02.10.2015 Saint-Louis, Senegal

Posted on 28.10.2015 by motolight

Senegal, the first country in the “other Africa” as Christian said. The first country after the “Great Arabic Belt” as he called the countries inhabited by Arabs. The three of us walked through the border town, looking around. The sun beat down mercilessly as we were puzzled by searching currency exchange office – I still had remains of ougiyas and the guys were carrying euros – all of this had to be changed to CFA – the currency of the West African Union. Cefa as they call it. But no matter that there was the middle of the day – the banks were closed. We have noticed the post of gendarmerie and bored police officer at the entrance. We went to him, asking about place where is possible to change money. He calmly took out his phone and called someone and said: “Wait”. Border town, yes. We dropped backpacks to the ground and waited. Nearby, on the banks of the Senegal River a few women washed things pouring dirty water into the river. Some children swam in the same place. It was quite funny to watch it remembering the instructions of the guides “do not to swim in local waters in any case”.

Guys sighing from time to time about the slowness of the exchanger but I learned the Zen, continuing to train myself that I often have to wait for a long time during my way in Africa.

Nevertheless, changer arrived and we exchanged currency for a reasonably good rate. Then we got to the “bus station” where we were to split up. Mark on the bicycle went to Dakar, and me and Yury was going to Saint Louis where I was supposed to meet with Suleiman after Tabaski.

Bus station presented a pitiful sight. Corroded canopy under which stood cars of the same rust grades.

After little haggling we reached agreement with one of the drivers … and waited again. Because in the car still was a place for another passenger, and what we have to do? That’s right, we have to wait. After a couple of hours we were finally able to advance in the direction of Saint-Louis on a deadly-smoking diesel rusty tub that could hardly move without assistance. Almost immediately we were stopped by a police officer who saw the white people in the car, us. I tensed, remembering complains of Belgian couple on the border that every cop in Senegal felt obliged to rip them off. But the officer checked only one passport, looking for entry stamp, and then returned the documents and wished a happy journey. Good start.

Senegalese life fled behind windows. Piles of garbage was significantly lesser, and a lot of green colors of nature. The eye accustomed to the desert could not get enough of the landscape. The road was of excellent quality and I fell asleep until Saint-Louis. After landing on the central square we stomped through half the town waving away pesky taxi drivers. After an hour or more, we arrived at the Auberge Pelican – cheap mini-hotel on the oceanfront recommended by many travelers. It has very cute territory, and the cheapest bungalow we were able to rent cost us 7500 cefa for two (about 6 euros each).

We went to a bar with view of the ocean and reception girl brought us beer. La Gazelle, local one. Light, 4.2%. Cold beer for the first damn long time. When was the last time? When I met the German on an orange van. I collapsed in a chair, drank, smoked, and looking at the ocean realized that happiness is somewhere here. Accompanied by the rustle of the wind and the sound of the waves, I looked at the sun of bluish color translucent through the thick veil of moisture.

The next day we went to wander around the city, to buy food and local SIM cards. Local life is strikingly different from the Mauritaninan. Senegalese much more funny and emotional, women in dresses and not wearing head scarves, and this bright light Senegalese music everywhere. Rubbish was still omnipresent but at least not in such quantities that you have to walk on it. Fishing boats, an incredible number of them, painted in bright colors bizarre patterns. Local lorries trying to contempt the famous Pakistani trucks for coloring and quantity of jewelry. And the omnipresent humidity. At midday it was not easy to carry it on, so we postponed the idea to go to the beach for the evening.

Beach is worthy of special mention. We visited it in the evening. The long sandy beach strip was divided into improvised soccer fields as it was visible to the eye. None of them was not idle – the players were everywhere. Everywhere around Senegalese guys running back and forth doing exercises. What respect for the sport, I thought, sipping from a bottle labeled La Gazelle. And what kind of disregard for the nature around. The beach was full of garbage. Empty bottles, plastic bags, plastic containers, the remains of slaughtered animals, the corpses of cats and dogs… The ocean was incredibly warm, very rare gift of nature to the locals – but no one is interested, no one was swimming. Because in the water swam the same ubiquitous plastic and animal remains. Abomination. We hurried to get out of there. It is best to observe the ocean from a distance.

I stayed in St. Louis for several days, waiting until Suleiman will be free, escaping the heat with ice-cold beer and local rum of disgusting taste. Finally, Suleiman arrived and we gathered to rescue lorry from the border. Yuri went to Dakar – we said goodbye and agreed to meet later when I get there.

