Monday 2 September 2013

Some time later!

Nearly two years after the ill-fated jaunt into North Africa, team T2T member Kev Palmer, is embarking on a little mini tour around Europe. His valiant BMW Dakar was sold last year, but so impressed with the reliability of the F650 GS he has chosen its direct descendant; the G650 GS Sertao.

This time though, it's budget kit in true Mundo Enduro style; army rucksacks as panniers, i-phone as a GPS, an old Argos tent and a tarp.

The aim of the trip, in addition to enjoying touring around Europe without too much of an agenda, is to visit the Iceman "Otzi" in his final resting place in Bolzano museum, in Northern Italy and to also visit the Museum of Prehistory in Le Grand-Pressigny, near Tours in France.  That gives the option to take in Belgium, Germany, Austria, Lichtenstein, Switzerland as well as Italy and France.


The trip is planned for the middle of October so we'll keep you posted.

Saturday 18 February 2012

T2T Epiblog. Chapter three.

Chapter three.  Jon

Saturday 26-Nov-11

Two days after Kev had set out for the interior, whilst killing time in downtown Dakhla Jas and I received 2 pieces of bad news back to back.  The first was that Timbuktu, our planned for destination for nearly 2 years became out of bounds following a pair of kidnappings and a murder in the city itself, in broad daylight. 


Whilst digesting this shocking news we then received a call from the Latvian support team saying that Kev had broken his leg and was being shipped out of the desert.  Dark moments and game over for mission T2T.  The next day, Sunday 27-Nov-11 I decided to cross over into Mauritania in the hope of (speedily) recovering Kev's bike and to visit the poor chap now holed up in Nouakchott municipal hospital.

I left Jas at camp dusty in the hope his replacement brake caliper would arrive quickly whilst I just popped over the border into Mauritania to collect Kev’s bike and I entered Mauritania, solo.  From the moment I entered Mauritania things changed.  Gone was the easy charm of the Moroccans we’d encountered and in its place a hard-nosed business-like welcome.  This was best illustrated when I, like many before, dropped the bike in soft sand on the 2km stretch of no-man’s land between Morocco and Mauritania.  I attempted to lift the bike myself but it was so overloaded this was fanciful.  I looked out for fellow travellers to aid me or perhaps one of the lads wandering around in this patch of forgotten land would come to my aid ?  3 minutes later a tall fit looking chap strolled up to me.  I greeted him joyfully and requested his assistance to which he responded with a curt :”100 Euros”.  I was staggered at the audacity of this demand.  I tried to appeal to his decency and to aid a traveller in distress.  He was having none of it but also had one eye on a crowd of likely lads who also had me in their sights and were fast approaching.  I told him I only had about 100 dirhams and if he helped me he could have that.  Grudgingly he obliged and I wobbled off once again determined not to drop the bike a second time.


The next four days were spent in endless trudging and taking the omnipresent ‘taxis’ all over the dust-blown town of Nouadhibou in an attempt at tracking down Kev’s bike.  Early reports I had received ( via email ) were encouraging.  The bike was put on a train and should be at the train station.  No luck but I was offered sweet green tea by the chaps who worked there.  The fixer who had latched onto me at the border when I explained my predicament was determined not to let the bounty slip through his fingers.  This man ‘Abdallahi’ could not read or write but he still managed to wangle EUR350 ( plus expenses ) from me for his services in recovering the moto.  Abdallahi had promised a 4*4 to transport Kev’s moto to Nouakchott, payable in advance.  When the 4*4 didn’t show on the morning of day 5, truth be told at that moment I was disappointed Abdallahi had so blatantly ripped me off.  In fact I was mad at him and he knew it.   ( The mayor of the Saharan village close to the crash site also presented a bill for EUR160 for the recovery from the interior ).  Abdallahi and I had spent many hours together chatting and trudging and pleading with cops who couldn’t care less.  We’d been together in the inner sanctum of the ministry of the interior whilst the radio operator attempted to contact M Mayor in the middle of the Sahara.  Adballahi had taken me for a sucker and I was torn between wanting to throttle him and needing him to ride the bike to Nouakchott!!!! I simply wanted to be out of Nouadhibou and back on the road.  Abdallahi accompanied me to Nouakchott driving Kev’s bike like the North African maniac he is – God bless him.


“Abdallahi, tu est mon frêre mais tu es trop cher…”


Abdallahi aka ‘Fagin’ – an expert, charming hustler






The radio operator, the fixer and the mayor ‘CheikHabib’ of Tememichatt





On 30-Nov-12 I and 2 bikes arrived in Nouakchott ( capital of Mauritania ) in time to visit Kev in the municipal hospital ( where he’d been for 5 days and which was interesting if you like 3rd world chic ). 




Kev flew out the following day and I visited downtown Nouakchott in the excellent company of voluntary French nurses Martine and her pal.  They were very protective of me which was greatly appreciated and they refused to allow me to pay anything like the price demanded of the market traders.  The day after Martine and friend also checked out and I went to the beach for some much needed R&R. 




There was no route home save the same route down from Nouakchott so I left Moto #1 ‘secure’ in the hands of my new Mauritanian friend ‘Oloudbou’ who epitomized everything a good auberge host should be ; garrulous, connected, outrageous, expansive, likes a drink ( in spite of the threat of a prison sentence if the feds were to find him out ).  It’s hard for me to quite define this guy ( maybe the landlord in Les Miserables come close ) except to say that I liked him and Lord help me I found myself trusting him, so I left Kev’s bike in his charge.


