Banjul and Bust

How lovely it was, arriving here. A fragrant garden, surrounding a refreshing clean pool, cold beer and excellent food served outside in the middle of this....What's not to like?
But of course, coming down from 42 days across Africa is a little more complicated than a few days relaxing poolside can handle.
After a week, we've both had enough of it. It's not quite as relaxing as it looks. Turns out that although The Gambia is making a valiant attempt to attract tourists, it doesn't make it easy money-wise. If anyone reading this is thinking of visiting West Africa, then please take note: despite the assurances to the contrary, Visa and Mastercard are not equal. Visa is ostensibly accepted at ATM machine here. Mastercard is not. It is absolutely worthless and there are no alternatives to Visa. If you don't have a card that actually says "visa" on it, you are going to have to be creative in order to get cash. Since this is also the case in Mali, and probably in most parts of Senegal, it is vitally important that you bring enough cash, in euro as well as dollar, to cover any emergencies. I managed, after a week, to get my hands on some cash, but it took a little thought, and a great deal of trust.

But The Gambia is nice enough. The birds here are really quite something, bright colours, brilliant tail feathers, and they are everywhere. Birdwatchers would know more than I about this and they are prolific. Gambia is small, a finger thrusting into the middle of Senegal; one can drive from the capital to the southern tip at the border in under an hour. There are quite a few national parks where it's still possible to see hippos and other wild creatures. Gambian drumming is deservedly respected throughout the world, and you hear it everywhere. The climate is wonderful, perfect for aromatic flowers, and there is not too much dust either, so the sky is blue and pretty clear.

Apparantly Gambia is also a sex tourism destination for a lot of European women. From young girls to white haired grannies, you see them all over the place with their hot, young, black and virile Gambian "boyfriends." I can hear the screams as people read this but it's true. You can see them everywhere--particularly on the street, the beach, and at the all important ATM machines....I am not sure if these women hire them, or think they are meeting a sexy guy who really likes them but soon enough they are maxing their ATM cards and paying a lot of dalasi for everything.
There are plenty of these guys prowling around. There are plenty of touts and "bumsters" here too, far more than we came across in the French speaking countries--the other day we couldn't even get directions from a group of guys without one of them insisting on getting in the car and showing us, for a fee. Everyone, but everyone, wants to make a deal. So like I said, it's not quite the relaxing place you might think. But all in all it's been pleasant, and we still haven't killed each other, and only a few days left! It's not every ex-couple that can man-up to nearly 60 days together 24/7!

We have managed to get tickets out of Dakar in a few days--I am flying to Nairobi, Mumbai and Bangkok, Jon to London and Los Angeles. We are taking a taxi to Dakar tomorrow, inshallah.

On one other note--I enjoyed the following exchange with the Mauritanian guy at the Tele-cabin place near the hotel. I think it describes Mauritania better than I ever could: I paid for my call and he muttered something about being home in Mauritania.
"oh, you're from Mauritania?" I exclaimed. "We've just come from there."
"And how did you find it?" he asked.
"Well," I replied, "it's a beautiful country! I love the desert! So clean and spare! And the camels were really healthy! Tall, well fed, well-tended, and handsome. In fact," I continued, "all the animals looked good!"
He was pleased that I found Mauritania so and with pride, leaned forward conspiratorily, and said "In Mauritania we have it all! Cow Milk! Fish! Plenty of Good Meat! We have everything!"

How can you not love that?

Victory!

The "challenge" part of the challenge kicked in after our friends left us in Bamako. We wandered around Bamako for another day or so; the car seemed to be running okay, if with very bad mileage.
We set off 2 days later, in the very late morning, back along the route to Kayes, as the other road was questionable and it seemed like a very bad idea for us to attempt it. We made it back to the Valley of Snakes once again, and camped in the rather creepy bush there. It's quite hot and dry, all dead grass and burrs, with some snakes, presumably. I set up my tent at the edge of a termite nest, and so faded in and out of sleep as these creatures went about their business all night. Termites are louder than you might think, at least in the middle of the African bush, with lots of tiny wet clicking, rustling sounds. They apparantly don't bite, or least they can't bite through a tent, but their busy little noises keep you on the edge of sleep.

Finished our journey to Kayes the following day. We made such good time, in fact, that Jon wanted to amble off down the piste south on the way to the gold fields of Sadiola, and change the spark plugs and muck about with the filters so off we went, plenty of time to waste, Jon played in the engine and I made some coffee. A bit idyllic actually, and you just know things are going to change. We decided to make most of the way to Senegal border, and camp in the bush somewhere, like usual. Got about 40 km past Kayes and into the bush. It was the nicest place I'd seen yet: level ground, burrless, small rock-free, some nice boulders, no obvious animal burrows or insect cities, even a few flowers, and far off we could hear drums and singing. What more could we ask for? Made a nice leisurely camp, away from the road, you couldn't see us at all from the highway. I even had a small wash! No moonlight and lots of stars. It was beautiful and the only blip on the horizon was that Jonathan felt ill. As he just finished a nice dance with dengue fever he now has to be more careful than normal, as another dose of it could be serious indeed and he needs medical attention as soon as possible. I told him to let me know if during the night he felt weirder and if so, that I would drive him to Senegal as quickly as I could, and there would be good medical treatment available in Dakar, at least. Or, in an emergency, I could drive him back to Kayes. But either way, I would sleep with an eye and an ear open, like I have done for years, insomniac that I am.

On the plus side, I have evidently killed off the insomnia, at least for now. Happily, Jon did not require medical attention in the night but if he had, we would have had an ugly problem because the car died, and utterly. Stone cold dead she was in the morning and we were not even near the highway. We were also not cleverly poised on a rise above the highway. We were down a small grade, with some bumps, and behind trees.

But his first words in the morning were that we had been visited by a large mammal in the night, a predator that woke him by breaking the twigs it walked on. He could see its shadow about 20 ft from camp, pulled on his boots, got out the Swiss Knife and went to investigate. Meanwhile, I slept right through it. So much for one eye, one ear open......Jon stayed up for an hour watching this animal watch him, and he never figured out if it was a hyena or a lion or what. Probably not a lion as lions are very rare in Mali, but it definitely was not a cow. Or a dog. Or an ox. This was not the first time I slept through a disturbance either. Our last night in Bamako, I had fallen asleep as Jon puttered about doing his laundry and whatnot, and when I woke up, there was the parking attendant! He left the room about 1 minute after he noticed me noticing him and then it took me about 5 minutes before I fully realized that this was not a proper thing to see, to get out of bed, throw on some decent clothes, march downstairs and demand an explanation. My usual strong suit of hyper-alertness while traveling has obviously changed to something else.

