Bearback: The World Overland

PAT GARROD

At the tender age of seven Pat Garrod, typically, knew his own mind. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up his reply was as instant as it was ambitious.

A doctor, an author, or a long-distance lorry driver.

Born in 1964 to parents brought up in the war he acquired a healthy respect for minimalism and inherent value, as well as a love of camping and the great outdoors. Family meals always took place under the alluring shadow of The Daily Telegraph Map of the World. This and the haunting words of a guest-speaker at a school prize-giving ceremony left Pat with an insatiable desire to see the world.

An avid cyclist through his teens, at the age of seventeen Pat developed an unhealthy fascination with motorcycles. In his final year at medical school a serious motorbike accident put him in hospital for three months and on crutches for a further year.

Since qualifying as a doctor in 1988 he has worked in various parts of the world including Australia, on expedition in Zimbabwe, and even a brief spell in Saudi Arabia before being flung out of the kingdom by a disgruntled Queen.

His time in Zimbabwe engendered in him a deep fascination for, and love of, the African continent. In 1995, eight years after the accident, he threw caution to the wind and climbed back on board a motorcycle. With girlfriend Vanessa as pillion he rode from Cairo to Cape Town. By 1998 the world still beckoned and his motorcycle, the Bear, was the proven, perfect tool.

Pat now lives with his wife in a 270 year-old sea captain’s cottage in Dorset. He still cycles, recently for charity from Lands End to John O’ Groats. He is an active supporter of WWF, Greenpeace and the Dorset Wildlife Trust, and is an obsessive windsurfer.

When not exploring some far-flung corner of the Earth he continues to practise as a GP.

BEARBACK

The world overland

Dr Pat Garrod

Copyright © 2010 Pat Garrod

Hardback edition first published 2010, reprinted 2012

Paperback edition first published 2013, reprinted 2017

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Ness

Without you this journey would have been unthinkable, a lesson in loneliness.

My pillion, my love, my best friend, you are my world.

‘All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.’

T.E. Lawrence

ITHAKA

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never finds things like that on your way

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind –

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

So you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.

Without her you wouldn’t have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

CP Cavafy

Translated by Keeley and Stannard, reprinted by kind permission of The Random House Group Ltd

CONTENTS

About the Author

Introduction

Prologue

FAREWELL ENGLAND

1 One-way Ticket

AFRICA

2 Marrakech Kiss

3 Sahara

4 So You Are Explorers

5 Mali Gold

6 An Elf, a Chief and a King

7 Whispers in Timbuktu

8 Tuareg

9 Seventeen Miles a Day

10 Voleur

11 We’re Not Going to Make It!

12 White Men in Africa

13 Snakes

14 Nature’s Drum

15 Ho Ho Ho

SOUTH AMERICA

16 A Continent Awaits

17 El Fin del Mundo

18 Huskies, Glaciers and Condors

19 Ruta Cuarenta

20 German Assistance

21 Salt and Silver

22 The World’s Most Dangerous Road

23 Egypt of the Americas

24 Lonesome George

25 Guerrillas in Our Midst

CENTRAL AND NORTH AMERICA

26 Moon Babies

27 Weed Famine

28 Deliverance

AUSTRALIA

29 Back to Reality

30 Space and Time

31 Kakadu

32 Wild Frontiers

ASIA

33 Raffles, Rubber and Rambo

34 The Killing Fields

35 Mekong Mist

36 City of Bicycles

37 Sinking

38 Humbled

39 Lure of the East

40 Are You a Christian?

41 Persian Pride

42 Iran, Sorry Iran

43 Bosphorus Bound

EUROPE

44 Aurora

45 Full Circle

Epilogue

Appendix 1: Kit List

Appendix 2: Mileages

Acknowledgements

MAPS

West Africa

Southern Africa

South America: the subtropics

South America: the tropics

Central America, Mexico and the U.S.A.

Australia

Southeast Asia

Asia

Europe

African Motorcycle Routes

INTRODUCTION

Why?

That was the question on everyone’s lips before we set off. Friends, family, work colleagues; they all wanted a reason, a rationale.

Why put yourselves in such danger?

Why Africa?

Why the world?

Why so far?

What if you have an accident, get mugged, shot at, break a leg?

The list was endless, and all so focused on the negative. We couldn’t answer them; not then, maybe not even now. I just knew, as I had always known, that I wanted to ride a motorcycle around the entire world.

Writing this book however, has perhaps encouraged me to think a little deeper; back to those early days, back to the planning and preparation, back to the reason, the rationale.

Suggestions were made at the time as to why we might be embarking on such a long journey. Perhaps I needed to know if we had the perseverance and stamina to complete such a circumnavigation? Maybe I set off with my girlfriend to test our relationship, or her me? Were we escaping inner demons? Provocative thoughts. But no. The bare truth of the matter was nothing of the sort.

I would argue that rather than needing a rationale for the journey, surely the onus is on providing a rationale for not making such a journey.

We are born on to this planet and we, one and all, are destined to die on this planet. There are those rare few whose actions or words are remembered throughout time, their names indelible marks on the scroll of human history. As for the rest of us, our existence is transitory, finite and quickly forgotten.

Thankfully, this realisation of my own insignificance in the overall scheme of things dawned on me early in life, perhaps helping to free my spirit. Phrases such as ‘you’re a long time looking at the lid’ and ‘live your dream, don’t dream your life’, though platitudinous, sum it all up for me.

But even so, this rationale thing had me thinking. Why was I so obsessed with riding a motorcycle all the way around the world?

When I was in the sixth form, attending our school prize-giving ceremony, I remember the guest-speaker telling us that with the coming of the jet engine the world had shrunk. I was horrified. His words saddened me immensely. After all, our world, at least in the physical sense, is all that we have. Life anywhere else is, as far as we know, pure science fiction. We are alone.

