Overland to Africa

Angola into Namibia

2010-07-10T03:13:00.002-07:00

It was a welcome relief to finally get to the border between the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Angola. Not our favorite country to date. As we rode up to the first checkpoint on the DRC side however, one of the policemen told us the border was closed due to it being market day. Having crossed a few borders we were immediately skeptical and bypassed the bloke and soon enough were heading across the border into Angola. We were stoked to have finally made it here after all the dramas we experienced in obtaining our visas. That night we camped just inside the Angolan border.

Our first two days in Angola saw us riding on a mixture of roads ranging from very good to bloody awful. On our first day we were on a reasonable 70km piste from the border to Mbanza Congo. Then the route from Mbanza Congo to N'zeto which was a mixture of good tarmac and fairly good piste. With the gas station in Mbanza out of gas we had to fill up from a bloke on the side of the road in N'zeto. He made a bit of a killing, selling the petrol and two and a half times the price at the pump.

We pushed on that afternoon on the road towards Luanda. This was pretty tough. Quite sandy leaving N'zeto with the road gradually deteriorating as we went along. Some of the potholes were enormous and the road got worse as it became a mixture of old tarmac and gravel which saw our bikes take a bit of a hammering. The next day we hit Luanda and found our first petrol station with petrol. Just after filling up I heard this bloke behind me say, "Hello mate" in a scouse accent. After quickly checking my wallet was still in my pocket I turned around and met Marco, a Portuguese fella who had done his schooling in Liverpool who was now working in Angola. He had spotted our UK plates and very kindly offered to show us the route for the bypass of Luanda and then brought us to a cafe where he shouted us lunch. A really nice bloke.

That night we made camp on the coast south of Luanda. The beach was awesome. Long and pretty much deserted. We made a fire from driftwood and settled down for a night under the stars. Aaaah life is good.

A hard days riding the following day saw us reach Benguela. We were tired and a bit cranky after riding around 500km on fairly good road. That night we slept like babies and were up at dawn the next day, headed for Lubango. Near Lubango we visited Tundavala, a mountain which lead to a shear cliff overlooking the valley below. An awesome sight. We camped at a nearby lake that evening and for the first time since Spain, felt cold at night. Hans reckoned it reached zero degrees and sure enough there was a touch of frost on the ground when we got up the next day.

The following day we headed towards the border with Namibia. Again the roads were of mixed quality. As we drew closer to the border we saw plenty of evidence of Angola's turbulent past. Wrecked and mangled armored vehicles and buildings riddled with bullet holes. Mines were used readily in the conflict here. There are still thousands of live mines in Angola and we were shocked at the number of one legged men on crutches we saw as a result. Quite sobering to think that there was still conflict here only 15 years ago and that tourists have only recently been allowed into the country which has really opened up the overland route through the west coast of Africa.

On the road we met two Spaniards on their bicycles. They had been on the road for two and a half years and had been all over the world starting from Nepal. It was great to stop and chat to them. They had great things to say about Namibia.

Later that day arrived at Santa Clara and the border with Namibia. We crossed into Oshikango, Namibia and all of a sudden it felt like we were back in civilization. There were shops, fast food and gas stations that actually had petrol. It was a bit unnerving! As we left Oshikango we were stopped and our passports were checked by the police. We had a problem. Hans' new passport, which had been issued in Kinshasa, was showing up as being flagged by INTERPOL, apparently having been stolen in Moldova and used for all sorts of dodgy goings on. Hans explained to the policeman that it was obviously a mistake and that the number must have been duplicated at the time his new passport was issued but it was a good couple of hours before he could convince them end we were on our way.

That night we camped near the border. Finding a place to camp in Namibia was quite hard as unlike every other country in Africa we had seen, most places were fenced. The next day we rode south on fantastic tarmac towards Etosha national park. We were both keen to see some wildlife, Hans in particular, who had missed out on the elephants in Burkina Faso owing to his clutch problems. We stayed at a fantastic campsite, Sachsenheim, near the northern boundary to the park and there we were introduced to Donny, a bloke who worked on the farm there and who also made the best kudu biltong and droeworst you ever tried.

We asked, but were unable to ride our bikes into Etosha. Something about the eminent danger of us being eaten by lions. So we found a guide with an open canopied Land Cruiser and visited in the late afternoon. The morning and afternoon are apparently the best time to see wildlife as during the heat of the day the animals are fairly inactive. Our guide, Emelda, the only female guide working in the park was great. She had a great knowledge of the park and the animals. She also had a fully stocked bar in a cooler with her.

As we drove into the park we encountered wildlife almost immediately. First some of the smaller antelope, springbok and black faced impala then giraffes and some of the larger species of antelope, eland, kudu and orynx. Emelda asked us, "So which animal would you most like to see. "Lions", we replied without hesitation. So as we drove through we kept a sharp eye out for one of the big predators. As we continued we had no luck with the lions but came across a black rhino at one of the water holes. We were extremely fortunate to see this rare animal. Soon after our luck continued and we came across a breeding herd of at least 80 elephant. Wow! They were amazing. The herd consisted mainly of mothers and their calves along with the odd bad tempered adolescent male. Again Emelda commented on how lucky we were to see such a magnificent herd.

As the sun sat low on the horizon we started driving back to the park entrance (you aren't allowed in the park after sunset). We were totally amazed at the amount of wildlife we had seen. Me and Hans were talking to each other when suddenly Emelda said, "Lion!", and there walking towards us across the veld was a lioness, off for her evening hunt. She was amazing. Big and graceful. We watched as she came right up to our vehicle, apparently unperturbed, and looked on as she crossed the road in front of us and trotted away. A truly amazing sight. Namibia was certainly living up to the hype.

After a couple of days relaxing at Sachenheim, we continued south west, towards the coast. En route we stayed at another fantastic campsite, Sophienhof near Outjo. The place was owned by a German chap and managed by a really nice couple, Barty and his friend Yvonne. As we arrived and pulled up with our bikes, they said, "Great, you are just in time to feed the cheetahs". Awesome. The next thing you know we are passing pieces of meat through a fence and feeding them by hand. They were amazing animals. Still pretty wild. Each had been caught on one of the local farms. Normally farmers here shoot animals that could potentially prey on their stock. We heard of animals like lions and hyenas being shot by farmers on a regular basis. To their credit Barty and Yvonne had taken three cheetahs in and kept them in a large fenced off field where they seemed quite happy. That night we had a great braai and knocked back a few beers as we overlooked a floodlit watering hole where kudu, wildebeest and orynx came to drink. The next day we left and were surprised when our bar bill wasn't included in our bill. We queried it and Barty and Yvonne insisted it was on them. They wouldn't take no for an answer, really nice, generous people.

We headed further west on fairly good gravel roads. The weather was perfect and the scenery amazing. We stopped at Brandberg, the tallest mountain in Namibia and there visited some ancient rock paintings made by Bushmen. The most famous of these paintings is known as the White Lady. 'She' is actually a bloke, a San medicine man and has been depicted in white. Our guide reckoned that some of the paintings are up to 2000 years old.

Following more gravel roads we headed further west to the Skeleton Coast. We headed north, around 30km north of Henties Bay and set up camp on the beach. It was an awesome spot. We had camped in some pretty cool places throughout our trip but I reckon this would have to be my favourite. Miles and miles of deserted coastline, punctuated by the odd shipwreck.

The next day we headed south to Swakopmund. Hans reckons Swakopmund is more German than Germany with the German colonial past evident everywhere. We stayed at a camp site near the beach and there met an interesting bloke. Tango, a Lithuanian chap who had ridden his KLR 250 all the way from Lithuania down the west coast like us. He had done amazingly well considering he only had 1,500 euros when he was in Morocco and no Carnet de Passage.

He had had a great adventure and was about to embark on another as he had just found a bloke with a yacht who was sailing to South America in a few days. We were a bit concerned as apparently it would be just the two of them and the skipper had only four weeks sailing experience but Tango seemed pretty happy with the arrangement. Hans taught him a few knots and we said bon voyage.

We also met Darren, a kiwi with an old Land Rover Defender who had done quite a bit of traveling through the Sahara and had tackled the west coast like us for the first time. We could only look on in envy at his setup, complete with solar panels, roof tent and fridge. Man we could have done with a fridge in the Sahara.

We stayed in Swakopmund for a few days. Lots of beer and a braai every night for dinner, our bodies enjoying their re-acquaintance with red meat. Hans did a tandem skydive while we were there as well. He had a pretty full on experience when his instructor had to jettison the main chute and go to the reserve at 2000 feet. He didn't even have to pay extra.

Leaving Swakop, we headed to Winhoek, the capital city of Namibia. Hans had the GS booked in for a service at the BMW dealer there. We stayed at Chameleon backpackers and met some great folk there. We had heard of a place there called Joe's Beerhouse which was meant to have excellent steaks and we went there for dinner. Awesome. Hans had zebra, ostrich and orynx while I settled for the ribeye / fillet steak combo. They served beer in proper big steins. Jeez it was good.

The following day, whilst Hans' bike was in the garage, I had a few things to do on the AT. Just as we had arrived in Windhoek the previous day, my tail light, indicators, horn and dash lights had stopped working. I suspected a blown fuse and sure enough found that this was the case. I changed the fuse and tested the lights and horn. Bang. Blew another one. There must be a short somewhere. I remembered Mike had had the same problem when we were in Spain as his vibey KTM had caused wearing on the insulation wire to his headlight causing a short against the subframe. Recalling the fuse had blown shortly after I tested the horn, I checked the wiring there first. Sure enough, I found a small wire which had been trapped between the radiator grill and the subframe which had worn through. A bit of insulation tape and a new fuse and we were back in business.

My Africa Twin. She has done so well the entire trip. Never really missed a beat. If I did the same trip again I'd take the same bike. Yeah it's heavy and tall for me, but what a bike! Tough and reliable. No major hassles and the few that I have had were easily repaired. I lost the pin securing the rear brake pads to the caliper and managed to bodge a replacement with a piece of No. 8 wire and a cable tie. The bolt securing one of the bash plate bolts snapped in Nigeria on the piste leading to Cameroon and a jubilee clip sorted that problem. Apart from these and of course a few punctures, after the 27,000km we have covered since leaving England, the XRV is still going great.

After a few days in Windhoek and a final visit to Joe's Beerhouse, we headed south, first on tarmac and then gravel. Again the weather and scenery were unbelievable. Rugged hills, mountain passes and huge open valleys. We visited a place called Solitaire, a tiny hamlet consisting of a gas station, shop and bakery. We had heard the bakery made the best apple strudel this side of Hamburg and yeah it was pretty damn good.

Namibia had been an amazing place. We feel like we had only just scratched the surface of this fantastic country. After two weeks however, Hans and I were both keen to get to South Africa and see Mad Dog who was still in Cape Town waiting for his bike to be shipped from the Cameroon after his crash. So, we left the gravel and rode on tarmac towards the border. On the 3rd of July, 184 days after leaving the UK, we arrived at the Orange River, the border with South Africa, and crossed over....

Gabon / Congo / DRC

2010-06-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I know I said that my last blog entry would be the last. At the time it didn't seem right to continue writing about this trip without Mike as we had been together from the start of the journey and hence the beginning of this blog. However, it has since been pointed out to me, by person(s) who will remain unamed, that I am pretty crap at emailing and keeping in touch with friends and family and continuing this journal will hopefully keep all updated. More importantly, as Hans and I continue, we see the remainder of this trip as a tribute to Mikey and we would like to share that with everyone who knew Mike personally and those who met him through his own ride report and this one.

We spent an emotional sometimes frustrating ten days in Libreville arranging Mike's repatriation back to New Zealand. The beauracracy and dealing with the African way of getting things done was challenging to say the least. We did however meet some fantastic people who really did help us out. Tim, a kiwi goldminer living in Gabon and his girlfriend Candice, Marante, the wife of the British honarary consul in Libreville and a lovely lady from the Congolese embassy who really sympathised with us and greased the wheels when we reapplied for our Congo visa which had expired. They were all fantastic.

We left Libreville and started out towards Ndjole. This was the fourth time we had ridden along this road and we rode sedately, giving ourselves plenty of time to reach Ndjole. Around 8km from Ndjole we stopped at the scene of Mike's accident, recorded the waypoint and paid our respects to our mate.

