60 in Africa (London to Ghana)
- Thread starter Davey Bee
- Start date
No, not the last advice on here, the general advice since I've been planing the trip.
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Agadir to Laayoune
Left Agadir in good time this morning, the road out was slow, but then it's the last major city before the desert. Then the road South, I'm heading for Laayoune which around 400 miles away. This doesn't sound far, but there is no choice of motorway, it's duel
carriageway for the first part, then single lane for the rest. On top of that, I'll be going into the desert proper,so I'm not sure what to expect or how I'll deal with it. The one thing that's important, is that I make Laayoune before sunset.
The repair on the exhaust seems to be holding and at the moment everything else is sweet. But if I've learnt anything in the last 60 years, it's that machines and women are temperamental and there's no forewarning when it's all going to go pear shape. Anyway for now all is well.
I stop in Teznit to get breakfast, fresh bread, butter marmalade orange juice with a couple of strong black coffees. I'm good for anything now. The bike also is fully fuelled up, the hotel that I stayed at on the edge of Agadir was at the side of a fuel station, so I filled up before I left. I want to run both tanks today so I know they're working ok before I get into Mauritania, from what I've read on other blogs, there's no guarantee of fuel in between cities and they are far apart. I also have a spare 3.8 litres along with a total of 25 litres in the two tanks. As long as I'm taking it steady I seem to get around 50 mpg, so I should have enough to get from Nouadhibou to Nouakchott which are 300 miles apart. During the next couple of days I'll be checking the mileage just to be sure.
The closer I got to Western Sahara, the more check points there appears to be, and all of a sudden they seem to be stopping me at every one. As it's disputed territory I guess they take special interest in strangers, more so solo motorcyclist, which makes sense I suppose. But after numerous checks I start to get a little pissed off with it. They say it's for my safety, but as they don't seem to be informing their colleagues up ahead, I can't see how that works. Anyway at one checkpoint one of the officers tells me it's best to have my passport and other details printed and then when I get stopped, I can hand over a print and be on my way. I just need to find a printer in the desert, sorted.
With all the stops, time is running on, I try to get some lunch in Tan Tan at a little Senegalese cafe. He asks me what I want, I say anything that's quick, I need to be back in the road. He gives me the options of fish with rice or chicken with rice, I ask again which is quickest, he says, they're ready, so I go for the fish. After 10 minutes nothing seems to be happening, I ask how long, he says it's ready but 10 minutes later still nothing. I go around the back to see what he's doing and he's just preparing the raw fish. I think it was still swimming in the Atlantic when I got there. Anyway, on any other day that would be exactly what I wanted, but today I need to be out of the desert before dark. I thank him and let him know that I can't wait. He's ok with that and says maybe next time and we bid each other farewell. I'll stop later and eat one of my tin sardines that I have for such a occasion.
The thing that has surprised me, is that each of these towns are functioning, well supplied units, with more than one of everything, (fuel station, cafe, restaurants, and the like), even though they are miles from the next town, with the desert in between. I wouldn't want to live in them, but you could do so without feeling short changed.
Anyway I'm back into the Sahara, it's hard to convey what it's like, it's not all sand to start with, a lot of the time it's sand coloured rock, with sparse short green shrubs dotted in between. The thing is it goes on and on, for as far as the eye can see. So you look in front you see black tarmac cutting through the desert, you look behind and it's the same. you look right just desert, ditto when you look left, there's nothing else just miles and miles of it, that's when you realise how small you actually are in this world.
But today I'm just wowed by it all, and have to pinch myself from time to time, just to check that it's not a dream, I'm in the Sahara Desert, if my dear Mum could see me now. (She always wanted to keep me safe, I always wanted the adventure).
With check points, photos and generally being overwhelmed, the sun is just setting as I ride into Laayoune, so much so that it's blinding me as I ride into town. Another checkpoint that stop me and want my passport and papers, 10 minutes and off I go only to be stopped again 100 yards up the road (I kid you not), I protest that they can see that I've just been stopped, I'm told "they are national, we are city" so I go through the same routine again. Now I need to find a hotel. After going to 3 or 4 I find one that is clean and cheap. They even lock my bike away in an empty shop next door, to top it the receptionist takes me around the corner to what he says is a good cafe, where I'm offered a number of things including camel tagine, no points for guessing what I had. This is my first time and it's ok, a bit tougher that lamb, but not as tough as beef. I'd have it again without hesitation. Off to bed after sinking a can of beer, I imported from Spain. What a day?
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Left Agadir in good time this morning, the road out was slow, but then it's the last major city before the desert. Then the road South, I'm heading for Laayoune which around 400 miles away. This doesn't sound far, but there is no choice of motorway, it's duel
carriageway for the first part, then single lane for the rest. On top of that, I'll be going into the desert proper,so I'm not sure what to expect or how I'll deal with it. The one thing that's important, is that I make Laayoune before sunset.
The repair on the exhaust seems to be holding and at the moment everything else is sweet. But if I've learnt anything in the last 60 years, it's that machines and women are temperamental and there's no forewarning when it's all going to go pear shape. Anyway for now all is well.
I stop in Teznit to get breakfast, fresh bread, butter marmalade orange juice with a couple of strong black coffees. I'm good for anything now. The bike also is fully fuelled up, the hotel that I stayed at on the edge of Agadir was at the side of a fuel station, so I filled up before I left. I want to run both tanks today so I know they're working ok before I get into Mauritania, from what I've read on other blogs, there's no guarantee of fuel in between cities and they are far apart. I also have a spare 3.8 litres along with a total of 25 litres in the two tanks. As long as I'm taking it steady I seem to get around 50 mpg, so I should have enough to get from Nouadhibou to Nouakchott which are 300 miles apart. During the next couple of days I'll be checking the mileage just to be sure.
The closer I got to Western Sahara, the more check points there appears to be, and all of a sudden they seem to be stopping me at every one. As it's disputed territory I guess they take special interest in strangers, more so solo motorcyclist, which makes sense I suppose. But after numerous checks I start to get a little pissed off with it. They say it's for my safety, but as they don't seem to be informing their colleagues up ahead, I can't see how that works. Anyway at one checkpoint one of the officers tells me it's best to have my passport and other details printed and then when I get stopped, I can hand over a print and be on my way. I just need to find a printer in the desert, sorted.
With all the stops, time is running on, I try to get some lunch in Tan Tan at a little Senegalese cafe. He asks me what I want, I say anything that's quick, I need to be back in the road. He gives me the options of fish with rice or chicken with rice, I ask again which is quickest, he says, they're ready, so I go for the fish. After 10 minutes nothing seems to be happening, I ask how long, he says it's ready but 10 minutes later still nothing. I go around the back to see what he's doing and he's just preparing the raw fish. I think it was still swimming in the Atlantic when I got there. Anyway, on any other day that would be exactly what I wanted, but today I need to be out of the desert before dark. I thank him and let him know that I can't wait. He's ok with that and says maybe next time and we bid each other farewell. I'll stop later and eat one of my tin sardines that I have for such a occasion.
The thing that has surprised me, is that each of these towns are functioning, well supplied units, with more than one of everything, (fuel station, cafe, restaurants, and the like), even though they are miles from the next town, with the desert in between. I wouldn't want to live in them, but you could do so without feeling short changed.
