This year, according to Reddit’s annual recap, I scrolled “65,890 bananas”. Apparently, my noble thumb could’ve hauled me to the moon 5.5 times. So far…and yet so very stationary. But come early October, my aimless browsing bore fruit. Deep in an old thread, 1 comment stole my attention. It spoke about Scoot West Africa, a tour operator whose website tempts: “Want to go on an adventure like no other?”. Within 3 days I had booked my flights and, 4 weeks later, my feet brushed African soil for the first time. While I didn’t make it to the moon, our motley crew of 4 scooted some 2,000 km through Senegal and Mauritania and it was magnificent.
This piece marries together my rambling words with photos I took on 35mm film. Notice a lack of structure? Let’s pretend that’s a tribute to the trip – and to Scoot West Africa’s philosophy: “Things don’t go wrong, they just don’t go to plan”. That’s what sold me. Or at least that’s what I told my therapist. “It could be a spark”, I said to her. Indeed I was met with a 2-week haul of unknowns, first-times, and 1 “pure gold” bracelet. The trip was a sandstorm of sensations and, well, that was a dramatic way of putting it. But, hey, it was divorced from what I knew, or expected. I was immensely lucky and privileged to experience the whole thing.
Here’s the gist of it: Get up and out of Senegal and, via Mauritania’s capital, Nouakchott, head into the sands before riding a very long train 700km back to the coast. We’d then drive back down the coast to Dakar and I’d fly home. Let’s go.
The out-and-back route via scooter, car, and train.
Sunday, November 7
Some 10 hours after mumbling through airport security, my trusty China-made 110cc scooter was heaving me north. It was patient with me – a man of very limited riding experience. I’d prematurely kick through the gears and it’d whimper in response. Onwards we rode jostling manic taxis, swerving vast potholes, and playing chicken with plucky goats.
Emerging from Dakar’s suburbs, we unclenched and motored into more rural lands. Ahead sped Matt, our lead. Raised on a remote Australian farm and now living in Mali, he’s the co-owner of Scoot West Africa. Matt has spent the guts of 20 years in West Africa and knows his way around. Behind him drove Mark, whose second name - Tronco - is one that carries more furiosity than our ‘Power K’ scooters ever could. Mark is a New Jerseyan-cum-Parisian and only last year was jockeying at York racecourse. He’s 70. He too continues to do a lot of shit I only hope to emulate. He and I were the clients. Sweeping behind us was Boubacar: A supremely smart, considerate, and engine-savvy Malian who accompanies Matt on these trips. All in all, we were 4 strangers on the road for the next fortnight.
Phone: Boubacar, Matt, Mark and me having lunch at Sebastian's in Nouakchott
35mm: Stopping for fruit on the outskirts of Dakar
35mm: Filling up our tanks half-way through day 1
35mm: Some beautiful rural riding on day 1
By the end of that first day we had reached Sagata, a midway point to Mauritania. It was an approximate aim, but, like all days, our plan was ‘loosey-goosey’. Though, of course, we were always in Matt’s capable hands. The town’s main street, lined with tin-cladded stalls, shepherded us toward a central junction. It was there that we met Sy, the local policeman, and all-round gentleman. He invited us to sleep on his roof and so we did. After knocking out 220 km, my body was beaten and ready for bed but Sagata had other ideas.
35mm: Sy
35mm: Setting up camp on Sy's roof
Curious about the music thumping 2 streets over, Matt headed out and 10 minutes later, he suggested Mark and I join him. As the 3 of us neared the beat, dozens of kids ran for cover running from something. Rounding the corner, Le Simb - ‘The Dance of Faux Lions’ - confronted us. No wonder the children fled. I later learned that if these characters catch you, money must be coughed up. It certainly seemed a worthier financial decision than Madrid Airport’s McDonald’s 24 hours previously. It wasn’t long before outstretched arms drew us into the lion’s den. As the rhythmic drums lay down the gauntlet, Mark and I began to dance, and the chuckling kids erupted in laughter. What a buzz. An hour later we were back at Sy’s slurping down our tinned cannelloni. What a day. The towering baobab trees; the extended hands and inquisitive questions; the impromptu ceremony. It was a start full of sparks.
