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Isle of Wight to the Sahara Desert... by Any Means Necessary   Friday the 13th isn’t the best day to start a challenge to the Sahara desert if you’re of a superstitious disspersition. Fortunately for me I am not.  I made my own luck and made it to the dunes with a day in hand and cash to spare!  Easy?... Err no. Blisters, back pain, constipation, freezing cold, boiling hot, sleeping rough and 6 hours sleep in the best part of 4 days. For those who know me, I’m sure the thought of my suffering will bring a smile to your face; and it will be returned when I take your well-earned cash!   Day one started at 03:00 with a visit to St Mary’s Neonatal Intensive Care Unit to see the staff that helped Amelie so much. I was quietly nervous.  Conversation was mostly based around the fact that they thought I was nuts; Comments echoed by so many other friends and family. I knew that hitch hiking was going to form the majority of my travel and I must admit that a little doubt started to creep inn. After all I was a mere boy the last time I did anything like this. Text messages of encouragement from my wife and friends lifted me in the early hours and no one could have been more surprised than I, when Wightlink offered to help me on my way with a free ticket to the mainland. Just to remind you, the basics of the challenge were to get to the desert in 7 days but with only £100. I got my first lift with a well-known delivery service, (that shall remain nameless for insurance reasons) and to lift me further, Brittany Ferries were superb by giving me free travel on their high-speed service to France. Needless to say, any pessimism that I may have contracted from the non-believers was left on the shores of Britain. I had the sun on my back and things couldn’t have gone better.   Here are a few basics for the novice hitchhiker:   <ol style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">Always look ready to go. Never leave things lying around your feet. Lean your bag against your legs and it will give the impression that you have less to put on board.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">Take your sunnies off and smile. People think they can tell a lot about a person by their eyes. Your first impression may last a fleeting second.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">Try to choose a spot where drivers can see you on their approach and give them plenty of room to stop.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm -7.7pt 0pt 0cm; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">If you don’t have the right spot then consider walking to another even if it takes you 2 hours to get to the next junction. Otherwise prepare to wait forever.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">The use of a sign may help or hinder. Use a combination of signs to maximise your chances. Prochaine sortie (next exit) will help you out of a tight spot. However, if you find yourself on the main road to a major city in a good spot, don’t give it up for a lift that go’s for just a few kilometres. Stick to your guns and you will be rewarded!</li> </ol>   Just 18 hours after I started, I found myself just shy of the Spanish boarder, in a tent at the side of the motorway. At 22:00 hours I enjoyed my first meal of the day and reflected upon what fantastic progress I had made whilst the sound of the traffic faded as I slipped into slumber. But sleep was short lived and it was a theme that stalked my entire trip. Two months of drought on the continent had ended with an almighty storm. I was dry as a bone but the sound of the lashing rain and constant rumbling of thunder drowned all remnants of passing trucks. To add insult to already heavy eyes, the storm gave way to the sound of industrial logging. It was a true Victor Meldrew moment….”I DON’T BELIEVE IT”!   I wont bore you with every uncomfortable step and passing hour I spent with a hopeful thumb aloft. I will say that from here it became a lot harder. France was great. The lifts were fast and the conversation was for the majority understandable. However, Spain was a different animal and keeping a smile on my face was the hardest part. Picture me on the side of the road, soaking wet and eating an army ration pack consisting of cold preserved egg and beans. My first lift in a truck ended with me being abandoned in the middle the very wet Basque mountains and my Spanish left a lot to be desired. Some of the lifts I would describe as uncomfortable. Kind unsuspecting motorists stopped on the promise of company and good conversation for their long journey. In stead they got a tired Welshman, who even when he found the right page in his phrase book could not get his tongue around the most basic of words. They were still polite of course, well with the exception of one retired police officer that found it increasingly difficult to hide his frustration with my inadequate lingual skills. He ended up dropping me off on a motorway on the outskirts of Madrid. Seriously, I cannot think of a more dangerous spot to drop someone. It resembled Spaghetti Junction! It took me three hours of walking before I got anywhere suitable to hitch. My quality sleep that night came in the form of 2 hours in the doorway of Burger king. I froze my bits off.   