November 3, 1999 Oulidia, Morocco getting our Mauritania visa in Rabat, Morocco... As we were told to do, we arrived at the Mauritania embassy at 11am, and the woman we had been dealing with handed us our passports with a 30 day visa stamped inside, and our plane tickets. We drove back to the "La Royale" travel agent down town across from the train station, and returned our airplane tickets. The travel agent had held the 8200 French Francs cash we paid for the two tickets in an envelope. She handed it back, and then asked for the fee which was 10% of the cost. The entire transaction was done with out receipt, and so nonchalant that it was clear they do this all the time. Already packed up, we left Rabat, and headed South West to Casablanca. The toll road took us through Casablanca, which is a modern busy city. It was bizarre to see pedestrians walking across the 6 lanes of busy traffic which was moving at 80-90kph. We followed the coastal road to El-Jadida, and then on to Selfi. After El-Jadida, the road passed by a major modern port called port de Jorf-Lasfar. It was interesting that this new port was situated far away from town seemingly away from residential areas. The rest of the route was beautiful passing by fishing villages along the ocean. There were people standing by the road with flocks of black turkeys waiting people driving by to stop and buy one. One person might have 20-40 turkeys they were tending by the road. The sun was rapidly setting by the time we were in Oualidia. Jim didn't like the campground, and one particular hotel was low on value. We had decided to stay at the nicest hotel in town. The owner of this hotel saw me drive by as I was attempting to return and park. He had thought I was leaving rather than arriving, and he dropped his price 25%. Having already been satisfied with the previous rate, this just made the deal sweeter. It was the nicest hotel in town. Had an ocean view off our roomy balcony. It was a suite, were Jim had an adjoining bedroom, each with our own bathrooms. Dinner and breakfast was included. Dinner soup, salad, clams and mussels, fish, calamari, apple tarts, a bottle of white Meknes wine. Calamari was the best.. breaded in a salt batter that was among the best calamaris I've had. November 4, 1999 Taghazoute (near Agadir), Morocco - camped R100GS 43012 After our complimentary breakfast of toast, coffee, and fresh squeeze orange juice, we were on the road, heading South West along the coast. Beautiful ride... most enjoyable riding of the trip was done today. We drove along the coast from Oulidia to just north of Agadir following the beautiful coast almost the whole way. The road runs 100-200 meters above the water on top of a steep embankment. I could see that the land here at 200 meters had been under water at one time since all the showed erosion similar to that of shore line. Despite the landscape being mostly rocky, thin patches of grass grew, which apparently is enough to keep some goats or sheep fed. In some places people would clear away stones from a strip patch of land, piling up the stones neatly to form a rock wall defining the area. Within the stone walls they would grow crops in the reddish brown soil. It seemed like beginning of the season, as not much had grown yet. Judging by the markets, I assume they grow carrots, potatoes and onions. Driving along the road, it seems one is alone in a desert. Occasionally I would see one or two people sitting behind a rock. The direct sun is strong, and there is little shade. I stopped at one seemingly deserted point to take a picture of the cliff shoreline of the African continent along the Atlantic. Within less than a minutes, Ten kids had appeared from behind rocks somewhere and were standing around looking at us and the bikes. One of the little Muslim girls with a clothe over her head was wearing a dirty sweatshirt that said "Lindbourg, The Spirit of St. Louis". How did that get here? I would be surprised if anyone she knew had any idea what it said or meant. Usually one sees Nike swooshes, or American sport team advertising around here on the shirts and hats. Of course almost no one wears Nikes instead of their preferred pointy toed slip-ons, nor does anyone watch American football. Driving through, I saw people plowing their field with a single spade being dragged by two camels, just like people did with two oxen in the 19th century. The coastal paved road narrowed down to one lane for small bit. Few cars were on it, and mostly locals driving home made buggy carts made from parts that existed as cars in another life. The main non-automotive transportation in this region seems to be donkeys which the locals usually ride side saddle. I passed a guy wearing a sports jacket, tie and slacks, sitting side saddle on a donkey probably coming back from an important business meeting. We came across the remains of a recent accident. A truck had sideswiped a head-on pickup as they were passing each other. The pickup had a good side dent in the side, however, the big truck's front axle had completely come off and were lying detached 15 meters away in the middle of the road. I can only imagine that someone didn't put the front axles back on with all of its bolts... only in the third world... In Sifa, we passed a canning plant where all the woman were on break. They were all wearing pink smocks, over their everyday clothes. They wore pink hair net covers over their Muslim hair clothe. It was a very strange sight. incongruous fusion of styles... The purpose of wearing a hair net was forgotten when the western idea was brought to this factory. Woman already wear a sort of hair cover, so requiring them to wear this pink bubble on what they already wear just looked ridiculous. The R100GS died just outside of Sifa... 5 minutes before inside the town, it was dying however it managed to start up again. The battery indicator was reading around 8 volts which is pretty low even for a dead battery. I pulled out my multi-meter, and it was read around 12.7 volts. and 12.5 when the ignition key was on. I pulled the tank off, and fiddled with the wires. I clean the contacts for the battery indicator. After I did that, it was reading 12.5 volts, and the bike ran fine. Very strange. I'm about to enter the Sahara desert and now I'm having sporadic electrical problems with the bike. We arrived at the campground shortly before dusk... dinner ... remembered two parts water to one part rice is the ratio. One vegetable soup packet added, makes it a meal. 24oz of water, and 12oz of rice made more than enough of rice for the two of us. 12 flOz of rice was approximately 1/3 of a kilo. I fried up some onions, tomato in olive oil, pepper and Italian seasonings, and then we ate this with the bread. The tomato onion and spices with bread was delicious with the Afonso oloroso dry sherry from Spain. November 5, 1999 Near Tan-Tan Plage (Oued Chebeika) - wild camped R100GS 43233 Yesterday morning, I was debating tossing one of my two fleeces. I was glad I didn't. The direct sun is hot, however when driving along the coast, the winds from the Atlantic are cool enough such that I wanted two fleeces. Just on the outskirts on the North side of Agradir, I was thinking the air smelled of a cheesy rotten goat milk. A little further, it was more like a chicken farm, then...no... more like a chicken guano collection facility whose supply had gotten wet and began to ferment, and on the side they made anchovy paste.. This was as I was coming upon a large factory located unfortunately upwind of a military base. In the end I decided it was a chemical weapons plant designing the olfactory bomb. At the end of the day, Jim asked me if I saw that overturned truck full of fish.... I didn't but that must have been it. Drove through Agadir... I found out from a German that this was were most Germans go when they go to Morocco. There supposedly is a regular direct Frankfurt to Agradir flight. Driving through, my impression was that it's like a cheap Cancun. Not nearly as nice as Cancun. There are a lot of European tourists walking the streets. Near dusk, we found the beach area we had been heading to. An older French guy who we had met in Rabat had told us about the beautiful beach camping he had done here. Our imagination pictured something much better than reality. The only part of this b each that we could get to was a garbage dump from which the nearby guard station disposed of their refuge. Being dusk, we didn't really have an option go elsewhere. While dissapointment didn't bother me much, nor did it seem to bother Jim at the time, he later me how how it was a low point for him in Morocco. November 6, 1999 Boujdour, Morocco Lastnight, we had set up our tents such that they