Suleiman had to get the passavant, a document which allows to travel on your vehicle in Senegal (mandatory document for vehicles over ten years old since import of old vehicles is forbidden in Senegal). We had to get the same for me as well. In St. Louis, Suleiman had been familiar with one transitier, which prepared a permit formalities for us. Permit issued by the local customs colonel who was not in a hurry to break away from his business for us. To wait again.

Finally, permission has been obtained. At the beginning of the night we arrived in Diama to take our lorry. First I opened the door of minivan and inspected the contents. To my delight everything was in place. The bike and things were left untouched. Amazing. After another half an hour of polite conversation with the customs we have finally been released. Hooray! Straight from there we went to Dakar. My passavant was issued only for 48 hours and I had to extend it in the central customs office in Dakar, so it was impossible to lose time. I have yet to find a tire.

28.09.2015 Rosso, Senegal

Posted on 20.10.2015 by motolight

Motorcycle in the Suleiman’s van, I’m in the passenger seat. We left the border of Western Sahara and entered No Man’s Land. The length of several kilometers long, unruled by any state. The first impression that comes to mind – the world after a nuclear war. The narrow sandy dirt track winds between minefields which are belongs to nobody. Getting off the trail – a real risk to the life. Sideways of meandering trail littered with skeletons of all sorts of vehicles – those who have not been able to import in one of the countries and was left as is. Cunning people are slowly pulling apart their parts.

Here we again met Christian who was stuck at the border for much longer than us. I got into his bus and I was presented with an icy can of beer. Half-worn paint on the sides of the tin can hinted that it lay a lot of time in the sands in the middle of no-man’s land. Importing of alcohol is strictly forbidden in Mauritania, so that in case of failure all sorts of drinks sometimes befalls the fate of a cars – they remain here until better times. Christian dug some and put in the fridge to the accompaniment of a bottle of Scotch. We were sitting in the bus, imposingly leaning back, smoking and squinting in the sun-drenched wasteland behind the windows …

Later we went with Suleiman to storm the Mauritanian border. In a some way I was glad that my motorcycle in the minivan, as Suleiman knew all the nuances and tricks of local procedures, and I did not have unnecessary spendings and to fend off pesky helpers. But what put me into a stupor – the price of visas. Two months ago, single-entry visa for 30 days was at the price of 50 euros. Now its price is 120 euros. I heard from the travelers about this but refused to believe. For what? Later I realized why. Mauritania – a young country, which, in the long run, there is nothing. When people coming to power – a huge problem of human nature comes out. To grab everything. Rather than develop tourism, business and transit country as a whole, local authorities are more concerned with folding money in their pocket. The whole country is essentially feeds off by the road – because in West Africa it is the only way from North to South. Want you or not – you will go here. And it’s designed everything. Don’t like the price for the visa? Nobody holds you, go try to look for the other way. Oh, you don’t like extortion at every police post? The answer is the same. Asphalt road from north to south, which laid three years ago – all in the cracks. “Economy”. Along the edges of the road sometimes you can see occasional ugly square huts made out of improvised stuff – a few houses along the road in the desert, proudly referred to as a village. Sometimes there are villages richer, but for some reason abandoned-looking. Like this one.

Mauritania was the only country about which I previously searched for information – that contributed to the ubiquitous warnings on the Internet from various embassies of developed countries, urging visit the country unless absolutely necessary due to including the frequent cases of kidnapping. And even though I was prepared for what I will see but still in my heart was hoping that as usual all somewhat exaggerated. And now, after some time, I can say that in general I did not feel the danger in this country. The local population is indifferent to travelers, and all the negative generated by officials and a huge host of the parasites that are twisted around. For them the traveler it’s just a bag of money which should be ripped off.

On the way to Nouakchott, capital of Mauritania, we stopped at a roadside cafe to buy food and water. There I met Mark. The young Swiss, burnt in the sun at first seemed a mirage to me. To reach here by bicycle? Impossible. Surreal. Nevertheless – here it is with peeling skin and his bicycle as well. Man of Steel, no other way to tell. Mark remained in the cafe where the owner offered him to stay for the night, as me and Suleiman, in turn, were in need to quickly get to Nouakchott, so our communication was bright but fleeting. We are back on track.