5th December, 2011


I left Nouakchott, Mauritania and ‘Auberge Oloudbou’ on the morning of Monday 5 Dec 11 solo, alone, sans amigos ( and also without a meaningful map but I knew the general direction ).  However my tank was full and I was approaching the final stages of my tour and Dakar loomed in my mind like Xanadu of old.  En route I bumped into a crowd of Slovaks and Russians also on bikes.  Pretty hard-core guys ( and a girl ) they were too.  Peter and Milan rode GS1200s, Micha (pictured in the fore-ground) had travelled on his trusty DR350 from Slovakia.


Later when we were safely installed in the bar of Hotel Dior in St Louis they produced home brewed vodka supposedly in various flavours which we all happily knocked back as chasers to the local Gazelle beer.





Crossing the border into Senegal as the light faded I faced another dread night ride but I figured I’d be safe in the company of the Red Army flooding the road with GS1200 lights


Once we had concluded the endless border formalities we were all invited to celebrate the fete du mussulman. Our Douannier host insisted that we dined with him and his friends at the border crossing of Diama which was both unexpected and a total delight.




After a fine and welcome dinner we were treated for what appeared to be the equivalent of our Halloween trick or treat.



Having offered a few cfa to the young ladies who so kindly cooked the couscous we departed the customs post of Diama with our tummies full.  I was delighted I’d chosen to cross into Senegal from Diama and not the dread Rosso about which I’d heard so much and seen quite enough earlier the same day.

Our journey to the Hotel Dior in St Louis ( a tip from a French traveller at the border ) was interrupted by a stroppy traffic policeman who demanded EUR 200 for our four “uninsured motos”.  Boo!  Naughty traffic cop!  Just let us off with a caution and a cheery wave won’t you?  Not a chance, says he so I sat it out with my Eastern bloc pals until he relented.  An hour and a half later we left EUR 40 lighter ( EUR10 per bike ).  The Russians were not happy.

We entered St Louis in what seemed like the height of Mardi Gras.  I’ve always wanted to visit New Orleans, perhaps this was a foretaste, or perhaps I have it out of my system?  The crowd which sung and danced and chanted through the city ( the ex-capital of Senegal ) was chaotic but well natured.  We hadn’t a clue where we were going.  As usual anyone and everyone was willing and happy to offer directions but nobody really seemed to know … for sure.  Two lads in a battered Renault van offered to lead us there.  I was on point and followed the van leading our strange procession through fish strewn streets beside the banks of the night-time Senegal river and picking our way through dancing crowds of locals who welcomed us into the throng as though we were part of the carnival.  Good as gold our new friends led us to Hotel Dior which appeared to be closed …

Eventually Mdme Veronique was persuaded to greet us, fresh from the shower.  Mdme Veronique had the air of the polite but weary, patron who’d seen it all and was neither phased nor surprised by anything any more.  Once we’d agreed on our rooms she opened the bar for us and we piled into large Gazelles ( the local brew ) topped up by Milan’s cheeky home brewed vodka which he assured me came in many flavours though I’m not sure I’d have been able to tell the difference between any of them.  A good night was had by all.  Micha spoke a little French, like me, ‘Galinka’ spoke Russian, Milan spoke only Slovak and Petr spoke Slovak and German.  I feared it was only a matter of time ( & vodka ) before I felt an over-whelming urge to impress Petr with my rendition of “Muss I denn”.  Happily for all concerned we managed to get along without my schoolboy rendition of one of Germany’s best forgotten folk songs immortalized by Elvis and re-labelled “Wooden heart” in GI Blues.


Having acquired the missing moto insurance with the assistance of yet another fixer, who earnestly demanded payment ‘for his children…’ I was now legal and able to resume the journey to Dakar.  In the back of my mind was the fact we’d only been given 48 hours on the Passevant from the border to get to Dakar to have the paper stamped, or extended or whatever was necessary.


The ever present rubbish and the mobile recycling units on the banks of the Senegal river.
As things worked out I stayed at the Dior for one more night and made a useful contact in the form of the intriguing ‘Fabien’ a man whose hands were so small but whose smile was broad.  Fabien was engaging and interested to help me with the looming problem of shipping my bike back to the UK.  He gave me his card and asked me to call him on my arrival to Dakar. 

7th December, 2011

I left the next morning for Dakar and the final stretch of my journey.

I met these lads at a filling station where I managed to overfill my oil reservoir which according to the manual is ‘streng verbotten’ and so the bike shut down. 

Cheeky chappies on their way to school

Horror!  I’d killed my beloved moto which had carried me this far.  I desperately tried to get the bike onto the centre stand but as usual the mountain of luggage on the back made this simple operation nearly impossible.  After a few frantic attempts during which the locals looked on with amused indifference I got the bike raised onto the stand and I began a quick assessment of the feasibility of slackening the sump bolt and removing some of the excess oil.  With the sump guard fitted this was a non-starter.  Happily however my frenzied efforts to raise the bike onto the centre stand had caused enough sloshing about of the excess oil, Herr Sensor had decided my oil was once again within tolerance and my moto managed to re-boot itself and once again the sweet sound of the single cylinder filled the air, much to the enjoyment of my latest fans ( see picture above ) each of whom insisted on having a go of the throttle much to the growing amusement of each other.