I did a lot more walking than I had planned. I didn’t have the luxury of waiting in places where the traffic rate was slow. I had to walk or would have failed. At my most exhausted I met an angel. I had run out of water and was dehydrated. I was in pain from the weight of my 30kg pack and the blisters on my feet hindered my every step. He appeared to me in the form of an English truck driver and called himself Gabriel… or John. Truth is I can’t really remember but I do remember feeling faint and dizzy and that it was a Sunday. He gave me hot food and water and best of all some conversation in English. To top it all off, he took me 7 hours south all the way to Gibraltar. For the record, nothing was expected in return. Not bad in three days I thought, and I had spent just £1. Unfortunately, the floor next to a public toilet in the ferry terminal was my bed for the night. I was paranoid about my belongings so didn’t sleep... again. Next stop Morocco.   In hindsight my plan was slightly floored, in as much that I didn’t think to bring a map of Morocco. It was my foolish assumption that a ferry full of cars visiting the country might have sold such a thing…or the port perhaps? No. I was met by a barrage of touts, tussling for the rich westerners cash. “Taxi, taxi…. Where you go… I work for the government, come with me, come with me. Special market day today…today only I show you.” They buzzed around me for a couple hundred metres but never believed for one moment that I really didn’t have any cash to spare. When I stuck my thumb out they looked at me as if to say “err,   why”?!! Bemused looks turned to laughter and pointing…and it continued for 3 hours with every passing vehicle. I walked for miles but Tangiers is a big sprawling city and I had no idea how far I would need to continue before I reached a road that was going only in one direction.  As I smiled back at the passing populous, I remember thinking that perhaps it’s not something they see every day. A young Moroccan called Hussein reinforced my thoughts. He implored me to get a bus and stated that it was much too dangerous a folly to try further. Transport costs in Morocco are ridiculously cheap by European standards and I had only spent £36 so far (1 ferry ticket and 1 loaf of bread). With this in mind, I reluctantly followed my new friend back into the city.   It’s true that the buses are extremely cheap but the old adage – ‘you get what you pay for’ has never been truer. You get so much more than a seat when you buy a ticket to travel in Morocco. They don’t just take you to your final destination either. Oh no. They take you to where you need to be via every insignificant crossroads along the way. They manage to stretch what could be a 2-hour journey into at least 6 hours in Africa. And that’s not all; No fear of Legionnaires' disease here. You get to travel in conditions that resemble a sauna. Flies intent on feasting on your eyeballs, no windows, no toilet, no room, and no sleep. The on board entertainment was quite an interactive experience. Every few stops, an argument would break out over one thing or another. I don’t like the buses in Morocco!   I recently sat down with my wife and watched the video diary that I made along the way. She said to me “all you do is moan about how tired you are…you could have looked a bit happier”. Like many others I’m sure, my wife seemed to think I went off on some sort of little holiday. Well I’ve got news for you. At this point in the trip, I have never felt so empty. Empty is the most appropriate word I can think to use. It is day 4 and I have had just 6 hours sleep. I had to stop soon.   Sleep at last. On getting off the bus in Meknes, I met a Finnish couple. We set about finding a cheap room for the night and sharing meant that I only had to pay a third of what I would have paid. I had a bed, a double bed. With sheets and a real pillow. Ok the shower caused the old boy to retreat further than he’s ever been before but I was clean again. It was cool, dark, secure and safe. I cooked pasta and went to bed with an ever-swelling stomach. Bliss. Check this out; when I woke up I had a coffee… coffee! We take so much for granted.   Clean shirt donned, it took all of half a mile before it became transparent with sweat. It was my second day in morocco and again I found myself in a city with no map. I really didn’t want to get back on any more buses but the reality was that I needed to get out into the countryside to stand a chance of getting a lift. Fortunately, this journey would be shorter than the last. Unfortunately, they had oversold the seats again.   I was in my seat, head pressed up against the window, eyes closed and longing to fall asleep in order to be spared another ordeal. It wasn’t to be. Another argument erupted at the front of the bus. A young Moroccan woman and several other men, despite having ticket were left standing. One of the men was absolutely furious and the argument seemed to be centred around the woman. Departure times mean nothing in Africa and this was not helping. The lady paraded up and down the obviously packed bus. Every bloke she passed remained welded to his seat and had his eyes fixed on the headrest in front to avoid any eye contact.. What is it with us Brits? I just couldn’t do it. She refused at first but of course I insisted. I didn’t think it was possible to have a worse journey than the last. Sitting on the engine block resembled what I imagined it would be like on the sun. The sweat running down my back was now pooling around my arse, so when I stood up in my linen trousers it looked like I had pissed myself. Brilliant.   