Mali

Immediately after crossing into Mali villages looked different, instead of rectangular huts or tents people here built round mud huts with pointy straw roofs. People were very friendly and curious, I pumped water at the communal well, so I would have enough for a night of bush camping. I have gotten better at taking showers under my foldable water reservoir and can now do it using only about 5 liters of water. I tried to sleep like the locals that night, skip erecting the tent and just lie on a mattress on the floor. It seems to be not that easy though, because all night long the bugs were crawling over me.

When I get to a new country I am always a little anxious. I might not have local money yet, I don't know the prices and everything looks a little different. Initially it can be quite a challenge, for example, for a European to identify specific kinds of stores or street vendors in Africa. Translucent buckets contain cake or muffins, big plastic bowls mean rice with sauce is being sold, guys carrying strings of plastic cards sell cell phone credit.

I chose a remote route to Bamako that took me three days. I rode through small villages, crossed a river in a dugout canoe, met curious and extremely hospitable villagers and camped in the bush. At times the path was tough, other times I rode on an incredibly wide and smooth dirt road, built by the Chinese and apparently part of a Dakar-Bamako highway project. On one of the diversions around a stretch of road being built I dropped the bike in soft sand and, for the second time, broke the tube under my bike where I keep my tools. I was too annoyed to try and fix it and simply duct taped it all up and continued.

I reached the outskirts of the capital Bamako and braced myself for the chaotic traffic I expected. Chaos it was, but terrifying and fun at the same time. I had waypoints of a couple of Hotels that allowed camping and followed the arrow on my GPS. The place where I ended up was owned by a French-Malian and when he held a party that weekend I met some French expats who were vivid motorcycling enthusiasts and invited me for a day out on the bike.

I had planned to stay in Bamako just for a week or so, while I was waiting for visas and got some repairs done, but things came up and I ended up staying for two weeks. One day, for example, I noticed a crack in the rear frame. I took the bike apart and had it welded in the metal shop across the street.

I had been on the road for a while and needed a haircut. So I just went to the first hair salon I could find and the guy was a good sport and said he'd do it. He had never cut straight hair though and I had to tell him how to use comb and scissors, so predictably the outcome was not quite what I had envisioned.

When I finally felt I had enough visas, shoes were fixed, the frame welded, my tube repaired and shopping was done, I left Bamako to head not straight towards South Africa, but rather take a detour through Guinea and Sierra Leone, where travel would be challenging but, I thought, more rewarding and memorable too.

Mauritania

I had heard stories about the Moroccan-Mauritanian border, deep sand, mines, crooked officials and I was about to meet two of them. The Morocco side was easy enough, grumpy officials but proceedings were somewhat straightforward and I was soon in the no man's land. Nobody really maintains the 2km stretch to the Mauritanian side and the there if you don't follow the main path you get stuck in the sand or risk hitting mines if you venture further off.
There were some trucks but I overtook them and followed what I believed to be the main path. Of course, I took a wrong turn and was stuck in deep sand. This was the first time I had ever ridden on sand, I had read about what to do, but actually being in the situation, in the heat is another thing. Soon "helpers" arrived, guys who specialize in getting rich white people out of the mess they have driven themselves into. They offered to show me a way out for the generous sum of 30 Euro, I declined, but tried to stay polite, just in case I needed them later. I took a deep breath, revved the engine and managed to get myself out of the sand and find my way back to the main piste. The easiest way to reach the other side is to simply drive behind a the trucks, who know the way. Next time. The Mauritanian immigration and customs process was tedious, and when I was finally through the whole thing had taken five hours.

In Nouadhibou, my first stop in Mauritania, I first got sick, then discovered several broken spokes in my rear wheel, so subsequently spent much more time in town than I had wanted to.

But I wanted me and the bike to be in top condition for the next leg of my journey, a 400km trip through the desert, following a railway line. I left town and because I had told checkpoints of where I was going, the region's police chief was already waiting for me at the start of the piste. He confirmed my route and told me to check in with the outlying police posts.

The first day was relatively easy, there were just a few sand holes to cross, otherwise the ground was firm. Every 30 or so kilometers there were little shacks where railroad workers or camel herders lived. Late afternoon I stopped at a collections of huts, was given water and asked for gas, but as always they only had diesel in the Sahara. I theoretically had more than enough fuel, but wanted to be on the safe side anyway. I put up my tent shortly afterward and slept badly through a very stormy night; in the morning all my gear was covered in a fine layer of sand.

The police outposts along the route, which went parallel to the Moroccan border, were already expecting me and great sources of information on the condition of the piste. I had to cross several dune fields, but when the sand got too soft and deep I could always ride on the bed of the railroad track. At the end of the second day I finally reached civilization, the little town of Choum, where I spent the night in the courtyard of the Gendarmerie's compound. The police guys were extremely hospitable, we drank tea and slept under the open sky.

Next day it was an easy 120km to Atar, the region's main town, where I would be able to repair things I had broken during my many falls on the piste, relax and explore the regions sights: Canyons, dunes and oases.

After a few days of doing just that, albeit very very slowly, since the extreme heat of over 40° Celsius was simply paralyzing, I went on to make some progress distance-wise and crossed the desert again, this time on a perfect tar road. I spent one night in the capital and continued my zigzag course through Mauritania towards the Malian border. I had reached the Sahel zone and was amazed to finally see trees, villages, agriculture.

In Mauritania there are endless checkpoints, demanding to see your documents. Fortunately they were usually content with a "fiche", a sheet of paper I had printed out containing all relevant information about me and the bike. All in all I handed out over 40 of these.

