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theadventurists: I posted 45 photos on Facebook in the album "Mototaxi Junket BEST OF!" http://bit.ly/ah6TDk 767 minutes ago
sandipg: This puts Dakar, Everest and the Amazon to shame -- > http://tr.im/N6Es Hmmm..maybe in the next 5-year plan #mongolrally 3460 minutes ago
Blair_Bookshop: RT @TheBaldAvengers: The Bald Avengers: Cherry Slightly Brighter #mongolrally http://bit.ly/9jrXPG 5390 minutes ago
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It’s all in aid of charity at the end of the day, so please please pretty please help us in whichever way you can! There’s no shortage of ways you can get involved. Support the Official Charities: Help us get to Cameroon: Give us a little moral support: A late start this morning after our driver dissapeared for a while and then we searched for a cash point in Kayes. Eventually we headed out South skirting the river in the direction of Diouma where we hoped to find Mali’s Niagara falls. In retrospect we were totally unprepared. At first the dusty track posed very little problem for our Cherokee. In the middle of nowhere we even encountered a couple of miles new wide highway being built. It started in the middle of the bush and ended at an unnamed village. We then hit a dilapidated Tarmac road for a short while until we spotted a rusty sunbleached sign for the falls. It directed us right, off the ‘main’ road, along a narrow sandy track. This is where the adventure really begins. The main track, often barely identifiable, gradually deterioated as it rose over stony hills and dropped through dried up river beds. And it just kept going, mile after mile, obstacle after obstacle, hour after hour. All along the route an array of colourful birds took flight and we even spotted one monkey. We passed village after village of round mud huts, mostly elevated on stones. At each we were greeted by children running towards us excitedly calling “Cadeaux! Cadeaux!” The track was much tougher and longer than we had estimated from our map. Doubts about continuing started to surface. Our only provisions were four bottles of water and a packet of nuts. Our tents and camping equipment were still aboard the Grand Benin docked in Lisbon. Spending a night in the bush would be possible but by no means desirable under the circumstances. Reports of hyenas in the area didn’t do much to build confidence. After a gruelling five hours, having covered only about 80km, we suddenly came across another aged sign for the falls. Quite impressive in their own right, the beauty of the broad waterfalls was magnified by the gargantuan effort to reach them. After a refreshing stroll around the edges and the customary photo taking orgy, we headed back to the jeep. We had about three hours of daylight left. With a quick glance of our obviously inacurate map, we decided to press on to the next town in the hope that it was closer than marked and that the road might improve. At least on one count we were very wrong. The road simply got worse. Much worse. I have absolutely no idea how we got over some of the boulders and hills. On at least three occasions I could have bet a hundred crates of cold beer that the jeep would have been stranded high and dry on an impossible rock. Finally, with about an hour of daylight left, the track began to flatten out. Rocks and stones turned to sand. Tracks became more distinct and apparently more frequented. Eager to find refuge, we sped up considerably dodging between trees and pot holes, with a few sideways skids to add to the excitement. Finally we hit a town. It wasn’t the town we had expected, but it was built up and had a “hotel”. As darkness fell, we secured rooms and a meal for the night. All in all an adventurous day. There are times when you really have to question karma. This turned out to be one of those days. The drive to the border from Tambacounda had been speedy, if a little hair-raising when we came across the occasional large pot hole at 140kmh. Formalities on the Senegalese side passed jovialy and easily, so around midday we headed across the bridge with great anticipation to Mali. We failed at the first hurdle. Our driver had apparently failed to bring along any documentation attesting to his right to have the car. We were sent back to Senegal. A few calls to Dakar and a long wait later we received a faxed letter from the owner giving the right permissions. Paper in hand we crossed for the second time into Mali. Trucks queuing at the border now filled both sides of the road for the mile strech to the Malian customs, leaving a narrow single track to negotiate with few passing places and plenty of donkey carts, pedestrians and of course on-coming lorries. The Customs office, a delapidated building with a single row of antiquated desks, was packed with officials in a variety of ill-fitting uniforms and a crowd of assorted hangers on. The Africa Cup was in full swing and the office had one of the few tellies available at the border. Apprently the fax should have been stamped by the Senegalese Police, and we were sent back across the border once more. Maybe we should have waited for half-time. Several attempts to pursuade the local Senegalese police to authorise the document fell on deaf ears. Instead they insisted it wasn’t required. A return trip to try to pursuade the official in Mali with a little ‘encouragement’ also got us nowhere. So, stuck in noman’s land, we reverted to calling Dakar for help. Apparently it would take about 2 hours to get the document faxed back with a police stamp. I am still unclear whether this would be real or forged, but it was our last option. A quick scout around of the local shacks revealed no eateries of any palatable description. We resigned to sitting it out in the car, the shade of a nearby building providing little respite from the 35c heat. On the positive side we had wi-fi access courtesy of the fax bureau, very much unbeknownst to them. iPhones in hand we caught up on emails and facebook updates. Finally at 5 pm, with the ’stamped’ documents in hand, we headed back to Mali for the last time. Car authorised, visas stamped, we headed full tilt towards Kayes. We had agreed not to drive after dark and darkness was falling fast. A little later than hoped and with a little help from the town’s folk we found a hotel for the night. Tomorrow our week in Mali would begin proper.