We arrived at the Auberge St Jeanne in Ndjole and got a room for the night. This was the third time we had stayed at this funny little auberge, owned and run by an elderly woman who by now we referred to as mama. Her staff consisted of two other gentlemen, even older than her who helped in the bar \ restaurant and provided security. The average age of the establishment was comical and meant that everyone moved with a slow shuffling gait which made the place seem a bit like a cross between Fawlty Towers and Dad's Army. Bless them.

We met a colleague of Tim's, Charles, a South African bloke who kindly arranged for the safe storage of Mikey's bike and eventual haulage to Libreville before it will be shipped back to NZ. Another great guy who really helped us out.

The next day we bade farewell to Ndjole and started out again. It felt like we were back on the road proper as we left the tarmac, joining a bumpy dirt / gravel road which took us deep into the Gabonese jungle. About 10km in, my rear brake stopped working. Damn. Not the best road for this to happen as the loose gravel made using the front brake a bit hairy on the heavy Africa Twin.

So we continued at a slower pace, which suited us fine. The lanscape was amazing. Jungle gave way to savannah and we crossed a huge dark meandering river, the Ogooue. It was a tiring day though, I think we had lost a little riding condition after our time in Libreville so we decided to camp at around 4pm. Before we could find a suitable spot though I got a puncture, my third of the entire trip. Repairing the puncture was a bit of a nightmare. It was hot and sticky as by this time we were back in virgin rainforest. The worst thing though were the clouds of biting black flies which literally covered us, drinking our sweat and leaving itchy red welts on our skin as we sorted the punture out. The locals call the flies mut-muts, but we referred to them as effing little shits!

We camped that night in a small clearing at the edge of the jungle and Hansy whipped up another fantastic pasta variation over the fire. The next day we intended to reach Franceville via Lastoursville. We were up early and started to pack the bikes up. As we did so we noticed a gentle buzzing which gradually became louder. By the time we were ready to depart our bikes and gear were literally covered in bees! They were everywhere and we eventually had to abandon the bikes, head 50m up the track to get our gear on before madly dashing back to the bikes, starting them up and doing a runner. Not our most graceful exit and an interesting start to the day. Back on the road we again passed through some great and varied country. At one point we had to stop as we spyed some huge spider webs in the bushes at the side of the road. Approaching carefully we realised that the web was not built by some insanely enormous queen spider but by hundreds of little ones which had constructed a massive larder.

Late that afternoon we finally made it to Franceville and tarmac. We had done two days and 400km of solid riding on dirt and gravel, us and our bikes covered in a thick film of red dirt. We looked a state but were happy at the progress we made. In Franceville we met a great bloke, Placid, who had been referred to us by Charles in Ndjole. Placid took us out for a few much deserved beers and some food. He told us alot about the Gabon and his family and their traditional way of life in the jungle which he had learned from his grandfather. Curing snakebites and wrestling gorillas apparently the norm for his ancestors.

Placid was also a mechanic and the next day brought around some brake fluid so I could repair my rear brake, in case it needed bleeding. Turns out though that one of the brake pads had come off the shoe so there was not a great deal to be done except change the pads. I didn't have any spare but Hans had an old set with a bit still on them so we fitted them. Whilst not a perfect fit they seem to be working okay. A definite improvement!

The next day we headed for Lekoni, the last town before the Congolese border. We stopped there for fuel and made our way to the piste which would lead us out of Gabon and into the Congo. Well 'piste' is one word for it I guess. Narrow, deep sandy goat track would be another way to describe it. The going was tough on our heavy bikes and Hans dropped his a couple of times. We decided to take it easy and crawled along the rutted sandy track. The going was slow and tiring. Hot for both us and our bikes, cooling fans working overtime.

We managed 14km in about 3 hours and decided to call it a day, setting up camp beside the track. Exhausted and dehydrated we cooked some food and rested up. After dark we saw headlights coming along the track towards us from the Congo side. A bit nervous as we had no idea who they were, we were relieved when they turned out to be, not heavily armed smugglers, but French manganese miners heading to Lekoni. When we told them we were heading to the Congo via Akou they informed us we were on the wrong piste! Arrrrghhh! Doh! Ah well at least we had found out before going any further in the wrong direction.

The following day we returned to Lekoni, taking about half the time it had taken us the previous day, our sand riding skills having improved overnight and found the correct route. The piste was however not too much of an improvement. Again we took it slow and made steady progress. In the relatively cool morning we covered some good ground but as the day got warmer it became more difficult. No more drops however although I did manage to get the AT bellied trying to cross a deep rut. Lacking a spade to dig it out I used my enamel mug and after unloading the bike, Hans and I managed to get the heavy beast free. Later that afternoon we reached the Congo border. It was hot and we were pretty jaded, dehydrated and craving sugar / salts. Imagine our joy when the border guard informed us that a place up the road had cold drinks! Turns out by cold he meant that they were sitting in a bucket of river water and were sorta lukewarm but we didn't care! Our bodies soaked up the sugary liquid and we felt fantastic. We hung out with the 'shop' owner and half the village for an hour or so. My ripped (well ventilated) tee shirt attracting a bit of attention from the curious kids.

Leaving Akou we continued and came across a river just outside the village. Remembering the golden rule, "never pass up the opportunity to swim in a river", we wasted no time in stripping off our gear a plunging into the cool clear water. Man it was good. We washed off the accumulated grime from the last few days and left feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. We didn't get too much further that day and camped a couple of kilometers up the road. Another challenging day and our bodies were feeling it but we felt great nonetheless. Our campsite was virtually on the piste as it was impossible to get the bikes over the steep banks so we chose what looked like the most disused of a series of tracks and parked up.

Up at dawn the next day we carried on and again made good time in the morning. At around 2pm it got pretty warm and we headed towards a patch of trees for some shade and a breather. Turns out the trees were just outside a small village called Dzogo. After cooling down for a while we headed to the village to say hello. The people were all very nice and interested in what we were up to. After we had been chatting for a few minutes the heavens opened. Rain. Lots of and a good dose of thunder and lightening. What we thought would be a passing shower turned into an hour long torential downpour. After it stopped we headed back to the bikes to continue on down the road. Turns out we weren't going anywhere as the storm had turned the track into a series of giant lakes.

Not feeling overly comfortable riding in those conditions we opted to sit tight and returned to Dzogo to see if we could stay in the village until at least some of the water had disappeared from the road. Turns out the tiny village was only too happy to host a couple of dirty wayward motorcyclists. In fact we had the honour of camping just outside the village chief's hut. He was a great bloke and only too happy to have guests. That night we cooked up some curried pasta and shared our meal with the chief. He loved it! It was great to be able to repay some of the generosity which had been shown to us. The next day the road looked about the same and we decided to hang tight for another day. We asked the chief if there was a pump or well in the village as we were running low on water. Turns out the nearest source was a small river about 2km away. So we offered to fill up a couple of bottles for the chief, he accepted but insisted he accompany us. So we set off, passing through wooded savannah and Maniok plantations. It was a hot day and when we arrived at the river there was a pool of crystal clear water to swim in. Awesome! So me and Hans and the chief ralaxed in the pool for an hour or so.

That afternoon the piste looked alot better so we decided to leave first thing in the morning. We spent the afternoon relaxing. That day a few villagers had found a wild honey beehive and we watched a they strained the fresh honey into bottles. It was dark, extremely runny and tasted amazing, a strong honey flavour with a malty aftertaste. Later a few of the young lads started playing drums. When I say drums, I mean a hollow log, a small piece of wood and a truck wheel, but the rhythm was awesome and the kids were all dancing around. Not wanting to be left out, Hans and I joined the throng of girating children and treated the locals to a few moves. Not sure if they see too many white men in Dzogo, let alone white men dancing. They thought it was hilarious. Two of the young girls actually fell over as they were laughing so hard at Hans' fusion of Flashdance and MC Hammer shit. Classic.

The following day we said farewell to the village of Dzogo. They had been great hosts. The road had improved alot and in a way the rain had helped to pack down the soft sand so that the riding was a bit easier. There were still some challenging sections and we conservatively walked a few of the larger puddles before riding through.

Late in the day we made it to Oyo and tarmac. It had been a fantastic yet tiring three days on the piste where we travelled just over 120km. That night we slept like babies and were up early the next day. We made Brazzaville in the early afternoon. Our accomodation in Brazzaville was the overlander renowned Hippocamp, a hotel / restaurant where overlanders are allowed to camp for free. It is an awesome place with a great restaurant serving Viatmanese speciaties and a dangerously well stocked bar.

The following day we located the Brazzaville golf course and played nine holes. This was something we had always planned to do with Mikey and it was great to be out on the fairways on a course which overlooked the mighty Congo river.

The following day was a Monday and we decided to head to the Angolan embassy in Brazza and try our luck on getting a visa there. We had already been denied this notoriously difficult visa in Libreville but thought it was worth a crack. No was the answer. Apparently we had too few pages left in our passport (I had three and Hans four). Given the visa only takes up one page we left bemused and a little deflated. The embassy staff had told us to try in Matadi in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, near the Angolan border.

The following day we left Brazzaville on the ferry bound for Kinshasa and the DRC. The crossing went reasonably smoothly as we had gone to the port the previous day and scouted for tickets, customs and immigration. We had heard mixed reports about this crossing. Some Italian blokes we met described it as like crossing from Soddam into Gamorah. Nah it wasn't that bad. We were duped on the DRC side however when we not allowed to leave the port until our bikes had been 'disinfected'. At $60 a bike we were having none of it but couldn't get away as by now the police had blocked our exit. In the end we paid $20 for both bikes and watched as a bloke sprayed water and bleach on our tyres. It was a bit of a joke really but we took in in good spirits. Thieving little gits.

Finally leaving the port we headed out of Kinshasa and the road to Matadi where we hoped to obtain our Angolan visas. We didn't make it that evening though, only covering some 250km of the 450km road. So as usual, as the shadows lengthened, we looked for a suitable place to camp for the night.

We found a graded dirt track which lead to some sort of pipeline where we found a suitable place to pitch our tents. Just on dark I was cooking up some pasta when down the track we noticed the dancing light of a torch coming towards us. Quite distant we assumed it was just some local heading back to his village. When the light went out we thought nothing of it. Nothing until the first gunshot. Fuck! We were under fire. We hit the deck and started yelling, "Nous son les touirsts, tranquile mon ami, tranquile!". After 10 minutes on the floor we heard nothing and slowly got up. Hans reckoned the shot went well to our left. Maybe a warning? In any case we decided to pack up as quick as we could and get out of Dodge. Hans was packed and I was just finishing when, bang! Another round. This time much closer. We dove for cover again trying to communicate with the gunman. This time he responded and after establishing our number and that we were tourists, we emerged, hands raised. That's when we met Augustine, all things considered he turned out to be a really nice chap. He was armed with an AK47 and kept telling us how lucky we were and that God was on our side. Turns out he was employed to guard the pipeline from people pilfering the aluminium pipe. It seemed he had adopted a very clear 'shoot first and ask questions later' policy. After handshakes and introductions he gave us permission to camp where we were which was very nice of him. Early the next morning he again turned up, this time with one of his mates and we took the oppurtunity to have a photo taken with 'our' gunman. So that was day 1 in the DRC. What would tomorrow bring?

Not an Angolan visa as it turns out. We were refused again and told to go back to Kinshasa. Bugger. So we did and located the Mission St Anne in the city centre where we could camp for free which is a bit of a result as Kinshasa is insanely expensive. You tend to pay for most things in US dollars which is a bit strange. Anyway, we submitted our visa applications and five days later (today) we were granted the highly coveted visa. Result! Hans and I are stoked and tomorrow we head for Angola. Bring it.

Mikey

2010-05-09T07:31:00.000-07:00

Tragically Mike was involved in a road accident in Gabon on the 7th of May. He did not survive. Our heartfelt condolences go out to all of Mike's family and friends.

Mikey was a much loved friend, son, brother, uncle and colleague.

To us he was our mate, our travel companion. We miss him terribly.

We remember Mikey as a cooker (and eager consumer) of fine curries.

He was our Mr Fixit. In fact he enjoyed fixing things so much we suspect he would secretly break things in order to be able to mend them.

He was our hairdresser, and not a bad one either. He took the role quite seriously and would prance around like some 95kg fairy as he happily snipped away, saying things like, "there you go" and "how's that length for you then". Scary.

He was our scout. At the end of the day, when the terrain looked tough, we would send him and the KTM ahead to look for a suitable campsite. We know he secretly loved doing this little job as he got to show us his superior off road riding ability.

Mike didn't like bullies. Below is an excerpt from his ride report...