And after about six hours, in a deep night, we appeared in the capital. Stopped at a mini-hotel Auberge Sahara, as it later turned out to be very popular among various kinds of travelers (it was very entertaining to read about it in Viktor Romantik blog later, hehe). In that place we met an elderly German. He had an old minibus, the same good old Mercedes Benz, and when annual maintenance of minivan became too expensive in Germany – he decided to sell it to the Guinea-Bissau. A good way to spend a vacation as well. However, with the release of the idea it did not look so colorful to him, judging by his face, expressing disgust to surroundings. It was his first time in Africa and he was happy to sit on our tail because Suleiman had all the necessary experience. This place, Hotel Sahara, was to become one of the key points for me, but now we spent the night and early morning moved towards Senegal to border-crossing point Diama. With the orange van of German driver hanging on our tail we forced our way through the center of the capital (the youngest in the world, as it is not even 50 years old). Again I felt myself as if in a post-apocalyptic movie. Destroyed skeletons of cars, rusty, crumpled, welded with scalded bars, barely able to move – here it was the usual type of transport. Ancient container truck with a huge trailer with right door that hanging on one hinge and carefully adhered by the passenger. Ancient universal “Reno” smoking so much that it seems that they consume more oil than gasoline. And tons of garbage around. On the road, on the roadside, everywhere. People just walking on top of it. Picture is complemented by the ever-present puddles and small swamps. Place for the capital was chosen not so smart – below sea level and on the coast, resulting in floods on a regular basis.

After a hundred and fifty kilometers to the south along the edge of the road began to flicker rare overgrown greenery and small groves of acacia trees. Another fifty kilometers the surroundings turned green. My eyes could not get enough!

I have not seen green grass since I left Berrechid, and after many, many kilometers of scorched land, I was struck by the sudden beauty of pure green. Finally, I’m leaving the desert.

In the middle of the route we were once again stopped at the police checkpoint.

Next to checkpoint was hanging around one of “helpers.” Hideous-looking man, the whole shape of which can be described in one word: “impudence”. Despite the words of Suleiman, German man decided to trust him and as a result we split. Orange minivan with the German driver and helper on board flew forward at full speed.

The last twenty kilometers to the border crossing Diama run through the national park, stretching along the Senegal River.

Everywhere traces of wild animals, like those facoheruses.

A lot of birds of different types and the great variety of colorings. Instead of asphalt – a clay track, winding between the marshes. In very dry days you can pass it easily but in rainy ones – not even worth trying. Dry clay is solid, and wet – is sticky and slippery. I had good opportunity to understand that pushing lorry when we accidentally slipped into a rut which still has a little of water. We was only was able to get out with the help of other passers. I stood behind the bus, out of breath, covered in mud from head to toe. Suleiman smiled and said that local clay is good for health.

Finally, we reached the border crossing. Orange lorry was there too. A guy from Germany, hardly dissapointed by the helper, suddenly came up to us and asked if we wanted beer. Suleiman refused but I came to the wild delight! Beer! In Mauritania! Indeed, if you see the German – ask him if he have a beer. And he will. While the import of alcohol in Mauritania prohibited in any form, and therefore not available for sale anywhere in the country (although I heard about Chinese restaurants in Nouadibou, who distill their own brew and can still sell under the counter a bit). But the main thing – thanks to him, I closed my gestalt “to drink in every country” in relation to Mauritania. Hehe.

Mauritania and Senegal divided by the river and in Diama was built by a small bridge-dam. Suleiman quickly settled formalities and we drove to the bridge. I am glad that finally leave the inhospitable and alien Mauritania, a country after which lays “True Africa,” as was told by Christian. I was glad that we were able to settle all before a religious holiday, Tabaski. And the stronger was the blow that followed. I was approached by Suleiman and the Senegalese customs officer. “It seems we have a problem and you have to return to Nouakchott.” I could not believe my ears. What?! Why?! Because they not providing visas at the border despite all official statements. The system is not working. So the only chance is to come back to Mauritania and head to the embassy of Senegal, which, of course, only in Nouakchott. My French friend had no way to go back, his family waited for him to spend holidays. Thick, almost bursting with pride filled him, black Senegalese customs officer with undisguised glee recited to me «Sir! We expell you from Senegal country!». Perhaps it was the only such case in his career. I really wanted to thin out that smile a little bit, but I had no choice but to turn back. We split for an indefinite period – Suleiman went to relatives in Senegal, lorry with a motorcycle remained in the customs parking lot with unclosable door, and I was returning to Nouakchott, hastily grabbed with only a backpack. Hardly I was not stuck on this bridge because a visa to Mauritania was only single entry. Representatives of both sides for a long time deliberated among themselves, making calls for bosses for further instructions. After some time one of them wrote something with pen directly over the exit stamp and this allowed me to go back. And to finish it, due to the lack of any transport the only option to get out of the border were to use the services of that same parasite which spud German guy. For a very long time he tried to persuade me to go to his home and to advance in Nouakchott next morning (taught by observations I knew what the spectacle of ripping me off would follow), and when I sent him off it again – he finally called to a friend who took me to Nouakchott for my last remaining 50 euros from the latest emergency reserve. Given that public transportation from the nearest town (if it was not so late) would cost 7 euros. Such arithmetic here.

