Mauritania used to be a hub of the old caravan routes across the Sahara, and towns like Oudane and Chinguetti were a big deal back in the 13th century. They are also a long way away from Nouakchott and so I set off for another long day of driving to get there.
The country is one of the emptiest places I have ever been, and riding out first to Atar, and then beyond, felt incredibly isolating. The road to Atar (my first stop) was tarmac the whole way, and while I passed very few vehicles there were periodic police checkpoints. At each one of these you have to hand over your details, and this time (unlike in Morocco) I was prepared and had 20 photocopies in my jacket pocket, and combined with a handshake and a chirpy "Ça va" I was through most of them in under 30 seconds.
Beyond Atar, the tarmac disappears, and so does the traffic. The ride from Atar to Oudane took around five hours, and it was piste (graded dirt/gravel) all the way. It is the first time that I felt very glad I had a hardy motorbike; up to now any bike could have coped with the route, but the amount of bumps, holes and corrugations on this part would have shaken my old bike to pieces within minutes. But while the bike was up to the job, my riding skills were patently lacking. On the loose surface, the front wheel skittered around like anything, and the back would occasionally slide out too. I spent the first few hours in a state of permanent tension, gripping the bars and reacting every time the bike skidded more than a centimetre. After a while I realised that a little bit of skidding was ok and I gradually relaxed and started to take in the surroundings.
In the five hours it took to get to Oudane I saw maybe one car, a few guys on camels or herding goats, and the occasional scattering of huts that counts as a village in these parts. There were whole stretches, 50km or more, where I saw no signs of human life other than the road itself. As the bike crunched on across the varying road surface, I figured that it would not be a good place to have an accident.
Oudane is a small town perched on a hill, with the new town butting up against the old. The largely ruined old town is apparently Unesco protected, but walking around it you can imagine just what it would have been like at the height of its significance in the 13th century. I arrived just as school was chucking out, so was instantly surrounded by a gang of kids all wanting to have a look at the bike. After a bit of chatting and a lot of miscomprehension on both sides, I was invited in for some food by one of the ladies who runs a shop (which after a day without eating was delicious) and then wandered around the town.
As evening fell I found a place to stay, a nearby auberge that rented out little stone huts for a few pounds a night. My intention was to head to Chinguetti the next day, and while I could go back the way I cam there was also the option of going off piste and following the tracks through the desert. A few hundred metres of trying that out soon put paid to that idea. While riders in the Dakar rally have no problem blasting across hundreds of miles of sand, they have three things that I don't - lighter bikes, no luggage and crucially, skills. My attempts saw the front wheel going everywhere, and despite the tips I had received about 'getting up on the pegs as quickly as possible' it just wasn't clicking. While I could see that I was getting slightly better the more I tried, I figured that 100km unsupported across the Sahara desert was not the ideal place to learn, so I opted for the easier route.
After an evening of pushing my French skills to the limit, discussing with the owner of the auberge the implications of Brexit, the US election and my reasons for leaving my job and going travelling, the morning saw me heading to Chinguetti. This is a 'real' (i.e. more like the movies) desert town - surrounded by an endless expanse of towering sandy dunes. I didn't stop for long, just for a wander round (but long enough for the local kids to spot my bike) then headed back, first to Atar and then to Nouakcott, and ready for the ride into Senegal.
The country is one of the emptiest places I have ever been, and riding out first to Atar, and then beyond, felt incredibly isolating. The road to Atar (my first stop) was tarmac the whole way, and while I passed very few vehicles there were periodic police checkpoints. At each one of these you have to hand over your details, and this time (unlike in Morocco) I was prepared and had 20 photocopies in my jacket pocket, and combined with a handshake and a chirpy "Ça va" I was through most of them in under 30 seconds.
Beyond Atar, the tarmac disappears, and so does the traffic. The ride from Atar to Oudane took around five hours, and it was piste (graded dirt/gravel) all the way. It is the first time that I felt very glad I had a hardy motorbike; up to now any bike could have coped with the route, but the amount of bumps, holes and corrugations on this part would have shaken my old bike to pieces within minutes. But while the bike was up to the job, my riding skills were patently lacking. On the loose surface, the front wheel skittered around like anything, and the back would occasionally slide out too. I spent the first few hours in a state of permanent tension, gripping the bars and reacting every time the bike skidded more than a centimetre. After a while I realised that a little bit of skidding was ok and I gradually relaxed and started to take in the surroundings.
In the five hours it took to get to Oudane I saw maybe one car, a few guys on camels or herding goats, and the occasional scattering of huts that counts as a village in these parts. There were whole stretches, 50km or more, where I saw no signs of human life other than the road itself. As the bike crunched on across the varying road surface, I figured that it would not be a good place to have an accident.
Oudane is a small town perched on a hill, with the new town butting up against the old. The largely ruined old town is apparently Unesco protected, but walking around it you can imagine just what it would have been like at the height of its significance in the 13th century. I arrived just as school was chucking out, so was instantly surrounded by a gang of kids all wanting to have a look at the bike. After a bit of chatting and a lot of miscomprehension on both sides, I was invited in for some food by one of the ladies who runs a shop (which after a day without eating was delicious) and then wandered around the town.
As evening fell I found a place to stay, a nearby auberge that rented out little stone huts for a few pounds a night. My intention was to head to Chinguetti the next day, and while I could go back the way I cam there was also the option of going off piste and following the tracks through the desert. A few hundred metres of trying that out soon put paid to that idea. While riders in the Dakar rally have no problem blasting across hundreds of miles of sand, they have three things that I don't - lighter bikes, no luggage and crucially, skills. My attempts saw the front wheel going everywhere, and despite the tips I had received about 'getting up on the pegs as quickly as possible' it just wasn't clicking. While I could see that I was getting slightly better the more I tried, I figured that 100km unsupported across the Sahara desert was not the ideal place to learn, so I opted for the easier route.
After an evening of pushing my French skills to the limit, discussing with the owner of the auberge the implications of Brexit, the US election and my reasons for leaving my job and going travelling, the morning saw me heading to Chinguetti. This is a 'real' (i.e. more like the movies) desert town - surrounded by an endless expanse of towering sandy dunes. I didn't stop for long, just for a wander round (but long enough for the local kids to spot my bike) then headed back, first to Atar and then to Nouakcott, and ready for the ride into Senegal.