"Since Simon's passport was just stolen we kept asking the people to step back from our bikes. The teenagers were trying to play it cool and move the kids on but hang around our bikes themselves. I'd rather they buggered off and the kids stayed put. Anyway, I caught one bully cuffing one lad around the head then viscously pulling his ear. He was a head taller than the kid and made him cry. While Hans angrily told him off I took the poor sod over to my bike and cut off my mascot/toy (a little beanie toy in ktm orange). All the kids eyes got very large when I told them where my toy was from and where it had been... London, France, Spain, Morocco, Mauritania, Mali, Togo, Benin, Nigeria, Cameroon. The kid was so happy when I gave it too him. Ten minutes later I saw he didn't have it and gave him a look with a raised eyebrow. He nodded sagely and discretely tapped his pocket. No bastard was stealing it from him - good stuff"

To read the rest of Mikey's ride report click here.

This will be the last entry in this blog. Hans and I will continue on to Cape Town once we are done here. We want to do it for Mikey.

Rest in peace mate.

Togo, Nigeria and Cameroon

2010-04-16T05:54:00.000-07:00

Mike and I took a day on a mixture of tarmac and good graded road to get to the border with Togo. The border crossing was hassle free aside from the standard customs official pretending not to know what a carnet de passage was. Through into Togo, no cadeaux paid, we made our way down the main north to south highway and camped just outside of Kande. We were buggered and after we had put up our mozzie nets and Mike whipped up a feed, pretty much fell asleep before our heads hit the pillow. The following day we made our way south to Atakpame where we turned off the main highway and headed into the jungle.

It was late in the day and we still had 80km of potholed jungle road before reaching Badou. Leaving the hot plain we climbed through wooded hills before finally reaching a huge plateau with dense dark jungle as far as the eye could see. It was humid, hot and steamy. Strewn through the jungle were plantations of banana, coffee and cocoa which supported the many villages which lined the road on which we were riding. The going was slow though and 20km before Badou the sun set. Possibly the most astounding sunset we'd ever seen. Massive orb falling into the jungle's skyline, bats flying all around us. Amazing. The jungle closed in and the last kilometers in the dark were challenging as we dodged large potholes and avoided dazzling oncoming traffic.

Badou is a town nestled in a valley surrounded by impenetrable jungle. Quite a surreal place. It was muggy and just after we arrived it hosed down. Really heavy rain for half an hour. We opted for a room instead of camping, the odour coming from our motorcycle boots filling the small room we shared. The next day we rode 10km on another jungle road to the small village of Akloa. There we hired a local fella to guide us to the nearby Akloa falls. The walk to the falls took around 45 minutes and it was hot hot hot. Humidity must have been close to 100%. Our guide made it look easy setting the pace through the jungle track.

We arrived at the falls drenched in sweat but it was worth it. Spectacular falls with a huge pool at the base to swim in and cool down. We spent a couple of hours there swimming and relaxing before heading back. That evening we headed to 'town' for a few beers and ended up sitting in a corrugated iron shed, surrounded by jungle and jungle noise, where they were showing Arsenal vs Hull City on a flat screen telly. The beer was cold and Arsenal got up and won 2-1 with a late winner. A fine end to a good day.

The following day we were keen to get to Lome and catch up with Hans. We had no idea if he had managed to get his bike from Ouagadougou to Lome or not. Turns out we needn't have worried. Not only was he there he had managed to get his biked shipped there for free on the back of a large lorry. Result. Hans had arrived a few days earlier and Didier, the mechanic at Toni Togos, the KTM workshop in Lome, had managed to fix his clutch already. We stayed at a place called Chez Alice about 10km out of town right next to the beach. A great spot, we pitched our tents in the courtyard and awaited the arrival of our fourth member. Mad Dog turned up a couple of days later full of tales of Ghana and the villages he had stayed in. It was good to all be back together again.

The following day we were invited by Didier and another friend we had made Sandro to go and watch a motocross race about 20km out of town. On the way Mad Dog reached a huge personal milestone. He had brought his bike new in Australia and pretty much shipped it straight to Santiago, Chile. That was 16 March 2008 and he had been going ever since.

Here on the outskirts of Lome in Togo, West Africa his speedo ticked over to read 100,000km. As soon as it ticked over we all pulled up and Mad Dog punched the air. He was absolutely ecstatic and rightly so. Handshakes all round, a banner made from toilet paper and a few photos to comemorate the occasion. It was a great thing to be able to share this moment with the old Dog.

We spent the day watching some great offroad race action. Our mate Sandro did well, coming fifth, but Didier cleaned up. He was awesome, head and shoulders above the rest of the field, making it all look pretty easy. We donated a bottle of cheap bubbly for the winners 'podium' and all got a tee shirt to remember the occasion by. A brilliant day out.

Our other main task whilst in Lome was to obtain our visas for Nigeria. We knew this could be a bit tricky so ended up making plenty of copies of our bike, carnet, passport and vaccination paperwork to submit with our applications. Upon arrival at the embassy, we approached the lady at the visa counter and were told that it was impossible for us to be issued with a visa for Nigeria. Impossible?! We were taken aback but after some fast talking managed to get her to consider our applications. We were asked to return the following day at 4pm to receive the answer. The following afternoon we returned and found we had been approved but only for a seven day transit visa. Damn. Nigeria is a pretty big country and we needed a couple of days in Abuja to apply for our Cameroonian visas. It was gonna be tight and we prepared ourselves for a few hard days riding.

With the bikes all fixed and serviced we said goodbye to Chez Alice and the people we had met in Lome. We had been there for ten days and had met some great people but it would be fair to say we all had itchy feet. It was a great feeling to be back on the bikes. We left Togo and crossed into Benin where we stayed one night before crossing into Nigeria. The border was pretty hectic and it was hot but we were getting used to it by now. We were however surprised when a health official asked to see evidence of our vaccinations for meningitis. Suspecting this was a ruse on his part to hopefully catch us out and take a bribe we kept things pretty light even though we knew there was no way that a meningitis vaccination was compulsary for entry into Nigeria. We he finally asked, "What do you have for me?", Mike, determined not to part with any cash, suggested we give the gift of song. But what song? "Waltzing Matilda", said Mad Dog. "Oh God no" I said. But it was too late. We were now surrounded by by a number of border officials all insisting we start singing the Matilda song. And we did. Not our finest hour and they probably won't let me and Mike back into New Zealand now, but we got into Nigeria without too much hassle so it was worth the humiliation. I think.

Soon after crossing the border we ran a gauntlet of checkpoints. It was comical really. After the first checkpoint we'd ride twenty metres to the next and this repeated for at least ten checkpoints where we would be asked the exact same questions as we had at the previous checkpoint. Security looked tight here and all of the soldiers were carrying Kalashnikovs. Most held their weapons casually but with their index finger curled around the trigger at all times. One bloke had a sticker on the clip of his AK47 with the word 'Jesus' on it. Hallelujah.

We rode into the outskirts of Lagos then took the bypass through towards Benin City. The road was okay but every now and again we would come accross crater like potholes. I think we all hit one or two at speed. There is nothing worse than that nausiating feeling you get when you see a pothole too late to avoid it and you know you have to ride over or through it. All you can do it give it some throttle, try get the front wheel over the worst of it and hope the impact with the rear wheel doesn't cause any damage. Not nice. We camped our first night in the jungle just outside of Benin City. It was hot and sticky and as we set up camp the sweat poured off us. We combatted the dehydration as always with plenty of cups of hot sweet tea and a spicy dinner.

The following morning we set off early. We had to reach Abuja which meant an ass numbing 600km day on the bikes. This was the worst days riding I had had since leaving the UK. The road was dodgy at times, the checkpoints tedious but it was the standard of driving which made for an extremely stressful day. Basically we spent all day being cut up by car and truck drivers who just didn't have a clue or an ounce of consideration. Every 20kms or so we would pass the mangled wreckage of a car or truck on the side of the road which didn't seem to deter the locals from driving like idiots. I think we all got road rage at least once that day, even laid back Mad Dog found himself chasing down a bloke in a car a letting go at him with a tyrade of abuse.

We reached Abuja late in the day, all quite frazzled but very happy to have arrived in one piece. We stopped and congratulated each other for making it in alive and headed to our accomodation for the next two nights, the Sheraton Abuja. The Sheraton? A bit fancy for us isn't it? Well yes. But for some reason overlanders are allowed to sleep for free in the carpark. The great thing being that we could use the pool and other facilities essentially for free. The pool was great and the bar expensive but it was great to unwind after a stressful couple of days.

The following day we headed to the Cameroonian embassy and submitted our visa applications. With nothing much else to do while we waited for the visas we spent most of the day lounging by the pool, reading and planning our route out of Nigeria and into Cameroon. After three nights in the Sheraton carpark, visas in hand we headed northeast towards the border with Cameroon. Two days later we crossed. On the Nigerian side, just outside of Mubi, we were stopped by an immigration official who tried his best to get some money out of us before letting us through. We tried not to laugh as he sternly proclaimed, "Now before you can leave Nigeria we are going to play some game of hanky panky". We didn't hang around long enough to find out the rules of this game, grabbed our passports and headed towards the border. There would be no 'hanky panky' this day.

Cameroon. What would it hold in store for us? Quite a bit as it turns out.

We decided to head to northern Cameroon, following a good tarmac road through Marua and on towards Waza National Park. Our guide book mentioned that elephants, giraffes and even lions could be spotted there. Hans, having missed out on the elephants in Nazinga was particularly keen to see some wildlife. When we got there we were disappointed to discover that we could not take our bikes into the park. Weighing up the cost of hiring a vehicle and driver we decided to give the park a miss and headed south again.

That afternoon we arrived at a small village we had stopped at the previous day. They were lovely people and we asked if we could sleep in the village for the night. Happily the elderly headman and headwoman agreed. We spent the afternoon tinkering with the bikes, surrounded by curious onlookers. Hans put up his hammock which was a definite hit with the kids and the adults alike. It was really nice to spend time with the people of the village. We gifted some sugar and soap to the headman and woman, who by this time we were all calling papa and mama respectively. It was a great experience to spend some time with these people who didn't have much but were happy to share their village with us.

The following day we headed south, stayed the night in Maroua where we met a couple of VSO volunteers. We camped in the courtyard of the cheapest hotel in town which we later discovered turned into the busiest brothel in town after dark. That night Mike, Hans and I went out for a couple of beers with the VSO volunteers and left Mad Dog back at the hotel. By the time we returned business was in full swing and poor Mad Dog hadn't had a wink of sleep due to the busy goings on of the establishment.

Back on the road the following day we continued south. We stopped in Garoua in the early afternoon for gas. Turning my back for a second after filling my tank three guys on a moped pulled up and stole my wallet out of my tank bag. Shit! I felt ill. Passport, cash, cards, the lot were in there. Gone. So began a long tedious afternoon of police reports and immigration questionaires. Feeling a bit crap, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to make it to Yaounde and try and sort out a replacement passport and cards from there. Not in the mood to ride much further we stopped just outside of Garoua and met a kind lady who let us camp in the carprk of her bar. We wanted to camp close to the river but that was impossible due to the real danger of hippos coming ashore at night to graze on the riverbank vegetation. This was confirmed to us later when Mad Dog went down for a look later that night and spotted one close to where we intended to camp.

South to Nagandere we ran out of tarmac. The route turned into a wide graded red mud road, some muddy patches and stretches of fine red sand. Of course there were some decent potholes too and our old friend the corrugation.

Generally the road was okay though. Traffic was light. The main problem was for Mad Dog when we had to cross muddy sections of the track. Like Hans he was still wearing road tyres but the big GS1200 was sliding around a bit in the slimy red mud. The going was slow but fun. Mike especially was loving his KTM in these conditions. Hans changed his tyres after the first day, fitting a set of Karoos to the GS800 which made the going a bit easier for him. I was still wearing the TKC80s I had fitted back in the Western Sahara. The had rounded off a bit but were still okay. After a couple of days on this road we reached Meigoudou. Hearing that the next 100km section was probably going to be more muddy that what we had just come through, Mad Dog decided to find a truck to take him and the GS across and we would meet in Garoua Bulai where the tarmac started again.

Soon we found a truck and after negotiating a fair price managed to get Peter's bike strapped on the the back. He and the truck took off and we followed soon after. We crossed a few massive sections of sticky mud and huge water filled potholes. I managed to drop the AT once but generally the going was pretty good. Peter probably made the right decision to truck the GS across as he might have struggled a bit without knoblies through a few sections. Later that morning we passed Peter's truck on the road. We stopped about and hour later for a breather and made a cuppa. We also made Mad Dog a coffee and passed it up to him in the cab as he passed us in the truck again. The truck didn't even stop but Mad Dog was all smiles as we gave him his caffiene fix.