So, if the journey and consequently this book do have a rationale then it is this.

I wanted to see if the world, our world, was as vast, as interesting and as beautiful as I hoped it might be. To do this we must abandon the sky and travel overland, in such a way as to feel, hear, smell, as well as see what came before us. If it rained I wanted to get wet. If deserts really did exist where temperatures topped 50ºC I wanted to feel my throat beg for water. If there were plagues of locusts then let them hit me in the chest.

Living.

Life.

Out there and free.

A motorcycle, a tent and my best friend, sat right there behind me. There was no better way.

Ness and I qualified as doctors in 1988. It was to be another ten years before we had the means to undertake such a journey, but in that time the dream never faltered.

•

Often now the two of us lie awake at night, staring at the moon through the skylight of our cottage, in our little corner of England. I think of all that we saw, the people we met, the lives we glimpsed, and I realise that it is still all out there, still happening this second and the next, all over the globe, under that very same moon.

The world has not shrunk; it remains colossal. We could ride our entire lives and still only see a fraction of its treasures.

Rationale. Who needs a reason to see the world, our world, the only world we can all call home, with their very own eyes?

PROLOGUE

(Cameroon)

We’re not going to make it!

The bitter taste of fear sucked my throat dry, as we braced for the inevitable. No need to look behind to my pillion. I could sense she knew it too, her legs squeezing ever more tightly around my own. Here, in the ‘armpit’ of Africa thousands of miles from home, drenched by the equatorial rain on a motorcycle at speed, we were going down.

Even Mount Cameroon, spewing fire and lava some way behind us, now paled into insignificance. My mind fought to clear itself of irrelevant thoughts, past reminiscence, and ‘what if’ paralysis. Two choices…brake on the lean…or lean further still. Perhaps another place, another time, either or both might have worked, but here…on this oily bend, with these tyres, carrying this weight, in this weather…not a chance.

Don’t worry, we’ll be okay, I can remember shouting, ever the optimist as we hit the deck at 60 mph. The robust and wide metal panniers saved our legs. Thankfully, once down, the bike went its way and we went ours. Powerless we rolled over and over each other, Ness now a limp rag doll, her head banging on tarmac again and again. Eventually, our paths separated. At last our bodies lay still. Not wishing to sound overly altruistic I had no concern for myself, I knew I had survived. My entire being was now filled with the dread that Ness had not been so lucky.

She must have been thinking the same for miraculously, having rolled for an eternity, we sprang to our feet, simultaneously, desperate to prove one to the other that we were conscious and well. Ness flung her arms around me, tears of relief streaming down her face. We hugged each other, harder than ever before. We were alive.

Our motorcycle the Bear however, was a mess, his twisted handlebars now resembling the cow horns of a Harley, petrol spurting all over the road. The engine bar and pannier were badly scraped.

My chest ached every time I breathed.

Ness sat herself down, cradling her head in her hands.

You okay? I whispered.

My head hurts, she choked.

I examined her helmet. It had taken a beating on both sides. Without it… I shuddered to think.

She looked up at me with enquiring eyes. What happened?

For a split second…I think I must have lost it…too fast, reverse camber, oil on the bend…I’m sorry…

No…No, it’s not your fault, her voice tailed off.

Still dazed, for the first time I took in our surrounds. Time had somehow moved on, passed us by. A group of Italians had stopped and were helping with the bike. Fresh out from Europe, they were speaking of tow trucks and garages. Even in my traumatised state, after five months in Africa I knew this to be futile. At the first opportunity I waved down a likely looking Toyota, an open back Ute. Its Cameroonian driver, though concerned, explained he was not going to Douala and drove on. Yet within seconds I caught sight of his brake lights. He was reversing, leaning out of his cab.

I think I can take you.

I smiled, showing my gratitude. I had a feeling he might. He smiled back, unable to help himself, that huge, infectious, gleaming white smile, utterly genuine, and part of the magic that is Africa. Human kindness had shone through, as so often it did in this heart-wrenching continent. I offered to pay. The Italians looked shocked, annoyed even.

No, he is doing it for free, to be nice, one of them protested.

But that’s not the point, I thought to myself, this is Africa, money is important.

Within minutes, with their help, we had loaded the bike onto the Ute, wedging it in with old tyres from the side of the road.

One of the men, quiet and unassuming, yet authoritative and astute, stood out as a leader. It was exactly what we needed, to be led and looked after, still numbed from our experience. Safely aboard we thanked the Italians for their help. At last they could be on their way.

I sat in the back of the Ute staring ahead. The rain continued to fall. As we bumped along the road we had ridden just a few days earlier, back into Douala, l looked at our sad, twisted machine, wondering if our life’s dream was in the same sorry state. Was our journey by motorcycle around the world really destined to end this way or could we somehow carry on? Should we?

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted. We had stopped alongside a car travelling in the opposite direction. Its white driver was questioning our man at some length. Turning his attention to us, he explained he was our driver’s boss.

Are you hurt? Do you need a hospital? he enquired.

No, I think we’re okay. We’re doctors, I added lamely, wishing I hadn’t.

Then you can look after each other, he grinned, as he pulled away.

For the rest of our short journey our driver seemed pleased. All was well. His boss had praised him for picking us up.

Thankfully, in Douala we already had a haven to which we could head; the Akwa Palace Hotel. Here we stayed at much reduced, peace-corps rates, courtesy of Ed. The staff seemed happy for us to park our wreck there, for the time being at least.

We had met Ed a week previously on the coast at Kribi. He was taking a few days out in an attempt to regain his sanity after several months deep in the jungles of eastern Cameroon. Hailing from Miami, he had an American mother, a Colombian father, and Lebanese blood from some way further back. His mixed lineage had given him his dark, curly hair and impressively tanned skin. His life experience had forged his keen sense of humour.