would best suit the wind which was blowing from the Atlantic ocean inward. By morning, the wind was blowing from the desert out to the Atlantic. Jim was concerned about the strong wind on his tent and had gotten up around 5:15am. He waited until 6:15am, before he decided to wake me up. Having no particular reason to get up early. I opted for saving my batteries and continued sleeping until twilight. The desert is so cold at night that early morning travel on a motorcy cle can be uncomfortably cold. We had some leftover Moroccan round flat bread and some French garlic Boisin cheese for breakfast. Just after the Oued Chebeika, near were we camped, we hit the first police check point of the South were they check tourists. Moroccan police check points are everywhere throughout the country, usually just outside of towns along the road. They are staffed with well dressed friendly intelligent national police (gendarme). North of this point, they always waived us, as tourist through while checking local vehicles, usually trucks. Here they asked for my passport, and temporary vehicle import (green) paper, and then sent me on my way. One guy who had passed us 20 minutes before was detained for a total of 40 minutes. He was in a land rover, pulling a Souped up Range Rover for a rally. We filled up the gas tanks at Sidi Akhenhir which is halfway between Tan-Tan Plage and Tarfaya. There are three gas stations here and nothing else. The southern portion of Morocco sells gasoline tax-free as an incentive to move down there. However the population dwindles so much that I doubt it has much affect on the state revenue. Sidi Akhenhir is where the tax-free gasoline begins. While gas sells for about 8 dirhams per liter (US$3.20/gallon) North further north. Here and further south, it sells for 5 dirhams ($2/gallon) per liter. While having some coffee and some cookies for an extended breakfast snack, I talked to a local fisherman. This skinny, very polite and friendly old man had ruff look, like he lived in the desert for most of his life. Driving along the Atlantic coast, there are many people who live in tents or piece-meal shacks next to the coast and fish with very long fishing rods. I assume this guy was one of them. His friend asked how I liked it here. He said this is like real Morocco. I asked him where was real Morocco, and he said Erfoud. This was interesting in that my impression from Erfoud, which I visited last year with Sharon was that it seemed like a supply town for all of the surrounding desert dwellers. This is a difficult area to live in. The desert, which is sand rock and occasional tough scrub bush ends at a cliff which falls 30-100 meters into the Atlantic ocean. We left the gas station, and shortly after could see what looked like a fog bank on the horizon. Of course it wasn't fog, but rather a sand storm. The sand storm continued for the next 200km of driving. There was a 35mph wind which sometimes gusted up to 30% faster out towards the ocean. The sky was darkened which cooled off the harsh sun. When I drove near the shore cliff, I couldn't see the ocean, but rather just a dark gray area where the only thing visible were the white caps of the surf rolling in. The sand storm would blow flowing sand over the road sometimes in such quantities to completely obscure the road. It was difficult and sometimes impossible to tell if some sand had accumulated into a dangerous sand patch on the road. Driving through these concentrated sand flows would send sand up into my helmet and past my sun glasses. Occasionally I would have to close my eyes. Despite wearing a closed helmet and close fitting sunglasses, most of the time I drove seeing through my eyelashes. By the time I was in Laayoune, I had sand caked up in the corner of my eyes. A pair of motorcycle goggles, which I don't have would be perfect for sand storm driving. [Later Note: This sand permanently pitted the visor on my helmet such that the visibility was never quite the same.] We passed the town of Tah, which is hardly a town, however it has a very large and expensive looking monument. This appears to be the former border between Morocco and the Western Sahara. In Laayoune, the police checked the passports, and vehicle papers. Upon entering the town, it looked like I was entering a military base. Everyone appeared to be military related. Further in the city, I saw more white U.N. vehicles than I've ever seen on CNN. There were probably 50 parked in the parking lot of an upscale shopping mall. The town was overrun with an influx of French who had come here for a motorcycle rally. They were having the "cloverleaf" rally which was a multi-day event where they would do desert riding just outside of Laayoune. 100-200 French, were awaiting the boat carrying all of their motorcycles to dock. Apparently it was in harbor, but because the winds were so bad, it wasn't yet in port. We had lunch at "La Maison du Poisson". Unfortunately, the restaurant was packed with French here for the rally. I could see out of the corner of my eye all of the looks I was getting. These people had just arrived of the plane from France. I got up and walked over to the mirror in the restroom. While my helmet-head hair was mostly under control, I later noticed that I had sand caked in the corner of my eyes, and slightly sun-burnt nose, a sand colored spot on my shirt where the sand storm blast was particularly penetrating inside my jacket. I was looking a bit desert worn... Later, we drove on to Boujdour... There is nothing but desert along the way. It's a straight stretch of sand, rock and scrubby bush, for 185km. In Boujdour, the Gendarme (national police) spent 5 minutes checking us in looking at passport, and Moroccan vehicle papers, asking mother and father's name, destination, etc. 100 meters further, the local police stopped us and asked to see our passports. Police are posted outside almost every town, however in the South, they check tourists. We stayed at the nicest place in town which cost 100 dirhams ($10) for the two of us. Before dinner, I had a strong desire to take a shower. After unpacking the bike and moving into the room and wanting to wash my hands, no water came out of the tap. After dinner the faucets ran, so I went to take a shower. Ahmed, the hotel clerk turned on the hot water heater for me. One has to really want a shower like I did, to get one in this town. There is a serious shortage of water pressure. In between soaping up, I would wait for people two or three blocks away to turn off the faucet, so that I might get a dribble for a moment to rinse a little soap off my ear, or so... They did have hot water, however it would take 10 minutes to fill a liter bottle with hot water at the rate it was coming out... Jim and I had dinner at an outdoor sitting area. We had some rotisserie grilled chicken, which came with bread and salad. In the past couple towns, while eating outdoors, a hungry looking person might come up and ask for leftovers, rather than being thrown out, I or Jim would hand it over. Tonight, a guy walked up, dipped some of my bread in a sauce I hadn't eaten, and then took my chicken leftovers and walked away. He hadn't spoken, made eye contact or made any non-verbal gestures. He made a bee-line for my food, and it was gone within a second. Fortunately for me, he had accurately read that I had finished eating, and so it was just entertaining. Ahmed explained to us that all the young people were out on the streets today participating in the green march. Suspecting a misunderstanding since I was suspicious of a group of green conservationists deep in the Sahara desert having a march, I asked for further explanation. This is a day of special significance for Moroccans. In 1975 on November 6, 350k Moroccan (citizens?) walked down into Western Sahara and settled in. Now every year they celebrate.I suspect that the term "green" march may have something to do with the Moroccan flag being predominately green. The former Western Sahara area of Morocco is a special economic zone. People in Western Sahara don't pay tax. Looking around at all of the new construction, it's obvious how much money Morocco is pumping into the region. Laayoune and Boujdour look like new cities relative to other Moroccan towns with all of the construction that has happened. smart move... November 7, 1999 Daklah, Morocco - camped Outside of Daklah, about 39km, there is a road checkpoint. Being a foreigner, they wanted to see my passport and vehicle papers. The officer had an old manual type writer on which he fed a roll of paper through. He didn't have any forms to type onto, so he typed up a form, and then filled it in with my information. The process took about 20 minutes for the two of