Pre-departure
Packing chaos
I arrived at Len’s house in Canterbury to find him on the phone to the supplier because our satellite phone didn’t work. Bill arrived shortly after and announced he still had to buy a pair of walking boots.
They both still had some way to go with their packing. I was fortunate that I’d had to leave home a day earlier, so I was all done.
We were way over our 13kg baggage limit and needed a desperate sort out. Kit was strewn all over the living room floor.
Birthday boxers
Knowing that we’d be in the desert for Bill’s birthday on 13th March, we wanted to get him a present.
Leaving Bill and Len to their packing, I went into town and returned with a pair of boxer shorts. Having allowed ourselves just two pairs each for the entire trip (to save weight) Len and I thought they’d be very welcome come March.
They were silk, a fairly ugly brown colour and had “Release the Beast” blazoned across them.
Journey to Paris
By the afternoon we had somehow sorted through the clutter and were ready to leave. Len’s dad drove us to Dover where we said our final farewell and boarded the ferry to France.
By midnight, we had found our way to Terminal 9 at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, which did exist despite our scepticism, and prepared ourselves to be the only ones at check-in for our 4am flight to Atar.
Packed terminal
We were expecting a tiny propellor-driven aircraft to fly us low in the early morning sunshine across the empty sands to Mauritania.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Before long, the check in area swelled with hoards of middle-aged and retired French package tourists on their way to Mauritania. Our plane was to be a regular Boeing 737.
What could we expect to find in Atar now?
Pre-departure photo
Check-in at Charles de Gaulle Terminal 9
I took a photo of us in the airport. The pre-departure shot. It triggered a vigorous discussion about the unnecessary weight of the camera tripod.
We had US$8,000 stuffed into our pockets, which we calculated should be just about enough to see us through the next three months or more and fund the return journey from wherever we ended up. Len kept checking his pockets uneasily to make sure his share of the cash was still there.
Baggage overview
To handle the Spartan baggage limit, we decided to wear as much of our heavier kit as possible, although that meant we were seriously overdressed for landing in Atar and facing the Mauritanian heat.
Not really knowing what to expect from the weather, Bill brought a warm lumberjack coat and Len opted for an anorak, while I (perhaps unwisely) decided to go with neither.
The shirts and trousers we are wearing in the photo were deemed necessary in case we needed to look smart for border crossings or police control points. I’m not sure why I thought drawstring trousers looked smart. We each packed a tie in reserve as well.
Inside our multi-coloured collection of satchels and holdalls we packed three sleeping bags, a collection of black and white maps, the satellite phone and an enormous first aid kit. For clothing we each packed a t-shirt and, key, a spare pair of underwear.
The bottle of wine Bill is holding In the photo had been offered to Sir Wilfred Thesiger when Bill and Len visited him a few months earlier; he politely declined, already having a few bottles lined up and unlikely to be drunk anytime soon.
Ironically, despite the frantic kit sort out, much of what can be seen in this photo ended up not being needed, or used, once we started walking in the desert.
With take-off still hours away, we opened Thesiger’s bottle of wine and ran through our plan one more time.
Our plan for the first days: Camels…
We intended to find temporary lodgings in Atar or Chinguetti and buy camels, possibly employing the help of a local for this. We imagined that there would be a camel market, something like the cattle markets back home, where all the camels available would be on display.
…then training
Once armed with camels, we would find accommodation of our own and “train” ourselves. In exactly what we still didn’t know, but it would involve running up and down sand dunes to get fit, taking our camels out for a ride now and again and marking the maps with our intended route: Atar – Tidjikja – Tichit – Oualata – Nema.
With no return ticket, the only constraints on our return date would be the arrival of the unbearably hot weather and the expiry of our visas.
What could possibly go wrong?
Where to go next: