17. The Lone & Level Sands.

07.03.24 – 13.03.24 : Tiznit – Dakhla

There’s something reassuring about seeing your destination appear on its first road sign. A subtle psychological shift takes place. It marks the moment that the destination transitions from an ephemeral geographical concept to a grounded part of the landscape you’re traveling. A definite node on the tarmac network. Keep pedaling and you’re guaranteed to reach it. On my journey through the Pyrenees to Barcelona, I remember a visceral tingling of possibility creeping in as I caught my first glimpse of Barcelona on the road signs. It may well have been what drove me to push on into the night; I was no longer riding into the unknown, but into the known. 

There’s something less reassuring about seeing an exhaustive list of your destinations for the next two months appear on a road sign together. That’s a little too much known for my liking. Being confronted with such a significant chunk of riding, spelled out impersonally in black and white, feels strangely terminal. Planning my trip from the relative comfort of a shared house in Peckham last year, I remember poring over a particular section of West Africa: Western Sahara. It was a big question mark, a section of the world’s largest hot desert. A vast expanse of nothing. 

Abidjan – 4297km: my final destination in West Africa before I hop across the continent and resume my journey South from Nairobi.

Well, almost nothing. A smattering of towns punctuate the desert: Akhfenir; Tarfaya; Laayoune; Fishing (no prizes for guessing what happens there). Oh, and more than a smattering of landmines. Nine million of these incendiary relics remain after the region’s bloody battle for independence that waged for over two decades from 1976, filling the vacuum left by its Spanish colonisers. Global South magazine claims it continues to be one of the most contaminated territories in the world today. There goes my cavalier approach to wild camping. A single cord of asphalt carves a corridor through the dune fields and scrubland, hence the cluttered road sign. Settlements appear every 100 kilometres, with service stations striking the off-beat. Beyond that? The lone and level sands stretch far away…

I better get used to this view…

For days before I entered its gravitational field, the desert preoccupied my thoughts. I don’t remember much about the ride from Tiznit. I stopped in Ait Milk for my morning coffee, which I took black. Why? Clue’s in the name. The rest of the day faded into a brooding fug, and I set up camp a stone’s throw from the main road. As lorries thundered past, I dusted off my stove – which, up until now, I’ve been using as a sandbag – and broke out Ischam’s soup. In the slow warming and cooling of the days and nights it had spent holed up in my pannier, the aroma of the soup had changed dramatically. Fearing it would leave a far sourer taste than the one I’d felt paying its considerable bill, I abandoned the mission and resorted to a dinner of two-dimensional dates, which had been flattened under the weight of the bothersome broth. 

Another day of fuggy riding passed before I took a preparational rest day in Tan-Tan: the gateway to the Sahara. I tried to write, but instead found myself preoccupied with worry for the weeks to come. I couldn’t shake a distinct sense of futility. Why was I about to put myself through this? It felt like arbitrary punishment for little discovery, little reward. At least hauling yourself up a mountain pass brings with it the promise of a hair-raising descent; or battling through a jungle, you encounter some weird and wonderful wildlife. 2,000km of flat desert road? Not exactly riveting. It felt both exposed and exposing. With little external distraction, the gaze settles internally. 

Leaving Tan-Tan, apprehension weighed heavy. I woke early and ceremoniously wrapped up in my desert rags. Admittedly, this animated me a little; at last, I had the opportunity to wear the headscarf, donated by the lovely Andrea, without the worry of cultural appropriation. This was purely utilitarian, you see, not stylish. Despite my desert-ready get-up, my cranks turned sluggishly; I felt as if I were fighting some magnetic repulsion, pushing me away from the stretching eternity of the Sahara. Before long, though, I shrugged this cloak of portentous imagery and realised I was simply cycling into a headwind. 

The first of these signs I saw, as you might guess. If I stopped for a picture with each I subsequently encountered, I’d scarcely be 30 kilometres out of Tan-Tan by now.

Now, this was strange. The only information I’d received from fellow cyclists who’d previously tackled this stretch of coastline was that the riding itself was a breeze. Literally. There’s a prevailing northerly wind that gently encourages you down the continent. Of course, today would be the meteorological exception that proves the rule. And things got stranger yet. The very definition of a desert lies in its perpetual aridity, so you’d understand my confusion when the sky hung heavy with clouds. Clouds which soon broke. A soaking certainly wasn’t what I’d expected for my first day in the desert. Luckily, the showers were quick to wash away my worry and, mission complete, the downpour abated. The desert’s charm shone through as the skies cleared and I rode into a picture perfect dunescape. Before long, I was caught up in the magic of the place. I felt a frisson of excitement as I passed signs warning of camels crossing, and wove around dunes that had burst their banks, spilling their sandy load across the tarmac. 

That naive excitement, however, quickly wore off. By that afternoon, the place had begun to lose its shine. I conceded defeat for the day in Akhfenir where I lept at the opportunity to stay in a cheap hotel, on the condition I finished the blog I’d abandoned in Tan-Tan. The writing took me into the early hours thanks to some welcome distractions from Ellie, who was brimming with nervous energy for the Barcelona marathon that she would be running in the morning. In solidarity – or, perhaps, because doing so would allow me the luxury of a bed in another of the region’s rare towns – I decided to take a punt at my own. 

