Working our Way Home

 The end of one journey is always the beginning of the next.  After almost a year on the road, our African trip was nearing its end.We had motorcycled through some of the most inhospitable places on the planet. We had clocked thousands of kilometers on sandy tracks through the world’s largest desert, journeyed fifteen-hundred kilometers on the Congo River into the heart of its rain forest, struggled on narrow trails through the jungles of Cameroon and Nigeria and had come to Senegal worn out and ready to leave the continent.

After months spent living in a small tent and eating whatever we could find in the local markets, I realized that my dreams of crossing the Atlantic to South America and following the Pan American Highway north would have to wait.

I had a mild attack of malaria in Lagos, a souvenir from the Congo, and after I recovered, we made our way along the coast through Dahomey (now Benin), Togo, Ghana, The Ivory Coast and then north through Upper Volta, and then crossed yet another border into southern Mali. We were forced to circumvent Guinea and Guinea Bissau, countries that were closed due to ongoing civil strife. In Bamako in Mali, we loaded the bike onto the train that trafficked the route to Dakar.

We came to Dakar in Senegal looking for a ship that could take us back to Europe. We camped on the beach outside of the city and packed our tent and gear every day and drove to the port. We wandered the docks, boarded every ship, talked to their skippers and booking agents in town and asked if they were sailing north, and more importantly, if they took passengers. We were persistent, seeking out every possible alternative, but without success.  

Our chance of finding passage to Europe diminished with every refusal and we resigned ourselves to the fact that our only alternative of getting back to Europe would be over the challenging terrains of Mauretania, Spanish Sahara, and Morocco.

The Western coastal trail through Mauritania, Spanish Sahara, and Morocco from Senegal back to Europe would be very difficult and we’d  have to do it in the intense heat of summer. Add to that, the Western Sahara was inadequately mapped, the availability of petrol and water was uncertain, and Morocco and Spanish Sahara were involved in a border feud.

After a week of walking the docks, I realized that we were staring at an arduous Two Thousand kilometer trip up through the Western Sahara, when we caught sight of a freighter that had tied up late in the day. It was our last chance, but there was a glint of hope when Kersti saw that it was flying a Norwegian flag.

Even if that was a good omen, we were pessimistic when we gave our search one last try before we returned to our campsite on the beach. It was Saturday evening. On Monday morning we’d go to the relevant embassies and apply for the necessary visas and documents for the demanding trip back through the desert.

We boarded the well-kept freighter with the word “Log” printed in bold letters on the hull, a more fitting name for a river barge than an ocean-going ship, and explained to the captain that we were looking for passage north. 

He told us that his ship was destined for France, and was sympathetic but noncommittal. He said he would have to contact the ship’s owner in Geneva and ask for permission to take on passengers.  

We must have looked pretty worn because he said that we might appreciate a shower and a bed after our months of camping, and invited us to sleep onboard. 

A Shower! 

A bed!

Our staple food for months had been tinned sardines and rice. We were always hungry.

That evening the ship’s cook served filet mignon, potatoes au gratin, salad and fresh bread. We drank Bordeaux wine and finished the feast with ice cream.

It was the first time in many months that I had slept in the comfort of a bed instead of on the hard ground. I usually got up as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, but it was mid morning when I woke up to the rumble and the vibration of the ship’s engine, and shouts of activity on the deck.

I looked out and saw our motorcycle hanging in midair. A crewman was lifting it on board with the cargo crane, and as gently as a leaf floated to the ground, placed it in the hold. Our luck had changed! We were on our way to France.

A surprising answer had come from Geneva during the night. The owner said that we couldn’t travel on the Log as paying passengers but we could be temporarily employed as “workaways”.

Our passage and meals would be free of charge under the condition that we worked while we were on board, but with the stipulation that a missed day of work would cost us ten dollars. 

This was my first time at sea. It was fairly smooth sailing until we came to the notoriously stormy Bay of Biscay. The waves that smashed against the hull of our ship rolled in from the western Atlantic and were unbroken by land for 5,000 kilometers.

I was sea sick. When I managed to raise my head, and look out of the porthole I couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky began.

Both were lead grey, interspersed occasionally by a thin strip of sunlight shining through a crack in the clouds like a neon sign flashing on and off in time with the ships rising and falling. 

We pitched and rolled while the wind whipped waves ten meters high, battered the ship from every side. We climbed the crests of enormous walls of foaming water only to crash down again on an endless mid-Atlantic roller coaster.

I dry heaved. My stomach turned itself inside out and felt as if it would come up through my throat. What was worse than that intense nausea were the thoughts about the conditions in our “work-away“ contract. It would cost us ten dollars each for every day we didn’t work.

Even if I would never even remotely contemplate becoming a sailor, I was determined to get my “sea legs“ in a hurry. Motivated by a mixture of work ethic and frugality, I managed to come up to the galley on feet as unsure as a toddler’s. Kersti stayed in her bunk.

The captain sat there alone. The rest of the crew was either sick or had no appetite. I braced myself against the cabin wall, took a few steps, steadied myself again, and grabbed onto a chair to avoid falling. I sat down when the angle of the floor and my balance reached a truce.

I turned up the hinged barriers on the edge of the table that prevented the plates and cutlery from sliding off. The captain steadied a coffee cup that was rocking back and forth in time with the surge and looked up from his breakfast.

Instead of greeting me with a cheerful “Good morning” he said in a matter of fact tone, “Eat, you’ll feel better.” I tried, albeit with limited success, and learned a life lesson.: Never eat Roquefort cheese when you are seasick.

 We thanked our lucky stars for our good fortune, and the captain and sailors of the Log for their kindness and hospitality, and disembarked in Rouen, on the Seine west of Paris. All that remained of our trip from the 60th north parallel to the equator and back again was the uneventful 3000-kilometer drive on modern roads to Stockholm. No jungle, no snakes or desert sand, no crocodiles waiting for breakfast when we went down to a river to bathe or wash our few clothes. There were petrol stations and grocery stores everywhere.

It was another world.