He and three friends had set up a company with the aim of rekindling a lucrative tobacco industry here in Central Africa. Apparently in former colonial times this area produced highly prized leaves, of such fine quality they were used to produce the coverings of cigars. Whilst the other three partners provided the capital Ed was here on the ground in Cameroon, trying to make their hair-brained venture work – against all the odds it would seem.

Vehicles could only penetrate so far into the jungle. Because of this Ed would find himself walking for days on end, through some of the most inhospitable terrain on Earth. His mission was to find specific villages and persuade their inhabitants to re-grow tobacco. As if the barriers of geography, climate and language were not enough he had to battle with the villagers’ inane logic, firmly rooted in witchcraft. For instance, he might spend days, weeks even, trying to bestow the advantages of growing tobacco in an east-west direction, in terms of crop yield, quality and so forth, only to find when he returned months later, tobacco planted in north-south lines. All for the simple reason that decades ago, someone in the village had perished when the plants were grown facing east-west. The success or failure of his entire business hinged on such unshakeable beliefs, in our eyes bordering on the delusional, in the villagers’ just too important to ignore.

Whilst taking these jungle walks, Ed would photograph the most bizarre-looking insects, posting his pictures on the Internet to alleviate his boredom. Entomologists from around the globe were picking up on his images, unable to believe their luck. Here was a man documenting a corner of the planet that had barely been touched.

You’re where? Ed would drawl, impersonating their incredulity.

I would love to know what happened to Ed. The last we saw of him was in Douala port, still trying to extricate equipment from a container, most of which had been stolen, despite being chained down with multiple locks. That year Time magazine ran an article featuring Cameroon as the most corrupt country in the world…good choice Ed!

Kribi, on the West African coast where we first met Ed, had a remarkable almost primeval setting. Here rainforest abuts ocean. To see the roots of such mighty trees laid bare on the beach, their collective canopy overhanging the sea, was magical indeed. It was here, lit only by the flickering flame of a candle, that the three of us chatted late into the night. The sound of waves lapping on the shore made an odd accompaniment to the overhead din of countless unseen, rainforest creatures. Most of the noise came from the cicadas, forever rattling their lengthy hind-legs. This close to the Equator, when the sun sets, there is little time to reach for a torch, as if you would want to. With the abruptness of a switch darkness descends, along with the deafening buzz of the jungle. It is at such times that cold statistics ring wonderfully true, those that speak of a rainforest’s extraordinary biodiversity.

Later that night Ness and I sweltered in our tent, itching and scratching, all thanks to two, tiny unwelcome guests. We have both been witness to many a campfire debate as to which is Africa’s most dangerous animal – the buffalo, the hippo, maybe even the lion? – but no, thanks to malaria, it has to be the mosquito. And now, in the early hours, I could stand them no longer. I escaped to sleep under the roof of a nearby shack, to be cooled by the sea breeze. Oblivious to what shared my sleeping space, I awoke in the morning to the sound of two men banging at the shack’s roof with the end of a broom. I caught a glint of brilliant green as the offender slithered down from the comfort of his temporary abode – a green mamba, one of the deadliest snakes in the world. I watched as the Africans killed it with consummate ease. Despite my close encounter I couldn’t help feeling a little sad, my English sentimentality briefly getting the better of me.

Riding south from Kribi, our forest track a thin, brown thread running through a tapestry of arboreal green, I felt elated at where we were. The map in the tankbag lay inches from my face, goading us on with its evocative contents. Names like Bay of Benin, Gabon and Equatorial Guinea stirred up the adventure within me as the world’s secrets continued to unfold in front of our eyes.

Nothing excites me more than spinning a globe or opening a map, looking at remote and distant lands, wondering, dreaming…Nothing, that is, except actually being there.

We came upon Les Chutes de la Lobé, one of the very few places anywhere on Earth where a waterfall empties directly into the sea. Chocolate brown waters mirrored the lush green rainforest above, before thundering their final few metres into an expectant ocean. We watched as naked children, running, jumping, splashing and laughing, revelled in the world’s most perfect playground.

We were looking at the Atlantic, the very same ocean that laps our own cold shores. My mind wandered. We had come a long way; eleven thousand miles since leaving home.

Yes, we had come a very long way…

CHAPTER 1

ONE-WAY TICKET

(England, France, Spain, Gibraltar)

How’s the bike? I shouted nervously, struggling to make myself heard.

Planted mate, yelled Dave through a rain-drenched visor as he gave us the thumbs up and rode alongside. Together we filled the inside lane. Good old Dave, it was exactly what I needed to hear. Two-up and packed for the world I felt more like a pilot than a motorcyclist in charge of this hefty beast.

Dave had changed his rota and cancelled other engagements more times than I cared to remember over the past two weeks. He was that determined to give us a proper send off, to ride with us from London to Portsmouth. Anyone who comes out on a motorcycle in the dark in rush-hour, in such filthy weather on the M25, on Friday 13th, just to say goodbye has to be a very special friend.

We were joined by others at The Gandhi in Portsmouth for a farewell curry.

Huh, look at those shiny, spanking new boxes, mused Steve as he stared at the rear of the bike. I’d known Steve since houseman days. He wasn’t one to mince his words. They’ll be dented, scratched, battered to bits by the time you get back.

I swallowed hard. Not for the first time I felt scared. How do you ride a motorcycle around the world and survive? How to avoid those oncoming lorries, the blind bends, the mountain passes, the rabid dogs? I wasn’t too sure, but I had to believe we could. To have total conviction, maybe that was the answer? From now on, whenever doubt crept in and raised its ugly head we would have to make it go away. I developed a little saying, which I uttered again and again throughout the length of the journey.