I certainly came back to the same Auberge Sahara. Local staff recognized me and gave the key to the same room, which is now cost me twice as much because I was alone. No money, bike 200 kilometers away from me with destroyed rear tire, there was Tabaski loomed on the horizon with its five-day weekend … I spent the evening indulging in melancholy and reflection on the future course of action. Just to make sure once again that the darkest times are always before the dawn. By drinking tea in the morning, I saw the first ray of positive – familiar man on a bicycle rolled into the territory of Auberge. Yes it is that Swiss guy whom we met on the way to Nouakchott! We were damn glad to see each other, we have met like old friends. It’s very hard to describe that feeling when you’re in an alien and hostile country meet a man congenial to you. The second positive news was brought by Positive himself :) I was contacted and informed of the transfer material support, ie money. It was so in time that surroundings suddenly changed their paint faded to bright. I am not alone, I am supported! And that means it’s time to fight back! And we went into battle – storming the embassy of Senegal.

The process of obtaining a visa took two days (one day to apply, to another day to get). Nothing special, a completed form, three photos, a photocopy of the passport and money …. Contrary to official Senegalese statements – in its own consulate me and Mark was stripped for 10800 ougiyas (this is 30 euros) each. So it goes. But the main goal was achieved – there was a visa in my passport. Now I had only to wait out untill the main day of the Tabaski is over and hope to be able to find some transport to Rosso, largest border crossing to Senegal. From there I must advance in St. Louis to reunite with Suleiman and begin the operation to rescue the motorcycle from captivity of Diamal. But soon Tale told, but not soon things are done.

The day before the festivities Mark woke up before me, woke me up and said that “some russian” arrived to Auberge Sahara. I was asleep and thought he was joking but he assured me that it is absolutely serious. Intrigued, I went into the courtyard and really found there another participant of future events and companion – Yuri. Yura, as well as Mark, replied “do not know” to the question “where are you going” which impressed me. He quit his job, rented out the apartment, took his savings and hit the road. That reminds me something :) The only difference between us was just that Yuri travels by public transport, but at the moment it was good for me – he was just as I going to Senegal and it will be easier to overcome this way together.

Tabaski began. We farewell to Mark who decided in advance to go in the direction of Senegal. The picture: Yury on the right. In the center, with the bicycle – Mark, the other – the other guests.

Just mark.

Stores do not work. The streets virtually deserted. Celebrating. Frankly, I didn’t noticed any sign of celebrations – I thought it would be something public and universal as we have a in new year, for example. But, apparently, in this case, this holiday was family-related. Local staff with whom we had become friends invited us to enjoy one of the traditional dishes for the occasion. Beef and potatoes, simple in general :)

The next day, when public transportation started its work again me and Yuri followed Mark’s route. For 6 euros each easily flew to Rosso which is a border crossing point along the way, and, waving away all sorts of “help”, broke through to the customs office for pedestrians. At first all went well, customs employee copied data from passports, asked passport photocopies (why? you’re already rewriting data, come on) aggressively offered to exchange ougiyas to CFA – western union Franks, the West African currency union. And then we were brought to the Customs boss that impressively lying on a mattress in the middle of the office and told us to wait. What exactly wee have to wait was unclear to us. By asking and clarifications we still were managed to find out that brand new fancy biometric visa system (fingerprints and everything else that was taken when we received the visa) does not work because … there is no electricity. On the question of what should we do now – they looked at us expectantly so literally telepathic transferring the idea wrapped in crispy ougiyas. But by the time we were so annoyed by this whole system of levies, both official and not, that we firmly decided – no penny more than necessary. We must wait – okay, we will wait.

We came to the courtyard of Customs which partitioned off the river from the rest of the city and saw Mark. Our joy knew no bounds – the three of us together again, and thus the burden are three times less. The only thing that clouded Mark – he was abused by some helper and gave him 5000 ougiyas (almost 15 euros) for “ferry transportation”, as in Rosso there is no bridge, only public and private ferries. Given that the official price of the ferry – 40 ougiyas … Helper disappeared. Mark furiously cut through the courtyard and fro, trying to discover that helper among others but all in vain. The helper probably already resting got enough for the whole day. Here also we met a family from Belgium who were just totally pissed of by the Africa. In a bad way. Very strange people. They sold the house in Belgium, collected all their stuff in a huge trailer-camper and decided to move to Senegal. Never visiting it before. And now they were on their way back to Europe, in a total frenzy of it all. In addition, the head of the family was caught by malaria (we immediately drank a pill of Lariam). Sometimes it like this…

The sun had long gone behind the horizon, the deadlock was not moving. Several people that were in parallel with us and had the same problem was already on the other side, apparently with the help of bribes. Electricity has not appeared. Shrugging, we got the tents and placed them next to the customs house and went to sleep. The night was very hot and, thanks to the river, very generous to the hordes of mosquitoes, even a mosquito net was useless. Well, it is good that this whole situation is happening now, I thought. It’s time to get used to such embodiments of border crossing. I once again remembered the words of the Christian: “Africa teaches to wait.”