Anyway I'm back into the Sahara, it's hard to convey what it's like, it's not all sand to start with, a lot of the time it's sand coloured rock, with sparse short green shrubs dotted in between. The thing is it goes on and on, for as far as the eye can see. So you look in front you see black tarmac cutting through the desert, you look behind and it's the same. you look right just desert, ditto when you look left, there's nothing else just miles and miles of it, that's when you realise how small you actually are in this world.
But today I'm just wowed by it all, and have to pinch myself from time to time, just to check that it's not a dream, I'm in the Sahara Desert, if my dear Mum could see me now. (She always wanted to keep me safe, I always wanted the adventure).
With check points, photos and generally being overwhelmed, the sun is just setting as I ride into Laayoune, so much so that it's blinding me as I ride into town. Another checkpoint that stop me and want my passport and papers, 10 minutes and off I go only to be stopped again 100 yards up the road (I kid you not), I protest that they can see that I've just been stopped, I'm told "they are national, we are city" so I go through the same routine again. Now I need to find a hotel. After going to 3 or 4 I find one that is clean and cheap. They even lock my bike away in an empty shop next door, to top it the receptionist takes me around the corner to what he says is a good cafe, where I'm offered a number of things including camel tagine, no points for guessing what I had. This is my first time and it's ok, a bit tougher that lamb, but not as tough as beef. I'd have it again without hesitation. Off to bed after sinking a can of beer, I imported from Spain. What a day?
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Good to hear all well. Glad the Sahara did not disappoint! Enjoy St. Louis, make sure to visit Hotel De La Post, and then rest up at Zebrabar.
I believe the advise on not posting while in Western Sahara/Mauritania is that undesirables could track your progress.
The paper the guys at the roadblocks are looking for is called a fische. It a blank can be found on Tim Cullis's Morocco Info page. You fill it out with passport, bike info etc and make lots of copies. Handing over a fische at the checkpoint normally allows you to go through without delay. Well done on progress.
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I believe the advise on not posting while in Western Sahara/Mauritania is that undesirables could track your progress.
The paper the guys at the roadblocks are looking for is called a fische. It a blank can be found on Tim Cullis's Morocco Info page. You fill it out with passport, bike info etc and make lots of copies. Handing over a fische at the checkpoint normally allows you to go through without delay. Well done on progress.
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Great to be reading this Davey 
Laayoune to Dakhla
The trip to Dakhla from Laayoune is around 340 mile. For me it’s important to get it done before sunset. So an early start was needed this morning, but I had to wait for the receptionist to start at 07:00 or so I thought. When I went down the “night porter” (a kid no more than 16 years old) was a sleep on a mattress in the corner. He opened up the shop. I loaded the bike, took and few pictures of some unusual dwellings across the road, and by about 07:30 I was off. I’d filled up with fuel last night, so there was no delay with that.
Out of town straight into the Sahara desert, no steady introduction, just desert.
It’s a long ol’ ride ahead and I’m not as enthusiastic as yesterday. It’s a great experience, but does go on a bit. but this is my choice and I’ve got as far to go back as I have to go forward so let’s get on with it. In truth although you’re out on your own, there are other vehicles going by from time to time and there are security at all the communication pillions, which are about 10/20 miles apart, so it’s not that bad. There are also people that are out here and during the morning a fair amount are at the side of the road waiting for lifts from passing motorist. At one point I stop to mess about with something (I can’t remember what) and there is a couple with a two young children waiting, she is sat on an old drum or something, the children are running between her and the father standing at the side of the road. There can be as much as 15-20 minutes between cars or trucks, bear in mind that few will stop, it strikes me how poor and desperate do you need to be, to live out here without any real means of transport. I give the father a few dirham, to buy sweets for the kids, he seems a little taken a back by this, and has no real idea of what I’m saying, but the other thing that struck me, at no point did he try to tap me up in anyway, subtle or otherwise. I hope i’ve not offended him, but when you’re riding on your own, you have a lot of time to beat yourself up, and I really couldn’t face myself, if I’d done nothing.
I go through a few check points, but today i have printed copies of my passport etc, and it’s a lot easier. I just need to give them the make and reg’ number of the bike, they’re happy with that and I’m quickly on my way, each time. Wanting to make the day as shorted I can, I turn the wick up a bit, normally I’ll travel at speeds around 65-75mph, but I have a lot of miles to cover, so I go up to around 85mph. Sometimes I may touch 90, but not for long. As you’d imagine there are not too many bends out here, but I find one. It’s a nice steady bend, more a curve, but the road is falling away a little, so I can’t see the complete bend, but when I can, what the hell is waiting the other side, 2 cops with a radar gun, its the middle of the desert, for gods sake, even South Yorks Police, would be embarrassed by such a blatant money making scam. But what can I do, they’ve clocked me at 120kpm and it should have been 80kpm, I protest a little, which is clearly futile, so I pay up, 300 dirham (30 euro) for my "infraction." The most annoying thing, is that the whole process takes about 20-30 minutes, so any advantage I gained from going faster, is now lost. Another example, less I needed one, of "more haste less…" I resolve to take heed.
Today I have a little time to stop for lunch. Having had no breakfast, by the time I find a town. I ready. It a little early (about 11:00), but when you're traveling through the desert, you don't have European luxury of eating by the clock. I stop at a cafe that has a reasonable people there, the first rule of eating in a strange place, is to trust the locals The cafes and restaurants that are empty, are normally like so for good reason, if they don't eat there, then I'm not going to either. However my chosen cafe, doesn't do food, but he takes me to one of his neighbours that does. These guys are not set up for tourist, so there's no English menu, so after a little poor Anglo/French food translations, I settle on Pollo with fritts, (chicken and chips), not forgetting the salad.
Within the hour, I'm back in the road again, but after 60 miles or so, I realise that such an hearty lunch, was not a great idea, as I start to feel drowsy. I take in lots of water which helps, and I stop more often. Still I'm making good time, and I reach the head of the Dakhla peninsula before sunset. Now can see where the French motorhomes, that I've been seeing on the road from time to time, were coming from. There are a large number of what I would call "para-surfers, in the bay, (I assume that most Moroccans have work and more important things to spend there money on.
I go into town, and start looking for a hotel, the prices are high and the levels are low. I go for what I convince myself is the "holy grail" cheap with high level, it's cheap! I go doors down in search of an evening meal the best I can get is poor omelette, but there a coffee shop in the row, that has the lightest, patisserie that make in house, a couple of these with coffee and water, makes my evening, reflect on the day, then an early night.
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The trip to Dakhla from Laayoune is around 340 mile. For me it’s important to get it done before sunset. So an early start was needed this morning, but I had to wait for the receptionist to start at 07:00 or so I thought. When I went down the “night porter” (a kid no more than 16 years old) was a sleep on a mattress in the corner. He opened up the shop. I loaded the bike, took and few pictures of some unusual dwellings across the road, and by about 07:30 I was off. I’d filled up with fuel last night, so there was no delay with that.
Out of town straight into the Sahara desert, no steady introduction, just desert.