Distance Covered: 220 km
Fueled by sugar we departed the next morning with our eyes fixed on the Diama border crossing. Once we rolled out of the deeper sand, the route was smooth. While paved roads offer speed, my favourite riding was when the sand ran soft. You have to weave in and out, power up and down, and, well, that’s just really fun. Especially as a beginner. Especially when ringfenced by erratic drivers. Over the 15 days, we rolled over a patchwork of terrain with grips tight and eyes peeled. Mauritania’s road network, particularly to and from its capital, Nouakchott, laid out long Roman-like stretches of tarmac. Once we started to explore the heart of the country, and as the lands became more sparse, hardened sand and ribboned bumps replaced the asphalt. While chaotic streets welcomed us to towns, harmony was found with the meandering roads that elevated us onto barren plains.
35mm: The long, straight roads
Phone: A hairpin bend en route to Choum
But to get to any of these places, we first needed to cross the Senegal-Mauritania border. En route, we stopped by St. Louis, a former jewel of French colonialism, and it was there that we greased out on KFC’s local rival, Djolof Chicken. We also cheersed a quick beer before entering Mauritania – an Islamic state with zero tolerance towards booze. It turns out the Diama border post also has an intolerance to efficiency so we spent 2 hours there. Pros: Rajid, a starry-eyed border guard who only stopped talking to laugh. Especially when he teasingly recalled a 51°C day a few years ago. Cons: The ‘aul fella who was incessant in his attempts to pry money from my pocket. My French is decent so I dumbed it down and acted confused. That worked a charm.
35mm: The 30km border road through the national park. This was a particularly smooth stretch.
35mm: A man tending his garden in the national park
35mm: Sunset in the national park
35mm: Boubacar and Matt in the national park
End of Day 2 // Distance Covered: 410 km
In the 12 days we spent in Mauritania, we passed through 50+ police, customs, and army checkpoints. For the most part, a printed fiche (passport photocopy + license plate number) merited a rigid wave and stress-free passage. Mohammed, who spent many days driving with us in his jeep, often caught the flak and had to pay the price for a fictitious offence. Guards were sometimes curious, mostly courteous, and nearly always bored out of their minds. Given how Mauritania is 12 times larger than Ireland but is home to just 75% of the people, I can only hope these sentries find solace in solitude.
Phone pic: Ibrahim and his brother who printed 60 fiches each for us.
35mm: A police checkpoint
Phone: Another checkpoint this time near the border
That curiosity and courtesy shines through the streets of Oudane, Chinguetti, and beyond. No doubt it helps to speak French - or Arabic - and I’m speaking of course from a place of privilege, but the welcome was always warm and help was always at hand. When we’d make a request to locals, “Pas de problème” more often than not rolled off the tongue...followed by a nod and a smile. I did learn, however, that shaking a woman’s hand isn’t normal. Or, at least, Alyssa - the wide-smiled owner of Atar’s Auberge de Mer - wasn’t keen on meeting my outstretched arm.
Mauritania, more than most countries, has its glaring problems and they range from human rights issues to corruption to significant terrorist threats in the east. Unfortunately, the scourge of the latter is being forced upon more and more helpless countries such as neighbouring Mali. As I was the country’s guest for just 2 weeks, I’ll be sticking to scooter talk for now but I'm still reading and learning.
After the border crossing, a flurry of outposts waymarked us north to Nouakchott. A journey of 230 km, the first 1.5 hours were some of the trip’s trickiest driving bringing us through the roughened floodplains of Diawling National Park. Cranes (of the bird kind) watched as we trundled by and pods of pelicans - some 150 in number - glided above us. Along that stretch Mauritania introduced some of its other critters such as monkeys, warthogs, and flamingos. By lunchtime, we were approaching the country’s hectic capital. Matt mentioned how the city has transformed in recent years and, to me, it looked to be bursting at its seams. Just as we found our rhythm with the traffic, a diversion took us off the main roads and onto the sandy sidestreets. I haven’t darted between wing mirrors like that since my driving test(s).
Distance Covered: 640 km
We spent 2 nights in Nouakchott (1 on either side of the trip) and our refuge for both was Sebastian’s Le Triskell – an oasis-like enclave in a high-tempo city. After inhaling his superb cooking – a camel ragout followed by an otherworldly slice of tarte tatin - we moseyed to the beach and its fish market. It’s a peculiar place and the disparity is clear. Sandwiched either side of 150+ beached fishing boats is the zippy market to one side, and a small beach resort on the other. Barbed security fences encircle the latter.
