemed glad to see we were ok and had made the right decision. Wonderfully be invited us for mint tea in his shop across the village, a small terraced unit which was cool and dark inside, a counter was made of Coka Cola crates and some wooden shelves lined with cardboard divided off the backroom which looked like a rug filled domino den. He was a great guy and had a lot of patience for our French! The tea was made and drunk three times; a small pot brewed green tea on a pile of charcoal with chippings of sugar from a large compressed cone, each brewing was poured between five or six glasses several times to oxygenate the flavour. With each brewing a different villager joined out little group in the shop and it was easy to imagine a small group drawing lots somewhere outside! The first was an old man wrapped head to toe with one front tooth and a walking stick, he didn't seem to under stand that we could only speak two words of Arabic but he smiled as he spoke louder and slower, eventually finishing his tea and wishing us a good journey.
When it was time to depart we took photos with promises to post paper copies, swapped some more shortbread, left some painkillers for an unwell neighbour and finally had a visit from the shy soldier (with the help of a friend) who remembered he was supposed to take our passport details for the records!
The trip back went well until in a fit of confussion over a muddy puddle in the desert I missed Robin stopping for a ditch and the front wheel tucked under, stopping just before it. Both the ditch and the puddle were part of the roadworks. Luckily only minor damage to the right box and tank skid plate and it was all caught on helmetcam for later entertainment, but it did seem to be my turn now to loose the sand mojo. Robin bounced through the deep hollows while I took it more slowly and consequentially with more effort, catching up off piste. At least it wasn't long before we had stretches of dirt road and were again greeting occasional road workers and dodging the odd machine. About 3kms before the end of the dirt was a young lad heaving a sack of bread through the desert, it was nice to be able to give him a lift to the main road even if he seemed so shocked!
Donkeys, camels and goats were scattered all down the road to Assa. A gecko or two basking on the hot Tarmac waggled a beady eye before popping to it's feet and hot footing it to the bushes and occasionally stripey backed squirrels scampered into the rocks. Small grey birds swooped dangerously close to the wheels, too focused on the insects in the evening air to notice us approaching. It felt good not to be skeletons hunched over motorbikes in the desert =)
Our friends greeted us at the hotel and we managed to fill the shower tray with red sand getting ourselves back to human again, but with a dinner of kebab skewers in town we felt good. Another peaceful protest was chanting in the town square, while we ate it moved through town stopping occasionally to sit on the road, this one was lead by women. We got talking to a group of gents outside a tea shop and it turned out one had a friend running an antiques shop on South Clerk Street in Edinburgh! We swapped details and I promised to pop in and say hello for him after getting home.
Back at the hotel four older Dutch bikers had arrived on a selection of shiny dual sports bikes, we drank Moroccan beer in the lounge and talked until heads began to droop and one by one we trickled away to bed.
A lazy start and a bit of repair and service work meant we didn't get on the road until nearly three. Eusef the young manager joked that he should check us in for another night which didn't feel like a bad idea!
In Goulimine the back of the bike suddenly felt like it was back on sand; the first flat of the trip. Luckily a guy popped out a shop to direct us to a place 30yrds away but only just after Robin had chivalrously set out on his own quest. The metal jaws of the machine grabbed the inside of the soft alloy rim and I dared not look. Kids ran about and Robin chatted with some of the other garage mechanics while the Ktm dangled in the street. The chap looked like an Arabic version of Ali, ex flat mate of my good friend Grant back home, which helped me relax and in 15 mins I was refitting the wheel, a small metal pin swapped for 10 Dihrams (85p) plus a tip for his general smileyness throughout!
The touch screen on the Zumo gps was now playing up again. It seemed damaged somewhere in the middle and was detecting a constant press half the time. It meant scrolling the map wasn't possible and as we had no routing data. With all the roads the same colour I routed us out of Goulimine slightly off course to Plago Blanco. It looked like the white roads would link us back but when we got chatting with four French bikers on rented trail bikes coming the other way it sounded like a maze of military zones, sand dunes and tidal stretches of road. We helped them with a flat front tyre and decided to camp on the beach and route back to the right road in the morning.
The sound of the sea over the dunes was deafening. Pasta and sardines went down well and a few curious and hungry moggies sat with us before we got an early night. The sand here was different to the desert, the salt stuck it to everything, it made cooking and washing a pain but at least riding a lot easier.

