Wasting time in The Gambia

Well, things have taken a turn for the worse with travelling through Africa and we have to come home. We can’t (at present) get into SA or Namibia if we’ve been through an Ebola country, which if we carry on we will be – if we could get in, that is. The Cameroon border is still closed, Nigeria isn’t a particularly happy place and it’s all kicking off in Burkina Faso, too. If we do carry on towards Togo, Benin etc, then we can’t sell the bikes and shipping home is too expensive. So, selling the bikes in The Gambia and flying home looks like our option…

Another issue has been the effects of the antimalaria tablets on me. I’ve stopped taking them, weeks ago, but they have ruined my stomach. However, I’ve just drank a big bottle of pink stuff and now I no longer have to drive the porcelain bus for hours every day, which is nice.

In other news, we’ve fed monkeys and other stuff of that nature in a reserve here. We had a tour guide - which was mandatory – who was the biggest pervert I’ve ever met and kept on taking photos ‘on the sly’ with his phone. A strange man, he also demonstrated how termites bite by shoving his hand in a nest. Maybe he should’ve shoved his face in it. Or genitals. I’d have tipped him if he put his genitals in a termite mound. But he didn’t, so he got nothing. No imagination, some people.

I think this is some sort of goat,

Oh yeah, almost forgot. Near the end he said he would take us to see the hippo. I like hippos. What he actually meant was he’d take us to a room in which there was a hippos head. It was stuffed with straw and smelt a bit funky. That wasn’t the highlight of the day if I’m honest, although he looked chuffed as nuts with it. Maybe he goes home and masturbates over it. I wouldn’t put it past him.

We have also been to see crocodiles. This was a bit strange, really. In the previous reserve there wasn’t really anything dangerous anywhere yet you needed a guide. In the crocodile park you didn’t, and there were crocs everywhere. What happens if I was a Peter Sutcliffe-alike and had a penchant for hammers? I’d not make it out with all my limbs. [As a side note, I don’t think Dee has ever really trusted me since I described Peter Sutcliffe as a ‘DIY enthusiast’ when she asked who he was]

A 'snap' of a croc. Get it? HAHA I'M SO FUNNY

So that’s that. In the mean time before we come back, we will mainly be being harassed by everyone here. One man on the beach the other day did call me ‘Big Boy’ though so it’s not all bad. The dried fish in the market though, that is bad. 

New job idea: Hotel Inspector

Having just stayed at Jammu Africa, I found the description on Booking.com slightly misleading. I wouldn’t want others to feel the same so I’ve taken the time to re-write it.I'm submitting this to Trip Advisor and booking as I type...

Jammu Africa Lodge, Brufut

Situated in the arse end of nowhere, don’t even consider to book with us unless you have a vehicle capable of finishing the Paris-Dakar rally and enjoy the remote - if slightly rapey – back alleys of Brufut.

Our apartments are equipped with air conditioning, which we won’t let you use as it’s ‘too expensive’ and ‘not for guests’ and ‘broken’. Obviously, it isn’t really broken, we are just tighter than a ducks arse and won’t let you have the remote even though you booked and paid for a room with air con. Don’t worry though, as we are so dedicated to customer service, after we’ve finished smoking indoors we will bring you a portable fan that is noisier than Dot Cottons tumbledrier full of dead cats.

During your nights stay at Jammu Africa, there will be an autistic child with a keyboard and a drum kit playing ‘choonz’ until 4am in the morning. We won’t warn you of this, or apologise. This is because we don’t care what you think.

We also boast facilities such as an oven, fridge, microwave and mosquito net. We’re just lying through our teeth here, they don’t exist. This is what is brilliant about the internet, you can pretend to be anything you want. I could join up to an internet dating site and pretend to be a girl, all I’d have to do is tuck my willy between my legs to give myself a mangina. This is all fine and dandy, but when a paying customer turns up they are surely to be disappointed when my lady garden isn’t as expected. Atleast I hope they’d be disappointed. If they’re not I must be giving off the wrong signals. One of my friends met a girl through the internet and she pissed on him when they were playing hide the sausage. I wouldn’t like that.

At Jammu Africa you can enjoy food and drinks from our restaurant. We serve all our dishes with a metric-fuck-tonne of salt, in the hope that you will buy drinks from us before you shrivel up and die. Usually, we only have eggs. So you can have a wide variety of dishes such as eggs and salt, or omelette and salt, or eggs, chips. And salt.