It’s a long ol’ ride ahead and I’m not as enthusiastic as yesterday. It’s a great experience, but does go on a bit. but this is my choice and I’ve got as far to go back as I have to go forward so let’s get on with it. In truth although you’re out on your own, there are other vehicles going by from time to time and there are security at all the communication pillions, which are about 10/20 miles apart, so it’s not that bad. There are also people that are out here and during the morning a fair amount are at the side of the road waiting for lifts from passing motorist. At one point I stop to mess about with something (I can’t remember what) and there is a couple with a two young children waiting, she is sat on an old drum or something, the children are running between her and the father standing at the side of the road. There can be as much as 15-20 minutes between cars or trucks, bear in mind that few will stop, it strikes me how poor and desperate do you need to be, to live out here without any real means of transport. I give the father a few dirham, to buy sweets for the kids, he seems a little taken a back by this, and has no real idea of what I’m saying, but the other thing that struck me, at no point did he try to tap me up in anyway, subtle or otherwise. I hope i’ve not offended him, but when you’re riding on your own, you have a lot of time to beat yourself up, and I really couldn’t face myself, if I’d done nothing.
I go through a few check points, but today i have printed copies of my passport etc, and it’s a lot easier. I just need to give them the make and reg’ number of the bike, they’re happy with that and I’m quickly on my way, each time. Wanting to make the day as shorted I can, I turn the wick up a bit, normally I’ll travel at speeds around 65-75mph, but I have a lot of miles to cover, so I go up to around 85mph. Sometimes I may touch 90, but not for long. As you’d imagine there are not too many bends out here, but I find one. It’s a nice steady bend, more a curve, but the road is falling away a little, so I can’t see the complete bend, but when I can, what the hell is waiting the other side, 2 cops with a radar gun, its the middle of the desert, for gods sake, even South Yorks Police, would be embarrassed by such a blatant money making scam. But what can I do, they’ve clocked me at 120kpm and it should have been 80kpm, I protest a little, which is clearly futile, so I pay up, 300 dirham (30 euro) for my "infraction." The most annoying thing, is that the whole process takes about 20-30 minutes, so any advantage I gained from going faster, is now lost. Another example, less I needed one, of "more haste less…" I resolve to take heed.
Today I have a little time to stop for lunch. Having had no breakfast, by the time I find a town. I ready. It a little early (about 11:00), but when you're traveling through the desert, you don't have European luxury of eating by the clock. I stop at a cafe that has a reasonable people there, the first rule of eating in a strange place, is to trust the locals The cafes and restaurants that are empty, are normally like so for good reason, if they don't eat there, then I'm not going to either. However my chosen cafe, doesn't do food, but he takes me to one of his neighbours that does. These guys are not set up for tourist, so there's no English menu, so after a little poor Anglo/French food translations, I settle on Pollo with fritts, (chicken and chips), not forgetting the salad.
Within the hour, I'm back in the road again, but after 60 miles or so, I realise that such an hearty lunch, was not a great idea, as I start to feel drowsy. I take in lots of water which helps, and I stop more often. Still I'm making good time, and I reach the head of the Dakhla peninsula before sunset. Now can see where the French motorhomes, that I've been seeing on the road from time to time, were coming from. There are a large number of what I would call "para-surfers, in the bay, (I assume that most Moroccans have work and more important things to spend there money on.
I go into town, and start looking for a hotel, the prices are high and the levels are low. I go for what I convince myself is the "holy grail" cheap with high level, it's cheap! I go doors down in search of an evening meal the best I can get is poor omelette, but there a coffee shop in the row, that has the lightest, patisserie that make in house, a couple of these with coffee and water, makes my evening, reflect on the day, then an early night.
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Dakhla to Nouadhibou
I knew that today likely to be testing, I was heading for Nouadhibou in Mauritania, which would of course include a border crossing, the first real border cross of the trip. That is to say the first where I'd be at the mercy of the border officials with absolutely no rights of entry. But I had to get there first, which meant more desert. I was away early, before sunrise or even the call to prayer. I had filled up on the outskirts of Dakhla, a couple of days before and had only done limited mileage since then. I still wanted to top up, just to be comfortable, but nowhere was open in town. When I got to the city limits check point, the police told me there was one 10k ahead, so if I went. Of course when I got there it was still closed. I didn't want to hang around with the possibility that it wouldn't open for another hour or two, which would've meant losing the advantage of a early start, so moved on sure that there would be other garages along the way.
Although morning temperature was higher today, its still cold and I was glad that I'd put my micro down jacket. It's been a invaluable bit of kit, perfect as a lining to my main riding jacket. Has I rode along watching the sun rise over the desert, I'm aware how lucky I am, to have not just the freedom and ware it all, to be here, but to be able to live and work in the west which entitles me to so much more advantages than most sharing this dawn. I stop at another fuel station and the same applies. As I arrive there's a truck pulling out from the verge and a fellow with a large bag, partially open, with what looks like all his worldly belongings. We greet each other, with curtesy but restraint, we are from two different worlds, it's cold and clearly neither of can be arsed. I look around to see if there is any sign of life, which there is none and leave my silent companion to wait for his next lift. Hitching a lift in the desert at anytime, would not be for me, more so at this time of day. Even though when I was younger I would move around Europe that way, even back then, more vehicles would pass me before I put my bag down that are likely to pass him all day.
As travel on there are still no stations open, I see slight possibility, but as I'm slowing two very big dogs start running towards in anger, I hope that they'll have ago at the truck in front, but that is not their aim, why pick a fight with 40 tons when there's an easier target behind. As I quickly try to make a assessment of the situation, I realise that these two dogs are big enough to take me off the bike and do a lot of damage before help would arrive. They are fast approaching, so sort out a plan of defence and whatever it is, I need to do it quickly. They are about to attack me from either side in a kind of pincer movement, I have the advantage of speed but if one or both of them are able to get a hold I'll be off the bike. I decide to wait until they are close, then accelerate away hoping that as the are running towards it will take them time change direction, by which time I'll be in Ghana. It works and the dogs must wait another over paid underworked westerner to go by. In reality, as I'm riding along I think of all the implications, if had all gone wrong back there and they wouldn't have been good. Just two dogs could've bought the trip to an end, that's when I realise how vunrable I am. Needless to say I didn't check if there was fuel there.
I resolve not to worry too much about fuel, while I don't have a fuel gauge, I have effectively 3 tanks, that is to say the main tank which is what feeds the engine and sits under the seat unlike conventional motorcycle fuel tank that sit in between the seat and the handle bars. My bike had been modified with added conventional tank, which it's feeds the main tank from either side, with 2 independent on/off taps. There is a warning light that informs me when the main tank is nearly empty. I normally have about 20-30 miles before it runs dry. I can then turn a single tap on and this will feed the main tank, again once the main tank is low, the fuel warning light comes on, I can again turn the other tank repeating the process. I get around 250-300 mile range with these tanks and for emergencies I have a further 3.8 litre spare can, after that I walk. The next "town" was Bir Gandouz and I worked out that should have just enough fuel in my three tanks to get me there. Eventually I was down to the last tank with the warning light glowing brightly, with silhouette of the town just in sight the engine coughs and dies. This is the reason that I bought the spare fuel can and I feel smug. As I'm filling it my phone rings, which is kind of surreal, I'm in the middle of the Sahara Desert, having run out of fuel and my friend Renaldo is calling from London (underworked and overpaid) to see how I am, and complain about other underworked and overpaid, pain he has encountered today. This world is so small, my grandparents could never had imagined this, when their precious children announced they would be leaving Jamaica to find fortune in England back in the fifties, how lucky we are.
