Motorcycle Transportation

The Happenings on the West African Tour

Keep up with the Globebusters tour as they wend their way to Dakar through North West Africa

Date:2008-12-04 11:26:23

Author:Globebusters

The Wild Cats of Chefchauen With Speedy and Superman along, this promises to be an interesting GlobeBusters expedition to Guinea Bissau and Dakar, Senegal. We have an eclectic group of riders from different backgrounds with, strangely enough, a shared and in-depth knowledge of bee-keeping. Their motorcycles are varied too, predominantly from the BMW GS stable, but including a Ducati tourer, a KTM, and a Harley Davidson cruiser. We gathered in the pleasantly warm surroundings of Marbella, Spain, and stole out in the dark of an early Friday morning making for the port of Algeciras, where we boarded the first ship bound for the Spanish enclave of Ceuta. A short ride beyond, and we reached the border, and Morocco. Gradually we are heading South, eventually making for Senegal, via the heat and intensity of the Sahara. From Ceuta we took the road to Tetouan, and on into the Rif mountains and Chefchauen, enjoying empty grippy switchback roads and spectacular views. Tetouan is a vibrant town, busy with people congregating in the open spaces, street sellers, traffic and bustle, but devoid of aggression. The people here are quiet, gentle and dignified. The traffic behaves differently too, with people making way for each other rather than always jostling for first place. It is a charming change from Europe. In contrast, Chefchaouen is full of wild cats. Our stopping place for the night was in the heart of the medina, and there are cats everywhere. Feeline eyes peek from under tables, and in dark archways crafted from a mix of Moroccan and Andalucian architechture, and coloured blue from the Jewish refugee heritage. Cats dart through the maze of narrow cobbled alleyways which rise steeply up the hill from the square. It is beautiful, atmospheric, and very friendly. We are helped with our paperwork by the dynamic Mohammed, who knows absolutely everyone and everything, rather usefully including the location of police speed-traps. The following morning we are awoken by the call to prayers washing over the town from the minarets, high over the bleached white houses. We press on due south for Azrou, and stumble across a vast farmers market gathering seemingly randomly in a field. Everything is available, from a wild array of strong smelling spices, brightly coloured jellabas, enough rope to lift an aircraft carrier, and livestock. The real treat of the day comes later though, when the group visit the famous Roman ruins at Volubilis. A huge Roman town remains in remarkable condition. It is astonishing in scale, breathtaking in beauty, and an absolute joy to behold. There are mosaics of Venus, Neptune, and pillars left standing imperiously against azure blue skies. A stork has rather scurrilously built an irritatingly untidy nest atop of one of these, and resides there proudly, but it does remind me of Frankie Howard for some reason. It's probably the heat. I won't bang on about Volubilis too much, but you should go there. Put it on your list. At the top. In red. Morocco seems to have a relaxed mix. Things mix together here. Bulldozers park next to cars, and donkeys are leashed outside smart looking banks while sheep are herded along the road. Old and young people mix too, with the exception of women, who are seen in far fewer numbers. The country does have a very comfortable, very human way about it, and everyone is always polite. Sunday sees us pressing on towards Marrakesh, and while the heat and dust build, the bikes behave impeccably, and the riding is exhiliarating, with mountain roads snaking their way to over 1400 metres as we cross the foothills of the high Atlas, snow covered peaks ever present in the distance. Children sell strange fruit on the roadside. Ian bravely buys some, and regrets it later as they are truly horrible. More twists and turns, back and forth lead us to Cascades d'Ouzoud, and the fantastic falls there. Some of the group observe the spectacle of unarmed Barbry ape versus dog conflict, but all emerge unscathed. The falls are a chance to cool off from the heat of the day and enjoy the dramatic view from the roof terrace with a several glasses of excellent Moroccan red. The following day took us through the ancient city of Marrakesh, and on to the 18th Century Atlantic port of Essaouira. The sea breeze here is refreshing, and the Souk and Ramparts are stunning in the sunset. The port teems with fishing boats, and as darkness falls, work continues under strong lights, as boats are repaired ready for their next sailing. Morocco has given us a wonderful start to our journey, and without tempting fate, so far so good with the exception of the disturbing phrase uttered by one who shall remain nameless... "I love linedancing." Hi all, Below is the latest from the diary of Matt Bailey, our expedition van driver. I'll try and get some pics posted soon. We have since completed our Sahara crossing and after a few days at the very relaxing travellers auberge of Zebrabar in northern Senegal, have set off east towards Mali. We are in a small town called Richard Toll today. Best wishes to all! Craig Burgers and Berbers The fourteen continue South. After spending two refreshing days in Essaouira, some exploring the network of narrow medina streets, others bouncing rented quad bikes across immense dunes and through the ghostly skeletons of French colonial forts, we head for Tafroute. En-route we pass through Agadir, where an immense