The following morning, electricity did not appear as well. But there were hordes of shuttle local that dragged all sorts of stuff for sale in another country. They were literally flooding the yard, and it played into our hands – the authorities ordered the guards to slap us passport stamps and let us go still not able to get from us any money. After waiting a couple of hours before departure, we finally waved the shores of Mauritania, not forgetting to spice it up with gestures a pair of sharp words.

Mark and Yuri.

Before us was now the other side, the coast of Senegal, and we are mentally prepared to spend as much time on the other side as it needs. And surprisingly, sending away the helpers we have applied to the customs office and 10 minutes later had a passports with entry stamps. And that’s all? We could not believe it. Even went to check with the officer – everything exactly okay, we can to go? Yes, we can go! Hooray! FRRREEEDOOOM! We went through the big gates of the boundary point. Senegal.

19.09.2015 No Man’s Land

Posted on 10.10.2015 by motolight

Go. Go go go. To go, to roll, to overcome. Inside me toss a lot of thoughts that encourages to continue the path. I had stayed too long in one place, in Agadir. Here there was a great company, but I encounter already familiar itchy feeling seconded my thoughts. It’s time to go.

After long gatherings I finally saddled my feathered gooz and said goodbye to everyone. Under the wheels there was asphalt again, giving me a sense of freedom.

I’ve been waited by Tan-Tan, the next town on the road, where I heading for friends of friends to have shelter for the night. The surrounding area is slowly becoming more like the desert. Conventional border of Western Sahara is approaching. At the entrance to the Tan-Tan I was stopped at a police post. For the first time of my journey. I didn’t knew yet that this post will start a series of stops at each subsequent posts, and not for reasons of curiosity, but for safety reasons. Friendly police representatives asked about the purpose of my visit and the intended place for overnight. Upon learning whom I was going to visit they asked the phone number of the Omar, the guy to whom I was traveling. While one of the policemen calls him on the phone, the other one said that for him is a great honor to invite me to his house. Local people sometimes completely incomprehensible. However, the link was established, and I was told where to go to the meeting point. I met Omar and had wonderful evening in Tan-Tan. Then there was the perfect way to Dakhla, accompanied by unrealistic views. Here, for example, I found in one place the road and the river, and sand, and the ocean:

I would really like to call Dakhla the next point, but again I did not sleep well at night. Dreams do not cease to haunt me. So, I woke up late enough, and decided that a reasonable idea is to stay in El Ayoun. The name of this city – a very strange thing. It officially wrote as El Ayoun, but the signs and the locals insist on calling it “Laayoune”. In this city I had no contacts of friends of friends, but it was good for me. Despite the hospitality and kindness of all those who I have visited as a guest – I began to realize that I slightly tired of the constant communication and that I want to be alone. Thanks to those who support me with finances – I had such an opportunity. I found the cheapest hotel in the outskirts of the city, something like 8 euros per night. Contrary to expectations it was quite decent, freshly built, and with a very friendly staff. I did not need more. I took a stockpiled bottle of local brandy and spent the rest of the day completely disconnected my consciousness, immersed in the sweet slumber of nothingness. In the morning I went to Dakhla, where contrary to plan, I spent two days – because of the peculiarities of the local banking system. Change euros for dirhams – you are welcome. But in reverse order, dirhams to the euro – there is no way. Not that you can not … They just do not have them, those euros. I walked around the whole city on my feet, visiting about 20 bank branches, plucking somewhere for 5, somewhere for 10 euros, somehere for nothing. Seemingly simple operation is scheduled for the morning, before leaving, it turned into some intractable problem. Truly, you never know with some tricks you might encounter. But most importantly started then… I went out from Dakhla.

By the evening I arrived in Barbas. The small village, the last hotel before the border with Mauritania. Mauritania, a country of which the Internet persistently warned by consulates of other countries: “Danger! Visit only if absolutely necessary!”. Hotel Barbas, inexpensive and very popular with travelers, which was very significant to me – because in my journey the most important is to meet people. I decided not to miss this hotel. And that was good idea. While still at the reception, I spotted a looking bored man, European in appearance. Christian was his name. Man of thirty-three years old, overgrown, cheerful. Charismatic, hardened German pirate. «One Man Mafia», as he called himself.