Phone: Your local (friendly) luxury
35mm: A corner shop in the capital
35mm: Sebastian's place
35mm: Leaving the capital
Early the next morning we set off on a 400 km day to reach the desert. The Sahara covers more than ⅔ of Mauritania so, in reality, it’d introduce itself sooner rather than later. That day, we loaded up Mohammed’s jeep with our bikes rather than riding them. My bum welcomed the change and, for the first time, my hands were free to take photos. Before we broke beyond the city’s outer limits, we visited a camel market where hundreds stood and snarled waiting to be sold. If I understood correctly, the average sells for roughly €1,500. Alas, I only took one photo for fear of compounding their gloom or in case I caused a scene. Low-impact tourism also includes photography. Be respectful. From memory, all the camels were one-humped which checks out with my Wikipedia research. Sources say just 6% of the world’s population have two humps.
35mm: The camel market
35mm: The road to Terjit
35mm: Terjit's surroundings
I don’t know anything about deserts so I was excited by what lay ahead. I watched like a kid, my nose often pressed against the window and my camera (Minolta X-700) always at hand. To me, the land seemed parched and barren where the only disturbance to its flat make-up was sporadic settlements dotting the sand like forgotten lego. Matt remarked how green everything had become. How the rains had poured, pulling shoots from the soil like a patient’s vitals coming back from the brink. As the sun hunkered down for the afternoon, mesas (flat-topped mountains) directed us towards the village-oasis of Terjit. For Mauritania’s few tourists*, this palm grove-filled commune is on the itinerary, and with reason. In Terjit we slept under the stars at Jamel’s – yet another welcoming host who rarely, if ever, strayed from his shade-savouring horizontal recline.
*Numbers are hard to find but approximately 4,000 foreign tourists visited Mauritania in 2019. The same year saw 11 million visit Ireland (a country of similar population), 13 million visit Morocco (a neighbouring country), while close to 3,000 holidayed in Tuvalu (the lowest number worldwide).
35mm: The view from Jamel's place
Phone: Sleeping at Jamel's
Distance Covered: 1,080 km (400 by jeep, 40 walking)
Over the next 3 days we marvelled at valleys, strolled through rural villages, and dragged our feet across sprawling dunes. Ditching the road, we walked alongside 4 camels - names since forgotten - and behind 2 guides - names often butchered. Apologies, Elamine and Didi. Highlights include the whole thing, really. But, more precisely, here’s what sparked joy for me: Downing iced cokes, unexpectedly; Didi baking bread in the sand; talking all things brickwork (??) with a villager, and watching La Vallée Blanche stretch out before us that first evening. The biggest gift was once again sleeping under the night sky. If sand absorbs sound, then the desert is nature’s sensory deprivation chamber. That first nightfall hushed its audience below and put on a memorable star-studded show. It had been a hot minute since I’d experienced the Milky Way looming overhead - whether that’s due to Berlin’s cloudy ceiling, light pollution, or maybe I just don’t look hard enough. It was nice. Really nice.
Anyway, let’s stay grounded. Circling back to Terjit involved rising out of the valley onto the plateaued hills. The camels, justifiably, found navigating the rocky ‘paths’ difficult (me too), and 1 of them, the youngest, was left at a small village for a future pick-up. With Terjit’s natural pools beckoning us forward, our caravan stretched in distance as fatigue wore in. Plus I kept taking photos of things like distant mountains or random baths. Just before returning to Jamel’s - and inspired by the wise man himself - we soaked in the oasis, lounging in a way that he’d be proud of. After re-energising ourselves with some chicken and rice, we jumped on our bikes and accelerated east.
35mm: The first photo of the roll
35mm: Matt on day 1
35mm: Elamine and Didi lead the way
35mm: Some of the brickwork we discussed
35mm: A dry riverbed
35mm: Taking on water
35mm: Some nice doors
35mm: The initial attempt to get up out of the valley
35mm: A mid-day siesta. This was our routine both when walking and scooting.
35mm: Elamine and Didi
35mm: 2 of the 4 camels
35mm: La Vallée Blanche
Phone: Contorted company for breakfast on day 2
35mm: Camels, Elamine, Boubacar strategising how to get out of the valley
35mm: Elamine and Didi
Phone: Breakfast set-up
35mm: The random bath
35mm: Yeah, sure, they've only 1 hump but it was too perfect not to try capture
35mm: Some nice light
35mm: Elamine and his mid-day siesta
35mm: The site of miracles – ice cold coca cola.