us. Border checks at every city. While there are plenty of hotels in the area, we chose to stay at the camp incoveniently located on the outskirt of town. It seems most of the people joining the convoy stay at the campground. Like Nicaragua for travelers of the Americas, Daklah is the funnel for at least West Africa, and currently possibly all of North Africa. While the campground outside of Daklah is nothing impressive whatsoever, what's interesting about it is that it is where all of the overlanders stay at least for two nights. It's the place to be for interesting conversation, information, and meeting other overland travellers. November 8, 1999 Daklah, Morocco - camped R100GS 44060 The border between Morocco and Mauritania is crossed by military convoy through a minefield. The military convoy leaves Daklah on Tuesday and Friday. Arrangements to join the convoy are suppose to be done one day ahead and are made in Daklah. Being Monday morning, this was our goal, and the goal of every overlander. LATER NOTE: Apparently Fridays are much better convoys to join than Tuesdays. Last Friday, there was 3-5 vehicles, This Tuesday there were 50-60 vehicles. The locals say that this is typical. The greater numbers greatly slowed the process. The police office opens at 8:30am. We had to show our passport and give license plate number. Next was a visit to the army office where I handed in two passport photos of myself, and filled out a form stating all the normal border crossing questions including my parent's names. The third administrative office, I had to show my passport and carte gris for the motorcycle. I'm not carrying a carte gris, so instead I persuaded the officer that my carnet would suffice, which is the same thing I had to do upon entering Morocco. I was finished by noon. The last office closed for lunch at noon. Getting in at 11:51am, I was the last person served for the morning. The other 15 or so travelers outside were turned away, and asked to come back after lunch. The convoy assembles on Tuesday or Friday at the customs check just outside of town, near the campground. Some anxious people assemble at the designated time of 9:00am, Experienced convoyers say that the convoy really doesn't leave until 1-2pm, but a check-in must be done, so no hurry. As I was packing up this morning, for the ride on the convoy, I noticed the four small bungee cords which I use to strap various things onto the motorcycle were missing. Currently, I was using two to hold the spare front tire, and the others for strapping on spare water. These had traveled with me for 17 months... A tiny monetary loss, but just unfortunate timing, at their peak of usage. I suspect they disappeared during dinner while the bike was out on a busy street unattended. We had intended not to rush, but since most people had already left the campground, anxiety of being late was quickly growing. At 10am Tuesday, we left the campground, and went into town to pick up some food, figuring it's a 1-2 day ordeal. We arrived at the gas station, filled up the gas, and when we went to pay, Jim realized he didn't have his wallet. I went on to get some gas while he went back to the campground to look around. Fortunately he found it where he had hidden it under his mattress in the campground room we rented. We were at the rally point by 10:30am. Like others, I sat around hanging out in the dwindling shade cast by the vehicles, working on my journal. At 12:30, it looked like we were ready to begin. Two army officers came by and checked the license plate number, and my name off their list, and told me to drive off to join the start of the convoy. I started up the bike and crossed the town checkpoint, a young guy wearing casual clothes and a Nike baseball cap asked for my passport. Showing a little aversion to this assumption of trust, I asked if he was police, to which he and another guy said yes. I pointed out that I was asking because of his casual dress. He smiled, and I submitted my passport to his small stack. They checked off my name, and I drove through the checkpoint, only to find the convoy was parking and assembling just outside the check point, to wait for another 2 hours. I and about 4 other motorcyclist arranged our motorcycles such that we could sit in the shade of our motorcycle. In the shade its a comfortable temperature with a slight breeze. The sun is so fierce that just a few minutes would make one uncomfortable. Some people in the overland trucks sat underneath the trucks for shade. While waiting, a loud fizzing noise erupted behind me. I turned around to see a fat French man hustling to get a white fizzing can out of his car. He tossed it out and it zinged around just above the ground spraying white foam in the air, on the ground and on the side of his car. It was a tire repair can spraying white puffs of foam latex. At 2:30, the convoy left. The convoy travels as slow as the slowest vehicle and as fast as the military pace car. The slow vehicle was the overland backpacker truck which was a German army surplus MANN truck that had a top speed of 75kph (45mph). By the time the convoy stopped around 6:30pm, the convoy of 50 or so vehicles was spread out over an hour. There are no towns between Daklah and the border. We drove 308km. The Moroccan military convoy stopped for what seemed like a break to allow the slowest to catch up. In actuality, they were waiting for night fall, so that we wouldn't be able to see the military complexes that we were about to pass by. After it was dark, we drove on for another 30km or so to a campground. It was better not to see the campground with daylight, because it looked like a garbage dump in the desert. Twice a week the convoy stops here and they don't have a garbage pickup facility, so everyone just throws their crap on the ground. It was 11pm by the time we finished dinner and were going to sleep. By now, Jim and I were hanging out with 3 other motorcyclists who were doing this crossing. They were Appie (Dutch/Moroccon), Markus and Wolfgang (German). We were all pretty much similarly prepared with spare parts and tools. All five of us motorcycles were carrying a spare pair of tires. All of them just happened to be Michelin tires... either Desert or T63. Between the five of us, we had 20 motorcycle tires. The next morning, we asked a Moroccan soldier what time we would take off. He said 9:00am. At 8:08am, the cars started to line up. At 8:45 we were packed up and ready to go. The soldier told us to go to the front of the line since we were on motorcycles. When everyone was lined up, they started handing out passports, and then let us drive on. We thought we were free to go on to the next part which we were expecting to be lots of sand, so we took off to get a good head start over all of the other vehicles. About 5km down the road, we came up to another Moroccan block. The gateway had little scissors type extenders with metal spikes that they drag across to prevent vehicles from running the blockade. We were told to wait for all of the vehicles to show up. When all the vehicles arrived, The Moroccans let us through the no-mans land. I followed obscure rock pile karengs until the direction wasn't exactly clear. Knowing our proximity to a mine field, I stopped until a bold Frenchman driving a Mercedes passed and took the lead. He either didn't seem to be concerned at all about where he was. I figured he either knew his way around here, or I would find out qui ckly enough if he didn't. The trail lead over semi-flat rocks with occasional patches of sand... after a little bit, a sort of road appeared made from tar and *very* large gravel. My maximum speed was about 40kph on the best parts. I did hit a sand patch where I needed a hand picking up the bike. The bike was feeling a bit heavy I was looking forward to putting on the desert tires in Nouakchott. In a narrow passage that the track goes through, a tall slender black Mauritanian soldier wearing sand colored camouflage fatigues stopped us. He was holding up the procession such that only one vehicle every couple of minutes could pass onto the passport checkpoint which was 100 meters ahead and visible. He let each person through one at a time, first conversing individually with each person in French: "Do you speak French?" "yes" "Stay on the trail. Don't go to the left or to the right. Do you know what meens are? " "Means, what are 'means'?" "MEANS, MEANS (mines)... very dangerous. There are means everywhere." "Ok." He let me go, and I slowly drove to the stone passport hut 100 meters further. In the middle there was a sand patch I slowed down for. With the soldiers advice clearly ringing in my head, I went straight through the sand. Twenty feet from me at that sand patch was