Day 15/part 2: Dakar - Race to the airport.

Behold Dakar.

Cesspool of ready to be demolished cars. The city from afar looks like a mushroom of black cloud, caused by smog. The business of automobiles and spare parts is possibly Senegal's only legal commerce engine, so to speak.. The fact is cars that are illegal in possibly all other continents apart from Africa end up here for usage. And though the rest of the world after renewing their pollution free cars, automobiles in Africa, that originate from industrialized countries, are deteriorating the world's atmosphere nonetheless.
It is shocking for both of us to arrive in a traffic that lasted from 70kms from the center city, on 'deflowered' roads and in the midst on a merry hydrocarbonoxmonodioxidian exhaust emission party.



Our goal is to arrive in time for my flight at 1am for my return to Milan, already one day late.

The sun starts to set at 6.30pm when our Honda, that has pulled through approximately 550km with more or less 250 kgs of weight, blew a tire. We were in the outskirts of Dakar about 40 kms away from the airport with no money and I feared to have maxed out with credit card, so Red had to come with to be sure that all was good.

It took us an hour and a half after asking around, being refused, and pushing around the motorcycle for a few kms to find finally a person who can fix the tire, in the backside of this shanty town raised on the strip of asphalt that leads to Dakar. The boys worked on sand and took more than an hour to change the tire. In the meantime, I was in the midst of continuous messaging with a friend in Vienna to book the flight, Red was involved in transactions for the purchase of the scooter and eventually a trade with a barter that includes yours truly..

Turns out that the next flight was at 6.30AM.
We had more time that night which was spent on going back and forth to the 'mechanic', finding a hostel that was decent, and sleeping less than 3 hours before waking up and going to the airport.

I don't exactly know why but we were really picky that night with choosing sleep quarters more than usual and we were actually more tired than usual. However, I can only defend myself by underlining the difficulty between accepting what's available rather than accepting what is embarrassing.
Between a hotel with not-so-warm water with little pressure in a hotel that physically looks like shit since it was brown all over and smelled, and another hotel than was youthful, seemed clean but had the john and shower closed partially by a wall a.k.a. completely visible, I had to chose where I'd have more privacy when doing my business with the flush toilet.

We ended up sleeping at past midnight.
Me, all washed and Red, brown like the sheets of his bed.

Day 15: Saint Louis - Dakar

I slept like a princess under a veil with the insect cover protecting me.
Red was mosquito bait (as usual) having slept on the floor.
Can I laugh?

The SH50 is an amazing scooter. We were by now riding in 2 with baggage and the roads were filled with crater-like holes. Red masterfully drove and I didn't object to being the passenger. The downside of riding behind is extreme butt cramps after some time.

Headed towards St. Louis and found a colorful sea town where food and drinks are at tourist price, and you see evident clash of class societies while drinking orange juice on a terrace perched by the delta next to children bathing in near to port water.
Their smiles are nonetheless beautiful.









Our stop was brief. We headed for Dakar immediately, only to be stopped by a 'policeman' who declared that we were speeding. Simply an 'incidental' guest, considering he had no scanner with him at all. Red insisted on getting a receipt and that lowered the fine amount to about a third of what was mentioned. He took the 2 receipts and promised to rain hell in Dakar. (why 2? who knows.. )

The rest of our ride was calm. The road taken was near the shore and were almost all flatlands which made it populated. Seemed that there were villages starting and ending at a distance on 5 meters for the whole trip for St. Louis to Dakar. We made 1 stop to touch up the SH50 and fill the oil then was good to go at a reasonable speed. I loved the view of this road and to see how the people lived. I even notice the Cedafi branches in buildings copied from that in Ndiangue.

It was early afternoon, we passed an enormous lot prepared for housing and looked like a tomb of power boxes, all prepared but no construction had initiated. It was supposed to be a residential area turns to quaint running spot for the military men from their nearby structure.