The cheapest flights to Dakar from Casablanca turned out to involve flying back to Europe and out again. A few hours in Madrid was not such a hardship and gave us an opportunity to take out some Euros. Flying out a day earlier than the other teams on the same boat, we left them to contact the Grimaldi shipping agents and confirm all was going well. On arrival at Madrid we received disastrous news by text: “Boat has fuel leak. Not yet left Casa. Expected at least a week late.” At first we decided to take this as a joke by the other teams. We were quickly put straight. This would mean a long wait in Dakar. Not surprisingly Dan had no confidence that the boat would even make the delayed date. We had not signed up to a rally to spend most of waiting around. Instead he called it a day and decided to fly back to the UK from Madrid. Our team had now lost two team mates and its car was stranded on a cargoship in Morocco. I felt I had no choice but to carry on and keep my fingers crossed that the car would not be too long. I boarded the night flight for Dakar on my own, unsure what would happen next. Like a parting gift, Dan’s last minute change of plans caused a hour delay while ground crew unloaded luggage in search of the bags of a passenger who hadn’t boarded. Of course his luggage was already somewhere over France. The day ended just as badly with the arrival into Dakar airport, which even Morocco does not prepare you for. I simply was not in the mood to be hussled by every one and their dog, including officials, police and taxi divers. After a prolonged arguement I grouchily agreed to pay a taxi driver twice over the odds to get me to the hotel because I had simply had enough. Of course he knew it! We had heard of a very old Rabbi who could be found at the foot of the Atlas mountains. According to the legend all other Jews in his village had moved to Israel some decades ago. He alone had remained and was now quite ancient, probably a centenarian. But he was still very sociable and welcomed pilgrims from all over the world into his house. If you found him you could sit and talk to him. The village was just off our route towards the West coast so we decided this was worth a short detour. In fact a filmed interview with such a character could be quite interesting. From Ouarzazate we crossed the Atlas once more in the dark. A couple of lorries encouraging us to overtake them on blind bends – dark abyss dropping off to one side and sheer cliff rising on the other – offered a little needed stimuli on the otherwise un-eventful journey. As we came to the plains on the otherside we headed for a small town hotel that had been recommended. After waking the owner we were presented some very basic rooms. Mine had an unmade bed, which the owner quickly straightened out for me. It didn’t look like the pillow covers had been changed this year. The showers however did work and we all proceeded to wash away what we could of the vast quantity of the Sahara that had hitched a ride in every pore and crevace of our bodies. I slept soundly cocooned in my sleeping bag on top of the freshly stained sheets until the cafe below and market next door decided noisily it was time for business. Morning calls to Prayer joined the fracas. I woke the hotel owner and his son from their mattress behind the reception desk to settle my inexpensive bill and secured a prime street-side table in the cafe. This gave me a great view of the comings and goings of the busy little town. It also gave the little town a great view of an English tourist, which given the intense attention I drew from most passers-by I deduced must be a real rarety in these parts. In the background the cafe’s telly was blasting out what I can only assume was anti-American rhetoric from current events in Iran. While the locals did generaly seem friendly if overly curious I was glad to be joined by my fellow travellers as they emerged in dribs and drabs from the estabishment above. Safety in numbers is a basic if somewhat flawed instinct for sardines, sheep and tourists alike. Back on the road we took our trusty pair of Logans down a long single track road, skirting the foothills for some distance before heading back up into them. Our American friends had been busy preparing questions for the interview with the Rabbi. I had agreed to act as French interpreter and was looking forward to the possibility of taking his portrait; anyone reputedly over 100 years old should make an interesting photograph full of character. Winding our way up through a river valley lined with trinket and rug sellers we spotted a small plaque on the side of an unassuming building. Enquiries with the sudden crown of children surrounding us with fruit baskets and assorted gifts confirmed this was the place. The sight of a departing man with skull cap reinforced our conviction. Cameras, video equipment and questions in hand we were led by one of the children down into the courtyard of the building and pointed in the direction of one of the siderooms. At one end of the room sat an old man. We quickly deduced that he was not old enough to be the one we were seeking. “Where is the Rabbi?” we asked. Silently he lifted his hand and pointed forward into the room. He pointed toward the centre