So the car didn't start and there was nothing we could do except try to push it out and this was marginal. If we'd had a couple of months to do, it might have been an option, but Jon got the idea to lever the car with one of the thick wooden poles he'd bought in Zagora to hold up a sun shade. Wedging this pole under the back bumper, and levering it, he managed to move this station wagon an inch or two, with me stepping on the brake to make sure we didn't backslide, each time. You could accurately say we inched up the slope but this wore out its fascination quickly and Jon went off to the highway to find pushing help, returning with 2 shepherds, who helped push the car up and over all the way to the highway, where we slowly turned it in the right direction, fortunatly not being killed by any lumbering trucks as we blocked the entire road.

The shepherds left with a little money, a bottle of water and some nice vanilla cookies. And 2 guys stopped on a motorbike--one in flowing robes and the other in oils stained mechanics rags. They couldn't help with the car, but helpfully gave Jon some cigarettes and said if we were still there when they came back by, they would help find us a tow. Then a minibus stopped, and the driver leapt out and under our Volvo, followed by two passengers. Bear in mind that there are no Volvo cars in Africa to speak of. Trucks yes, but not cars. Then a carload of rather suspicious guys stopped in a new Mercedes, demanding $60 to tow us to Kayes. We declined and they sped off. A couple of other cars stopped, but couldn't tow us, as their engines were too weak, or the cars too fine. Finally a 4 x 4 pulled over, and the kindly gentleman pulled us into Kayes at the end of a 20 ft tow rope. But our towing attachments on the cars were on different sides, and Jon had disconnected the battery, for a good reason, but a long story, so when this car showed up I just packed everything in really quick and we were off, not noticing until well underway that we had no power brakes. We also turned on our flashers to no avail. It was a long 40 km. Jon had to sit in the drivers seat, concentrating very hard on the slackness of the rope and standing on the brake whenever the truck slowed. They towed us into Kayes and up to a mechanics yard where they sent for electrician after mechanic to find out what was the problem. We sat in the shade, lunching with them next to the open sewer, eating Chebidjen and drinking Bissap (a ridiculously good very sweet hibiscus drink, boiled and then frozen and served in little plastic baggies or bottles in West Africa.) Chebidjen is Senegalese rice and fish dish--although I am veg, I eat occasional fish and am very happy right about now, that I still do because in Africa, the less options you have to eat, the less you do eat. Vegans would not have an easy time. Even me, a fish eating vegetarian, has to be very carful and I often end up watching everyone else eat a dish I had thought was okay. In the middle of the meal the car started and we all praised God: AlHamdulilah!
We spent the night at the Catholic Mission, completely knackered.

Next morning we were up again, ready to go to Senegambia. Packed the car, had some coffee, and the car wouldn't start again. Dead. We went out, got a taxi, and were sitting in front of the mechanics when he came in for work. He was appalled and went off to find the electrician again as we sat by the side of the open sewer with some goats, for several hours. But this was more dramatic today as a heavy wind blew in dust from the desert, a fine yet thick heavy dirty cloud, which, I noticed, blew right over that open sewer on its way to lodge in our eyes, hair, mouths. Eventually the electrician arrived, and the owner of the garage and us went out to the mission where they not only got the car started, but showed us how to make the repair with sandpaper if it happened again. Then they led us to the vulcanizer (forgot to mention we had had a flat tyre first thing,) and then saw us to the town's edge, I'm sure to assure themselves that we were really gone.

We were off once again, but worried a bit about the Senegal border as it is well known to charge a fortune whenever it can, and strictly prohibits importation of cars over 5 years old. The Volvo is 1983. We also have no carnet du passage. But the border was a dream. I think, in retrospect, it's because this is a very little used border, and in countryside known to be infested with bandits. And we managed to slip past the main customs post for vehicles. No one stopped us and why create waves where there are none? So we just went to two other buildings and no one really saw the car, to speak of. And then we were off to Toumbacounda, having paid nothing at all in fees in Senegal. Only people who have attempted to drive into Senegal in an old car will be able to appreciate the luck involved here.

Stayed the night in Toumbacounda and the next day cracked on over the most potholed road either of us have ever seen. It's about 9 hours to get 170 miles, and it's actually a bit longer as you have to drive back and forth, and along the side of the road instead of on it, there were so many wheel breaking giant potholes dotting the road without warning. The atmosphere was hellish--very very hot, and more of the yellow dusty air, and dry, dead undergrowth thick on both sides all the way up to the road itself. As usual, we refreshed ourselves with overheated plastic bottles of water along the way.

Finally, we arrived at the Senegal-Gambia border, and we asked to present our documents, which, of course, we hadn't, as we bypassed the douane on the way in. So Jonathan explained, in the way that he does, and confusion, and questions, and back and forth and he managed to exhaust the officials and we were finally waved off and told to "just go." Pandamonium at the Gambia side, with confusion over why we were a month late for the run, but at least the Plymouth-Banjul Run is loved and respected here in The Gambia. Afer only a couple of hours we were set free to try to make the ferry that would take us across the river Gambia at Barra, over to Banjul.

We waited and fought off touts for about 5 hours yet managed to get on the 10 pm ferry and puttered slowly over the river to Banjul, completely exhausted.

Once in town we followed a taxi driver for our turn off and, having called the Safari Garden Hotel for help with paperwork at the border, were still surprised to find them waiting up for us, in a beautiful garden, with flowers, frangipani, jasmine all blooming, a pool, and pleasant people waiting to pour us cold beers, make us some hot and tasty food, and actually interested in our trip!

Now having problems with money here so may have to leave soon for Dakar. But in the meantime it's lovely.
Completely exhausted.

Triumph at the Finish Line?

I sat in on a Karate class in Kayes, Mali. I sat on a bench balanced on a pile of garbage outside, and the class was fascinating. They had no equipment, nothing at all, but there was a master instructor, and three blackbelt instructors. The class was very active, very busy, and was similiar to what we do in Taekwondo--drills, patterns, sparring. I had never seen a Shotokan Karate class before, and it was impressive. I was happy to donate a kicking pad I had brought with me on this trip. And they were happy to receive it. Martial Arts are quite big in Mali. This Dojo had a large class, over 20 students of all belts, and I have met blackbelts in both Judo and Taekwondo. No workouts yet though!

We went two separate ways the morning we left Kayes--Rat Boys and Bofs wanted an early start in order to get to Bamako the next day. They were both heading up to the music festival in Segou, and then on to Toumbuktu. The Bofs are actually the Rotary Bofs and donating their considerable goods to the Rotary Clubs of Mali. So the Freewheelers and us set out a bit later. We had to check the car again, as our gas consumption had lessened even more. I think we made about 150 miles on the last tank of gas before Kayes. But there was nothing else to do about it--we had to try our luck with a mechanic in Bamako and if the car was buggered then it that would be that and we'd donate it in Bamako but if it was fixable then we'd just see. This rally ends in Bamako. It's about 1000 km longer than the original Plymouth-Banjul Challenge, most of it over challenging roads. We had originally planned to donate the car in the Gambia and the people who donated it to us expect it to be donated for the best possible use. But Africa is really beyond the imagination of most people, including me. I have travelled quite a bit, actually, and have been to plenty of developing countries, but I have never seen anything like this, where children are thrilled to receive an empty plastic water bottle. There are plenty of people in Mali who would like to have this Volvo as well, never mind the mileage.