As we start to view the sea from afar, it was clear that Dakar was near.
Automobiles starting to run around fiercely, wait... IT'S TRAFFIC!!

Day 14/part 2: Ndiangue (Chèvre au Cimentre)

Left stranded in the middle of the road. 5kms from the lights of a small village.



Nightfall had arrived. Red was pushing the scooter. I was trying to keep up.

Counting on the kindness of strangers that passed by, a motorcycle with 2 Senegals stopped and gave us about a half liter of fuel taken from their own tank. When asked if they wanted compensation, they refused, after all that's life. "C'est la vie," he says. Life happens. In this moment they are giving a favor to us and in the future, in someway, the deed shall be returned.

The village Ndiangue was probably less than 1 km long and is concentrated on one single lane. We found the only 'hotel' in town called the Cedafi which is a national association for the education of women, teaching them to sow, draw, cook and so on. Cedafi at night becomes housing for different men who rents out the rooms and, luckily, us travelers. Our room was memorable for the collection of dead bugs inside 2 half vase shaped lamp shade attached on the wall.

We went out to eat and discovered that at 10.30PM restaurants were already closing and had finished their rations for the night. Riding back and forth this very small town and not finding a sign indicating food. We stopped and were asked by a local if we needed anything, then offered to go to his small shack extended on the facade of a 3 square meter shop. We entered the shack where in front pieces of meat, looked like goat, were hanged. Tiered in front of the meat there was long white layer of grease. We were accommodated on a small bench at the entrance of the shack and in the middle some carpet were men were lying down. With very brief exchange of words they set out to cutting half kg of meat, onions, pieces of grease and barbecued it all together on a perforated slate of metal with wood fire, turning the ingredients while it cooked with the same machete used to slice them. I was offered an 'african cigarette' and found that home cultivated tobacco actually has a darker taste to it, decisively particular.

While the fire crackled due to the grease that was dripping down and burning up good crusts on our meat, the thought came to mind on how they were going to serve our dish. Previously, Red had to get his own soda at the nearest market and then we both had the pleasure of sharing tea, from the same cup, with the rest of the guests. We're not squeamish and I'm of the thought that authenticity always adds up to the taste of certain meals. We're dining in with the locals and they eat altogether with food served on the floor by hand. I've eaten fried larva in Thailand but do worry of possible diarrhea for lack of hygiene. The sight of that one single rusted plate was not comforting but the cook tore out a piece of paper from a brown paper bag from below the slice deck, batted the dirt off, then served our meat on the paper on top of the plate.

It was the best meat we've ever eaten.

Of course the view of the paper bag in front of us gave more information than needed. There was a huge writing in print that was a little bit difficult to read to lack of light in the shack and the dirt on it. The print is a logo in writing and bears the name of a cement brand.

It was still the best meat we've ever eaten. Whether is was good cement or not, we will never know.

Day 14: The Longest Ride to Nowhere in Senegal

A fresh start after what was to us royal treatment.
Breakfast at sunlight in our patio lying down at perfect timing like requested at 8.30AM.
Red woke up earlier than I did that day which was odd.

We said our goodbyes and parted, only to stop 20 meters from the gates of Auberge Amach.



Red cleaned the sparkplug, then changed it, then we went off, at 20km/h, then 30km/h, then 15km/h, then stopped, cleaned it, parted again, stopped, changed it, stopped, cursing away under the sun almost reaching it's high point on a clear blue sky bathing us with heat along the way, burning us everytime we stopped. Being tested for patience is bearable when you know the reason to the chalenge. Red was at the end of his wits and is angered by the fact that there was no clear reason to the cause of the ill-burning sparkplug. And so, just to use all possible ideas since none of the 3 mechanics that had placed their hand on the Aprilia has though of it, he took off the muffler in a rather violent manner, only to discover that it wasn't the problem.