crowd had gathered to cheer the Royal Moroccan procession. Most riders escaped the throng and took the road South East, while Hamish stopped and downed a very un-Moroccan burger. Eyebrows were raised in the group, even moreso when Hamish admitted to listening to Westlife on his ipod, spinning some yarn about it being somebody elses music. The road to Tafroute though, was fabulous. It took us through the Anti-Atlas mountains, and twists and turns in what seems like a frenzied attempt to shake off the unwary rider. In Tafroute we were met by Berbers and Tauregs who were equally keen on selling us their carpets. Sadly, as far as I could see, none of these woven wonders were capable of flight, or I'd certainly have bought one. They are works of real craft, but sadly way beyond my budget - even the flightless ones. Using Tafroute as a base, some riders explored the mountain roads, which seem an experiment in creating the longest route between two points. The views are awe-inspiring. The road rises to over 1700m and the scenery is on a grand scale, the road clinging to the steep mountain side, only wide enough for two small vehicles to squeeze gingerly by each other, and the final scenes from 'The Italian Job' flash through my mind. We ride on and explore an ancient Kasbah built on a hilltop. The smooth stone floors are cool to the touch, the stone walls and doorways are crooked and worn echoing centuries past, while our group is hushed by the place. We leave Tafroute next morning bound for Tan Tan. The early sun illuminates the dust from the bike wheels as it whips across the hot tarmac, and palms flash by as we drop into the lowlands. Beyond Guelmin and we meet stony desert, the temperature rising rising fast. The road now seems to be the pulsing artery of life, and people emerge to say hello wherever you stop, even in the most deserted places. Sometimes this is extremely useful, as Charles discovered when some of his expensive brushed aluminium kit parted company from his bike and was instantly 'retrieved' from the middle of the road by an army of very young children, while growling trucks carefully picked their way through the melee. The youngsters were then good enough to return the item. For a fee. In Sidi Akfenir we met Paul, an Italian ex-pat who runs a fantastic hotel on the clifftop above the pounding Atlantic surf. We couldn't resist a fishing trip and spent happy hours in the lagoon, bobbing around in a fishing boat with Abdullah at the helm, and a ghostly rusting shipwreck as our backdrop. Abdullah cooked our fishy prizes before us on an improvised beach grill, and we enjoyed one of our finest Moroccan meals on a sandbank, complete with salad, wine, and sunset. We are now well into the Sahara and the realities of travelling here are making themselves felt. Apart from the heat, fuel is now less available, and police checkpoints are more common. For the most part these are friendly, but not always, and some are distinctly unpleasant. Undaunted we have continued South, beyond Dakhla, and navigated through the border minefield (and I mean a real minefield), and have slipped quietly into Mauritania. Naturally we celebrated our safe arrival with an enormous Chinese meal in one of the most entertaining evenings of the trip yet. It's goodnight from me because tomorrow it's the Dune Sea... Latest from Africa. We're currently in Kaolack, Senegal and will be crossing into The Gambia in the morning. Hope all's well! My thanks once again to Matt Bailey, our support vehicle driver and excellent wordsmith. Greeting to all! Craig ######################## Episode 3 - Just Say No to Cadeaux Perhaps it was that the attractive but surly waitresses had absolutely no knowledge of the contents of the menu, or the quizzical expression on the faces of the proprietors when we ordered food, but it has struck us since that the Chinese restaurant in which we dined was in fact, a brothel. Later, this spurred Jim to merrily claim "I once won a gimp for the night in a raffle" Despite all this tomfoolery, our merry band of motorcyclists has moved ever southward, through Nouakchott, and south still into Senegal. This section of our ride through the Sahara is fiercly hot and barren, with sections of spectacular, although lonely beauty. Recent rain had left the desert floor a darker hue from the dry dunes, resulting in a beautiful two-tone landscape, particularly striking when a heavily laden camel train plodded rhythmically along the horizon, black against the burning golden sunset. Infrequent and unreliable fuel availability has tested the fuel range of many of our bikes to their limit, but all riders have brought their machines through successfully. We had more difficulty however, on our final stage into Senegal, where in order to avoid the chaotic city of Rosso, described with no affection at all as "The Gates of Hell" (La Porte a L'Enfer), our route lead us along the exciting Diama Dam piste, a rough mud track running along the top of a raised dyke. The track was treacherous and erroded with gullies and potholes deep and large enough to swallow a bouncey castle, whole. In a few places the track was so bad that ramps were used to get the suport vehicle across. Unfortunately the track got the better of one of our riders, who involuntarily performed an impressive bike rodeo, just managing to wrestle control on landing. Most riders took the track in their stride, with Superman floating gracefully above the ruts at high spped while Ian nursed his machine along with sedate and paternal care. All along the dyke there was an astonishing array of birdlife