Just as we were finished packing up a moped pulled up and the bloke on the back asked if we were mates with the white guy in the truck with the motorcycle on the back. "Yeah" we replied. To our horror he then informed us that Mad Dog's truck had crashed a few kilometers up the road. Fuck. We rode like madmen to get to our mate. Upon arrival the scene we met was horrific. The ten ton truck was on it's roof 30 meters off the side of the road down a steep bank. The cab was crushed and there was blood everywhere.

Mad Dog had a split on his forhead three inches long and was bleeding quite a bit. He had some nasty lacerations on his arm but thankfully no broken bones. He was in shock. So was I. Hans took charge and I have to say was quite brilliant. Calm and thorough he gave Mad Dog a once over and started cleaning and bandaging up his headwound. The hardest thing was getting Peter to sit still as he was worried about his gear and of course his bike which was upside down on the back of the trailer.

Whilst Hans poured iodine into Peter's wounds and applied bandages Mike and I recovered his remaining gear. Four blokes in a 4X4 stopped and we asked if they would take Peter to Garoua Bulai where we knew there was a hospital. Hans and Mike remained at the scene and I followed the 4X4 on my bike.

Upon arrival, the hospital looked rough but apparently they performed surgery there so at least they had the means to stitch up the split in Peter's forehead. I grabbed my sterile kit and stood over the doctor insuring he used the sterile needles and syringes I was carrying, paranoid of the risk of HIV infection which is endemic here. The doctor piled in two syringes of local anasthetic before Mad Dog could bear the pain of the cleaning and stitching. The power had gone out in the storm so we used my headtorch so the doc could get the stitching done. He did a pretty decent job.

By the time we left the hospital it was nearly dark. I decided to get Mad Dog to a hotel and a bed to rest up before trying to contact the others. We made our way to the only hotel in town down a track which had turned to slippery mud with the rain. Mad Dog was ahead on a motorcycle taxi and I followed behind. I must have been tired, lost concentration and managed to drop the AT on the slippery track. Shit! Struggling to pick up the laden AT, I looked up just in time to see Mad Dog running towards me to help me out. Running! The guy had just been through a hell of a day, was lucky to be alive and to see him swathed in bandages, covered in dried blood running to help me just sums him up as a person really. A real good bloke and as tough as they come.

The next day Mike and Hans turned up at the hotel. They had done a great job of getting the GS off the upturned truck and onto another which would take Peter and the bike to Yaounde. Uncannyly the truck was almost identical to the one which had crashed and as Peter boarded and the truck pulled away with his bike strapped to the back an awful sense of deja vous came over us.

Our route to Yaounde was different to that which Mad Dog's truck would take. We headed south on possibly one of the amazing roads I have ever seen. Wide, fresh black tarmac, huge sweeping bends snaking it's way through virgin rainforest. Not a pothole in sight. This road was made for motorcycles and we all loved it. I think we all needed the release that road provided after a couple of testing days. We also saw our first bushmeat on this road. Blokes standing at the roadside, one with what looked like a large spotted cat and some huge ratlike animals. We'll stick to the pasta thanks. After a night camped in the jungle we reached Yaounde the following day. Mad Dog arrived a few hours later and we rented a pickup to go collect him and the BMW from just outside the city.

Camped on a fantastic lawn at the Presbyterian mission in the centre of Yaounde we were able for the first time to survey the damage to Peter's bike. Amazingly it's not as bad as we first thought. The forks, frame and rims are fine. The dash and headlight are gone and there is some damage to the subframe near the pillion pegs but Peter reckons it looks repairable. Well, what he actually said was, "There's life in the old girl yet". More good news. My passport had been found and handed in to the police in Garua. Result. One less thing to take care of in Yaounde.

Mali into Burkina Faso

2010-03-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

Returning from our trip up the Niger to Tombouctou, we were roughly jolted back to earth when Mike discovered that his travel wallet had been stolen. Disaster. He lost quite a bit of cash and his passport aswell. So we stayed in Mopti for a few days in order to obtain police reports and the like. Mike had also discovered that his rack needed a bit of work, it having broken in one place and sheared a couple of bolts under the additional strain. He found some new bolts and a few young blokes with a welder and got the rack welded up. Mike seemed satisfied but Mad Dog, an old school boiler maker by trade, was less than impressed. So he jumped on the back of the KTM and they rode back to the welding place where Mad Dog appropriated the welder and 'showed those young fellas how we do things back in Tassie'.

Repairs completed it was time to go. This time we would be without Mike for a few days. He had to head back to Bamako in order to get his new passport and bank cards sent over from the UK. We estimated the application and DHLing would take around ten days and given we only had six days left on our Malian visas decided we would meet again in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso.

After bidding Mike farwell and wishing him luck, me, Mad Dog and Hans headed back down towards the Niger. We wanted to cross to the opposite bank and take a few days to cover a stretch of a couple of hundred kilometers on the piste which followed the riverbank. So we left the main road and headed towards Djenne, home to the worlds largest mud mosque. Before the ferry crossing we noticed a heap of people in a small muddy lake to our left.

Turns out that the Niger delta area is full of these little lakes, remanents of the rainy season when the Niger bursts its banks. The retreating river leaves the lakes behind and they become progressivley smaller throughout the dry season until they are literally muddy pools, squirming with thousands of little catfish. The locals then get out in force and catch them bare handed, fishing around in the dirty water, locating the fish by feel. The kids especially seemed to be loving the muddy chaos until a few were distracted by three toabab on motorbikes.

Moving on, we crossed the Niger and stopped in Djenne to see the mosque. Impressive. It was hot though, somewhere in the mid forties so we decided to head out of town, find the piste and set up camp before going for a dip in the river. We stuck to this formula for the three days it took us to do the piste. Up at sunrise, ride until midday, camp and swim. Fantastic. The piste itself, rather than a discernable route was a series of small tracks through a mixture of hard floodplain and medium sized vegetation. We always managed to find a decent sized tree to camp under however as shade was essential for both us and the overheated bikes.

The trail was dotted with small villages along the way. In a way the villages provided us with a lifeline for our water. We only had the means to carry twenty litres which amounted to our total daily water consumption so at the first village we passed each day we would stop and fill our water bags and bottles at the village well or pump. The people were extremely friendly and were only too happy for us to take our water from the village supply. Often they would baulk when we tried to pay a few CFA for their trouble. Some of the nicest people we had met to date.

Things had been going along nicely. We were enjoying the people and scenery of the Niger delta and myself, Hans and Mad Dog agreed this was some of the best travelling we had done. Nicely. Until our second night camping on the riverbank. We had just finished our spicy pasta dinner when I saw scuttling movement out of the corner of my eye. Switching on my headtorch, a huge predatory spider was illuminated. Whats more it seemed to be attracted to my torch. Quick as a flash I was up, standing on my pannier as it crawled frantically and aimlessly through our camp. Mad Dog, no doubt used to redbacks and Sydney funnelwebs, was unphased and managed to get a picture of it. I reckon it's a camel spider or scorpion spider. Whatever it was I hope we don't see too many more.

After three days with the Niger we reached San. It was time to bid farewell to the river which we had been travelling on or along for the last two weeks. The Niger. Our new favourite river. We headed for the Burkina Faso border and crossed over late in the day without any hassle apart from a grumpy customs girl who pretended she didnt know what a carnet de passage was. Pretty sure she was looking for a bribe but all three of us just sat there looking blankly at her and eventually she stamped the carnets and impatiently waved us through into Burkina Faso.

We stopped and camped about 50kms into Burkina Faso. As always we stopped and rode a few hundred metres off the side of the main road into the surrounding scrubby woodland. The idea being that we shouldn't get disturbed or disturb any of the locals. As usual though we soon had a few curious onlookers turn up (from where I have no idea) to watch us set up camp, set the fire going and get the billy on. In this case it was four young boys, we couldnt really understand each other but we soon became aware one of them had a problem with his hand. On closer inspection it looked like he had a broken finger. Hans sorted him out with some painkillers and some anti inflamatories and instructions to strap it once the swelling had gone down. Word must have got around and not long after an older bloke turned up with a nasty infected hand, we think courtesy of a large thorn, so we gave him a bunch of pennicillan and some sterile scalpel baldes with which to dig the thorn out with.

Having finished playing doctor we settled down for the evening under the stars under our mozzie nets. Sometime later I awoke the hear a rustling in the dry leaves below and small bush next to my mosquito net. Instantly I knew it was a snake. The sound being totally different to the sound any legged creature would make. Sure enough a few seconds later he emerged. Under a full moon I could see him clear as day as he passed a couple of feet from from where I lay. "Snake"!! I wanted to yell but couldnt. I just watched as he slid past, heart in my mouth but transfixed nonetheless. I found my voice. "Snake"!!. Waking up Hans and Mad Dog. "How beeg was he", Mad Dog asked. "Three to four foot", I replied. "Aw yeah, a tiddler then", said Mad Dog and rolled over and went back to sleep. Bloody Australians.

The following day we headed to Bobo where we took a couple of days to chill at a place called Casa Africa. Bobo was a nice change from camping on the road and we enjoyed a few beers in the evenings and some great street food. Chicken in a bag was a definite hit. Leaving Bobo we heading for a river we had heard about, sourced from a spring which made the waters clear and clean, unique for and African river. We found it and it was awesome, clear water you could drink straight from the current. An awesome spot. We camped there for a couple of nights and made an important discovery. Our Thermarests could be used as Lilos. Awesome.

We headed to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina. En route Hans started to have trouble with his clutch. It would engage at the slightest pressure on the clutch lever. Shit. As we got closer to Ouaga the problem got worse, eventually he could only reach 20kph and even the smallest hills became mountains. Hans eventually limped in to Ouaga and we headed for the Catholic Mission there where we planned to stay and wait for Mike to turn up in a few days. We ended up waiting a few hours. Mike arrived a few days ahead of schedule having ridden some 800km in a day and a half. He was jaded but in good spirits. The quartet was back together again. Time for a beer and a catch up.

Soon we were back to three again. This time we had to leave Hans in Ouagadougou. His bike wasnt going anywhere and he decided to get it freighted to Lome in Togo where we knew of a good French mechanic who would hopefully get it sorted. We would meet him there. So me Mike and Mad Dog took off heading south to Nazinga game reserve. It was the right time of year for elephants there apparently so we were hopeful of spotting some. South to a town called Po near the Ghanian border we took a dirt road towards the park. Our offroad riding had been gradually improving and the rutted sandy road was great fun to ride on. Even Mad Dog looked pretty comfortable on the gargantuan GS.

As we rode into the park it didnt take us long to spot our first wildlife. A troop of baboons sitting in a tree. We parked up and stalked in for a closer look. Mike managed to creep up and get some good pics until a few warning barks and some posturing by some of the big males had him scuttling back to his bike. We continued and unbelievably a herd of eight or so elephants crossed the road in front of us, heading to a small lake. Amazing. We watched, gobsmacked as they waded through the lake drinking and spraying water over themselves before disappearing into the scrub. Unreal. We were stoked and pushed on to the park camp.

After a few more kilometers of deteriorating road we arrived. The camp was laid out around a large watering hole and consisted of simple bungalows, a restaurant and bar and amazingly there were more elephants. Another group were bathing in the watering hole no doubt cooling down in the now scorching midday sun. They were magnificent animals and we sat a watched them until they left later in the afternoon.

That evening we sat inside the hide overlooking the watering hole and observed warthogs, waterbuck, antelopes and quite a few crocodiles aswell. The place was teeming with life. We had initially intended to stay only one night in the park but decided to spend a second night there after seeing what it had to offer.

The following day we were relaxing in our bungalow when a herd of elephants came walking through the camp, grazing on the trees surrounding the bungalows. It was unbelievable how close we were to them as they wandered through. At one point a large cow was metres from my bedroom window.

Although we were close to them, we were reminded that they are still wild animals and potentially dangerous when first Mike, then Mad Dog got a wee bit to close and were confronted with an alarmed elephant displaying displeasure at being disturbed. Ears fanned wide, trunk flicking forward, they looked pretty scary and the lads beat a hasty retreat.

The next day we left the park. It had been a truly amazing experience, beyond any expectation any of us had. Back on the road, Mad Dog decided he wanted to see Ghana and as we were so close to the border decided to head there and meet us in Lome, Togo. Mike and I decided against Ghana and headed for the Togo border. We were looking forward to getting to Togo and catching up with Hans.

