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Event Report

Mauritania by Moonlight
Jan-2003

 
After months of planning, reading up, cutting and welding (as well as a good few restless nights) it was finally time to load our four bikes, luggage and riding gear into the back of the nice shiny three month old VW van. Somehow we had managed to persuade the hire company to let us have the van for just over a month, so that we could drive it across Europe and all the way to Southern Morocco, where we intended leaving it outside a hotel in Dakhla, whilst we enjoyed our whirl wind tour of Mauritania and the Western Sahara.
 

 
Actually more precisely, Pete Anstey had “volunteered” to drive the van down and back (a round trip of about 6000 miles), whilst myself, Ross Cameron and Paul Creighton took the less strenuous option of flying to Dakhla (via Paris and Casablanca). And so it was, on Friday 24th January at about 21:30 we touched down at Dakhla International Airport (not!!) to be met by Pete and his co-pilot and navigator, Margaret. We said our hellos, shortly followed by our goodbyes, as Margaret was returning to the UK (via Casablanca) on the Boeing 737 that we had just stepped off of.
 
We took the short walk to The Hotel Sahara Regency, which was by far the best pad in town. No sooner had we checked in, we went straight to the bar for a couple of Heinekens and starting quizzing Pete about his trip down in the van, which was reassuringly parked outside, and not a mark on it! The bikes were parked in the underground car park, just waiting to be filled with petrol and loaded down with all our luggage.
 
The next morning (Saturday) I was up at 06:00, as I couldn’t wait to get out there! The sun hadn’t even risen, but it was already pleasantly warm. After a leisurely breakfast (freshly squeezed orange juice, pancakes and croissants) we dragged the bikes from beneath the hotel and began preparing them for the long ride ahead. It must have been around lunchtime by the time we left Dakhla, and it felt good to be on the road at last. The road heads north out of Dakhla for about 40 kms, before you turn sharp right at a Police controlled junction. From this point it’s a mere 340 kms to the Mauritanian border, and the road disappears into the distance in a dead straight line.
 
At the next check point (this one being manned by the Army), we decided to stop and sample some of the local delicacies that were on offer in a roadside café. We all ordered a meat tajine (which is essentially a stew) – during the rest of the trip I stuck to omelettes, enough said. Having eaten, we continued south, but after about two hours were forced to stop as it appeared that Paul had completely emptied the 25 litre tank on his Yamaha XT600 Tenere. This we put down to the fact that we were riding into a strong head wind and due to his luggage rack design making his bike about as aerodynamic as a pregnant camel!
 

 
80 kms short of the border we came across a petrol station, so decided to fill up. There were several French couples in tricked up 4*4’s doing the same thing, one of whom noticed a problem with one of the bikes. One of the exhaust collets on Paul’s Tenere was dangling and not ensuring that the header pipe was sealing with the cylinder head properly (which is probably why he ran out of fuel earlier). Fortunately there was a motel and restaurant (called Barbas) next to the petrol station, so we decided to stop over for the night, and try and fix Paul’s bike.
  
The Motel Barbas couldn’t be any more than a couple of years old, judging by the overall condition of the place. The twin bedded rooms were very clean and there were a couple of showers, although no hot water. By the time I’d unloaded my bike, Paul had found a couple of new bolts to repair his exhaust, and we were all starting to think about what delights the restaurant would have to offer as an evening meal. It turned out to be a pleasant surprise, fresh bread and chicken and chips, all washed down with a bottle or two of Fanta.
 
 
 
The sun came up at about 07:00 and we were all tucking into breakfast by 08:00, looking forward to crossing the border into Mauritania later that morning. We must have arrived at the Moroccan border post by about mid day, and were told by the guard to park up and await our turn before being seen by Customs. Customs was just closing for lunch, so we had to sit tight and be patient, something you have to get used to when travelling through Africa. Eventually the Customs Officials decided that we had waited long enough, and requested our vehicle paperwork. This is where things started to go a little bit wrong, and to cut a long story short, we didn’t have the correct import/export papers for the bikes. Fortunately Ross spoke pretty good French (which was a lot better than the Official’s English), and it appeared the only way we were going to exit Morocco (legally) was by returning to Dakhla to get the correct paperwork. This meant that we had to face a 760 km return trip if we wanted to fulfil our goal and visit Mauritania. Much discussion ensued, do we forget Mauritania and stay in Morocco, do we try and find a guide who will smuggle us across the mined border, or do we just bite the bullet and ride an extra 760 km?
 