35mm: Matt, Mark and Boubacar on day 3
I didn’t spend long enough in Senegal to really explore its cuisine but I (tentatively) think it pips that of its Mauritanian neighbours. Because we were so often on the go, we’d fill our bodies with food high in sugar. And I mean very high. The type that leaves you with a dizzying headache should you overindulge. I did. Numerous times. Often for lunch we’d quickly spread some Laughing Cow cheese over bread, add Siracha, and move on. Delicious, nutritious, and grossly unfair to local foods. But when we did sit down for lunch or dinner, we ate well. We devoured the rice and chicken and rice and chicken and rice and chicken before us. When we eventually reached Nouadhibou, Mauritania’s second-largest city, we put away a plate of freshly-caught, barbequed fish in record time. Other highlights included warthog, stewed dates, and savoury meat-filled beignets.
35mm: Lunch on the move
Phone: Lunch with Mark
Various dishes and delights, like camel milk
The ride out of Terjit was nothing short of stunning. I’ve been to neither Nevada nor Mars but the views all around us bore an uncanny resemblance to both. The red-tinted terrain rose into mesas on either side and duly funneled us onwards to Atar. Okay, I know it’s not a high-powered Kawasaki à la Tom Cruise in Top Gun, but riding my rickety 110cc bike did feel…familiar. Maybe it was the loosely buttoned shirt; or maybe because I’d only recently watched Top Gun: Maverick in the cinema (twice) (in one weekend), but it was pure bliss. 33°C temperatures eat my dust. This was the coolest I’d ever been…
*Distant whining of a low-powered 110cc scooter fades out*
Phone: Looking back down the valley
End of Day 7 // Distance Covered: 1,140 km
That neck-breaking speed hurried us to Chinguetti the following day. The 4,500-person town cropped up in the 8th century as a stopping point for pilgrims en route to Mecca. In November 2022, barely a person was in sight let alone a pilgrim. To be fair, it was a Sunday. What I’ll remember for a long time was our approach. Entering the outskirts in the early afternoon, it felt as though every resident was indoors – most likely including Zubir, a Londoner we met the day before in Atar. Retiring in the UK 4 years ago, he promptly accepted Islam and moved to what felt like this frontier outpost town. Matt, Mark, and I conversed with him in English but his super-charged confidence meant the 3 of us simultaneously communicated with raised brows and eye-rolls.
As you near Chinguetti featureless dunes rise behind the town in an encroaching way. They spill onto its helpless peripheral streets and the dunes feel…powerful? Almost like they’re ruling and dictating the town’s happenings. Like Sauron’s Dark Tower. Or sandy dark towers. But that’s just the start of it. Head east and you’ll meet nothing but mountains of sand, and, eventually, some 45 days by camel later, Mali’s Timbuktu. Along the way, there’s a chance you’ll come across a couple of unsavoury jihadists. It’s not a trip I’d be undertaking any time soon.
35mm: Chinguetti, 50 km
35mm: The road to Chinguetti can be very bumpy and very windy. We were lucky on the latter.
35mm: The local police station
35mm: A donkey walking down the main street
35mm: Chinguetti street corners
35mm: The sea of sand imposes itself upon Chinguetti. Next stop: Timbuktu.
35mm: Sunset on the dunes
On the topic of religion, I mentioned how Mauritania is an Islamic State – and to many, a rather strict one. Alcohol is banned and the death penalty, apparently, can be imposed on blasphemous acts. The likelihood of the latter is very, very low. The evening we crossed the border, I came across 3 teachers from the local village. We spoke at length and it was full of learning and laughter. I learned the flag’s red stripes signify the blood spilled in the country’s battle for freedom, and I laughed when I didn’t understand what was being said.
During the conversation, they asked me about my faith (non-existent) to which I replied I’m Catholic. Just…because. They proceeded to teach me 2 lines of their prayer and seemed delighted when I gave it an attempt. Besides that, there were no other highly religious moments. Bar the daily Salah prayer of course. 5 times every 24 hours. Our abstinence from alcohol wasn’t a bad thing either. In place of it, we befriended mint tea and then fell in love. It’s a real social occasion and a ceremony of sorts. You can expect a 10-minute wait before your glass is poured and it can be poured any time, any place. Mohammed carried his tea kit in a practical ammo box which is fun. You can also expect the tea to start very sugary with the second less so, and the third with little to none. Matt told me how Malians draw parallels with those 3 as Love, Life, and Death. Start sweet, end bitter. Cheers.
35mm: Morning tea
Phone: Mohammed and his ammo case of tea. Taken as we were setting up camp.
