There Wasn´t GPS

In many ways our African trip took place in the twilight of overland travel. The horrendous civil wars in the Congo and Nigeria had come to a temporary end, and the territorial disputes in the Sahara had not yet begun. Borders that were once open are now closed due to the ongoing spiral of brutal ethnic, religious, and tribal wars that have engulfed the entire continent. Kidnappings of tourists for ransom and the terrorizing and plundering of villages and towns by warlords and mercenaries are commonplace.

The year was 1973. There wasn’t a handbook on how to cross the Sahara and, I had never heard of anyone doing it on a motorcycle. The satellite positioning system GPS, that would one day divide the world’s largest desert into quadrants of a few square meters, existed only in the realm of science fiction.

The best map available seemed like little more than a sketch, and the roads that it showed were little more than sporadically maintained trails that camel caravans once used to traverse the three-thousand-kilometer stretch of desert.

A journey through the uninhabited wastes of North Africa and then into the rain forests of the Congo wasn’t “Easy Riding". When we came down from the Atlas Mountains in Algeria and entered the desert, we cut off our links to the outside world; we were on our own.

A kilometer isn’t that long. You can walk it in under ten minutes, but if you are plowing through drifting sand on a motorcycle carrying petrol, water, camping equipment, food and a passenger it can take half a day.

There was an enormous expanse of stone, gravel and sand waiting to humble and subdue you. Drive sensibly. Take one kilometer at a time or sometimes just a few meters if it was in drifted sand.

You had to be careful. A bad fall with a broken limb or a damaged motorcycle in the open wasteland of the desert could mean disaster.

Jungle

We thought that once we had crossed the desert with all its trials that the worst was over, but as it turned out the narrow sandy ruts walled in by the thick forest vegetation of the Congo Basin were in many ways more challenging. 

In the jungle, traveling was often rendered down to trying to find food and water, a place to camp, and fighting a daily battle with fatigue.  The hollow sloshing in the gas tank and in the jerry cans that we carried water in, was always a reminder of how vulnerable we were. 

Hindsight

Crossing the Sahara and continuing down into Central Africa and along the Congo River to the equator was dramatic, unusual, and dangerous.

The lesson is, if I considered all the ifs and maybes, I would probably have stayed at home and been content to read about someone else’s adventures. But it seems that I was always on a road to some place, a transient on a highway following a path without knowing where it was leading or where it would end.

Rules of the Road 

 In the desert the primary rule of the road was simple. Never stray from the track seeking harder sand. It was easy to get lost in a landscape without recognizable landmarks and ignoring that rule could cost you your life.There were no shortcuts or alternative routes. If you left the track, you could end up like those dried out camel carcasses that we occasionally saw on the side of the trail.

Another rule: It was imperative that we maintained the bike, saw to it that nuts and bolts were tightened, filters clean and that there was  enough gas and water to get us to the next oasis.

A corollary to that rule was never take for granted that there would be gas when you got there.

And the last rule: In the desert it was best to leave any form of cockiness behind.