where a simple marble toomb lay. Above and on the walls surrounding were faded images of old bearded and probably once very wise men. Photographs of young men and women adorned the columns at the head of the shrine. To the right two rows of benches invited visitors to sit and, if they wished, “talk” with the venerated Rabbi. He wasn’t going to answer us on film so we made a donation under the eagle eyes of the very insistant old man and headed to the nearest restaurant for lunch. We had visited a place of pilgrimage, ignorant of its history or importance. At least had had a few giggles at our own expense and stupidity! It is not often that you see the sun rise over the desert. I wasn’t going to miss it for the world! The night had been very windy. You quickly learn that a lot of sand and an over-zealous breeze do not make for a comfortable night. Things are not helped by the fact that you are sleeping at sand level. Our tents of sturdy stiff canvas were being blown and battered about noisily. Despite the conditions and probably thanks to the celebratory wine we had brought with us, I quickly fell asleep. I awoke not long after to the disturbing experience of grit being blasted up my nostrils. A tingling sensation at my feet, which had slipped out of the sleeping bag, turned out to be the sand eroding away the top layer of my skin. The heavy canvas doorway flap had been blown in, leaving nothing between us and the elements. Turning over and trying to ignore what the Sahara was throwing at me didn’t work. Head-torch in place I headed out of the camp for a little midnight relief. I wasn’t alone; at least a couple of other shapes were meandering around the edges of the encampment like an alien species of glowflies with illuminated heads. Above the clouds had cleared revealing a vast star-studded sky. Back in the tent I piled a stack of heavy blankets against the door flap to impeed that sand’s path as much as possible. For the next few hours I drifted in and out of what felt like sleeping between sheets of glasspaper, with the occasional mouthfull of Sahara thrown down my throat. Dawn could not have come sooner. We crawled out of our respective tents and climbed the nearest dune for a better view. I found a spot about halfway up while the fitter ones amongs us continued higher. Slowly the sky brightened and the dunes all around us blushed a warming orange agaisnt a bluing sky. The wind continued to throw wisps of sand over the ridges like clouds blowing over high peaks. Above the highest mountain of sand in front of me the glided into view. It seemed in no hurry, allowing us the time to savour the moment. At that point for just a few precious minutes even the wind stood still. Turning to look for my friends I noticed a line of people all along the ridge. And along each of the larger dunes around the camp. Everyone had turned out lining up like sentinels to welcome in the new day. Soon after we mounted our camels and marched slowly out of the desert. Some more fun racing the cars back to the road was followed by a drive through more spectacular landscapes and the impressive TziTzi pass descending down into Ouarzazate as dusk fell. Thanks Joy and Hakim for a great couple of days. As Christmas morning dawned, six men awoke on the floor of their new friends’ lounge, with a healthy dose of good humour and Xmas cheer. Our hosts had a trip planned that would make this a day to remember. We headed out of Ouarzazate north-east towards Erfoud. A long drive through changing scenery brought us to Todra gorge. A narrow road running along side a river at the foot of impressively tall sheer rock walls lead to a pleasant little eatery. All tagined up from our Christmas lunch we hit the road again for Erfoud. The landscape became increasingly barren, dry and sandy. Eventually past Erfoud the unmistakable profile of dunes came into sight. We turned of the road by a small sign on dirt tracks directly towards the dunes. This was of course a great opportunity to put our Logan’s through their paces; we sped-up racing each other, weaving around stones and bends in the tracks, until in the middle of nowhere we reached a hotel. From here we were bundled onto waiting camels. And so we rode our camel train into the windy Christmas night and deep into the dunes. The rain that had accompanied us for much of the time in Morocco made a fleeting appearance, adding to the whole bizarre experience. In darkness we arrived at a tented encampment that would be our home for the night. Merry Xmas all! Freed of our cars we secured two hired Logans for a dash across Morocco for a possible rendezvous with a friend of friend and a desert expedition. The main certainty is that we did NOT want to spend Xmas is Casablanca. The mountain pass would no doubt have been spectacular in the daylight. In darkness the steep winding roads gave the occasional moonlight glimpses of snow-capped peaks and deep gorges. Close to midnight we approached our destination where Joy and Hakim, an American girl and her Moroccan fiancé, gave six complete strangers the warmest of welcomes. We were fed, watered and beded in the lounge of their one bedroom flat. Christmas day it seems is going to be an adventure courtersy of these two extraordinary people.