In Chinguetti all of us visited an ancient library and Mark and I helped locals push a car before we searched for ice cream as a reward. Our pilgrimage proved futile as no ice cream was found. We only stayed one night here, and one night in Oudane - another 100 km into the desert - before getting back on the saddle in Atar. In that time we were the sole visitors to the Eye of Africa (Richat Structure), a gigantic rock formation visible from space. Some argue it’s the site of Atlantis (thank you, Mortiz) and it could well have been. The Eye is likely more appreciated from above but it does dwarf you into insignificance. It humbles you while the hot, smothering wind vacuum packs your face into submission. Yet it was with that breeze at our backs that we turned around and made our way north. Destination: Zouérat and its famous train.
35mm: Filling up the tank before leaving Chinguetti
35mm: Filling up the tank before leaving Chinguetti
Distance Covered: 1,590 km (600 by jeep)
If you’re still reading, fair play. We’re nearly at the point of return, a 225-wagon iron-ore-filled train that’d carry us to the sea. The night before, we again cowboy camped and were graciously gifted a watermelon by a nomad. He appeared out of nowhere, muttered some words, left the fruit, and then continued on his way. Very sound.
35mm: Setting up for the night
Phone: The nomad who bore fruit
Zouérat, our departure point, is a town that revolves around its local minerals, iron ore. Think Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory but less digestible. As a tourist spot, it’s probably the furthest east most go unless on some kind of expedition. I actually met a 29-year-old German guy who was about to embark on a 20-day camel trek. His last trip involved buying and then walking a donkey across Afghanistan alone. Bonkers.
Anyway, the fact Zouérat has a (small) airport shows the levels of investment ploughing in. All that material must go somewhere and to the coastal city of Nouadhibou it goes via this famously long train. For reasons unknown to the bemused rail yard workers, the experience is etched onto many a bucket list. The surge of YouTubers (e.g. YES Theory) posting click-baity videos garner it even more attention. Oh, some quick things. No, it’s not illegal. No, you don’t have to stow away undetected. No, it’s not death-defying. Yes, everything is laughably vague. Yes, it’s very uncomfortable. And yes, it was worth doing. I’d never done something like it before so that justifies that, I think. It’s a good idea to chat with the staff and make sure everything is cool so that you’re not interfering with their work.
We had insider knowledge on our side. Matt had been semi-reliably informed the train was to load up at 13:00 and depart at 15:00. Ideal. The track runs east-west across the inhospitable and sparsely populated desert for some 700 km. You bring all your supplies including lots and lots of water. And Pringles. Lots of them too. The proposed timing was good. Really good. We’d get a few hours to soak up the not-so-ever-changing landscape, acclimatise to a bed of iron ore, and then watch what’d promise to be a dreamy sunset before the long night set in. Lolol.
“Things don’t go wrong, they just…”
We arrived at the yard only to be met with confusion. And then questions. And then courtesy, from Ismael. The type of person who greets by gently clasping your hand between both of his. He rang around, as did others, in a hunt for clarity. Hoping to get on an update on the new departure time. He even offered his home while we waited. We politely declined - this time clasping his hand - and made our way into Zouérat where we holed up for the next 8 hours. Our time there included watching Nicolas Cage’s Lord of the War and one brief return trip to the rail yard where we met Bas. He’s a driver-in-training and said he’d WhatsApp when the 225 wagons were been readied for loading. Long story short, we arrived at 22:00 and some 10 hours later than expected, we hopped on to wagon #16 a few minutes post-midnight
Phone: Nic Cage time
We spent the next 22 hours on that train. At times it’s slow and laboured…in fact, it’s mostly slow and laboured. With it being so long (2.5km), its 4 locomotive engines haul it along and each car shunts forward like a weary chain gang. Every wagon holds 100 tonnes of unprocessed iron ore which is loose and messy. Add motion breeze to the equation and you have an endless cloud of sand and black grit for company. For the near entirety, we sealed ourselves in ski goggles and head-to-toe skin coverage. The journey was like a long, one-take cinematic shot ft. wild camels, dead camels, and sand. Lots of sand. Apparently we’re running out of sand globally, by the way. I wouldn’t have known.
Sporadically and haphazardly bedded into the desert we came across tiny settlements in the back arse of nowhere. Truly remote and no doubt incredibly resourceful. At 22:00 our tired locomotives rumbled into a sleepy Nouadhibou and we made our way to a Dutch-owned house by the sea. Our bodies were now 70% water and 30% iron ore. While the power and water regrettably clocked off just as I stepped into the shower, the bed was perfect and what felt like a fever dream came to a close.
Phone: Picking our wagon at midnight
Phone: Mark sleeping as the sun rises
Phone: 5 minutes later. Mark getting into the groove of things.