As we are located miles from anywhere, we offer a shuttle service in one of our fleet of tired vehicles. However, we don’t like to take you where you actually want to go, because it’s ‘too far’ and we are, naturally, lazy Spanish imbeciles. When we have kept you waiting long enough, our vehicle will break down. We think this happens because our driver does not wash and the B.O. fumes choke the engine, but we’re too lazy to find out for sure.

You can enjoy us talking to our maid like she is dirt, this makes us feel big and clever. Despite the fact that she is the only member of staff that does anything, I may look fifteen and have pubic hair sporadically growing out of my face, but I boss her around to make myself feel better.

We hope you enjoy your stay.

I'm Indiania Jones

Swapped bike for a horse. It didn't have a name so I've called it evostick.

 

Predictably, it was a complete bastard and now my testicles hurt. The bit of leather stuff that's connected to the steering end did, er, fuck all, and the kicky bit that makes it go forwards doesn't work either.

Essentially I've spent three hours being bucked and walking round in circles. Next time I want to do that, I'll swap the b for an f and go for a walk after the pub.

We have arrived in The Gambia anyway. They speak English here which is weird, and the plug sockets are English and the vehicles have registration plates. With that in mind, you may expect the currency to not require a set of pallet trucks and a hessian sack to transport it to the shop in order to purchase a loaf - The biggest note they do is a 100 bill. That's 1.50 in proper money. My wallet looks like I've clubbed the Queen to death and ran off with her purse.

I've just been told the Queen doesn't actually carry money so that's another one dead for no reason. You get the point, I have lots of notes yet not a lot of money.

I'm also quite ill. I don't think these doxycycline tablets agree with me, so I'm stopping them. If I die from malaria, please make a 1,000 Gambian bill and put my face on it.

We survived Rosso...

Well, we survived the cesspit that is Rosso. I'm not going to talk too much about it as my keyboard won't survive the ordeal, but I can honestly say it was the worst experience of my life. If I had the choice between going through again or spending the night with my mouth open in the gents toilets, posing as a porcelain urinal, I'd choose the latter in a heartbeat.

When we left the border, considerably poorer I might add, we had to ride in the dark - something we said we would never do. Not because we're scared of it, but our lights are to visibility what incontinence is to sex appeal. Still, somehow we made it to the Zebra Bar in Saint-Louis. Along the dirt track, Dee broke her front rack. We got it welded up:

 

 And then we got the rear racks extended. Not pretty, but functional. Look at my rack!

Then we took a canoe out over the river Senegal to the beach. Lots of crabs. They run away when you try and catch them. I'm like the king of crabs. It's always good to be in control of your crab situation. 

 And bats...

And baboons, which wake you up by thumping on the roof! There is also a picture of me in my pants pretending to be a monkey. I'm not quite sure why that's on there.

 

 

Now we are in another campsite, this time with internet. Zebra Bar is nice, but it seems a bit silly to not provide internet for what is essentially an overlanders campsite. It's bloody hot here too, with lots of mozzies.

We need to extend our passavants for the bikes somehow and then I think we are going to go to The Gambia before heading to Mali. Not really sure.

Anyway. No more Rosso. Ever.

Mauritania

We are in Nouakchott. It’s pronounced “Noo-aaaa, aaa, aaaa, SHOT” like you’re sneezing. Staying in Auberge Sahara at the moment, we crossed the border, stayed in Nouadhibou for one night and then rode the 297 miles here in one sitting, stopping only for fuel, checkpoints and water. I shit you not, I drank three litres and didn’t need to take a piss. That’s what happens when you’re riding through the desert and it’s 43 degrees.

The checkpoints are becoming increasingly hostile and there are lots of men asking me for fish. Some just shout at you, others won’t get off their mattresses on the floors of their huts, and some just look intimidating but let you go through. Must’ve been 20+ stops between Nouadhibou and Nouakchott.

Which means we have come from here:

To here:

That's quite far. 

The border crossing itself took about five hours and wasn’t too bad. Those of you that are unfortunate enough to know me will be aware that busy places aren’t really my cup of tea unless I’m drunk, and this is a dry country – So I’m pretty pleased we made it out only having paid one bribe of 5E each to get the bikes in.

The driving here is beyond belief, god help you if you break down. The cars by the side of the roads are shells, everything – and I mean everything – is stripped. Driveshafts, brakes, engines, doors, interiors, even the roof panels tin-snipped out. Once moving you’re doing well if nobody hits you. Cars here don’t have lights, every one, all smashed. We also witnessed a man change a car tyre with his bare hands – no levers, just some engine oil as lube.

