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North Africa: Trans Sahara Part One
Using the worldwide web to make my travel preparations, I sit for hours in front of my monitor, scanning maps and calculating GPS-data. Immersed in the process, I almost feel like I'm already motoring north of Tschad in the Tibesti Mountains. In reality I am still at home in Salzburg, Austria. It is the middle of October and the mountains surrounding Salzburg are already snow-capped.
My trip begun, it's not the good old Habib that carries me from Genoa to Tunis but a new boat called Carthago. On board some of my fellow passengers and I are concerned about the problems we may encounter entering Libya. According to an unverified notice, entry for those travelling alone may not be possible even if one possesses a valid visa; therefore, I decided to join forces with two Bavarians and try our luck together at the border.
Over the last few kilometres, on the way to the border, the number of black marketers waving bundles of money increases drastically. Completing the entry formalities is a slow process, but finally one of the officers finds a suitable plate to bolt on my motorcycle and I am ready to enter the empire of Muammar al-Kadhafi. I part company with my Bavarian friends, who take the direct route to the south, and travel along an excellent asphalt road to Tripoli.
Increasing traffic flow tells me I'm approaching the capital of Libya and I curb my KTM at the reception entrance to the Libyan Palace Hotel. The small roads in the old part of Tripoli exhibit a lot of ancient Arabic atmosphere and on several occasions a friendly soul at a table in one of the numerous street-side coffee shops invites me to pull up a chair and have a cup or to puff away at his water pipe.
The route to Sabha appears as a monotonous stretch of asphalt flowing straight ahead to the far horizon. Villages noted in my map turn out to consist of little more than a few houses and a petrol station. A petrol price of five cents per litre is almost negligible where the travel budget is concerned. Dunes on both sides of the road become more frequent and larger, and after a rather boring journey I finally reach Erg Ubari, which lies like a huge sea of sand before me. With my luggage safely stowed in the campsite in Terkiba, I eagerly mount my Pirelli MT 21 and motor off to try my first ride in the dunes. Tire pressure lowered to 18lb/in, finally, late that afternoon I climb the first dune at high speed. Easier than I thought: the biggest difficulty is to find the right speed in order to reach the top on the one hand and to avoid being catapulted over of the dune by carrying too much speed on the other hand.
The beginning of October does not seem to be the main travel season in Libya – apart from me there is no one else on the way to the Mandara Sea today. Early in the morning, only loaded with what is essential, 10 litres of water, my sleeping bag and few bites to eat, I start my journey on quite compact sand. Here, amid these dunes, I notice for the first time that the hours of preliminary work at home become more and more valuable. Thanks to the GPS, I don't encounter any problems finding the right way to Mandara. I am, however, heavily disappointed when I arrive there – the Mandara Sea is all dried up. The abandoned lakeside houses are slowly but surely dilapidating, quite a dreary sight. After a few kilometres through low dunes I reach Um el Ma, "The mother of water." Massive dunes, some reaching heights of 100 meters, surround this sea, its shore lined by palms. It is already noon and I decide to take a rest under a palm tree, but my nap is soon disturbed when thirty noisy jeeps loaded with travellers from France mar the holy silence of Um el Ma. After a minute's stop, taking photos, they disappear as quickly as they appeared, continuing their journey through the dunes.
At sunset, I take my camera, go for a walk around the sea and try to capture the unique mood of the place. The next day, early in the morning, I return to my camping spot without any trouble although I decided to drive on even more difficult ground.
Next, I am on my way south, heading to Tschad. I expect difficulties obtaining gasoline and oil in Tschad and, just to be on the safe side, decide to change motor oil in Libya. The filling station attendant eagerly certifies that he only offers the highest quality motor oil.
Reaching Al Katrun on the border to Tschad, I learn that rebellious Tubus have laid mines in numberless tracks; so I try to find an escort, a guide to help me cover the 700 kilometres to Zouar. But, even with help of dear Mohamed Daher, I am not successful. The risk seems to be too high for everyone and my only chance to continue my journey appears to be to convoy on one of the huge tri-axle, extremely overloaded trucks going south. Mohamed fills me with new courage and assures me that I will surely find a truck to Faya in Tschad in the next few days – "In sha Allah." (God willing.) One week later, still waiting for a truck, I'm stuck in a place that's not attractive even when my eyes are closed. Each day two to three trucks hauling thousands of litres of petrol, uncountable pieces of luggage, and topped by at least 100 people leave the village. But all of them go to Niger.
I'm heartsick but there's no way around it – I'll have to change my route. However, before doing so, I want to take a look at Wau an Namus. But only thirty kilometres from Timsah, right in the middle of a huge field of sand, my KTM has a full-fledged breakdown. It is late in the afternoon and all my efforts to get her going again are met without success. The whole night through I sit with the pocket lamp and read the KTM instructions for mechanics over and over. At dawn I change the ignition device again, make another complete check of the electronics and clean the carburetor repeatedly. Useless. It comes to mind that I will probably have to trek the thirty kilometres to Timsah. But my luck turns when a land rover passes by.
Back in Timsah, I immediately organize a pickup for my KTM. It is however neither possible to find spare parts in Timsah nor to arrange for a courier service to bring the necessary spare parts to Timsah. The best option is to transport the KTM all the way back to Tripoli and I arrive there after twenty-eight hours in a Peugeot 404. In a small garage we disassemble the motor and try to find the source of the breakdown. We discover that "guaranteed" Libyan motor oil was of such bad quality, it contained more components of glue than lubricant. The piston ring and piston nut are fully adhered and with the greatest care we manage to move them again and reassemble the whole thing. I push the button and the motor works as perfectly as it did before the breakdown. I'm relieved – a good functioning motorcycle in this situation is paramount – even though I'm back where I started my journey four weeks ago.
