Things Fall Apart

It was time to blast.  Ghana had been great, but the love-in was over and with the path to Morocco clear from a visa perspective.  It was time to get down to business, so the Baja and I got up at dawn and rode for the border.

Despite having ‘smuggled’ the Baja into Ghana, there were no hiccups leaving, notwithstanding some ominous early comments from the customs man.  At first it was a ‘big problem’ that the Baja had no carnet, then as expected, he had about as much time and inclination for the fight as I did and so he simply waved us on and went back to his coffee.  After a few hours of tedious, temporary-import-permit (TIP) process on the Cote D’Ivoire side, we were away and by mid-morning the following day we were almost halfway through the country.

Cote D’Ivoire

I have found that I have developed a deep connection with the Baja and that that connection occurs mainly through the testicular and perineal region.  Basically, I have developed a symbiotic relationship with the Baja, via which I can feel the process of her various parts wearing and degrading, through my own.  If there’s a kink in her chain or her back end is getting a little wobbly, I’ll feel it in mine.  Though beneficial from a maintenance perspective, this does take its toll on the longer days and I find that the best way of dealing with it is to stand up every now and again.  Doing so is actually quite exhilarating, standing up tall down the highway, leaning over the handlebars, right arm hanging down to keep the throttle lightly pinned.  It feels like flying and it was in one of these moments of Titanic revelry that at 100km/h the Baja gave a guttural blurt, her stomach rolled and she nearly sent me over the handlebars.  I was down like a shot and realised that the Baja had lost all power.  My mind jumped to fuel (even though we’d just filled up), so I leant down and twisted the petcock to reserve, but nonetheless we gradually coasted to a stop on the side of the highway, the Baja choking then cutting out completely. 

It wasn’t the electrical problem I’d been wrestling with since Gabon because the starter was turning over.  It was the engine that wouldn’t take.  I had a sinking feeling that this was bad and an old fear returned, that by Frankenstein-ing in electrical parts, I would cook the CDI (the Baja’s cerebral cortex).  Reluctantly, I worked my way through the 5 stages and I’m a little ashamed of how quickly my mind went to, “how do I discharge the TIP and get myself on a plane to Morocco..?”  I waved down a ute, full of people and aloe vera and made arrangements for the driver to return and drive me somewhere.  But, with who knows how long to wait, I messaged my mate and mechanical-spirit-guide, Andy Blanks.  Andy’s Yoda-like response came, “3 things. Air – Fuel – Spark”. 

I thought about this for a bit.  The air-filter was relatively clean, with nothing obviously blocking it.  I didn’t want to pull the plug to check ‘Spark’ right there on the side of the highway, so that left ‘Fuel’.  Her tank was fairly full, but the Baja had behaved like she had run out of fuel.  So, I removed the tank and gave it a bloody good shaking.  I also wiggled the petcock around a few times and then – in a deeply intimate act with the Baja – turned her tank on its back, opened the tap, put my lips on the exposed fuel line and blew with all my might.  I then replaced the tank, reconnected the fuel line and tried her.  She roared to life!  I suspect that this is the closest I will ever come to successfully administering the kiss-of-life. 

When I eventually got to completely cleaning out the tank, I found little pieces of blue plastic bag which must have blocked the intake.  I have no idea how they got in there, but I figure, African fuel.

That afternoon, I visited a life size replica of St Peter’s Basilica.  A former President of Cote D’Ivoire had it built at the location of his home village, presumably as a monument to his own ego and the virtue of wastefulness.  Cote D’Ivoire isn’t the worst-off of African nations, but it’s hard to imagine that their coffers couldn’t have contributed something more worthwhile.  From what I saw, a few new roads at the very least.  I assume he was a colossal wanker.

Early the next day, I was hitting the road to the Guinean frontier.  It wasn’t a conventionally good road, in fact it was just the track servicing the new road that was in the process of being built.  I had, up until Ghana, maintained a policy of listening to podcasts whilst riding, rather than music.  Music has an excellent ability to alter your mood and after a few catchy tunes get hold, it’s easy to find yourself going a little quicker than you otherwise might have.  But after Ghana, I just thought, ‘bugger that’.  So, racing along the ochre track with a fully loaded Baja, to a new playlist picked up in Ghana, I was giving it a nudge. 