‘We WILL survive, we WILL stay healthy, NEVER let your guard down’.

Like a mantra, a prayer, it became my destroyer of doubt and fear as we rode, day by day, mile by mile. In any case with Ness on the back we had to survive. Had I not promised her mother?

Describing your girlfriend can never be easy without sounding biased. Slim and fit with a pretty face and beautifully long dark hair we had met at medical school over a decade before. Intelligent, kind, trusting; Ness was all these things yet more. As we lined up in the queue to board the ferry from Portsmouth to Cherbourg she leaned over my shoulder, the bike rumbling beneath us, and whispered in my ear.

I’m so happy I could burst. I wish we could tell all these people, we’re not just going to France for the weekend, we’re going to ride around the whole world.

As a man in South Africa once said to me, ‘you got yourself a game on bird there’. And that, in a nutshell, was it. She wanted this trip as much as I. Yes, it started off as my dream. I was to be riding the bike. But the passion, enthusiasm, commitment, we both had it. It was never a case of one dragging the other.

As the rain continued to fall we submitted our ticket to the lady in the booth. Hesitant, she looked up.

There’s no return date. When do you come back?

It was a fair question. We tried to explain, but it was all in vain. Eventually, bored and confused, she waved us on.

•

Europe passed in a flash. With no map of the continent packed, it was simply meant to be. Europe could wait till we were old and grey.

Sitting in a pub in Gibraltar, supping my last English pint for a very long time, we listened to the headlines – Life on Mars.

I winked at Ness. Next trip?

She laughed.

I sauntered outside to stock up with Marlboro, two hundred cigarettes, possibly the most useful paperwork any overlander can hope to carry. In previous trips a well-placed smoke had won over more guards and eased our passage through more borders than either of us cared to remember.

Ness, engaging in some last minute retail-therapy, asked politely and innocently in one of the Gibraltese shops whether they took English money.

"This is England," came the reply, in no uncertain terms.

It was time to move on, to Tarifa in Spain, the southernmost point in mainland Europe. As windsurfers we knew it well. Tarifa is an extraordinary place, an ancient Moorish town. With its thick-walled battlements and cobble streets it occupies a remarkably significant position, marking the westernmost expansion of Islam. Here the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic. Tarifa stands on the continent of Europe yet is a mere thirteen miles from Africa. Daily, it is pounded by the poniente or levante; westerly and easterly winds so strong, so incessant that the locals suffer from a wind-induced madness known as tarifado. Renowned as the wind capital of Europe, Ness and I had returned season after season and every year, walking along its lengthy beaches, we had gazed in wonder at the colossal mountains of the Atlas and Rif. On a clear summer’s day both ranges look close enough to touch. In Tarifa, Africa not only beckons, it commands. Now at last we were answering that call.

Riding off European soil, bound for Morocco, was a bigger wrench even than sailing from England. Exhilaration and anticipation of what lay ahead were equally matched by worry and nagging doubts – have we really got everything we need because this is the last possible chance of getting it type of feeling – feelings that over the months and years to follow were to be blown away. It actually seems easier to me now to have a major repair, such as welding of the frame, done in Africa or India say, than in Europe, and possibly a hundredfold cheaper.

Blessed by sunshine and a calm sea we gazed back at the diminishing Spanish coastline; even the dolphins were out to see us on our way. We had no idea at the time just how long it would be before we set eyes on the Mediterranean again. From that moment on we lived only for the present. Everything we would see we had never seen before. Every person we met was to be another perspective on life; every mile covered revealing a new horizon. The freedom of it all, the anticipation, was utterly intoxicating.

CHAPTER 2

MARRAKECH KISS

(Morocco)

After breakfast I wandered on deck, to be bathed in sunshine. The vessel seemed empty of people. Those who were on board were mainly Moroccans and foreign enough to give me that slight pang of homesickness. Hardly surprising I suppose, given how long it would be before we saw our homes and our families again. Men played cards and dominoes whilst their wives had that familiar head down, eyes averted, almost apologetic demeanour so typical of women in the Islamic world.

Below deck the stench of diesel and the clamour of engines filled the air as we hurriedly got ourselves together and on to the bike. I prayed my boots would hold us, as the weight of the loaded motorcycle lunged forward off its centre-stand on to the slippery, metal deck. Proud of the fact that we had spent three months or more arming ourselves with every piece of documentation an overlander could ever want or need, we were both aghast when asked by the customs officer for the one piece of paper we did not possess, ‘la carte verte’. We sprang into action as a team. I ferreted in the tankbag, dragging out a mesmerising display of formal looking papers, whilst Ness essentially chatted the guy up. Within minutes we were waved on our way, the officer still scratching his head as I watched him shrink in my mirror, no doubt still wondering why an English girl was quite so interested in his wife, kids, job, life.

We emerged quite literally into another world, like Gulliver entering a new land. Car horns blared against a background of loud, distorted Arabic music, punctuated by the hack and spittle of a thousand smoke-damaged lungs. Lining the dusty streets were open-front cafés with their groups of men intent on putting the world to rights over tea and a shisha, whilst the women… actually, where were the women…?

Eager to make headway we left Tangier following signs for Rabat, soon peeling off to a smart hotel, to change a traveller’s cheque for a sheaf of dirham. The cool interior with its exquisite tiling and rich rugs was inviting but way over our budget. In any case it was still only morning.

The landscape was surprisingly green, lush even, dotted with pretty wild flowers, a welcome sight having come from an English winter. Even here in the north of Morocco the villages seemed remote and lost in a bygone, biblical age with Berbers dressed in floor-length, coarse brown cloaks with pointed hoods, leading their wives and children by donkey.

Soon we were skirting the Atlantic, its dazzling white surf crashing onto empty beaches. Only an occasional sentry box broke the monotony of the long lonely road. Two hundred kilometres short of Rabat we were surprised, disappointed even, to find ourselves on a smart new motorway. We need not have worried. It was to be our last in Africa, at least until Johannesburg.