the rusty charred remains of a Land Rover that was formerly owned by two now deceased tourists that were unfortunate enough to stray off the piste and hit a land mine. Passing this area, I was now in the waiting line to get my passport collected and logged into the Mauritanian military convoy manifesto. A man collected these passports while sitting in a little one person stone hut. The hut had a tiny window of which my passport slide through, and a voice on the other side could be heard. The voice asked for vehicle information such as vehicle license plate number, make and model. We waited at this hut and gate for an hour while the vehicles slowly passed. Obviously there was some anxiety involved in relieving oneself. Step too far off the path, and one might land on a mine. There's a life threatening trade off for privacy. One Frenchman stepped out of his car, stood a foot from his car and relieved himself 10 meters from the Mauritanian passport hut in plain view of everyone in the convoy who had made it this far. While waiting at the Mauritanian border crossing, I let out some air out of the tires bringing the rear down to 22 from 39 psi, and the from 38 to 25 psi. for sand people usually recommend less, but I don't have tire locks, and this isn't all sand., however I figured I would see how the bike handles before I let out so much that I have to pump the air back up in the desert. With the high pressure, the tires were bouncing off all the rocks After nearly an hour, 15 or so of us were allowed to drive a 100 meters to continue our wait. Apparently the line was backing up to the charred remains of the landrover, and it was getting dangerous not to mention unsanitary with all of those people nee ding to relieve themselves. The direct sun was fierce, and us motorcyclist were in need of shade. With the sun almost directly above, there was little shade unless one laid under the panniers next to the tires. The wait was so long, I laid out and slept under the shade of my bike. Fortunately there was a cool breeze. As I rested, I could hear in the distance the sound of Arabic wrap music coming from some vehicle with a radio/cassette on. Some unknown amount of time passed, and I heard a noise emanating from my nose... I had passed out on the road and was snoring. In the rough spots, always sand related, all vehicles must pass before the convoy continues. The first spot being on 30 meters from the passport hut. It was a short thirty degree embankment with sand on both sides. One French guy in a Peugeot sedan went flying over it like a jump and ended up doing a nose dive into the sand and loosing the lower collar of his car. It didn't happen like in the movies. The car was obviously balanced very front heavy probably because the engine is in the front. Later, a Moroccan in an old Mercedes 190D sedan went flying over the embankment, and also did a nose dive. His front end took in sand, and smashed his radiator. In the Sahara with a broken radiator and mines all around. I figured he was screwed. Within ten minutes, he had the radiator out. He straitened the fins with a screwdriver, and then applied epoxy. Filled it up with water, and I didn't see a leak. Amazing... After a long wait at the border post we were off. We drove a few kilometers until we came across a forty meter dune. The guards knew there would be problems and the convoy was made to wait just beyond. In our convoy, we had a German military MAN truck that carried the overlander tourists. In the begining of the convoy we were waiting for it to catch up at its top speed of 75kph, however on the Mauritanian roads, it was king, pulling the biggest trucks out of the sand dune with a tow rope. Since everyone is made to travel together in this convoy, everyone has an interest in helping out those in need. When people get stuck in the sand either with their car or motorcycle, others hop out of their vehicles and run over to give a push. We stopped and waited three more times for the rest of the convoy to catch up. The convoy moves as fast as the slowest person. Towards the end, driving was nuts. Everyone was racing to be behind the lead car? I'm not sure why... I would guess its due to spending the last 36 hours in a slow moving convoy, boredom, and that the terrain opens up. It actually became pretty dangerous with cars tailgating, and coming within inches of motorcyclists. It may be a coincidence, but it was all the overweight French males that were pretending like they were in the Paris Dakar rally.... I had been warned by another traveler this would happen. Strange phenomena. We were first in line since the terrain was so much easier for the motorcycles than before. The cars and trucks went quickly through the sand, while the motorcycles were bogged down. However on the rough hard ground, the motorcycles flew past the cars and trucks. We crossed the railroad tracks, and then within less than a thousand meters we were at the 2nd Mauritanian border post. It was about an hour before darkness. Another slender black soldier wearing army fatigues, and a black turbine handed out currency declaration forms. We rapidly filled the forms thinking that they would process them quickly and we would be through. Another guy came by and asked for my original cart gris or original title. I couldn't offer him my forged since my title screw up, I still don't have my title yet from the state of Illinois, I gave the guy my carnet, which they accepted. He came back and asked us to make a small form with the standard border entry information filled out on our own paper, and hand it in. We quickly wrote up the requested information. Thinking we might be able to make it out before dark. The desire not to ride off road in the dark in a third world country with limited hospital infrastructure was high on my mind. We handed in the paper and then waited while they wrote everyone's name into their books... all~150 of us(~50 vehicles) who were in the convoy. The entire convoy sat there for three and a half hours. I fell asleep lying on the sand. Long after dark, but during that time, a huge desert transport vehicle rolled in. It was the equivalent of the Jawa transport vehicle that crosses the desert selling androids in Star Wars. It was the largest transport vehicle I'd ever seen and had a crew of several sandmen wearing clothe robes, head turbines, that wrapped around the face. The crew looked fast efficient, and organized carrying a stable towering load. Quite impressive. They somehow passed through within minutes heading the opposite direction. When they finally let us go, it was around 10pm. The motorcycles were let go first. We drove about 10km to the next hut. The terrain was the worst yet. More loose sand than anywhere before. Fortunately the during the day, I learned to just paddle my feet through the soft loose sand rather than try a sand riding technique I had heard which was probably better suited for virgin sand. It was slow going. At the next hut, I gave my name and license number and was checked off of their list. The third and last hut was 50 meters away and I collected my passport. The 90% European which was probably 90% French deteriorated into a third world queue. That is no line, just push yourself to the front sandwiched among everyone. After we received our passports, we were done for the evening, with three more offices to visit at leisure the next morning.... Aduane (customs), insurance office , and the police office. While we waited at the 2nd of four customs huts, the owner for a campground we had been recommended on the outskirts of Nouadhibou showed up. After the final customs hut for the evening, a representative for the campsite hopped on Appie's bike, and led all of us bikers to the campsite. Followed by Jack and Sally, the missionaries on their way to Burkina Faso on the fifth trip. All of the soldiers here were black Africans. This is a change from Morocco wear black Africans were pretty uncommon. The population in Morocco are Arab. The guide book says the black African population makes up only 20% of the population, and that's mostly in the South, however its all that I've seen so far. [Later note: I think this guide book statistic is off by quite a bit] November 10, 1999 At 9:00am, everyone from the convoy descended upon the three offices that needed visiting, At the Aduane office, I showed my passport, a forged copy of my title (cart gris), and handed in my currency declaration form. They asked if I had a carnet. I did, and they stamped it. The issue with the carnet is annoying. The Canadian Automobile Association who issued the carnet I have said that Mauritania would requires a carnet. The required deposit for Mauritania is 110% the value of the vehicle + insurance and freight. This had the effect of doubling the cost of my deposit for the carnet, a significant sum. 2nd had information had told me that it may be possible to argue out of the need of the carnet. I had also heard of rumors of people being sent back to Morocco after being detained for a week if they didn't have correct paperwork. My listening to these anxiety of other travellers cost me a lot of money. In reality, most of the people didn't have carnets. For those that didn't, they just had to fill out a form. No problem whatsoever. Regarding the Mauritanian visas, information I had said it was best to get in Rabat. The Rabat embassy requires an airplane ticket. A fake airplane ticket ends up costing $60 after it's returned. The embassy in Switzerland doesn't have any requirements. The embassy in Madrid requires a letter from your home embassy requesting a Mauritanian visa. While most people at the border did have a visa, there were a few that showed up without a visa, demonstrating that it is possible to arrive without a visa. It's hard to get good info.... Listening to conservative anxieties of others was expensive this time around. Our campground owner went to the insurance office for us and picked up ten days worth of motorcycle insurance which cost 2122 Ouguiya. The insurance was required for a visit to the police station which was the last office to visit. The police required 1000 Ouguiya. Appie, our Arabic speaking Dutch motorcycle traveler friend got our papers processed here immediately by passing the guard 200 Ouguiya (80 cents). This saved us an hour or more. He said that the way the opportunity was presented, he didn't really have a choice... Pay the bribe and pass all of the other applicants in line, or your paperwork might disappear under the carpet for a long time. None of us five motorcyclists minded the extortion a bit. Mauritanian currency has an official exchange rate, and a black market rate. 14-18 Ouguiyas per Moroccan Dirhams (>18 black market) 200 Ouguiyas per US$1 (250 black market) 35 Ouguiya per French Franc (>39 black market) Apparently one has to exchange something officially to get a receipt to show upon exiting that one hasn't been doing black market exchanges. Yesterday, evening, I took the easy way out and exchanged all of my Dirhams on the black market, and a nominal amount of 200 French francs on the official market for show. This is one of those countries were its hard to get change. From my exchange I have a stack of 1000 ouguiya bills. Each of these bills is worth $4 to $5. The three times I've visited a store to buy something for about $1, they ask if I want anything else, so as to reduce the amount of change given back. Change is in short supply. The first store clerk sent out a kid to get some change for my 1000 ouguiya note. Rather than wait 15 minutes, I just bought 1000 ouguiyas worth of additional merchandise. Nouadhibou is the second most populous city in Mauritania with a population of 45,000. Nouakchott, the capital, is the most populous at 200k. Nouadhibou (pronounced NwaDeeBoo), has a couple of paved main roads running through town. The rest is sand and dirt. Homes are built from cinder block. On the way to the registration offices this morning, we had to drive around a procession of soldiers. 50 rifles carrying soldiers marched as if they were in a parade. They filled one of the few paved roads. Figuring their rifles deserve a little respect, we slowly drove off on the dirt shoulder to pass them. Heading South, one must first pass through Nouakchott, the capital city. There are no roads connecting the largest city, Nouakchott with the second largest city, Nouadhibou. There are two routes to Nouakchott. The coastal route which is a difficult, mostly sand route that requires hiring a guide, and sounds like the worst form of hell for a motorcyclist with a lot of cargo. The other is by taking the worlds longest train which goes from Nouadibou to Choum, and then driving to Atar, and then taking the supposedly newly pa ved road for six hours to Nouakchott. No question about it, we decided on the second route. We couldn't get on the Thursday afternoon train since it's and Iron ore only. Friday, the train doesn't run (Holy day of rest). Supposedly we can get on the Saturday train. Even though the train wasn't suppose to take off until 5pm, the campground owner suggested being there at 8am. Having the afternoon and tomorrow free, Jim and I decided to work on putting our sand tires on. Jim had some Michelin T63s, and I had some Michelin Desert tires. My rear tubeless continental which was near impossible to get set on the bead in Finland, was near impossible to get off the bead today. I decided to wait until Nouakchott. We got Jim's tires changed, however getting his front tire set on the bead turned out to be difficult. We visited an Elf gas station to see if they had an air compressor. We later found out that we luckily happened into the only gas station in town that did. The guy pulled out a rubber hose hooked up to his compressor. The hose didn't have a fill nozzle. Thinking that this wouldn't work, we asked if there was a place that did. He pointed to a tire changer 20 meters down the road that did. We went down there. This tire changer also didn't have a fill nozzle on the end of his compressor hose. He got thin string of fabric, put some Vaseline type stuff on it, and then wrapped it around the nozzle. He loosened the tire core, and then stuck his hose on. I later discovered that there are no fill nozzles on any of the air compressors in this town. All tire changers do it the same way in Nouadhibou. The tire guy, attempted to fill the tire. until we were concerned about it exploding. This system without valve core or gauge makes it nearly impossible to know how much air is being pumped in. Three times, we applied some liquid soap to the rim and tire bead. This was going nowhere, and we still hadn't accepted that this town would be without a air compressor tire filler nozzle. The tire guy work for 20 minutes, and basically got us no further than we were when we arrived. Jim asked how much for his time. Unfortunately at this time others had arrived to watch. They all spoke for the tire guy. One guy said 1500 ($7), a way off the scale sum. Later, another said 7000 ($35). We were thinking a 200 would be generous, considering the cost of things here and that nothing had been accomplished. Fortunately Appie happened by. and argued for Jim's situation in Arabic. The conversation seemed calm to me, however later he explained that he almost slugged a guy until another intervened, calming the friction. The tire guy didn't do any of the talking, it was just the people around him. Jim, not wanting to just walk away, left 700 ouguiyas, ($3.50). In hindsight, the situation was clear. With all the locals around, there was face saving pride on the line. Also, we're in a border town, where we already have seen the French pouring out gifts and unreasonable payments for this economy. The locals have an image of foreigners as being rich and having no clue of the local value of money in this economy. We spent the next half hour visiting all of the gas stations in town and at each one being referred to the "Michelin" nearby. The "Michelin" is a shack were someone changes tires, and has an air compressor with a hose, but no nozzle. Jim, who was tired and clearly on the end of his fuse, decided to put it off until tomorrow. Kids swarm when foreigners stop, and ask for pens or candy. Pens and candy because they've learned that that is what foreigners give. This morning, a Dutch woman was tossing candy out of her Chevy van. The kids wildly crawled all over the ground picking up the candy she tossed. It was like a pigeon feeding. While I'm sure she thought she was being nice, this makes it difficult for other travellers. November 12, 1999 Nouadhibou, Mauritania - Camping Asimex caught up on journal. did some laundry went into market called Sharon. . . Note: Friday, the Holy day, the mosques have been blaring out almost the whole day. We took a taxi into town. Appie bargained a rate of 100 oogies per person. All 5 of us + two Swiss girls crammed into a tiny Renault that was shaped like a Datsun B210 and appeared as though it had been resurrected several times from the desert. We drove into town sitting on each others laps with our heads cocked to uncomfortable positions. Jim, didn't have that problem since there was a hole in the roof of the car above his head that he could stick through. The dented 30 year old car puttered at about 20mph down the road, until BAM, the rear right tire blew, I climbed out, and could see that wheel which was held on with two of its three lug nuts, had lost