With the Transhit fixed we were finally good to go. We were already two hours behind schedule and still need to detour to pick up Kaspars who was waiting at Gatwick airport. We were in danger of missing the ferry. Not a disaster but certainly not a great start.
In the circumstances we had to limit ourselves to one pitstop for essential travel supplies (crisps and chocolate) and a nip to the bog. We arrived triumphantly in Dover with twenty minutes to spare.
Relief. We had made it without any drama. We were wrong. As we filtered into the port we got pulled over for a customs search.
Typical.
We were never likely to slip through unnoticed. The Transhit with its roof space piled high with tyres and fuel cans and a home-made trailer maxed out with garish mopeds were about as inconspicuous as a Mercedes AMG with blacked out front windows.
We suddenly had one of those panic moments where you all feel the need to just check no one accidently packed something dodgy. However, there was a limit on how many empty Haribo packets you could take to France we felt more inconvenienced than concerned.
Kaspars. He’s rather fond of pink
The sniffer dog did what sniffer dogs do. It sniffed in the back of the van and momentarily barked loudly before needing resuscitation. It had found Charles’ socks. The customs officer approached us.
“What is the purpose of your trip?” .
“Riding mopeds across the Sahara.”
Another officer joined. This could have gone either way. Either they would decide we’d consumed a good portion of the drugs we were obviously smuggling, or they might believe us and let us on our way. Since no one seemed to be slipping on a marigold we assumed it was the latter. They weren’t done though.
We all had to empty our pockets and walk through a scanner. This was largely drama-free until Kaspars’ went through. It made a few squeaking sounds like it had found something but was frightened to say.
One of the officers then wielded one of those wands like they have at airports. With a flurry of wrist movement he proceeded to scan Kaspars with his government issue light-sabre. It lit up and had definitely found something. Turned out Kaspars’ pink crocs had metal toe caps.
After a few shakes of the head we were let on our way to join the ferry queue. Bellend last obviously
For the next two days we were crammed in to the Transhit with all our luggage and a dashboard strewn with empty food packets and coffee cups.
Apart from getting the van and trailer stuck in a churchyard and ordering spaghetti bolognese for starter AND main course by accident, there was nothing to report until our first stopover.
Thanks to Roger Bruton, a fellow veteran of the original Plymouth – Dakar Rally, we were hosted for dinner and vino at his gaff. It was a welcome retreat after 15 hours on the road.
Refreshed, we got back in the van and spent another fifteen hours on the road before picking a random campsite near Marbella on the basis it had a bar.
Gelert, the outdoor equipment company, had kindly sponsored us by providing us all with the “Gelert Solo” – a one person tent the size of a small wedge of cheese.
It was compact and light, perfect for travelling, the flipside being that to get in and out you had to lie down and wiggle sideways like a beached mermaid. We thought this wouldn’t be a problem. We were wrong.
Once the tents were up, we gathered for a team talk in the bar. Kaspars spotted a bottle of “VAT 69” gathering dust on the top shelf.
The next morning our camp looked like a twister had struck.
Oz had woken up in the night and got disorientated by the fact the tent didn’t have a zip at the front. Unable to find his way out he gave up and pissed himself.
Charles faired a little better. He at least got the zip undone but failed to get his manhood over the lip of the tent and so also ended up in a puddle of his own piss.
At least no one shat themselves.
It’s bad enough putting away a wet tent. Worse still when it’s infused with urine and it’s your only home for the next few weeks. Fortunately the ferry to Ceuta wasn’t until after lunch so we hung out our tents to air and returned back to the bar. This time for a strong coffee.
After a round of pastries washed down with another coffee we were lucid enough to remember that the Transhit and the trailer weren’t supposed to be coming with us to Africa. We figured that showering the campsite owner with insincere compliments about how top notch the bathroom facilities were might lead to him agreeing to store them for us. He needed some persuading. Clearly he assumed none of us would make it back from the Sahara alive and he’d then have to pay to scrap our useless van and even more useless trailer.
After telling him the pastries were the finest in all of Spain he finally agreed. We hastily started packing up before he could change his mind.
As we saddled up ready to head for the port in Algeciras, Greg chose this moment to remind us that he didn’t have a bike licence and assumed he’d only be riding in Africa, where his appalling bike skills would look advanced.
We spent the next half hour drilling him with the important characteristics of a Yamaha Townmate. There is no clutch. There is a brake lever and a brake pedal. Neither of them work. The battery is 6V so the indicators will eventually glow but not flash.
Seeing that he was more than a little perturbed we attempted reassurance by telling him the bike was left hand drive and walked off before he had time to process that bit of information.
And then we were off, excited and clueless about what would eventually unfold. We reached the port without drama. Nothing – and importantly – no one, fell off.
There was a slight delay in obtaining our ferry tickets while Charles spent twenty minutes looking for his sunglasses which were in fact on his head, underneath his helmet…
It was definitely looking like two wrongs make a wrong.
Locked and (over) loaded
Stunt Double
Don't Wake My Wife