The idea of crossing the Sahara just sounded insane to me, let alone on a bicycle. And yet there I was, pedalling out of Guelmim with a single 2000km road ahead of me, encircled by sand in all directions as far as the eye could see. I felt like a mere speck, a plankton coming face to face with a blue whale.
I couldn’t have been more excited.
I – Guelmim to Laayoune
With a powerful tailwind behind me, I felt lucky to be blessed with free speed as I ticked off 35km in the first hour with minimal effort. Yet at the same time, I was also distinctly aware of how hard it would be to turn around if I lost my nerve. There was no backing out now. The only way forward was South.
With 130km to Tan-Tan, the next settlement on the road, and only one small shop on the way to rest, there was little to do apart from just sit in the saddle and keep on pedalling. Not that I was complaining – as every kilometer passed I was freshly awestruck by otherworldly landscapes around me. Harsh rocky ridges scarred the horizon and huge sand dunes rose up like waves frozen in time.
Although the heat was in the high 40ºs all day, the non-existent humidity and strong tailwind made the endless hours of sun exposure surprisingly manageable.
As evening approached, disaster struck. I was snapped out of my daydream as I felt something crack on the rack. Pulling over to investigate, I found to my horror that I’d both lost another bolt and the rack had fully severed off above one of the bottom attachments. Getting accustomed to having to invent makeshift solutions, I strapped the side of my pannier to my saddle with voile straps, keeping the heavily-laden and severed rack from scraping along my brake disc.
Hobbling the last 15km in the twilight to Tan-Tan, I was surprised at how calm I was about the situation. Despite the lack of bike shops within a 500km radius, I would find a mechanic in the morning who would come up with a solution.
Arriving after dark, my £6 Airbnb host welcomed me with tea, bread and honey. Abdelaziz had spent years working in construction in Saudi Arabia, he had returned to Morocco and was just starting a journey of trying to build a life in which he could sustain himself with a small Airbnb.
Hearing his story I was reminded just how privileged I was to be doing what I was doing. I was there out of choice, travelling through this hostile part of the world on a big adventure, while many of those who lived there were struggling to make ends meet. This reminder of my own privilege would become a daily occurrence as I reached sub-Saharan Africa, cycling through some of the poorest communities in the world.
After providing me with an enormous breakfast, Abdelaziz found a local mechanic who drilled two holes into my bike rack, reattaching the severed metal limb with a new prosthetic plate. With 300km between me and Laayoune and no guarantee of resupply, I filled up every bottle and bladder I had, strapped extra water bottles to my frame and rack, and just prayed that 15L would be enough to see me through the next 2 days. Although the bike now weighed around 60kg, once I was up and running it was barely noticeable with the flat road and strong tailwind helping me along.
With the road now meeting the ocean I felt as if I’d reached the very dregs of human civilization, and aside from the intermittent passing car or lorry and occasional fisherman sitting on a cliff edge, I came across very few signs of life. With roadsigns warning of the risk of camels in the road, I hoped to come across some humpbacked friends. Lo and behold, after a few hours of riding I found an adorable group of camels who grinned inquisitively at me as I passed by.
After 110km of empty desert and Atlantic cliffs, I came across a small village with a tiny restaurant and munched through a plate of freshly caught fried fish. Leaving town, I was pulled over by the police for the first time, having to show my documents and explain where I was going. Although I’d been told this was a normal experience, I couldn’t help but feel nervous that I’d done something wrong.
As evening approached I left the tarmac in search of a suitable camp spot hidden from the road. I had recently learnt from other bikepackers that this area was a hotspot for small migrant boats trying to reach the Canary Islands (and therefore the European Union), which were only around 50 miles away and visible at night. Taking their advice and keen to avoid another police encounter, I searched for somewhere to camp on the inland side of the road, aware that I was far more likely to be found and forced to move if I camped by the sea.
Identifying a seemingly abandoned building to hide behind, I began to set up camp. The tent I had brought was a fancy bit of ultralightweight kit, but had one fatal flaw: it was not free standing, so was reliant on being pegged firmly into the ground to stay upright. As you may be aware, sand is not the most conducive surface for a stable tent peg. With a fierce wind and the uncooperative sand, it took nearly an hour for me to finally get the tent upright and sufficiently stable to not collapse within seconds of being left alone.
