Monday 4 Feb (528 miles, 4642 total)
The Auberge Sahara is surrounded by mosques, and from 5am onwards they start the call to prayer. Not the musical version that sounded so lovely in Senegal, but a true dirge that’s started by one mosque, then joined by many others. By the time the last one has stopped the first one starts again and at 5:30 it’s clear I’m not going to get back to sleep, so I make coffee, scratch the overnight mossy bites and start to pack for travelling on.
I’m on the road by 6:30 but at the petrol station there’s a pile of rags in the corner that is snoring and I don’t have the heart to waken the attendent. I reckon it’s something like 80 miles to the next station and the digital fuel computer on the bike says I have fuel for 95 miles, so I hit the road. After a few miles I encounter a serious head wind and the fuel computer readout is dropping like a brick. I lower my speed to 60 mph to conserve fuel and cruise on into the half light. I pass the Hungarians in their car who must have started even earlier than me. After 50 miles I start to have concerns, the fuel readout now reckons there’s only 20 miles to empty. I lower my speed to 50 mph—much lower and the engine is pinking against the wind, and I wonder whether the last fuel load is suspect, I’m only getting 45 mph. At a police checkpoint I find the nearest fuel is still 70 miles away. It’s clear I’m not going to make it. Woops!
But I have a plan. Thanks to my lower speed the Hungarians in their car are still occasionally visible several miles behind me and I decide they are my safety net, so I keep my speed at the level where the distance between us remains roughly constant. My fuel readout finally says, “That’s it, mate, all gone,” and I set the trip odometer to see how far I can go on empty. I’m using every trick in the book, including a slow acceleration to 50 mph, then letting the bike coast down to 35 mph, then a slow acceleration again. I know the bike will go at least 14 miles on empty but that’s without luggage. 20 miles comes and goes, then 25 miles. Then 30 miles—surely the bike will splutter any moment. To my amazement it’s 51.4 miles down the road that the engine cuts and I coast to a stop.
I quickly get off the bike and wait for the Hungarians to appear on the scene. I wave to them and they stop. After explaining the situation they immediately siphon 5 litres from their fuel tank and transfer it to the bike. Within five minutes of running out of petrol I’m ready for the road again, imagine trying that in the UK! As I’m about to start a British-registered Land Rover screeches to a halt and a guy jumps out who immediately reminds me of the aviator from MadMax. This is Nick who has been in Niger and other parts of Africa. He checks I’m OK and everyone hits the road again.
I meet up with Nick a couple of times on the way north through Mauritania, then finally at the border with Western Sahara. It’s my second border in 18 hours but once I’m through this one it’s plain sailing. The Mauri side might have been quite quick except there’s an official visit going on with the Minister of Tourism and we are told we have to wait until he’s out of the way. I set up my Jetboil and make some soup. Then some more soup. Then coffee.
Finally the bigwig comes walking down the road towards us with 30 or so minions, support vehicles and troops following. One of the minions is taking photos of everything, “Here’s the shack where we sell insurance, here’s the caravan where we fix the exchange rates, here’s the shack where we extract the money for visas…” The bigwig stops to talk to us. Now’s our chance to stiff the border guards and tell it like it is, but Nick and I decide discretion is the better part of valour and merely exchange pleasantries.
Then after only one hour we’re through and into the no-mans’ land between the minefield. Though the piste is only a few kilometers it seems much longer going north.
Head for the twin towers!
My new-found sand surfing skills courtesy of Senegal roads sees me through the rough patches, and I’m quickly at the Western Sahara (aka Moroccan) side of the border.
Waiting for border formalities I chat to a woman who’s part of a mine clearance team taking three 4x4s further south. She tells me she saw Nick Sanders’ group in Gibraltar three days earlier, apparently they all got to Timbuctou and back unharmed. The Moroccan side of the border is a real pain and it takes nearly two hours to clear.
80km north of the border I refuel at Motel Barbas, then head on to Dahkla. I had bypassed this on the way down as it’s stuck on the end of a peninsula and involves some backtracking to get going again in the morning. But I’m really glad I decided to stop on the way back–nothing in any of the guide books prepares me for the wild beauty and grandeure of the setting. This is somewhere I would stop again.
Tim
There and Back Again 