Whazzzzzup Mudpuddlers?! It's been 48 hours since the last update so must be new update time! To start with, an apology. The pictures for this entry are not yet sorted out, I might have to post them on a separate link in FB. Sorry bout that, but onwards and upwards..
We were in Nouadhibou as I recall. We left it as soon as we found it, which was something of a relief as I may have mentioned, Nouadhibou is a frightful shit hole. We come across worse later, but for now, we left the detritus of Mauritania's second city behind and headed back into the Sahara for some more desert action.
At first, the going seemed much easier than our first encounter with the Sahara, I was boldly predicting an arrival at our destination 'just after lunch'. Oh the optimism of youth! Firstly I should point out just how empty this part of the Sahara is. That might sound an obvious point, but there was nothing to break the view. No real dunes, very few trees, the odd camel. As Kell pointed out, if someone had put a blindfold on you and spun you round three times you would have literally no idea of where to head or where you had come from. However, we did find one tree within striking distance of the hard sand where the three cars (ours, Kell and Mal, Fitz and Stan) parked up to take lunch. There was (just) enough shade to keep us in it, and give the cars a chance to cool off a bit. It was actually rather civilised, and I remarked that it had very much a distinctly colonial feel to it. Five ridiculous Englishmen (and woman) and a Belgian taking lunch in the burning midday Sahara sun whilst all the sensible folk are off being cool somewhere. Mad dogs and all that. It was at lunch that I suddenly became very aware of how hot it was. I've been hot before, I've been in the desert before (just!) but this was different. It was absolutely baking out there, even in shade. The temperature had climbed into the forties and in direct sunlight (where I wandered for a comfort break) it was bordering on unbearable.
This was the start of 'revisit eta dramatically'-gate. Firstly, most of the 2CVs and organisation vehicles had passed us as we had our Englishmans picnic under the tree, so we were somewhat surprised to come across them all parked up a short distance further along. It transpires that Edwin had got the green mehari (that I rode in a few days ago) stuck in soft sand and one of the organisation 4x4s had gone against all usual protocol of 'sort it yourself' to pull him out and had itself rather hilariously beached in soft sand. That will teach them to twist the rules! That was the route through blocked, with no-one wanting to take the other optional track as they didn't want to block that too. Anyway, there was a degree of faffing I was uncomfortable with, so for once in my life I got assertive and summoned a couple of the lads to help me push Edwin out whilst everyone else was pissing themselves at the 4x4s fate. It was actually good timing as whilst we were doing that, about 10 people managed to push the 4x4 clear and out of the soft sand. The Mehari was not too difficult to shift, but it was painfully obvious that the heat was draining to say the least. In addition, the water (of which we needed a good 6 litres on a day like this) was heating up in the sun and was like drinking bath water. Does the same job, but is so damn unpleasant to chug.
It was after this little episode that we started to encounter the Vespas. They were taking a shorter route through the desert, but it was proving very very difficult for them. To be fair, wearing the sort of protective gear they were in that heat would be draining enough, without struggling against the terrain too. One encounter was trouble for us as one of the riders was suffering exhaustion, and was rather in the way on the track recovering with a couple of the others. We saw him in time, but Mal didn't and had to swerve and at the same time in doing so lost a suspension spring whcih hauled us all to a stop. We set up a cover over the cars to provide some shade whilst Mal worked to replace the spring and tried to give the exhausted Vespa rider some assistance and shade too. The heat by this point had long since stopped being a nuisance and was becoming a little concerning looking at the state of some of the riders. Mal got Laura patched up, but the effort of that was enough to have him throwing up, which I am sure he will be thrilled I have shared with everyone.
Further along we found a lone Vespa rider who had been trying to convince the others that they needed more speed to cope with the terrain and had been doing fine, but the others were not convinced and fell behind. The tour orgainser had caught him up and told him he must wait for the others as it is a strict no no to travel alone in these parts. So here he was, in leathers, without shade and with just a little water in 40 degree heat waiting for the others. Respect where it is due, these guys were taking a hell of a pounding today. Further still we encountered more carnage. More exhaustion and a rider had fallen off and damaged his ribs. In the end, the sensible option was for the 2CVs to be camels and do the heavy work. So there was a degree of 2CV co pilots taking on the remaining 20kms on the Vespas with the exhausted Vespa riders taking a ride in the 2CV instead, and we managed to attach the damaged riders 2CV to the back of Edwin's mehari and cram an extra man into Erik's car (Jari, one of the rasta dudes who was unable to get the Vespa back hence it went tied to Edwin's mehari). All is well that ends well and a rag tag collection of riders, 2CVs, broken bodies and overheated Europeans filtered in to Cap Tafarit over the course of a few hours. Just enough light left for me to run into the sea in my funky trunks and cool off. That was lovely...... and then we ran out of beer.