Riding off-road is my new love and for this reason alone, it makes the Baja the best ‘choice’ for having done this trip.  Rather than a big shiny, heavy bike, the Baja loves getting down and dirty, splashing through puddles and mud, and grating over rocky moguls.  Up and out of the saddle, by the time I made it to the two-hut border crossing, my thighs were burning and sweat was pouring from my face.  After a bunch of French laughs about some things I’ll never know, I was through and the Baja was again undocumented.  I asked for a TIP, but they simply told me I didn’t need one. I knew this wasn’t the case, but what are you meant to do when told this by the border officials.?!

Guinea

In yet another perfect example of how small the world is, I had gotten a Facebook message from an old mate I met in Syria.  David and I shared an excellent Christmas dinner partying in Damascus in 2009 (see below), following which I was hosted by this then-girlfriend for a very nice stay in Cairo.  David, it turns out, is now the environmental impact manager for a French mine that I was going to ride right past.  Though he wasn’t there, he arranged for the staff to host me, which they did amazingly.  A great feed and a comfortable bed was so good after a long day playing in the dirt.

There were two ways I could have gone from Cote D’Ivoire to Senegal.  The most common and the easier way, is to go through Mali.  The way through Guinea is routinely described as “beautiful, but shit roads”.  Without really appreciating the difference, I had chosen Guinea because the visa was quick and easy, and it looked like the most direct route.  But it was, really beautiful.  Again, at dawn I struck out from Lola through rainforested hills, shrouded in mist.  In the early sunlight, it was simply stunning and I felt something I hadn’t really felt since South Africa, chilly. 

By mid-morning The Boss had found his way into my helmet and I was absolutely charging through a mountain national park.  Through the trees, tight bends and the odd reeking roadside rubber production pit, where the locals brewed in open filthy drums – Oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back – past a troupe of baboons and wizened locals carrying rubber vines – it’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap – through shadows cast by palms and other hoary, lichen-covered, towering trees – We gotta get out while  we’re young – my chest hunched over and pressed against the Baja’s own, roaring and filled with angry bees, belting out – BABY WE WERE BORN TO RIDE!

Good times.

In hindsight, by this stage I had probably gotten a little carried away.  Because inevitably, the road turned to shit.  But it wasn’t dirt and mud, like the border crossing track, this was a long graveyard of a road.  There had once been a road there, but it had long since been left to disintegrate and reclaimed by red dust.  So, like a rib shattering, bombed-out, cobbled, Mars-scape, all the broken and decaying remnants of road remained to shake bike and body to bits.  Not to be slowed down by this, or common sense, I rose out of the saddle and charged on.  Rattling over the shards of dead road and parades of corrugation, I tore past wiser locals, slaloming across the ‘road’ in search of the least atrocious path through.  Until an intermittent but persistent, grating/crunching sound informed me that the rear wheel was applying itself to the numberplate.  I stopped the Baja, and bent the numberplate back into shape, but regardless of how slow I went on, the same thing kept happening.  I stopped in the next town and realised that the whole sub-frame (the Baja’s arms and shoulders) had completely sheared through.  The entire rear end of the Baja, bag rack and all, was supported only by flimsy plastic.

I stopped at a petrol station and the Baja conked out and wouldn’t start again.  All the circuitry died when I pressed the ignition button and I started to worry.  Examining the sub-frame and rear assembly, I could see that the back wheel had been connecting with the battery and starter-relay housing.  I thought that this may be the cause of all my electrical woes and started to get really worried.  In frustration, I gave that general area of the Baja a kick and the circuitry returned… I tried the ignition and she started! Problem solved.

It was a small town, so it didn’t take long to find the ‘mechanical district’ and someone who could purportedly weld.  The welding wasn’t pretty, but it was nice to see that it was a family run affair.  Everybody got involved, with a bunch of kids running around wielding hammers, industrial sized angle grinders and welding equipment.  They grounded the Baja with a few bits of scrap metal loosely stacked together and got to fixing the sub-frame.  Though it looked ugly, the whole endeavour was underwritten with a steel rod that I was confident would do the job.  By the end, the Baja’s rear was looking pretty wonky, but to be fair, more stable than it had in a long time. It had been a bit loose for a while. 

About 1km down the road, we were back to the same graveyard and the grating sound returned.  Starting to get sick of things by now, I decided to remove the numberplate, a simple process that should’ve taken about 5 minutes.  But after 30 minutes of sitting in the dust on the side of the road, covered in dirt, sweat and chain lubricant, I lost it. I'd had a gutful.  The bolt of the nut I was trying to undo was spinning with it and the number plate was so rusted into its holder that I decided the only way to get it off was going to be to cut through the plastic mount.  With better tools, time, facilities and demeanour I may have gotten it off in a more conventional fashion, but I was fed up.  With my pocket knife I hacked away at the plastic, grunting and then screaming at the damned thing.  I tore up my hands and the plastic, but eventually triumphantly threw the number plate onto the ground and jumped on it, in victory and to straighten it out. 

