Date:         Sun, 05 Feb 95 17:41:27 CST
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@vanagon.com>
From:         Joel Walker <JWALKER@ua1vm.ua.edu>
Subject:      story: crossing the Sahara - part 2


Crossing the Sahara - Part 2
VW Greats, Winter (no idea what year).

The Sahara taught us our first lesson half a hour after we entered it.
In the blowing sand we could barely see 50-feet. Suddenly a soldier
appeared in the headlights. I had to swerve hard to the left to miss
him, then yank back to clear a roadblock, and stand on the brakes before
a spike-studded tire trap at the end of the pavement. Everything in the
van came crashing forward.

We opened the side door of our van, facing the sand storm, and surveyed
the mess. Food, maps, parts, gas and water cans were piled on the floor.
The cap had come off one of the water cans and 5 gallons of water were
pouring over everything. Luckily it wasn't punctured and we still had
20 gallons in reserve.

The soldier directed us off the pavement and into some truck ruts that
led to an old roadbed. That was about the last pavement we'd see for
2,000 miles.

Bouncing down the washboard roadbed we had no idea where we were headed.
We resolved right then never to try driving in the desert after dark
again. Heading in the wrong direction, it wouldn't take long to get
hopelessly lost. The Sahara is a hell of a place to be lost.

Forty miles further we spotted the campfire of some Germans we'd seen
back in Elgolea. We decided to camp with them and continue together the
next day. Morning showed the track to be the right one. In fact it was
the only one. This corrugated old roadbed was the main route for all
traffic to and from Africa.

After months of preparation we were at last in the Sahara. We had worked
out a 2,000 mile study-tour through most of Africa. But before we
reached our goal we had to cross this monster. Covering an area the size
of the entire United States, the Sahara stretches coast to coast across
the top of the continent, forming a permanent challenge to all North-
South land travel.

We were on the Hoggar Track, named after the Hoggar Mountains near
Tammanrasset. It runs over 1,300 miles from Elgolea, Algeria, to Agades,
Niger, and is the only route across the Sahara presently used with any
frequency. The oasis of Ain Salah, Tammanrasset, and Agades divide it
into 3 legs. The longest would be from Tammanrasset to Agades, some
600-miles without gas or water.

Our vehicle for the trip was the save VW van we'd converted for off-road
camping (Fall, VW GREATS). If you didn't read that story, let us review
our conversion. The rear fenders were cut out to accomodate 10x15
Norseman Tires. Heavy-duty shocks, a Tri-Phase air cleaner and a plywood
interior were installed. We cut a window in the side, raised the bottom-
ing stops and packed a Benelii Volcano 180cc mini-bike on the back
bumper as an emergency vehicle.

The work was done in Germany, so the drive down through Europe gave us a
good chance to shake down the camper before attempting the desert.

Daylight provided us our first good look at the Sahara. The land
stretched level to the horizon in every direction. It all looked exactly
the same, like the floor of a huge gravel pit, covered with fist-sized
black basalt rocks interlaced with sand. Down the middle ran the road,
plowed out of the same basalt and sand, pounded into endless miles of
bone-jarring corrugations by the huge Saharan trucks. We would develop
a real hatred for these washboards in the days ahead.

There are a number of theories on the correct driving technique for
washboards. Some say to lower your tire pressure and try to average
45 mph. This is supposed to prevent metal fatique in the torsion bars.
Our German friends thought they could save their shocks by going 50-60
mph and staying on top of the corrugations. We had 2,000 miles off the
pavement ahead, so we adopted a go-slow approach, keeping to about 20
mph and trying to save everything.

Within 100 miles the Germans had blown the sides out of 2 tires. They
only had one spare left. Reluctantly they decided to give up and turned
around. We were sorry to see them leave - now we were really on our own.

The map said the flat area we were on was the Plateau du Tademait. The
road through it became steadily rougher and more and more tracks led off
the road as truckers sought smoother going. Eventually we pulled off
too; we found they were right. We raised our speed until we were able to
do 30-35 mph. To prevent drivers from getting lost, 10-foot poles topped
with large white arrows have been implanted along the road. The tracks
we were following drifted further and further from the road. For most of
the afternoon we needed binoculars to keep the poles barely in sight.