We were lucky it was goudron (tarred road) all the way to Bamako--or, rather it will be soon. It was most of the way, except 110 km of hideous grooved laterite, where the dust was incredible and every time we passed a truck going the other way I had to nearly come to a stop so we wouldn't drive off the road, lost in their dust cloud. We trundled along, the two cars, stopping occasionally at truck stops, which are really groups of huts by the side of the road, and eating these good African omlette sandwiches. Crack a couple of eggs in a jar, add a bit of onion, shake it up, and pour into some smoking hot oil in a big iron skillet on a fire. Let it cook for a minute or two, by which time it's plenty done, and stick it on a baguette with some sauce piquant. Doesn't get any better than this.

We camped the night in the Valley of Snakes. This was a little creepy, among the tall dry grass, I was thankful I had my tent, particularly when we heard a motorbike stop nearby, the kickstand go up, and the person creep into the bushes nearby. Jon and Terry went to look but couldn't find anyone or anything and so that was that. We later heard that it was along this stretch that one of the other Bamako Challengers, not one of our group, had left his friend by the side of the road, at night, with no water, no food, no money and no shoes! I think they had had a fight, or the one wanted to get out to pee, but his friend drove off and left him there! And they had been friends for 20 years! So I think some of the people on this trip were a bit overwhelmed by culture shock. The bloke who was left was lucky as another Bamako Challenge car came along relativly soon and saw him with his thumb out. I have heard that someone else from this trip has already been diagnosed with malaria as well!

The next morning we made the final 5 hours, and arrived in Bamako in the early afternoon, after nearly 6000 km! We made it!

But of course things are never what they seem. Bamako, reported by many people to be a hellhole, is lovely. We drove around for a good long while looking for the CRES thing--where we were supposed to be able to get a room, a shower, a beer, meet other groups, and ultimately, turn over the car. Here I must interject that we were all filthy. Really filthy. I had sweat lines down my face through the dirt. Black fingernails. Hair a matted mess. Clothes so nasty I could wipe my hands on them without qualm.

We finally found the CRES (something to do with the university) and they wanted nothing to do with us. No rooms, nothing, they didn't even want us to have a beer there, and shooed us away to the Malian Officers Mess at the bottom of the hill. One lone Bamako car sat in the CRES parking lot, everyone else had apparantly gone on to Segou or somewhere. We eventually learned that there was not really anyone to turn the cars over to either. The phone numbers didn't really pull anyone up. The Officer's Mess had verdant and pretty grounds, like the CRES, but they also didn't want us, even though the hotel key board was full, they shooed us away, allowing us a beer but no food. It was a bit anticlimactic.

We ended up in a hotel next door, all five of us in a big room for $100 a day! Hotels in West Africa are not very good deals (for the guest.) We didn't even have a bathroom, as ours was being worked on, so had to use the shower in room 21 and the toilet elsewhere, etc. But it was fine, actually, because we were all completely chill by this point.

We cleaned ourselves up, had some beer, had some food, and toddled off to find the remainder of Bamako runners still in town, relaxing at the big Hotel Amitie (that's without the French accent marks.) There were only a few of them left but we heard some good stories. It appeared that many had simply fled as soon as they arrived in Bamako, handing over the keys to whomever they saw; there was no organization at all. Not that we expected much, but we did think a room, a shower, a beer, and perhaps a little welcome sign? And somewhere to turn over these cars.

Anticlimactic though it was, we have had a great time here in Bamako--although the heat and pollution sap your strength, and we pass out at night, and our hotel is in various stages of repair we all loved Bamako!

We have been relaxing big time, and followed a routine for several days, breakfast, out to town, some chores and then to the Tuareg market, or the natural medicine market, until the sun kills us and then to the big Hotel Amitie for a pastis or a beer, and back out for something to eat, and eventually home, and eating, and lots of sitting around.

The Freewheelers, John and Terry and Georgina, the hitchhiker they picked up, donated their car and all equipment to an American missionary's group. So we sat around his compound sipping cokes one day, among the flowers and a pup. His street is filled with moneychangers who chase down cars and they changed my US Dollars! It was beginning to feel as though I had Lao Kip instead of what I thought was a hard currency. So for the first time since Morocco really, I had some money to spend! We tried to get money from the occasional ATM but none of our cards worked, so further travel in Mali is out. I should mention that Jonathan (my co-driver Jonathan) scoutest out the best (and priciest) Tuareg jeweler (from Niger) and told him that he would bring us back the next day, (which of course he did,) and Terry and I spent an obscene amount of money and then Jonathan pulled in a commission from the shop! He also managed to finegle a cut from the moneychanger when I changed $100. Jon has learned to talk well and people laugh and say that he is a real African.

Jon and I took the car to a garage on the banks of the Niger River one day. It's possible that a genius mechanic fixed it. But it's possible that we will still get 200 miles a tank and even possible that we will get halfway to Senegal and it will die. He seemed like a mechanical genius. The same day Terry, John and Georgina went an hour north with Harry, the missionary, to donate the several hundred football kits they had brought to Africa for this purpose. I'm not really sure what a "football kit" is, but they had plenty of shirts and some balls and stuff.

Otherwise, we have spent most of the past 6 days sitting around the pool at the Hotel Amitie sipping pastis and water, or sitting around in the bar at the Hotel Amitie, sipping beers, or sitting around our Hotel Margot, doing nothing, or sitting around the patio of the Malian Officers Mess, much to their consternation, sipping beers and trying to avoid huge drunken Malian ex-officers, or ambling around the market, or sitting around outside a market stall, taking turns with the fly whisk, drinking tea. We have not visited a museum, nor any other sights. I only just now noticed that my main email is down and has been for weeks. But the car is most likely running so Jon and I will start off to Senegal in the morning, after filling up at the gas station and supermarche. Our friends, Georgina, John and Terry left last night, sadly for us, but not before, fueled by drink, we made plans to visit the Sahara again, winter after next, in proper Sahara vehicles, preferably old Toyoto 4 x4s with no computer anything under the hood.

This has been a great trip. I know both us and the Freewheelers had a great time. I hope everyone did but I think a lot of people were a bit freaked out by it all: the desert, Africa, whatever. It certainly took some getting used to, even for me. We went through the "container market" today. That's where you find a brisk trade in used plastic water bottles, yogurt containers, plastic shopping bags, empty jam jars, and any other sad little container that now contains nothing. I have never seen such as thing as this.

I enjoyed very much meeting the people we wound up travelling with, and am happy we ended up with them--they are very kind, and hilarious, and although Terry was difficult to understand initially, he knows a lot about teacakes. It was only thanks to John that the Volvo started again in the desert. We would have had to abandon it without his expertise. Georgina was a delightful person to hang out with, so very easy going, yet acute enough to call any of these guys on the crap they to be called on. I usually miss the opportunity.