Having wasted enough time already, I sped off, around the corner straight into a police roadblock, where I was flagged down, admonished and left to explain why the Baja was undocumented.  Just quietly, by now I have gotten quite proficient at bullshitting myself out of these situations.  I find they are usually best resolved with plenty of smiles, lashings of feigned and genuine ignorance, a few “No parlais Francais’” and some selfies.

The next day saw lush Guinean rainforest give way to a harsher, drier, Sahelian landscape.  I had known there was a 30km stretch of rubbish to contend with, and my plan to take it easy and give the Baja’s back end a rest survived only moments once it eventually arrived.  Rising over a dry mountain pass, this section was a drift of foot-deep bulldust.  The road turned into a run of ochre, powder moguls, scored by seams of hard rock.  As soon as I hit this, the plan of caution was completely abandoned.  I kicked up a cone of red dust bounding over the rocks and slicing through buckets of red chalk.  With the sub-frame now welded up tight and the numberplate tucked away in the panniers, the Baja felt nimbler than it ever had.  I was up out of the seat giving her absolute hell.  Taking the mounds faster and faster, I began to hear the sharp roars of the Baja as her rear wheel found itself in free air, then grunting as it came down in the silky dust.  The pure joy of tiny moments riding the Baja through the air were simply too much.  I lined up a particularly large whoop, with a few metres clear landing space and just gave the Baja a mighty gulp.  For a few spectacular moments, we hung in the air; dirty, loud, free.  Then we landed with a satisfying whump.  I felt the Baja surge forward lighter, more nimble, and immediately knew something was wrong.  We skipped over a few bumps, wheeled around and there were the panniers lying in the dirt, split down the middle perfectly, like a soggy hotdog bun.  Laughing, I sat down in the bulldust, pulled out my pocket knife, some shoestrings, straps and duct tape and got to work patching the panniers up.  I shot Andy a photo of the bush-fix and he exclaimed “Geez, you’ve turned into a local!”  Sitting in the dust, as happy as a pig in shit, I chuckled to myself that in some ways he was right.

Despite a few inquiries from a cop in a bow-tie (which were easily dispelled by complimenting the bow tie) the border crossing into Senegal went smoothly and what was a massive day, rolled on. 

Senegal

Riding into Senegal, it started to get really hot and I thought to myself that I could feel the Sahara coming.  I rounded out over 600kms with the chain sending me messages through the backside. 

The next day I struck for Dakar, my own little fantasies about completing the Paris-Dakar playing out in my head.  Senegalese roads brought the new challenge of dodging donkey carts and riding into town I was met by a cool, ocean breeze.  The chain was by now arthritic, so I figured it was about time for a day off, for me and for the Baja. 

Getting to Dakar also gave me the chance to meet up with Elhanan.  El had popped up on my Facebook feed a couple of times over the previous few months.  I had been chatting with some guys he rode with through Angola to Cameroon with and he had met Cam a few months prior in Accra.  His photos invariably showed him and his beautiful new Honda African Twin (which I would kill to own) up to their knees in mud on some jungle track, surrounded by hordes of admiring locals circling his tent or in some other predicament.  He also seemed to be travelling slower than me, so I assumed we would meet at some point.  An Israeli, El was bold, adventurous and not afraid to call something stupid, stupid.  We shared a few beers and some stories, and he was one of the friendliest guys I’ve met.   We decided to head north together, though it was always going to be a stretch for him to get into Mauritania (Israel and Mauritania are not friends).

My ‘day off’ didn’t turn out to be much of one.  The Baja needed a new chain, chain-guide and a bit of general service love.  I went to a mechanic that El had used and didn’t have much more luck than he did.  These guys were peanuts.  After trying to tell me that it was ‘not possible’, they eventually managed to source me a new chain (sure, there are no chains in the whole of Dakar..!)  Within seconds, it became clear that they were not competent to install that chain themselves.  Old mate picked up a steel mallet and made to start bashing the chain, much like I imagine a Neanderthal would.  In an exasperated but restrained manner, I removed the mallet from him and began the process of requesting an angle-grinder (‘not possible’) or a punch (at first, ‘not possible’ – but eventually we managed a socket bit) with the assistance of Google translate. 