Again I take the well-known asphalt road to the south – this time at maximum speed. A side-trip to the Wadi Matendous with its unique stone engravings reveals the Sahara was not always such hostile terrain. Engravings up to 8,000 years old display wild animals and huntsmen. "Sahara, the desert where they used to catch fish."
With some delay I arrive in Gath at the border to Algeria. I have to look for a guide to go with me to the Akakus Mountains. In a small camp I meet Thomas, who is on his way to South Africa, and we decide to rent a land cruiser with a driver and guide and take a three-day holiday from motor biking. The journey in the rather decrepit land cruiser is not at all pleasant, but the fascinating scenery is worth the strain. Without any problems I cross the border in Gath. Unlike Libya, where at least from time to time I met some fellow travelers, I am very much alone on the road in Algeria. I try to get some information about the availability of gasoline on the route to Tamanrasset in the tourist office of Djanet and the head of the office more or less swears that I can get some in Zaouatallas as well as in Ideles. A wonderful asphalt road has finally replaced the much feared and damaging corrugated track from Djanet to Zaouatallaz. The gasoline station in Zaouatallaz offers only diesel. I fear I'll face the same problem in Ideles and scour the whole village for gasoline, eventually coming up with 10 litres in a rusty can. In total I possess 40 litres of gasoline and 20 litres of water and can continue my journey without worry.
I look forward to Fort Serouenout, where I intend to camp, sheltered by its thick walls. I can hardly believe my eyes when I cruise within sight: the formerly lonely fort is now a bustling military station. Have to forget about staying there overnight. The path to Ideles is seamed by wrecked cars from the seventies and eighties when there used to be a bit more traffic on this tract. Much to my delight, I find plenty of gasoline in Ideles and, in the bakery near the petrol station, there's wonderful fresh white bread.
The direct route from Hirhafok to Assekrem is in bad condition and the Tin Taratimt pass also causes me some problems. The formerly famous 14 turns no longer exist and I have to revert to a steep and rocky path to the Assekrem pass, which includes a half-hour struggle on foot. I reach the Hermitage of Father Foucauld and give thanks for my safe arrival and my biker jacket because it is quite cold here at 2,780 meters after the sunset. In the small chapel I find German translations of some of the letters of the French father. They perfectly describe the overwhelming aura of these mountains and rocks. "This loneliness and wilderness shows us how tiny and insignificant a human is here. He is like a drop of water in the ocean or like a grain of sand in the desert."
I don't have any trouble negotiating the northern part of Algeria in the busy streets of Tamanrasset and drive the 400 km to In Guezzam in one day. It is not advisable to camp in the dunes near the border. One still has to be extremely cautious in the area between Algeria and Niger. My Algerian exit formalities are handled correctly and quickly. What a difference when compared to the corruptible frontier police in Assamakka, Niger. They sit in their tin huts drinking beer although it is very early in the morning. They try to explain to me that I will not be able to continue my journey until the next day because the head of the office is not available and no one else there is authorized to sign the necessary papers. Two hours later, after some argument and my load lightened of a few items from my luggage, my passport shows all the necessary stamps and I ride quickly and directly to Arlit. And there's good reason for not lingering along this section: bandits. Upon my arrival in Arlit, I immediately visit the nearest hotel bar. Thankfully that good bottle of Niger Beer in my hand is not a mirage.
Agadez, the center of trade in the northern part of Niger, is reached on a well-built road. During my expedition through the narrow streets I come upon the ski-lender, Abdu-Khada, probably the coolest guy in the whole Sahara. He has, much like a typical Austrian skiing teacher in the Alps, not only specialized in renting skis and snowboards but is also known to take an intense personal interest in the few female tourists visiting Agadez.
The Tuareg tribesmen in the surroundings have little interest in dune skiing. Their destination is the huge market on the outskirts of Agadez. They trade camels, those willful, restive animals, which are so important for the survival of the nomads in the desert.
After a trip of only a twenty kilometres, on my way to Elmeki in the Air Mountains, the police stop me. "Where are the necessary papers, the permits, the local guide?"
As I have neither permits nor guide I have no choice but to return. Handwritten approval from the head of police in Agadez opens the way to the Air Mountains. It is already the end of November, when the Tuareg leave their villages to travel in huge camel caravans to Bilma, a tradition along this well-functioning trade route that goes back hundred of years. It is not possible to continue my journey to the salt works of Bilma without an escort car. Therefore, close to the end of my journey, I decide on a side trip to Tegguidda-n-Tessoum, ninety kilometres away from Ingal. The track, however, is in a catastrophic condition. Deep sand furrowed by dual-tired trucks. I almost give up and return, but after some hours of drudgery in the deep sand, "Fesch-Fesch," Tegguidda-n-Tessoum, a tiny oasis in the southern part of the Sahara, appears on the horizon. I place my tent in a small inner court and visit with my host the evaporation salterns of Tegguidda-n-Tessoum, where a mixture of salted water and clay is distributed in countless basins to produce a rather low-quality salt.
The Harmattan winds start to blow and will accompany me during the coming days on my way south. (More to follow.) At the conclusion of this part of my sojourn in the sands, I have covered 10,000 kilometres by the time I reach Niamey, the capital of Niger; and here, on the terrace of the Grand Hotel, overlooking the Niger River, is the best place around to relax, enjoying the sunset and a really good bottle of cool beer.