to be seen even including flamingos, adding to the enjoyment. At the end of the track lay the Diama Dam, and the Mauritania / Senegal frontier. Our departure from Mauritania was smooth, but still seemed to require the now usual 'cadeaux', or gifts requested by the border officials to aid them in their form filling. This has become increasingly common on our journey, with crowds of people gathering where we stop, calling "cadeaux!", and demanding gifts. This became the subject of discussion at Zebrabar, which was our home for three days, and gave birth to our new mantra:- "Just say no to cadeaux." Zebrabar is a fantastic riverside establishment run by a cheery Swiss family that offered us refreshment and relaxation following our Sahara crossing. Zebrabar has a three storey tower that allowed observation of the local flora and fauna day and night, and resulted in some excellent photograps. The birdlife is exotic and beautiful, though at times quite noisey, while herding the Fiddler crabs in a sort of crustacean version of sheep herding provided us with hours of amusement. Zebrabar was also a base for us to explore the shabby French chic of St. Louis, where the local street sellers excelled themselves with the quality of their fake Swiss watches, along classic french streets and overlooked by beautiful though decaying old architecture, and the worn travel case style of the Hotel de la Poste. Now we've moved on again, as is our habit. We've turned east on our way to Mali. The temperature, even early in the day is a steady 39 degrees C, and we're all drinking huge quantities of water. The sunsets are gorgeous, and as dusk cooled the heat of the day, we relaxed on the old wooden river jetty, chatting and raising glasses as the Cattle Egrets flew along the murky surface. On retiring for the evening I stumbled (quite literally) over a tiny hedgehog. Apparently common here, the fellow was only the size of a rotund field mouse, yet complete with sharp spines and wobbly scamper. At our next stop in Ouro Sogui, there were frogs everywhere. This is a dusty lonely one horse town with intermittent water and power, and the 'O' missing from the flickering 'Hotel' sign. Nevertheless, as is often the case in areas of poverty, the local people are embarrassingly generous, and we spent an entertaining evening in a dusty roadside bar. Moving further east, the roads have deteriorated markedly. Poorly laid tarmac on insufficient base stone has resulted in rough roads with frequent pits that demand complete attention. Two bridges have collapsed along our route, and we ply our way between vehicles that have become beached and stranded as they attempted to cross the river. Crowds flock around the trucks, scrambling to save the loads of fish and produce, in a frenzy of dust, heat and shouting. As the goods are transferred to another lorry, the sun beats down and the smell is overpowering. Our crossing into Mali is quick and hassle free, and we only interrupt the remaining 50 miles to our night stop in order to pay our respects at the spot where Simon Milward, founder of Motorcycle Outreach, was killed in March 2005. We ride on through shimmering heat and forests of strangely shaped Baobab trees, evoking visions of Tolkien's Ents. We finally hole up in Kayes, in a small hotel overlooking the river. Small boys dive from Pirogues and use buckets to dredge river sand to sell, while naked women wash clothes on rocks worn smooth by years of scrubbing. On the steep banks I talk with a man tending his garden. He is a retired maths teacher who taught classes of 70 boys. His garden is impeccably kept, contrasting markedly with downtown Kayes. Here old colonial warehouses play host to craftsmen furiously rebuilding ancient Peugeots, sewing clothes, or cooking food. The streets buzz with people. Women glide gracefully by, stacked high with pots and pans on their heads, resplendent in colourful dresses that remain spotless despite the heat and dust. Some of our number explore the piste to the Chutes de Felou, some impressive waterfalls, while others take a boat trip. Kayes is a great place to be, and the Malians are extremely welcoming. It is stimulating here, and somehow invigorating to see so much human innovation, colour and sassy spirit, and it forces me to smile, and admit that I am impressed by Africa, impressed by its' strength, by its' practicality, by its' beauty, and I am very happy to be here. Le singe est dans l'arbre The road out of Kayes in Mali follows the railway line into country that becomes pleasantly greener with every dusty mile. And so our dusty bikes rolled into Tambacounda. The problems of scorching sun, fuel availability and police checkpoints were suddenly cast into sharp relief as Ian realised that he needed to email several large files to his work in the UK, in order that his magazine "The Road" was published on time. Being located in rural West Africa made this rather difficult, but as often becomes the case on long journeys, the team sorted it out together with some providing laptops and others deciphering the mystical WiFi. I remember Al Gore saying "If you want to go fast, go alone, but if you want to go far, go together." Tambacounda was our base for an extended excursion on a mini safari to Niokolo Koba National Park. We departed before sunrise in hired four wheel drives, watching African villages wake up and start their day. Here people sleep on the roadside, beneath the chassis of the ancient trucks they work on in the day, or with the flocks they watch. Fires in rusting oil drums flare brightly in the dawn, to heat coffee for locals