We couldn't spot another living thing anywhere. Hour after hour we
banged along on a changeless treadmill through the howling sand, alone
in this dead emptiness. At sunset all the tracks returned to the road.
Just before paths merged the plateau broke off suddenly, falling 300
feet to a valley floor. We carefully wound down the incline and stopped
for the night at a small Algerian Army road camp.

The sergeant in charge came out and invited us to dinner. Over roast
chicken, oranges, and the last of our scotch we chatted for ours in
broken French. It's a lonely life they lead here. He seemed glad to be
able to entertain someone from outside. He said about 2 or 3 private
cars and 5 or 6 trucks passed by every day, but no one ever stopped.

Next morning we drove for several hours on to Ain Salah, passing through
a land of grotesque wind-carved bluffs. Then the landscape smoothed out
again and we were able to get off-the-road and hit speeds of 50-mph.

Ain Salah rose miles ahead as a mirage, slowly precipitating itself into
a shady oasis of date palms. It was built by the French, of brown adobe,
as their capital of the sands. Once it had been a major Foreign Legion
fort; now the sands were reclaiming their capital. Many of the streets
were buried several feet in sand. But the atmosphere was cool and
restful, a pleasant relief from the desert glare.

We bought some local Tuareg turbans here. They proved excellent for
keeping the constantly blowing sand out of your hair and ears.

We met another German and his frauline who were waiting for someone to
continue with. The man had made the trip 2 years ago, so knew the route.
He said he ran a VW repair shop back in Hamburg, so we figured we'd
found the perfect guide, mechanic and companion for the rest of the
crossing.

There was a third German camped near the airstrip. He'd been there for
3 weeks waiting for a generator and regulator to be flown in. There are
no parts, not even tires available anywhere - just gas and oil. Some-
times even these are scarce.

We left Ain Salah and quickly turned off the road again. With the big
tires we cruised easily over the sand. But our German companion, Hans,
got stuck once. We shoveled out under his tires, laid down sand mats,
and pushed him out with little trouble.

After several hours the land became more rolling. We lost the sense of
the desert's vastness as every few miles we'd top another rise and be
presented with a whole new landscape. Canyons and mesas appeared and
slowly fell behind. As the angle of the sun changed in the afternoon,
colors deepened from tans and grays to reds, purples and blacks. The
scenery in this section is truly magnificent.

Soon we came to a small waterhole about 20-feet deep. By lowering a pail
on the end of a rope we were able to draw bath water and scrub off a
3-day layer of red dust.

Fifty miles further, a Land Rover was broken down beside the road.
Sixteen Africans were packed into it! One of their front suspension
bolts had come off. We gave them one that was a loose fit. But they
tightened it down, piled back in, and tore off toward Ain Salah.

The next morning Hans' battery was dead. It was 4 years old. Heat had
evaporated it bone dry. We got him started with booster cables, but it
failed to charge during the day. We traded him the extra one we'd
brought for our refrigerator for another set of shocks. Our first set
was destroyed after 400 miles of the heat and corrugations.

The temperature had climbed from 40 degrees in the morning to 100
degrees by mid-afternoon. At dusk it dropped 45 degrees in an hour.

We started for Tammanrasset the next morning, climbing into the Hoggar
Mountains. The scenery changed again, but the road didn't. It was wash-
board almost all the way. Near the airport we struck pavement. It gave
us a chance to listen to the van. Everything still sounded fine.

Tammanrasset has become something of a snob appeal spot with the jet-
setters, so pavement has been put in to usher them from the airstrip
to downtown.