Having burned off the excess oil I was soon on my way again and reflecting on this bright, beautiful Monday morning and allowing myself the traveller’s privilege of comparing what I’d normally be doing on a Monday morning in early December.  In my mind I wanted to visit the famous Zebrabar though I was a little too aware perhaps of the Senegalese customs request to present myself at the appropriate office in Dakar within 48 hours – or else!  Note to government of Senegal,  please change this bonkers rule.  It damages your tourist industry !

So instead I pressed on through sunshine and innumerable villages to my final destination. 


Dakar.


How exciting !  Having arrived into this noisy, dusty, non EU compliant fume belching buses, taxis, lorries metropolis I was due to present myself to a customs office vaguely indicated in the direction of the port.  I did so.  They told me they would process my papers for 50,000 cfa ( approx EUR 75 ).  I’m afraid to say I lost my composure a little at this point and totally freaked out.  They were so impressed they immediately offered me a 50% discount but by then the red mist was in full descent and I told them all to **** off !


Fortuitously ( as has often been the case on my travels ) I met two superstar young chaps on a scooter who were so amazed I’d ridden 5825 km they took me under their wings and escorted me somewhere else …


Thursday 8th December 2011.  Hotel Miramar, Dakar, Senegal


‘Olivier’


I checked into the modest but agreeable Hotel Miramar close to the main square in Dakar.  My main mission now was to secure shipping of the moto.  I thought about the ride back.  2.500 km of straight road.  I did not think about this for too long. 



I called Fabien from St Louis, no reply.  No matter. I pursued other options These options involved mainstream internet sites or even worse 3 years out-of-date ‘advice’ on travellers’ forums … not terribly useful. 


I was acutely aware my moto was technically illegal as the 48 hours had passed.  I was still getting the runaround from les Douannes.  In a delightful ‘Catch-22’ style moment I encountered the following;  In order to be legally on the road, explained the gentleman behind the large desk I need either a ‘carnet de passage’ or perhaps I’d like to put the bike in the ‘depot’ ( at a cost of 100,000 cfa = 150 eur ).  Over my dead body does my moto end its days in a ‘depot’ at the dodgy end of the port of Dakar so I politely requested a carnet de passage.  “This is not possible” replied the officer.  “You must buy the carnet in your “pays d’origine”.  This is staggering in its audacity.  Only at this moment does it finally dawn on me.  EVERYONE is on the make, literally everyone.  Finally it becomes clear when this gentleman suggests “Perhaps, it may be possible to have an extension to my 48 hour passevant ( provided at the border )”  I need to see the chap in the adjacent office.  I leave his crowded office and find the office next door.  Locked.  It is 11.00am.  When I enquire of the young security guard where le Monsieur is likely to be or when he will return I receive a reluctant mumble and a shrug.  What is clear is that my only chance of getting mobile again, legally in Senegal is tracking this second chap down, parting with yet more cash and receiving some form of extension to the passevant.  I decide they can all go to hell and wander off resigned to leaving the moto secure at my hotel.  I need to find someone who knows what they’re doing with shipping and perhaps that person can resolve the conundrum with the douannes.


I step back onto the street where, on balance the more honest street hawkers and peddlers try and sell me everything from a shoe shine to rat poison, to phone top-up cards, Tupperware, Christmas trees and live sparrows !  But at least this lot don’t hide behind false legalities…


I now have a Senegalese mobile so I’m connected.  I still have 2 or 3 leads on shipping the moto.


I immediately call my rescuers from the port yesterday ‘Pabice and Amdy’.  I also have a rendezvous with ‘Olivier Maurel’ via Fabien Lamort


To spread my network as far as possible and to maximize my chances of securing safe shipment I enquire on the HUBB – the forum for adventure travellers world-wide.  There is an absence of up-to-date information or advice but a suggestion ( from 2009 ) that Banjul in Gambia is easier to ship motos than Dakar  I check this out of Google maps.  Banjul is a further 461 km south … I don’t fancy this.


Fabien called me back on my orange Senegal mobile and said that his pal ‘Olivier’ would call into my hotel to see if he can help with the repatriation of the moto.


At 3pm a young, dark haired, casually dressed French chap arrived in reception where I was waiting browsing the web and watching the Gambians fall over each other drunk ( still it was nice to hear some spoken English ).  Olivier introduced himself and immediately lit-up a Marlboro light.  He listened attentively while I told him of my story so far.  He interrupted occasionally to express indignation and dis-belief at the behaviour of customs officials or police.  At the end he suggested we go for lunch at a place he knew.  My moto was by now secured in front of the hotel and under 24 hour guard by the affable and friendly uniformed security team employed by the hotels in these parts. 


Olivier and I sat down to lunch in the very cool ‘Bistro Five’ run by his pal who was ever-so-cool French / African DJ / chef.  I was greeted warmly with lots of sympathetic sounds concerning my welfare and that of my moto.  Olivier and I ate a delicious fish lunch whilst he continued to chain smoke Marlboros and chatted with the regulars.  He assured me he would introduce me to someone who would be able to help.  I was delighted to hear this news.


We made arrangements to visit the impressive sounding ‘Jean-Noel’ who was a big cheese at a local shipping firm.


14th -19th December 2011. 