A column of disorientated 4x4s wove there way towards us in the morning. The sun was still coming up and their headlights shone through the mist of the sea that tinted everything grey. A large yellow 'adventure' truck sat further along the beach and as we took down the tent and made breakfast a grey Landy deposited a dozen lads on the beach by a river who started playing football. As we left they all wanted photos taken with their Real Madrid flag, nice guys!
Back in Goulimine we met a couple of guys on a loud scooter, we talked in English and German as one lived in London and shipped over cars and the older chap was a truck driver that had spent 23 years in Hanover. They were great talking about the route down to Mauritania as they drove it often, offering hints and tips and even how many cigarettes could be traded for petrol! (7 packets = 40 litres it seems) And for the border, a carton was apparently a must for the border. And then the offer for black Market cigarettes. Was it a hustle? If it was it was a very friendly hustle, good value, should we hedge our bets? In the end we went for one box each, just enough for the border crossing if we needed it or plenty for petrol if we didn't. We were both unkeen on bribing anyone for all the obvious potential complications but they seemed genuine and even guided us through the back streets on the noisy scooter so we could avoid the busy centre and guarantee the right road this time!
From Goulimine to Tarfaya the road became more sandy, cliffs on our right dotted with men with fishing rods in the low sun dropped down to beach and on the left rocky desert turned to dunes and beach grass. Wide oueds crossed our path and the road went down to concrete bridges before climbing back through cuttings in to the sunlight. A tanker and cab looked sad and broken at the bottom of one oued obviously having broken through the eight inch bollards lining the edge while one cutting was home to a burnt out flatbed spilling a charred load of black melon sized spheres across the roadside. We followed three Merc vans from Germany for a while, filled with matresses and kitchen towel but missing the two dots on their "OU" registered plates, enroute to a retirement miles from home.
We were back on the marching route of the Isuzus and Mitsubishi lorries and evidence of their tireless hauling littered the sand in the form of shed retreads (excuse the pun!). Overtakes were more tricky now as each lorry had a great orange mane of sand whipping along behind, passing meant breaking through it and it licked and stung the face and goggles.



The sun was starting to set so we pulled off the road for Tarfaya when a black Merc car pulled over to pick up a friend and Ishmael introduced himself. He was a radar operator in the royal marines and helped us find a great hotel, Casamar, right by the base. Robin even secured a flat rather than a room for the same 120 Dihrams (£10) with guarded parking. The hotel had a lot of building work going on so it could be one to keep in the gps for the future. A Libyan oil company had some staff staying in the hotel and the chat was good as well as interesting, getting an inside view on Gadaffi. Fresh fish for dinner and a traditional bread and olive oil breakfast set us up for the day ahead.

Sand in the giblets

The bad stomach was catching me up today and we had a slow start. The Ktm lads left early but we ended up hanging about the hotel until after mid day while I rehydrated on electrolytes. It was a good chance to go over the route planed ahead and start to understand the seriousness of the undertaking, these were Pari-Dakar routes after all!
After getting some more water, checking we were fooded and fuelled to the maximum (44 and 30 litres) we set off towards Zag. Through town some kids jumped out and made drinking motions as they ran in front of us, asking about yesterday's experience at the hotel hadn't made things any clearer.
After 40Kms Chris Scott's route M13 turns right off the Tarmac, the sign he mentions is mostly missing but the stoney track took us between bushes and dune in the right direction. Just tens of meters from the road some kids sat under a tree with a utilitarian looking motorbike and then something down the track caught my eye, it was a camel blocking the way! Some might argue its one humpedness would make it a dromidary but either way it was a huge beast! Then two then three, then a dozen or so came in to view. They batted their eyelashes and chewed back at us and as we slowly neared lumbered off. Amazing! Further down the road it turned away from the trees and cut across country towards a gap in the hills and more camels. Stopping to check coordinates we noticed the water cube on the back of the ktm had sprung a leak, the vibes were just too much and a corner had been abraded.
As if by magic a voice came from the distance, carried on the wind. It was a little voice belonging to Sarem, about eight or nine years old wearing a tracksuit and Bedouin scarf. In the distance was his tent with nine family members, 200 sheep, 100 camels and a good old Land Rover. Robin's postcard of a highland cow seemed popular, as did our impressions of the grumpy beasts!

We decanter the water in to some spare empty bottles and said our goodbyes. Over the ridge we got a lesson in navigation with a bogus track heading west just after the first wall built during the Polisario wars, losing us 10kms of fuel. Even worse there were drips from the bottom of the Ktm's fuel tank! I turned the taps off on the pipe joining the two Aqualine tanks and it seemed to stop but how much petrol was lost?
Back on track just after an old waterstation we hit our first proper sand dune, cursing and swearing though we got through the wallowy quagmire and from the top could look down across the plain and see the piste running in to the distance. Something unexpected was the number of earth moving vehicles and a cement silo by the piste side; the waving men seemed to be in the process of upgrading the road.
Fast hard packed surface meant speed rose, 50mph seemed like 100 as the sand and wind whipped around. The bikes were leant hard to the right and the blast on the chest meant I was leant well over the front, the front mudguard wobbled and bounced ahead. It felt precarious and small dusty tornados caught us in their swirl but we wanted to make the most of the good surface while it lasted, and just as well.