The Rotary Bofs are on their way down from Mopti this evening and I suppose we will see each other if they are thrown out of the same two places we were thrown out of. Don't know what became of the Rat Boys. But tomorrow, all being well, Jon and I will set off for Senegal, and beyond that, The Gambia where we can donate the car to the original group we were going to donate it to. After all, we were dead last in group 3, so far behind last that we never even met anyone else, and now we are the last 2 cars in for the Bamako run. Perhaps we will break our pattern for group 4, and arrive first? But as we were advised before we began: This is not a race and the last group to arrive will be the most chilled, for sure. And I think we are.

Persona non Grata in Kayes

Next morning we found the going more relaxed. Not only was the road easier to navigate but we were all a bit hardened by this time, and unwilling to bog. So we drove to the side of the road, and back and forth over it, hell bent for leather over the soft sand. We were driving more purposefully now, more intently, more seriously, and so made better time. For the most part we stayed on the goat track south although at one point we discovered we had gone too far and had to retrace our steps for about 10 km.

By this time we were completely out of the desert and into the sahel, the area to the south of the Sahara that gets hit by famine every few years. It's mostly goat and cattle grazing country, Moslem, but now Black Africa. The women wore brighter clothes, showed their arms and a bit of shoulder. It's dry and full of burrs, acacia trees and stones, and dry grass. We drove through miles of this dry grass, to the side of the piste, often at high speeds of 25-30 mph. The freewheelers hit a badger hole once, but other than that we did well in this terrain.

We were now a bit reticent about villages as just how close we had come to disaster the night before became apparent to all of us. We could easily have hit someone. Kids run right next to the car, and animals are everywhere. Jon and I now led through a landscape of ghostly baobab trees and brush, the sky white and hazy in heat. The dust was gray and plentiful, clouds of it hanging in the air. We drove through a village, with no roads at all, and found a couple of small buildings flying the Mauritanian flag. We had arrived at the border.

Jonathan still had no cigarettes so he caged them for himself, and the Rat boys from the district commissioner himself, as all stood for a photo opportunity. Mauritania had been an interesting country, lovely in many ways, but a lot of work and very expensive, so we were pleased to receive our exit stamps.

Driving over rocks for the next hour or two we eventually came to another village, also full of screaming children demanding cadeaux but this time with mud/adobe structures. Someone told us we were now in Mali. There was an official looking building in the distance but we were told by a passing gentleman that we needn't visit it, that we could get our passports stamped in Kayes. So we continued through this village to the end, a concrete bridge over a gully filled with trash and a dead and bloated donkey. There were three giant potholes on this 20 ft bridge and and as usual Jon had to get out and help me negociate them. After the bridge we were out and we camped just a couple of kilometers out of town in a lovely rock garden with flowers. It was a beautiful warm African night and the first time either of us had spent the night in a country without being stamped in to it. But as usual Jon was not bothered by the animals moving about on the rocks nearby, even though he slept in the open, while I had images of being eaten by hyneas or mauled by jackels all night, even though I slept in my tent.

In the morning we made an early start south to Kayes, a midway point between Dakar and Bamako, along the railway line. The mornings drive was fairly uneventful--Jon and I leading through a good hard dirt track, albeit with some rocks and treacherous gullies. After a few hours we arrived in Kayes and it was magic.

Having spent the previous week or two in the desert and Mauritanian towns, arriving in Kayes was eye-popping. First, the colour: both men and women wore flowing bright vibrant prints in elegant styles, the women all had gold earrings flashing in the sun. The streets were jammed with open air markets--a dizzying array of goods, especially after the sad little bundles seen in Mauritania. Vegetables and fruits of all types, eggplants, okra, papayas, oranges, apples, balls of tamarind paste, clothes, buckets, brooms, housewares, shiny things, pretty things, interesting things, things we hadn't seen for a while and things we had never seen. The people themselves were breathtakingly elegant, the women carrying goods on their head, the excellent posture, white teeth, such beautiful skin, people laughing, languid movements, it was amazing. And traffic! Cars, trucks, donley carts, moterbikes, bicycles and thousands of pedestrians clogged the roads. There were actual buildings, with second floors, in a faded tropical French Colonial style, with balconies. There was even a traffic light, traffic cops, and rules to drive by!

We found our way to the Douane, parked outside and ambled in to fill out the car importing paperwork. This involved sitting in a courtyard, where a couple of men sat watching the French news on TV. we just sat there with them, dozing and watching the news, while the paperwork was labouriously filled out. Eventually we were informed that we were finished and set off to the police station at the train station to get stamped into Mali. Kayes is the midway point for the Dakar-Bamako train, so there is an immigration post here.

We found ourselves in an ancient colonial building which had possibly been an important official center for something but had been gutted and then inhabited, slowly, and the inside fitted out as needed. 20 foot ceilings disappeared into the gloom, lit only by an occasional small fluorescent tube. Cobwebs, stains, shadows and geckos were the illustrating factors here. As we entered, on the left, was a sad little jail, in total darkness, with 3 unlucky prisoners begging through the bars. I should mention here that Kayes has the dubious distinction of being the hottest town in Africa. I am not sure what this means exactly, as it was plenty hot the other day, well over 90, and this is the cool season. The reason for this is that Kayes is surrounded by mountains filled with iron ore, which bake in the sun, effectively roasting Kayes. I cannot imagine the heat this creates, but it is so. Time slows down here.

I was one of the first to give my passport, and about 20 minutes later I noticed an officious looking policeman examining the passports with a little black light and I knew I was probably going to be in trouble, because my passport is quite old, is well used, has an extension from the US embassy in Argentina, and the photo looks a bit dodgy. I guess his black light proved whatever he wanted it to prove because I was going nowhere. Obviously, my passport was forged. Great.

So began a slow motion drama for the next couple of hours, as one policeman gave my passport to a second and then on the the third, the boss, a three stripe, rather nasty creature who had a big office in the back.
I tried to keep my cool, and did quite well, I think. After all, my passport is legal, the pages were added by the American Embassy, and there is nothing wrong with it. But here I was, having driven in from Mauritania, among all British people, and the immigration police insisted my passport was forged. So they threatened they'd have to phone the embassy in Bamako, and I said fine, and looked up the number for them, and when I came back in I heard what I thought were the last few lines of the conversation before he hung up, indicating that we would wait for the embassy to ring back.
We told two of the other cars to go on ahead, and the Freewheelers stayed with us. But the embassy didn't phone back and soon we told them they should go and find a hotel and we would be along presently.
I went back to the office and inquired if the embassy had phoned back and the 3 stripe guy completely ignored me. They had been taking me into this room and that one, yelling at me a bit, and demanding to know whey my passport looked like it did, and Jon helped immensely by translating and general explaining. But now I was persona non grata.