Christian worked up by buying in Greece intercity passenger buses of particular model (the good old Mercedes-Benz) and sell them in Mali. Greece-Mali, 3.5 years of life on the road, which was known to him by heart. This kind of business is very popular here in Africa, where strong demand for older vehicles built for the ages (and others simply do not survive) is very high. Our conversation over a cup of coffee slowly moved into his bus where there were some cans of beer of icy temperature. We chatted about everything, slowly getting drunk like old friends who had not seen each other for many years. We are connected by the Road. The dusty, black and white desert road under the scorching sun.

Christian managed to forget his passport in Tangier at the “transitier”, the man in charge of customs clearance formalities between Europe and Africa. He was very upset about this, as on the horizon comes “Tabaski” islamic religious festival, which lasts for five days. In this holiday nobody works including the bank structures. If he does not have time to solve all the cases with the current bus to the moment of Tobaski – a lot of people who are tied to a chain of bus business left without money. Transitier in Tangier sent a passport with a fair drivers on another lorry. Lorry – a very funny name. They called like this all of the working vehicles larger than passenger cars. Minibus, truck, tractor – it is all Lorry. Drivers, two Senegalese guys was so slowly that it could be assumed that it is not Lorry pushing them but they are pushing it. For three days they could barely get close to El Ayoun. After a little thoughts I agreed with the idea of Christian to throw my luggage into his bus and on the next day to go to meet them on my motorcycle. Thus it was possible to gain at least one day, despite the fact that we have to go back on the road. Because the border with Mauritania closes at six o’clock in the evening, and if you do not catch up to the moment – you have to wait for the next day. Christian gladly accepted my offer, and the next morning we went in the opposite direction, towards Dakhla, then to El Ayoun. We had enough time we thought, Senegalese drivers still go towards us.

The adventure began. The road ran along the coast of the ocean, again painting a landscape wildly to me – a huge amount of water, encountered by the desert.

No life here. The lack of greenery just emphasized by sparse bushes of pale green color. We stopped in several places, sliding down the road to the ocean, looking at the place where the in the future times Christian could theoretically drive through the sand on a bus. One of these stops gave us the abandoned village. Snow-white as if just thrown. The water in the tank at the mosque has not yet evaporated. After, I learned that such villages were built by the government to local wild tribes but they did not want to stay in them rejecting the civilization … The silence and engendered unrealistic feelings. As if I was in a movie after a zombie apocalypse.

The stop again, the long drift on the sand to the overhanging cliffs – and we have not gone unrewarded. Amazing colors that nature gives, I think, could only be found here. Blue-green ocean meets the white sand harboring overhanging rocks. I was ready to sit here forever. The sound of waves woven into color perception like the perfect soundtrack. We stayed there for a very long time just enjoying another great creations of nature.

Kilometers passing by as we slowly drove to Al Ayoun. Our Senegalese counter drivers moving so slowly that the idea to reach Al Ayoun became to not so extravagant. Near the Boujdor we stopped for coffee under the cover of darkness in one of the roadside cafes. Assuming that drivers are just about we were relaxed. After a few cups of coffee a Mercedes-Benz minivan stopped near the cafe with the trunk full of all sorts of supplies. Senegalese guys handed passport to Christian and said goodbye to us moving further. Surprisingly they drove away quite quickly which made it possible to assume that they are not pushed all the way to the bus. The reason for their leisurely progress on Morocco remains a mystery to me.

After their departure we decided to move back to Barbas but fate decreed otherwise. I wanted to move the bike to more comfortable place where we could observe it from a cafe in the coming twilight but could not move it. The reason was the flat rear tire. The compressor and tire repair kit, together with other my things were at Christian’s bus. Cursing, I lit a flashlight to inspect the wheel for damage. What I saw made me not just swear. It forced me to shut up and to approach the Christian and to say «now we are totally fucked up». There was no puncture at the wheel. The tire was destroyed.

One chance in a billion, probably – everything leads to conclusion that between the tire and the part of the swing arm was a stone that cut off half the side of the tire deeper than the cord. Here we go. It was impossible to do anything. All we have left is to hope for help from the road.

We spent the night near the cafe which was shut down before midnight. Christian tried to sleep on the hard ground, but for me it was not possible. I tried to generate positives and be optimistic exactly to the moment I discovered that the tire is destroyed. All the plans and budget for the trip is now lost all meaning. The new tire costs about 200 euros and there was only a small chance to get it in Nouakchott, capital of Mauritania. But most likely only in Dakar, capital of Senegal. I was smashed by heavy headache, probably subconscious reaction to events, so I spent the whole night staring at the stars unable to sleep. The morning did not bring anything new except that we was visited by the camel.