There was no solution to this problem.
We had to go through that 170 km to the border at the velocity that the Aprilia manages which fluctuated frequently. Furthermore, Red having forced to take off the muffler had also bent the tube and now we have another problem. The Red man is now not only audible from 5kms away but the distinct repetitive noise of the 2 stroke is worst than a firing Tommy gun. Our drive by attracted many people that lived alongside the road, especially children who were the most curious. However, from afar you could see also a different kind of reaction. We were scaring people and animals. I'd see from afar (because I myself needed to stay away from the noise) children running away and camels, goats, birds, mules freaking out and stampeding off. Red later tried to connect it back. Forcing was no use and after series of trials to tied it up with plastic bands, strings, elastics only to have the exhaust fall out a dragging, Red was praying for more patience and I was about to just give up my scooter to end his suffering. It was of course unknown to me that we had to both arrive at the border and to leave the scooter in the middle of the road would make crossing to Senegal harder.

We arrived at Rosso, Mauritania, around 4.30PM. It took us 7 hours to cross 170kms.


View Day 14 in a larger map

Along the way during some stops people would offer to buy the scooters. It was the same at the border but the men were not just interested in a deal. They were like hungry vultures. In plenty, surveilling us to see if there was something they could gain from us. In this folly, we actually managed to sell the Aprilia for the cost of our ferry passage to Rosso, Senegal, for the pay of customs and we earned 150 dollars. Senegal lives from the black market of vehicles. However, I can't understand why they would buy anyway a scooter that was not working and wasn't even too sure that the part of this plastic bike already ruined from past accidents would be that much of value.



Our patience was tested also at the border. Red was dealing with endless lines for bureaucratic means and also with our Machiavellian 'broker' who paid our way since we had no more money, but tried to give us false prices in the meantime. I was dealing with questions about topics that ranged from selling my SH50 to my origins and then eventually about sex in a crude manner. At some point after 2 hours, we've crossed the river onto Senegal, and after having waited not in peace, I lost my head and yelled at a very insistent boy who was also hammering Red for money for his 'services', in his opinion already rendered.

Once the money issue was settled, we took the necessary items from the glove compartment and just gave almost every tool we've purchased to the mob. We then waited another half hour for the clearance on customs on Red's passport due to the 'missing' Aprilia. At that point, we've lost the tank with 15 liters of fuel and our tent. We had wanted to give it away anyhow but it got stolen before to good deed was done.

Once cleared by the border police, we were off on the SH50 with 2 backpacks.. I think that totals to more than 200kgs.. on a 50cc.. Smiling again. Happy it was all over and that we were again on the road.

We didn't have a map or book of Senegal and was quite surprised that St. Louis was 80 km away, so we went off to the nearest village about 8 kms from the fork to Richard Toll. I loved the smell in the air of burnt fields. A smell of cultivation of a country close to tropical. It was already nightfall. We were laughing away our moments of the days and then the scooter stops...

We ran out of fuel... and so we marched, heading towards the nearest light, singing away.

Day 13: Nouakchott (Under Mauritanian Sky...)

I was not the happy trouper when daylight came that morning in Nouadhibou. I felt pain all over and was in search of pharmaceutical relief but gave up after the first pharmacist offered me Paracetamol and then a second pharmacists in a tracksuit with missing teeth and chains that made him look like a your local 'homeboy' gave me a cream for fungi infection when I would've been satisfied with a simple Arnica for the bruise on my knee. Certified homeopathic medicine of a wide level of distribution is popular only in advanced countries.

We deposited our motorbikes and baggage an hour before departure time, then headed off to look for breakfast. Le petit dejeuner was not available just anywhere. It seemed like each shop had their own purposes. A restaurant is a place to eat only for either lunch or dinner and there is no flexibility in between. We entered a restaurant and saw a woman cleaning potatos who just looked at us and then continued with what she was doing, not even bothering to ask why we entered, as though the concept of a door was not to define inside and outside, nor does the differentiation of spaces and what it implies exists. We ask if they could serve us and they just mention another name and indicated for us to walk further up the street. The cafe in which name I do not recall consisted of a small veranda as its facade, door covered in multicolored vynil bands that tiered down and the room was a 3x3 all covered in newspaper excerpts of soccer, basketball, Obama and Al-Qaaeda news. He served only baguettes with onion omelettes with possible addition of homemade mayonnaise and nescafe long coffee with or without milk powder. As we finished eating, the man and his boy waited for us outside.