It eventually transpired that they had not phoned the embassy at all, and now that the others were gone, these police became quite nasty indeed. Call the embassy? Why don't I call them myself if I wanted? I had the phone number but they wouldn't let me use their phone so I dragged out my cell but needed the country code for Mali and the officer in charge just shrugged when we asked him what it was. Another policeman sat playing solitare (poorly) on the only computer and the officer in charge clamly filled out chits and scribbled. We found a phone book and by trial and error managed to figure out the correct codes. When I asked for the number of the desk phone so the embassy could call back the officer made a big production out of writing it, with curliques and little flourishes and then wouldn't give it to us, just showed it quickly and then hid it. He was a real jerk.

I managed to get in a call to the emergency line at the US Embassy in Bamako, without much expectation, but the woman on the line was terrific. She had a little confusion when I explained where I was and how I got there but wanted to know which police station and which officer and demanded to speak to him and it was a fine thing to see as first the officer in charge, and the others who had been playing this ridiculous game had to give their names, and how they sweated, wilping their hands on their uniforms. They were obviously all in very deep trouble.

I got my passport back, and escaped as soon as possible.

Another odd thing about Kayes is that US dollars were not accepted. Not anywhere. Euros? Fine, you could change them in the hotel, in the marketplace, in the bank. But US dollars, no. Reputedly you could change them at the Bank of Africa but when I arrived it appeared to be merely theoretical as I was told to come back the next day. It's a good thing I was with Jon and the Freewheelers.

We stayed at a dumpy hotel which was the best in town, and I had no money at all for another couple of days but the hotel doubled as the Karate Dojo of Kayes and not only did I get to watch a class but I donated a Taekwondo kicking pad to them. They had a big class, lots of drills, and a great spirit, but no equipment at all. So Kayes was quite enjoyable, overall.

The Day From Hell, or, Konkassa

We started out in high good humour, driving along a decently hard track with some lake-like areas of soft sand. One or two cars would get stuck. Jon and I had bought excellent sand ladders from some Dutch people back in Ait Benhaddou, Morocco and these now became worth their weight in gold. As the Volvo was getting poor gas milage, and the power was no longer reliable, the drive became a bit intense. Jon could not drive as he was constantly hopping out to reconnitor the path ahead, as was Casper, Roger, and Terry. I became fixated on the piste as the hours wore on and the track became worse and worse. The heat rose throughout the afternoon, and it became very hot, the sun too intense to stand in without a hat. Physical activity became difficult, even walking through the sand was taxing. We had had nothing to eat since the early morning, and were drinking bottle after bottle of water, heated through though it was.

By the middle of the afternoon, the ice cream van decided we were way off track, according to their gps. We were certainly remote. All came to a stop and we decided Jon and I would go back and ask a shepherd boy we had seen, the way to Konkassa, a village about 50 miles from Kiffa, and where we had hoped to pass though in the late morning. But I think we had only managed about 18 miles so far by this time. We went back and found the shepherd boy, and got out of the car, climbing a hill to get to him. He spoke no language we could even guess at, not even a word of Hassaniya Arabic. Our pronounciation of the village was apparantly so poor he could not understand us. Perhaps he spoke Fula? In any case, he answered our questions with a clicking sound and when Jon drew a map in the sand it made no sense to him at all. So back we went, a complete communication failure. Had we gone so far that we couldn't even guess what language people spoke? I had trouble understanding the English of the other teams so this was not so traumatic for me as it was for Jonathan, who is used to speaking everything, everywhere. He was stunned.

We continued on the same piste, as the soft sand became more and more common, and there was always at least one car stuck. I don't think anyone thought about being tired until Glenn got whacked by something flying out of the tyre he was pushing behind, cutting his leg deeply. The next one to get hurt was Jon, as he fell in the path of the car he was pushing and hit hit leg hard, bruising instantly, thank goodness with no serious damage. But now we had two guys hurt, and the cars were getting stuck every few yards. We'd trundle on along for a kilometre or so, hit a deadly patch of soft sand, and plow into it, escape being impossible on this road. If we could drive off to the side, we did, but this wasn't always an option.

It was getting really hot and we were all filthy and sweaty and more filthy. No washing since Nouakchott, and down in the dust and sand all day, digging, pushing, running with sand ladders--I had it very easy as I was driving and did almost no digging or pushing. And I was already exhausted. But so far, there were no big problems, everyone was just concentrating on getting through the day. Every time we came through a settlement though, we were converged on by children, and women too, screaming for Cadeau! Cadeau! Madam! Cadeau! No peace anywhere, except near one small settlement we plowed into the middle of, tyres stuck in the soft sand that stretched as fas as you could see, a local man in blue robes appeared out of nowhere, and started to dig with us. And this was an unusual save, because not only were we digging out but shifting the cars to the side, and making a bridge over some sand ruts, to get to the other side of the piste, where it was smoother and harder. Otherwise we'd have to dig under the car, put the sand ladders under the wheels with traction, make a track in front with the other sand ladders, and push the car straight ahead, hoping it would get get far but in these great sand lakes they rarely travelled more than several yards before bogging down again.

The afternoon wore on and about 4 pm we reached the outskirts of a village, and there was a lake. Our bogging had become legendary by this time, and we were starting to drive like maniacs, doing anything to get out of the sand, driving over palm fronds, through gullies, over rocks....Someone from the other team we had last seen in Kiffa appeared and told us we had to drive through the village itself and so we pressed on.

But the village was huge--it went on and on. Never seemed to stop. And we could not make more than a 100 meters or yards before bogging and digging and all this time the crowd of screaming children grewing demanding Cadeau, Cadeau, Cadeau. I want to wring the neck of any westerner who travels through developing countries handing out bonbons, or pens, or anything, to children! You've created monsters! And it destroys the balance of power in families to give children these things. Gift should be made to parents. And done in a decent, respectful manner, or you have this chaos, where 500 children converge on you, screaming, demanding gifts. It's a bloody nightmare and who can blame the kids? It's the foreign tourists who want to feel they're doing good but don't really think it though, and just hand stuff out without rhyme, reason or thought.

Soon it was almost dark and we were still bogging continually but we were now in the center of this village, Konkassa. We were all exhausted, and frustrated, and we needed supplies, water, bread, cigarettes. We stopped in a central location, in the midst of a heaving mob of screaming children demanding cadeaux. Jon got out, and went up to the store, leaving his window open. I could not even get out there were so many kids pressed against my door, yelling. I thought about rolling up his window but didn't want it to look like I thought those kids might steal. Mauritania is a Muslim country after all--stealing is rarely a problem in such places. Then one kid gets my attention by saying something polite and when I turned to answer him, everything was stolen off the dashboard in a whoosh and the children fled, laughing. To their diappointment I rolled up the windows, got out, locked the door and went to the other cars to tell them to do the same and the kids all started screaming. I told Jon and the two of us were in the sea of people, the elder of the village were humiliated and very upset. I could not identify the children as I didn't see them. Jon went off into the crowd, which was now quite huge, and a kid came up with our binoculers and gave them back but he wasn't able to retrieve his sunglasses. The mood was getting ugly and the others were yelling that we had to go.