Rabat, though not unattractive with its wide streets, gleaming white buildings and elegant palms, had the feel of a working city. Entering its outskirts we were only too aware that our onward journey, the whole trip, hinged on this one capital city.

Crossing Africa overland is never going to be easy or straightforward. The sheer size of the continent is impressive enough. At nearly twelve million square miles Britain fits into Africa one hundred and thirty-nine times. The impassability of much of its terrain and the political instability of many of its fifty-three countries mean that riding the length of the continent will always be difficult. Any chosen route is likely to fall prey to the continent’s volatility. We had already ridden the length of Africa on its eastern side from Cairo to Cape Town in 1995. Given this and the fact that Algeria still looked decidedly dangerous, we had opted to cross the Sahara at its western edge. This would involve riding through Mauritania, a country with very few embassies around the world and none in London. Research had told us that officially Mauritania did not allow entry overland and that the only way of obtaining a visa was to descend on one of its embassies armed with a return air-ticket. The visa would then be stamped air-entry only but one could still enter overland, or so we had been told. There was an Embassy in Paris but we were much more likely to succeed, so I had heard, in Rabat. So here we now were, already in Morocco but with no onward visa for Mauritania.

As soon as we arrived in Rabat we headed for the travel agent who reputedly sold photocopies of Air Mauritania plane tickets in order to obtain visas. We eventually found the rogue shop, but the answer was no. Dejected we tried not to panic. What could we do? Backtrack a thousand miles to Paris? Already we were well behind schedule to reach Central Africa ahead of the rains.

All of this was racing through my mind as we cruised past a line of cars waiting at traffic lights in the centre of Rabat. I pulled in front of the lead car to take up pole position, ready for the lights to go green, quite normal behaviour for a bike.

…Whack!

I could not believe it. We were over, on the ground. At this stage of the trip everything was perfect, the kit so organised, the rear pannier boxes shiny and new. Not any more. The box was dented but that was nothing compared to my pride. Sadly, the driver of the car we had wafted in front of had taken offence and decided to ram us. Totally unrepentant he then calmly drove around and alongside of us, smirking all the while. You b..tard I thought. I was seething with anger but had pledged not to rise to provocation. We would undoubtedly be subjected to stupidity on the roads unseen and unimaginable in Europe. To indulge in road rage would be lunacy, especially given our vulnerability. Well, that was the plan, as I swore at the man and cursed myself for riding a motorcycle we could barely lift.

For several sore and sour moments I hated the entire Arab world and everyone in it. Why is prejudice so easy to resort to? There we were: a spectacle in our ridiculous clothes with our ridiculous machine; foreigners in a strange land. People were laughing at us. I hated them all. And then something happened neither of us will ever forget. A local man, also a Muslim, drew up on his moped and parked it to one side. Calmly walking over to where we lay he lifted our bike, unaided. He then said how sorry he was that such a thing had become us, shook my hand, smiled at Ness and bade us farewell. As quietly as he had arrived he left.

Day one in Africa and I had already dropped the bike. It was time to get off the thing and take stock. Hôtel de la Paix was a real find, our sort of place – cheap and tatty but full of character; old with high ceilings and oozing colonial charm. That evening, leaving the bike on the pavement guarded by the night watchman, we found Restaurant El Bahia, built into the medina walls. After a meal of harira and tagine I knocked over my drink and fell asleep at the table snoring, only to wake swearing blind that I had been drugged, or so Ness tells me. We made our way home munching on dates. From now on ‘home’ was wherever we lay our kit, even if only for a night. It is the not knowing where that might be, from one day to the next, that for me will always be the elixir of travel.

First stop in the morning was the British Embassy. We shuffled through the pile of advice sheets relating to countries on our route. It made for depressing reading, convincing us by the end that coming out of this trip alive would be nothing short of a miracle. But then I do sometimes wonder about our Foreign Office. ‘Safe’ to them seems to mean Benidorm or Bognor.

We made our way to the Mauritanian Embassy where by chance Ness spoke with a Belgian traveller. He confirmed the impossibility of obtaining a Mauritanian visa without an air ticket. However he knew of a place called Modem Travel running a recognised scam. For thirty pounds they provided you with an air ticket to show to the Embassy, keeping your credit card until the ticket was returned.

It was a race against time. We had to be back in the Mauritanian Embassy by 11am or wait until Monday. We roared through the streets of Rabat to find Modem Travel who were immediately obliging. Who knows, they were probably in cohorts with the Embassy staff? By lunchtime it was done, we had Mauritanian visas firmly stamped in our passports.

Riding out of Rabat we passed the sturdy, ancient walls guarding its estuary. Ashamed as I am to admit it, within a few miles we ran out of petrol. And this in spite of the fact that we had the world’s largest motorcycle fuel tank, capable of holding forty-five litres – nearly ten gallons.

Unusually for us Morocco was a country of deadlines. At the time we felt we had to race through. Despite our best intentions we had left England many weeks later than planned. And the knowledge that we must cross the equatorial rainforests of Central Africa before the rainy season arrived, some time in February, was foremost in our minds. We had decided therefore to ‘make up time’ in Morocco, a country close enough to home to be relatively easy to revisit.

Inevitably however, it was unforeseen daily events, fate, which ultimately fashioned our journey, repeatedly blowing away foregone plans. It can take months, years even, to escape the western mindset and accept a journey for what it becomes, rather than trying to make it what you planned it to be. And with that realisation come rewards, so often denied by the conventional two-week break.

Casablanca was a place I knew nothing about, but the mere mention of its name would conjure up the most exotic and evocative images. Yet because of these ‘deadlines’ it remains a mere mirage in my mind, a shimmering white city, distant on the horizon. A place, I am sad to say, we were in too much of a hurry to see.

