(pictures to follow soon)

After a bad night’s sleep camping on a sand dune behind the petrol station we made an early start towards Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania. It was only 250km away and so it was easy riding. We saw different faces of the Sahara desert with rolling orange dunes and flat stretches of white rocks with a sprinkling of vegetation. This was a comparatively deserted desert though, from the border to the capital we only crossed a couple of villages; settlements along the road really. Their wooden shacks were leaning in the same direction as the wind and people were sitting idle in front of them. We did note though that they all had decent cars parked next to them. It was interesting that the Mauritanian desert also felt poorer than that of Western Sahara; as soon as we had crossed the border the roadside was littered with burned out/crashed cars and decomposing bodies of camels and donkeys. I don’t know the explanation for either but suspect that the former may be the result of a late night/high speed encounter with the latter…

Arriving in Nouakchott was very interesting; we weren’t prepared for the heat. I suspect it was in the high 30s Celsius, which is mild there, but nearly unbearable for us riding in all our motorcycle gear. We stopped at a petrol station and were surprised that the pump attendant wanted to buy our euros. Talk of confidence in the local currency! This was the second station we visited though, the first one didn’t have unleaded petrol and the attendant barely got up from the oil stained mattress on which he was napping, right by the pumps. He had been bothered a few moments before our arrival by a man on a camel… Was he picking up diesel for his car? We don’t know but it was funny to see a camel waiting at a petrol station.

Guest post by Louise Wilson.

From various sources of information we were advised to reach the border when it opened at 8.30.
We arrived at the Moroccan border at 9am to find a queue of cars standing still as the border didn’t open until 9.30am. We went off to have a nosey to find a hotel (basic and nasty) a cafe and a shop. I went round to the toilets to find a guy tell me in English that the loo was free. Turned out he lives in Dulwich and Grew up in Peckham. He was hoping to cross the border but hadn’t realised he needed to get a visa in Rabat…

We also spotted a petrol station right at the border so took advantage and both filled up. With our full tanks and the extra 10 litres we were carrying we would definitely make it through the day.

The queue began to move around 10am but David’s bike wouldn’t start. A slight panic ensued and lots of playing around; a Senegalese guy from in front came to help. I ran off looking for a screw driver but the problem was discovered. There was a loose connection on the battery and it was soon resolved and the bike was moving again.

After buying cookies, orange juice and dates from the shop we were told by a local guy that we should queue jump down the right hand side. I went ahead and sure enough, the gendarme let us through. We had one check to be given a piece of paper to complete (and David was asked about his camera and they deleted the film of me showing the border control!). Once through we had to do a police, gendarmerie and customs controls – each organised chaos, with friendly locals and lots of waiting around. I quickly removed the memory card from the video camera so I could show the internal memory images if asked but it was fine.

After 4 checks, we bumped into Jule from Quebec, a cyclist we had been told to look out for, and David, a welsh guy who had been riding with Tommy (who’s blog we’ve followed).

The second you enter the no-mans land (5km stretch between the two countries, mostly mined) you’re pestered to change money and have a local escort you through to the border. We decided to change money on the ‘black market’ from a very trendy local (the kind you see in London) but there were disagreements and lots of counting for correct change.

We didn’t cross until 11.30am

Off we went with welsh David’s advice to stay left to avoid the sand, stay in 1st gear and take it slow. We met up with Jule who was waiting for us in a burnt out car, did some filming and took photos. The desserted cars, broken TVs and tyres were crazy!

The 5km was fine. There were a few patches of sand but David was great at guiding me through. Some areas you need to paddle through and accelerate out of any big bits.

It was actually quite fun and we were soon at the Mauritanian border where it suddenly got really hot and barren.

The guys selling money were there again high fiving the officials and there were lots of people walking around selling cigarettes. The police in Mauritania have big, nasty dogs but the officials were friendly and relatively helpful. Again, there were a few checks to go through and I tended to sit in the shade and watch the bikes while David sorted the paper work. The last official guy checked my passport and said something in French which I realised was probably asking for a bribe but i asked if he spoke English and he hurried me on. I parked up ahead which was lucky as he asked David for money but he said I had it all…

Even over the Mauritanian border we had to go and sign a tourist declaration form and then get insurance.