So we took off in a cloud of dust, in the dark. We drove like crazy, at top speed through the village, fishtailing around corners, and bogging still. I drove like crazy--all I wanted was to get out of that place. I followed the car in front, and could see nothing, as we roared through the endless village. Thank God we didn't kill anyone is all I can say. Finally I bogged, and badly. Thne 4 x 4 from the other group came and attached a tow line and towed me along for a bit. Then I got out, with him, but we could barely undo the tow line. Finally did, and then we started out, me following him but his pace was too slow; I couldn't keep up the slow speed and finally, fishtailing all over the place, and trying to get out, he bogged, and I nearly hit him, and bogged as well. He got out and there I was, stuck in this place. And the sand ladders had gone on another car so Jon went off to find them. As usual the women and children came rushing over. Some of the women wanted to know my nationality, if I was American. Usually I reply yes, I am and almost never hide it and say Canadian or whatever but the energy was a bit odd, and I was well and truely exhausted and so I said no, I was British and I don't think they believed it because the only thing I could understand they were saying was "Israel." Great. Although I often try to explain my relation to the Bush Administration's relation to Israel, this evening I was all in. I had nothing left, no energy to even smile and ask people names or any of the other usual pap one engages in with a hundred people in Mauritania who all demand a gift. I was completely and utterly exhausted and all I wanted in life was to get out of this exhausting village, and the deafening shrieks of Cadeaux! and the endless soft sand and now all I could see was the darkness beyond the car, and all these people standing here with me, and I was filthy, and hadn't eaten since early morning, and thirsty, and wanted a coffee, and a beer, and cigarette, and a shower, and my bed, and peace and quiet. So I flashed the headlights, hoping to indicate the position of the car and finally, from out of the night, about 8 thoroughly exhausted Britons came trudging through the sand, dug out the volvo, gave a final push and off I roared in the darkness, to a raging bonfire in the distance.

They had made camp in the village.

This I found impossible to believe. Our group of four had only just arrived but the others had been there for an hour. And they had made camp in the village. They had parked in a circle, and started a huge bonfire in the center, stringing police tape between the cars so the quickly growing crowd of children would stay back. And not only were they using the village's own wood for the fire, and they were not even cooking on it, but they were throwing plastic water bottles in. In this incredibly poor country, people pounce eagerly on empty plastic water bottles.
The other group was as tired as we were, I think, and they had retreated to the far side of their enclosure, drinking a few beers. Half of our people were in the ice cream van and the others were camped about 20 yards away, in the dark. I went over there and fell on the mat with them. John (the other one) shared the most delicious cup of coffee in the world with me, and I lay on the backpacks with Georgina and Terry and him. I felt like I had been beaten to a pulp. We had logged almost 60 miles in 14 hours. It had been a fine and interesting day, but there was now too much of it.

Soon we started to receive the spilloff from the bonfire camp--kids and a few young men came over to have a look at us, like animals in a zoo, and while this usually doesn't bother me too much, as who can blame them for we were a spectacle, this evening the last thing I wanted was 50 children standing inches away from my back urgently muttering Madam! Madam! Cadeau! Dolma! Dolma cadeau Madam! I tried to make some dinner, but was so tired, and Jon was as well, and how do you eat in front of people like this anyway? There are kids who have never even tasted an orange (which are sold there.) And here we had baguettes and olive oil.
We sat there, joking about it, and finally Jon had the brilliant idea to ask the crowd of about 100 if they would please leave us in privacy as the women wanted to wash. And sure enough, they left! I had no energy to wash but put up my tent instead. I didn't even know where I would go to pee. Meanwhile, the bonfire raged larger and music blared. Soon this was replaced with African singing, but we were too tied to do anything but sleep by this time. And then the kids came back. Jon busily caged cigarettes off one of them and finally asked if they would leave again, as I, Madame, wanted to retire for the night. And again, they left.
Late in the night, when the other group had had enough entertainment, and enough fire, they tried to get rid of their African audience--shouting at them to piss off and the like.

This was actually a fun day, although exhausting. But the final 4 hours in Konkassa was over the top. We wondered about what would happen the next day, would the road be better? Or worse?

Nouakchott, Kiffa and South

I've always wanted to go to Nouakchott. There was always something completely improbable about it. I knew it wouldn't be a desert paradise, but it sounded so far away, so completely at the end of the world, and here we were, arriving at last.
It's a low slung town, dusty and fly riddled and garbage strewn everywhere, exactly what I'd expected. Like the rest of Mauritania, there is something almost begrudging about it: a capital city in a land that wants no permanent structures at all. There is rumoured to be a sushi bar in Nouakchott but thankfully we didn't see it--I think I would have exploded. The food on this entire trip has been wonderful, all fresh local olive oil, vegetables and excellent baguettes and croissants. Whether we are cooking for ourselves, or eating in a restaurant, I have rarely been disappointed. It was better that we wound up eating at Prince Fast Food, owned by a delightful Lebanese guy. What could be better than eggs in a baguette?
The Mauritanians are a bit reticent. No huge smiles greet you, people are almost surly. But the secret is in the greeting. They are more than important in this country. Greet someone unhurridly and politely, as elaborately as your language skills will allow, and it's smiles all around. I had an excellent time walking around the market with Georgina. I had to buy the camping supplies Jon had insisted we didn't need at the beginning, when we outfitted ourselves. Jon is a very hardy, seasoned camper, who ahbors any type of comfort, and insisted that we have basically what we could carry, even though we had a car to put it in! No cups for coffee (we were to use the 2 tiny plastic ones,) no bowls, (we could eat out of the pans!) no folding chairs, (wasn't I comfortable always sitting on the ground?) and so on. He has lightened up a lot, and we now have all these things. Plus, I am allowed to wash my hands now, with real water, instead of spitting on them. Yes, you read that correctly. Even though we had multiple large bottles of drinking water, and 2 gallons, and 25 litres of washing water in the back, lashed to the back seat by a complicated series of knots so that he could jealously guard it and make sure that I could not waste it on such frippery as hand washing after using the toilet; even though we had this water, and were not even visiting the deep desert, (in which case I would be washing with sand) I was supposed to wash my hands by spitting on them. Anyway, after being laughed at by the other teams, happily boiling water for pasta and tea, sitting in chairs talking and drinking wine, Jon has relaxed a bit and I am using water, (but very little of it,) to wash.