With an audience of peanuts, (not much work seemed to be going on that day) I managed to shorten the chain and get it installed.  I was then informed that finding a chain guide, would be ‘not possible’.  A chain guide is a bit of rubber that keeps your chain from grazing against the metal frame around it.  I had been looking for one since Namibia unsuccessfully, but now push had come to shove, as the old one was holding on by a thread.  So, when I was told that it was ‘not possible’ to find one in Dakar, this was plausible.  But, the response to my plan-B (making one from rubber), that it was ‘not possible’ to find any rubber in the whole of Dakar, was not.  My relationship with ‘chief peanut’ became a little frayed, as I insisted that there must be some bloody rubber hiding somewhere in Dakar.  Eventually he found me a door mat, that I figured would actually work quite well.  I carved a guide out with my pocket knife, screwed it in and wasted no time getting the hell out of that workshop (after they told me that getting some chain lube would be – you guessed it – ‘not possible’).  Peanuts.

That afternoon, I found a different mechanic, who unbelievably cleaned and re-sprayed my air filter, then stocked me up with a bunch of consumables (zip-ties, duct tape, tube) for free!  I wish I’d met him off the bat.  I went back to the hostel, changed the Baja’s oil for the tenth time this trip, shared a Senegalese dish the size of a wagon-wheel with the staff and went to bed, keen for the desert.

We met at El’s hostel and he was rearing to go, “You drive crazy in the traffic, no? I drive crazy!”

I assured him that I also drive crazy and we hit the streets of Dakar.  Or more correctly, they hit me.  No further than 200 metres down the road, a local dickhead charged through an intersection and T-boned the Baja and I.  Fortunately, it was at reasonably low speed and my leg was protected by the panniers, which are by now about 30% duct tape and strap.  In my view, this just reiterates that duct tape is a man’s best friend.  El was furious (“F&@k that guy! What an animal!”) and I was a little rattled.  But we carried on and I gained a little of El’s anger, when about 2 minutes later I was side-swiped by a van.  I didn’t go over, but I thought to myself, maybe a little less ‘crazy’ riding would be nice.

We visited the underwhelming and misleadingly named Red Lake, skipped the tortoise farm and cruised towards St Louis, near the border of Mauritania.  Before long, we came across a pack of vultures feasting on a decaying donkey.  We couldn’t help ourselves and decided to stir them up a little.  We took it in turns to swoop the vultures, which gave us looks that said “just you wait ‘til you have a crash, then we’ll see who’s laughing…”  But we didn’t come off and we got some great photos with those gangly, Jurassic, monster birds.

About 400 metres down the road we were pulled over by a cop and I thought he was going to take issue with us antagonising the local wildlife.  But no, he was just after a bribe – we were speeding apparently.  I patiently explained to him that the Baja was not capable of speeding, that I didn’t have the originals of my licence/registration documents (though I did), that he shouldn’t need them and that, generally speaking, he could go fornicate with himself.  El artfully inflamed the situation (by, amongst other things, accusing him of corruption) and then calmed it back down again by joking with the guy and promising him some girls, beer and ibuprofen when we passed by next.  In all, it was actually quite a fun encounter and as usual we left without paying anything, but El probably put it best when he said, “Seriously, f&@k that guy! Animal.”

That night El and I camped on a beach near a bar and shared a few beers that we swore were understrength.  We helped un-bog some French girls who had gotten stuck in the sand, but declined to go along to the Jazz festival in town.  El was in preparation for Shabbat and I had developed a splitting headache, deep lethargy and a need to be asleep.

The following morning, I awoke feeling kicked.  I recalled the ‘under-strength’ beers and thought that this was a punishment that did not fit the crime.  I still had the splitting headache and I figured my ribs and muscles were sore from having slept on the sand.  My sleeping mat had long ago been chewed up by the Baja, through her chain, back in Ghana.  I would have liked to just stay another day there with El, but I didn’t like the idea of sleeping on the sand again and I had this feeling that if I slowed now, then I would stall.  Since Ghana, I had developed a hunger to get to Morocco and the camel-train needed to roll on.  Besides, it was very uncertain whether El would be able to cross into Mauritania and we agreed that I would try and suss it out for him.