its tire, and was now sitting on the rim. The owner threw up his arms with a smile. With a sense of guilt, for killing his car with our weight, we paid him the agreed fare anyway, covering the two Swiss girls that didn't want to since we hadn't been delivered to the agreed upon destination. November 14, 1999 Mauritania - on the train in an iron ore car headed to Choum The five of us woke up at 6:30am, quickly packed, and left the campground, filling up our bikes at the gas station on the way to the train station. We were at the train station at 8:00am. Nicolai, the French guy who bought a delivery truck in France for US$2200 and intending to sell it in Mali for US$6400, and who was in our convoy, was sitting ahead of us in line. As usual, hurry up and wait. We sat around until we could load the motorcycles. They began loading around 10am, but we didn't get them on until 11am. We walked back into town to get some breakfast. It was well past noon. Appie asked a Senegalese guy on the street if he knew a good place to eat. Looking for an agreeable place to eat for a group of seven that meets everyone's expectations and budget was becoming a challenge. Appie asked in Arabic one of the many Senegalese that hang out on the main street selling sunglasses and watches, if he knew where a good cheap place to eat was. The Senegalese, took us down a few blocks to a dimly lit dirty entrance. The well hidden sign was one, we never would have found. We walked in, and the owner greeted us, and led us through two other rooms into the dining area. The room was dark, with cement walls, white plastic lawn chairs, and a TV blaring out French dubbed shows (Friends), loud enough for the hearing impaired. The restaurant didn't have a menu, but the owner said "What do you want?" The Swiss girls who were the masters of French at the table, did the ordering. They asked, "What do you have?" The reply was rice with fried fish, for 120 oogies ($.50), or 200 if we wanted vegetables in it. We asked for the later. Fifteen minutes later, they showed up with 3 plates of a rice with red sauce and some beef, each big enough for one person. Rather than argue, or ask for an explanation of the logic of three plates for 7 people, or the fact that we ordered rice and fish and got rice with a red sauce and beef, or that we received only five spoons. We just ate it splitting with the person we were sitting next to.. They later brought out four plates of rice with a tiny bit of fish on top. All of it tasted great, and was so cheap. However, to keep it in perspective, it was going on 2:30pm, and this was our first meal of the day. I and one of the Swiss girls asked if there was a place to wash our hands. I was lead to a cement closet. To the owners surprise, there was no water. I sat back down. 5 minutes later, I was told I could now wash my hands. He had sent a boy to run and get some water. I walked back to the closet. One guy was holding a red plastic tea pot full of water. Another guy pointed out the soap, which was a tiny plastic packet of clothes washing detergent. The water was poured out over my hands as I washed them. I was afraid the staff hand washing crew might slow down the preparation for our meal if everyone in our party had to wash their hands. We ordered our drinks. 5 minutes later, the owner returned with a plastic bag full of soda cans which he distributed. apparently he went to the store to buy them. With much difficulty, Wolfgang ordered a cafe au lait. They returned with a tea cup, a mayonnaise jar of hot water, a tin of Nescafe, a tin of sweetened condensed milk, and a bowl of sugar, allowing Wolfgang to make his own mixture. After lunch, We changed some money at the restaurant. While the owner wasn't a money changer, he knew where to get the currency we needed. We changed French Francs at a rate of 39 ouguiyas to the franc. I suspect an even better rate could be found if one felt like asking around. Since it's black market currency trading, it's not openly done on the street. Train We went in to the cement block station house to pay for cargo of the bikes. In the big boss' office, he had two autographed Xerox copies of Sadam Hussein mounted to his metal cabinet. I paid big man 5000 oogies, and that was it. No receipt and no ticket. I was wondering where I would buy my coach train ticket, and whether I'd have the option of first class or second. When we came out, the train with our motorcycles was gone. Fortunately, it was just linking up, and was rolling back, however it didn't wait. All the people just hopped on, on the edge of open cargo bed. The owner of one of the Dutch overland vehicle just barely caught the tail end of the train and crawling over the top of the moving train to get to his truck. On our car was an overland truck, two motorcycles, a donkey and a stack of stinking goat skin pelts, 10% of it's mass made up by the flies, and 4x4. Behind our car are 4 cars of ammonium nitrate, and in front of our car is about 100 50-gallon barrels of oil. Fortunately, the train loaders either have a background in organic chemistry, or have read that this is the same combination that in far smaller quantities, blew up the world trade center in New York, and have separated the cargo cars with the passenger and passenger vehicles in the middle. The picture was becoming pretty clear, that we were going to be spending the night on an open cargo train, So I pushed aside a little camel dung which was left by the previous passengers, and made my seat as the wind blew over my face. The stops were the worst, since the direct sun was hot, and the flies on the goat skins would spread to were I was sitting when the wind settled down. At one of the stops, a black African with a black head wrap wandered by. It was looking like he was eyeing my sleeping space under the trucks next to my motorcycle, and so I informed him of my intentions in French. He replied in English... "You plan to do what??? It's going to be cold there". He was the owner of the fragrant sheep skins lying next to me. Having nothing better to do, I had a conversation with him in English. He was telling me about how he fills a container to ship back to Nigeria. He had 3500 sheep skins back in Nouakchott. After I told him I was from the US, he asked me if I new anything about an industrial gas container manufacturer that happened to be based in the US. He was considering getting into importing gas (as in LP gas) containers and also other plumbing equipment. Further into the conversation, after this raw leather skin trader found out I was a computer programmer, he told me how he was trained as a structural engineer, and how he wrote programs in FORTRAB 4 and FORTRAN 77 simulating structural tensions on structures made of concave boxes. He's a WordStar 4.0 pro. Apparently he had written a political article about an illiterate boy who had $500 taken away from him by the local police. He was thrown in jail for 3 months in Nigeria, and this ended his career, and now he's temporarily a raw skin trader. fascinating guy. Of our group of 7 (Jim and I, Appie, Markus and Wolfgang, and the two swiss women), I was the only one left holding out to stay on the flatbed. They had all decided to spend the night in one of the iron ore cars. I was concerned that with the occasional relinking that these cars did that we might get separated from our bikes. This did end up happening about 8pm and caused us a bit of anxiety. Fortunately, our iron ore car relinked up again, but now rather than being three cars away from our cargo, we were now 10 cars away. When night fell and the train moved, there wasn't much that could be done but sleep. The sand churned up from the train car wheels was like being in a sand storm. However worse, was the iron ore dust filing that stirred up from the empty cars now that the train was traveling at normal speed. I could feel a rawness in my lungs from the iron ore dust. The desert cooled off as it usually does, to a cool temperature in the 50s. With a 40-50 mph wind, this gets pretty cold... I wrapped my tent ground sheet around my body to break the wind and wore my warmest riding gear, and winter hat pulled down over my mouth to filter out the choking air, ear plugs for the noise. I was still very cold, and I continuously crunched on sand that some how kept finding its way into my mouth. At 2:30 , I developed an intense case of the runs from the fine eating establishment we ate at lunch. It was the kind which motivates one to take care of business immediately. The rough jostling of the cargo train on the sandy tracks didn't help. Unfortunately, our iron ore cargo vessel didn't have bathroom facilities, and this cargo freight train didn't have any regularly scheduled passenger pit