Mali

2010-02-22T05:39:00.000-08:00

The excitement of our entry into Mali was tempered slightly by corruption on the Mauritanian side. Our first encounter. The Mauritanian customs bloke wanted to charge us ten euros each for stamping our carnets out of Mauritania. Ten euros! He was having a bubble! It should have been free but he was having none of it. Even Mike's veiled threat to call the embassy left him unmoved. Given he was armed and we wanted to get across before the border closed, we paid five euros and were on our way. A few minutes later we arrived at immigration on the Malian side. What a difference! The border guards were all smiles as they kicked back on their sun loungers in the immigration hut, in stark contrast to their dour Mauritanian counterparts. We all felt good Malian vibes ripple through us, a feeling which was to remain with us throughout our stay in this awesome country. After completing immigration formalities we bought insurance, changed some currency and hit the road. It is a great feeling riding accross a border into a new country and Hans out in front punched the air triumphantly as we whoop whooped our way into Mali.

As we had crossed over late in the day, we decided to set up camp at the first oppurtune spot. I think we probably all saw it at the same time, the massive boabob tree which dominated the sahel to our left. The first boabob any of us had seen and what a beauty! We got off the main road, rode accross country and set up camp under mama baobob's watchful eye. The excitement for me was tempered slightly when I found my front tyre had a puncture, courtesy of a large African thorn. One of the risks with riding offroad in the sahel. So I changed my tyre in the fading light whilst the other lads set up camp and got dinner cooking on the fire. Earlier I had seen a snake in the dry riverbed beside which we were camped so we all opted for tents rather than the usual tarp under the stars.

The following day we decamped and rode into Nioro, a small frontier town in order to get our carnets stamped at the customs office. Whilst there we stopped for fuel and at the local market to get some vegetables for our dinner. We attracted a bit of a crowd of friendly onlookers who seemed pretty intrigued by us and our bikes.

We had decided that day to take an unpaved back road from Nioro to Kita from where we would take the tarmac road on to Bamako. 200kms of dirt road seemed daunting but we gave ourselves a couple of days to do it in. The road itself was a mixture of red African dirt and gravel. Some of the potholes were huge, resembling small craters, some of which where three feet deep.

After we had gone about 10km down the road we had to pull up. Peter, or Mad Dog as he has come to be affectionally known, was finding the going tough on the heavy GS. He was still in quite a bit of pain after his crash in Mauritania. He made the call that he would turn back and take the tarmac road to Bamako where we would all meet in a couple of days. Fair enough.

So myself, Hans and Mike continued. The road had a bit of everything. From the massive potholes to sandy sections to our dreaded enemy the corrugation. The corrugations meant that we had to keep our speed up in order to smooth out the ride. This made avoiding some of the potholes a bit tricky at speed. I think we all managed to hit a couple pretty hard, thankfully without damaging the bikes. The road was dotted with scores of tiny villages and we stopped at quite a few either to draw water from the village well or just to say hello to the village folk. We were always greeted warmly by the friendliest of people, particularly the children who would all eagerly line up to shake hands with the toubab (white men).

At the end of the following day we finally arrived in Kita. It had been a long old slog in the heat, the mercury hovering in the forties and as soon as we hit town we set about finding a store with a fridge for a cold drink. Sugary cold sodas never tasted so good as our parched bodies soaked up some of the fluids and salts we had lost during the day.

The following day, back on the tarmac, we met up with Mad Dog on the outskirts of Bamako. We headed for the city center negotiating the traffic chaos created by swarms of mopeds and suicidal taxi drivers. We eventually navigated our way to our accomodation in Bamako, the Bamako Catholic Mission. Run by the lovely sister Albetina and a gaggle of other nuns along with Samuel the maintenence man, the mission was simple but well kept and clean. In perfect contrast to the surrounding city. We stayed here for two nights, catching up with our emails and blogs and getting reaquainted with our old long lost friend..... ice cold beer. The hoppy goodness was a real treat after three weeks of travelling through the Sahara and sub Saharan Africa.

Bidding farewell to the nuns we haded northeast, roughly following the course of the mighty Niger river towards our next major destination, Mopti, from where we hoped to catch a boat to the legendary desert town of Tombouctou. On the way we camped near the town of Sigou, right on the river bank. It was brilliant to strip off our stiffling riding gear at the end of the day and plunge into the cool waters of the Niger. In stark contrast to the dry interior, the banks of the Niger teemed with life and were lush and cultivated. The villagers grow anything from lettuce to oranges along the fertile riverbank. It's tough work though, we watched as a young girl watered a 40 metre square patch of lettuces with two gourds which she repeatedly filled from the river.

The following day we arrived in San and were keen as we had done the night before, on the banks of the Niger, finishing the day witha swim. So we cut off the road and rode accross country trying to locate the river. Eventually the terrain became a bit too tough so we set up camp beneath a huge acacia tree presided over by a large owl and occupied by a tiny skink.

That night we dined as usual from a communal pot on some spicy concoction whipped up by Hans over the fire. It's funny but even in the heat our favorite things are a dinner cooked with plenty of chillis and a piping hot cup of tea at the end of each days riding. The tea especially has become almost ritualistic in it's preparation and we all look forward to it at the end of each day.

That night, on his nightly nature walk with perhaps the worlds brightest headtorch which we have dubbed 'the laser', Mike found the biggest spider we had seen yet. It was huge. Of camel spider proportions. I hoped the owl would swoop down in the night and eat it before it found it's way into my sleeping bag. In reality however I doubted that the owl could have tackled such a monster.

The next day we reached Sevare, a small town just outside of Mopti. We found a hotel where we coul stay the night, choosing the cheapest option and camping on the roof under the stars. We locked and left our bikes at the hotel and headed into Mopti the next day to arrange our passage to Tombouctou. There were plenty of touts in and around the port keen to get us onto one of the tourist boats. We weren't so keen on this option though, preferring to get aboard one of the local boats. Hans took care of the negotiations . His haggling skills honed in boardrooms across the UK and Europe mixing it with corporate fatcats, he managed to get us a return fare for 30,000 CFA each, return including food. Result! About forty quid. Not too bad considering we had met people who had paid twice that amount for a one way ticket.

So we boarded our vessel, the 'Allah Son' which was to be our home for the next seven days and nights. Despite observing one of the crew bailing water out over the side as we were boarding she looked reasonably river worthy. The 'Allah Son' was taking a cargo of sacks of millet from Mopti to Tombouctou. Each of us got a section of five millet sacks to sit on which would be our quarters for the outward journey. The boat would be empty for the return. As the boat left port we quickly settled into life as Niger river folk, strange to be away from the bikes but in a good way. We started to get to know the crew and helped out where we could. The crew was made up of three older blokes, the skipper and his mates and five youger lads who took care of the more menial tasks. We also had a cook, a local girl who would prepare all of ours and the crew's meals. 99% of the meals were rice and fish which we ate from a communal plastic tub with our hands.

During the first day and a half we got plenty of oppurtunity to help the crew out. As it is the dry season here the water level in the Niger is quite low and our fully laden boat managed to run aground on a number of sand bars. Each time this happened we had to get into the water and with the aid of long thick logs, lever the hull off the bar before we could get the boat back in the channel. It was a welcome relief from the heat to get into the water and during the hottest part of the day we began to hope we would run into another sand bar!

After three days and two nights we finally reached Tombouctou. There isn't a great deal there, plenty of sand and it was blazingly hot. After a few hours and a few obligatory photos and postcards we were ready to get back to our boat and our new mates for the return trip to Mopti. Whilst making it to Tombouctou was amazing, it was the journey and the people we had met upon the way which has made it the the highlight of the trip so far.

Mauritania

2010-02-04T09:41:00.000-08:00

The border crossing from the Western Sahara into Mauritania went surprisingly smoothly. All those stories about corrupt guards and greedy border officials looking for cadeau unfounded. The guards were all smiles and we basically laughed and joked our way through immigration and customs. Even the piste leading accross the minefield through mans land was nice and easy and much shorter than expected. From the border we headed to Nouadhibou where we would stay the night before heading to Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania, the following day.

Mauritania. There had been much talk, both among ourselves and with other overlanders as to the security situation in the country. News of kidnappings and rumours of an Al-Qaida cell operating there had caused quite a few people we had met along the way to alter their travel plans and avoid Mauritania altogether. So we took precautions not to tell anyone the route we were travelling and resolved to try and get through as quickly as possible, travelling only in daylight with as few stops on the side of the road as possible.

The paved road from Nouadhibou to Nouakchott was a long old slog of 450km into the wind through the western sands of the Sahara. The lanscape was at times awesome and we saw plenty of camels along the side of the road.

Hot and bothered, late that day we were all happy to finally arrive in Nouakchott. A cold beer would have been fantastic but unfortunately in the Islamic State of Mauritania beer is pretty hard to come by so lukewarm water had to suffice. We stayed at the friendly Auberge Menata run by a French lady who, when we enquired as to how long she had lived in Mauritania, received the answer, "Three coup d'ètats". Interesting measure of time. Other interesting inhabitants of Menata included a hundred year old tortoise and a bloke from Glasgow who had been living in the desert for the last eight years herding camels. His dream was to catch and break a wild Australian camel bare handed and he got pretty emotional just talking about it. We all agreed he had probably gone a bit troppo under the hot Sahara sun and nodded encouragement as he acted out his camel breaking fantasy in front of us.

The following day we had a date at the Mali embassy to apply for our visas. We spent the rest of the day tinkering with the bikes before collecting visas and passports in the afternoon. Enjoying our time at Menata we stayed an extra day and headed down to the beach to check out the fishing boats and fish market there. Wow! It was awesome. A real hive of activity with brightly coloured fishing boats, called pirogues, lining the shore, women cooking fresh fish over open fires and men carrying boxes of struggling silver fish from the boats on the beach to the market.

We spoke to one of the blokes who said he was from Senegal as were most of the other fishermen. Another fella, blacker than coal with high sharp features, identified himself as a Wolof, an ethnic group of people who come from Senegal, The Gambia and Mauritania.

Walking along the beach a bit we saw one of the pirogues about to return from the mornings fishing. I thought the surf looked a bit big for a beach landing but the blokes in the pirogues made it look easy, surfing the waves in then somehow keeping the boat steady in the breaking surf. As each boat came in, laden with fish, the crews worked frantically to bail out the seawater which was getting washed into the boat. If the catch had been a big one there was very little freeboard and the pirogue sat low in the water making it vulnerable to being completely swamped. As we looked on one such boat was getting tossed around in the surf and was very nearly swamped. Then from nowhere about fifty or sixty onlookers, mostly kids and teenagers, rushed into the surf towards the pirogue. We thought they were all rushing to help right the stricken vessel, but no! they were rushing to collect the fish which where by now cascading over the gunwhales of the pirogue back into the ocean. Classic. The fishermen could only look on as a good chunk of their hard won catch was lifted from beneath their noses! The rule being I guess that any fish in the water is fair game.

We finished the day at the fish market haggling for a couple of decent sized fish which looked like massive mullet. We fried them up that night and ate them with chips and tomato sauce. Fish 'n chips for tea. Happy days.

The following day we were back on the road. Destination Mali. We headed east accross the desert towards Ayoun el-Atrouss from where we would head south towards the Malian border. It took us a few days to get there and the temperature as we rode through the desert on the second day after leaving Nouakchott soared to 46 degrees centegrade. Easily the hottest weather I have ever experienced. Even Peter who had spent a bit of time in the outback reckoned it was "a tad warm". Our water consumption quadrupled and our riding gear turned into microwave ovens stuck on high. Hans likened it to riding into a hair dryer. He wasn't far off.

Every 50km or so there was a police checkpoint where we were required to stop and hand over fische with our passport and vehicle details on them. The police were taking our security very seriously and where keen to make sure that we were all okay. Good blokes. In terms of our security we gernerally felt as safe in Mauritania as we had anywhere.

Since Nouakchott we had been camping rough, cooking on an open fire and sleeping under the stars. At the end of each day we'd ride aways off the road and camp out of sight of the main road. The only time we had any issue was when we didn't turn up as expected at one of the checkpoints one day and the police came looking for us, found our camp and made us set up camp outside the police checkpoint. As it turned out this wasn't such a bad thing as we seemed to have set up camp amid a hoard of large nocturnal spiders. Not so much fun for me and Hans, a couple of squeamish arachnaphobes.

