Sahara - the Desert

The name Sahara is a dialectical Arabic word for emptiness or desert, but to distinguish it from other deserts the Sahara is called the “Great Desert “ by Northern Africans.  It is a sparsely inhabited, wilderness of sand dunes, stony plateaus, and mountains. It is as large as the continental United States and stretches Three Thousand Five Hundred kilometers from north to south. It begins after the Atlas Mountains in Algeria and ends in the Sahel, the arid, rugged landscape where the desert meets the greenery of Central Africa.

Imagine yourself taking a cross country trip on a motorcycle starting out in New York, with destination San Francisco. But instead of cruising on a superhighway with an abundance of restaurants, service stations and motels, you travelled on tracks covered in deep sand or loose gravel through a barren unpopulated, landscape, with places where there might be a chance of finding potable water and petrol hundreds of kilometers apart.

 Leaving civilization behind could seem unsettling without backup or any means of communication where your only security was a thin mountain tent, a motorcycle and a good portion of self-confidence. That was crossing the Sahara and it wasn’t a trip for the faint of heart.'

Carte D’Afrique Michelin, Michelin Map of Africa

In 1973 the internet, with its satellite maps that are accurate within a few meters, was still science fiction and there wasn’t the “Lonely Planet” guide book to give travelers inspiration and advice.

Our Michelin map, updated every few years, was our only reference. The thin line down the center of the North African map depicted the trail that sliced through the immense Saharan wilderness as a semi-improved road. In reality it turned out to be an exaggerated description of the rocky, corrugated ruts or drifted sand track that we would travel on for three-thousand-five-hundred kilometers.

Suivez la Piste!

We followed the direction markers that staked out the track through dunes, over rutted paths and on uneven, barely visible trails. It was the same route used by Berber camel caravans through the centuries.

There was an asphalt road planned through the heart of the desert from Algiers in Algeria, through the deep and difficult sands of Niger, onward into the Sahel in Northern Nigeria.

When we travelled it though, it was still an unrealized, unpaved and sporadically maintained dream. At intervals there were signs with grave warnings not to stray from it.

The undulating mounds of sand and gravel that stretched to the horizon were continually shifting and caused the track to disappear at times. Losing sight of its markers and inadvertently wandering out into the desert could end in tragedy.  

In the quiet of the Sahara, you didn’t need a watch, the sun told us when it was time to start and time to stop. I was more interested in the motorcycle’s odometer silently registering the kilometers as we plowed through its drifted sand and bounced over its stony trails.

The most important thing when we set out to cross that inhospitable wilderness was that we calculated our petrol and water supplies correctly and that didn’t lose sight of the pylons that marked out the trail or “Piste” as it was called in French.

Capricious and Demanding 

We filled the tank and jerry cans with as much water and petrol as we could carry and stocked up for the arduous crossing that awaited us from what little we could find in the way of dry goods in the bazars.

This was before there were the conveniences of freeze-dried dinners, energy bars and supplements that campers and adventurers now take for granted.

We packed dozens of tins of sardines, powdered milk, a couple of kilos of dates, tiny cans of tomato paste, onions, rice and elbow macaroni. It wasn’t food for a feast but it was enough to get us to the first oasis where we could replenish our supplies.

It didn’t take long before we started seeing the sand-blasted warning signs posted with a simple and blunt message:

Suivez la Piste! Follow the Track!

The stone pylons at one-kilometer intervals that pointed out the way stood as a silent reminder, warning travelers that straying out into the desert could be fatal, and the battered vehicles left abandoned and scavenged were a reminder of how difficult the passage was. Any form of engine or gear box wear was exaggerated by the strain of the heat and effort of forcing a path through the loose sand.

The demanding conditions of a desert passage required not only physical stamina and good planning but also careful and frequent maintenance of the motorcycle. I tightened and retightened all the screws, nuts and bolts on the bike, changed the oils and filters in the gearbox and motor and checked every possible point that could cause a problem.

Bon Courage!

A sloshing sound in the tank was a stark and recurring reminder that I needed to fill it. I was continually unscrewing the cap and peering into it, measuring the quantity of fuel by eye and roughly dividing it by the kilometers to the next oasis.

The distance between the oases seemed endless when there were only a few liters left and the extra fuel cans were empty. Struggling through soft sand caused the engine to consume fuel at an alarming rate and we were in trouble if there wasn’t any at the places that were marked out on the map.