stops. I held out for a half hour, until I was motivated enough to climb over the side hanging onto the ladder with one hand and do my business with the other... a fall wouldn't be bad in the sand, but the train was moving too fast to climb back on... Ringing in my head was the memory of how hard the unexpected occasional jerks were that could knock anyone off their feet who didn't have the space to recover.. By morning, everyone in our cargo car was covered in dust. Some of us looked like we jumped in a pool of sand colored talc. My nose was so encrusted with sand and iron dust, that I think I could have stuck a small magnet to it and it would have stuck. I think the SPF on my sunblock probably surged over a hundred with all the sand dust on my face. The sand goggles I had traded from the British couple in Daklah, I put to good use this morning as the sand was still spewed up from tracks making seeing difficult as the train moved. People who slept in their cars and trucks didn't have the problem with the iron dust, sand and cold wind like we did, however the flatbed car they were in tossed from side to side. Most of them were motion sick, and few slept During the night, Marcus, and Appie Indiana-Jones-it hopping from ore car to ore car, and crawling under one of the trucks to check on their bikes. The train took a jostle while Marcus was crawling under the axle of the overland truck and got hit in the chest... Their three bikes had fallen over like dominoes from the oscillation. There was nothing that could be done until the train stopped. We arrived in Choum, our destination around 8:30 in the morning. The train was separated, leaving the flatbed cargo, and taking the iron ore cars on. The flatbed cargo which is what our vehicles were on was left about 300 meters from the loading dock, when the main train engine took off with the ore cars. Another engine, that I suppose is stationed at Choum came to push us in to the unloading dock, however when it arrived, it broke down, and was useless. The word was that a mechanic for the train engine had been called, and would arrive sometime... Rather than wait, we assembled enough people to lift all of the motorcycles off the train. Meanwhile, someone among the cars and trucks got the idea to push the train to the dock. The foreigners separated the train car, released the train brake, and twenty of us travelers pushed the train car to the dock. Starting the momentum required all of us, however only about three or so were needed to maintain the speed of the low friction train car. Appie's bike was damaged the most. All 40 liters of his gas had leaked out while lying on it's side. The luggage rack had broken at it's mount point, his kick stand had bent back 120 degrees, part of the clutch handle broken, the left grip was chewed up, etc. Wolfgang's kickstand had broken off, and so did part of his clutch handle. Choum is a small desert town of 1500 people. The homes are built of mud brick. There didn't appear to be any electricity. They did have a welder though, which is what Appie needed to fix his luggage rack. After some tough negotiation of the price, The welder started up his oxy-acetylene torch. It was directly hooked up to an acetylene generator (carbide and water). When the welder wasn't satisfied with the temperature of the flame, his helper would shake up the generator tank. They did an OK job with Appies luggage rack, however Wolfgangs kickstand broke the first time he used it, and then again the first time after the second attachment. The third reattachment seemed to hold a little better (It lasted 24 hours). Meanwhile, the wait was interesting. The kids swarmed asking for gifts and Bic pens, etc... the standard fair that French tourists believe they need to hand out to every kid. Marcus drank some orange Fanta, towards the end, the kids swarmed him wanting the last sip. He ended up dropping the can which had a few sips left, and a mob scene of twenty kids pounding on each other ensued. The end result was that the left over was spilled on the ground, and the lucky one or two kids who had some splash on them, licked their hands. I suppose a sip of Orange Fanta is a special treat. Often in Mauritania, I was asked what time it is, but I had the feeling the questioner didn't really care. They don't seem to be interested in the watch, or what time it really is, but rather making conversation with a limited vocabulary. I suppose it' s the kind of question that might be taught on day one of French 101. After a half hour or so, a very large black woman dressed in a strangely nice red dress showed up with a smile, and warm greetings that seemed very unusual given the Muslim nature of this society. A few minutes later another woman in a yellow outfit showed up. They seemed uncommonly friendly. A local had explained to Jim that these woman were available. Curious, I asked this classy guy who wanted to be our friend, "How much for a woman. The man said "In Nouakchott, I can get a white woman (Arabic) for you for 1500 ouguiya ($6). You look. Take your pick.". I asked "How much for a black woman?" He said, "500 ouguiyas" ($2). On our way out of town heading to Atar, we had to stop in at the police check to hand in our passports. We followed the piste South West to Atar. The piste was easy enough to follow on a compass heading since it followed a wide valley. Piste driving is quite different from highway driving. For the motorcycle, it is best not to ride in the tracks of another vehicle since chances are those tracks have churned up a lot of loose sand, and created a valley which is very difficult for a motorcycle to drive in. Also, lots of sand and dust is kicked in the rear. As a result, we each chose our own routes heading in the same direction of the piste, but spread out. We drove for 20km, until all of the bikes began to overheat, requiring a few minutes cool down. All five of us had been driving together at this point, however Jim didn't stop. He was much further West than us, and kept going. After the bike temperature came down from red line we continued looking for Jim. We drove 4km, and waited. and then we drove another 4km to the highest hill on the plateau valley. I scanned the horizon in all directions with my binoculars. The four of us were concerned, since there were some tough sand patches that would likely require help to either pick up the bike, or push the bike through. We were afraid that he might get stuck without any help. Since it was so late, and we weren't sure if he was ahead of us or behind, we set up camp. The first thing we did was to collect as much desert fire wood as possible in case he was camped out, he might then see our location at night. We positioned out motorcycles on this high point for visibility. At night, Marcus, acting as a light house, would flash his headlights at any other lights in the distance. We set up camp, and when it came dark, lit our fire. While my best guess was that he was ahead of us, Jim and I had an agreement that if we got split up we would head back to the last village we were at. That would be Choum. We decided that in the morning, if Jim hadn't shown up we would head back the 28km to Choum, scanning the horizon along the way. Appie and I volunteered to go back. Appie and Markus persuaded me not to go. Since my bike is 60% heavier, and doesn't yet have desert tires on it, Appie wasn't real keen on me going back. I had already dropped my bike four times today. I knew that Jim had 2-3 liters of water, and I had just given him most of our food to carry, so he was ok for a night of camping. Late in the evening, a car with a soldier drove by. He had come from Choum. He said that a motorcyclist had returned back to Choum, and that he intended to go to Atar tomorrow by himself. Jim was back in Choum. This was a relief to know. Camping in the desert was wonderful. We had already lit a fire for Jim to see should he be within eye sight. The wood we had gathered was bleached white from the sun, and was potentially ancient given the rate things grow around here and decompose. It was incredibly quiet. Occasionally there was a gentle cool breeze. Away from the fire, all I could hear was the neurons firing in my head. There was a gentle but silent breeze, half of the moon was showing and the stars were clearly visible. Markus had spotted a snake earlier in our campsite, so we were careful to keep the tents closed. He mentioned that he had seen horned vipers in the deserts of Libya. November 15, 1999 Mauritania - Camping Dar Es Salaam R100GS 44373 Appie and Markus got up at dawn, and were headed for Choum to pick up Jim. They left all of their luggage behind, so they were riding with light dirt bikes, and got there in very little