I topped up and made my way down to the town, stopping at the fuel station to fill up, attracting a small crown of young local men that I notice over the last few days would gather around the bike each time I stopped.
I went to town to seek breakfast, if you could still it that, but there nothing obvious apart from a hotel, so I parked up there and asked if it was possible, the answer was positive. I notice a Honda NX 250 on German plates, I ask the only underworked overpaid looking German in the reception if it was his, which it is and we strike up a conversation. Over a few coffees we exchange stories of each other's trips. Kirk is returning from the Mauritanian desert, where he's being riding and camping for a few days. He's slowly returning home and intends to get back for mid March like myself. He passes a contact in Senegal that he says will help if I have a problem, he also gives me the heads up on what to expect at the border, telling me I need a hour on the Moroccan side and 3 hours on the Mauritanian side. I enjoy his company and his criteria for using this particular bike. Cheap and light, similar to me, but he has managed it on a totally different level to me. Nearly all of the modifications he did himself, but he'd also managed to make it into a tidy and pretty little machine. I'm just not sure that I could've ridden a 250 all these miles, but it does go to show that you can make this kind of trip on whatever budget you have.
We notice that time is going on, we both have intended destinations before nightfall and we say our goodbyes. I'd enjoyed his company and would happily have stayed talking for another couple of hours. I find it strange that I love the company of others, but I'm so happy and contented in the desert by myself. I think this due to always loving myself and the sound of my own voice, so really I'm in the best company, strange!
As I'm riding along, (always remember this is the desert there is little in the form of human life), I see a little 2CV van with a push bike on top, coming out of the desert, without doubt this is another underworked, overpaid westerner. We are the only ones this stupid and his Spanish number plate confirms this.
I arrive at the border and in time the 2CV pulls up. We get talking he is indeed Spanish and as been through Mauritania a number of times. I ask if I can tag along with him, as I'm not familiar with the process. Just to concentrate my mind on what's to come, he tell me there is no road in no mans land between the borders and the last time he came through here there were a number of blown up cars around resulting from land mines. I'd also read this when planing for the trip and the advice was to follow the trucks. So once the paperwork was completed we set off. In deed there is no road between border posts, what there was on the nearby hills were UN observers, a comfort in one way but a worry that they are needed at all. I've been in and out of Yorkshire many time in my life and have never seen a UN observer even there, so by definition this place must be worst than Barnsley, shit! Unlike Barnsley we see no blown up cars and in truth the track we use is better than any road I know in Barnsley, though I'm glad I'm riding a big trailie. We make to the other side without any international incident and now the fun really begins. Basically it works like this, there are not clear signs of where you should go or what you should do. Whenever you move forward, sometimes as little as one step, you most show your passport and papers, you are then told to go into this door or that, you must show you passport and papers, when you come out you must show your passport and papers. You move forward again, shouts at you and they must see your passport and papers. Eventually you will go into another door wait to show your passport and papers, come out and…you're getting the picture. In some offices you are given additional papers which is passed onto someone else sitting at a neighbouring desk, he n must check and stamp what his colleague has done. Every now and then as they complete the process they will say "10 euro," you say why I have to pay and not the guy before me, nothing more is said and you leave the office to show… that's right, just checking to see if you're paying attention.
Next there is the visa office, all along I've been approached by fixers and when I get to the visa office there are even more waiting around to "help me." When I go inside Paco my Spanish friend is sitting patiently. After sometime everyone is kicked out of the room apart a lady with young children, Paco and myself. I think here comes the shake down. A while longer Paco is called forward, they now want 50 euros, he asked why, they say for "visa" he says but I already have one issued in Rabat, they say why you didn't say, he says I did and an argument goes into full play. The official says "he still has to pay," to which Paco says "no way" the official leaves the office, when he returns, he hands Paco his passport and no money changes hands.
Soon it's my turn, they take my picture, fingers print me I give them all my details, even though they have my passport with everything there, then I wait. Another 20 minutes or so later I'm called again and asked for 50euros, which I don't have. I left Europe a week ago so all my euros are spent. Further more I feel that each country should be pleased to accept its own respective currency so tend not to have much European or US currency. He's insisting on euros and in after a while a money changer just happen to come into the office, he his happy to exchange my cash for euros, (I bet he is). Of course he intends to pull my trousers down and go all the way! I'm not having this and argue for sometime over the rate, when I realise that it's leading nowhere or at least not where I want it to go, I pull out my Ace card, and invoke my diplomatic rights as a "Jamaican" I know in Africa this allows me full access and today is no different. I say even though I know they don't understand most of what I'm saying, I know they're trying to shaft me and as a Jamaican we don't accept this, a chorus in turn say "Jamaican!" "Bob Marley" and someone does the sign of Hussain Bolt. At this moment my rights are recognised and a more favourable exchange rate is agreed. We all sake hands and I leave the over with passport in hand.
From there on in in the border compound all I can hear are shouts of "Jamaican" I'm a star!
Paco is waiting outside and we go to get insurance, for what it's worth. Once this is complete we are appreciated by another money changer a rate is agreed and we are on our way. Joking a side once they knew I was Jamaican, I truly was not hassled any further. We made our way into Nouadhibou had coffee I found an hotel through booking.com and Paco found camping through a fixer that approached us while we were having coffee.
A note about Paco who was an intriguing young man. While he is an underworked, overpaid westerner. He is aware of this and every years he take 2 months out, as a teacher and works as a NGO around the world. He will be doing a study in Mauritania over the coming months of how best to implement a solar energy in a small village. If you see the villages over here, you'd realise how valuable this program could be. We can make a difference.
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I knew that today likely to be testing, I was heading for Nouadhibou in Mauritania, which would of course include a border crossing, the first real border cross of the trip. That is to say the first where I'd be at the mercy of the border officials with absolutely no rights of entry. But I had to get there first, which meant more desert. I was away early, before sunrise or even the call to prayer. I had filled up on the outskirts of Dakhla, a couple of days before and had only done limited mileage since then. I still wanted to top up, just to be comfortable, but nowhere was open in town. When I got to the city limits check point, the police told me there was one 10k ahead, so if I went. Of course when I got there it was still closed. I didn't want to hang around with the possibility that it wouldn't open for another hour or two, which would've meant losing the advantage of a early start, so moved on sure that there would be other garages along the way.
Although morning temperature was higher today, its still cold and I was glad that I'd put my micro down jacket. It's been a invaluable bit of kit, perfect as a lining to my main riding jacket. Has I rode along watching the sun rise over the desert, I'm aware how lucky I am, to have not just the freedom and ware it all, to be here, but to be able to live and work in the west which entitles me to so much more advantages than most sharing this dawn. I stop at another fuel station and the same applies. As I arrive there's a truck pulling out from the verge and a fellow with a large bag, partially open, with what looks like all his worldly belongings. We greet each other, with curtesy but restraint, we are from two different worlds, it's cold and clearly neither of can be arsed. I look around to see if there is any sign of life, which there is none and leave my silent companion to wait for his next lift. Hitching a lift in the desert at anytime, would not be for me, more so at this time of day. Even though when I was younger I would move around Europe that way, even back then, more vehicles would pass me before I put my bag down that are likely to pass him all day.