The bus ride to Nouakchott took more than 5 hours and it felt longer. Before leaving Red kept insisting on getting information regarding the next step of our transportation from the capital to Rosso but he never got answers. So we parted without really knowing what would happen when we arrived. Red was worried about moving on our problematic and extremely slow rides in the Sahel nearing the time of the kidnapping of those Spanish tourists. He was however suffering the ride and would've loved to have done this road with the bikes. I was destroyed and thought that this intermezzo had right timing. It's not a joke to me the pain, I felt on my back. I was at that point quite concerned about my health and considered even abandoning the SH50 and continuing via public transport. The Aprilia was already at its end anyhow.

The road was beautiful. The dunes are much more persistent in this part of the desert but winds blew strongly. This road bears now a name of The road of Hope. The Japanese financed it, I assume as an exchange of a deal on fish exportation. It's kind of funny to think that maybe some of Japan's sushi come from Nouadhibou's bay. The comfort of a bus was not as rewarding as riding. First off, inside the vehicle you saw through square windows and not a full view. Secondly, you were inside looking out and not right in the middle. It was however very entertaining to see the people. Such as the frog faced Chinese guy with cactus hair who got annoyed everytime the door opened and sand would come in. He panicked everytime and trying to clean himself after. It was ridiculous! There was a lot of wind and theres sand at 360°!

We arrived in Nouakchott at 4.30PM and found that no transportation to Rosso exists and but it can be arranged but always with the price of an eye. There were little options and the owner of the shuttle service was actually advising us to go with the bikes assuring us that it was save. We decided to leave almost immediately, bid farewell to reason and perhaps mental sanity and headed out once more to ride ignoring previous fears of kidnappers in the middle of the desert. I took a pain killer and overcame my preoccupation for my own health once more..

Getting out of Nouakchott was not easy. We were running around in circles for sometime trying to figure out where to go in a city where indications on directions does not exist. We ended up in the periphery again with high traffic of motorcycles, cars, buses, trucks and horses. The conditions of the streets were dramatic because holes on the asphalt and sand was everywhere. The sight of huge trucks inclining and jiggling sideways along sand crated roads was quite impressive.. We finally managed to get fuel and headed out for a 200 km drive to Rosso and it was already 6.20PM when we arrived at city limits. We jumped from being worried about possible hijacking by Al-Qaeda to going on a Die Hard ride to the border Rosso at nightfall... Just insane, actually!

Maybe, finally, just because we've learned our lesson from the past days that at 30km off Nouakchott Red stopped at the sign of Auberge and we decided to stop. I'm so happy we did because it was one of the most beautiful places we stopped at where is a space of 1000 m2 you had 12 cabins and there was nothing else near this 'complex'. The whole facility was lighted by a small car battery and as night came, the stars where as what I generally see at sea. The complex manager, Achmed, was nice enough to place a mat and mattresses in the patio in front of our room and I felt like royalty while laying there watching the sky.

Day 12/part 2: Nouadhibou by Night

We've taken to drinking a lot of soda during the trip. The icy frizz and sugar gives a calorie boost needed especially because we weren't exactly eating or drinking regularly. Red tells me something that I've eventually witnessed during this trip which is in Africa you can surely find 2 things without difficulties: fuel and Coca Cola.

After the abrupt introduction at the border to 3rd world Mauritania, we parted off for Nouadhibou. We were lucky enough to have witnessed the renowned longest train in the world of Mauritania on the crossroad for the 2 cities. The ride was smooth I was sorry not to have dared once more to film this site as we actually surpassed the train of 3 kms length with our 50ccs. It was carrying iron.



