We took delivery of our motorcycles in London. All of the African countries had embassies there where we could apply for visas and purchase what we needed for the trip.
Before setting out on a journey that would take us from the north of Europe to the equator and back again, we travelled through England while waiting for the relevant documents to be processed and gathering the equipment that we’d need for the trip. It was important for us to be practical and make distinctions between what was nice to have and things that were an absolute necessity for a long stay in Africa.
A good tent, an extra tire, oil and air filters, jerry cans to fill with enough water and petrol to get us to the next oasis or village and reliable camping gear were essentials. There wasn’t any room on the motorcycle for luxuries.
Taking along the right things were much more important than a lot of extra clothes or comforts. We had our sights set on the tropics and equipped ourselves for the arduous journey across the Sahara and down into the African rainforest, and didn’t think too much about the trip through Europe and the unseasonable weather that we’d run into on the way.
We rode south from London and crossed the English Channel at Dover, continuing through the French countryside, camping in the forest or staying at hostels along the way. Riding on a motorcycle day after day, sleeping in a tent in the chilly and damp autumn days of northern Europe we were never really able to get completely warm.
To give ourselves some comfort when we shivered in our tent at night, or the chilling wind stung our cheeks and numbed our fingers as we rode, we said that it would certainly be warmer when we got farther south.
When we were caught in an early snowstorm while crossing the high Pyrenees and I struggled with the heavily loaded bike with Kersti sitting behind me on the treacherous serpentine roads, we managed to stammer through chattering teeth, “Spain will be warmer”.
That evening our legs were so stiff that we could barely lift them to climb off of the bike. We made camp in the half light of the mountain pass on the Andorra border between France and Spain.
When we woke in the morning and pulled out the floor pegs and removed the poles and loosened the support lines, the tent was frozen in place and stood unsupported. We had inadvertently camped in the highest point in the mountains.
Not quite thawed out, we had difficulty appreciating the beauty of the peaks and valleys surrounding us.
But as the sun rose higher, so did our spirits and once again we managed what became our optimistic mantra, “it will be warmer when we come down into Spain.” It was a little warmer, but not much.
When we crossed the Straits of Gibraltar into North Africa the weather was better and we were convinced that it was finally going to be warmer. It was in fact, but still chilly at night.
After making the final preparations for the long trip ahead of us in Africa, we crossed the band of fields and orchards on the Algerian coast and started up through the mountains that separated the coastal plain from the northern Sahara.
As we climbed higher, we were met by a chilly rain that got colder and eventually turned into wet snow. We drove through the slush and said again, “It must be warmer in the desert.”
And when we got into the northern Sahara, we put on all our clothes at night, Kersti crawled into her sleeping bag and then put it inside of mine, and we said, “It will be warmer when we get farther south.
As it turned out the saying was right, “be careful what you wish for, it might just come true.”
When we had crossed the desert and came into the scrublands of Chad it was 40 degrees Celsius (110 degrees F.) and still exposed and unsheltered from the elements, instead of fighting the cold, we struggled to avoid dehydration and heat stroke.
A memory that warms me every time
Hostel--The road slithered serpent like through the passes and valleys of the high Pyrenees. It took a day to come down, skirting the Principality of Andorra and struggling through wet snow.
We were numb from the cold when we finally made it to the Spanish side. In the first village we came to we found a hostel, rustic but inviting with sturdy stone walls and floors of rough-hewn oak planks worn smooth from the boots of tradesmen and farmers.
The mule in the stall underneath was bedded down for the night. When we sat down to dinner, the woman who served us, realizing that we had come down from the high mountains, placed a brazier filled with glowing charcoal under the table and filled a porron with wine from an oak barrel in the back of the tavern.