Handsome, tall, slightly menacing, he was grazing nearby, staring at us comically turning his head. Dawn was beautiful as ever, and both of these events a little brightened my existence. In the end, I told myself, when you met the dawn in the Sahara?

Poor Christian slept wrapped in Emeregency blanket which I found in my topcase.

Somewhere in the middle of the day we were finally able to find transportation. Minibus Mercedes-Benz. French license plates. Driven by the Frenchman who converted to Islam, changed his name to Suleiman, but speaks English (a rarity!), and for the last 20 years living in Senegal. And goes to Bissau through Senegal to sell minibus. Isn’t it a good luck ?! We somehow pushed the motorcycle between the sofa and other little things in the trunk and hit the road again to the border with Mauritania …

Back in Barbas we met Senegalese drivers again. “Africa is teaching you to wait”, Christian told me and looking at these drivers I realized that this word of truth assimilated them by 100 percent. Despite our night spent in the middle of nowhere and half day of waiting they arrived only a few hours before us. Christian said that he was struck by the double irony – at first he thought that the Senegalese drivers arrive at the border before him, and then realized the opposite because we arrived a little later then them, and the border was anyway closed for a night time.

After long discussions and plans making, we decided that trying to shove a motorcycle into a Christian’s bus was a bad idea, because even if Christian wanted to show me the Bamako, capital of Mali I had to spend the day in Nouakchott (capital of Mauritania) to obtain Malian Visa. And Christian didn’t have time. Tobaski approaching rapidly. Therefore we split – Christian pulled to the frontier on his bus and I was left with Suleiman slowly riding on his minibus with my bike inside.

The border of Mauritania and the Western Sahara. A special kind of hell. Suleiman called it “10 euro here, 10 euro there…” Several mud houses under the scorching sun. Soldiers in olive uniform with face hided. No pointers. No signs. It will be difficult to cross the border for a man who first came here. If at all possible. Officials sit inside houses to escape the heat. And the only way to see them – use the services of “helpers”, people who will do the formalities for money. Visa is in one place. Luggage examination in the other. Formalities with the vehicle – in another. I was grateful for the coincidence, which cost me the rear tire. Suleiman knew all the necessary things on the border, and the only blow for me was the fact that the price of visas increased from EUR 50 to 120. Yes, to 120. And I’ll explain why is that later. Passage of the border took seven hours.

Another announcement.

Posted on 01.10.2015 by motolight

I am in Dakar, finally back together with the bike and all the necessary papers. There were hella lot of adventures during last days. After completing last formalities my organism carrying me with last bits of strength decided that it’s enough. And falls hardly. The second day of fever. Slowly becoming little better. However there is time to do the description of adventures.

13.09.2015 Agadir, Morocco

Posted on 13.09.2015 by motolight

The next link of my journey was to Agadir. Big city with the tourist area, very popular, though not as well known as the Casablanca. And the city which is picked up the relay baton of Marrakesh in an effort to surprise me.

While still in Marrakech I got CouchSurfing invitation for a couple of nights buy a guy named Zakaria, or just Zak. Having agreed to meet him at a certain point of Agadir I moved out of Marrakech, as always, quite late. But I did not regret it for a second – closer to the end of the trip I was blessed with a beautiful sunset in the middle of the mountains of red.

When I arrived in Agadir it was already dark. I gradually progressed to the point of the meeting. Overtook the bus on an adjacent lane when suddenly it began to honking and blinking lights, obviously wanting to get my attention. At first I had thought that I had something fell from the motorcycle, but everything was in place. Then I slowed down and the bus caught up with me. The driver smiling leaned out the window and shouted: “You know Abdellatif from Berrechid?”. Confused about question I answered him in Russian:
– “Da”!
– “Well, I’m his brother.”

What a meeting! We stopped at the edge of the road and exchanged joyful greetings. Since Zak awaited me there was not too much time to talk, but we agreed to meet later in the next day. I drove on, inspired by an event. Well, Agadir greets me warmly. Soon I was on the point of the meeting, where I met with Zak and we got to his house. It was late so we made a little chat and fell asleep.

The next day, Zak invited me to get out of Agadir. We purchased alcohol and provisions and went into the house with a view of the ocean not far from Agadir. It was definitely a wonderful evening. We were visited by Zak’s friends, morrocan guy Said and russian-german girl Rimma. Rimma was able to talk in Russian (and switch back to russian was not always easy, hehe), and Said told a lot about the Berber culture, language and music. I got in a perfect mood. These moment are definitely worth of living.