The sun rose on day 6 to reveal a dry, uncompromising country but in contrast, palm trees sprouted everywhere. Quite how I’m not sure. The wind had stirred up the hard and dusty ground and it was difficult to see where the sky started and the land finished. Everything was orange. Inspired by the view, the cooler weather and the road that only went south, I wasn’t in the mood for waiting around. I started walking again. I could feel that the dunes were getting closer, but I was never going to be able to walk there in just 2 days. The money I had left was for the camel trip I had planned, so there would definitely be no more bus journeys. Everything rested on getting a lift. There were no passing cars but I could see a cluster of buildings on the horizon. I passed through almost unnoticed, stopping only to replenish my water. It was like a ghost town. As I approached the town boundary and I started to think that hitching might just not be possible in Morocco. I paused for a moment to weigh up my options of which there were only really 2.   <ol style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; color: black; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">Stop walking and stay near the relative safety of the town and wait. There was no chance of running out of water and if all went wrong at least I could cheat…i.e. get a bus or taxi, go over budget and not tell anyone at home! </li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">Keep walking into a landscape that was increasingly desert like and risk running out of water. I had no idea how far it was to the next town and water supply. If I didn’t get a lift, then………..I don’t know. This option breaks all the rules and it go’s against my own hitching tactics described previously.</li> </ol>   It all sounds a little dramatic but that is how it was. As I stood there it started to rain. I said two short words to myself that sounded like bucket and began walking again. I don’t know why, I just wanted to keep going.   There was never a doubt! What was I worrying about? Half an hour later I found myself in a 4x4 speeding south. And what’s more I was on board with an exhibition manager and he was going all the way to Merzourga. I had to tolerate his sales pitch and a visit to his friends’ guesthouse, but I didn’t care. Just smile and get out of there I thought. You are nearly there.   What an extraordinary place. Merzouga is constructed entirely of mud. It looked like a scene from the bible crossed with a Hollywood town from the good the bad and the ugly. If that wasn’t strange enough, the towering Saharan Dunes dominated the skyline with the same majestic presence of the Pyramids. Prospective guides came out of the shadows and positioned themselves for my dirhams. It soon became clear that the money left in my budget wasn’t going to be enough to pay for my camel and guide. It’s in a Moroccans blood to entertain a good bartering but here this nomad race knew that they had a captive audience. “The price is the price”. Technically speaking, I was already in the desert and the challenge was won. But I thought it was a bit lame simply to call it a day having come all this way. There was only one thing for it. Another long solitary walk!   Off in the distance I could see the biggest of all the dunes in the area, Erg Chebbi. Equipped with nothing more than a compass, water and a traditional headdress to protect me from the Saharan sun, I left my heavy pack behind and started walking. I started off bare foot but just 2 minutes inn, the hot sand became unbearable and I also realised that the shortest route wasn’t necessarily the quickest. Going up and down all the time was sapping my energy so decided that snakeing along the triangular ridges was a far more efficient technique. I was making good progress until I was faced with another true Victor Meldrew moment. “I don’t believe it”, I wasn’t wearing my promotional t-shirt. I designed it specifically for the photo shoot on completion of the task and had to go all the way back into town!   I will save you every footstep but needless to say it was hard. Just getting to the bottom of Erg Chebbi was hard. Imagine a mountain made of sand that escalated at around 45 degrees. For every 1 metre you ascend, you slip down half that as the sand gives way beneath your feet. Now on all fours, frothing white at the mouth, I was clawing at the dune like a delirious man seeing a mirage. The end was near. I stopped to regain my breath and look back over my footsteps. God it was hot. Looking out on how far I had come I couldn’t help but feel a little emotional and I felt a tear swell in the corner of my eye. Let me just make this clear… I was not crying like a baby. I guess it was just the anticipation of finishing and the fact that I was just exhausted. I was starting to get into this documentary lark and I remember saying to myself “save it for the camera”!   My last footsteps resembled those of a toddler adventuring upright for the first time. Tittering on the edge of what was a very long way down, I fell to my knees and guzzled the remainder of my water. Mission complete. I sat back and admired the expanse that stretched all the way into neighbouring Algeria. What a view.     It was the end of the challenge but there were more adventures to come on my way home. Bomb scares, camel treks, freak weather, traversing rivers, navigating canyons and sleeping in a mud hut with the poorest of families. But that’s another story.

Isle of Wight to the Sahara Desert................. by any means necessary!

Isle of Wight to the Sahara Desert................. by any means necessary!

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