Saturday 13 Jan (mileage 491 roads, total 2315)
Initially I was heading for Dahkla, but I’ve decided to try to get to Motel Barbas, some 80km north of the Mauri border. This will be a long day and my expectations are low. Probably a very boring road through unending desert scenery. So I pack before dawn and set off at first light.
Dawn breaks as I near Layoune
I stop for a coffee in Layoune, a modern town pretty much taken over by the UN ceasefire observers who seem to do nothing other than block-book the upmarket hotels and wizz around in their Land Cruisers and russian-made helicopters. I can understand the viewpoint of the original inhabitants but after more than 30 years the Moroccan occupation of what used to be Spanish Sahara is a definite fait accompli. Independence just isn’t going to happen and the UN would be well advised to go home and save taxpayers’ money.
Must be nice to work for the UN
Coming out of Layoune I see the Latvians packing their zebra car outside a hotel and stop to tell them their friends are a couple of hours behind them. Also on the road somewhere are the competitors in the Budapest-Bamako rally, so it’s a busy time. The only nationality not heading south, it appears, are the French, who have been put off my their government.
There was no traffic at that time of day and the road south of Layoune runs straight into the distance. A line of pylons marches across the hamada alongside the road. After twenty miles there is some excitement as I see a sign for a bend in the distance, but it is a very gentle curve that could have been taken at 200 mph. Five miles further on I overtake a lorry. Ten miles further on two donkeys are standing by the side of the road. Do I sound bored?
It’s iPod time and I select Alan Bown, a jazz/rock fusion group. Their ‘Stretching Out’ album is particularly appropriate as the vinyl cover from the 1970s features a guy with Goulimine beads round his neck.
There are police checkpoints every so often and I find myself looking forward to the next one. After some pleasantries, travellers are often asked for a ‘cadeau’ (gift), but my way of dealing with the checkpoints is to sell hello and exchange greetings in arabic, tell them I’m English, then switch to French to say how often I’ve visited, that I think the country is very beautiful and the people very friendly. You can almost see the struggle in their faces between the desire for money and the wish to show hospitality and I’m pleased to say hospitality always wins.
The checkpoint guards need to collect a great deal of information about those who pass; often this is not just name and passport number but also profession, name of father and mother, number of children, home address and so forth. I have this all prepared on a small ‘fiche civil’ that fits inside my passport and have more than 40 copies for the trip. The fiche system also saves having to leave one’s passport with hotel receptionists, which always frightens me in case I forget to collect it the next morning.
No prizes for guessing the reason for this
When you see accidents like this it’s rarely down to driver error and is normally component failure. There’s no such thing as an MOT in Africa and you will often see vehicles—and some public service buses—that have rear axles out of alignment with the front, so the vehicle runs along the road like a land crab.
Just after Lemsid I see a slow-moving bike in front which I rapidly overhaul. It’s a British-registered Honda C90 and I throttle back alongside and suggest we stop for a chat. Martin has travelled solo and unsupported all the way from Newcastle. He has a couple of 5-litre fuel cans to handle the long distances between petrol stations but otherwise is travelling extremely light. Initially he was managing a top speed of 55mph, but it’s now dropped to 45mph. Martin is on his way to Dakar so I might see him later. Martin used to have an 1100GS and we talk about the pros and cons of travel bikes. “This is nothing,” he says, “you’ll probably see a couple of Germans ahead on 50cc mopeds towing trailers.”
The hare and the tortoise
After I speed off into the distance on my intercontinental ballistic missile (I’m cruising at 85mph most of the time in this stretch), I ponder who’s the most adventurous of the two of us. The obvious answer is Martin, but if something goes wrong with his scooter he will easily find a remedy and if all else fails can put it in a truck somewhere, or dump it and only lose its £350 value. On the other hand I have the problem of protecting my valuable steed and definitely won’t be leaving it in the desert.
Shortly afterwards I see a lone cyclist wearing a beret. He has what look like onions strung round his neck so I presume he’s French. Carrying enough water is often a problem and I watch as I pass to make sure there are no ‘please help’ waves.
Boujdour has some remarkable entrance guardians
It’s about 150 miles to the next road junction, so I hunker down and let the bike eat the miles. Saint-Exupery comes to mind again; at one time he was a long-distance, high-altitude reconnaisance pilot and he wrote a book about his mind wanderings whilst alone in the cockpit. I think this was ‘Flight to Arras.’ Another book in a similar ilk is ‘Girl on a Motorcycle’, the daydreams of a girl on her way to visit her lover, naked under her leathers. It’s by a French author but translated into English and later made into a film staring Marianne Faithful. Hmm, maybe one to add to my biking DVD collection?
Added later–a link to the YouTube trailer of Girl on a Motorcycle
Plenty of opportunity for wild camping
One essential for long-distance riding is the handlebar throttle lock. Without it you have to constantly hold the throttle and after a few hours your hand is aching. With the lock I can do many things whilst riding, including riding no handed to write my journal. I muse about whether there is a Guiness records for the longest no-handed bike ride. This road must surely be the ideal location. The corners are so gentle it’s no problem to shift the body weight slightly to steer the bike. After another twenty miles I’m bored and come to the conclusion it’s a waste of time as I would need a witness for a record, so instead I sit on the pillion seat with the soles of my feet on the cylinder heads.
My first sign to Dakar!
Dahkla is on a 25-mile long peninsular so stopping there would involve 50 extra miles. It’s only 2:15, so I keep going. As the road veers inland the temperature abruptly rises to 26c, all to do with how far the road is from the cooling effect of the ocean.
Passing a petrol station I see the two German mopeds and stop for a chat. They have covered more than 6000km so far, starting from Hamburg in northern Germany on 6 December and are headed for The Gambia.
Shortly before reaching Motel Barbas, I come across a French-registered Honda Transalp towing a Suzuki offroad bike at a good 60mph. I run alongside but they seem to be OK, so I continue on at higher speed.
Motel Barbas is the only stopping place between Dakhlar 120km north and Noudhibou 20km south over the border in Mauritania. It proves to be an excellent stopping place and a single room is 100dh. I lend the two French bikers some tools to help dismantle the Suzuki’s top end. The problem appears to be the timing chain and the bikers seem resigned to towing it all the way through Mauritania and thence to Dakar. So only another 650 miles then!
Tim
There and Back Again 