After passing numerous friendly workmen stationed in tents and concrete oued crossings the good stuff ran out, Robin shouted 'fruit cocktail!', a mix of stones, sand and pebbles, it was like pudding beneath the sinking wheels. Without the confidence to get the speed up we road off piste but were still bogged occasionally by sand or when we had to pass back on to the road. Land rovers passed and we beeped and waved at each other. In the distance a hilux sped across the plain and we changed our angle to pick up his tracks. Attacking the sand with an aggressive throttle hand seemed the trick, any doubt or nerves sealed one's fate! It seemed the sand slowed the bikes causing the front to dig in and plough and weave, logically gunning it and leaning back kept the speed and floated through better but still ran the risk of building speed until things felt quite out of control, at that point stopping was usually the last option!


Terrain firmed up and began to rise as the sun started to sink, we crested a rocky dune and below us on the flat could finally see Lebouriate in the yellow evening sun.
It had been an amazing day's introductory ride and Robin pitched the tent while I got the fuel tank off the Ktm, trimmed what appeared to be just an abraded fuel hose and we sat down to dinner; Dolmio and pasta with shavings of mystery tinned giblets! The night was eerily silent except for the rustling of the tent and brushing of sand on canvas.

Piste and Stoned

During yesterday's riding we got our first bit of true off road experience and sense of tiny creatures in a huge landscape. Mobilised armies of green combines harvesters had surrendered to the Isuzus and Mitsubishi lorries and now they were being replaced with various 4x4s.
Turning south from Tagent the map and gps both marked an unsealed road across a plain and through a valley to Fask; it turned out to be a fairly loose description! A few hundred yards of dusty Tarmac lead out between the now orange earthen buildings before the vista unfolded to reveal miles of baked earth sprinkled with scrubby ankle high bushes. I'd read about how difficult following desert roads could be and it certainly wasn't easy, the tracks just disappeared in to the sandy soil! At some time it looked like an attempt had been made to irrigate the landscape with small channels and ridges, they clearly weren't in use now but did make the ride quite 'lively'. Ridges turned to channels and then to dry sand filled oueds, naïvely I tried to turn up out of one and while standing up, the front tyre washed out then dug in as it ploughed an orange bow wave, down the bike went and half over the bars went I; I don't know if anything can prepare a novice for dealing with the sense of riding along a greased tightrope that sand brings! At least there was no damage though and now both our first tumbles were out of the way. Just to rub it in Robin sailed right through sitting down!
The rocks got bigger until our way was blocked by the start of a wide canyon, splitting the valley floor, fifty meters deep with near vertical sides we rode along beside until we found ourselves on a peninsula and our way blocked again. It was getting tricky picking our way between the increasing numbers of short cacti threatening the tyres and snagging at the boots when suddenly young goats popped out from bushes all around looking even more bemused than we were! Just short of the horizon a nomad's tent was visible and we pointed the bikes towards buildings on the side of the valley ahead. The going got easier and the terrain began to rise, a drop to a dry river bed then steep climb and we emerged on a plateaux filled with ruined earth and wood buildings. There was something spooky about the wind swept and empty sun baked village so we stopped for photos and a bite of lunch and to watch a column of rain sweep across the mountainside.
The main village access had obviously been to the south and we picked it up easily, feeling like real Pari Dakar riders cutting through the wind and scrub standing tall in the bright sun, all at a rather humble 25mph!

After Fask views from the mountain pass beyond were stunning and the road became lined with red and white striped curb stones and markers. Just outside Assa we approached a grand archway guarded by ten foot plaster camels and in a small booth below two policemen. There had been check points all along the Moroccan roads and in the cities most roundabouts had a smart looking officer stationed, however this was the first time we had been pulled over. It was the famous tourist check, simply keeping track of who was where in case of emergency, reassuring actually. The guys were very friendly too as we sat in their booth and discussed Shakespeare and Hemingway! They directed us to Le Maison d'Hote, a B&B run by a Belgian couple but an old lady, wrapped up to her eyes, gestured they were in Agadir so we headed for the local sign posted hotel.
Two guys, Willy from Spain and Christian from Argentina, had also just arrived after three days blasting down the Algerian border on two Ktms from the north of Morocco, all off asphalt. (www.trailtotal.com) Today had been 400km of dune bashing, their photos and videos were amazing and we swapped stories over dinner in the town centre.
Assa wasn't like any other town we had been to so far. In the middle of the desert it was smooth Tarmac streets, cement pavements, grand buildings in iron fenced gardens, Spanish looking suburbia and rows of lamp posts backing up the red and white striped curb stones. Some kids seemed a little aggressive particularly towards our fellow riders on the loud bikes as we made our way through the smart streets, nothing for sure but a pebble did hit Robin from somewhere. It was very odd as otherwise nothing but great things could be said about Moroccan hospitality.
Tomorrow we get proper desert piste on Chris Scott's route M13 from his book Morocco Overland. Especially after the photos earlier we can't wait!