Not so Marrakech. Friends were due to arrive by plane. We had promised to meet them, which caused us to break our cardinal rule. We rode in the dark. Somewhere I read that riding a motorcycle is statistically the most dangerous thing one can do, except fight in a war. Riding in the dark therefore, when ninety percent of the clues that keep you alive are gone, is madness. That night we were mad.

The Casablanca-Marrakech road was hideously busy; full of trucks driving without lights. Riding in the half-light for as long as we dared we finally stopped for a coffee at a roadside café. Taken as we were with the television and its French cartoons, avidly watched by us and a gang of giggling children, it was soon time to move on. Not one of the children noticed us leave. TV’s hypnosis of the young is truly global it would seem. After two more hours of riding, as slow as it took to stay in one piece, we rolled into Marrakech.

Sensibility aside, arriving in Marrakech by night was fun. We glided through the dimly lit streets, drawn by an unseen force into the core of the old town. For a few beautiful moments the bike was our magic carpet, crossing the centuries to the time of the Sultans, gently placing us in the middle of an extraordinary Square, Djemaa el Fna.

Thankfully, no one seemed remotely interested in us. It was Friday night, the middle of their weekend and in the Muslim world that means one thing. Food. Food and its preparation assaulted every sense. Dozens of carts ringed the periphery of this enormous arena, tightly packed like a wagon train, every one brimming with oranges, supplying juice at a frenetic rate. Within the Square, row upon row of stalls, brightly lit by lanterns and open flames, filled the air with their mouth-watering aromas of barbequed kebabs and pungent spices. Some stalls specialised in a local delicacy – roasted sheep’s head. Laid out in lines the severed heads stared obediently at those about to eat them. Every now and then one of their eyes would be popped out and offered to us as a special treat. Pots of oil boiled and bubbled on stalls dedicated to raising your cholesterol with their deep fried delicacies. Others were committed to the brewing and serving of tea, poured at great height from the grandest of urns. Magicians, jugglers, acrobats, snake-charmers and story-tellers, all vied for attention, drawing their individual crowds, casting their spell. Hustlers, thieves, sellers and travellers; the place breathed life, medieval life.

In our travels together over the years Ness and I have adopted one or two rules. One of which is not to spend hours looking for the most perfect hotel, hut or hovel in which to stay. If a room is basically clean, secure, has access to water, and nowadays has somewhere safe for the Bear, then we take it.

Tonight was no exception. Leaving our kit in a hotel room we rushed off to Marrakech Airport to meet Charlie and Natalie, two friends who were taking a holiday in Morocco. Never one to miss an opportunity I had phoned Charlie before we left England, asking him to bring out a set of Michelin Desert tyres. To reach Marrakech we had ridden nearly two thousand miles, all of it tarmac. To have done this on Deserts would have been a serious waste, wearing the knobbly tread best reserved for the Saharan sand. I felt for him though at the airport, trying to explain his unusual luggage to Customs Control.

We followed their taxi back to Djemaa el Fna. I don’t think Natalie liked the room we had found them – different expectations, different budgets I suppose. The four of us wandered the Square, talking of home and work and friends, sadly oblivious now to the magic around us – tourists, fifteen minutes from an air port.

One of the most pleasurable things about travelling has to be breakfast; having the time to savour it whilst considering your day ahead. This particular Saturday morning, as we watched Marrakech slowly stir, I very nearly choked on my food as Natalie came to join us. Blonde hair, red lipstick, a low-cut sleeveless top and bright, red shorts…short shorts!

There was no polite way of asking her if she was actually, really, truly going to wear that outfit, outside of the hotel, on the streets of the old city, through the souks, in front of the mosques. Clearly she was, so all I could do was carry on with my breakfast.

We split for the day, spotting them just once in the midst of a commotion, being sworn at and chased by the keeper of Kououbia, the tallest and most famous mosque in Marrakech, in front of which they had been kissing.

Somehow Ness and I managed to ride out of Marrakech the next day with our heads still firmly planted on our shoulders.

CHAPTER 3

SAHARA

(Morocco, Western Sahara, Mauritania)

Carrying everything you need to ride around the world, for two people on one bike is tricky. Minimalism is the key. I always remember the words of an ex-SAS guy in Zimbabwe years ago. I was one of the expedition medics.

Whether you’re out in the bush for three days, three months or three years you need the same amount of gear. Pack for three days. End of story.

Limited space, quality of kit, continual reparation, making things last, carrying only what you really need: for me these are the big draws of motorcycle travel. Today’s culture – its obsession with material wealth, ever more possessions, and bigger and bigger houses and cars to keep it all in – seem only to crowd one’s life, create anxiety and detract from any chance of connecting with what really matters. Perhaps I am simply displaying the traits and teachings of my parents. Born in 1928, teenagers throughout the war, their early adult lives were governed by ration-books, shortages and an inherent sense of value. It has rubbed off on me.

We have a pannier each for personal kit. They soon fill when bulky items like walking boots, fleece and wash kit take up the space. Ness, to her girlfriends’ horror, packed just three pairs of G-strings for the entire trip. The tankbag takes mostly tools and spares as well as documentation, guidebooks, maps, binoculars and an SLR camera. The pack at the rear is dedicated to camping – sleeping bags, stove, mess tins, water-bottles, water filter, food, medical kit. This leaves the tent strapped on one pannier, and sleeping mats, water bags, waterproofs and more food on the other. On the front mudguard, rolled up inside a canoe bag, is a sixty-five litre rucksack, its backstays tucked under the seat, this so that we could abandon the bike periodically and trek for weeks at a time. The whole luggage system was packed in such a way as to keep the centre of gravity low. This meant the bike handled surprisingly well off-road, even in sand, especially on low tyre pressures. We were like the proverbial bumble bee: in theory too heavy to fly, but fly we did. Travelling so light was invariably tougher on Ness than I. After Africa I did notice a hairdryer, amongst other things, sneak its way into her kit.