By now it was Wednesday and I was still not entirely at ease in my new home.  I wanted to get my bike safe & sound then perhaps I could relax.  Olivier and I went to see Jean Noel at his offices.  Having been approached by an endless stream of well meaning Senegalese with offers to buy the bike or help ship it or whose brother / cousin / uncle has a pickup truck / boat / aeroplane etc it was with some relief that I spied the Logistics office long before we arrived.  Wow!  This was a proper business – I may even not get ripped off here, I thought, if I’m really lucky.  Jean Noel was a burly, short bald headed man around mid 50s who wore half moon specs on the top of his head and who also chain smoked though for him it was the real deal or nothing.  Jean-Noel was a Marlboro red man.  He was professional and likeable in equal measure.  He asked all of the right questions, smart and to the point.  Time is money.  I left his office confident of final victory over my problem of getting the bike back.  However when this may occur was another matter.  We were approaching Thursday which meant the 3 day Senegalese weekend was about to begin (my second in Dakar!). 


I spent the weekend walking around the city.  This was mildly frustrating as I really wanted to see more of the country but dare not ride the bike for fear of some eagle eyed police officer whose pension plan needed a boost.  So instead I walked in increasingly wide and bold circuits until I knew the port area and the embassy district fairly well.  I found some nice places to eat and I always felt secure.  Most nights I spent in the bar downstairs for an hour or two, occasionally I ventured out, though I never strayed too far.
18th December, 2011

Having made a plea on the grounds of security concerns to Jean-Noel I was invited to ride my bike to his office, and install it in the secure parking area where it would be crated for the air freight return to Paris CDG.  It was a joy to be back on the bike again.  I felt I knew the city well enough so I rode like I used to in London, ( well almost ). 

The only Christian Church for 2,000 miles ?


One of the old slave houses on the isle de Goree the slave traders slept upstairs the unfortunate captives were crammed in below, segregated by sex and age. The door in the centre picture leads to the open sea and has become known as ‘the doorway of no return’. 




The slaves would be led in chains through this doorway, across a gangplank  to a waiting ship where they were crammed in by the hundreds for the Atlantic crossing to the USA or to the British colonies of the West Indies ( slave ships could hold between 350 – 600 captives on a trans Atlantic voyage, sometimes lasting many months ).  The mortality rate on board these unspeakable vessels was between 10%-30%.  The slave trade was finally abolished in 1853, 3 centuries after it began.  Estimates vary wildly of the number of Africans taken into captivity but a minimum generally accepted number is 15 million people, the bulk of whom ended their days in servitude in the USA. 


19th December, 2011

My journey home via Royal Air Maroc.  Early morning flight.  Aircraft comfortable and only half full.  Complimentary food and drinks !!?? wow ! old school I love it.  How refreshing to find one corner of the global aviation business not overrun by obsessive bean-counters.  I was so looking forward to getting home and to keep my promise to Charlie to be there in time for his birthday, to Ellie to take her Christmas shopping in London and to my wife Lisa to be back in time for Christmas.  It was also a time to reflect on my experiences and to recall the kindnesses offered to me, sometimes with the expectation of payment other times just because it was the right thing to do. 

Footnote.

I’d set out with my team mates in expectation of reaching Timbuktu via the desert.  I learned a great deal on the road.  I learned about my own limitations and I learned a great deal about how other peoples live their lives.  My trip wasn’t the stuff of hardships on the road, of sleeping under the stars.  I am too old for that.  I have probably always been too old for that.  It was about comradeship the occasional brief encounter with locals as we headed South and the simple pleasure of being on the move.

I have many people to remember and to thank.  First I need to thank Kev for setting up the whole show and to Jas who talked me round at a low point in Essouiara, Morocco and enabled me to continue the journey.  I should also thank those who believed in us and made donations and those who never thought we’d make it but who still donated anyway.

I remember the young waitress at the Terre d’Ocean camping / hotel north of Agadir who regularly worked a 16 hour shift but who insisted : “La vie est belle”.  I remember the lovely muslim lady who we asked for directions in Kenitra and was so over-whelmed to see 3 bikes and a (Latvian) backup vehicle she said she wanted to take a photo.  I should mention the crazed Dutchman and his pal at the Mauritanian ‘embassy’.  “Mr Coffee” at the Maili embassy in Rabat who provided a useful taster of what was to come.  I’d like to thank the cheeky boys of Kenitra who let off fire-crackers and reminded me that my heart was still capable of beating fast. I thank the mechanic in Dakhla who gave me a crucial alun key simply because I needed it and who would accept no payment in return.  I remember all of the villagers who cheered us on through Southern Morocco as we whisked past them.  The chat I had with ‘Yo-Yo’ about his eco-tourism business, Pabice and Amdy who rescued me for official corruption and who I never managed to see again, Fabien who introduced me to Olivier which led to Jean-Noel and my eventual journey home – thank you all, I’ve always admired the French.  The simple chats I had in the bar of the Hotel Miramar on my last night in Senegal.  The dancing in the bar “La vie est belle!” (again, there’s a pattern emerging here). Once my moto was safe I felt more relaxed and perhaps as a result I was more approachable.  My trip to l’isle de Goree with Leroy who against the odds managed to persuade me to let him be my guide to the great amusement of his pals at the ferry terminal : “you are the man Leroy!”.  The simple kindness of Martine and her friend in Nouakchott.  Their friendship at a lonely point was greatly appreciated as was the introduction to the beach bar / restaurant chez Nicolas.  The taxi driver in downtown Dakar who shared with me his life’s ambition – to see his hero Frank Lampard play at Stamford Bridge.  The African busker who claimed Mick Jagger was his father. Jacques the barman at the Lebanese Bar in Dakar. The good people of Senegal and in particular the staff of the Miramar Hotel I salute you!  Finally of course I have to thank Kev and Jas who put up with me for the 2 weeks we were together.