The north of Mauritania is the point of the start of Sahel. Sands where more shifty and golden. There were less traces of sedimentary rocks. All these sights of dunes were laced with car carcasses and broken down houses made of stick and plastic. Once and a while you see that old mule in the middle of nowhere and you wonder how in the world it's still alive.

As usual we were late and time was of the essence in order to search for transportation to Rosso. We had laid out options, before we left for the this rally, to be escorted or shipped by cargo, but both proved to be insanely expensive. Prices ranged from 750 for the escort to 1650 Euro for the cargo ship. Running around this city that's divided in 2 parts: center and periphery, both about 1 km long, we managed to find a bus that would take us to Nouakchott for 35 Euros, bikes included.



Red and I settled in a campsite in center Nouadhibou. There were no chambers left but we happily accepted the option to sleep under a nomad tent. I thought of it as the most mesmerizing tent I've ever seen. There were mixtures of patterns that recalls christianity with colors of African spices, patterns of drawings that are of islamic theme and variety of colorful tapestry on the ground. While settling in I had a chat over Mauritanian tea with a tour guide named Fadel, a handsome Mauritanian with 4 wives who loves him but to whom he loves none. I ventured to ask if they were happy and with a convincing smile we stares at me straight in the eye and answers, 'Absolutely.' We had many laughs and spoke of the universal problem of unrequited love. He called me a liar when I told him that it was also a problem of mine. Fadel was guiding a group of french tourist in their 50s/60s. They were also in a rally from Paris headed for Dakar. The campsite had a pantry where the frenchmen were having tea after a days worth of drive. We had actually ran into this convoy at the border earlier. I loved the sight of a white bearded sympathetic man writing on 25 or more postcards short notes to his friends who were listed on sheets of A4 excel format. The campsite was also complete with terrace, where you could either relax or hang your washing to dry. Part of the terrace was gated and used as a goat house. In the meantime, Red was again on a soda run and came back with my possible reentry flight to Milan. And as I read the information, reality hits me with a bat on my back: time's running out.

This economic capital of Mauritania lives on the investments generated by the global consumption of fish in which Nouadhibou's bay is rich of. Freshened up we went out to see this city and wondered where did all that money go to? We met an Italian botargo exporter in the midst of the delirious commercial district. It was the second time we saw him after meeting briefly at the Mauritanian embassy in Rabat. He lead us to a 'foreigner's' restaurant where the food was not all that good but the view of the waitresses was pleasing to Red's eyes. The women are stunning in black Africa.

I was not concentrating. It wasn't reality's bat that hit my back but it was the cold shower that threw away a nerve on my vertebrae. I couldn't do anything, not even laugh without my back hurting as it felt as though my spinal chord was not completely intact.

Asking Naomi's double regarding where to get a massage lead us to Restaurant Hong Kong. It wasn't only a restaurant, it was Chinatown. This is proof of a place with moving economy. Where there's money, there's the chinese people working to earn a living. Behind the big building you had the quarters of 12 employees. Some playing Mah Jong and I heard a bit of karaoke too. My masseur came from Guang Zhou, spoke 20 words of Spanish but she had good hands and treated my with Eucalyptus Oil. After she had done, she then translated via Du Bai her diagnostic which was I've been under a lot of physical strain, I've been sitting too much, I need to drink more and I myself knew the art of massages.

The pain didn't go away but I had a brief relief.
That night it was my turn to be mosquito bait.

Day 12: Cap Barbas - Mauritanian Border

I woke up quite early just in time for sunrise. Seemed liked the end of the world had arrived and only few constructions remained erected in decay where each morning the sun creeps up to introduce just another day..




Fal from Tan Tan is the head concierge at Cap Barbas Auberge. He speaks only Arab and a bit of Spanish. Tells patiently the story of this project apparently not so much in the middle of nowhere since the village of Cap Barbas, with population of 30 families, has existed since the Spanish occupation of the Western Sahara. The 'pueblito', gas station and hotel runs on an electrical generator.