•

Marrakech to Dakhla, tarmac’s end, was a thousand miles. For days we rode at reasonable speed through a monotonous landscape of stony scrub punctuated by the occasional road sign warning of camels. At times we glimpsed the Atlantic Ocean. Ships lay wrecked on the beach, their crews long since perished in this empty and unforgiving land. Beyond Tan Tan we found ourselves in the Western Sahara, a vast, troubled area now under Moroccan jurisdiction. It was formerly a Spanish colony, largely forgotten until the discovery of enormous phosphate reserves in the 1960s. Spain developed and exploited the deposits but met with increasing hostility and a growing nationalist feeling from the resident Saouarhis. This mixed group of Western Saharan tribes formed the ‘Popular Front for the Liberation of Saguia el Hamra and Rio de Oro’, ‘POLISARIO’ for short. They attacked the Spanish and later the Moroccans and Mauritanians. Algeria and Libya latterly became involved. Under increasing pressure from the UN and OAU (Organisation of African Unity) a ceasefire came into effect in 1991, along with a peace plan designed to give the inhabitants a choice between Independence or Moroccan rule. To help outnumber the Saouarhis and so win any referendum, Morocco has attempted to lure settlers into the Western Sahara with various incentives, including cheap fuel. This was certainly a bonus for us.

Before leaving home we had pored over maps and books for months, looking for a way to cross the Sahara, the world’s largest desert. ‘Classic’ routes through Algeria became impossibly dangerous in the early 1990s thanks to national instability and a Tuareg uprising. Libya and northern Chad were unfeasible due to continued unrest in Chad’s mountainous Tibesti area. The eastern side through Egypt and the Sudan we had already covered in our ride from Cairo to Cape Town in 1995. The answer lay in the western Atlantic route, but this was not without its problems: guerrilla activity in the Western Sahara, mines, visa difficulties and stories of vehicles being lost to the sea along a narrow beach-piste, to name but a few. With all this in mind it was with some trepidation that we entered Western Sahara.

For days we forged south on this easy, but relentless and lonely road. I could not help but feel a little short-changed. The desert was monotonous; flat and stony with barely a sand dune in sight. The bitumen was perfect. The numerous police roadblocks were friendly and polite. It wasn’t even hot. At least the petrol stations, sometimes three hundred miles apart, with their bright orange signs, ‘Atlas Sahara’, reminded us of where we were.

By the time we had made it to Dakhla we were just a few miles north of the Tropic of Cancer. Dakhla was a dusty little town sat on a stunning, sandy peninsula, its local economy bolstered by the gaggle of Europeans who gathered each week to join the army-led convoy south. Because of mines no-one was allowed to go it alone. Bureaucracy abounds and most of the day was taken up filling in forms. The fifty passport photos we each carried were fast disappearing. Quite why our mothers’ maiden names were so important to the Moroccan authorities I guess we’ll never know.

As we stood in the heat of the midday sun, parked up with the rest of the convoy I took a good look around. We were the only bike in a sea of cars, mostly clapped-out Peugeots, a few Mercedes, the occasional fully fitted out four-wheel-drive, and one strange looking French truck. There must have been thirty vehicles. We, their drivers, were a mixed bunch. Misfits, adventurers, dreamers, runaways, call us what you will, but we all had one thing in common. We were determined to cross the Sahara.

Lost in thought I looked up to find a man eyeing the bike. A few years older than us with cropped, greying hair, wearing shorts and a collared shirt complete with neckerchief to keep out the dust, he was remarkably well dressed. His name was Max, he was Italian and charming. Ness liked him. I could tell.

Many on the convoy were French, out to make a buck or at least pay for their five week trip. Having bought a Peugeot for a song in France their plan was to drive, tow, push or drag it across the Sahara in the hope of reaching Dakar, Senegal, to then sell at a profit. Some of the drivers were old hands, on their third or fourth trip.

A group of Spaniards looked particularly hot and uncomfortable, squeezed into their Renault 5, the front bumper already strapped to the roof rack.

The only other Brits were a cheerful couple from Weymouth – he a retired fisherman, she an auxiliary nurse. They had bought a Lada in an auction for £150 and kitted it out from a car boot sale. Already their trip had nearly ended coming through Spain, thanks to mechanical problems. They were headed for the Gambia, hoping to sell the car to pay for their winter holiday and flight home. They introduced us to Jacques and Margarita; a French couple in their seventies. It had been Jacques’ life-long dream to drive through West Africa. At long last they were living that dream – in a two-wheel-drive, without a tent, sleeping in the reclining front seats of their car. I did wonder, having had a lifetime to think about it, whether they might be a little better prepared? What they lacked in youth they made up for in spirit, always the first to be helping out.

Perhaps the most unusual vehicle of the convoy was a low slung, Mercedes truck. It looked like a sawn-off railway carriage, complete with motorcycle strapped to its rear. Its driver, Hervé, was a tall, slim Frenchman with a kindly face. He spoke very good English. His wife Beatrice was tiny. She owned a pharmacy near Lille. The truck had been her mobile dispensary, lovingly converted by Hervé for desert travel.

The convoy also included a number of smart, Italian-registered, black Mercedes, driven by Arabs who somehow avoided the endless bureaucracy that dogged the rest of us. These cars were almost certainly stolen, the Moroccan police taking a healthy pay-off for turning a blind eye.