It’s widely accepted that running a marathon, and cycling a century (100 miles; 160 kilometres) are about equivalent. Well, as equivalent as you can get when comparing entirely different sports. Given my weather app showed the promised tailwind was arriving tomorrow, I wagered 200 kilometres, 125 miles would give a fair simulation; coincidentally, the distance to Laayoune: Western Sahara’s unofficial capital. As Ellie set off from the start line amidst a cacophony of shouts, cheers and vuvuzelas, I swallowed the last chunks from a bowl of camel’s milk which the kind restaurateur Rafik had provided to fuel my day. Thanks to our old friend the language barrier, this was followed by a very milky coffee. I can confirm my position on milk has not changed, and neither of these kind offerings aided the cause. 

Unimpressed.

Thanks to the much higher output required by running, Ellie finished her marathon in less than half the time I finished mine. While she was celebrating her epic achievement with a band of supporters, champagne in hand, I was trucking along, braving the last stretch of the day’s crosswind before the sweet relief of Tarfaya. There, I stopped for a cold coke and a black coffee, carefully emphasising the noir. From Tarfaya, the road curved, allowing the promised tailwind to kick in.

I arrived in Laayoune thoroughly undernourished and very happy to be dismounting but mostly unscathed. Sadly, champagne was out of the question. Finding a hot meal became the urgent task at hand. After a brief search, I set a course to Mc’Laayoune. However, arriving to see an open case of non-rotating rotisserie chickens braving the elements by the curb outside encouraged me to try my luck elsewhere. And you know what? It paid off. As I cycled in the direction of the one-star hotel, my luxury accomodation for the evening (no sarcasm intended), a mirage appeared before me. It couldn’t be… The Real McCoy… The Golden Arches… The Universally Squat, Slatted Shack of… McDonalds. I devoured three meals, checked in to my hotel, then came back for two more. Terribly globalized of me, I know. But given this is the only McDonald’s between me and South Africa, I’ll allow myself the slight indiscretion.

Buoyed by the success of the previous day’s riding, and with the promise of yet more Boreas-tic assistance, I set my sights on Boujdour for my evening’s kip. 180km of riding should be more than manageable with a Greek God at my back. And it was; the day slipped by in a blur. The swift progress was punctuated only by some proud fisherman who waved me over to admire their catch. Popping the trunk of their rusty sedan – long smothered by the corrosive kisses of the Atlantic’s spray – they proudly pointed and declared Fish! What greeted my eyes was a gargantuan grouper; 30 kilos or more, according to their estimates. They were on their way to Laayoune to flog the day’s catch, hoping to snag 3000 dirhams (300 euros): a veritable fortune. No wonder they were practically dancing with glee. We shared a midday tea and discussed all things fishing. I told them that my Dad is also a fisherman, which is definitely true for two weeks of the year; although for the other 50 he might more accurately be described as a fisher of men. That tea would be the last I’d enjoy during daylight hours for the rest of my time in Morocco. Ramadan had finally arrived. 

I rolled into Boujdour with the sun low on the horizon. Checking my wind app, I noticed that the ideal conditions were forecast through the night. This, combined with the comforting prospect of a rest day or two in Dakhla, planted the seed of an idea. Almost automatically, I began to layer up, stock up and saddle up; my body registering that the seed had taken root before my mind had a chance to catch up. After a swift google of dangerous nocturnal wildlife of the Sahara, I knocked back an espresso and pedaled quietly away from the bright lights of the town. My plan was as follows: ride through the night, soaking up the 300km gap between me and my promised rest. With the wind picking up, I was comfortably holding 40km/h; I was confident this would allow me to reel in the distance by the early hours. I allowed a spectacular sunset to frame the open road as I settled into a fluid cadence. 

Sometimes grand plans like these end in champagne, like Ellie’s marathon. Sometimes they leave you cowering in a deserted corner of a service station, nerves jangling, with caffeine still coursing through your veins. This time, it was the latter. Despite summoning the power of Florence to declare that the dog days are over, I failed to realise that the dog nights had just begun. As the sky blushed mauve and the last of the light drained from the day, the dogs came out to play. Perhaps they accompany their owners to sea during daylight hours, or simply laze in the scorching sun, but the beasts patrolling the small fishing cabins sprinkled along the coastline turn no such blind eye at night. I was chased relentlessly. The only indication of their inbound presence was a hammering of paws on the dusty ground as they accelerated to alarming speeds, outpacing me with ease. Snarls erupted mere centimetres from my frantically pedaling feet and I gripped the handlebars, white-knuckled, praying that one of them didn’t tangle in Madonna’s wheels and throw me from the saddle. You know things are bad when, despite your carefully crafted image of daredevil adventurer, seeking the raw untempered experiences of Nature (with a capital N), you nearly collapse with relief at the sight of the neon lights of a 24-hour petrol station. Craving the comfort of human construction to shield me from the wild, I pitched up camp amidst the bustle of nighttime commerce, and did my best to sleep off the evening’s terrors. 

My beloved desert rags clearly adding to my patchwork of skin tones.

In the morning, I woke with the sun, determined to dispatch the final chunk of riding to Dakhla – a touch over 250km – where I’d seek refuge in a hotel and spend two sweet days doing sod all. Serenaded by Orff, Bizet, and Mozart, I allowed the music to take me away from the mounting fatigue of body and mind, and back to the living room of my parents’ house where this whole adventure began. Mum – making herself scarce as packing frustrations mounted; Dad – watching Reels at full volume, blissfully unaware of the chaos surrounding him; and me – trying to jam a headscarf into already bulging panniers, struggling to imagine a landscape in a distant land where it might be appropriate to wear it.