To get into Mali I had chosen a small piste and figured it would take me two to three days to cover the 350km so I prepared as usual: 6 liters of water (I refill in villages along the way), 8 baguettes, 4 tins of sardines and cookies. The first half of the day went by pretty smoothly, it was when I stopped in a village for a lunch break that I noticed three spokes on my rear wheel were broken. I couldn't continue like this. I went over to the next person I saw and asked around for a car to take me and the bike to the next town. Mohamed the shop owner was a nice guy, sat me down in his store, gave me cookies and tea and we evaluated my options. It turned out, I wasn't actually where I thought I was, I had taken a wrong turn 20km ago. The next trucks would come by in the morning and Mohamed invited me to spend the night as his family's.

Meanwhile it was late afternoon and the village came to life, the kids came out to look at the white guy and his big motorcycle.

The evening was quite an experience. The family had a hut in a compound with other families. After sunset we sat on mats that were spread on the ground, drank tea and some drink that consisted of goat milk, water and sugar. Dinner was sorghum and tiny pieces of meat, eaten with hands, collectively from a big bowl. They had this technique of how to make balls of food with their fingers and my miserable attempts to imitate them were a great source of entertainment.

In the morning we waited for a truck willing to take the bike 20km to the next town. After a few misses, one guy finally agreed to take the bike and we loaded up.

I wasn't sure how exactly they would repair broken spokes, but the mechanics in Konkossa seemed sure that welding them would to the job and "get me all the way to Bamako". I was skeptical, but had no other options so reluctantly agreed. He actually did a pretty good job and the spokes amazingly did get me to Bamako.

The rest of the route was quite nice. The piste went through small villages where I would ask for the way, exchange a few words with the curious kids and get water. I bush camped for another night and on the third day finally reached Kiffa, the first major town in Mali, where I would be able to exchange money, go online etc. and, if I wanted to, could continue on proper, paved roads.

More images of Mauritania can be seen on my Picasa page: http://picasaweb.google.com/julianusafricanus/Mauritania

Europe

I finally left two weeks ago on March 30, but then had to turn around after only a few minutes because the clutch lever constantly got stuck. It also turned out that the spare tire I carried was a little too close to the exhaust and the chain guard needed some fixing too.
So it was a late start, with me on the Autobahn by 3 o'clock and the goal to reach Lille in Northern France where I would spent the night at my friend Vincent's. Because I hadn't used the GPS before on the bike, I got lost a few times in the maze that is the Dutch highway system. In Utrecht my self-made chain guard came off, I fixed it with zip-ties in the rain and was ready to go home again.
When I finally arrived in Lille at 1.30h Vincent offered baguette and a warm bed and I gladly accepted.

I left Lille (rain, of course), went by some Yamaha dealers who unfortunately did not have the the chain guard I needed. So I soldiered on, wearing almost all the clothes I had with me, around 8 layers, and made my way south.
The Périphérique in Paris was something else; cars were bumper to bumper but motorcycles all went in between the lanes. I joined a group of bikes, including a Goldwing, and had an exhilarating ride that saved me a lot of time too.

The goal was to make Bordeaux and find a hotel and I was making good progress after having had a late start. It was already dark and I had just passed a toll station when I noticed that my GPS suddenly seemed brighter than usual. I quickly realized that my front light had stopped working and stopped by the side of the highway to try and fix the problem. All other lights were working on the bike and when I poked around the connections the light worked just for a moment before I held a loose wire in my hand. I could not immediately work out where it was supposed to go and decided to take the next exit, which turned out to be a highway service and police station. Because it was night there was only one lone police woman who was not allowed to let me in, but gave me a coffee through the bars in front of the window. I asked whether I could just wait for daylight, but of course even then, officially, you have to have a light. So she called a tow truck and now this whole thing was going to get expensive. The friendly mechanic Pascal took me to his garage, quickly fixed the broken wire for free and after a swipe of my Visa I was on my illuminated way.

Unfortunately the Etap Hotel in close-by Tours was already closed and I decided to not spend any more money that night and camp wild. I looked for a spot on the GPS that looked sufficiently remote, went there, found a spot that was OK, hastily put up the tent and froze my ass off in all my clothes plus the sleeping bag - in the morning there was ice on the tent.

At least I had gotten an early start and that day I went from Tours in France over 1000 kms to Madrid, where I had a place to sleep at my friend Santi's. All day was spent riding, asses were frozen off again (Spain is very cold), but the ride through Spain was fun. Especially in Basq Country around San Sebastian the road looked like in a video game: up and down; left and right and all the while amazing scenery. Oh, I embarrassingly ran out of gas on a french highway, even though my tank fits 40 liters. After the previous day's experience I decided to definitely try and fix this myself, left the bike on the highway, climbed up the embankment and asked for gas at the houses nearby. But, of course, they didn't have any - not outside of their cars anyway Just as I was about to call a taxi a service truck from the highway company came by and took me first to the next shopping center to buy a fuel canister, then a gas station and back to my bike again. All for free! French toll motorways FTW! From then on I gladly paid my "péage''.

I arrived late at night right in the center of Madrid, where Santi lives. After having spent all day on highways and rural gas stations, I felt out of place.

Arriving at somebody's home is extremely nice when you're traveling like this, there is a bed, a shower, internet, and a friend to talk to who also knows his way around town.
The next day was spent recuperating after three stressful days. We tried to find a Yamaha dealer but since it was Easter Friday, something the old atheist Julian had completely forgotten, no chain guard was to be had. I created a temporary fix out of a piece of plastic and some liquid metal glue that would hold up surprisingly well.

The next day, the fith of this trip, I left Madrid for Cadiz in Southern Spain, where I spent the night on a camping ground, too tired/lazy to look for spot to wild camp. The day after I would ride to Tarifa to take the ferry to Tangier, Morocco.