Lying in my sleeping bag, covered in sand and sweat but content after a big meal of pasta with tomato and sweetcorn, I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard an engine approaching and a headlight pull up next to my tent, with voices demanding that I come out. Fearing the worst, defenceless and afraid in just my underwear, I slowly unzipped my tent and got out. To my great relief, I was met by a friendly man, introducing himself as the owner of the building. Shaking my hand, he said I was welcome to camp there, and left me to crawl back into my tent.
Rising at 6:30am, I set my sights on a big ride to Laayoune, determined to avoid another night sleeping in a sweaty, sandy tent. I enjoyed a gorgeous sunrise over the mountains in the distance as I packed up my tent and made porridge, before retracing my tracks in the sand to the main road to get some miles under the belt before the heat of the day kicked in. With a sidewind covering the road in a layer of sand, I winced as every passing car whipped up a small cloud that bit into any exposed skin. After 80km of solid progress the wind turned, and suddenly I found myself fighting against an invisible force as if trying to climb a descending escalator. Every meter forward was hard work under the baking sun, but to my great relief I soon came across a gas station with a small restaurant.
Grateful to have some respite from the midday sun, I devoured an obligatory tajine and a litre of Fanta before facing the road once more. Progress remained slow throughout the afternoon with the unrelenting wind and sun, but after smashing down a red bull and the sun easing I eventually reached Laayoune, the ‘capital’ of Western Sahara. As I had recently discovered, the whole area down to the Mauritanian border is controlled by Morocco and inhabited by Moroccans, who fervently denied the existence of ‘Western Sahara’ if I ever mentioned it. The native Sahrawi people are split between the Moroccan-occupied territory further inland and refugee camps in Algeria, and on the coastal road I was riding I only met Moroccans. It was hard to know how to engage with the issue, and wanting to avoid any conflict I did my best to avoid the topic.
II – Laayoune to Dakhla
The next morning I felt a little nervous as I left Laayoune, being pulled over by the police who asked me if I was sure I knew what I was doing and if I had enough water. But thanks to a consistent tail wind for most of the day and the temperature staying below 40º, I managed to keep up a decent pace, only stopping at the solitary service station with a small restaurant after 110km.
The novelty of the desert had already worn off, and it was hard to stay motivated as I continued down the straight flat road through a seemingly endless desert with only the occasional camel to wave to. The most stimulating parts of my day were being pulled over by the police for a document check, getting chased by dogs, or cycling past a huge wind farm – the only non-sand based feature of the landscape.
After a chicken Tajine and an assortment of caffeinated drinks, I resolved myself to make it to Boujdour, the next settlement on the road, and got back in the saddle to take on the last 80km. Exhausted, after pushing some extremely sore legs through the final hours, I was rewarded with a shower and a bed in the last cheap hotel for some distance ahead.
With my back wheel starting to wobble more and more, I spent all morning trying to find a mechanic to true it. When I eventually found someone to help, they pointed out that the rim itself was starting to crack around the spoke holes, making it impossible to distribute the weight evenly. Not realising quite how serious a broken rim was – remember, I was a complete cycling novice – I continued on, naively assuring myself I’d be able to fix it at the next town in 350km.
Stopping after around 50km at the first petrol station I reached, I was gutted to find there was no shop. Taking a few minutes to hide from the sun in the shade, I got chatting to the fuel attendant, who introduced himself as Mostapha. He explained that he’d taught himself English using his phone, having had no formal education. He circled my bike, carefully naming all the different parts in English with a huge smile. Wanting to practice his English, we ended up talking about all sorts of things from UK geography, to religion to the crisis in Gaza. He told me that his dream is to visit the UK and go to the Gloucester cheese-rolling festival.
This was such a joyful interaction. I hadn’t realised just how much I had deeply missed real human interaction, and this one moment of joyful connection in the middle of such a vast and unfeeling desert affected me profoundly.
Continuing on I felt a new wave of energy, and laughed out loud to myself as I passed a large group of friendly camels, scratching their necks on roadside posts and staring at me with a puzzled smile as I wove through their midst. Cycling past these creatures never failed to warm my soul.
Empty desert. Gas station tajine. More empty desert. The occasional beep of encouragement from a passing car offered just enough motivation to keep me pedalling forward through the hours of monotonous riding. With my legs in a lot of pain and the sun headed towards the horizon, I began to search my featureless surroundings in hope of a suitable camp spot. Eventually spotting a clump of bushes in the sand dunes about a kilometer away, I turned off the road and pushed my bike through the sand in search of shelter.