Where to next ?








T2T Epiblog. Chapter Two.

Chapter Two.  Kev.

Day 14 Thursday 24th November

It was with some reservations that at about 2pm I headed out of Dahkla with Vilis and Maruuta, but as we headed back towards the main N1 south through Western Sahara it at leastfelt good to be moving again.
The journey south was uneventful, and we made good speed but was still able to take in the stark beauty of the desert either side. Amazing colours, from cappuccino through caramel to chocolate. This country seemed to go on forever.
Completely missed crossing the Tropic of Cancer (just south of Dakhla) and encountered my only fuel refill from plastic bottles.  After about 2 hours or so and 178 miles finally arrived at Motel Barbas. It was as described an “oasis” in the middle of nowhere.  The façade of this amazing place was a canvas covered atrium bedecked by tamarisks and other foliage. 


 The Spanish owner immediately got me to drive the bike straight into the hotel.  The next couple of hours were spent converting room 114 into a Chinese laundry, as with my little packet of washing powder I managed to wash my dirty clothes from the last fortnight.
We had a late lunch, or early evening meal with my Latvian companions serenaded by hundreds of sparrows and other small birds that were roosting in the tamarisks.  I spent the rest of the evening plotting in the waypoints of the Nouadhibou to Atarpiste into my GPS from Chris Scott’s Sahara Overland and reading the off-road and sand riding tips in the book.
Friday 25th November
After an early rise and a quick coffee, we filled up with fuel and water and were on the road by 8am for the last 50 miles or so to the border.  We stopped briefly to assist a breakdown……… but even with Vilis donating a bottle of oil and 5 litres of water it wasn’t going to be enough to help someone with a knackered water pump and by the looks of it a blown head gasket.
At the border we were greeted with a decent size queue of European cars (French, Italian and Spanish) all probably stolen and being driven down to Senegal and beyond for resale. We tagged on to the back of the queue and anticipated a reasonable wait, and we weren’t disappointed.  The border here was as confusing as Moroccan borders normally are. First the passport office, then the bit for checking out the vehicle BUT only if you have had a stamp from a man buried in the midst of the chaos wearing a particular style of cap! Eventually with the help of the West African car dealers we got it sorted, only to find we had to then check out with the military as well.
Next the joys of “No Mans Land”.This 20km stretch between Morocco and Mauritania is a mass of trails through rock and sand, initially littered with a selection of dodgy looking vehicles and even dodgier looking people.  Vilis doesn’t hang around at the best of times (he had demonstrated that through the manic traffic in Rabat where he had managed to outrun three motorbikes!) so he headed off as I had my first big heavy overloaded bike/deep soft sand encounter!  As I struggled to try and keep the bike from dropping completely on one side I was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of assorted reprobates all asking how much I was going to pay them to help me pick the bike up.  After I lost my temper and shouted loudly in broken Franglais I obviously touched some sort of nerve and they did eventually help pick the bike up.  I gave them all the Moroccan change I had in my pocket, about 6 dirrhams (50p)………..they didn’t seem overly impressed but I wasn’t hanging around.

Next the Mauritanian border.  Fortunately with the aid of a fixer for a fee of 10 euros the process was relatively painless if not speedy.  Country number 5.
It was by now early afternoon.  Next, the search for the piste.  In the book the piste goes from Nouadibou to Atar but we would be intercepting it several km along where it crosses the main road to Nouakchott, so my first waypoint was about 15km further along the piste.Vilis and Maruuta had a piste plotted onto their netpad but it transpires that this was another parallel piste that ran 20km or so further south……..my misgivings where starting to resurface!  After asking  at several of the police checkpoints we opted to head south and look for the piste that Vilis had.  Eventually the road crossed the green line on the Latvian’s computer screen so we turned east off the road.