The promised day had arrived! Our cars were due on the boat out of Casablanca to Dakar. In true Moroccan style the day turned out to be a master class of chaos, cock-ups and palm greasing. At first all seemed straight forward enough: the port police cleared us and a couple of other cars to head directly for the Customs’ scanners. After that it would simply be a question of paperwork. We joined a queue of trucks waiting to be scanned and alerted the officials of our presence. It didn’t take them long to realise that cars are considerably smaller than the freight lorries the giant x-Ray machines were designed for. Only the tops of our roofs would register on screen. A manual inspection would be required and of course that meant finding a different customs post at the other end of the port. In convoy, weaving our way round the lorry filled port roads, we were pulled over for not wearing seatbelts by the obligatory cop looking for some lunch money. Ibrahim, our assigned fixer, dismissed the official with what sounded like very colourful language and we carried on. At the next customs post it was clear they had little interest in us. We were directed to park the vehicles on the docks round the back and come back when we had more paperwork. We headed to a third customs post where only the flash of a little cash roused them from one-key-a-minute tapping on their grubby computers. A lot of debate later a scooter taxi appeared and flew off with our paperwork and fixer. I spent the next hour hanging around a fish-smelling truckers’ caffe and being suspiciously eyed up and down by every passing patrol. Eventually Ibrahim and the scooter driver returned, forms in hand with a variety of fresh stamps and signatures. That’s when he realised that whichever dimwit had processed the forms and pocketed a small share of our bribe budget had probably not worked since last week and deffinitely not changed the date on his official stamp. So Ibrahim and my new found taxi driver friend decided it was time for lunch; something very fishy and smelly. Re-energised, our fixer went off to correct the forms. His taxi driver decided it was time to suggest I employ him for the rest of the day to keep me company. I politely declined, although given his suddenly poor grasp of French, this took sometime to sink in. At last, with corrected forms in hand we returned to one of the previously visited offices. With a bit of searching we found the Customs Sargeant who was to inspect the cars, extracted him from his sandwich and talked our way into his patrol car for a lift back to our vehicles. The check, which took all of 5 minutes, consisted of noting that the chassy numbers corresponded and musing at our intention to drive in these ridiculous cars to Cameroon. The fact that each of our wrecks was in considerably better shape than his patrol car didn’t seem to occur to him. We tipped the dock-side security guards – a little more generously than planned because of a little confusion over which currency I had in my pocket – and returned to the Customs’ Chief to finalise the formalities. We only had to wait for a short period for him to return from his prayers before he could accept our final bribe and sign-off our paperwork. It may have taken all day but at last our cars were destined for Dakar!
Needless to say there was no point runshing back from the mountains. Grimaldi still giving us the run around. Tomorrow apparently is the day. A chance encouter may present another shipping option but won’t hol my breath. Refreshed, we hit the road early for something called Ouzoud falls and the sun is shining for the first time in days. Soon the road starts winding and rising steeply into the Atlas mountains. Unfortunately we are also rejoined by the familiar smell of leaking fuel. The top of the tank appears to be to blame so we decide the best option is to press on to use up as much petrol as possible until the level falls below the hole. We are however rewarded with stunning views out over the flat expanse of the plain below, extending as far as the eye can see. With few people and dramatic scenery these roads into the mountains are a stunning and immensely enjoyable contrast to the grim, stinking and chaotic cities. Passing rivers, a dam and quite impressive lake we are suddenly encouraged to stop in an empty car park by a few excited parking attendents. We had apparently found the falls. We quikly hired a guide who took us off down a muddy red stream. The dissapointing red earth colour of the water did not detract from the spectacle. We found ourselves on the lip of falls, water gushing past our feet and falling 100 meters to the valey below. A shadey walk through steep olive groves took us down to a handfull of shacks in the valey floor. We drank a refreshing tea with a old Berber before crossing the stream and climbing a few hundred steps the other side. A few monkeys of the Gibraltar kind apparently – provided a useful excuse for a breather on the way back up. I must have counted just two other family size groups of tourists in the couple of hours we were ther, completely outnumbered by the sleepy souvenir merchants. At the top a cheerful youth asked to give our ‘rally’ car a spin. A few seconds later we stood nervously as we watched our panda bounce away down the road. Then dissapear! Time passed as his friends laughed at our stupidity. Evevtually a revving engine and crunching gears announced the miraculous return of our car! We headed off the mountains through impressive gorges and hit the plains for Casablanca. The final couple of hours, hampered by poor visibility on the busy dark wet roads dodging suicidal bus drivers, donkey carts and mopeds witout lights was possibly the least enjoyable drive I have ever had.
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