We tried to have the car fixed in Nouakchott, and some sort of mechanical activity occurred but as it was a friend of our guide, Mouli, it was outrageously expensive. All of Mauritania was incredibly expensive, in fact, and here I want to just interject a little something to any American who may be reading this: Stop complaining about how much you pay for gasoline. In the UK we started out at about $8/gallon--yes, you read that correctly as well. Down through Europe, to Morocco we paid from $4-$6ish/gallon. And it didn't go down in Mauritania. In this extremely poor country, the price of gasoline is about $4 gallon. I don't know the average daily wage in Mauritania, but since it's one of the poorest countries in the world, I don't think many people can afford to even fill up a moped regularly. And I don't know how costly gas is in the OPEC countries, but other than them I think the US must have the cheapest gas in the world.
We left early the next day, just the three cars and the ice cream van, the 2 4x4s having gone on ahead, and drove the goudron all day in order to reach the town of Kiffa that evening. Since our car was not happy it decided to show us exactly how much it resented the drive by spending gasoline like crazy. Our milage went down to about 4 km/litre.

We drove through more lovely desert, with dunes and camel herds, wrecked cars charred everywhere. The vegetation had receded to the occasional acacia tree and thorny bush of the spindly type that camels eat. The camels for the most part looked very healthy and well kept in Mauritania, with lots of babies about. The occasional herd of ovine creatures, goats mostly, grazed peacefully as the herder, usually in flowing blue robes, stood nearby and waved.
We stopped for a peaceful lunch, unfortunatly near a small settlement of tents. Our appearence provokes screams of delight and shouts of cadeau! from the children. The adults were so thrilled to have us nearby that they grabbed a live vulture (yes, you read that correctly) and brought it over for us to buy. The bird was huge, and miserable, with a windspan of probably 5 or 6 feet, and they held it by the wingtips as it struggled to free itself, turning slowly over and over as the laughing villagers poked it and kicked at it and tried to stay away from the huge and dangerously sharp beak. We were all disgusted. I don't know how they had managed to catch this creature, but we thought they just should have let it die in peace, and so did not rise to the bait, just explained what we thought, and kind of ignored then, and soon enough they left the poor thing alone to wander off into the desert, rope still around its neck. I walked nearby later, on my way to refresh myself, and am happy to say that this vulture had made tracks fast, and instead of quietly dying, looked more pissed off than anything, and so I hope it survived.

We came into Kiffa in the early evening, and decided that instead of staying at the campsite, that we would try for rooms in town and so went straight off, stopping en route at the vulcanizer to have one of the Freewheelers tyres repaired. It's a good thing that Jon speaks good French adn he is also very personable and agreeable when it comes to unpleasant situations, and so this did not become one. Most financial transactions in Mauritania were either shocking for the price they asked, or unpleasant when the arguing over the price began, or, usually, a mixture of both.
But Jon is an expert at diffusing these, and so instead of getting lynched, we made friends.

But then in the gathering dusk we drove off, and followed directions to a hotel and wound up smack in the middle of the marketplace. Now I wish I had pictures of this, because no words will even come close. But the aformentioned lynching would have definitely occured had our cameras come out here, and even more if Terry and Jon had followed through on their short lived plan to have Jon drive Terry's car through the market while Terry perched on top on his port-o-potty, filming the whole scene. But again, no lynching occured, thanks to the sane members of our group. All I can say about Kiffa is that it was another time, another place. Between the donkey carts, the bearers, the trash flying everywhere, the dust, the sad little piles of cloth or grains, the looks of the people, it was incredible. But this means nothing, my description. There is nothing new about donkey carts, or trash, or sad little piles of cloth, but somehow here it was different. This was a hardscrabble town, in the middle of the Mauritanian desert, tough, grim, yet bustling with an energy out of the 19th century. Forget it. Maybe I got a photo or two after all. If so, I'll post them up here when I get back to New York. But Kiffa was absolutely incredible.

We found an auberge--a cheap sleeping place. But it turned out to be a brothel. All the rooms were occupied and they asked for how many hours we'd need it. The place was in a compound and the compound surrounding it was infested with dozens of screaming Cadeau kids. Cadeau cadeau cadeau! Madame! Dolma cadeau! And they wanted the equivalent of $20 per person too. Absolutely exhausting. So back we went in the darkening evening to the orignial campgroud, where another Bamako run group had already made themselves at home. This was ostensibly a hotel but you could camp on the grounds, and pay to use the toilet and shower. I won't describe these but suffice to say, no price was worth it.

It was here at this campground that we were first introduced to the burr of the sahel. These hideous things are about 1/4 the size of your thumbnail at their largest. They are the colour of straw, and you can't see them on the groud or as they leap up to stick on your clothes. It's possible they contain electric charges. They are sharper than any concievable needle caould be and each one contains about 8 or 9 points and some of these are apparently barbed as not only do they stick like magnets, but if you try to pull them off/out in a hurry, they might release one tiny tip into your skin and then you are lucky if you can get to it in time to pull it out before it burrows into your hand or foot. I have a couple in my foot still, and they are not coming out unless they want to. The whole Sahel is covered with these. The campground was an excellent introduction. I put up my tent, and stopped to pull the burrs out and was appalled to find them all over me, dozens of them. It was impossible to walk 10 steps without 5 or 6 appearing, announcing their presence by a sharp and persistent sting. They pinched my legs, my feet, my back, my butt, my arms, they snuck into the tent and into the car, burrowing into the floor, into the seats, into my shoes. Added spice I guess.

Now that I'm writing about this it sounds pretty bad I guess. But we really had an excellent time, even though it doesn't sound like it! Kiffa was brilliant, and the burrs were irritating but minor in the great scheme of things.

We left the next morning, the four of us, and drove down what might have been a piste, but sometimes looked a bit less than this. We were probably pretty confident, even without our 4 x 4s, as we'd had that first day in the desert earlier in the week, where we'd had to dig out throughout the day. Well, let me tell you, we had no idea.

Donne Moi Cadeaux!

We stayed the first night in Mauritania in Nouadhibou, a town near the border known for smuggling (even vegetables!) and general lawlessness. We had a campground in the center of town and this was a bit startling as nearly as soon as we had pulled in the cadeau assault began. These were far and away the words we heard most in Mauritania. Madame! Donne-moi une cadeau! This went on in various forms and became a chant in many towns, Dolma! Dolma! Dolma! But I get ahead of myself.

Mauritania did take a bit of getting used to, as I wrote in a previous post. And apparantly there were quite a few who never recovered from the shock.

Next morning we set out, with Mouli, a guide we hired to take us across the desert. We were 6 cars: Jon and I (ExMarksTheSpot) in the blue volvo station wagon with California license plates, The FreeWheelers--in a highly decorated red Volkswagon Passat crammed to the gilles and over with football shirts, balls, and other gifts to be given away in Mali, as well as a portable toilet on the roof, cleverly tied on so that Terry could sit in it and film backwards as we drove along, Team Rangoli, in a small Volvo coupe, also quite decorated, and featuring a giant rubber rat on the hood, the Rotary Bofs in pink Ice Cream Van, carrying a heavy load of sewing machines, pens and other donatables for distribution through the Rotary clubs of Mali, as well as a full stock of ice cream. These guys had a lit up ice cream cone over the front windscreen and played the ice cream version of Lara's Theme whenever we set out in the morning. We also had 2 4x4s with us in the beginning--Bodge it and Scarper, in a bright yellow something or other and Holy See, a reddish Range Rover I think it was. So we were quite colourful, in car as well as personality, and I never got over just how few people looked askance at the big rat on the front of Rangoli. We must have so looked so incredibly bizarre, so thouroughly out of place and odd, that a giant rat was only a tiny piece of the pie. One of the Freewheelers, Terry, wears (and was even wearing today,) his kilt. Not too many people have second glanced at this--it just seems to fit right in.