The Aprilia proved one more time to be at its limits and needed 2 changes of sparkplug right at the start before running at an anyhow slow pace. 130kms to Nouadhibou. 80 kms to the border. This last km of Moroccan Western Sahara showed more military presence with the passing mimetic vehicles and brothers of Red's beloved Gas 66. There were more presence of rocks carved by wind, your occasional mountain size heap of golden sand, military bunkers, military quarters and lots of rock sculptures.. It seems like thousands each and everyone made by some passerby which a kink to copy the previous sculpture made.

Our arrival to the border was filled with a triumphant air.
Everyone looked at us sideways and those interested asked questions and either didn't believe we did all of those kilometers from Tangiers or just thought we were nuts.

I'd do it again. Minus Aprilia.



Visualizza Day 12 in una mappa di dimensioni maggiori

It was already around 1pm when we finally finished the police checks to leave Morocco. Between Morocco and Mauritania there is a 4 km distance of disputed area, where you see only sand, rocks, the men in blue and car carcasses. It was the most difficult drive for me in all of the trip. Few trucks that waived their service at us for a crossover became a temptation. Scooters were not meant for off-road touring and I was only recently deflowered from my motorcycling virginity few days passed. I only had one fall at the beginning but it did its damage to my right knee. As the adrenalin kicks in we went on anyway and those 4 km really felt like forever to me. No broken bones this time.

It felt as though with the change of country there was an immediate change of temperature. The Mauritanian border was decorated by numerous burnt vehicles. The police office was a small room in a chain of offices with tin roofs that hasn't been cleaned for years. It was paradise for the flies. The officer wrote down our information translating the sounds in Arab. It was quite entertaining to see him try to write mine.. One officer was worthy of a photo there and then as he was and aging black man with whitening beard wearing seeing glasses still with the degree of stigmatism correction still attached to the right lens. The duties office was the most dramatic of them all. It was a hut made of wood and cardboards.

I waited for Red to finish with customs check quite a bit and noticed the difference in attitude of these Mauritanians compared to Moroccans. The notion of poverty as all of them either asked for alms or tried to sell something or was just there at the 1 square meter 'cafe' holding up their hand to signal me, as if their presence would not have been evident without this gesture. Men walked together in friendship holding hands and talked to me while hugging each other. The head of the border is a military man who asked me why I'm not Muslim since I'm Indonesian and didn't comprehend too well what I meant by freedom of choice. I speak bad french and he speaks french with an accent I couldn't well comprehend. He was also the local Imam (preacher) and was singing the 2 PM shalat on a megaphone from the back of a broken down van. I don't think its everyday they see 2 people, let alone an Asian girl ride a 50cc ride on these parts... many of these boys were keen on feeling my skin while looking back and forth from their palm to my arm... I asked why and they just added a smile to their vague expression.

Day 11: Dakhla - Capo Barbas (The Real Mirage)

Good Morning Dakhla...

I've never been so happy to sleep before midnight and wake up the day after rejuvenated. Red is made of something else and has the training and the endurance needed for these trips, so he went for a night out alone and run amok in town... while I rested after our adventure in the dark the day/night before.

Hotel Tahiti had pictures of French Polynesia on the walls which... killed me. But that's another story...

It's a National Holiday in Morocco but we were lucky to find shops open to fix the lights and buy the necessary rations in case we get stuck in no man's land that spreads out til the Mauritanian border. The only bummer was that the banks were closed so we had no chance in getting Euros or Dollars. Note that Western Union only buys but they don't sell..

It took us til 11am to finally get the lights fixed because no one sold the right bulb and when we actually bought a pair, they were the right size but with and odd fit that made them fall out anyway. Red crazy glued everything and we went on our way.

Dakhla lays on the point of a peninsula of sand and seas on the East and West. Just 10 km from the city you see this view of golden sands and blue horizons. The SH50 had a slow start, as though those 15 Lt of fuel in the tank and the constant strong wind that blew against us slowed it down. We didn't care for the troubles and just enjoyed the spectacle given by this peninsula.