time. When they arrived, the city guard told them that Jim had left 15 minutes before. Jim hadn't waited. Later, he told me that he didn't remember our agreement to meet back at the last town we saw each other should we get split up. Meanwhile, Wolfgang and I watched on the horizon. The piste here is several kilometers wide, and we never saw Jim pass by again this morning. He had made four passes by us on this 4km wide piste without either of us seeing or hearing. That morning I had been scanning with my binoculars too, so I suppose he had gone outside of the wide valley we were in. A herd of 30 camels quietly came up to our campsite. They were led by two men, wearing blue shashish (?) turbans wrapped around their face. They walked slowly up to our campsite each with a camel that had a pierced nose that a rope ran through. I walked up to them and greeted them in Arabic. They returned the greeting, and then like every kid in Mauritania, they said in French, "Give me a gift?" I ignored it. As if unsure of the meaning or the delivery, the one guy said it a few times. I attempted to ask him about his camels in French, to which nothing intelligible transpired. He tried again, "Give me a gift?" I said goodbye, and walked away. Unbelievable. so much for the illusion of a nomadic camel herders sage popping out of the desert... these guys have been trained by the French tourists too... When Markus and Appie came back a little over an hour later, we packed up and drove down the piste keeping close together. I was asked to ride in front since the BMW was quite a bit heavier than the other bikes, and not yet wearing it's desert tires. I was considered to be the most likely to have problems. However, the way the morning went on, the problems of getting stuck were pretty evenly distributed amongst all bikes. Today's drive was going well, I hadn't dropped the bike today, but it did get stuck twice, such that I could hop off and it would stand on it's own. The rear wheel was buried in sand, all the way up to the bash plate. I'm really looking forward to putting the sand tires on in Nouakchott. Yesterday I had dropped the motorcycle four times. I now understand why when I ask people for advice on driving in sand, I get so many different replies. It depends entirely on the consistency of the sand, which differs so subtly. A majority of people have told me, "you have to drive fast". My problem so far has been that I paid attention to this, not knowing what type of sand they were speaking of. I think this is true for unrutted virgin sand. However, when one is forced to drive in the piste, or track of another vehicle that has since formed a deep rut with the loosest of sand, driving fast is one of the last thing one wants to do. The front wheel will bounce or slide off the sides, and the fast momentum will end up spinning the bike out if one can keep it up. In this kind of condition, it's best to go through with at just faster than a walking pace. I use my feet down as a guide to keep to the center of the rut, and lift my weight off. Loose dry rutted sand is definitely the worst kind of sand to ride on. It's important to maintain momentum if possible, as starting off can lead to getting the rear tire buried. The paddle tread design on the desert sand tires is certainly a big help. Virgin sand with a wind blown packed crust is best done at high speed, My limited experiences says that 25mph is fast enough. The effect is similar to a boat taking off in the water. As speed picks up, the bike rises out of the sand, and one can keep going. Slowing down and the bike sinks, and reduces maneuverability. Steering is done very slightly, as the front wheel tracks even worse than gravel. I'm currently driving with a Michelin T66 on the front, and a Continental Enduro on the back. Both of them are better for asphalt, however the Conti has a dual sport tread. Even though I haven't tried the desert tire yet, I've written off others anxieties as blaming the tires rather than themselves. When I'm in the soft sand, I've wished for the paddle tread so I don't bury my rear tire, however I'm doing fine with these. We stopped at a shack in the desert to ask if Jim had been by. They said no. However a Tuareg woman dressed in blue came out. She gave me the foreigner greeting, "Give me a gift? (in French)", Thinking about all the weight I'm carrying, I pulled out the kilo of sugar which I'm carrying through the sand, and gave it to her. I was glad to get rid of it. Even though I hate the idea of encouraging the greeting. Wolfgang's luggage rack broke on the piste. The kickstand which had been mutilated by the oxy-acetylene torch yesterday fell off again, and he used it as a splint for the broken luggage frame. He tied it up with some bailing wire, and we reduced our speed. The piste was patches of sand, in some places dirt, many places the road was badly corrugated. It's a bad mix. The best way to ride on corrugation is at high speed (40-50mph )such that bike flies over the top of the bumps. However, with the patches of loose soft sand, that kind of speed would be really scary. The road requires so much focus, constantly adjusting speed and directions based off the upcoming terrain which constantly changes. The best terrain in this desert to drive on is virgin encrusted sand, which is speckled with gravel size rocks. However, right next to one of these might be a virgin soft sand patch which can be spotted by the color, and lack of gravel on top. The virgin soft sand patches can be covered at high speed, but its best avoided. Moving back to the piste at these parts usually is not good either, since it's likely loose sand. Like the Eskimos having 32 names for snow, I can imagine a desert biker developing a vocabulary of 32 different kinds of sand.... A man who popped out behind a rock told Appie in Arabic that Jim had passed by two hours ago. (The concept of time for desert dwellers is another topic.) Soon afterwards, I started seeing the tracks from his desert tires. In some places they looked so fresh, that I could see the moisture in the track. It turned out he was only ten minutes ahead. We drove down to a particularly bad loose sand crossing, and Jim popped out of a shed. He was so happy to see us, he went around to each of the four of us to shake our hand and tell us how happy he was to see us. He had stopped just before a particulary long patch of soft sand, that appeared impossible to cross with out pushing assistance. Three or more is a good number to travel in sand with a motorcycle. If one buries a rear tire, having two people really helps to push it out. We arrived in Atar, hot exhausted, and thirsty. It was 92km for Wolfgang and I. 148km for Appie and Markus, and 120km for Jim. 15km up the road, I had thought it was Atar, and was disappointed. Not because it was another mud block building desert village, but because I could see from the lack of power poles, and TV aerials that this town didn't have electricity, and I was really in the mood for a cold beer. Atar does have power, and the first place we stopped, the Dutch overlander truck had arrived, and one of them offered me a sip of his very cold coca cola.... it was so wonderful, all Five of us paid the 200 oogies for one, (2-4 times the going price). We checked into "Camping Dar Es Salaam", which was the nicest camping facility I've been to on this continent yet. Our group of five motorcyclists were the only ones there. They had a nice shaded hangout area with Mauritanian couches along the walls. These couches are more like mattresses that lie on the floor, and have seat backs, and two long pillows for couch arms. They brought out mint tea served in small glasses slightly larger than a shot glass. There is a whole ritual involved in making the tea which includes a pour to clean the glass, a pour to warm up the glass, a pour to create a foam head, and then the final pour which is then consumed. The pour is about a jigger in size, which then the whole procedure is repeated. Had a nice long cold shower... first in three days. Hair was so matted with sand dust, face was caked with a mixture of sand, dirt, iron ore dust, sebum and sun tan lotion. Rather than sleep in our warm cement walled room for the night with the others, I moved out to one of the Mauritanian huts made of sticks. The base is round, forming a slightly pointed hemisphere at the top all made from sticks. I set up my mosquito net and slept in my sleeping bag in the hut. I could see stick huts in the villages along side mud brick homes. It would suck if it rained... Fortunately for these home owners, they live in the desert. --- Dave Thompson http://www.roadkill.com/~davet/worldtrip ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com