Just waiting to buy insurance was interesting. A little hut on the side had a shop at one end where we could buy cold juice (2 for 400crrenrly) and an insurance ‘office’ with lots of people fighting for attention. All of this time I’ve been the only women…some people have been friendly, some have stared and walked on and one asked if I would be going to his tonight! A few asked if I was married and why I didn’t have a child.

It is now 2.20pm and it’s clear we won’t make Nouakchott tonight. Bob ‘the lone wolf’ suggested we camp behind the Total petrol station if we don’t make it and that probably makes sense. It’s boiling hot and we had an early start.

After 650km and 8 police and gendarmerie road checks we finally made it to Dakhla. The checks are a constant reminder that we are in disputed territory. But we have a good routine going on. Louise rides in the front and when she takes her helmet off, gives them an enthusiastic “bonjour!” They then look at me and ask for our passports; I say she’s the boss and she carries them both. Then I show them the sticker with our route outline on my windscreen and say that we’re going to Banjul “inch’allah”. This makes us look friendly and has eased the procedure. That being said we have found people in Western Sahara very nice!

As we were crossing the city of Laayoune (which is very clean and modern) we heard fun fire and thought “uh oh”… Only to realise they came from men in robes on beautifully decorated horses. It then became quickly obvious that this was a celebration. We were immediately swarmed by a crowd of young people with Moroccan flags and pictures of the king. They were celebrating the Green March (a mass demonstration in November 1975, coordinated by the Moroccan government, to force Spain to hand over the disputed, autonomous semi-metropolitan Spanish Province of Sahara to Morocco). They all wanted to have they’re pictures taken with us and we were happy to abide. This level of enthusiasm was contrasted later by a petrol station attendant who, when he saw our stickers which mention “western Sahara” said to me discreetly in English “yes, this is Western Sahara, not Morocco!”.

We entered the sandy peninsula of Dakhla to be greeted by an amazing orange sun setting on the white sand dunes. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect!

We had a very long day planned for our first day in Western Sahara. We wanted to ride all the way to the famous camping Le Roi Bedouin near Laayoune but my battery had different plans. Instead we had a 3 hour stop in Tan Tan where local mechanics fit me out with a “batterie d’origine” which is at best Chinese and most likely what they equip their 3 wheel trucks with. But it works!

i have to give a special thanks to Steve who contacted me after seeing our blog on the ABR forum. Steve told us about a nasty little trick the police plays on unsuspecting out-of-towners. There is a concealed stop sign at a round about on the way out and a policeman hides and catches anyone who fail to see it. He charges 40€ for it! We were warned and managed to avoid being caught, unlike two cars of Senegalese people we had met at s petrol station earlier… Thanks for the heads up Steve!

The delay meant that we stayed the night in Tarfaya after the hottest day so far. What we saw of Western Sahara was far from what we had expected. Of course it’s long, dry and empty but we found it quite beautiful. The roads follows the Atlantic and now and then overlooks magnificent bays and kilometres of sandy beach. Our second day wasn’t even very hot; the ocean breeze was welcome and the north easterly wind meant it was in our back and made the ride easy. Also, there is no lack of petrol stations; we had been a little concerned about this.

We then made good progress through to Sidi Ifni, an old Spanish enclave which had only been hand back over to Morocco in 1969! Sidi Ifni is a seaside town popular with surfers and which has a very laid back atmosphere. The walls are whitewashed and doors painted blue.

We loved the sea-view room we found (Hotel Suerte Loca, room 12) and decided to spend two night and recharge our batteries. We swam for the first time on this trip but the current was so strong that we couldn’t go very far. We also attracted some attention as Louise was only one of three women in a bikini and some others were in Burkinis (burka bikini). That being said i think we weren’t out o bounds as this Was quite a laid-back place. We met Garth, an Australian doing what any respectable Ozzie does; travelling. He had spent some time volunteering in Cameroon to improve his French and was now visiting Morocco before going to eastern Africa and then meeting up with his girlfriend in Europe. I really like that in Australians and I think we should encourage our youths to all do gap years to see the world.