Mauritania

I had read all sorts of horror stories about this border, which was reputedly one of the worst in West Africa.  The advice I had received said to bring currency in both CFA and Mauritanian Ougiya.  So I headed into St Louis to withdraw and change some cash.  Typically, none of the ATM’s liked my card.  Feeling like dirt, climbing on and off the Baja to try endless ATM’s felt like such a struggle and when I did finally get cash, nowhere would change it for me.  I thought ‘bugger it’ and just headed for the border.  Imagine my scepticism when the money changer there (just a guy with a bagful of cash) informed me that the Mauritanian government had recently revalued the Ougiya, such that the face value of all the notes were now a factor of 10 less (ie, “I will only give you 10% of what XE says your cash is worth…”) but it turned out that this was true.  The crossing involved a litany of €10 bullshit payments (one for the bridge, one for the Passavant, one for compulsory insurance, one for ‘community tax’ etc etc) that were for the most part, apparently legit.  I had however been warned that the ‘stamping fee’ on the visa was not. 

With a splitting headache and aching muscles, in full, sandy, sweat-ridden riding gear, I was taken into a room with the stamping guy.  Imagine a composite of every negative, stereotypical, Hollywood, dodgy-Arab/Muslim you have ever seen and you have this guy.  Military fatigues, khaki turban, thick, wicked features.  In my experience, this vile stereotype could usually not be further from the truth, but unfortunately not on this occasion.  This prick takes me into a side room and sort of tentatively, half under his breath says in French that there is a €10 fee for stamping the visa – the stamp inked but hovering over my passport.  I pretended not to hear him and he repeated the request.  I pretended not to understand the French.  But then, he then rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the universal, grubby gesture of ‘give me money’.  I felt crook, pissed-off and strung out.  I was not having it. 

I put my helmet on his desk, pulled up a chair and leant forward so I was right in front of his crooked nose. 

“Stamp the f&$@ing passport” I said.

He did. And it was probably one of the most bad-ass moments of my life. 

In hindsight, I enjoy this memory, but at the time I just wanted to get out of there.  So I jumped on the Baja and hit the corrugated dirt road to Nouakchott.  Right beyond the crossing, there was a family of Camels by the side of the road.  There is nothing more adorably ridiculous than a baby camel, which gave me my first smile of the day.

Ordinarily, this dirt road would have been a nightmare.  It was corrugated, sandy, awash with loose rock and periodically families of warthogs would dash from the curtain of reeds on the immediate right.  But (and I know this will sound weird) I was in a space that was simply beyond caring or registering apprehension.  Belting over the corrugations at 90km/h, I felt like I was in a bubble.  On the corrugations, the Baja’s tyres barely contacted the dirt and she sort of felt like she was hovering along.  Braking in these circumstances would have been unwise and so we just ballooned along, detached, hoping not to hit a warthog and focussing on the horizon.

We eventually met tarmac and I came back to reality a bit.  The desert had started to reclaim the road, so the game was to chicane through the dune tips and stay on the black.  This went on for a long time and I eventually started doing some maths in my head.  I needed to fill up, but there simply weren’t any petrol stations.  I had 10 litres of empty cannister strapped to the back, but in the morning’s dazed run around for cash, I had neglected to fill them.  There was only one town that the map bothered to name, so that was where I drew the line.  Sure enough, the petrol station there was empty and so I found myself buying fuel in a guy’s living room.  He siphoned me 10 litres and made a joke in Arabic about the taste of unleaded, which gave me my second smile of the day.

From there, the wind inexorably picked up and I found myself riding in something close to a sandstorm.  Whisps of sand danced across the road like ghosts and it felt like riding underwater through a king tide.  I was fully hunched over the Baja, my chest pressed against hers, my chin hovering over the handlebars.  The wind was cold, chills washed through my limbs and it felt like my brain was wearing a helmet of its own, inside my skull.  It was at this point that it occurred to me that this was no normal hangover and fears of malaria crept in.

The sun was setting and a full-ish moon was rising as Nouakchott sidled out of the desert.  At the first service station we came across, the Baja took a deep draught of sweet fuel and I gulped down a strawberry milk.  In no mood to camp, we went to the Riad recommended by Lonely Planet, snaking through deep sand to its gate, which I all but fell through.  It was an epic day.

That night I took a private room, a big meal and a $2 malaria test kit.  The kit was inconclusive, but when Google informed me that those kits are generally about 60% accurate, I started the course of anti-malarials anyway.  On the third and final day of this course, my muscles uncreaked, my joints smoothed and I began to feel human again.  In the meantime, it felt pretty ordinary.

The upside of malaria was that it gave me a day off; in Nouakchott…  Nouakchott unfortunately does not have a lot going for it.  After a morning lying in bed, I was turned back from two mosques, which left the guidebook out of recommendations.  Fortunately, the rear left blinker fell off the Baja, which gave me something to do.  I fixed this in an a backstreet urban dystopia, made some copies of my passport (fiches n/fishes/) for the endless military control stops and went back to bed.