While the idea of camping under the milky way with nobody else for miles is dreamy, my reality of desert camping was closer to a nightmare. The wind was incredibly strong and unrelenting all night. The hump of a sand dune offers little shelter, and with no stability of the tent pegged into sand, I found myself waking up with the tent collapsed around me several times. To make matters worse, with no access to water there is no way to clean yourself or your bike and sleeping in the day’s sand and sweat is no fun.
Despite all this, there was a real beauty in the silence and emptiness of the desert. There’s nothing that makes you feel quite so small as staring into the horizon with nothing to see but sand, knowing that for 1000s of miles beyond there is still nothing but the same, unfeeling sand. While many people are scared by the feeling of being small, I find it comforting. Being reminded that in the vastness of space and time, my existence is no more significant than a single grain of sand in a desert. That life’s significance doesn’t come from changing the world, but from the gift of being part of it.
Waking early, I decided to go big and aim to make it all the way to the next town in one day, with 220km of desert between me and a shower and bed. Barely sustaining my aching legs with painkillers and the occasional gas station, I gritted my teeth and pushed on through the desert. Barely stopping all day, with 60km to go I tied my own hands by booking a cheap hotel, turning the possibility into a necessity. After my third police stop of the day, I turned off the main road and headed down the long peninsula towards Dakhla. Despite the pain it was a magical experience riding through the hills and across the flats into the sunset, a huge day of riding behind me, and I finally reached Dakhla well after dark after a hairy moment being chased by a group of dogs.
Located at the end of a peninsula on the Saharan coast about 400km north of the Mauritanian border, a shallow protected lagoon and consistent strong winds have made Dakhla one of the best kitesurfing locations in the world. Much of the local economy relies on wealthy thrill-seekers spending exorbitant amounts of money flying into this tiny desert airport and staying in fancy lodges. It goes without saying that I was not in their midst, and was instead enjoying the company of a few large cockroaches in booking.com’s cheapest offering.
For the last few days my back wheel had been wobbling all over the place, the rim cracked in multiple places and missing entire chunks, and I was lucky that my wheel had not completely collapsed in the middle of the desert. Relieved to have made it to Dakhla with it just about intact, I was optimistic for a speedy repair after locating the one mechanic in town that stocked spare bike parts. To my great horror, the shop owner informed me that the new rim I needed wasn’t stocked anywhere in town, and the best he could do was get his mate to weld some metal back onto the wheel and pray that it would hold up for the rest of the Sahara crossing. Choosing optimism I accepted the offer, and was told it would be 3 days until the bike was ready.
Given I was stuck in Dakhla for a few days with very little else to do, I decided to treat myself to a couple of days kitesurfing. I’d had some lessons 4 years earlier in Zanzibar, but had no idea if any of it had stuck. Despite a few false starts, I got myself up and surfing just long enough to feel the rush of skimming across the water, and remembered just how addictive that feeling is. Alas, just as I was getting more confident the wind died, and would remain elusive for the rest of my stay.
III – Breakdown
After a frustrating couple of days kicking about in the dusty town, the relief of a proper rest quickly turning into boredom, I was finally back on the road. Retracing my steps to the main road 40km away, I silently prayed that the mechanic’s unorthodox repair job would hold just long enough for me to cross the Sahara and reach Senegal.
Re-joining the road South towards Mauritania, the change was abrupt. The smooth tarmac disappeared, as did the vehicles. Rather than passing another road user every few minutes, there would be hours at a time that I didn’t cross paths with another human. Many of the vehicles that did pass by were pickup trucks transporting camels sitting in the back, perfectly relaxed and just swaying side to side as they watched the landscape roll past. They reminded me of elderly grandparents that aren’t quite sure what’s going on, but despite being mildly bemused are perfectly content and just happy to be there. It’s impossible not to laugh out loud when you lock eyes with 4 camels vibing in the back of a pickup as they overtake you down the road.
With around 15km to go until the fuel station I was aiming to rest at for the night, I noticed my back wheel starting to wobble once again, even more violently than before. The mechanic’s fix hadn’t even lasted a day. Despite my best efforts to tighten the spokes, as I continued on it got worse and worse until it was fully rocking from side to side. I realised that the rim had already ruptured again in multiple places, and the wheel was getting close to complete collapse. After more emergency tightening, we hobbled on and eventually reached the service station, only to find no running water or food available.