And here, after starting-stopping-starting again, the Aprilia started to choke one more time.



It took us more than an hour to arrive at a gas station at the fork for El Aargoub then Red worked on the Aprilia until 3pm. We still had 310 km to go. The Aprilia ran at a fluctuating speed, sometimes 20km/h, then 45km/h, then 35 km/h, then 15 km/h. We had stopped 4 times to clean/change the sparkplug with Red steadily at the limit of his patience and I, simply placing my hopes on a machine that would regain its functionality and hopefully part again and again and again.... and again.

El Aargoub was a ghost village with 7 houses. After the check up past this village. It was a ride on 5 lane wide asphalt that was laid out without any sense but the possible promises of eventually making this reef side road a future real estate investment. Most of the structures were initiated but not finished and a kilometers of land were groped but not worked on.

I've felt after all this time of riding and sense of companionship given by the tablets that marked kilometers. On this road many of them had disappeared and for a very long time I had no sense of how far we were but just the knowledge that the sun was once again setting. We rode not only at the peak of a reef near by the ocean but further closely to the beach.

The dunes were made of loose sands and strong winds shifted them creating a soft golden mist in the air and covered in a brittle fashion the asphalt. This view against the light of near sunset was beautiful.

All rationed up, we had no fear of camping out but we headed out to arrive anyhow to the border by the end of the night. With very few passerby on the road, the calm of the ride seeps in. At some point, after a deep right curve, we saw lights. I was fibrillating. It was a curious light and though it should be a gas stop in the middle of nowhere. As we arrived, the gas stop was there and next to it a building in a U shape with a tent over the center courtyard where trees and palms where planted and it was metal gated between it's sage colored columns. Absolutely unreal...

We stayed for the night. Fed, warmed, comforted and were serene.

... all this apart from a 4AM interruption due to mosquito attack on only Red who by that time decided not to shower and was covered up by muscle anti-inflammatory gel, tiger balm and lotion all used to massage his hurting back. Followed by Red's conquest to master the pronunciation of the word Japan in 0,3 seconds.




Visualizza Day 11 in una mappa di dimensioni maggiori

Day 10: Laayoune - Dakhla

It was a hard test our passage of the first part of central Western Sahara. We are pratically doubling the travel distance we usually do daily. Those 550 km in a day made the change of latitudes pass in a faster manner. And though it seems like nothing extraordinary, I have to say that the beauty of riding is that you live your surroundings at its best and worst, and having to live that change so quickly was mesmerizing.

Leaving Laayoune with no certainty of getting to the finish line: Dakhla. Our stolen french map which lays out the possible stops at distances of more or less 120kms from one village to the other was a total sham because this track had 2 villages at a distance of 180 kms from Laayoune and the rest was no man's land.


Visualizza Day 10 in una mappa di dimensioni maggiori

Up to now the desert had been very kind to us. Apart from the chill of night that rose before reaching Tan Tan as a post rain effect, we've had no difficulties caused by moving dunes. The first 200 kms of ride was quiet. The desert show us a huge change from rich lands to what arid land would be but the view was mainly flat lands of big nothing then became fascinating, introducing us to what I hoped to see in the Western Sahara. After some turns that the sands would harden and amalgamate with rocks evolving into what seemed to me to be sedimentary boulders.. (a geologist's opinion is needed), it's seems with we were passing through some rock gardens on the moon. As the sun started to set the sky gave an amazing show..





Of course it was not all peachy and dandy.. it's too good to be true and is not the theme of this trip!!
Mid road during our orange juice stop at the unknown-to-us last stop before nothing, Red noticed that I had no lights anymore. It's not safe to ride at night, but we always did it anyway. After the sunset we really started to rush especially when realizing that there was absolutely no village as promised on the map. I luckily had with me a jogging light that we simply placed around the SH 50. Problem solved. Fill tank. On our way.