As travel on there are still no stations open, I see slight possibility, but as I'm slowing two very big dogs start running towards in anger, I hope that they'll have ago at the truck in front, but that is not their aim, why pick a fight with 40 tons when there's an easier target behind. As I quickly try to make a assessment of the situation, I realise that these two dogs are big enough to take me off the bike and do a lot of damage before help would arrive. They are fast approaching, so sort out a plan of defence and whatever it is, I need to do it quickly. They are about to attack me from either side in a kind of pincer movement, I have the advantage of speed but if one or both of them are able to get a hold I'll be off the bike. I decide to wait until they are close, then accelerate away hoping that as the are running towards it will take them time change direction, by which time I'll be in Ghana. It works and the dogs must wait another over paid underworked westerner to go by. In reality, as I'm riding along I think of all the implications, if had all gone wrong back there and they wouldn't have been good. Just two dogs could've bought the trip to an end, that's when I realise how vunrable I am. Needless to say I didn't check if there was fuel there.
I resolve not to worry too much about fuel, while I don't have a fuel gauge, I have effectively 3 tanks, that is to say the main tank which is what feeds the engine and sits under the seat unlike conventional motorcycle fuel tank that sit in between the seat and the handle bars. My bike had been modified with added conventional tank, which it's feeds the main tank from either side, with 2 independent on/off taps. There is a warning light that informs me when the main tank is nearly empty. I normally have about 20-30 miles before it runs dry. I can then turn a single tap on and this will feed the main tank, again once the main tank is low, the fuel warning light comes on, I can again turn the other tank repeating the process. I get around 250-300 mile range with these tanks and for emergencies I have a further 3.8 litre spare can, after that I walk. The next "town" was Bir Gandouz and I worked out that should have just enough fuel in my three tanks to get me there. Eventually I was down to the last tank with the warning light glowing brightly, with silhouette of the town just in sight the engine coughs and dies. This is the reason that I bought the spare fuel can and I feel smug. As I'm filling it my phone rings, which is kind of surreal, I'm in the middle of the Sahara Desert, having run out of fuel and my friend Renaldo is calling from London (underworked and overpaid) to see how I am, and complain about other underworked and overpaid, pain he has encountered today. This world is so small, my grandparents could never had imagined this, when their precious children announced they would be leaving Jamaica to find fortune in England back in the fifties, how lucky we are.
I topped up and made my way down to the town, stopping at the fuel station to fill up, attracting a small crown of young local men that I notice over the last few days would gather around the bike each time I stopped.
I went to town to seek breakfast, if you could still it that, but there nothing obvious apart from a hotel, so I parked up there and asked if it was possible, the answer was positive. I notice a Honda NX 250 on German plates, I ask the only underworked overpaid looking German in the reception if it was his, which it is and we strike up a conversation. Over a few coffees we exchange stories of each other's trips. Kirk is returning from the Mauritanian desert, where he's being riding and camping for a few days. He's slowly returning home and intends to get back for mid March like myself. He passes a contact in Senegal that he says will help if I have a problem, he also gives me the heads up on what to expect at the border, telling me I need a hour on the Moroccan side and 3 hours on the Mauritanian side. I enjoy his company and his criteria for using this particular bike. Cheap and light, similar to me, but he has managed it on a totally different level to me. Nearly all of the modifications he did himself, but he'd also managed to make it into a tidy and pretty little machine. I'm just not sure that I could've ridden a 250 all these miles, but it does go to show that you can make this kind of trip on whatever budget you have.
We notice that time is going on, we both have intended destinations before nightfall and we say our goodbyes. I'd enjoyed his company and would happily have stayed talking for another couple of hours. I find it strange that I love the company of others, but I'm so happy and contented in the desert by myself. I think this due to always loving myself and the sound of my own voice, so really I'm in the best company, strange!
As I'm riding along, (always remember this is the desert there is little in the form of human life), I see a little 2CV van with a push bike on top, coming out of the desert, without doubt this is another underworked, overpaid westerner. We are the only ones this stupid and his Spanish number plate confirms this.
I arrive at the border and in time the 2CV pulls up. We get talking he is indeed Spanish and as been through Mauritania a number of times. I ask if I can tag along with him, as I'm not familiar with the process. Just to concentrate my mind on what's to come, he tell me there is no road in no mans land between the borders and the last time he came through here there were a number of blown up cars around resulting from land mines. I'd also read this when planing for the trip and the advice was to follow the trucks. So once the paperwork was completed we set off. In deed there is no road between border posts, what there was on the nearby hills were UN observers, a comfort in one way but a worry that they are needed at all. I've been in and out of Yorkshire many time in my life and have never seen a UN observer even there, so by definition this place must be worst than Barnsley, shit! Unlike Barnsley we see no blown up cars and in truth the track we use is better than any road I know in Barnsley, though I'm glad I'm riding a big trailie. We make to the other side without any international incident and now the fun really begins. Basically it works like this, there are not clear signs of where you should go or what you should do. Whenever you move forward, sometimes as little as one step, you most show your passport and papers, you are then told to go into this door or that, you must show you passport and papers, when you come out you must show your passport and papers. You move forward again, shouts at you and they must see your passport and papers. Eventually you will go into another door wait to show your passport and papers, come out and…you're getting the picture. In some offices you are given additional papers which is passed onto someone else sitting at a neighbouring desk, he n must check and stamp what his colleague has done. Every now and then as they complete the process they will say "10 euro," you say why I have to pay and not the guy before me, nothing more is said and you leave the office to show… that's right, just checking to see if you're paying attention.
Next there is the visa office, all along I've been approached by fixers and when I get to the visa office there are even more waiting around to "help me." When I go inside Paco my Spanish friend is sitting patiently. After sometime everyone is kicked out of the room apart a lady with young children, Paco and myself. I think here comes the shake down. A while longer Paco is called forward, they now want 50 euros, he asked why, they say for "visa" he says but I already have one issued in Rabat, they say why you didn't say, he says I did and an argument goes into full play. The official says "he still has to pay," to which Paco says "no way" the official leaves the office, when he returns, he hands Paco his passport and no money changes hands.
Soon it's my turn, they take my picture, fingers print me I give them all my details, even though they have my passport with everything there, then I wait. Another 20 minutes or so later I'm called again and asked for 50euros, which I don't have. I left Europe a week ago so all my euros are spent. Further more I feel that each country should be pleased to accept its own respective currency so tend not to have much European or US currency. He's insisting on euros and in after a while a money changer just happen to come into the office, he his happy to exchange my cash for euros, (I bet he is). Of course he intends to pull my trousers down and go all the way! I'm not having this and argue for sometime over the rate, when I realise that it's leading nowhere or at least not where I want it to go, I pull out my Ace card, and invoke my diplomatic rights as a "Jamaican" I know in Africa this allows me full access and today is no different. I say even though I know they don't understand most of what I'm saying, I know they're trying to shaft me and as a Jamaican we don't accept this, a chorus in turn say "Jamaican!" "Bob Marley" and someone does the sign of Hussain Bolt. At this moment my rights are recognised and a more favourable exchange rate is agreed. We all sake hands and I leave the over with passport in hand.