who feel cold at this time of year while we eye the thermometer with fear and crave shade. It is already hot when we arrive at the park entrance and head along a rough trail, eyes straining to see the wildlife. This is very remote country. It was a long time ago that we turned off the beaten track, but now we've turned off whatever you turn onto when you turn off the beaten track. It wasn't long before this was proved by the appearance of antelope bouncing across our path, and monkeys swinging in the surrounding trees. Halting to observe these fellows, it struck me that a long forgotten phrase from my schoolboy french classes was finally of some use. "Le singe est dans l'arbre" Fantastic. Ecoutez and repetez... As well as green, red and white monkeys, there were baboons, an amazing visual pallette of birds, and an entire soundtrack of unseen creatures. Our stay for the night was in a remote lodge inhabited predominantly by mischievous monkeys. There was a rather grand terrace with a spectacular view of the river which allowed our tough adventurers to enjoy the undeniably brilliant Gazelle beer and watch huge crocodiles in their true environment. The reptiles basked in the afternoon sun, giant jaws agape and razor gnashers on display, indifferent to the lazy wanderings of the Monitor lizards, or even the splash of the hippos visible in the early morning and evening, while aircraft-sized fish eagles soared above. Our stay at the park was a real treat, complemented by amazingly good food, though you had to eat quickly to avoid your salad being stolen by little monkeys. Literally. Leaving Tambacounda we headed to Kaolack, or KL as it is known here, before crossing into the Gambia and making for Banjul. However, in order to get to Banjul we had to cross the Gambia river by ferry, which trips off the tongue very easily, but like many things in Africa, is actually rather harder to do. On arrival at the port town of Barra I was ushered to the back of a long queue of vehicles waiting in the sun. In short order a young chap appeared, annoucing himself as "Jimmy the fixer". "How long is it until the next ferry?" I inquired, for some reason sounding exactly like Terry Thomas. "About half an hour", answered Jimmy, grinning. "Great!" I said, as the queue indicated a much longer wait. "How long before I can board?" I probed. "Oh about two days" said Jimmy indifferently. "Bugger" I thought in my head. On the bright side there was an entire local infrastructure established around the queue to support it's every need. All manner of meals, drinks, mechanical services, and probably childbirth facilities were available within inches of your window. Fortunately though we actually got to Banjul later that day and settled into a hotel populated by a large group of young Scandinavian women on a training trip. So relaxing by the pool in the sun we had to review our onward journey. Our plan was to ride further south into Guinea Bissau, but since our departure from the UK, the news from Guinea Bissau had become more and more sinister, with frequent kidnappings and ambushes. Adventure is all about responding to such problems, and so we took the difficult decision to change our itinery, as none of us are that keen on being shot. Besides, we were in a hotel full of young Scandinavian women. And so we set our sights on Georgetown in eastern Gambia, to visit the old English colonial ruins. The road there was refreshingly smooth, delivering us quickly to the old town and our auberge, where we parked and mixed with the locals. This town and it's inhabitants made a big impression on us. The people were friendly and sincere, and welcoming. A teenage boy asked me not to give some young boys a ball I was handing them, as the sun was still high and they would suffer if they played in the heat. He asked me to give the ball to them later instead. We were struck by these folk and addresses were exchanged, and friendships were made. Later in my hut I slept soundly. Right up to the point in the early hours when a small ghekko crawled (uninvited I hasten to add) into my underwear, presumably thinking it a nice place to stay for the night. There followed a brief but furious dance where I leapt from my slumber and attempted to eject the over-friendly visitor. My roommate Jim, a hardened BBC news camerman, remained unmoved. In the morning I asked him if he'd noticed my nocturnal gymnastics, and he said he had. That was it. I never found the ghekko. He hasn't even written. So, on leaving Georgetown we returned to Senegal, and St Louis via Kaolack. We resided in the historic grandeur of the Residence hotel which drips style, its art deco walls covered in black and white photographs of Senegal's history. We celebrated Superman's (Alex) birthday here, and explored the beautiful old city before our final run into Dakar. Our route took us South via Thies into the smart part of Dakar, and we enjoyed our final team meal in a great Moroccan restaurant, while Dakar celebrated Tabaski. All the bikes have made it here, dustier than when they left Marbella, but battle hardened and ridden with pride. The riders have made it too. We've seen the Atlas mountains, crossed the Sahara overland, journeyed to Mali and been welcomed everywhere. I am lucky enough to have seen a lot of the world, but I confess I have been touched by this journey and its people, and I know I'll be coming back. I have promised to deliver a message so here goes. On countless occasions people have asked us to tell you to come. They want you to visit. Come to Africa.

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