Like Ain Salah, Tammanrasset was built by the French. It has the same
brown mud architecture and relaxed way of life. We arrived on Saturday.
The police station we were supposed to check in with before proceeding
was closed until Monday. There was nothing for us to do but pitch camp
under the palms and wait it out. The shops were also closed, but we had
a 4-month food supply and 2 weeks of water. So it was no real
inconvenience. We feasted on freeze-dried steaks while Tuareg camel
drivers across the street munched on their ancient food, handfuls of
dates.

For centuries these wandering camel masters have ruled the desert.
Distaining any manual labor they raised their camels, composed love
songs and exacted tribute from the subject people of their realm. It
was not until 1934 that the last band of these "blue men" (so called
because the dye of their robes stained their skin) was pacified. Today
the only mystery about them is how they manage to survive just laying
around all day doing nothing.

Shortly out of Tammanrasset we witnessed an example of one way - a
camel and rider galloped from the dunes toward the road a mile ahead.
Nearing the road they slowed to a trot and finally a walk. As we
approached, a body fell from the camel and dragged itself to the road-
side. It turned out to be a 14 year old boy. He gestured frantically
with an empty canteen for us to stop. We filled his canteen and gave him
some cookies. Next he wanted cigarettes. We finally pried his fingers
off the door handle and pulled away. The entire drama was reenacted for
Hans 2 minutes later. The canteen we'd filled was already bone dry. He
must have poured it out in the sand.

>From here on we saw several Tuareg camps a day. At each one they came
running out with their bowls to beg for food, clothing and cigarettes.
It appeared many of their camps were strategically located near the
worst sand traps, so they could beseige stuck drivers.

On this final leg to Agades the traffic dropped off sharly. Where before
we'd meet 5 or 6 truckers and travelers every day, we now went for 2
days until the Algerian-Niger border without meeting anyone.

The road ended at the border. Leading away from the Niger Custom Post
was a sign saying Agades pointing up at the horizon, and a series of
black marker posts about a mile apart, to keep you heading in the
correct general direction. It was left to you to choose your own route
through the low piles of sand and gravel. There were hardly any tracks
to give us a hint of the best route. Hans got stuck in the sand before
going 200 yards. With our large tires we sailed past him to the next
gravel pile and pulled him out from there.

As we drove on the tire tracks became more numerous. Apparently many
drivers had swing around out of sight of the customs post to run the
border. The tracks spread out in all directions. The markers became
fewer and further apart. At points we drove twenty-five miles without
seeing a marker. It became increasingly difficult to tell if we were
going the right way. The terrain flattened onto another plateau making
the situation even more confusing.

Finally we took the mini-bike off and used it as a scout vehicle to find
the main track again. We'd come to a particularly sandy spot. Then the
tracks would take off in all directions as each had tried to find the
easiest path.

Many of the ruts were over a foot deep. We continously bottomed out, but
we kept the big tires turning in low gear and they somehow pulled us
through. Hans got stuck every few hours, so we spent a lot of time
pulling him free.

With all this first-gear driving, and 125 degrees heat, our gas mileage
fell off. We started with 40-gallons for the 400 miles. Now I was
worried we wouldn't have enough, so we changed back to our regular tires
and the mileage improved dramatically.

For another 2 ays we scoured the Niger desert for tracks. We could now
see a few clumps of dry grass. Gradually short thorn trees mingled with
them. As we continued south the trees grew larger, sand-filled dry
washes become more frequent, and now and then a patch of green would
show through the brush. We were nearing the edge of the Sahara. The
tracks finally met a sand road at In Gall.

Three hours later, we reached Agades, the official end of the desert.
The van is still running fine. But it looked like a sand dune, as it
was covered with dust.

We've found a small campground here with a palm-shaded swimming hole.
You could probably float a tire iron on the thick green water, but after
a week and a half of sun and dust, the swim felt great. The palms are
full of colorful songbirds, and an old Frenchman who lives at the camp
supplied a refrigerator full of cold beer and soda. He's been in the
area for 34 years developing his own little paradise on the edge of the
sands.

We would have loved to just lay there in the shade and relax for a
couple of months, but we've got another 9000 miles of Africa to start
on, and they say the stretch from Agades to Zinder is really rough.