Riding into the Sahara in the early morning sun for round two, flush with fuel and water, felt infinitely better.  An update or two ago, I mentioned that it was going to be the height of summer in the Sahara.  It turns out that I was completely wrong about this.  In fact, riding through the Sahara in May can be summed up by three words; cold, windy, sandy.  It was however, also beautiful. 

On occasions, the Baja and I could shelter from the wind in the slipstream of a minibus or military truck, but this took a lot of concentration and so in the end it was preferable to just crouch down and enjoy the dunes (my hammys are at least 3 inches longer than they were).  It amazed me that all this barrenness was actually fairly frequently punctuated by nomads in pristine bright robes, leading columns of camels stilting through the dunes.  Where were they going? What were they doing there, other than simply existing? I have no idea.  At one point, I stopped to take a photo and this guy in baby blue robes ran a full 200 metres over the sand just to come and shake my hand.  I think I was the most interesting thing he’d seen in a while.  I rode 500kms through the desert to Nouadhibou, fighting the wind, the occasional corrupt military officer and being mesmerised by the sand jets dancing across the tarmac like a screensaver.

Nouadhibou sits on a finger of land inserting itself into the Atlantic and it is even windier and colder here than the kilometres preceding it.  As a town, it somehow manages to be more barren than the desert.  At a petrol station, I replenished the Baja’s fuel stocks and when I went to restart her, all the circuitry died.  This had happened before (as you may recall) in Guinea, right after the sub-frame sheared and it was scary.  Nouadhibou was not a place to be trying to ditch the Baja (I didn’t get a real ‘forgiving’ feeling about Mauritania) and this was an electrical issue.  The worst kind.   I gave the faring that housed the battery a kick, which again bought back the circuitry, but every time I touched the ignition, everything died.  Many of the mechanical issues I face, I now feel comfortable with, but every now and again there is one that has my guts sinking and this was one of them.  I figured it was a problem with the starter relay and I didn’t fancy my chances of getting a replacement in Mauritania any time soon.  I settled for kicking the circuitry back to life, then trying to bump start the Baja in a winderly direction (at least it’s good for something), which mercifully worked.  On eggshells, I rode back to my overpriced hut which shook in the wind and spent a restless night.

In the morning, I reconnected the Baja’s battery and she started first go, to which I did a joyful little jig.  As I was to cross into Morocco that morning, I bolted the numberplate back on and rode the 60kms to the border.  I was a little tense about this border crossing, as it took me through the only area of the trip that was a DFAT ‘Do Not Travel’.  Usually I pay no attention to these warnings because they are rubbish, but a DNT means that your travel insurance is voided, so it is something to be mindful of.  This border crossing also involves crossing a ‘no-man’s-land’* that is probably more correctly referred to as a part of the little-recognised Sahrawi Arab Republic.  It is also reputedly full of landmines, which makes sticking to the ‘track’ important.  This whole situation comes about because of the disputed territory of Western Sahara, which is administered by Morocco, but is supposedly a separate state, depending on who you ask.  All that aside, the Mauritanian officials were lovely and I was stamped out with none of the fuss that characterised the southern border.  Before long, I was however, standing around waiting inexplicably.  I didn’t (and still don’t) know what we were waiting for, but it was clear that we had to wait.  During this waiting, I was standing around trying to keep warm and avoid being slapped in the face with a wind-full of sand.  I took a moment to admire the Baja, when I crashed into the realisation that her number plate was missing.  My pulse fused.

* Forgive the sexist language. For clarity, I can now confirm that there are no women there either.

This was one of the most awful feelings I have ever felt and I began to panic.  I was already technically stamped ‘out’ of Mauritania and if noticed, this could end any chance of getting the Baja into Morocco and Europe.  I gave myself zero chance of ever getting a replacement number-plate out of Uganda, even with the ‘assistance’ of my friends at Simba Automotives** and it would not be possible to get one made in Mauritania, because I had technically already left.

