Salam, Bonjour, Ciao or Hello! Whatever your chosen greeting may be I finally have internet and time to ramble on about life on the open road. Whilst I've been away from the keyboard many things have occurred, so grab yourself a Horlicks, put on your best slippers and sit yourself down, this one's gonna take a while.

I last signed off from Dakhla in the Western Sahara, two countries and a fuck load of sand ago. Mauritania has come and gone in one very brown blur and now I sit in sunny Senegal, having almost completed the so-called 'first leg' of UK to Cape Town.

The border crossing from Western Sahara (or

Morocco as the Moroccans will so vehemently insist) is infamous, casting a

reputation as a lawless no mans land, littered with land mines among the

shifting Saharan sands, ready to catch out wary travellers who dare lay a wheel

astray. Frankly, what a load of bullshit. The border was fine and perfectly safe, the 'unpaved' bit is only about a mile long you'd have to have the eye sight of Stevie Wonder to somehow depart it and end up among the explodey bits. The border itself was easy,

particularly on the Moroccan side, wonderful, friendly border agents and an

easy transition. The Mauritanian side was a little ‘shabbier’, to be polite, but

the process was hardly Bletchley Park once you found the right people. Out of

no man’s land we went and into Mauritania, the land of sand, questionable

driving habits, some slightly on fire vehicles (seriously, so many of the trucks had smoke pouring from overheating engines and axles)... and not a great deal else.

The distinction of wealth between the two countries is strikingly apparent; the relative wealth of Morocco highlights the abject, ‘multidimensional’ poverty in which some 56.9% of the Mauritanians live (IPM-M, 2022). This isn’t an Oxfam advert though and I’m not about to propose any concerts to save any children. Whilst young kids begging desperately, then beaming with delight when you give them the equivalent of £1 (yes one whole pound), is all very sad and all, it is not the memory I will take away from the country.

The people, despite their circumstance are all very friendly, the police are excellent,

even if you do have to stop at their check points 18,000 times a day to have the

same conversation. The cities are full of life. In perfect juxtaposition to the

absolute emptiness of the desert the urban areas sprawl with activity as people

make their livings. My French, frankly, is crap, yet locals will still endeavour

to converse with you, you never feel unsafe, never is there a concern that

anyone will attempt to take from you or do you harm. Mauritanians, like most

people, everywhere, are good people who want to get on with living.

The inbetweeny bits, namely the 550km stretch between Nouadhibou and Nouakchott, and even more so the area to the east, are a vast open expanse of seemingly endless nothingness. Well, nothing but extreme, unrelenting heat (I measured 52.6 degrees on my phone!). The whole horizon at times gives way to dazzling heat shimmers so as it appears you are encircled entirely by a world of glass where the sky and sand merge into one great furnace. Yet in this nothingness, with not even a place to buy petrol, I bumped into a man who, amazingly, is walking the length of Africa! Whenever I meet overland cyclists I realise how soft I am and how easy travel with a motorcycle is in comparison. But meeting this guy, who armed with little more than a pair of sandals and a glorified push chair is walking the whole way to Cape Town (then potentially back via the east coast), left me in awe. Legend or Maniac I don’t know, but he’s my hero. We decided to prepare and eat lunch together with two local men in the small building they sell goods from. We conversed, shared stories and whittled the hours away until it was finally time I left. Strange, the people you meet in the most random of places, but so is life I suppose.

Crossing Mauritania involved sticking largely to the paved roads, the odd off piste excursion usually resulted in an immediate bout of ‘fuck this, it’s too hot’, and I would gladly find my way back to the tar where the breeze would at least keep some of the heat away. Nouakchott was fairly unremarkable, the driving is suitable mental but as one expects in Africa, lots of police check points to get through, but progress south was good. I’d been advised to avoid the main border with Senegal as scamming is apparently rife, instead I elected for the small bridge frontier at Diama; which, after the 25 or so miles of dirt was an altogether pleasant and efficient experience. That was Mauritania done with, and now I write to you from Senegal. The sand of the desert still clings to everything here, but from it there is greenery. The blanket of beige which had accompanied me through Mauritania is slowly giving was to other colours. I feel I am leaving the Sahara behind for land that is once again living.

Tomorrow to Dakar, the Carnet needs stamping in customs and visas need to be acquired for following countries, as well as a service and hopefully new tyre for Donkey. She currently has car oil in her because that’s all I could find in Western Sahara (thank you to Dakhla Toyota btw for letting me service my bike in your carpark and lending me tools) so hopefully I can find some actual bike oil and treat her. She’s been good so far but is ready for some TLC. So Senegal will be my home for a few days before the journey can carry on to the south west. The first leg is almost over, now the rich experiences of west Africa’s peoples and tropical green landscapes now lay before me to be uncovered…