Week 18, Embraced by the warm heart of Africa, but not before being kicked in the face by its right boot. TOTAL 7681 KM

The last stretch of the solo unsupported Sahara crossing by bicycle from Nouakchott to the Senegalese border was an intensely emotional affair after nearly a month in the Sahara rationing food and water supplies, I was hanging in there by a thread in more ways than one. Physically and mentally drained I mulled over the last few weeks in my head as I tackled the remaining few hundred kilometers on Mauritanian soil.

Unfortunately the final stretch of the desert would not be the spiritual experience and magical closure on the crossing I had envisaged, as I was spat at and stoned by villagers north of Rosso as I refused to give in to demands of “Cadeaux Cadeaux” (gift gift). Struggling to find a safe place to hide my tent for the night, getting spotted, harassed and having to move on as these jaded Mauritanians made their presence felt with a certain degree of anger.

There was the option of the quieter but more remote and demanding border crossing of Diama which would help to avoid the friction I was encountering on the main route south but would add kilometers to the journey and do so on an unsealed gravel road, an extremely difficult decision to make as I weighed up the odds and taking into account my near dehydrated and fatigued body, could I push it  even further over unsealed surfaces after such an intense month or should I brave the stone throwing on the shorter sealed route.

After the toss of a coin, decision made. I embarked on the unsealed road towards Diama which would offer no mercy as the corrugated surface and steep inclines on thick sandy surfaces forced me to get off the bike and push it for kilometers at a time, cursing that coin as I crawled slowly towards the Senegalese border.

 Just before leaving Mauritania I thought things were turning in my favour as the road surface improved ever so slightly and I entered the small national park of Du Diawling which offered a moment’s reprieve. I reached the other side only to be surrounded by men in military uniform trying to swindle me out of my last few Mauritanian Ouguiya, well aware I was intending to cross into Senegal they took advantage of our desolate location and their position of authority trying to harass the money out of me, saved by the bell as a vehicle came through the park I used the opportunity to make tracks hastily in the direction of the border trying to stay as close as possible to the vehicle for the remaining 11 km.

I reached the Senegalese border, stamped out of Mauritania, sitting on the bridge between the two booms head in my hands, my nose bleeding from dehydration in a surreal state somewhere between malnutrition, dehydration and completely in awe of the fact that I’d made it. I handed my passport over to the Senegalese border official almost desensitised to the procedure after the numerous military check points I’d been through in previous weeks, to be completely taken aback as he returned it to me with a broad African smile, looked me straight in the eyes and said “welcome to Senegal”, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders exhaling as I walked out his office passport in hand.

I arrived in St Louis which is a bustling West African fishing town just across the border; I couldn’t stop smiling as I cycled past fruit stands and little shops with bread and all the imaginable odds and ends my heart could desire. I cycled directly into the center of town sat myself down in a dirty little shack near the beach and got stuck into a fresh fish with salad.

 I had caught wind of a Frenchman that was cycling in the area and also attempting the crossing, I met him in St Louis which felt like meeting the only other person on the planet, an experienced cyclist with 27 countries and 32 000 km across the likes of Mongolia, India and Eastern Europe. He had pulled the plug mid-way on the Sahara crossing coming out of Boujdour in Western Sahara and hitch-hiked to the sanctuary of Dakhla, unable to move forward through the headwinds that caused so many problems. After crossing Mauritania his words to me were “I’m leaving the continent from Dakar, it’s too hectic here.”

I managed to squeeze in the final 260 km from St Louis to Dakar to arrive in the nick of time for the World Social Forum which is being held in Senegal this year.

Unfortunately I missed the opening march but will be in town resting my legs for a few days after covering 2731km in 27 days, averaging 101 km’s a day for almost a month with 35 kg’s of luggage across the most desolate part of the planet, a well-earned rest.