Into the Western Sahara

2010-02-04T08:13:00.000-08:00

We had to get over to the coast in order to meet up with Hans, who we had met at Bikers Home, and another bloke Peter who were going to join us for the next part of the journey. The ride from Form Zguid was pretty tiring. The wind got up in the afternoon and Mike and I seemed to spend most of the time leant over 30 degrees into it. Sapping stuff. That night we stopped in Gulmime, a dusty administritive town in the middle of nowhere. We popped up for a hotel room instead of camping which was a bit of a treat and set off again late the following morning. On our way out of Gulmime we saw a familiar figure on a BMW GS800. It was Hans, accompanied by Peter. Coincidence!

Following introductions and a few coffees we took off towards the coast. Two had become four and we turned a few heads as our convoy of bikes roared out of Gulmime. Should probably introduce the latest additions to the ensamble.

Hans is German but has lived in the UK since he was fifteen so we sort of see him as British. Although evidence of his Germanic tendancies are many, from the meticulous labelling of plastic bags of foodstuffs to the orderly manner in which he keeps his tent (in stark contrast to me and Mike).

Peter is an Aussie. A bit of a legend. At 57, he has been riding his BMW GS1200 around the world for the last two years. He shipped it from Oz to Chile and rode up through South, Central and North America before shipping the GS to Europe. Peter is at his happiest after a days riding, fussing around the campfire making billy tea and telling a few yarns. He sure does have a few.

Our next destination, the Western Sahara. The Western Sahara is a part of Morocco but is still depicted on maps as having it's own borders. The Spanish colonised it in the 19th century and occupied it until Moroccan independence in 1957. Nationalist fervour saw a war begin between the Moroccan backed Polisario and the Spanish, the latter soon realising there was little point in fighting for this dry, desolate corner of Africa.

We crossed into the Western Sahara and began our trek south, following the coast most of the way. The scenery, whilst often repeated frames of barren stark landscape was at times spectacular. From massive Laurence of Arabia style dunes to dramatic cliff tops plunging hundreds of feet into the Atlantic below. Amazing stuff.

After a few days riding the four of us made it to Dhaklar, the biggest town in the Western Sahara. We stopped for a couple of days at a camp 30kms from the town and stayed for a few days. The spot we had was great, a tidal lagoon surrounded by sand dunes. We passed the time swimming and chilling. I also changed both my tyres and Mike got some welding done on his rack which he had found to have snapped.

After a couple of days R&R we set off again. Peter was in front, followed by Mike, then me whilst Hans brought up the rear. We'd just filled up at a petrol station and were on a straight bit of road when up ahead I saw a huge cloud of sand and dust go up on the right hand side of the road. Peter had come off. Shit! Heart in my mouth, I pulled up and ran over to where his bike lay on it's side. Thankfully the tough old bugger was on his feet and looked okay. He was lucky but. Looking back we could see he left the road (we have no idea why) some 80 metres back travelling between 90 to 100kmph on soft sand. He had a nasty graze on his leg and his hand was a bit tender but fine other than that. His bike and panniers had taken a bit of a knock but were in okay shape. Soberly we continued on to our destination that night, a grand looking hotel some 80km from the border where we would cross into Mauritania the following morning. The road leading to the hotel was littered with signs warning that we were in a heavily mined area, so we were careful not to stray too far off the road when stopping for comfort stops.

We spent that evening doing a few repairs to Peter's bike and prepared for our border crossing the next day. We had heard a few stories that the border crossing could be a bit tricky. There is a piste through a few kilometres of no mans land which goes through a minefield between the two borders and the soldiers could apparently be a bit difficult. Aaaah well I guess we'd find out for ourselves in the morning.....

Morocco Part 2

2010-01-27T01:36:00.000-08:00

Visas in hand we bid farewell to Rabat and headed southeast towards Marrakesh. We managed to find the hostel which had been recommended to us by some British blokes we had met in Rabat without too much hassle. Driving in Morocco has been surprisingly good so far. They drive fairly quick and a little crazy in the cities though. Mike reckons Moroccan drivers are somewhere between white van and mini cab.

That evening Mike and I and a couple of other hostel folk decided to take advantage of the more liberal stance Marrakesh has on alcohol consumption and buy some wine at the local off licence. Even though it is tolerated, the sale of booze is still a cloak and dagger affair. We found ourselves in an alley, knocking on a large metal door which opened a crack before we were looked up and down by a little Morrocan chap and quickly ushered in before the door slammed behind us. We found an eatery down the road and enjoyed some wine with some good Moroccan food. Turns out the bloke who owned the place had a motorcycle and when we told him, with the help of our Canadian interpreter, Chloe, that we were on our way to South Africa he got pretty excited. For the rest of the evening he kept on cooking and feeding us
tasty little morsels from his kitchen. Such a good guy. He wouldn't accept any payment from us, insisting that we were his guests!

The following morning we awoke a bit bleary eyed and decided to spend another day in Marrakesh. Mike agreed to take our new Canadian friend for ride on his bike the night before. I lent her my jacket and helmet and they took off for the day exploring some nearby villages and markets.

I chose legwork over spadework and wandered around the souks for the day.

The next day we packed up early and headed further east towards the Sahara. Riding over the Atlas mountains we found ourselves amid some spectacular scenery and at the highest altitudes there was a fair bit of snow, the first we had seen since France.

That afternoon we arrived in Ouzarzate and stayed at a place called Bikers Home. Bikers Home is an offroad centre owned and run by an ex pat Dutchman called Peter. It is a fantastic place. The rooms and house are very nice and he has a fully kitted out workshop aswell. At Bikers Home we met fellow motorcyclist, Hans. Hans had come to Morocco on his BMW GS800 and after initially intending to return to the UK after Morocco, had decided to carry on to Cape Town. We soon got to talking and made tentitive plans to meet up in a week or so before crossing into Mauritania. The following day Mike had a day in Peter's workshop planned. Included in his to-do list was an oil change, fit fork gaitors, a fork oil change and, yep, you guessed it, his sidestand.

With little to do myself I decided to go for a ride. Peter suggested I try a 120km piste from Ouarzazate to Taznacht and back to Ouarzazate. He kindly uploaded some waypoints to my GPS, gave me a bit of advice for a few of the tricky bits and I set off.

The first half of the route took me down a wide, fast graded road which reduced to a narrow piste. Made my way through some great scenery, barren rockscapes, oases full of palm trees and mountaians left scarred by some ancient retreating ocean. Truly spectacular.

The ride to Taznacht was pretty good. I was enjoying riding the Africa Twin unloaded for a change and it was handling the rocky piste pretty well. After Taznacht was a stretch back on the tarmac before the GPS indicated I should turn off, taking a small track across the stony plain.

Peter had warned me that this 20km stretch of piste could be a bit rough so I took it easy, standing up on my footpegs in order to pick a line. The piste soon shrank to a single track leading towards an oued and followed the dry riverbed for the next 5km. Man it was tough! Climbing over rocky sections with rocks the size of mangos making the going slow. There was also some sand to contend with which nearly saw me come off a couple of times. At about this time I realised how isolated I was, not a soul for miles and me and my bike tackling some pretty rough terrain. Excilerating. I was working hard and the going was slow. Every now and again I'd lose the piste and have to get off the bike and walk ahead to pick a suitable route.

It was hot work and the stretch through the oued seemed to go on forever. Time was ticking by and I began to worry that I'd not get through before the sun went down. I estimated that it has taken me an hour and a half to do the last 4kms. With this in mind I pushed on. And then, the inevitable. After hitting a sandy section of the oued the AT was over. Damn! Worst of all it had landed on my leg and I was stuck! After a quick check of the sky for circling vultures I began to dig in the soft sand under my leg and eventually managed to prise it out from under the bike. After picking the AT up (all 200kgs) I was back on my way and soon through the worst of it. I arrived back at Bikers Home looking a bit tired apparently. "You look f**ked", Hans said to me when I arrived. And I was. But stoked I'd made it through.

The following day we said goodbye to Bikers Home and headed over the hills towards Zagora and the Sahara. Once over the mountains we followed the Draa valley, a massive oasis which follows a meandering moving river through a spectacular valley. Upon arrival in Zagora we set up camp in an oasis and planned our ride the following day. We wanted to do a piste from Zagora to Form Zguid through the desert.

Up early, we breakfasted on boiled eggs, cheese and berber bread before setting off. Somewhat disappointingly much of the piste had been graded but the middle section was yet to be reached by the road builders. The piste was very rocky and Mike and I again spent much of the time standing on our pegs. Again the scenery was awesome. A barren parched landscape. Amazingly people lived out there though!

Along the way we played RAC, helping out a couple of locals who were in a spot of bother. The first bloke had a puncture and Mike kindly sorted him out with a few patches. He was very grateful and there were plenty of salaam aleikums, bon voyages and inshallahs exchanged.

The second was two young blokes on a rough part of the piste who had run out of gas. Mike and I suspect they may have lived nearby and prayed on good hearted samaratans such as ourselves. But I checked their tank and they were pretty much bone dry, so we syphoned a litre or so for them and took off.

The piste took us all day and we were pretty tired by the time we arrived at the Form Zguid camp ground. There we met a really nice Dutch couple in a campervan who had a massive great dane. Being bikers themselves back in Holland they took pity on our bedraggled state and cooked us a fantastic spag bol for dinner. All good! Our next destination is near Tan Tan where we will meet with Hans and head down through the Western Sahara and on to Mauritania.

Morocco Part 1

2010-01-21T08:13:00.000-08:00

Back on British soil. Gibraltar. A little slice of Old Blighty on the southern Spanish coast. It's an awesome sight as you ride across 'La Linea' and see the massive rock sitting there. Mike and I celebrated the occasion with a couple of pints and fish and chips. Nice one.

The next morning we were up early to purchase our ferry tickets for Morocco. We departed Algeciras at 11:00am and arrived in Ceuta 45 minutes later. Ceuta is a Spanish enclave on the Northern coast of Morocco and the the Moroccan border is a short ride from the ferry terminal. We crossed without too much hassle. Immigration for us, customs for the bikes and a quick check of our body temperature to see if we had the swine flu. After being given the all clear we headed into Morocco. Africa.

We made it to Chefchaouen late in the afternoon. Chefchaouen is a pretty town in the Rif mountains, perched on the side of a massive rocky mountain. The medina is built on the side of the hill so that the streets are all steep and narrow. A bit tricky to negotiate with our laden bikes but we managed okay.

The Rif area is famous for producing a decent chunk of the worlds hashish and there were plenty of people trying to get us to buy some as soon as we parked up. Politly refusing, we eventually found a hotel in the medina which we could access with the bikes and unpacked.

The next day we had a great lamb and egg tagine for breakfast and explored the town a bit. Headed up into the hills behind the town and got lost in a maze of streets. We did find the hash sellers to be pretty persistent at times. Like all good salesmen they didn't take no for an answer and would tag along with us for a bit. Mike soon developed a technique which seemed to work better than my polite refusals. He developed and perfected a pretty scary 'angry face' which soon sent the drug peddlers packing.

The following day we packed up and headed to Fes. Sticking to our formula of avoiding the highways and main roads we checked our map and found a suitably interesting looking back road which would get us to Fes. Our Michelin map described it as unsuitable in bad weather but it was a cracking day so we headed off. The road was pretty good to begin with but was later pocked with potholes. Some were quite large but it was a good fun ride through the Moroccan countryside, our bikes attracting a bit of attention from the locals as we went through.

Our arrival at our Fes campsite was marred when Mike's sunnies disappeared off his bike while we were sorting our campsite. A bit of a crappy end to an otherwise brilliant day.

The Fes Medina was worth a visit and we checked out the tannery there. Apparently Fes leather and cured sheep and camel hides have always been considered the best and they still cure the skins using the same techniques as the did hundreds of years ago. Ammonia is used in the process and this is obtained from pigeon poo rather than commercially available stuff.

Fes was good but we needed to get to Rabat in order to obtain our Visas for Mauritania. Despite hearing that it could be a bit of a hassle we managed to get our visas fairly easily. We arrived at the embassy early, submitted our forms, paid the 350 dirhams and the visas were ready for us to pick up that afternoon. Sorted. We met quite a few people at the embassy who were travelling through Mauritania. A few overlanders like us (in 4WDs) and a few charitable people who were taking clothing and medical supplies down to Senegal from Europe. Given the current situation in Mauritania everyone was of the opinion that getting through as quickly as possible would be best, preferably in convoy. Food for thought for us but something we would think about when we are closer to the border. In the meantime we had a bit more of Morocco to see.