From there on in in the border compound all I can hear are shouts of "Jamaican" I'm a star!
Paco is waiting outside and we go to get insurance, for what it's worth. Once this is complete we are appreciated by another money changer a rate is agreed and we are on our way. Joking a side once they knew I was Jamaican, I truly was not hassled any further. We made our way into Nouadhibou had coffee I found an hotel through booking.com and Paco found camping through a fixer that approached us while we were having coffee.
A note about Paco who was an intriguing young man. While he is an underworked, overpaid westerner. He is aware of this and every years he take 2 months out, as a teacher and works as a NGO around the world. He will be doing a study in Mauritania over the coming months of how best to implement a solar energy in a small village. If you see the villages over here, you'd realise how valuable this program could be. We can make a difference.
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Nouadhibou to Nouakchott
I was on the road just after 9am I had a few things to sort before I left, decided to have "breakfast" 2 halfs of French loaf, a boiled egg, instant coffee and orange cordial. Hey I bet there were many not a mile away that would've gladly taken that as a days meal. So I shouldn't complain. It was enough to get me going and it would cut down on at least one stop and the time involved in finding somewhere to eat. I took the egg with me, that would do as part of my lunch along with the tin sardines I picked up a few days ago.
Mauritania is clearly a very poor country. I doubt that it has any minerals that the world needs. Normally in so called poor countries, it's not so much that the country is poor, its more that most of the people that live there are poor. You can see the few that have the wealth. Mauritania is different, there are no signs of wealth at all. There are no large houses set back in the village and towns that I pasted through. No expensive cars speeding through. That's not to say that life itself is poor, I've not been here long enough to make that kind of assessment. It is true to say that I wouldn't be able to live it.
However it seems to me that the country is missing a important trick. Although most of the country is desert, when I looked at my options of a trip to Africa, even though I was always going to come west, this was still the safest route through North Africa. Mauritania being the only place of real concern. In truth, since I've been here I haven't felt any threat, (I'm writing this after 3 days in the country). But the general view was that it was unsafe. In fairness that came from the people that had never been here. But real or not, that is the perception from what I've seen the road through here seems to be its biggest asset. Moving goods and people overland from Europe, Mauritania would make the perfect route. Allowing easier access, through more efficient border posts, this would surly bring with it more prosperity. In warehousing, distribution and other accompanying services. If it can work in Northamptonshire why not here. It seems fairly simple or am I once again missing the point.
From all that I'd read, the advice had been get refuelled whenever I saw somewhere with petrol. Diesel seems to ok, but petrol is no as widely used, so tends not to be available.
I came to a station about 50 clicks (always wanted to say that) out of Nouadhibou. There was none in the pumps, but if I waited a short while they'd get me some. Sure enough in a short while the Mercedes returned and out jumped the guy with about 5 litres in a water bottle. I wasn't surprised or put off by this, I'd read about the place and knew the routine. Indeed I'd bought along some coffee filters just for this stop. We had a short but agreeable conversation about price, we'd come to a price we were mutually pissed off with. As I've said before the right price. He puts in around 3 or 4 litres which fills it up , I only needed a top up remember, then he wants to charge me for 6.5 litres. Of course I say no way, and tell what I'm going to pay, basically for 2 litres, to which he nearly as a heart attack, by now everyone is chipping in, including a tanker driver mate of theirs, that pulled up just after me. The boss tells one his lads to get a pipe to syphon the fuel out of the tank, to which I remove the petrol cap and tell to take it out. Of course he doesn't want to take it out and don't want him too either, but we needed to find who had the biggest pair, I'd won that one. So we all start arguing again, half way through I beat my chest and say "you can't fu@k me over, I'm a Jamaican" to which the tanker driver beats his chest and shouts "Mauritanian" I beat my chest again and say I 'm a Jamaican, and we have Bob Marley" he beats his cheat again and shouts even louder "Mauritanian" I can sense now that he knows he's on a looser, so I beat chest and go for the killer blow and at the top of my voice I say I'm a Jamaican and we also have Hussain Bolt, at which he concedes and we burst into laughter. We agree somewhere near the correct price, shake hands and take photos. We're all happy and I get on my way. The fuel station part way between Nouadhibou and Nouakchott, which notorious for not having petrol, and the reason for me topping up, had as much petro as I needed. The only draw back was me getting there just as the call for Friday prayer started, which meant I had a long wait.
While I was stopped, there was family of husband, wife and child sat on the ground, I just gave them an acknowledgement which they returned, and that was it. They left just before me, but I quickly caught and passed them. About an hour or so later I stopped to take a drink, after a while they came pass and stopped, got out of the car, said I was ok and he waved and went off. I got going again after a while and the first brow I go over I see him in the side, once he sees me he pulls out and it dawns on me that he had stopped to make sure I'd got going again. I know that I'm in the desert, but even given that, I find that a generosity of spirit to a stranger over and above.
When I stop again for a drink, it in a largest village, although at first site you wouldn't see as it one. There a collection of no more that timber sheds. In fact when I first saw similar villages this morning, I thought they were on allotments. But these are homes. I suppose the wind that comes across the desert is the reason they look so unkempt on the outside. The wind even on what I believe must be a calm day, is relentless.
As an example, this morning when I was traveling in an easterly direction, the wind which was coming from the north, was so strong, I had the bike cantered to the left to counter it for maybe 30 miles, it looked like I was going through a left hand bend, but all I was doing was keeping it in a straight line. Today was a calm day.
This would also account why men wear a turban like head gear, which also warps around the mouth and nose. Women use their hijab in a similar way.
Getting back to my stop, rather than rudely parking outside someone's home I park a little distance away, but one of the children that has seen me approaching, (maybe little more than 3 years old) is reenacting what I'm sure she's seen her parents and others do when hitching a lift. So I decide to move forward and stop by the house. Of course she runs inside and hides behind her father when I get there. But he comes out to see if there is a problem. I'm able to convince him all is well and I was responding to the child, we smile and he chases some other children that are running down the centre of the road (remember I was doing 75mph on it 2 minutes ago) back to their homes, and returns to his house. Shortly after his friend who has also come to see what the stranger wants, beckoned me over and offers me what he says is sun dried fish, to buy. I take a taste of it, but to me it's a no goer, the only thing worse is "maple syrup" so I decline his offer. Importantly I can see inside the house without being a rude westerner. It is indeed his home, there are no dividing walls, no signs of electricity. At home we would call it a man cave, here it's a family home.
I say my goodbyes and get on my way, soon I'll be Nouakchott, entering on a empty duel carriageway, with the Mauritanian flag draped along with another that I don't recognise on alternate lamp post. It's obvious that they're there for an important overseas visitor, but it's not the Jamaican flag so I'm confused.
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I was on the road just after 9am I had a few things to sort before I left, decided to have "breakfast" 2 halfs of French loaf, a boiled egg, instant coffee and orange cordial. Hey I bet there were many not a mile away that would've gladly taken that as a days meal. So I shouldn't complain. It was enough to get me going and it would cut down on at least one stop and the time involved in finding somewhere to eat. I took the egg with me, that would do as part of my lunch along with the tin sardines I picked up a few days ago.