We went for the third option, so turned the bikes round and headed north. About three hours into the ride back, we came across our first section of road that was now completely covered by sand (which had been blown across from the surrounding desert). I happened to be in front at this point, and decided this would be a good opportunity for me to show the others what a proficient sand rider I was. You can probably imagine what happened next, yes that’s right, before you can say “this is going to hurt” I was sliding down the road trapped under 200 kg of trail bike loaded up with too much luggage. Fortunately the others stopped short of my accident, and helped lift the bike off of me. Miraculously there was virtually no damage to rider or bike, due mainly to the body armour I was wearing, and the protection bars that I had installed on the bike many years ago.
 
 
The rest of the journey back to Dakhla was fairly uneventful, and we pulled up outside The Hotel Sahara Regency in near darkness, where the doorman (and minder of our hire van) was surprised to see us back so soon. Monday morning and its yet another beautiful sunrise, and after breakfast Ross and Pete take a walk along to the Customs Office in an attempt to secure the correct paperwork necessary to allow us to cross over into Mauritania. They return a little later and explain that we all have an appointment at 18:00 that evening to see the Chief of Customs who will hopefully be able to issue the necessary paperwork. Nothing left to do but sunbathe and drink more Heineken, oh well if we must.
 
And so at 18:00 we are stood in the Chief’s office (like four naughty school boys) trying to explain our predicament. It transpires that the only way we are going to leave Morocco on the bikes is if we have the van impounded, which we do. The Officials inspect the van and then lock wire the steering wheel and take the keys. At least now we have the correct paperwork for the bikes, and so its time to celebrate (which means more Heineken).
 
We are all up early on Tuesday morning and are on the road just before 09:00. The ride back down to Barbas this morning is a breeze (as we have the wind behind us), and we fill up at the petrol station before heading for the border AGAIN. This time the Customs Officials process us and we are passed on to passport control, where we have to wait in turn to be called into a very dark and dusty office and have to answer a whole host of questions relating to our (and our bikes) origins. Having answered these questions and gaining the all important stamp in our passports, we are ushered off into no mans land.
 
 
About 17 kms later we finally arrive at the Mauritanian border, to be confronted with a home made stinger across the road (a piece of rusty barbed wire) and a guard beckoning us to pull over. We have to answer the same series of questions to satisfy the border guard , only this time we are being watched by a couple of machine gun posts up in the army barracks just across the way. You just need to be polite and patient, and all is OK (which makes me wonder how the German’s cope with all this bureaucracy). At this point the tarmac ends and all you have to follow is a dusty, rocky sand track (piste) which takes you about 1 km before you reach the Mauritanian passport control. The very same list of questions is asked again and in order to have the necessary stamp in your passport, you must first pay the guard five Euros (whether this is an official payment or not, I just don’t know, but I wasn’t prepared to argue with a man brandishing a pistol).
 
We then moved on to immigration and currency declaration, which involved another series of questions and yet more paperwork. There was one final check which seemed to exist just to make sure you haven’t missed any of the earlier checks. We began talking to the guard (through Ross) about rugby of all things, and it transpired that he was a part time referee in Nouadhibou (which happened to be our destination for that night). He was complaining that his watch was no good for timing the matches as it didn’t have a stop watch. But as luck would have it both Ross’s and my watch did, so you can probably guess what happened next, yes that’s right a “trade” was done. I am now the proud owner of a genuine Mauritanian timepiece, now aren’t I lucky!
 
From what I can remember the whole process of crossing from Morocco to Mauritania took about three hours, and according to the various travel guide books this is the norm. Still, at least we were now in the right country (even though it did cost me 5 Euros and a watch).
 
 
From now on the riding was very demanding, as in places the piste was either badly rutted, rocky or just very soft sand. It took us all quite a while to get used to the conditions (Salisbury Plain this isn’t) and we all had our fair share of “offs”. There were pistes disappearing in all directions, but thankfully we had bumped into a French couple in a 4*4 earlier in the day who had crossed from Mauritania to Morocco and had stored the route in their GPS. Luckily we had taken the time to copy the route (in reverse) and programmed it into Ross’s GPS. I think if we hadn’t, we would still be out there now!
 