On one of the long stretches between oases, we stopped at a mud brick hut tucked into the dunes to fill up. There was petrol there and I was relieved that the map was accurate. 

A boy in a flowing robe, the common dress among the Berbers, greeted us with a welcoming “Salam Aleikum” and served us tea in a touching gesture of hospitality. After the tea formalities he filled a measuring tin with a handpump from a 200-liter drum. I was always worried about what was in those drums and hoped that the petrol we filled the tank with was not diluted or contaminated by sand or other impurities that could clog the fuel filters or gum up the carburetors.

We met two Frenchmen there who were traveling in the opposite direction trying to make it back to Algiers. When we met other travelers we always shared details about the condition of the trail and where there was petrol or supplies.

The Frenchmen felt that the trail ahead was too difficult for their Citroen and reluctantly, but prudently, decided to turn back. They had tire trouble and had already used their spare and were worried about getting stranded in the long rocky stretches without any chance of getting help.

When we parted they didn’t use the normal French phrase, “Au revoir,” but rather said an encouraging, “Bon Courage, Be strong.”       

It's difficult to imagine the vastness of the Sahara until you have been in it, and was too big to grasp in its entirety; you had to take it on the sparsely inhabited wilderness scene by scene.

The desert’s sunbaked earth was painted with a broad brush in strokes of grey and beige. It was easy to feel insignificant in its uninviting immenseness.

I could understand why mystics and penitents sought its solitude to cleanse their spirits and come nearer to their gods. It was stark and lonely, barren, and drained of color like a lunar landscape.

I sometimes felt as though we were traveling through an enormous stretch of nothing.

The night sky in contrast, was a living sea of light with stars that shone so brightly and seemed so close that you could reach out and touch them.

As we travelled south and the night temperature became warmer, we put our sleeping bags down on the ground and fell asleep looking up into the heavens where the pollution from the lights of the nearest town or settlement was a thousand miles away.

I saw the Milky Way’s bright band stretching from horizon to horizon above me and I sometimes felt as though I wasn’t traveling on a desert track but floating through space.

Heed good advice, don’t stray from the track

Carelessness could mean disaster. This was one of the most difficult environments on the planet. It was a desolate wasteland of sand and stone, but it was only frightening if you lost your way, or if you were out of water or petrol or if your vehicle broke down.

If you were inclined, there were an enormous number of problems and impediments that you could worry about. However, there were real problems to deal with. What was the point of worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet.

It was much more useful to concentrate on not straying from the track, plowing through the next stretch of loose sand, listening to the engine for any signs of trouble, calculating petrol and water reserves and how long your rations would last. Those were concrete worries.

And…. After all the precautions were taken you needed a good portion of luck.  

The Harmattan

It was sometimes difficult to predict what the next stretch of trail would look like or what the next day would bring. Storm winds could blow at a hundred kilometers an hour and reshape the landscape. Sometime the dust from those storms were carried on air currents all the way to Northern Europe, tinting the sky there in hues of crimson and red.

At times, the Harmattan howled and the sand that it whipped up pelted our skin and dulled the paint on the motorcycle. The dust caked in our nostrils and coagulated in the moisture in our eyes. It seeped in under our clothing and boots. Blowing sand pitted my goggles to the point that I couldn’t see.

Occasionally we were forced to stop because of the poor visibility and the risk of losing sight of the trail markers and driving out into the desert. We had to stop not only because the trail was obscured, sand was abrasive and created wear on any moving parts.  I covered the bike and plugged the exhaust pipes so that fine sand wouldn’t blow into them and find its way through open intake or exhaust valves and into the motor’s cylinders.

Occasionally we met Tuareg tribesmen traveling on camels swept in the flowing indigo blue robes. A traditional dress that protected them from both the sun and the sand laden wind. The flowing robes protected them not only from the sun and loss of body moisture but from the frequent sandstorms.

Hitching a Ride in Tamanrasset

The arduous first leg of the desert crossing was over. We came down through the Hoggar Mountains and into Tamanrasset which was the main town in the region. We were tired but had completed the first 2000-kilometer stretch of our journey from Algiers without mishap.

The machines were proving their worth and we found petrol and supplies where we expected them to be. Tamanrasset was the main stop on the historical caravan route to Nigeria in the central Sahara, but still at the time of our crossing, was little more than a cluster of shops, a workshop and a petrol station.  The police station, a rudimentary mud brick hut housed the law in the desolate central Sahara. 