Mauritania is clearly a very poor country. I doubt that it has any minerals that the world needs. Normally in so called poor countries, it's not so much that the country is poor, its more that most of the people that live there are poor. You can see the few that have the wealth. Mauritania is different, there are no signs of wealth at all. There are no large houses set back in the village and towns that I pasted through. No expensive cars speeding through. That's not to say that life itself is poor, I've not been here long enough to make that kind of assessment. It is true to say that I wouldn't be able to live it.
However it seems to me that the country is missing a important trick. Although most of the country is desert, when I looked at my options of a trip to Africa, even though I was always going to come west, this was still the safest route through North Africa. Mauritania being the only place of real concern. In truth, since I've been here I haven't felt any threat, (I'm writing this after 3 days in the country). But the general view was that it was unsafe. In fairness that came from the people that had never been here. But real or not, that is the perception from what I've seen the road through here seems to be its biggest asset. Moving goods and people overland from Europe, Mauritania would make the perfect route. Allowing easier access, through more efficient border posts, this would surly bring with it more prosperity. In warehousing, distribution and other accompanying services. If it can work in Northamptonshire why not here. It seems fairly simple or am I once again missing the point.
From all that I'd read, the advice had been get refuelled whenever I saw somewhere with petrol. Diesel seems to ok, but petrol is no as widely used, so tends not to be available.
I came to a station about 50 clicks (always wanted to say that) out of Nouadhibou. There was none in the pumps, but if I waited a short while they'd get me some. Sure enough in a short while the Mercedes returned and out jumped the guy with about 5 litres in a water bottle. I wasn't surprised or put off by this, I'd read about the place and knew the routine. Indeed I'd bought along some coffee filters just for this stop. We had a short but agreeable conversation about price, we'd come to a price we were mutually pissed off with. As I've said before the right price. He puts in around 3 or 4 litres which fills it up , I only needed a top up remember, then he wants to charge me for 6.5 litres. Of course I say no way, and tell what I'm going to pay, basically for 2 litres, to which he nearly as a heart attack, by now everyone is chipping in, including a tanker driver mate of theirs, that pulled up just after me. The boss tells one his lads to get a pipe to syphon the fuel out of the tank, to which I remove the petrol cap and tell to take it out. Of course he doesn't want to take it out and don't want him too either, but we needed to find who had the biggest pair, I'd won that one. So we all start arguing again, half way through I beat my chest and say "you can't fu@k me over, I'm a Jamaican" to which the tanker driver beats his chest and shouts "Mauritanian" I beat my chest again and say I 'm a Jamaican, and we have Bob Marley" he beats his cheat again and shouts even louder "Mauritanian" I can sense now that he knows he's on a looser, so I beat chest and go for the killer blow and at the top of my voice I say I'm a Jamaican and we also have Hussain Bolt, at which he concedes and we burst into laughter. We agree somewhere near the correct price, shake hands and take photos. We're all happy and I get on my way. The fuel station part way between Nouadhibou and Nouakchott, which notorious for not having petrol, and the reason for me topping up, had as much petro as I needed. The only draw back was me getting there just as the call for Friday prayer started, which meant I had a long wait.
While I was stopped, there was family of husband, wife and child sat on the ground, I just gave them an acknowledgement which they returned, and that was it. They left just before me, but I quickly caught and passed them. About an hour or so later I stopped to take a drink, after a while they came pass and stopped, got out of the car, said I was ok and he waved and went off. I got going again after a while and the first brow I go over I see him in the side, once he sees me he pulls out and it dawns on me that he had stopped to make sure I'd got going again. I know that I'm in the desert, but even given that, I find that a generosity of spirit to a stranger over and above.
When I stop again for a drink, it in a largest village, although at first site you wouldn't see as it one. There a collection of no more that timber sheds. In fact when I first saw similar villages this morning, I thought they were on allotments. But these are homes. I suppose the wind that comes across the desert is the reason they look so unkempt on the outside. The wind even on what I believe must be a calm day, is relentless.
As an example, this morning when I was traveling in an easterly direction, the wind which was coming from the north, was so strong, I had the bike cantered to the left to counter it for maybe 30 miles, it looked like I was going through a left hand bend, but all I was doing was keeping it in a straight line. Today was a calm day.
This would also account why men wear a turban like head gear, which also warps around the mouth and nose. Women use their hijab in a similar way.
Getting back to my stop, rather than rudely parking outside someone's home I park a little distance away, but one of the children that has seen me approaching, (maybe little more than 3 years old) is reenacting what I'm sure she's seen her parents and others do when hitching a lift. So I decide to move forward and stop by the house. Of course she runs inside and hides behind her father when I get there. But he comes out to see if there is a problem. I'm able to convince him all is well and I was responding to the child, we smile and he chases some other children that are running down the centre of the road (remember I was doing 75mph on it 2 minutes ago) back to their homes, and returns to his house. Shortly after his friend who has also come to see what the stranger wants, beckoned me over and offers me what he says is sun dried fish, to buy. I take a taste of it, but to me it's a no goer, the only thing worse is "maple syrup" so I decline his offer. Importantly I can see inside the house without being a rude westerner. It is indeed his home, there are no dividing walls, no signs of electricity. At home we would call it a man cave, here it's a family home.
I say my goodbyes and get on my way, soon I'll be Nouakchott, entering on a empty duel carriageway, with the Mauritanian flag draped along with another that I don't recognise on alternate lamp post. It's obvious that they're there for an important overseas visitor, but it's not the Jamaican flag so I'm confused.
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Great stuff Davey!
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Excellent report - really enjoying this! Take it easy or should I say, cool runnings....
Take it easy or should I say, cool runnings.... 
MartinGSer
Registered user
Great read Davey, I can't wait for your next report even though I feel so envious when reading them. Keep safe.
This report is a little out of order, but I feel it's in the moment so here it is.
Dakar the Ghanian Embassy
It's a small building that I'd passed last night without realising. When I go through the gates there are 3 security who are pleasant and sign me in.
At the reception there is a very efficient, beautiful lady, that at first thinks I'm Senegalese and tells me I don't need a visa. But I tell that I'm from London, she tells me it's not possible to get a visa here. I explain my understanding is that I can she says no. So I tell I've been on this journey for 400 years, my fore-parents were taken from somewhere in West Africa, and enslaved in Jamaica. My parents later traveled to England where I live. I also tell her that I was born a couple of weeks before the State of Ghana, which as a Jamaican we take as our spiritual home. I have traveled by motorcycle from London to here and I "will" continue to Ghana, it is my destiny!
She looks me up and down, then says ok wait. She goes away for a few minutes, when she returns, she asks if I have an invitation. I say no, she asked do I have a friend in Ghana, I say no, well do I have a hotel booking, again I say no, but I can do that. She says ok. It's 12 noon they close at 2pm, I must find somewhere that has wi fi. There's an hotel a few doors away, I called there last night when looking for somewhere to stay. They were full but allowed me to use their connection. I call on their kindness again, which is forthcoming. I go to the bar buy a soda and book a hotel in Accra. While I'm doing that, the young lady that serves me, engages me in conversation, so I explain what I'm trying to do. She tells me she has a friend in Ghana she will WhatsApp him to see if he can help. I thank her, we exchange numbers and email addresses, then I return to the embassy. I ask receptionist about photos, but it can't be done there, I must go to the Yoff stadium which is about 2 miles away.
