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. 

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/mobile/world-africa-15895908?SThisEM

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 3^rd 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.

5^th 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. 

7^th 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 8^th 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.


14^th -19^th 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.

18^th 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. 

19^th 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 ?