We left Nouadhibou early in the morning with our guide, and only a couple of kilometers out of town, drove off the goudron (paved road) and onto the Saharan piste.
Our first day out we didn't know much about desert driving and learned quickly that driving through soft sand, the kind that looks impossible to drive through in a typical 2 wheel drive car, requires lots of speed and avoiding the tracks of the car in front. These are probably the two most important things, although there are other, more subtle hues necessary to get your car through piles of soft sand and onto a hard patch so that you can get out, take the sand ladders, walk back and dig out the car you've just passed.

We spent the day driving through moderate to difficult rocky piste with medium to large soft sand basins. I am proud to say that this first day we didn't get stuck once. Both of us did well. As we drove south the landscape became less and less rocky and dunes started to appear. Soon we were back in the huge Saharan landscape, with dunes of all sizes, sometimes in groups, and then all facing the same way by the wind, blown into the same patterns, beautiful dunes and all the siennas and taupes, duns and golds contrasting the deeply blue, clearly blue sky.
By late in the afternoon we had begun to bond a bit, having pulled a few of the cars out of the sand, and done a bit of extreme driving. The last 20 miles were spectacular--flat, hard sand with almost no rocks. We drove flat out--at top speed, racing across the desert floor. It was exhilarating and fun--how often can you drive a car with complete freedom? No road to follow, no speed limit, no tracks, nothing, just flat out insane across the desert floor.

We camped at the base of a largish dune that first night, in the utter stillness of the deep desert. Almost everyone in my group was from Northern England and so I had an interesting time learning the understand them. I could understand Mouli's French better than the English coming out of these blokes mouths. There was one other woman, a writer, who hitched a ride with the Freewheelers, and for some reason she talked more intelligibly (to me) and it was a relief to have someone about who was not entirely into gear boxes and male bonding.

This first night was also the night of a tribute to Robbie Burns the poet and so we had festivities, including some killing of a haggis, which is an intestinal food some British people eat. No one could tell me exactly what was in it, not that I was overly interested. It smelled exactly how it sounded, and I contented myself with tagliatelle and vegetables. We had a special reading of poetry, odes and toasts, wine, whisky and beer.

The next morning I rose very early, in the first light, and walked to a far off dune. The sound of my own breathing was deafening. I felt as though the entire world could hear me. Dawn swept in grays, oranges, pinks, and blues as we drank our coffee and ate our day old baguettes.

The second day in the desert started in much the same way, straight plateaus of hard reg, with occasional soft sand patches, the dunes becoming softer and softer. Towards midday I began to see mirages as the horizon shimmered like a lake. I found that the desert does some strange things to perception. At one point, Jon was driving, I became convinced we were about to drive off the edge of a cliff. Several times I thought we were just about to hurlt off into space, and of course we weren't--the plateau continued. We drove straight out again, at high speeds, and this time the sand wasn't so hard. For many miles we had soft sand with a thin hard crust, meaning you drove fast, and not near the previous persons tracks, and there was no stopping until you hit a harder patch, and these were no longer so clearly visible.

Ever since Dakhla we had to change our gasoline and put regular leaded gas in the Volvo. No choice. I'm sure it did terrible things to the engine. This car was smogged for California and there change proved a lot for it to handle. The Volvo began to run rougher, it idled high, and died whenever I put on the clutch. It still did high speeds, but was having trouble at low ones.
Around midday it died at the beginning of a basin of soft sand. I had waited for the car in front of me to get all the way though before setting off and I couldn't get any speed in first gear so drove in a circle as I was on a patch of reg and still couldn't get much power but hoped it would catch and so drove into the sand and the car let out a groan and died. And that was where we stayed for a couple of nerve wracking hours. Fortunatly we had a couple of good and one very good mechanic with us and after much sweat got it going again but this was not a forgone conclusion. Jonathan thought the car may be buggered and then we would have to abandon it in the desert but thankfully we got it going but it was never exactly the same. From then on we had to nurse it, even though it did higher speeds well, it never let us forget it was ill.

We camped this second night on the beach, in a kind of weird fishing village that we originally thought was some sort of port as it was entirely made up of shipping containers and huts built to exactly resenble shipping containers. Large Mauritanian tents covered the beach, and we stayed in one; it was wet and dewy the whole time in Mauritania.

The third day we had to make a choice. The idea was to drive down the beach all the way to to Nouakchott, but this involved a very low tide which we didn't have. I can't remember how far it was at this point. So we decided to drive 40 km to the paved road, across the desert, and then down the goudron, and then back to the beach and camp there, and then the last 80 km the following day. So this we did, stopping at a very local Maurtianian restaurant/tea house along the way, where we were given a plate of rice and "camel" (very small bones for camel!,) some tea, and Georgina and I were given henna treatments, of a rather crude design. In the days that followed Mauritanians would express utter delight at our clumsily hennaed and exclaim over and over how beautiful they were. Meanwhile, all the local women we saw with hennaed hands had lovely, exquisite, and subtly woven designs. We are still furiously washing.

We spent the night at a very unpleasant campsite--a cross between the detrius of garbage from Nouakchott the sea's flotsam and populated by prowling jackels. I had originally pitched my tent behind anearby dune for privacy but ended up waking up Jon as he slept by the fire to help me move the entire thing closer to camp so I wouldn't be set upon by jackels if I went out to pee. I know they supposedly don't bother humans if you don't bother them, but this is a very different story when you're trying to go to sleep in a tent alone in a garbage strewn beach in Mauritania.

I should point out that this is the only night that we had a fire, as there was plenty of driftwood. None of us thought a fire was the proper thing to do in the desert, as resources are scarce, and the wood that is there should be kept for the use of the people who live there. Our first night out Mouli had wanted to tie one of the 4x4s to an acacia tree and pull it over and I put a stop to it, irritating him no end, as he apparantly thought that we, like many people, would love nothing better than to have a jolly raging bonfire in the desert at night.

This three day journey was a great start to the long run to Bamako. I think that not everyone who left Dakhla came through this. Techinically it is possible to drive Goudron all the way to Nouakchott, even all the way to Bamako. We didn't.

The last morning's tide was against us. There was no way to drive the beach to Nouakchott, and we had to take the paved road. I was not entirely sorry about this, as our car needed service badly. So we went back to the road, driving another high speed all out mad rush along a gray expanse of sand, as fast as we could go, and then did it again, slower, with Terry filming from the toilet atop their station wagon.

Around midday we heaved into Nouakchott.