I go out to get a taxi, but coming towards me is the girl from the hotel, her friend wants me to call him later. She gives me his number and go to find a taxi, which appears 10 seconds after stand on sidewalk.
We're off to the Yoff stadium, or we would be if the taxi driver understood the little French I think I can speak. I see a police man on the way so we stop to see if he can translate. He can't but quickly finds me someone who can, then we're off to the stadium. We get there but he still doesn't understand that I need to get to where I can get my photo taken. I run into a bureau de change, and the guy there translates. Back to the car, he turns the key and nothing, when he turns the key, the dash lights up, but there's no ignition. A loose battery cable, its clear the poor lad has no idea as he's looking around the engine bay aimlessly. I have little more than 30 minutes before the embassy closes for the weekend I need a 10mm spanner to fix it, we're next to a tyre fitting bay, I try explain what I need but no chance. In the end they push us and it bump starts. We find the photo shop and they quickly give me the 4 photos that I need and if I say it myself, I look dapper. I jump back in the car and we're on our way back to the embassy it's now 1:45.
The traffic is heavy, but kind. Time is going on but I'll make it, then the car shudders and dies. (Non of this is made up) We are heading uphill with traffic behind us. I quickly give the driver 2000 franc and jump into another cab. It's not too far and I'm there. I knock on the gate, but the security is reluctant to open it until he recognises my voice.
I go inside but the receptionist is not there, but after a few minutes she appears with who she says is her boss. I hand them my passport and go into my pocket where I've put the photos for safe keeping, and nothing no photos are in there, nothing. My composure is gone and I go into a blind panic. Leaving my phone and passport i run out into the street in the hope that I dropped them on the way in. But no such luck, and return into the embassy totally dejected. After all that I've fallen at the last hurdle, I was hurting, like I hadn't hurt throughout the trip. I'm almost in tears.
The receptionist asks me what's wrong, I tell her I've lost my photos, she says they're here and staples one of them to my application form. I must have taken them out of my pocket while I was waiting for to appear. Words can't convey my elation.
Once I've completed the form, she goes away and returns 10 minutes later. After a short while, she completes the paperwork, smiling she tells me I'm lucky. Normally they don't deal with visas on Fridays and it should take 3 days. (It's taken 3 hours) I say no, I'm blessed that I only meet good, beautiful people, of which she is one. It's my destiny!
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Dakar the Ghanian Embassy
It's a small building that I'd passed last night without realising. When I go through the gates there are 3 security who are pleasant and sign me in.
At the reception there is a very efficient, beautiful lady, that at first thinks I'm Senegalese and tells me I don't need a visa. But I tell that I'm from London, she tells me it's not possible to get a visa here. I explain my understanding is that I can she says no. So I tell I've been on this journey for 400 years, my fore-parents were taken from somewhere in West Africa, and enslaved in Jamaica. My parents later traveled to England where I live. I also tell her that I was born a couple of weeks before the State of Ghana, which as a Jamaican we take as our spiritual home. I have traveled by motorcycle from London to here and I "will" continue to Ghana, it is my destiny!
She looks me up and down, then says ok wait. She goes away for a few minutes, when she returns, she asks if I have an invitation. I say no, she asked do I have a friend in Ghana, I say no, well do I have a hotel booking, again I say no, but I can do that. She says ok. It's 12 noon they close at 2pm, I must find somewhere that has wi fi. There's an hotel a few doors away, I called there last night when looking for somewhere to stay. They were full but allowed me to use their connection. I call on their kindness again, which is forthcoming. I go to the bar buy a soda and book a hotel in Accra. While I'm doing that, the young lady that serves me, engages me in conversation, so I explain what I'm trying to do. She tells me she has a friend in Ghana she will WhatsApp him to see if he can help. I thank her, we exchange numbers and email addresses, then I return to the embassy. I ask receptionist about photos, but it can't be done there, I must go to the Yoff stadium which is about 2 miles away.
I go out to get a taxi, but coming towards me is the girl from the hotel, her friend wants me to call him later. She gives me his number and go to find a taxi, which appears 10 seconds after stand on sidewalk.
We're off to the Yoff stadium, or we would be if the taxi driver understood the little French I think I can speak. I see a police man on the way so we stop to see if he can translate. He can't but quickly finds me someone who can, then we're off to the stadium. We get there but he still doesn't understand that I need to get to where I can get my photo taken. I run into a bureau de change, and the guy there translates. Back to the car, he turns the key and nothing, when he turns the key, the dash lights up, but there's no ignition. A loose battery cable, its clear the poor lad has no idea as he's looking around the engine bay aimlessly. I have little more than 30 minutes before the embassy closes for the weekend I need a 10mm spanner to fix it, we're next to a tyre fitting bay, I try explain what I need but no chance. In the end they push us and it bump starts. We find the photo shop and they quickly give me the 4 photos that I need and if I say it myself, I look dapper. I jump back in the car and we're on our way back to the embassy it's now 1:45.
The traffic is heavy, but kind. Time is going on but I'll make it, then the car shudders and dies. (Non of this is made up) We are heading uphill with traffic behind us. I quickly give the driver 2000 franc and jump into another cab. It's not too far and I'm there. I knock on the gate, but the security is reluctant to open it until he recognises my voice.
I go inside but the receptionist is not there, but after a few minutes she appears with who she says is her boss. I hand them my passport and go into my pocket where I've put the photos for safe keeping, and nothing no photos are in there, nothing. My composure is gone and I go into a blind panic. Leaving my phone and passport i run out into the street in the hope that I dropped them on the way in. But no such luck, and return into the embassy totally dejected. After all that I've fallen at the last hurdle, I was hurting, like I hadn't hurt throughout the trip. I'm almost in tears.
The receptionist asks me what's wrong, I tell her I've lost my photos, she says they're here and staples one of them to my application form. I must have taken them out of my pocket while I was waiting for to appear. Words can't convey my elation.
Once I've completed the form, she goes away and returns 10 minutes later. After a short while, she completes the paperwork, smiling she tells me I'm lucky. Normally they don't deal with visas on Fridays and it should take 3 days. (It's taken 3 hours) I say no, I'm blessed that I only meet good, beautiful people, of which she is one. It's my destiny!
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- Joined
- Oct 6, 2008
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Enjoying this. Nothing in Dakar is easy but most people are helpful. You going out to Isle de Goree?
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No saving that until I get to Ghana, more appropriate to me.
On the outskirts of Dakar near the airport, in a fishing village for want of a better word. Loving it, very, very basic, but safe and hassle free. A real find. Girls are beautiful, fish cooked on the beach. This is the part of the adventure that I came for.
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On the outskirts of Dakar near the airport, in a fishing village for want of a better word. Loving it, very, very basic, but safe and hassle free. A real find. Girls are beautiful, fish cooked on the beach. This is the part of the adventure that I came for.
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
