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Motorcyclist Illustrated November, 1975
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part 3
by Fergus & Sharyn Reilly
Northern Algeria
1891 klms
Oujda, Morocco
November 1st, 1974
(day 59 - 11763 klms)
to
Tadjemout, Algeria
November 12th, 1974
(day 70 - 13654 klms)
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It was November 1, the anniversary of the revolution, when
we rode into Algeria. Even the smallest towns were crowded with people
and flags. We saw old men on horseback. probably veterans of the war,
bedecked in flowing robes and sporting huge rifles. When we stopped for
the night in a ruined house, the bullet holes peppering the walls
further reminded us of past hostilities.
We traveled directly south and onto the plain of Traff,
where the wind was bitterly cold. When we stopped for frequent cups of
goat's milk coffee the whole village would turn out to view the bikes.
We had found a bitumen road, not marked on the map. which led us
directly to Aflou and by-passed the larger towns. It seemed to be an
area of horsemen and often we would pass a lone rider on the almost
desolate plain, invariably carrying a rifle.
On finally reaching Aflou we were confronted by confusion. A
signpost to Laghouat indicated left, but the road deteriorated into a
dirt track. which promptly vanished into a field whose sole "crop" was
15 no entry signs! Eventually we found a footpath which led us into the
midst of multitudes of men fiercely haggling over horse trappings, and
who grimly watched us and our cumbersome loads as we passed and finally
regained the tarmac. The road wound down from the plateau and into more
hilly terrain. We decided to camp in a dried up river bed; wood was
scarce but donkey dung abundant. so we made an enormous fire with the
two to ward off the cold, much to the amusement of an old Bedouin cattle
owner whose tent was pitched on the nearby hill.
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As we moved further south, sheep, goats and donkeys gave
way to camel herds. The vegetation grew sparser until we reached
Ghardia, set in a huge sand bowl carved out of the plateau. About five
small villages are clustered round mosques perched on different
hilltops, with the commercial centre in the middle.
We decided to stay a few days and prepare the bikes for the
desert, and have my luggage carrier welded. Carried away with our
efforts, we cleaned the bikes as well, much to the jeering of those who
had come from the desert and were traveling northwards. The director of
the campsite applauded our work and would come over, with mint tea and
dates as welcome distractions.
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We spent the remaining days wandering round Ghardia. The
town has an air of serenity, not even marred by the busy market. Often
during the day and evening the prayer callers cry from the mosques,
confirming the town's history as an enclave of orthodox Muslims. One day
we heard loud shouting and roars, which I was convinced must be a horse
spectacle - so much for romantic notions; when we located the source a
riotous football match was in progress, with police controlling the
excited crowd. It could have been Easter Road on an off-day, except the
spectators were all wearing long djellabahs.
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When it started to rain we decided to move south in search
of the sun! The sand increased as we traveled, at first the occasional
small dune, then larger and larger until the bitumen road was sometimes
almost buried beneath a drift. It was hairy riding the loaded bikes
through thirty yards of 6 inches to a foot-and-a-half of sand, what
would it be like later on?
Fergus was determined to take a close-up of a camel. After seeing
several herds in the distance he suddenly left the road and went riding
off into the middle distance. Having herded the five bemused camels into
a tight group by driving in crazy circles over the rocky plain, he
gained his shot, plus the usual arrogant stare from the lordly camels!
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Huge signs had been warning us of the penalties
involved if we did not report to the authorities in El Goleah and
declare our intention of traveling further south. The authorities
seemed pleased to have us stop by, but only for curiosity as In Salah is
now the first check point. I found the market to buy food for the next
stretch, only to return and find Fergus and the bikes lost in a sea of
people five deep. Even on the road as we moved further south, kids
would come running and waving to the road side, seemingly from out of
nowhere.
The road cuts through the middle of a huge, flat plain with
sand dunes whipped into fantastic shapes on the very edges. Unable to
resist their temptation, we left the road and heeded towards the
horizon. After bumping over rocks and falling into sand holes we finally
made it. Beautiful yellow razor-backed dunes began abruptly and
stretched away from us as far as we could see and we exhausted ourselves
running up and down.
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Next morning when we awoke after a freezing night, the
ridges were coated with ice and Fergus rode his loaded bike up and down
the solid dunes with ease.
After following our tracks, and, in my case, falling down
the same sand holes, we made it back to the road. We soon lost sight of
the dunes where upon all we could see apart from the tarmac was grey
gravel and rocks on all sides. It gave us a weird feeling to ride mile
after mile through an unchanging landscape, whose edges were impossible
to define as the horizon seemed to be a sea of water!