Quickly it became apparent that this wasn’t a piste at all……….just desert and on top of that the edge of a small dune field.  Vilis was keen on me leading (not sure why) so I called up the next waypoint on the Sahara Overland route and simply make a beeline for that.  As good as my day spent with Chris at Ride any Road was, nothing could fully prepare me for this, truly a baptism of fire.
How I managed to stay as upright for as long as I did I’ll never know, the only way to get through the areas of deeper sand was to gun it in 3rd gear (about 35-40 mph) to avoid getting stuck, holding on “loosely” to wildly jerking bars and trying to balance a rear wheel sliding from side to side like an eel with its head in a vice.  Never have I maintained that level of concentration for as long or as hard.  I was mentally drained, soaked in perspiration and physically knackered.  The sandy areas were punctuated by more solid gravelly sections some covered in small sharp-thorned shrubs……….a puncture would be just great!! And areas with significant sized rocks strewn everywhere, that required careful route selection. We progressed like this for a couple of hours, with frequent stops to catch my breath and steady my nerves. 
Gradually, the sandy areas started to diminish in frequency and for a while I almost was starting to enjoy it.  It was at that point I had my first proper spill.  Just crossing a relatively benign looking oued or ditch of sand across my path when it seemed to spit me out the other end.  Apart from some fairly superficial scratches to the bike’s mudguard and pulling the left indicator surgically off its stalk both the bike and I were unharmed.  It did however remind me that there was no room for complacency!
It was at this point we started to notice increasing evidence of vehicle tracks so whilst although not strictly speaking a piste I started to feel that at least we weren’t quite as removed from humanity as we had been.  The wind was still quite strong (it hadn’t really relented since the Spanish border 12 days earlier) so as evening was drawing near we made for a line of sand hills on the horizon to provide some shelter.
Well that was the plan. In reality the hills just seemed to channel the wind forming a wind tunnel.  I battled against the wind, soft sand and fading light to try and get my tent up.  Note to self…if there is a next time a cheap pop-up geodesic tent is the way to go.  In the end I had to fill my Ortlieb dry bag up with sand and tether the tent to it using one of the guy lines.  By now it was completely dark and dinner was served.  Maruuta had made a kind of pasta soup with bits of bacon in it…………it was the tastiest thing I had eaten  for a week it was also the only thing I had eaten all day. 
I then spent a fruitless half hour or so attempting to get the Chris Scott waypoints onto firstly an old Tom Tom unit that Vilis had, and then onto his netpad. Alas no joy.
That was it for the day, an early bed which was just what the doctor ordered.  In the early hours I awoke to a distant droning noise that went on for ages.………still have no idea what it was.

Day 16 Saturday 26th November
Up with the sun, 7.30 ish and managed to get the tent and everything packed away in relatively quick time.  The kettle had boiled just as I finished.  What seemed like a very Latvian breakfast; cooked bacon, raw onions and bread was washed down by strong, black freshly brewed coffee. I t certainly woke me up!
Then, on our way again…..well after I realised that I had sort of deliberately parked in deep soft sand and that the bike was actually sunk in. So Vilis and I had to lay the bike down, fill in the hole where the rear wheel was, stand it back up then walk/push it out in first gear. Then we were on our way.


We carried on towards the next waypoint; north east about 40km.  There was ridge of deep soft sand not long after setting off which required walking the bike through in first gear again (after initially unsticking it).  Vilis’s Discovery managed to get through with no problems!!
I was more relaxed this morning, we were making good progress and heading for the proper piste. I had already made the decision that I would finish my off-roading exploits at Atar and re-join my colleagues on a slightly smoother route to Timbuktu.  The descriptions of the theAtar-Tidjikjapiste in Sahara Overland had helped me make that decision.
The only shadow on the horizon was the description of the current piste in the book that said from the waypoint we were heading for it got progressively sandier!!  Perhaps it wouldn’t be any worse than I had already done!
We (I) stopped every hour for a breather, and made good progress.  By mid-morning we had hit the piste proper and despite the warnings about increasing sand it did at least present opportunities to sit on the saddle and take the strain off my legs for sections.  As if to remind me not to become complacent I did take another, sand derived off at about 40mph.  Miraculously again, no ill effects.


By midday we had covered  well over 120k but were now entering the Affezal dunes which could only mean one thing………. more sand.
Then it happened.  A section of deep sand just like many previous ones.  I can’t remember exactly the details but I think that whilst following a deep rut through the sand, the side of the rut caught my right foot,  and at the speed needed to maintain momentum wrenched my foot and hence my lower leg clockwise.  I knew even before losing the bike that my leg was broken despite (or perhaps because of)  never having  broken a bone before.  I lay there in the sand, the bike on its side, engine still running.  The pain wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be but I could feel things moving that just shouldn’t move.  The Sidi’s were acting a pretty affective splint. 


Vilis and Maruutaarrived, they seemed not to want to believe that my leg was broken.  Villis managed to get the bike upright but from the righthand side so I needed to call Maruutaover to get the side stand down so he could let go without it falling over.
It was a no brainer really.  There was no way I could carry on. There was no room for me, let alone the bike in the Discovery.  At the moment it wasn’t a life or death situation despite being literally in the middle of nowhere. No need to trigger the SOS button on the SPOT and pointless using Vilis’s Sat Phone….who could you phone anyway?   We had passed through a small village, well a motley collection of ramshackle buildings, about 30km or so beforehand that seemed the best hope of help.  Vilis set off, leaving Maruuta and 3 litres of water with me.  
After almost 3 hours in the midday desert sun we had reached a natural pause in the conversation, Maruuta’s English was only a bit better than my Latvian.  Still no sign of help.  We then heard and spotted a vehicle, coming from the north east (not the direction that the village was in). We managed to flag it down.  The Hilux stopped next to us and out poured 5 very unlikely looking characters…this could be interesting.  In my diabolical French I managed to convey that I wasn’t just stopping for a sun bath on the piste but had broken my leg.  The most unlikely looking of the lot in filthy jeans and t shirt, bobble hat, aquiline nose and no teeth seemed to grasp what I had said more than the others, thought that as I could still wiggle my toes my leg couldn’t possibly be broken and was all for taking my boot off.  I managed to convince him otherwise.  At this point these rough diamonds, who were apparently laying a fibre optic cable alongside the railway, were about to load me into the Toyota, and insisted on leaving someone with Maruuta who perhaps wasn’t quite as keen on the idea.  However at that point, the sound of engines and dust clouds arriving from the west announced that the calvary had arrived.