Running out of beer is one thing, but running out of beer in the strict Islamic Republic of Mauritania where drinking or selling beer is a big no no is another. And we had a rest day here in paradise at Cap Tafarit, 50kms as the crow flies from the nearest tarmac, on the Atlantic. With no beer. Did I mention there was no beer? A day of swimming, loafing, drinking coke and for some fishing was actually a welcome relief and we had big bedouin tents to hide from the sun in. In fact, one of the vespa riders whom we had assisted presented Rasta Robin with a bottle of spirits as a thanks, so we got pissed on that instead of beer (they had sneakily also kept a couple of crates back, which lasted for about 20 minutes in the evning, but then we really were out of beer!!) The evening meal was a barbeque of all the fish the guys had caught, so snappers, bass and the like were served up and were very tasty too.
The next day we headed back to the main road from Nouadhibou to the capital Nouakchott, and were told we should fill up at the petrol station just as we get back to the road as there was no further petrol station for about 200km. So it was with some concern we arrived at the station to find a few 2CVs parked up. They had no petrol. When was the next delivery expected? A couple of days! They did have some water though, so I bought plenty. It wasn't long before we had all the 2CVs gathered and we had a little crisis summit. The days off road meant noone had a load of petrol, and most didn't have enough to make the next petrol station. having said that, staying put was not an option. the organisation wouldn't be able to help as for one they drive diesel 4x4s and for another they are there to cater and fix broken cars, not mollycoddle Europeans on an adventure. In the end, Erik and me, Kell and Mal, Fitz and Stan and Edwin and Peter in the mehari decided to go for it. We had about enough petrol between us to get close, and we would have the option of towing if someone ran out 20km short or the like. A few westerners have been kidnapped on this road by Al Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb. Not that I was crapping myself about that or anything. We got within 40km of the next station when Erik announced we were out of fuel. We managed to squeeze a little out of Fitz's jerry can and got another 20km or so before running out again. In the end, we didn't need the tow as there was enough in bits and pieces from jerry cans to get us to the fuel stop. The 2CV tank is 25 litres, we managed to get 25.6 litres in. Running on fumes somewhat! Happily, everyone got out of the sticky situation, although they were rather later than us to Nouakchott as some of them ran out short of target and the Rasta boys had to play fuel mule running jerry cans to and from.
Nouakchott is much less of a dung hole than Nouadhibou, but it is still fairly grim in places. Like the beach we went to look at before heading off the next day. Full of rubbish. However, all pales into insignificance when one has been to the border town of Rosso. Gert, the organiser, had tipped us off to take a look at Rosso market, which we duly did. It is a long street, perhaps half a mile or more long, with stalls either side. All well and good, but the entire length of it is piled up with rubbish. There is clearly no refuse collection, so the crap just gets discarded on the street. I've never seen the like of it outside a landfill. It really does defy explanation to those of us pampered in the West, this is a totally alien way of life and way of existing. It was also in Rosso that we met our first tosspot policeman. He had a little hut on the road out of Rosso with a 'stop' sign 50 metres after his hut. As we were last in the convoy of three we saw him running out of his hut putting his jacket on, but the others were past already. He wasn't happy and gestured wildly at them. To be fair, they stopped and came back, but PC plod thought he was on to a winner. He might have to 'fine' us for failing to stop. He did however make the genius move of demanding to see Fitz (who was a passenger today) driving license. Winner. He wanted cash, he had to make do with a pack of pens and an air freshener and not insignificant english insults he couldn't understand. All of this took us to the camp at Keur Mesene via an off road route which saw us crash through two trenches in the road. One buckling the wheel rim (replaced) and the other shearing the bolts on the suspension arm (fortunately removable and replaced with Fitz spare). Mauritania hey?
There I shall leave it for now, next time we cross the border into Senegal and near journey's end. Can't take as long to get out of Mauritania than it took to get in. Can it?
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