** Vale Bushpig.

Frantically, I mounted the Baja to go back into Mauritania and look for it.  I was stopped by four guards, which I one-by-one bullshitted and eventually found myself explaining to the chief.  He was actually a good bloke about it, but ominously warned me to be back by midday.  He also said that explaining to the checkpoints why I was in Mauritania, even though I was stamped out, would be my own problem, if they noticed…  I charged back to Nouadhibou, desperately hoping to see the numberplate sitting on the side of the road.  I scanned the roadside and kicked myself 1000 times.  I simply couldn’t believe it, I had bolted the damn thing on, but it must have wiggled loose in the wind.  I made it all the way back to the hut without finding it, which I guess was not surprising.  In the wind it had probably blown away and been buried in the sand within seconds.  It could have been anywhere in the 60km between Nouadhibou and the border.

Crushed and furious with myself, I went to cross the last check-point and return to the border.  I gave the military man a fiche and he asked for my passport.  He checked it and started ranting at me in Arabic.  I clearly remember a cold stab to the heart and thinking, “you have just been caught as an illegal immigrant in Mauritania.  I wonder if they’ll give you a choice of which hand they’ll take..?”  I was still in the DNT zone at this point too.

Instead, I realised that he was pointing to my rear tyre, which was flat.  The cold feeling was replaced by a white-hot anger that erupted inside of me.  I just thought, “Really??! Are you f&$king serious.!?”  The injustice of it was too much.  I closed my visor, looked up into the clear blue sky and filled my helmet with a screamed profanity.  It was a low point.

There was nothing else to do; I began limping the Baja the 10km into town, her rear squirelling around in the roadside scree, giving me more time to beat myself up and play out the worst-case scenarios in my imagination.  I returned to the same station where I’d had the starter relay issues and found an air-compressor.  I changed the tyre with the help of two kids, who I assumed managed the air-compressor.  I reassured myself that if the bike didn’t get into Morocco that I could dump it in the ‘no-mans-land’, which aside from land mines, was also reputedly filled with abandoned vehicles.

Eventually the tyre was fixed and inflated (I had no Ougiya, so paid the kids generously in Moroccan Dirham) and I raced back out the border, worried about the chief’s 12pm deadline.  However, even though I was late the Mauritanian border guys were good about it and they gave me some tea, which I appreciated in the circumstances.

I rode through the fabled ‘no-mans-land’, which was little more than a kilometre of bare desert, some deep sand and some rock, littered with abandoned vehicles.  I wryly enjoyed the UN observer standing by his ute in the wind (worst job ever) and the fully loaded B-Doubles mumbling their way across the rough terrain.

As previously described, many African borders are pretty ramshackle and cursory.  I was hoping that the Moroccan border would be similar.  It was not. 

The Moroccan Border

A young fresh-faced Moroccan man escorted the Baja and I to the holding bay and explained the process.  I would get an entry stamp, then the present the Baja’s papers.  The Baja would then be inspected, X-Rayed and presented to customs for a final cross-checking of VIN numbers (none of which had ever happened before..!)  The reality of this was left to sink in, whilst I sat in the dirt and waited an hour for the immigration officer to finish his afternoon break.  I felt like a drug mule, certain that they would notice the Baja’s nakedness.  That her legitimacy would be stripped as wantonly as the numberplate had flown into the Sahara. 

I eventually was stamped into Morocco (which I realised would raise questions if I had to take the Baja back into ‘no-mans-land’ for dumping – would I need to camp out there a night..?)  I collected my little green form for the Baja and marched back to the inspection bay to face the young lad, psyching myself up as I did, but shitting myself at the same time.  I presented the form and myself to the lad, full faced, giving every inch of smile and enthusiasm I had to him.  This seemed to have an effect and we were mates instantly.  We chatted about the trip, Australia, soccer (!) and in the end he barely looked at the Baja.  At the last instant he remembered his job and earnestly insisted that “I didn’t have any drugs or weapons did I.?.” Gravely, I assured him that of course I did not and he signed my form and ushered me to the X-Ray shed without ever really looking at the Baja. 

I parked the Baja in the X-Ray shed where it was looked over by a further two gentlemen, neither of whom seemed to notice.  Their supervisor, who looked busy and frustrated (it was late in the day by now) came over with a form and shouted something about Immatriculation and VIN numbers, I thrust the rego docs at him before he had a chance to check himself, which he seemed pleased about.

The Baja passed the X-Ray test, I got my stamp on the papers and headed to the final gate, daring to believe that we might just make it.  There, my passport was checked and the little green temporary import permit matched with the VIN numbers.  First to the chassis number, then to the engine number.  Old mate then looked for the number plate, which he couldn’t find…

He was confused, but bizarrely he seemed eager not to break our rapport (again, smiling goes a long way).  He asked something in French which I didn’t understand, but I understood, and my heart was rapidly sinking.  Not really knowing what else to say, I pointed north, into Western Sahara and Morocco and shouted back “Marrakech, Marrakech…”  Apparently, this passed as an explanation, because he smiled, nodded frantically, handed me the papers and the gates rumbled open.  With a salute, another smile and an inward wave of relief, elation and exhaustion, I rolled through the gate and shot back into the twilight desert.