Now here’s where things have gone a little bit pear-shaped. No banks will change our small denomination US dollars (‘MERICA!) and the sole purpose of coming to Nouakchott was to get our Senegal Visas, which we’ve already paid for. Guess what? Despite selecting ‘collect from our Embassy in Nouakchott, pass go, collect £200’ you can’t.

“Machine is off”

“When’s it on?”

“Never. Go Rosso.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuu….”

Rosso is widely known as the most corrupt border crossing in Africa. We planned to avoid it, going to Diama, which is 60km away down a dirt piste, through a national park. As we won’t have our Visas, we can’t do that. Someone here, Ba-Ba (I never did ask if he had any wool), said he was a fixer there and the [Diama] border is closed now anyway, so Rosso it is. I might pre-lube so I’m prepared for the inevitable. (We’ve read of people having to ram the gates down to escape, money beaten out of them for getting passports back, and even people face down dead in the sand in the customs area…)

Oh yeah, also, our Visas are supposed to take 48h to process and aren’t valid until the 10^th. Our bikes aren’t allowed in the country after the 9^th. Super. We’ve tried to buy Carte Brun insurance here, but everyone looks at us like we’ve just taken a shit in their shoes, so we’ll do that in Senegal too.

Hopefully we can get the Visas at Rosso without getting killed, mugged, raped or relieved of our bikes, and hopefully we can change the date they commence.

We will leave tomorrow at sunrise. I've made a cover for my shopping basket out of pizza boxes and tape so the numerous thieves can't just take stuff from the top at will. 

Update.

If my pictures are in the wrong order, I can't help it. The internet here is powered by a small donkey working a giant wooden hamster wheel. In wellies. Backwards.


Since the last update, we stayed in a cave type building thing in Tiznit. The campsite man who I shall refer to as Biffa, seeing as he smelt like a bin – actually, that’s unfair to a bin. A bin that’s purpose was to relieve the homeless of B.O. stained clothes, fungus ridden socks that had been shat in by pigs and the internal rotting organs of the geriatric population of the Isle of Wight – informed us that it had only rained twice in two years there. Well, it rained all day there for us…!

Still, we slept on the floor and were dry, so that’s good. I had dry pants, I was happy.

From there we went to Tan Tan. The visibility wasn’t great.

It is however an ideal environment for disposing of dead bodies! If I was a serial killer this is definitely where I’d take them. Either that or I’d do what Dexter did and throw them in the sea. Except I don’t have a boat and I’m pretty sure Mr Red Funnel ticket man would get suspicious if you kept on bringing on rolls of carpet. Or corpses. So definitely the desert is better for hiding people you’ve killed with your mums breadknife if you lack a boat.

We stayed next to the beach. Still haven’t got a bucket and spade. It smelt of fish, like most of Morocco.

THEN! DUN DUN DUUUUNNN! We rode through more desert and got to 35km away from Laayoune. There were camels. We saw a sign for them, we saw actual camels, then we ate one in a tagine. I wonder if it was responsibly sourced, or they just went and rammed it with a jeep? It was pretty tender so maybe they rammed it a few times. Perhaps they have a special vehicle for it, with little tenderising hammers all over it. If not I could invent one, I’d call it the Camel-Twatter.

Now we are in Boujdor. There are lots and lots of checkpoints here. Lots of police with guns. We also saw two dogs shagging on the top of a rooftop. Tomorrow we will head towards Dakhla.

A slight change of plan...

It's common knowledge that I cannot be trusted to go anywhere without licking people.
Tescos for example. Can't cope. Must. Lick. People.

With this in mind, the borders of Africa are on to me and we've had to change our route. We can no longer go straight from Mauritania to Mali, the border is closed. Ebola.

We've got to go into Senegal now, which was not the plan but it shouldn't pose too much of a problem. To do so we have to apply for a visa online and then complete in the embassy, all without licking people. It could prove challenging.

So at the moment, after a day of riding in the rain (I have a damp willy) we are in Tiznit, and tomorrow we go to Tan Tan. I didn't think it rained down here. My pants say otherwise. Unless I'm incontinent? I wouldn't like to be incontinent. You can get incontinence pants though, like big nappies. What do you think they test them with? Gravy? Maybe bolognese without the meatballs. OR with the meatballs?
Although I suppose nobody would ever want to borrow your car or shine your shoes, so, meh, every cloud...

BEARD NEWS:

Chin bit not yet long enough to put into an elastic band. Moustache bit trimmed as 'keeping food in that isn't attractive'


OTHER NEWS:

The mosque men with microphones sound like zombies, and are really getting on my tits.