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