Eventually our motley crew set off from Dakhla mid-afternoon, back along the peninsula to rejoin the main, southbound road. I’m not entirely sure of the definition of ‘convoy’ but whatever it is I doubt we fitted it. The Mercedes immediately overtook the police and disappeared. Several of the Peugeots broke down. Hervé’s truck ambled noisily along. The oldies stopped frequently to pee, whilst we simply tried to keep out of harm’s way. We passed only one village and that at a distance, a mirage lost in a dune.

After two hundred miles we arrived at Fort Guerguarat, little more than a car park in the dirt. We set up camp whilst the stragglers trickled in an hour after nightfall. Ness had the runs pretty badly by now, all thanks to drinking giardia-ridden tea on the slopes of Mount Toubkal, North Africa’s highest peak. We had climbed this mountain on a foray into the Atlas from Marrakech. I felt for her now. Coping with diarrhoea in the grounds of a mined fort, in the middle of nowhere surrounded by strangers, could not have been much fun. The camion, as we came to know Hervé’s truck, and a Land Rover 110 Defender parked next to us. The Land Rover belonged to Max, our Italian friend. He was travelling alone and his vehicle was a piece of overlanding perfection. Originally an engineer he had prepared it well. His roof rack carried an integral tent with built in mattress, top-of-the-range sand ladders and numerous jerry cans to augment the extra fuel tank he had built into the chassis. He had a range of at least two thousand miles and could carry two hundred litres of water. Added to this he had shovels, winches, GPS and a satellite phone.

Max admired our petrol stove as I sat in the dirt cooking our food, out of friendliness or pity I was never quite sure. He liked to talk. They all did. After a while I took a short stroll, relishing the solitude. I looked up at the stars, for a moment lost in the enormity of it all.

In the morning we woke, a disorganised rabble. Today was to be a very long day. We had seen our last stretch of tarmac before Nouakchott, some six hundred kilometres to the south, but first we had to reach Nouâdhibou. This was only sixty kilometres away, but between here and there lay a border littered with mines.

The Moroccan army were to lead us through this minefield between Western Sahara and Mauritania, or so I understood. Hence my surprise when we, the only motorcycle, were told to set off and lead the way. Having crossed Africa before, we had ridden thousands of miles off-road, but never through a minefield. Suddenly I felt terribly nervous and decidedly rusty, trailed as we were by thirty vehicles. We negotiated rocky sections and sandy tracks before reaching a long patch of very soft sand.

Are those what I think they are? Ness commented, warily.

Inching our way forwards I began to sweat. Following her pointing finger I could actually see the mines now, poking out of the sand, just metres from the track. Tourists had been killed in the past. That much we knew. The occasional, twisted wreckage of a Land Rover brought the danger of it all sharply in to focus.

After ten very slow kilometres we were ordered to stop. None of us knew why. Some became restless, asking questions, demanding answers, but to no avail. A group of German hippies with dreadlocks and colourful caps spilled out of their white van. Bored, they started juggling with batons and balls.

This was the first of several Mauritanian border posts. Straining I could just see a little man, sat behind a mountain of passports in a stone hut. He beckoned us forwards, a vehicle at a time. As Ness and I stood before him he fussed about the air-entry stamp on our visas. We feigned non-comprehension and thankfully he soon lost interest.

More sand, another kilometre or two, a further queue. The hours ticked by.

Eventually we came to a railway line, the lifeline of the country. Running from Zouerat, deep in the interior, its record-breaking trains are kilometres long, carrying hundreds of tonnes of iron-ore to the coast for export. Sadly for Mauritania the high-grade ore is running out. Already the country is one of the poorest in the world. A far cry indeed from a thousand years ago when its trade in gold, slaves and salt spawned untold riches.

By dusk we came to the first of three more checkpoints before Nouâdhibou, where absurdly they handed us currency declaration forms. We listed the traveller’s cheques but kept quiet about the thousand U.S. dollars cash we always kept hidden away, folded and zipped into our outwardly normal, trouser belts. Yet again we found ourselves writing our parents’ names on a scrap of paper to be lost on a floor awash with passports. A further short ride. Another checkpoint. We queued in complete darkness, again for over an hour. By now it was cold. We were grateful for the warmth of our lined jackets. The German jugglers exploded out of their van once more, this time to hand us mugs of mint tea.

At last it was my turn to be called into the second of the three checkpoints. A man in army uniform, crammed into his hut, wedged behind a table, lit only by the light of a pen torch he had acquired from another traveller, interrogated me.

"Avez-vous un cadeau pour moi, monsieur?"

"Je suis désolé, mais j’ai besoin de tous mes equipments pour mon voyage," I replied, proud of my schoolboy French.

"Seulement un petit cadeau. Donnez-moi un cadeau s’il vous plait."

I had heard the officials on this border were corrupt but I had been expecting something a little more forceful. In a way I felt sorry for these men, stuck out here with no prospect of a better life, watching us Europeans parade through. I really could not think of anything I had that I did not need. I also did not want to embark on a slippery slope by handing out bribes. He looked rather crestfallen but, accepting the inevitable, handed me back my passport, last seen in Morocco.

The third and final hut passed for a Douane (Customs Post) where they took our International Registration Document, to be returned the next day. We had a spare should it be lost. At last. We were free to go.

Exhausted, we rode the final few kilometres into Nouâdhibou. Described simply as ‘a hole’ in our guidebook I found it rather more appealing. It had an edge-of-the-world feeling as we entered its wide, sandy streets lined by dimly lit shacks. Men in white robes sat chatting in groups, whilst goats scoured the litter. Ness with her eagle eyes spotted Weetabix packets on the shelves of one of the shops. As we slowed we were accosted by hustlers. Along with Hervé, Beatrice and Max we followed a ‘trustworthy’ tout to a tiny, sand-filled courtyard with iron gates and a surrounding brick wall. This was the campsite. Two filthy, squatty loos and a cold shower festered in the