We crossed the railway line which carries the iron ore from Zouerat (via Choum) to Nouadhibou at about 18:00, which meant that we were going to loose the daylight in an hour or so, something that none of us was looking forward to as riding the piste in darkness could be a little dangerous. We hit the outskirts of Nouadhibou in complete darkness but fortunately picked up tarmac again, which was a huge relief. After a quick break we headed for the town centre in search of somewhere to rest up for the night. Driving through the town was a nightmare, with beaten up old French cars coming at us from all angles, most of which didn’t have any lights. If the road was blocked (or the traffic was just moving too slowly) then the locals would leave the tarmac and drive down the wide dusty “pavement” on either side without a care in the world.
 
 
We stumbled across what has got to be the smartest hotel in town, The Al Jeziras, and took a couple of double rooms. Each room had air conditioning, en suite bathroom and a colour TV. Although the hotel is of a reasonable standard, I couldn’t help feeling that once something was warn out or broken, that was how it was going to stay. This kind of summed up the Mauritanian way of life for me. Still, the beds were clean and comfortable and there was a hot shower (just a shame there was no beer).
The hotel is positioned just down the road from the airport and so is used by the air crews as a stop over, which would explain why there were a couple of very attractive stewardesses in reception when we first arrived. Looking back, I dread to think what they thought of us, being four very dusty and weary bikers looking for somewhere to crash for the night.
 
 
 
By now it’s Wednesday and we decide to have a rest day, giving us a chance to stretch our legs and take a look around. The hotel has a money changing (laundering) facility and offers the favourable rate of 4 Euros for 1000 Ouguiyas (or Ougs as everyone calls them).We walk into town and buy our bike insurance and entry tickets for the National Park of the “Banc d’Arguin”, which we have to pass through on our way to Nouakchott (the capital of Mauritania). It also seems like a good opportunity to go and investigate the iron ore train times, as we are hoping to put the bikes on the train to get them to or from Atar (via Choum). Upon arrival at the station we were surrounded by people who were desperate to help us, unfortunately they are all telling us different times for the train, so eventually we have to give up and leave to rethink our plans.
 
By late afternoon the temperature has dropped off enough for us to take a quick look at the bikes and make sure nothing has rattled loose or needs any attention. Once we are happy everything is OK we ride them down to the nearest petrol station and fill up all our extra fuel tanks, as tomorrow we plan to continue our trip south along the west coast, and we know that there is only limited fuel available on this route. The hope is that we have enough fuel to be able to travel 600 km between top ups. This means that each bike will be carrying on average about 35 litres of fuel, oh and I nearly forgot the 10 to 13 litres of water that we will need to take along each as well. Tomorrow will be the 1st time that we will be riding the bikes fully loaded on the piste – gulp !
 
Thursday morning and we set off from Nouadhibou on the long trek south, fully loaded and full of excitement. We pick up the railway line again for a short while before peeling off right and hit the 1st section of soft sand. By now we are all starting to get the hang of leaning as far back as possible and nailing the throttle wide open. The idea behind this is to let the front do exactly what it likes, and let the rear wheel just drive you through the sand. It also seems to help the faster you are going, which requires a certain amount of commitment, which also means when it does go wrong, there’s normally a big plume of sand kicked up, which is quite spectacular to watch.
 

 
We drop down over a small rise and the GPS is pointing straight ahead. We are looking into a huge flat area that just seems to go on for as far as the eye can see. If that’s what it’s telling us then we had better do it. It very soon becomes apparent that if we don’t push on then the bikes will just get bogged down in the soft sand that is under the hard baked surface that we are now breaking through. I find that the optimum pace for my Kawasaki KL650 Tengai is the throttle wide open in third gear, anything higher and the engine starts to really complain. As I pass Pete on his Honda XR400 you can hear the poor thing pinking as it struggles to fight through the sand.
 
Riding like this is extremely exhilarating but also a little worrying. How much longer will the bikes put up with these punishing conditions? I notice that my Kawasaki’s temperature is beginning to rise, but as long as I can keep moving then at least there is some air passing through the radiator. After about ten minutes of riding flat out like this the surroundings and terrain begin to change, and it becomes apparent that if you ride on the whiter areas of sand you don’t tend to break the surface. These areas are white because they are almost completely covered in tiny sea shells, and we are all soon trying to ride from one white patch to the next, often crossing each others tracks in search for firmer ground.
 