About Zak I can say a lot. This wonderful man was the first of my friends in Agadir and we spent a lot of great moments with him and his friends. Getting into a bar, going onto the beach, partying in the guest house… One of the things that I will not forget – the headlights of his car showing twisted gray tongue of asphalt in the black night; cool air rushes through the open windows; and Pink Floyd at full volume. That precious moments of life. Zak also was my “lucky star” – with a strange coincidence every time he was around the good news began to arrive. Everytime. At first I did not attach any importance to this but then it became too obvious. Well, when he stayed near and the ATM spit out 200 dirhams instead of the requested 100 (and sms from the bank I got shows that withdrew one hundred) – I believed completely. Probably I should to go to the casino with him one day.

The following days, almost a week, I spent in the Yassin’s family house and met all his brothers and friends. Yassin, Abderrahman, Amin, Mustafa, Brahim, Rashid. Each of them was very kind and careful in everything, and I felt myself like at home. We walked with friends, riding on “tobis” (as they call buses), visited the markets, went to the beach, drank a huge amount of tea (“atey”, as it is called here), and I learn a little bit of Arabic and Berber words. Seniors of family could not communicate with me because of the lack of a common language of communication for me and them, but nevertheless I have always been accepted as a member of the family. Here, I soaked the local life like nowhere else Morocco.

At one point the guys from the Positive asked me to write a report about my adventures in Southern Europe. I sat down at the laptop, started to press the buttons … and suddenly lost my peace within. I was angry, I was damn angry, all was seething inside me and for a long time I could not understand the reasons for this state. I called one of the friends, Abderrahman, for a walk. We went out in the evening twilight and I tried to find the reasons for the huge waves of almost rage that overwhelmed me. In the end I was able to find an explanation. After two weeks in Morocco, I was able to see a completely different life, a different culture, but most importantly – absolutely different people. And Europe lost comparing them with a crushing score. Indifferent, empty, living in their own little world, closed – that’s how I now saw the majority of the people I met on the way in Europe. People living happily, but concerned only about not to loose their well-being, not noticing the life that comes around. I have no right to blame them (although I had already done so), but one thing I do know – that something is wrong with the world. Something is wrong with us.

I was not able to find peace inside that night, but after walking I felt myself little relieved. Help came unexpectedly – Amin, one of the friends, offered to get somewhere away from Agadir, on a wild beach, and have a camp there. It was exactly what I need. In the local alco-shop we bought bottle of Russian vodka, bought provisions and rolled out in the afternoon. After a few hours of the road we found a great place close to Ait Tamer. Wild beach, the minimum number of people, the ocean – a worthy place to stay.

We pitched a tent, made dinner, Moroccan tea, and in the end uncorked vodka. Amin did not refuse to drink, but in his words – the last three times when he tried to drink vodka were terrible. I taught him how to drink the right way, russian way. We chatted about everything, warmed our feet near open fire and laughed. After some time Amin went to sleep in a tent, and I finished off the remnants of bottle, sang a few songs, and being drunken finally felt peace in my soul. The next morning, a picture inside my mind reflects the outside one – clear skies, bright sun and lazy waves. I was at peace. We returned back to Agadir without incidents. At the end of the day there was a more good news – Zak invited me to stay at one of his family houses (he and his family lived in the other). It was very handy, as despite the absence of any problems in the Yassin’s home I did not want to somehow disturb these fine people with my too long presence.

My long staying in Agadir explained simply – Mauritania visa costs 50 euros, and I was waiting for money from my rented out apartment. It’s quite a bit of resources (especially given our exchange rate from roubles), but for a short time that should suffice. But the most important thing is not in that. One day in Agadir I wrote a post about my adventures on the way to Marrakech and people from the Internet caught it. What happened!!! The small and large sums of money began to come. As a result nearly $300! WOOOHOOOO!!! My friends, those who participated in this, who helps the people who helped with the dissemination of information – thank you very much. There are no words to express my gratitude to you. I felt that I was not alone in this world. I felt that no matter what – again I can continue to tell the story. I was strongly elated! And despite the slight poisoning (probably swallowed ocean water on an empty stomach), which made me lain for two days in a fever – I was happy. Now I can go on! And I plan to do this tomorrow. Stay in touch! There is a one and a half thousand kilometers till Mauritania ahead.

P.S. On May 1st of this year, the Government of Senegal in order to attract tourists abolished visa fees, as well as online registration for it. What gives me the chance to get a visa at the border! Great news!

P.P.S. Uwe, I finished reading the book. Thank you for it. And for help. You’re the one of the guiding stars of my journey.

Motolight's Round The World Trip

Run towards myself

02.10.2015 Saint-Louis, Senegal

28.09.2015 Rosso, Senegal

19.09.2015 No Man’s Land

Another announcement.

13.09.2015 Agadir, Morocco