Kayes, Mali

The drive to Kayes was fabulous, with forests of baobab trees, full of bird life. The rollers were the most spectacular. We came upon a convoy of donkey carts carrying hay to town, each with a boy reclining in a hammock slung below in the shade of the load; but not much other traffic, and no cars at all. It had taken about ten hours of driving time to cover the 190 miles since the last tar, and I enjoyed it more than any other part of the journey so far. 

We crossed the Senegal river into the town of Kayes, a dusty bustling place, the "hottest town in Africa" according to the guidebook. Our thermometer shows 42°C in the sun, but it is probably in the comfortable low 30s. 

We reported to the main police station to show the passports. It is a dilapidated French colonial building of stone and brick. Inside, a prisoner lay face down behind a locked gate in a windowless and totally unfurnished cell. The officer was very pleasant and we had a conversation about horseracing while waiting for an insurance salesman to arrive. 

This chap came in and sat in an office that had a desk, two chairs, an ancient typewriter, painted-out windows, and an adding machine: evidently the extortion office. After much rumination he came up with a figure for a month's insurance. Following my shocked reaction he asked how much I had expected to pay, and we settled for much less (about €40 for a month). There followed a discussion about what constituted a month, as he had given me 28 Feb-27 March. So, not much different to dealing with Irish insurance companies.

The market is a real African market, making the Arab souks look calm and orderly. Wonderful colour, I bought a woven mat and a red teapot. We accosted passing salesmen pushing their bikes to buy fans (see photo) and flip-flops.

Back Roads to Mali

Somewhere in Mauritania it started getting hot, and now the car vents blow like hair dryers. The evenings and mornings are still very pleasant, and the sleeping bag is required at night. 

We have completed a Sahara crossing by the easiest route, and are firmly in the Sahel. At Kiffa, we decided to take one of the lesser used routes into Mali, and turned South onto a sand road. The Russian 1:500,000 maps and GPS became very useful. We could find villages on the route and set the waypoints and steer for them. The main problem was tracks that branched off to villages, and several times we found ourselves off route. It was well populated and we could get directions. We learned that the women and old men always gave the correct track, young men generally tried to set us wrong. 

I set the border waypoint and by late afternoon we reached it. Some kids waved us onto the correct track through a rocky riverbed, and on the other side we stopped to check with some women drawing water at a well - a cheerful welcome, yes, this was Mali. No border posts of any kind, so a pretty stress-free change of country. 

An hour later we set camp under an old baobab - Jason is enjoying snacking on the fruits.

East on the Route D'Espoir

Nouakchott is in full election mode, and here "big tent politics" is literal, with Bedouin style tents pitched on every approach, blaring presidential propaganda. I hope at least one candidate is promising to clean the place up, as it is without doubt the dirtiest city I have ever seen. Any rubbish not left to fester in the streets is taken to the outskirts, where there are miles of truckload sized piles of waste. 

Camping near Nouakchott

Nonetheless, the tap water is drinkable, and we filled our tank at the Auberge du Sahara, and picked up our Mali visas on the way out of town. We have now left the Atlantic coast; and are heading due East. The wind is up, not quite a sandstorm, but enough to put the headlights on. There is an incredible amount of domestic animals to avoid, including many fine African donkeys with a black stripe down their backs, another across the shoulders. 

The police checkpoints continue, and they generally follow the same routine: Shake hands. "Where are you going?". "Your nationality?" "And yours?" (with a quizzical look at Jason, who they cannot place; at least they don't insist on speaking Arabic to him, as in Morocco). "Purpose of your journey?". Then, with a scan of the dashboard, "have you got a present for me?". Hand over bic biro. "Merci, bonne route". Drive on, take another bic from supply and put on dash. To be fair, many of the police are not such big children, and just wish us well, or inquire if the weather is to our liking. 

On the left are red dunes, some colonised by plants. To the right, it looks more like savannah. We are driving along the line of the Sahara and the Sahel. By evening we pull off right, and go around into the lee of a small rocky hill to camp, a thorny savannah to the horizon.