Eventually we arrive at our 1st destination, the entrance to the National Park. But there is nothing there (except for a few burnt out oil drums), where is the warden, where is the encampment which should offer us shelter for the night? We later find out that the entrance was moved several years ago, nearly 10 kms away from where we had stopped. By now time is against us so we decide to set up camp for the night, after all we have a couple of tents, sleeping bags, cookers, food, what more could you wish for?
 
We pitch the tents next to an Acacia tree and set about collecting firewood and heating up are pre-prepared camping meals, which actually taste quite good. I can personally recommend the chocolate sponge and custard. After cleaning our pots etc we set about lighting a fire, using a drop of Silkolene  Pro-Boost to get things going.
Now we can finally sit back and just marvel at the number of stars we can see, as there is no light pollution to spoil the view. It’s very peaceful.
 
The wind really picks up in the middle of the night and I remember that most of my riding gear is hung up in the Acacia tree. Should any of it blow any, that’ll be it, gone forever. I reluctantly get up from my very uncomfortable bed and pull everything down from the tree, thankfully everything can still be accounted for.
 
After a breakfast of sausage and beans we continue south and eventually pick up a piste that takes us to the small fishing village of Ten-Alloul, where we stop to buy some provisions, including cans of Coke and packets of Pringles. Across the way two locals slit the throat of a goat, which would suggest that someone will be having goat Tajine for supper.
 
After a short break we push on and follow the piste into some monumental dunes. It soon becomes very apparent that attempting to cross these would be very unwise, as at regular intervals the back wheels just sink into the soft sand, making forward motion impossible. We all start to get a little stressed out as we realise that carrying on would be a dangerous and foolhardy thing to do. We struggle out of the dunes as best we can and resort to stopping at another nearby fishing village called Tessot, where we are able to rent a pre-erected tent for the night. We opt for the spacious seven birth which comes in at 6000 Ougs for the night.
 
 
The next morning our landlord pops in to collect the rent, and Ross is invited to sign the visitors book. Unbelievably the last people to use the camping facilities at Tessot were a German family who called through exactly a year ago to the day. This could explain why the villagers were so pleased to see us and so welcoming.
 
After breakfast we calculate that we have used just over 50% of our fuel, and so turning round at this point is not an option. But do we have enough fuel to get to Nouakchott? Whilst wandering along the beach contemplating our predicament we meet a French girl and her Mauritanian boyfriend on holiday. We chat with them for a while and our fuel situation comes up in conversation, at which point their guide explains that he knows where there is fuel available. To cut a long story short, their guide whisks Pete and myself off with an empty jerry can, only to return an hour later with 20 litres of finest Mauritanian unleaded (which we then mix with a healthy measure of Pro-Boost).
 
With this piece of luck we decide to have another rest day and stop another night in Tessot, which gives us the opportunity to have a wash, in the Atlantic Sea! Trying to wash Head and Shoulders out of your hair in salty water is not easy, but never the less it felt good. That night Ross went to bed shaking uncontrollably, but we were all sure that he would be as right as rain after a good night’s sleep. How wrong can you be?
 
The next morning Ross was in a bad way, and was unable to hold anything in or down, Imodium tablets, electrolyte powders, anything. As the hours passed he just got worse, and we ended up staying a further two nights in Tessot. This gave us the opportunity to really get to know the villagers, and find out a bit more about how they survive in such harsh conditions, and yet every one of them was fit, healthy, strong and with glistening white teeth. It must be the diet of fish (or lack of burgers and sugar).
 
Come Monday morning and Ross was slightly chirpier, so we made the decision to pack up and start moving north again. This meant that our original plan of doing the triangle of Nouadhibou to Nouakchott to Choum (and back to Morocco via Nouadhibou) went out the window, not that this was a problem because we all knew that the ride back up to Dakhla was still going to be an adventure in itself, and besides time really wasn’t on our side. For the return leg we decided to religiously stick to the piste and only use the GPS as a guide. For once we started making some serious progress across the desert and realised how much harder the ride down was by just following the arrow on the GPS. At times we were cruising in top gear at 80 kmph having a blast, but still being wary of obstacles such as soft sand, big holes and general debris.
 