About 30km later during the last hours of nightfall in front of a passing truck, the Aprilia hits a small hole and its light went out... I don't have 2 jogging lamps for 1 head. So for the those 100 kms to Dakhla, with no promise of a village, I was at a 1 meter distance giving light to Red's path and he with a dynamo lamp aimed at the shadow my light was making against his motorcycle and body.

We arrived at a check up with both lights on because the Aprilia hit another bump just before the police booth and were relieved. Only to have the light die again while another truck was coming at our direction at a curve.

Dakhla was much more lively than Laayoune but oddly enough the Routard mentioned almost nothing about the city. After searching hotels indicated by the police, we didn't find it anyway and went on our own search and stayed at Hotel Tahiti.

Life makes funny jokes....

Day 9/Part 2: Laayoune (The Hotel of Horrors)

Laayoune is a military town and built to supposedly house the UN presence to finally resolve a solution to the Polisario movement in the Western Sahara that has long made the area a grim location. It's been more than 15 years and they've arrived to no conclusion.

The arrival, obviously at night, to Laayoune lead us to an immediate for a hotel and there was only one recommended by Routard. We went and was offered 2 rooms seeing as the receptionist, guy by the name of Jaeem, feared imprisonment if ever the police found out that the hotel placed unmarried female and male companions in a single room. I was heading upstairs to view the room when Red asked me if I in my opinion the red brownish color on the floor and walls of the staircase was blood or not...

As the enthusiastic receptionist took me upstairs, I couldn't believe my sight of smears on the wall, stair handles and drops every step or 2 until arriving at the first floor and finding a pool of coagulating fresh blood and smashed beer bottles on one side of the passage and more marks of bloody hand smears on 3 sides of this opening to 2 corridors. He told me to come towards a corridor as I was frozen with my mouth open and smiled and encouraged me to follow and watch my step. Then he realized he was going the wrong way and try to lead me to another corridor but by that time I'd already seen the first corridor with more pools of blood. I was gasping for air.

Room number 4 had a bloodied palm mark in front of it...

Then he tried to show me the bathroom and assured me that there was hot water...

I know that a good salesman accentuates the positive features of a product but, for the love of me, I can't get pass through this man who did not feel the need to immediately explain to me why the hell his hotel looked like a scene from The Shining. Now I feel for Wendy.. In the end, he explained that some guy got drunk and tried to commit suicide and then he tossed some bonuses to the negotiation of a 1 night stay which was that Red and me would sleep in 1 room, plus parking of the 2 motorcycles..
I don't know why the hell I said yes anyway..

Jaeem in the meantime organized 2 maids to clean the blood away and Red moved as quickly as he could to take pictures before the crime scene was wiped free.. after they've finished I reevaluated the concept of cleanliness in the western sahara.. come to think of it, I've never met a Moroccan housecleaner before.

Eating was not the first thing on my mind after admitting ourselves to the hotel of horrors but Red had to fill his stomach and I was not about to stay there alone!

We went to a restaurant called Riad Fez. The entrance was a huge wooden door and met with very wide promising stairs that rose up to a huge open space where one table had a distance of 5 meters from one another, there were gazebos, boutiques, a short of food corners, assorted goods booth, a fountain in the middle with goddess-like statues in different colors framed by elliptic shaped metal platforms that erected... nothing... Super kitsch. Supposedly of the elite. It was the first time we saw women running amok. In fact there were mostly only women.
The service was definitely unaccountable.. we were waiting for almost an hour to get served and then went away.

The best places to eat is where all the people of the town go to. In fact after asking a simple fellow at the cyber cafe, we arrived a restaurant that served a menu of meat, chicken or lamb with side dishes you couldn't choose from. You eat what you get and what we got was great fried chicken and fries, with side of lentil soup and salad. The place was filled with so much oil residue in the air that none of the flies around bothered us as they were already happy with what they found on the ceiling

We slept well nonetheless but I was under my mummy sleeping bag.