The Malaga Interlude

2010-01-10T05:52:00.000-08:00

We had to wait a few days for the tyres we ordered to arrive at our hostel, Casa Babylon. We have killed time by hanging out with the other guests and the guys who own / work there.

Casa Babylon is a great little hostel. Very chilled and we all cook and eat together which gives it a family like atmosphere. Mike and I take the roles of long lost simple country cousins owing to our lack of Spanish. Mike has fed the masses with a couple of tasty risottos and soup. There are Spanish, Argentinians, a Croatian and Luca the Italiano (el Padrino). It's a cool place. The Spanish owner Guellermo has a huge dog, Chango, some old breed of Spanish cattle dog which were apparently trained to protect herds of cattle from packs of wolves back in the day.

Our tyres arrived on Thursday. Result! We have gone for Continental TK80s. I am already carrying a spare front and rear and ordered a further rear counting on the general rule of thumb that I should get twice the wear from my front tyre. Mike ordered two rears and a front. He currently has Metzler Saharas on his bike which will be great on the sand but not so good in the mud. My road tyres are pretty worn but I will use them on the tarmac for as long as possible before changing them.

The arrival of our tyres coincided with the arrival of something else. Chronic diarrhoea for Mike. We suspect a kebab place in the centro historico (I went for the pizza luckily). Poor fella had a nasty bout and it would be 3 days before he would see his symptoms ease. Agreeing that Mike was in no state to ride we passed the time planning some of the routes we would take in Morocco.

I also made up some fische, cards with our personal, passport and vehicle details translated into French. Useful for the whole of West Afica. Whilst doing so I noticed Mike's passport expires in September. Doh! Schoolboy. Many countries require your passport has at least six months before expiry before issuing visas which would effectively see his passport expire in March . We made the decision it was not worth the risk and leaving Europe before he had a new one so DHL'd an application to London.

So, the Malaga interlude continues... A tad frustrating maybe, but it gave us the opportunity to do some exploring around Malaga. Guellermo rides a Honda NX650 'Dominator', a light powerful trailee, and offered to take us up for a ride in the mountains.

So, Mike popped a few Immodium and we set off. A winding, sweeping road on the tarmac and plenty of offraod tracks to play around on. Awesome!

The Dominator was wearing Michelin T63 offroad tyres, the KTM, Saharas, and I had my worn Metzler road tyres. I was a bit worried as to how the heavier AT would cope on the stony, sometimes muddy trails but she performed admirably.

We explored the trails in the hills for half the day taking in some great scenery and some fun offroad riding. We successfully negotiated two river crossings a couple of tricky bits. Guellermo has been riding for 20 years and made it all look easy on his Dommie. Mike too looked pretty comfortable. However I did manage to drop the AT! Climbing a rocky section of the trail I somehow managed to hit neutral when changing from second to first at low speed. Momentum lost, I went over. No damage done and it was all caught on camera! Check the video below for some footage of the ride and me toppling over.

At the end of the day we rode down the mountain to the beach for a well earned beer and to take a few obligatory sunset pics. Sweet.

The Costas

2010-01-01T10:27:00.000-08:00

Boxing Day. Waaaaaay to hungover to ride, Mike and I nursed our sore heads at the campsite. The next day we were back on the road heading down the coast of Spain. We avoided the main highways (toll roads) and stuck to the slower but much more interesting 'B' roads. A good days riding saw us reach Barcelona with plenty of time to find a campsite. Unfortunately Mike's tomtom had some out of date maps and we were unable to find a campsite which had not been closed down. With bike security at the forefront of our minds (Barcelona is a bit of a den of bike thieves apparently) we opted for a hotel with secure parking. We totally blew our budget but attempted to make up for it the next morning by loading up on a load of food for our lunch from the buffet breakfast.

Our intention that day was to find a 'taller mechanico' (mechanical workshop) and get a few things sorted on the bikes. I needed the bolt I broke in Montpellier removed and replaced. Mike had finally had enough of fiddling with his side stand and wanted to get some welding done. Mike's clutch was also low on hydraulic fluid and needed bleeding and replacing. We found a KTM dealer in the middle of the city and in broken Spanish managed to convey to the mechanics what needed to be done.

They were a great bunch of blokes and had everything sorted for us within two hours. Unreal! We had fully expected to have to spend another night in Barcelona but found ourselves riding south that afternoon. I can't speak highly enough of the guys at the KTM shop in Barcelona. I think they were pretty intrigued by us, our loaded bikes and the journey we are on. They really made an effort to get us sorted and back on track. Excellent stuff.

The next three days saw us continue down the coast passing through some great landscapes and again sticking to the B roads. Some great winding stretches of tarmac through the hills a pleasure to ride on. The weather was warm and we stopped for lunch at the beach in Benidorm. Between bites of his enormous baguette, Mike commented, "such a beautiful place filled with so many unattractive people". He had a valid point.

We reached a small town called Elche on the day before new years eve. There we met a bit of a character, Al, a retired navy man from the UK. We were pitching our tents when he came over and insisted we come over and eat a stew which had apparently been on the go for 2 days. Al being an Arsenal fan he was keen for us to join him at the bar to watch the Gunners play Portsmouth. Being a Gooner myself we could hardly refuse and before you could say Rocky Rocastle he had us all kitted out in one of the eight Arsenal shirts he owned and off to the bar. A good feed, a few beers and 1 - 4 result to us. Get in.

New Years eve. Spent the day fiddling with the bikes. I had to refill and prime my scott oiler and also reposition the drop feeder which had been eaten by my rear sprocket. Mike gave his front brake callipers a bit of a clean. The KTM's headlights had stopped working the previous day and Mike suspected a blown fuse which he quickly identified. It would be three more fuses though before he could identify the problem. The KTMs vibration rubbing through and exposing some of the headlight wiring which caused a short. Pics of the problem and fix below.

Problem solved we retired to the bar for new years celebrations. We didn't over indulge too much though and were in good enough shape to ride the next day. We took a couple of days to make it to Malaga where we needed to order a couple of spare tyres more suited to the terrain we will encounter in Africa. We are only 80 miles from Algeciras where we will catch the ferry to Morocco. Excitement building.

A few stats to date....

Bikes Dropped
Mike's KTM: 3
Simon's Africa Twin: 4

Offs
Mike: 0
Simon: 1 (low speed in the snow / ice)

Bike Problems:
KTM: Side stand, headlight wiring, headlight fuse, headlight bulb, side stand, clutch fluid, exhaust bracket.

Africa Twin: Front tyre puncture, broken axle clamp bolt

France into Spain

2009-12-31T07:17:00.000-08:00

We stayed in Montpellier for three nights. Mike and I were pretty jaded from the ¨thirteen miles of pain¨ so took a few days to chill at Mariana´s house, eating plenty of cheese and good French baguette to keep our strength up. Red wine was also an important part of our rehabilitation. After chilling on our first day in Montpellier we had a bit of maintenance to do on the bikes. I had to fix my puncture and decided to swap my standard inner tube for one of the heavy duty ones I was carrying. Mike continued to do battle with his unwilling side stand which couldn´t hold the weight of his fully loaded bike.

The tyre change went smoothly until I over tightened one of the four front axle clamp bolts. Snap! Shit. Broke it. Maybe ´the feel of my hand´ isn´t the best torque wrench substitute? Aah well there were still three intact bolts there and Mike and I made the decision to find a workshop to remove and replace the broken bolt as soon as we could. Mike in the meantime thought he had done a pretty good job with his side stand but alas it was still a bit too leany for his liking when the KTM was fully loaded.

So, fully rested we bid farewell to Mariana and her superb hospitality and hit the road again. Destination Spain. We aimed to get to Cadaques, a small town not far from the border, where we intended to get our camping wings. We followed the main highway down across the border and made pretty good time. There were some fairly strong and gusty side winds on the way down which made things feel a bit hairy. Mike was fine and reckoned he could have say at 70mph no worries. It was a bit of a different story for me as the weight on the back of my bike made the front tyre contact with the road and my steering pretty light. When a strong gust of wind hit, it threatened to blow the front of the Africa Twin into the side barrier. Trouser messing stuff. I radioed to Mike that I would be keeping my speed down and and we chugged along to Cadaques.

Upon arrival the camping ground we had earmarked was closed. With light fading we spyed and followed a little stony track through some olive trees which lead to a small clearing which seemed a perfect camping spot. We decided to only pitch one tent in case we had to decamp quickly. Luckily Mike had opted for a palatial 3 man tent so there was plenty of room for us both.

Christmas eve! I awoke to a dawn chorus. Not of birds chirping happily in trees but a cacophony of wind from Mike. No doubt a result of the chilli pesto pasta we had cooked and eaten the night before. I resolved, wherever possible, to sleep in my own tent from then on. After a few cups of billy tea we were off again. Our destination this day was to be the small beach resort of Santa Susanna on the Costa Brava. Again the days riding was punctuated by some gusty winds which continued to make me a bit uncomfortable and I resolved to address the issue at our next stop.

We arrived at the camp site in good time and set up our tents. A nice lady from a nearby motorhome promptly came over with a motherly cup of tea for each of us.

Chistmas Day. Mike and I had decided to do a secret santa. Not sure if secret santa works with two people? Anyway, we settled on a five euro limit and secretly bought each other a gift at a local supermercado. I spent my fiver wisely on a gift I knew Mike would love. A large chorizo sausage. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped it. One very happy camper.

Mike´s gift to me was a miniature of that classic game from our childhood, Operation. I was stoked. We agreed that we´d both did pretty well for Christmas pressies and immediately sampled the chorizo. Good stuff!

Christmas day was spent working on out bikes. For it´s Christmas present, I gave the AT´s air filter a clean and an oil. Then I set about tackling the problem of my light front end. Before leaving the UK, Mike had fashioned two tool tubes which attach to the front of his crash bars, one on each side. See the photo below.

The tube is strong plastic used for sewerage systems and each had a screw on lid at each end. With heavy stuff like tools and spares in the tubes Mike had no problems with the front of his bike being light. I had one too which until now had been strapped on the back of my bike. I figured that if I could find a spot on the front and secure it properly it should help sort the problem. After a bit of trial and error I managed to afix the tube under my bash plate and took the AT for a bit of a test ride. I noticed the difference immediately. Much much better. Result!

That evening we dined well. Ham and a Christmas ratatouille was cooked on the gas stove and washed down with a few beers, a bottle of €1.65 red wine and a bottle of JDs. The Christmas ratatouille contained onion, garlic, sweet potato, sweet red peppers, mushrooms and fresh orange juice. The perfect compliment to our rolled ham!

Some friendly neighbours, a retired couple from Romford, invited us over later in the evening for a Christmas tipple in their motor home and a jolly evening soon developed into quite a boozy one as our host forced us to have a go at putting a decent dent in his stockpile of brandy. Ooooh, that´s gonna hurt tomorrow. But hey, it´s Christmas...

Calais to Montpellier

2009-12-21T05:40:00.000-08:00

We awoke to find a good dusting of snow on our bike covers and also the rest of Calais. Mike took some time to create a little snow art in the hotel carpark before we set about loading up the bikes.

Despite the cold, the KTM and the Africa Twin roared into life. And we carefully began day two. Our goal, Bourges. Roughly 350 miles. A big day ahead. We fuelled up and set off. Say what you like about the French, but they know how to grit a road and despite there being quite a bit of snow on the surrounding countryside the autoroute was reassuringly free of snow and ice. It was pretty cold though and after about an hour and a half we had to stop at a servo for a cuppa.

Mike's satnav was playing up so he spent a bit of time trying to find the fault whilst I downed a cup of vending machine curry soup and a coffee. Back on the road my heated grips were working well but Mike's weren't so effective. We ended up stopping every hour and a half at a roadside services to warm ourselves up with a few cups of tea. Progress was slow but fairly steady and we rode the last hour in the dark before we finally arrived in Bourges, tired, a bit chilly but in good spirits.

The next day our goal was to get to Montpellier where we had a place to stay with my friend Mariana. As it turned out we were not to reach our goal and the day would be quite eventful including an extremely tough final thirteen miles, sinced dubbed "the thirteen miles of pain". More about that later...

We were getting better at loading up our bikes but our departure was slightly delayed when Mike's side stand started to look a bit flimsy and so a bodge was constructed and the problem fixed for the time being. On the road we each had a few more layers on than the previous day which was lucky because it was brass monkeys. There was a lot more snow than in the north and it was a bit like riding through Narnia. Very pretty but chilly. We stuck to the same formula as the day before, regular stops and cups of tea to warm up so our concentration didn't start to flag.