Western Sahara / Morocco

Even from the border, it was still a further 1200km to get through the Sahara.  Foolishly, I had imagined that on the Moroccan side, the wind would die down, it would warm up and there would be an abundance of fuel and internet. Fool!

I took the first hotel I could, which was about 100km past the border.  The following morning, I was up at dawn and ready to smash some Sahara.  I went to fill up and of course there was no fuel in the town.  This was a little concerning, but by my calculations I would be fine to the next stop.  I took off along the road, directly into the rising sun.

The Baja’s fuel tank is 11 litres and she used to have a range of about 320-350km.  Over the months this had reduced, to the point that the reserve was kicking in at about 240km.  I put this down to the carb needing a tune, but I had never really had need to test her. Also, to me, the carb is a black box filled with dark magic.  I have some idea of how it works, but I have no desire to pull it apart and tune it.  Not until I need to.  Besides, 200 kilometres is a long way in Africa; except in the Sahara.

I had 10 litres of extra fuel strapped to the back of the Baja and so by my calculations, so long as I didn’t have to dip into this within the first 140km I would be fine until the next town, Dakhla.  The reserve kicked in at 118km, which caused some real pause for thought.  Not only was the Baja not getting the range I was expecting, it appeared to be actively diminishing with every tank.  Eventually she ran out in a particularly windy set of dunes, so I climbed off, jumped around a bit to get some blood back into my freezing extremities and unstrapped the spare cannisters to fill her up.  The wind was so strong that every time I tried to pour the fuel, the stream would splatter everywhere.  Eventually, I erected a sort of windbreak out of my waterproof jacket and riding jacket, which allowed me to give the Baja a big drink.  I took a quick run up the nearest dune to warm up and got spooked by a truckie that drove past filming me with his phone. 

The next three fuel stations had no fuel, but about 30 kms before where I projected the Baja to run dry, I found a tiny little station with the goods.  I took some tea, dry bread and greasy eggs that felt like a meal fit for a King.

I checked the map and there were 4 or 5 fuel stations that looked within range.  I figured that surely one would have fuel.  160 kilometres down the road the Baja ran dry again, which I simply could not believe!  I climbed off, took a look at the carb and noticed a cone of shiny residue working backwards through the Baja’s intestines.  I realised that the carb was leaking fuel and that based on the diminishing range, the leak was getting worse.  Seriously, the one place where fuel availability was an issue, the one place where you need a good range and the Baja had sprung a fuel leak. Of course, it’s only the most deserted, barren, lonely road ever.

So I put on the 70’s playlist and tried not to run the sums in my head or get blown off the road.  Don McLean and the Doobie brothers took me back to childhood days – going with Dad to the tip – geez, how good was it to just go to the tip –  but, there was that one time we run out of petrol on the way to the tip – shit, how long ‘til the next fuel station.?! – 160kms on 11 litres, that’s about 15 or 16 kilometres per litre, so I should get at least another 150 on the spare fuel – but, at the rate the leak is increasing, you might only get 110km, or less… – how far have we gone..? – ooh, there’s a camel.!.

And so my mindset went, for days…

Of those 5 petrol stations, mercifully, the last had fuel.  I filled extra bottles, strapped them on and tried to banish the thought that the fuel spray from the leak went dangerously close to the starter motor and electrical circuitry.  I tried not to picture the Wylie Coyote, strapped to a rocket blasting through the desert.

After 5 days and 1,500 kilometres, I made it to Boujdour without blowing up or being blown away.  There I found banks and petrol stations and shops.  Objectively, Boujdour was a hole, but for me it was like arriving in the promised land.  I ate a big dinner, stocked up on fuel and changed the Baja’s oil.  There was another 600 kms out of the desert, but from there on I was in Morocco proper.  I had made it.

Update

I am now in Morocco and life is good.  The food and accommodation is great, there are travellers who speak English and you can generally buy parts for the Baja.  I’ve been riding the deserts, the high Atlas and delightful green hills carpeted in wildflowers.

Getting the Baja into Europe is the final hurdle and I can’t wait.  My cheese and wine levels are critically low, but I’m hopeful that issue will be resolved shortly.

Thanks so much for reading,

Stu