35mm: Coming out of Choum, I think
35mm: Choum, again
35mm: Mid-morning snack
35mm: A game of sand and shadows
35mm: Morning coffee and biscuits
35mm: Pablo Escobar waiting meme
35mm: Passing by a settlement
35mm: Rumbling by a town
35mm: 'Danger of death'
Phone: Me just before lunch. Still clean...ish.
35mm: Out for a stroll
35mm: Some 16 hours in, we stopped for an hour. Across the way, the return train welcomed people aboard its passenger cabin.
Phone: Mark, taking in the sunset.
Phone: We reached the house at 22:45, nearly 23 hours after hopping on the train and some 36 hours after we were meant to depart. We were fed well.
35mm: Looking out from the bedroom window
35mm: And again, but with added bed
35mm: More bed and window
35mm: And again, but now with added bread
Phone: A beautiful spot
35mm: Nouadhibou
End of Day 11 // Distance Covered: 2,290 km (600 by jeep, 700 by train (orange line))
By now, we were on the home straight of our out-and-back route. And you are too. Ahead of us lay nearly 1,000 km of driving, driving, and some more bum-numbing driving. It was only at this stage that I began listening to music while riding. Of course it was the Top Gun: Maverick soundtrack. We rode into familiarity as Nouakchott welcomed us back into its bruised arms. In Sebastian’s place, I once again devoured some tart and it was the greatest slice I’ve had. Bar none. It helped fill my belly in advance of what’d be a further 650km over 2 days.
The only snag in the first 350 km was my near collision with a car. And our fellow border-crossers desperately wanting to buy our bikes. And Boubacar’s puncture. And Matt’s mirror falling off. And Mark’s puncture. One particular highlight was struggling along the seaweed-ridden beach to reach our accommodation the penultimate evening. The sand stuck to the wheels and tried to claw us to immobility. Christ, it was a fun challenge. At one stage the Atlantic’s bullish waves broke free and encircled Mark’s bike. Once they retreated I allowed myself to laugh. After we parked up, I couldn’t help but go for a quick swim and it was simply one of those moments. A spark. Aaaaand an incredibly strong undercurrent that quickly doused any enthusiasm with fear.
35mm: The setting sun. Kudos to Kodak Gold 200 for holding up well in low light.
35mm: Making our way back down the beach the next morning. The tide, fortunately, was further out than the evening before.
35mm: Stopping to weld a mirror back on.
35mm: Stopping to fix a puncture. Boubacar to the rescue once again.
35mm: A random beach shack spotted on our drive back down the coast.
Hopefully you haven’t realised my paragraphs are becoming shorter and shorter but I don’t want your scrolling to surpass my “65,890 bananas”. The final day was a testing 300 km all the way back to where we started, Warang. South of Dakar, it was a satisfying return, and one celebrated with beers on the beach while watching the World Cup. That’s hard to beat. The whole thing was hard to beat. It was a fantastic adventure and knowing that I wouldn’t have done something like that solo, at least for my first time in the region, I was delighted. I like following my gut (the sugary foods say as much) and I knew I was in for a good time when I scrolled upon Scoot West Africa 6 weeks prior. First-times were ticked off, many unknowns are now, well, known, and the bracelet I bought near Oudane is most definitely not “pure gold”.
End of Day 14 // Total Distance Covered: 3,240 km (600 by jeep, 700 by train)
It’s already been 8 pages so I’m going to finish up real quick. Not in a million years would I have bought a scooter and undertaken that trip by myself. It might be doable but it’s beyond me. I’m not like Valentin, a young French guy I met at the Diame crossing. He was hitchhiking from France down to South Africa. Nor am I like that German donkey dude. Or the Spanish lady and her 12-year-old labrador who was determined to drive to Mali despite the very real kidnapping threat. Alas, none of those are for me. Maybe they’re for you?
But if they’re not, Matt and Phil of Scoot West Africa promise “Immersive travel experiences that allow you to discover West Africa on its own terms” and that’s exactly what this proved to be. They’re deeply respectful of people and places and expect clients to be too. When I initially tallied together flight and trip costs, it definitely wasn’t cheap. So, ultimately, working full-time and being in a (privileged) position to afford it, it came down to one question: ‘What do I value?’.
For me, the answer proved to be below-average dancing, Laughing Cow cheese, and spending 22 hours on a rattly train with a couple of strangers. Thanks for reading. Please shout if you've any questions.
Would anybody like to buy a bracelet? It's pure gold.
