Day 20. 6113 km. 111 hours ridingCrossing through Tarifa was surprisingly easy: quickly on and off the ferry, a couple of forms, a couple of stamps, but very efficient and friendly custom officials – nothing like the horror stories we had heard. Afterwards… well, that’s another story. After a few hours on some barren hills, we reach sand. Red, fine, perfect for sinking in it to the mirrors. Sand covering not only the landscape, but also the highway, actually among the patches of asphalt that mark the road.
At the first sand immersion - down! Both of us! We team up with the locals and go over the first dunes, pushing the bikes. I take a group picture and put the camera back. Judging by the tone of the completely unknown language I catch on that they are not happy, so I take out the camera and show them the picture. They are much happier now. Stupid me, you take a picture and just leave? Like a tourist in front of a monument? They are going to stay behind, in the same sand they helped you get out of, they’re not going around sightseeing like you are and they don’t seem that jaded as not to enjoy a trifle like a picture with two weird bearded men! Even if you take it with you!
At the next sand flood we take it easy, using our feet more than the wheels. Even the passing carriages are beeping at us. Kind of like this:
And to make things more fun, driving on these roads you also run into some water trucks spraying the sand. The thought of navigating through some sticky substance that the locals make pottery from is not at all appealing, but after a few tens of kilometers we are finally rid of the sand.
Going through towns is much better, the asphalt is shiny as if for curling, but at least it exists. There are plenty of bikes around here, most of them tuned, with painted flames on their gas tanks. Choppers with hoods.
Going through towns is much better, the asphalt is shiny as if for curling, but at least it exists. There are plenty of bikes around here, most of them tuned, with painted flames on their gas tanks. Choppers with hoods.
The magic of Africa, real or imaginary, hasn’t revealed itself yet. We may still be too close to Europe.
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