The roof terrace at Bikers Home was a great place to see Ouarzazate waking up. The colours at dawn and dusk in this part of the world are beautiful. We ambitiously set out to do a 65km track that Peter had recommended but after a couple of miles decided to backtrack. The track would have been too heavy on the bikes and would have delayed us too much. Instead we took the longer, Tarmac-ed road and didn’t regret one bit. It took us through amazing desert, very close to the Algerian border.

The people here in the Djebel Bani were predominantly berbers, have darker skin and, we found, were much more approachable. The desert can have many faces and we rode through hilly black stretches, followed by long orange flats bordered by tall mountains. We then reached and followed a very wide dry river bed which drew a ribbon of palm trees through the valley. This is where we decided to camp; under a sky full of stars and miles away from anyone. So we thought though because the next morning, as we were ready to leave a man on a moped appeared from nowhere, parked his mount against a palm tree, shook our hands and disappeared a little further. We had no idea what he was doing but obviously this is where he spent his day…

The following morning we woke up to glorious sunshine; we had a lump in our throats as we finally put some clothes out to dry in the sun. We then headed out of town towards the high atlas. The roads were amazing, the scenery a warm terra-cotta colour dotted with bright greens from palm trees. Up the mountain and through the passes we were then surrounded by deep valleys and waterfalls. Our road sometimes hung to the cliff’s edge and wound it’s way through magnificent vistas. On the other side, after the famous Tizi’n Tchica pass and its 1000 hairpin bends, we followed a Oued (river) towards the vast expanses of what would become the desert. The landscape stretched for tens of miles with orangey/yellow stones, bordered in the distance by rough, abrupt mountains. This was the gateway to the desert and the realisation that we had ridden our trusty (?) bikes all the way to this Mars-like place was amazing.

We reached Ouarzazate and stayed at the famous “bikers home” where Peter and Zeineb cooked us a delicious meal and provided great dinner conversation.

The next morning, as we thought things couldn’t get worse we had to put on our wet riding gear and head down to Marrakech. But as we left our parking spot Louise complained about a grinding noise from her back brakes. We checked and the brake pads, (which we had checked before departure) were completely worn… There was no way we would ride to Marrakech like that, but where to find a bike mechanic who knows about anything bigger than a moped, in Casa, at 8am? With no real plan we rode around looking for a garage but gave up pretty quickly.

We stopped and looked at each other in desperation when our guardian angel Rachid appeared out of nowhere. In his late 50s with a shy smile and bad French, Rachid asked if he could help. We explained the problem and he told us “let me get my moped, follow me; whatever happens i’ll stay with you until we get this sorted”. In about 20min we were sitting at a cafe across the street from a local mechanic, waiting for it to open. When they told us they were out of croissant Rachid jumped on his moped to go find us some; how kind is that!? Once the brake pads were replaced with shiny new ones, Rachid even showed us the way out of Casa and put us on the road to Marrakech. The only thing he ever asked from us was would we come stay and eat at his house. I wish I could thank him more than I did. I hope he understood how grateful we were for his help and his time. He took it upon himself to help lost westerners on big bikes with a problem to solve. He stuck with us for 3 hours and was happy that he could help. Thanks Rachid!

We rode the whole day in a thunderstorm with very strong side winds which forced us to avoid the highway and stick to the smaller, slower roads. We saw next to nothing of the changing landscape as we were 100% focused on the riding but we did notice how everything in our peripheral vision became a warm shade of red, the colour of Marrakech.

We spent 36hours in the city and frankly, for both of us it was enough. We thoroughly appreciated the peace and quiet of Hotel Le Toulousain but were underwhelmed by how dirty the medina was and how aggressive the touts were. We also spent as little time as necessary on Jema el Fna with its awful shows of monkeys on tight leashes being forced on tourists’ shoulders for money and street sellers looking for the most vulnerable bus-tour/sandal-and-sock-wearing victim. I may sound harsh about Marrakech and I’m sure that there’s is much more to it but one needs to dig deep to find authenticity and disinterested kindness. We did have a wonderful dinner in a beautiful haven of a restaurant where we met a friend who happened to be in town.