 

 
We finally exited the National Park and came across an encampment (hidden behind a large dune). It was time to stop for a breather, and started chatting (in our best French) to a couple of the locals that appeared to be in charge. We soon learned that they had some petrol for sale and so decide to buy as much as they will let us have. At two Euros per litre, a deal is struck and we all take on board five litres. The fuel is stored in the boot of an abandoned Rover 213S on British number plates. Our fuel seller proudly shows us that not only does he have a full set of keys but also the registration document. He informs us that the car came into his possession on the 15th January, as the clutch had expired rendering the car undriveable. We put two and two together and realised that this must have been one of the entrants in the charity Plymouth to Dakar Run, which left Plymouth on Boxing Day. The rules to enter were simple, you were only allowed to spend £100 on a car, with a further £25 allowed to prepare it. And we thought we were barmy. Its new owner became very excited when it was pointed out that the engine was built by Honda and not Rover, and he asked if we could help him put the half stripped car back together.
 
At about 16:00 we left our new found friend (and his very dead car) and decided to try and push on closer to the border. An hour later and we had only travelled 8 kms, as the piste was badly rutted and almost entirely covered in very soft sand. We knew that we only had an hour or so of daylight and so decided to stop and make camp. After all we had water and the remains of our camping food, and there seemed little point in taking that back to the UK. After erecting the tents Paul and Ross started cooking the food whilst Pete and myself wandered about looking for firewood. Again, we sat out and watched the stars and the regular flow of 4*4s as they stomped by. In fact, there was a regular flow of vehicles going passed us all night, which combined with the hard sand meant that I hardly slept that night.
 
Tuesday morning and we were up reasonably early, the thought of a (cold) shower at the Motel Barbas perhaps? We rejoined the piste and after a short while I came across Ross trapped under his Yamaha XT600 Tenere. He had hit several large rocks head on causing a nasty tumble onto the hard ground. He appeared OK (although a little shaken) but his once shiny bike now bares some impressive battle scares. By sticking to the piste we met a regular flow of traffic (although no other bikers), including an articulated container lorry! As we near the border (and railway line) the scenery becomes more familiar, and we recognise the power sapping (engine destroying) wide open plateau that we had struggled across a week earlier. It turns out that the piste (which we are now using) skirts around the edge of the danger area, which makes sense when you think about it.
 
We decide not to return to Nouadhibou, instead crossing the border back into Morocco. This involves answering the same list of questions about half a dozen times but by now we have learned to just chill out and smile, which works really well. We do have a bit of a scare at the final checkpoint, as the Moroccan Customs Official cannot (or doesn’t want to) find the all important paperwork we need in order to return the hire van back to the UK. His filing system is none existent, but after about twenty minutes of paperwork flying everywhere, our all important forms are found and the cross eyed Official beams a big smile, sorted.
 
 

 
Late afternoon and we arrived back at the Motel Barbas (to a hero’s welcome), well actually the place was all but deserted, but at least it means we are guaranteed a bed for the night. We celebrate our safe return back to Morocco that evening with a slap up meal of roast chicken and chips and more Fanta. So on Wednesday morning we head out for the final ride back to Dakhla. As usual the air is warm and dry and we take a leisurely ride back up the tarmac, stopping off in the run down fishing village of Porto Rico to soak up the views. The beaches on the west coast of Africa have beautiful golden sands and no one for miles around. We pass through several more Police check points on our way back to Dakhla, and Ross runs out of fuel whilst we are playing on the beach on the outskirts of town. All this means that we eventually park up outside the Hotel Sahara Regency as the sun is setting, perfect timing.
 
This leaves Thursday to arrange for the van to be released by Customs, in order that we can reload the bikes and all our gear. That evening Pete, Paul and myself venture into Dakhla proper and are taken aback by the amazing sites (and smells) that it has to offer. On Friday we try our hand at a spot of beach casting which the hotel arranged for us, but don’t catch a thing. The locals however bring in a healthy catch, typical!
 
At 19:35 Ross, Paul and myself board our plane back to Casablanca, and wish Pete a safe drive through Morocco and northern Europe. The adventure is all but over.
 
Although we didn’t achieve quite what we first set out to do, the trip itself was just an amazing experience. The people were incredibly friendly and not once did we feel threatened. The riding was challenging but at the same time very rewarding, and the weather was just fantastic. I would recommend to anyone that they should visit this part of the world, but a word of warning, go with an open mind and don’t make too many hard and fast plans or deadlines, as you will invariably miss them.
 
Reuben Alcock (Wiltshire Group of the Trail Riders Fellowship)
 
 
 
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