At around 5:00pm, still 85 miles from Montpellier, we were at an altitude of 1100m and it began snowing quite heavily. I was struggling a bit and called over to Mike on the radio that I needed to stop for a breather. We stopped and entered the welcome warmth of a roadside cafe. Parking our bikes outside we turned a few heads and a number of French people looked at us as, index fingers raised to their heads indicating were were a bit mad. They were probably right.

Inside we met two blokes from the U.S who were driving their 1969 VW Beatle from London to Cameroon. They had seen our bikes outside and clocked us sitting at a table. "Heeey more crazy people!" one of them drawled. Turns out they were probably colder than us as their car had no heater and there were holes in the floor turning the VW in to a giant fridge.

Bidding the yanks farewell we decided to get back on the road. Montpellier seemed a bit to distant for our liking given the weather so we chose to head for Millau, a short 13 mile jaunt down the road. And so began "the thirteen miles of pain". Little did we know that it would be seven hours before we would arrive at our hotel.

On the slip road just before the motorway my steering started to feel odd and then my handle bars began to wobble from side to side. It could only mean one thing. My front tyre had a puncture! The timing could not have been worse. Stuck on the side of a sliproad, on a mountain, snow being driven horizontally by strong gusts of freezing wind. A quick check of the front tyre found a slow leak so I pumped the tyre up and we waited for an hour or so to see how quickly the air was leaking out. We killed some time and checked our remaining tyre pressures joking that things could not possibly get worse. Thankfully my tyre looked okay and we decided to carry on to Millau where we would repair it in the morning.

So we were off again. Then bang! As we left the snow and ice on the side of the road my front wheel slipped on a patch of ice and the AT was over on it's side. Mike and I managed to get it upright again and we were off. The exertion however had gotten me a bit hot and sweaty and my goggles soon began to fog up. Not good. We had only just gotten onto the motorway and I radioed for Mike to pull over so I could sort them out. Not the best place to stop but it had to be done.

In my haste to get them de-fogged I accidently pushed the lens out. Doh! It took a while to get it back in. Things take so much longer in the cold so even such a simple task took an age. As soon as the lens clipped back into place we were ready to push on to Millau. So back on with all our gear, undergloves, snood, helmet, radio, goggles and gloves then Mike starts his bike.... 'click'. Battery. Dead. Shit.

It's okay. We still have one bike running I remark to Mike. Sweet. But no jumper leads. Mike sets about doing a bit of MacGyvering with some 10 amp automotive wire he bought on a wim at Maplins. Again it takes time. I look over at the temperature guage on my bike which is idling away. Despite the cold air it is starting to heat up so I switched it off not realising the heated grips were still on full. Two minutes later Mike says, "Don't leave your bike off for too long". So I start her up..... Click. Shit. Two dead bikes on the side of the road in a blizzard. Is that the fat lady I can hear singing?

Thankfully after leaving the AT alone for a while the battery mustered enough juice to turn the engine over. After a couple of wahoos and a high five the MacGyvering continued. We unloaded the bikes again in order to get to the battery terminals under our seats. Just as I finished doing mine I looked up to see a car crawling past, a rubbernecker at the wheel, checking us out. As I looked on he carried on by but only at low speed, maybe 25 mph. I watched as he carried on still very slowly. I thought, "man you are on a motorway you'd better speed up". Then, when he was about 150m down the road a car ripped past us. Oh God. I could only look on as the second car swerved at high speed on an icy road to miss the rubbernecker and smash into the barrier. Everyone looked okay so we carried on trying to get the bikes going thinking it was best we got off the side of the road as soon as we could.

The 10amp auto wire did the business and we soon had two bikes idling away nicely. Mike's ingenuity coming to the fore. Another high five. The whole process had taken ages though. Maybe three hours? All loaded up again we took off. Nearly. I dropped the AT again! This time a French bloke who had arrived to put up warning lights about the accident was on hand to help me lift her back onto two wheels. "Merci". And we were off again. Travelling slowly following Mike's satnav to Millau and a warm bed. So we continued along the A75 following Mike's trusty tomtom.

Following behind Mike, he took an exit a few miles up the road. The turn off found us going down an ungritted road of snow though farmland and a few scattered buildings. The wind blew harder and there was more snow. We crqwled along. The fat lady cleared her throat. After half an hour we stopped. Realising the tomtom had lead us down a 'D' road we backtracked slowly back to the main road. Riding carefully our steads made it without any dramas and we got back to the A75. We eventually arrived in Millau and buy the time we had checked in and unloaded the bikes it was 2:45am. The thirteen miles of pain had come to an end.

The next day we woke up bleary eyed, but after a few coffees and breakfast we were feeling good. The weather was great. Crisp but wall to wall blue skies. My tyre seemed to be okay so I topped it up with air and we made a push for Montpellier. The ride was great through the mountains and we crossed a few spectacular valleys and generally brilliant scenery.

The Off !!

2009-12-21T04:55:00.000-08:00

December 17 2009. The day of our departure had arrived! Feelings of excitement and anticipation tempered by reports of some pretty extreme snowy weather forecasts for the south east of England and most of France. I met Mike at his old work, MacMillan Cancer Support, down on Albert Embankment. It was a great feeling riding the fully loaded Africa Twin across Waterloo bridge right under Big Ben's nose.

After a coffee and some last minute load adjustment we rode off farewelled by a gaggle of Mike's former colleagues. Leg 1. London to Dover to Calais. 70 odd miles.

We arrived in Dover well in time for our scheduled 13:55pm departure. Our punctuality however was not rewarded by P&O with our departure delayed by two hours. So we sat in line at the terminus as it began to snow and sleet and we looked on at the surrounding motorists tucked up in their automobiles. Mike bought us a couple of whoppers from BK which we washed down with a big bag of onion rings and a cup of tea. Good warming stuff!

The ferry trip across the channel too was delayed It took about 4 hours and we ended up landing in Calais at 8:30pm. Just as we rode up and checked in to our hotel, it began to snow. Tomorrow should be interesting....

The Bike Part II

2009-12-02T01:32:00.000-08:00

So, I had my heart set on getting my hands on another Africa Twin and spent quite a bit of time on eBay and various other websites trying to track one down. All of a sudden there seemed to be very few available! Time was ticking away and I knew I had to find and buy one pretty smartly in order to have enough time to get it ready for the trip. In the meantime Mike suggested I look at joining him and 'going orange' but after sitting on his Adventure it became clear that I was a wee bit too short for the KTM.

Finally after a few weeks of looking, Mike heard about a friend of a friend who had an XRV he was looking to sell. Result!

A nice looking RD07a with only 17k miles on the clock. Trouble was it was running like a dog, on one cylinder, running rich and blowing a bit of smoke. I had to have a good think before committing to buy. So I consulted the brotherhood at www.xrv.org.uk and the general consensus was that the choke plunger was seized - a common problem with these bikes. Armed with this advice I bought the bike and the suspicions of the forum were confirmed - a seized choke plunger in the front cylinder - easily remedied. After fixing this and giving her a service the Africa Twin is running real nice. With the addition of crash bars, a touring screen, new rear brake pads and the Hagon rear shock from my old AT we are nearly ready to go.

A few good things have come out of me having my accident. Mike and I can now leave together in mid December rather than meeting up on the road as originally planned and I now have a bike with 22,000 miles less on it than the first model.

A spanner in the works...

2009-10-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

The trip preparation had been going well. Mike and I had pretty much been meeting every weekend to work on our bikes and prepare them as best we could for the journey ahead. The weekend of the 26th of September saw me over at Mike’s place with a list of things to do. Mike was fitting his new crash bars and side stand and I was giving the cooling system on the XRV a bit of an overhall.

On the way home that evening, heading up Wandsworth Road back towards East London I had my first proper ‘off’. A pretty decent one for my first. Motorcycle vs car vs brick wall. I was lucky. No serious injuries, a sprained thumb, bruising on my left hip and knee and at least one cracked rib. It all happened so damn quick! One second I was riding along and the next I felt like I was flying through the air. I had no time to brake or even decelerate before hitting the car that turned in front of me. I just hit it, then carried on towards the wall. Whilst flying though the air I remember thinking, ‘this is gonna hurt’. And it did. However after landing my first reaction was to spring to my feet, almost instantly. I think I wanted to reassure myself that I wasn’t too badly injured.

Adrenalin and shock are funny things. At the scene I was pretty calm and lucid. Spent a lot of time with the other driver trying to reassure her that I was actually okay. Managed to collect all my tools which were sprayed all over the side of the road. Three hours later when the salvage truck finally dropped my bike and me off at home, I could hardly move. My body, where I had taken a knock, had seized up like a rusty old bucket.

At about this time the implications on the trip started to sink in. Sitting in A&E at 11.30pm that night at Newham hospital amongst a few drunken brawlers and a stabbing I wasn’t sure I would still be able to do. Particularly because time was running out in terms of the window I had to leave the UK in order to miss the worst of the Sahara heat and rainy season further south. In the end doubt gave way to certainty that I would still make the trip happen. I’d need to sort and few things out though. The first being a new bike. More specifically, a new Honda XRV750 Africa Twin!

Planning

2009-09-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

Mike and his KTM

Not sure that you can ever completely plan for every eventuality on a trip like this. The best you can do is have an idea of where you want to go, a rough route and take into account environmental considerations like weather and regional stability. Add to this where to obtain visas and logistical things like fuel range, navigation, water and staying healthy on the road.

Originally this trip was going to be a solo one but an old buddy has decided to join me, which is great. Mike Rose (aka Mark Rhodes) has been riding since he was a young fella and has a natural mechanical instinct not usually found in an accountant. He's put his Triumph 1150 triple in storage, swapped his calculator for a socket set and brought himself a bike, which he won't mind getting dirty. He got a brilliant deal on a KTM 640 Adventure with only 500 miles on the clock and a whole bunch of extras. He was tickled pink.... well in this case orange. Mike has some exams to do in November so will be meeting me en route, probably in Mali if all goes to plan.

Overall the plan is to take our time and stay off the roads too well travelled where we can. The idea is to see as much of Africa as possible, meet lots of folks and just basically enjoy what will be challenging adventure. I've allowed eight to ten months for the whole trip.

The Bike

2009-09-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

Looked at all sorts of bikes including Yamaha's XT range, Suzuki DRs and Hondas. Reliability and budget were key considerations. Especially reliability. In the end I got a 1999 Honda XRV750 Africa Twin. I'd heard good things about them from people who own them and also from people who had taken them on trips to Africa and around the world.

On the Africa Twin, MCN says "Big trail bike you really can take off road. The Honda XRV750 Africa Twin was one of the first Japanese monster trail / desert rally bikes and remains one of the best. Power output is much lower than the latest machines but the slimmer seat makes it easier to manage once you leave the Tarmac. It's not light though and even gentle drops can be costly".

They are right. Man it's heavy! 205kgs dry. It does feel solid though and not like it's about to break in two. It's tall aswell. Almost too tall for me. I'm 5 "8 and cannot rest my foot flat on the ground when stopped at the lights. Getting on the bike too is a good laugh for anyone watching, with me doing lots of hoppy, jumpy, shuffley actions before finally swinging my leg over the seat. But once in the saddle it's great. Such a high riding position and enough low down torquey grunt to hopefully see me through some fairly rough African roads. People who own these bikes tend to really love them and after having mine for a few months I can see why.

Intro

2009-09-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

It hasn't always been a dream of mine to ride a motorcycle around Africa, but since deciding to do so, it has become a bit of an obsession. I've done a fair bit of travelling. A good bit of Europe, and in 2007 / 2008 a year travelling round India, Philippines, the States, Mexico and Guatemala. Best thing I ever did. One thing I realised whilst touring around is that I am a pretty relaxed traveller. A bit lazy in fact. Needed to challenge myself a bit more. So thought I'd attempt to ride a motorbike from London to Cape Town and back.

Me. 34 years old. From the King Country / Waikato in New Zealand. Been living in London since 2003.

I've ridden bikes before back in New Zealand, but more like farm hacks, quads and three wheelers. I think the first two-wheeled bike I rode was an old AG 100. So in Feb 09 I got my learner motorcycle licence (CBT) and brought a nice little Yamaha SR125 for practice and commuting to work in London. Then started researching the best bike for a trip down to the Dark Continent.