Together with the fibre optic guys, I was loaded into one vehicle whilst being reliably informed that the bike would be loaded into the other.  I managed to get Maruuta to salvage my tank bag which contained the only things of real value.  We then roared off cross county eastwards!!  I was sharing the vehicle with a hotchpot of 4 people only one of whom seemed to possess anything which resembled a uniform.  They informed me that I was being taken to a village further along the railway track whilst the bike would be deposited at the gendarmerie in the village where Vilis had gone for help.  Vilis had just reappeared as I was being taken away.


After what seemed like an hour, I was convincing myself that I was being transported directly to the AQIM stronghold in northern Mali.  We stopped once to off load the contents of the pickup and a couple of passengers onto a passing truck going the opposite way, then spent an interesting 20 minutes or so extracting the car from the deep soft sand where we had stopped to off load.
Eventually we arrived at a sprawl of buildings spread along the railway track, apparently the town of Tememichatt.  After first registering at the gendarmerie I was transported to a small building which served as a clinic/doctors office.  A tall black doctor with the help of a couple of my escorts managed to get my boot off, so far the most painful part of this escapade, and it didn’t need a doctor to make a diagnosis of broken tibia.  He bandaged it, offered my some painkillers (I had taken some co-dyramol soon after the accident) and relieved me of 10 euros before I was loaded into the back of a 4x4 ambulance.
Apparently Saturdays were the ambulance driver’s day off but no worries, the town mayor came to the rescue (not for the first time).  CheikHabib took up his unofficial driving duties seriously and it was his personal mission to make sure that the 250km to Nouadhibou were covered as quickly as possible.  The down side to this was that most of the this distance was rough off-road piste and that although loosely strapped to the stretcher in the back they had made the decision not to put the strap over the broken leg for fear of hurting it.  The net result was that every time we hit a bump at 60mph my right leg would bounce up and hit the roof before bouncing back down on to the stretcher, to say this was a bit painful would be an understatement.  At one point the foot of my broken leg took out the rear light fitting.
Despite their urgency to get me to hospital they stopped for regular cigarette breaks and also to pick up a rather elderly gentleman in full Mauritanian robes who had apparently sustained an injury falling off a camel.   Early in the trip we crossed paths with Vilis and Maruuta who had where continuing along the piste, they had kindly removed my GPS from the bike and also had a hand written note from the gendarmes who had taken custody of my bike.  We stopped briefly for them to take a picture of me in the bag of the ambulance,Cheik was keen to be in on the action, and to inform me that they had managed to contact Jon and Jason with the Sat Phone. 


Not much further on I got a glimpse of my faithful bike sitting dejectedly next to a rundown building, presumably the Gendarmerie.   It was around this point I noticed that I had started to loose sensation in my toes.  At the next fag break I drew Cheik and his assistant’s attention to it.  Initially they seemed reluctant to go against anything the doctor had done but eventually I managed to convince them to loosen the bandage. Almost immediately normal service was returned to my extremities.
Eventually, we reached tarmac and the main road to Nouadhibou.  It was well and truly dark now as we reached the town.  Cheik was still on a mission, we were driving through the congested streets of Nouadhibou at break neck speeds with lights flashing.  This was the most frightening bit so far, how we managed not to hit anything I’ll never know and eventually we screeched unscathed at the entrance of the hospital.  After a brief consultation I was trolleyed to the X-ray department, where after a long wait a cadaverous radiographer took a couple of x-rays of my leg, then confirmed with somewhat disconcerting glee that I had indeed broken my tibia.
I was then transferred to another room.  Cheik had kindly obtained a Mauritanian SIM card for me and proceeded to make all the subsequent arrangements………..which were; basically pay 64,000 Ogiyua for the treatment so far and then 100 euros for an ambulance to transfer me Nouakchott.  Apparently, Nouadhibou didn’t have the facilities to treat me and only in the capital would I get the appropriate treatment.  He assured me that I was being taken to a reputable place, initially he described it as a “private clinic” later it became a “military hospital”, either way I was assured it wouldn’t be the public hospital!!
There was one surreal point where I’m sure Cheik was being reprimanded for something, I’m sure it had something to do with driving the ambulance. He certainly looked a bit sheepish.  However, he had been my saviour so far and just to prove it he then asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I had not eaten anything since my Baltic breakfast and I suddenly realised how hungry I was.  At about midnight as I was loaded into the back of the Nouakchott bound ambulance he turned up with a bag of goodies; cartons of orange juice, cakes and more apples that one person could possibly eat.