After a long fight pitching the tent on rocky sand, I finally was able to cook my pasta and eat some much needed carbs after an exhausting day. Already well behind schedule to reach Cape Town in time, in blind desperation I convinced myself that I should just continue forwards the next day, hoping against hope that I could make it to the next city 500km away and find a new rim there.
My delusion did not last long.
After unsteadily pedalling on South the next morning, just 8km later it was game over. Wobbling uncontrollably, the wheel suddenly buckled, snapping the rack in two as it crumpled in defeat.
Things were not looking good. I was stuck in the middle of the Sahara with a broken bike, no phone signal, no protection from the desert sun and dwindling water supplies. I had just passed a rusty sign warning it was 159km to the next service station, and hadn’t seen a single vehicle all morning on this rutted, desolate road.
And yet, I was surprised at how calm I felt. I smiled about how ridiculous the situation was, feeling almost cartoonish stranded in the middle of an empty desert. Of all the places to break down, my bike couldn’t have picked a more inconvenient location.
Even one month ago, the same Rob would have been panicking and catastrophising about the situation. Instead, I stayed level-headed, assuring myself that eventually help would come. I decided I had no choice but to hitchhike back to Dakhla, 150k back the way I came, and try and get the replacement parts I needed sent there from somewhere else in Morocco. As disheartening as this was, I really didn’t have another option.
I stood by the road, praying that someone with space for a large bike in their vehicle would eventually come and take pity on me. Sure enough, after around an hour of sitting on a rock I heard a vehicle coming, and frantically waving at the driver of the large van, he reluctantly came to a halt. I explained my predicament, and although he wasn’t particularly pleased about the idea of giving me and the bike a lift, he agreed to give me a lift back to Dakhla for 300 dirhams (about £25). We strapped the bike to the roof and off we went back up the road. It was a little depressing rewatching all of yesterday’s scenery in reverse as I undid almost 150km of hard cycling.
Not sure what else to do, I put out a plea for help on the West Africa bikepackers WhatsApp group. By some small miracle, another cyclist 1000km north was able to locate a rim that could fit my wheel, and put it on the overnight bus heading to Dakhla. Sure enough, the next morning I collected it from the driver at the bus terminal, and I could barely believe it as just 24 hours later I was cycling back out of Dakhla once again, this time with a shiny new rim.
Despite three punctures and a brutal headwind as I cycled the 40km north from Dakhla back to the main road, I was in high spirits as I once again turned south and retraced my tracks to the same petrol station, now with the wind behind me. Passing the Tropic of Cancer sign, I felt a rush of excitement. It may not have felt very tropical, but I was now officially in the Tropics.
Reaching the same gas station as dusk fell, I noticed another heavily laden bike parked up outside. Excited by the prospect of another bikepacker, I investigated and came across a recently retired Norwegian man called Petter, who also happened to be cycling to Cape Town. It was joyful to connect with another traveller taking on the same adventure, both of us making the most of the freedom that comes at either end of a career.
Hoping to find a more sheltered camping spot down the road, I cycled on beneath one of the most incredible sunsets I had ever witnessed. Despite my best efforts to pitch camp under a sand dune, after over an hour of wrestling with the tent I simply couldn’t get it to stay upright before the wind blew it back over. Petter had messaged me to say he’d been allowed to camp inside a room, and, accepting defeat, at 10pm I began cycling back to the gas station. It took me an hour and a half to cycle the 8km back against the ridiculous headwind, but around 11:30pm I finally reached my destination, grateful for somewhere sheltered to sleep despite the grubby floor.
The next morning Petter and I continued on together, and it felt incredible to cycle past the spot I had broken down, the Mauritanian border firmly within my sights. A full 75km of empty desert later we came across a small cafe in the middle of nowhere. A litre of sprite, pot of tea, and a questionable Tajine later, we were back on the road with the wind behind us. We covered the 85k left to Bir Gandouz fairly rapidly, the potholed tarmac almost entirely to ourselves.
There was just 80km between us and the Mauritanian border. After exactly one month in Morocco, it was time for the first major border crossing of the journey, and boy would it be a wild one.
