Wrong Way Round Sahara Part 1
Captain Custard
Part 1 – Stunt Double The world’s greatest adventurers have a lot in common. Meticulous preparation, determination, and careful use of available resources. This is
With the Transhit now fixed we were good to go. Kaspars was waiting to be picked up from Gatwick and now we were running late and in danger of missing the ferry.
We had to limit ourselves to one pitstop for essential travel supplies and a nip to the bog. We arrived triumphantly in Dover with twenty minutes to spare. 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 and trailer were about as inconspicuous as a Ford Mondeo being driven by a bear.
We suddenly had one of those panic moments where you all feel the need to just check no one brought an AK-47. Unless however there was a limit on how many empty Haribo packets you could take to France we felt more inconvenienced than concerned.
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, Plymouth – Dakar Rally veteran, for putting us up with dinner and wine at his gaff. It was a welcome retreat after 15 hours on the road.
Refreshed, we got back in the van and spent another 15 hours on the road. The campsite picked at random near Marbella was a welcome sight and it had a bar.
Gelert had kindly sponsored us with tents the size of a small wedge of cheese. Perfect for travelling with but to get in and out you had to lie down and wiggle sideways like a beached mermaid.
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 ended up in a puddle of his own piss.
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 packed up our soiled belongings and retired back to the bar. This time for strong coffee.
The day perked up when the campsite owner agreed to store the Transhit and trailer. He needed some persuading though since he assumed none of us would make it back from the Sahara alive and he’d have to pay to scrap the van. After a round of pastries washed down with another coffee we did our final checks on the bikes before heading to the port in Algeciras.
At this point Greg felt the need to remind us that he didn’t have a bike licence. We spent the next half hour drilling him with the important driving 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 knowing the bikes and us would never be the same again. 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.
Part 1 – Stunt Double The world’s greatest adventurers have a lot in common. Meticulous preparation, determination, and careful use of available resources. This is
Part 2 – Two Wrongs Make a Wrong With the Transhit now fixed we were good to go. Kaspars was waiting to be picked up
Part 3 – A rock and a hard place It was good to know that in the 12 years since we’d done the Plymouth Dakar
Part 4 – That is not a tyre lever The awful night’s sleep was only topped by waking to find that an irrigation pipe was
Part 5 – It’s scorching. Let’s do coffee After dinner Greg quietly rolled up his trousers. Upon seeing his purple leg we had a fleeting
Part 6 – Up the creek without a pump In hindsight, following a route that all the locals said was impossible was a bit daft.
Part 7 – It’s definitely left. Or right A wrong turn is rarely more than an inconvenience. In the Sahara it’s the difference between reaching
Part 8 – Sun block. Check. Inflatable guitars. Check. When planning an adventure there is a lot to be said for items of luggage which
Part 9 – What would Bear Grylls do? To most people the French Foreign Legion conjures up images of men with rifles trudging up sand
The Moroccan border experience in Ceuta was fairly standard with everyone claiming to be the best fixer in town, “I know Chief of Police”, “I know the King of Morocco” or in top spot “Do you support Manchester United?“.
It’s hard to fathom quite how it took over two hours when the actual border process went like this:
1) Hand over terrible quality photocopied customs form – STAMP
2) Hand over passport – STAMP
3) “Have you got insurance”, “No”
4) “Will you get insurance at next town”, “Yes”
5) “OK go”.
We went to the next town. We didn’t get insurance.
The plan was to head down the Mediterranean coast and find a place to rest up ready for a long slog the following day inland towards the Atlas mountains.
We found a beach front cafe and stopped for some mint tea which was so loaded with sugar it actually crackled. Eventually curious locals started to mill around until a chap called Aziz asked if we wanted to stay the night as his place.
With an expectation of pitching tents in his back yard, we were surprised to be offered the whole floor of a beach-front house, with its own kitchen, bathroom, and walled garden to park the bikes in.
The only thing to top this off would be some cold beers. Aziz took a deep intake of breath, shook his head, saying it was not possible. By way of apology he promised to get us weapons grade hashish within five minutes if that helped. We politely declined.
As if fraught with guilt, Aziz then summoned his 10 year old son, gave him some money, and sent him off in to the night. About an hour later he came back with a couple of carrier bags of…cold beer! It was now us that were fraught with guilt, although only until the top came off the first beer.
Aziz said we could drink on the strict condition we didn’t wake up his wife. Assuring him that we weren’t likely to go all Magaluf on him, he bid us goodnight and woke us the next morning with breakfast of hot coffee and cakes. He really was first class host.
After the customary round of photos, swapping of email addresses, and false promises of meeting up again in the future, we headed out for the next leg of the journey out towards Fez and the Atlas mountains. Things had gone way too smoothly up until now so we knew we were due an incident.
On the outskirts of town there was some temporary roadworks which in Morocco means a hole that could swallow a tank with a traffic cone marking the edge. We all slowed to a halt to let a taxi through coming the other way only to hear a faint cry and the sound of a T80 sliding past us with Greg in front of it, rather than on it. Normal service had been resumed.