Every vehicle that continued south after Tamanrasset had to check in and fill out forms with the police. We stated our destination and estimated our arrival time at the next oasis.  The police inspected the motorcycle and then put our form on a dusty stack among others that probably hadn’t been looked at or moved in years.

The fact that there was a stone holding our “Authorization de Voyage” in place in that cheerless room didn’t do anything to reassure me that we could rely on the desert police for help in an emergency or if we were reported missing.

The most demanding and strenuous leg of the crossing was between Tamanrasset and Agadez in northern Niger. It was 700 kilometers of drifting sand without an oasis where I could refill the tank and water containers.

I’d need to carry extra petrol and water for the long crossing and there wouldn’t be room for a passenger. The engine was using a lot more fuel in the soft sand plus the added weight of a passenger on the back wheel would make driving through it difficult.

Kersti and I started looking for a lorry or other vehicle headed towards Agadez and as luck had it, we met a group of Canadians who were going south and could make some space for her in their van.There was an easy camaraderie and generosity among travelers. You shared what you had. If someone showed you a kindness or gave you help, you passed it on when you could to the next person in need.

Forcing a Heavy Motorcycle Through Sand

For long stretches the road was an endless washboard, caused by overloaded trucks bouncing on the packed surface. The track became wider and wider as vehicles veered out seeking a smoother surface to avoid the worst corrugations and ruts.

The vibrations that jolted us and caused my jaws to ache from my teeth banging together, could be avoided by driving over them at high speed, an impossibility on a heavily loaded motorcycle carrying a passenger.

When we drove on sand the only way to get through it was by following Newtons Law; “an object in motion tends to stay in motion.” If I let up on the gas or didn’t keep the front wheel straight, the bike sank down to the exhaust pipes and the only way we could get out was by Kersti climbing off and lifting the back end while I walked alongside, pushing on the handle bar and at the same time feathering the gas and clutch.

Agadez

I met up with Kersti again as planned in Agadez a week after leaving Tamanrasset. We rested and prepared for the last stretch of desert that would take us to Zinder near the Nigerian border five-hundred kilometers distant. 

Reports were that the sand was drifted and loose on some stretches of the track. We were advised to wait until it was firmer before we continued into the Tenere as the Tuareg people called that part of the Sahara. After a few days, I became impatient and restless and wanted to get going again and said that “we couldn’t get to Zinder by standing and staring at the trail. Let’s give it a try.”

I straddled the bike while Kersti ran behind for a hundred meters lifting and pushing.  Suddenly the back wheel found a hard surface to bite into and we were on our way again.

There was a noticeable difference in the temperature as we traveled south.  In the southern Sahara the heat was visible in shimmering, perpendicular waves that distorted and blurred the horizon. These were the mirages that people wandering in the desert without water talked about, beds of glaring sand on the horizon that could fool you into thinking that you were traveling towards a shimmering lake.

A month after we started out in Algiers on the Mediterranean coast we came to the end of the desert and entered the sprawling plains of the Sahel.  It was a relatively short hop to Kano the first major town in the Sub-Sahara. From there we’d continue down into Central Africa.

When we finally returned to the narrow asphalt road in The Nigerian Sahel the daunting desert crossing was over. There wasn’t anyone to say to greet us and say “congratulations, well done,” or journalists waiting to ask questions and take photographs.

For me it was just a relief to be finished with the sand, but what I didn’t realize was that in many respects the long desert crossing was the easiest part of our African odyssey.

Water  

Water was said to be God’s gift to the desert, said to be a gift of God in both the Bible and the Quran.

Our map pointed out the larger settlements and villages. We were always relieved when there was petrol where they said it would be, but finding water was a continual problem. At times it was barely drinkable but we weren’t fussy. There was a shortage of it everywhere and we had begun to see the carcasses of cattle strewed among the parched scrub of the plains.

The water crisis in the Sahel was acute and stretched into the areas that should have normally had if not abundant, adequate rainfall. Signs of the severe draught were everywhere, but we were unaware of them. We had come from the desert and assumed this lack of water was normal. 

We had a hard time locating drinking water. It was difficult to find anyone in the villages that would give us, or even sell us some. Added to that, there was a food shortage. Even the most basic supplies were unavailable.

At the time we didn’t realize that we were witnessing firsthand the severe African droughts with failed harvests and famine that would be world news in the decades that would come.