Stories, motors, wheels and Sahara


Hello every body!

I am starting this blogg with a story, a true story, which I URGE to settle, because
I am fond of motors and wheels.

You’ll understand the urgency to resolve this on the lines below.

Last Easter I was traveling once again to Sahara with some friends of my Saharateam http://www.saharateam.com/ when I crossed with an Englishman on the southwest road of Morocco, near Dakla, far away from the late capital of West Sahara, Layoune.

Going south from Dakla there is a narrow road, with few traffic and long straight roads, crossing the nomads land and leading us to the Mauritanian border.

Everything started 120km south Dakla.

Two cars and a truck with motorcycles for the Saharateam clients were being driven at 80 or 82km/hour (high speed, as you see) and I was behind them.

A sort of “rule” was established in that part of the desert, the first car puts the lights on, either to greet or for them to know that I’m there again.

On that narrow road, with nobody, I find an English motorcycle, no worry on the face of the motard, and I think to myself “may be this man is having some problems. If he is and nobody helps him, when I return north I will find only his bones”.I made a u-turn and the result is: an Englishman older than me, with a BMW a little bit younger than him, with lots of sand in the carburetors due to a sand storm. I think he learned that in the desert, with wind, the motorbikes should not be dismantled.

The good Samaritan decided to help the Englishman.

He tried to put the bags and the helm in the back of the jeep with the other entire luggage but… no chance. The little jeep was full. However, there was enough room for the helm.
The Englishman sat on the right seat, with his bags over him.
Driving back for some help we found many beautiful houses in a beautiful village, but… nobody. Going 60km further north we found a service station in construction, which had already a telephone and where an “expert” businessman had already left some cards for “dépanage” trucks.
We ascertained with the “expert” businessman to pick up the Englishman at the service station, as well as the bike on the road.
And there he stayed, waiting for the “rescue” and thanking me for the trouble, and I went again south to join my group.

I drove the fastest I could to reach my team, my “boss” being already a bit upset and, after some hundreds of km south we finally reached the last service station in Morocco.

We could not go any further, to Nouadibou in Mauritania, where we had an hotel booked, because the border was already closed – no electricity, and it was hard to do all that bureaucratic work with a lamp.

So we decided to stay in the service station, have a shower and sleep in the possible bedroom, while one of my friends preferred to camp.

When I opened the back of the jeep to pick up my luggage I laughed to tears!!! Guess what I found – the HELM of the Englishman.
~
I forgot it was in the back of my car, so did he.

Now you can understand the problem I URGE to settle: either I find the Englishman and give him back the helm or, being fond of motors and wheels, I will have to buy a motorbike.

Can you help me?I have already seen a Suzuki 600, or should I buy a KTM? Because the helm I have already…

May God help me to settle down…

http://www.lisboadakar2007.blogspot.com/
http://www.saharagrandedeserto.blogspot.com/