It was a relief to come down off the plateau onto the desert floor and
soon to see the palm trees of Ain Salah in the distance. Whereas further
north the towns are almost invariably white, Ain Salah is an amazing
homogeneous collection of brown mud houses, all with ornate open work
and decorated with white paint. We found, or perhaps more correctly, the
local official tourist guide found us in the market and offered to show
us to the free camp site in a nearby palmerie.
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Having convinced him it was crazy to run so fast so as to
keep in front of the bikes. we elicited directions and arranged to meet
him there. We pitched our tent inside one of the palm branch cabins for
protection against the cold. and watched the sun go down behind the
palms, whilst sharing wine with the not so orthodox Muslims in this part
of the country.
We changed the tyres back to knobbies on the bikes in
preparation for the ‘piste’ on which all and sundry in the town gave us
their opinion. The general impression however was uniformly bad, so it
seemed essential to have our baggage carried and have our bikes back to
trial riding capabilities. We also took this opportunity to give the
bikes a thorough service and clean as well as sand-proofing them as best
we could.
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We met a local guide who offered to find a truck to carry the baggage.
That night he duly arrived with a lorry driver who, after about four
hours sitting round the fire, settled on a price and time. At 4.30 the
next morning we were packed and ready, though I must confess, not
raring, to go. Six hours later the truck had not arrived, so our
intermediate, to whom we had paid the money, went off in search, only to
return to state the obvious that the truck had left without us. Off we
trooped to the military post in the unique hope of retrieving our money,
which had depleted our supply to barely enough for petrol to
Tamanrasset.
The chief of the post was totally unsympathetic both
because we were stupid enough to hand over money beforehand, and also
because he was convinced that we with our wealth would not miss such a
paltry sum!
We rode back to the local cafe and sat on the verandah
munching dry bread and wondering what to do. We solved our money problem
with a local proprietor who took pity on us, and at a big percentage
changed some money. So at least now we could eat and smoke!
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Three guys in a Land Rover
came over and. after listening to our tale of woe, offered to take the
baggage and accompany us all the way! So at 5 the next morning we were
duly ready. But, when the Land Rover appeared it was obviously fully
loaded and the three men studiously ignored us. We decided that
‘perhaps’ luck was against us in In Salah and totally depressed set off
before dawn for the south fully loaded and with a jerry can of petrol to
get us to the nearest pump.
The tarmac abruptly ended and chaos began. A new layer of
tar stretched ahead, but it was crossed with lines of boulders at
regular intervals. At first we tried dodging the stones. but gave that
up when we realised we were driving so slowly our petrol would probably
not last the distance. We plunged down to the side of the new road into a
sea of dust, gravel and sand.
Tracks were leading off into all directions, and having not seen each
other when we passed within 20 yards, we decided to stop and gather our
wits. It seemed the best solution was for Fergus to go in front as my
sense of direction is nil and for me to follow his tracks.
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I suppose the only way to learn dirt riding is to do it,
but I suddenly wished I had at least tried out riding on sand on some
pleasantly cool Scottish beach! The nightmare grew worse till I fell
with one leg caught underneath the bike and Fergus disappearing off into
the distance in a cloud of dust. Still, I knew he would come back and
sure enough, soon the bike and I were back hammering over the track
again, with rocks waiting in every stretch of sand to catch the wheel
and throw me over. By now paranoia had really set in!
We stopped to rest
under the only available thorn bush for miles, which happened to be two
kilometres off the track. While panting in the shade a Land Rover made
the huge detour to us with a local work crew - just to make sure we were
all right. This was our first introduction to the unwritten law of the
Sahara, viz that one always checks other travelers’ welfare. Such a
different attitude to the predatory ingratiation we had been subjected
to in Ain Salah.
This introduction to sanity calmed me down so we hit the piste once
more, but after falling again the attachment points on my luggage
carrier broke. After looking around and seeing nothing but an expanse of
sand and rock, we removed the luggage and sat down to wait.
We had passed others on the road and we could only hope they could
carry the load to Tadjemout, the nearest oasis. A Swiss Land Rover
arrived and immediately offered us assistance.
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Now the only problem was to hang onto the bike, which took
the tracks well, but fitted with the heavy springs for the baggage did
not really offer my light weight a comfortable ride. We camped that
night totally exhausted, but hoping to reach the oasis next morning.
After leaving at crack of dawn all went well until Fergus's carrier
broke in the identical place after he had fallen. He managed to tie it
up with wire and limped on in a din of tortured metal.
Tadjemout, a tiny oasis comprising one house, a petrol pump
and a source of water which collects in a 6 foot square, 3 foot deep
reservoir called the swimming pool, seemed like paradise. We said
goodbye to our benefactors and then. I promptly collapsed and spent the
day prostrate under a palm tree after my bruising on the heavy duty
springs.
Fergus meanwhile, stripped the bikes. changed over springs, and
explained to all the kindly truck drivers who offered help that we
weren't yet ready to move on.
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