Sunday 27th November
The long drive to Nouakchott, was a bit of a blur.  After demolishing all the cakes and some of the apples, I amazingly managed to fall asleep and spent the most of the six hour journey fitfully dozing.  We entered the capital as it was starting to get light.  We pulled up at the military hospital, my drivers spend some while in dialogue with the guy on the gate…..not good news. Apparently they can’t accept civilian patients wherever they’re from.  Next stop, Central Hopital National de Nouakchott!!
I was deposited on a bed in the emergency room.  A small room about 6m across with 6 beds arranged around the outside.  I amused myself watching my random assortment of room-mates with various ailments…no such luxury as screens or curtains and watching the cockroaches scuttling around trying to avoid being trodden on.  Someone, who I assume was a nurse, tried about 4 times to set up a cannula in the back of my hand.  I eventually convinced him that he would have more luck in the inside of my elbow.  I was then administered what I had already observed was the Mauritanian cure all;- a saline drip with a 1000mg of IV paracetamol.   It was about three hours before I was eventually confronted with a group of white coated individuals who I presumed were doctors.  Their first question was have I got means to pay!  I sort of lost it at this point.  They eventually looked at the x-rays, prescribed another bag of saline and continued with their rounds.  I still had no idea what treatment they had planned for me. 
Not long afterwards another doctor and nurse set about putting a partial cast or back slab on my leg.  My main concern at this point was that my right leg was obviously shorter than the left and my foot was twisted further out than it should have been so I knew that more than a simple cast was needed.  It was probably mid to late afternoon when I was visited by a team of orthopaedic doctors including a consultant.  He informed me that I also had a fracture at the top of the fibula and that surgery was required sort my leg out.
Communication was proving difficult.  No one spoke English and I was struggling to understand Mauritanian French as much as they struggled to understand my Franglais.
Throughout the day I was continually trying to communicate with the insurance company via my wife to sort out means of getting me back home. There was no way I was going to have the operation there.
 I was getting increasingly more frustrated, bored and hungry.  Despite my gloom there were some glimmers of light.  In the afternoon, a young women who with a sick women on the opposite side of the room, came over and asked if had eaten. She was a teacher, spoke English and she said that she would go home and cook me something and bring it in for me, in addition she offered to buy me a toothbrush and toothpaste (my wash kit was still on the bike).  She was as good as her word, she returned in the evening with a fantastic chicken dish with rice, a banana, a cup of mint tea and the toiletries.  She also warned me not to have the operation there!
In the early evening two French ladies appeared on the ward, and made a bee-line for me.  Martine spoke English unlike her friend, and offered their assistance. 
Another person went on to become my guardian angel, he was a young Malian lad called who worked in the Emergency department as an orderly.  He saw how much I appreciated the tea, and suddenly appeared with another cup for me.
Eventually after having initially been promised a room I was then transferred to what appeared to be an empty ward in a run down and derelict maternity unit.  I at least had the place to myself, or so I thought! As soon as the lights went out, I heard the high pitched whine of dozens of mosquitoes.  I tossed and turned continually trying to fend off the attack.  After a few hours a sick child with her parents joined me, but despite everything I did manage to get a bit of sleep.  The morning light revealed over 50 mosquito bites…….bizarrely all on one arm!
My hero turned up with a bowl of water for a wash and a cup of tea.  I had now been wearing the same clothes for 4 days continuously and I was beginning to offend myself.  I was optimistic that I might be going home if not that day then the next so  I got Ab to track down Martine and her friend and I asked them to get me a new set off clothes and a bag or holdall for the journey home.
At around lunchtime the assistant director of the hospital paid me a visit.  A room had become available and she was to personally escort me there.  The room was basic, and there were some interesting looking splashes and stains on the walls but it was a step up from Mosquito Mansion.  I was brought some lunch and later an evening meal, I was given a peeing pot, I had clean clothes and hopefully I would be on the first flight out in the morning……things where looking up.
Wrong!  Over the next three days  the food stopped, I had to try and attract someone’s attention to get  water and  I had to empty the piss pot myself using a plastic chair as a zimmer frame.  The only place to empty it was an already foul smelling shower room, whose plumbing had long ceased to work, which was inside my room.  The reason for the smell quickly became apparent as during the night it was not unusual for someone to come in and use the shower room as a toilet.  Each day there would be the hope that a flight had been organised for the following day only to find out each time that there had been a problem and it wasn’t to be.  To make matters worse I was rapidly running out of charge on my phone and with no means to charge it would lose that connection with home to find out what was happening.  The tedium getting to me, I managed to make some playing cards from some blagged paper so that I could play patience.
My daily excitement would come at about 6.30pm when I would watch the fruit bats leaving their roosts in their thousands to disperse over the darkening city.
My other high points were my regular visits from my little friend.  When he was working he would regularly turn up with more tea, the occasional apple or banana, bowls of water for washing in the morning.  On his day off he virtually spend the whole day sitting in my visitors chair struggling and failing to stay awake.  We could barely understand each other at times, he couldn’t read or write but we would kill time playing noughts and crosses.
Wednesday night things started to improve, I had a visitor from the British Consul and when he found out I hadn’t eaten he returned with food from the consul itself.  Mashed potato and beef stroganoff……….I don’t know if anything has ever tasted so good. 
Thursday, I got the news that I would be going home the next day!  I sent Ab out to get me another set of clothes…after 4 days I had started to smell again.  That afternoon, Jon arrived after having miraculously retrieving my bike from the middle of the desert and getting to Nouakchott.  It was great to see him and also so good to have a proper conversation with someone in English. He even managed to charge my phone up on his bike so that I could keep on touch with home.
In the evening another visit from someone at the Consul, he made sure that all the arrangements had been made so that there was no hiccups in the morning.  I needed to leave the hospital at 5.45 to get the airport on time. 
I was up and dressed by 4.30am, I was convinced that no one would turn up to pick me up.  But thankfully I was wrong.  I was wheeled and put on board a slightly dilapidated ambulance, and we drove through the dark back streets of Nouakchott.  Another man from the consul met us at the airport and after taking my passport sorted out my exit, we then drove right up to the steps of the aircraft where I then had to hop up the stairs.  At last I was definitely going home…………..not quite the end to the trip that I had planned or hoped for.