Friday, November 11, 2005
The Sahara, Niger
The Road to Bilma
The sun vanished from the sky, leaving a brief trail of fire quickly swallowed by seas of sand. We were on the edge of the Sahara, recently abandoned by our shifty Tuareg driver. A large and diverse contingent of Africans milled around a beast of a truck. Many of them were heading to Libya, with high hopes of slipping illegally into Europe. Nearby, a couple of scruffy herders watched over scores of hefty sheep. Over the next couple of days, we would share an exciting voyage punctuated by volleys of vomit, intense battles between beast and man, and an unbelievable lack of personal space.
Our destination was the desert oasis of Bilma, some 400 miles outside the already remote town of Agadez. The 'road' to Bilma consists of sporadic tires marking an often trackless line across vast plains of sand, over lofty dunes, and through rocky gulches. Nearly 100 people die each year while attempting this crossing. Tuareg bandits sporadically attack tourist vehicles on route. This is a trip usually undertaken by tourists in tough Landrovers, equipped with satellite phones and GPS devices, and traveling in convey for security. This costs a heap of money. Our only option was to join the local 'freedom train', consisting of more than 50 people and 80 goats.
As we struck out into the desert at night, Nate and I quickly saw our 'goat shield' disappear. The young boys we had so strategically packed ourselves behind had decided they were better off hanging from the side of the truck. Wave after wave of goats slammed into us, knocking us back into those behind us while desecrating our feet and bags with all manners of nauseating waste. Our one major consolation was that we made great time. Around midnight we stopped and slept shivering under the stars.
Awaking at dawn, Nate moved to the top in an attempt to escape the goats. Tuuli and I remained below where the threat of falling off a high speed truck was minimal. It seemed a smart decision. What I didn't anticipate was the tremendous threat of vomit. We were crammed so tight that, while the floor of the truck would remain virtually untouched in the event of sickness, the rest of us would make inviting targets. Things turned ugly about an hour into the journey. Without any warning, a deluge of vomit flew over my head. A young man sitting on a bar above me, finding himself suddenly sick, narrowly missed me and drenched the boy to my right. The boy responded by puking all over himself, encouraging a few others to make their own contributions.
By the time it was over, few people or goats were spared the indignity of a thorough soaking. Tuuli and I were among the minority that escaped unscathed, although my bag wasn't so lucky. We drove all day and late into the night again. By the time we broke camp, nobody on the truck was able to muster enough strength to prepare any sort of dinner. I chewed on some raw garlic before dozing off. We arrived in Dirkou early the next morning and checked in with the local police. The strenuous portion of the trip finished, we caught the daily 'desert shuttle' and found ourselves in Bilma by evening.
The Road to Bilma
The sun vanished from the sky, leaving a brief trail of fire quickly swallowed by seas of sand. We were on the edge of the Sahara, recently abandoned by our shifty Tuareg driver. A large and diverse contingent of Africans milled around a beast of a truck. Many of them were heading to Libya, with high hopes of slipping illegally into Europe. Nearby, a couple of scruffy herders watched over scores of hefty sheep. Over the next couple of days, we would share an exciting voyage punctuated by volleys of vomit, intense battles between beast and man, and an unbelievable lack of personal space.
Our destination was the desert oasis of Bilma, some 400 miles outside the already remote town of Agadez. The 'road' to Bilma consists of sporadic tires marking an often trackless line across vast plains of sand, over lofty dunes, and through rocky gulches. Nearly 100 people die each year while attempting this crossing. Tuareg bandits sporadically attack tourist vehicles on route. This is a trip usually undertaken by tourists in tough Landrovers, equipped with satellite phones and GPS devices, and traveling in convey for security. This costs a heap of money. Our only option was to join the local 'freedom train', consisting of more than 50 people and 80 goats.
As we struck out into the desert at night, Nate and I quickly saw our 'goat shield' disappear. The young boys we had so strategically packed ourselves behind had decided they were better off hanging from the side of the truck. Wave after wave of goats slammed into us, knocking us back into those behind us while desecrating our feet and bags with all manners of nauseating waste. Our one major consolation was that we made great time. Around midnight we stopped and slept shivering under the stars.
Awaking at dawn, Nate moved to the top in an attempt to escape the goats. Tuuli and I remained below where the threat of falling off a high speed truck was minimal. It seemed a smart decision. What I didn't anticipate was the tremendous threat of vomit. We were crammed so tight that, while the floor of the truck would remain virtually untouched in the event of sickness, the rest of us would make inviting targets. Things turned ugly about an hour into the journey. Without any warning, a deluge of vomit flew over my head. A young man sitting on a bar above me, finding himself suddenly sick, narrowly missed me and drenched the boy to my right. The boy responded by puking all over himself, encouraging a few others to make their own contributions.
By the time it was over, few people or goats were spared the indignity of a thorough soaking. Tuuli and I were among the minority that escaped unscathed, although my bag wasn't so lucky. We drove all day and late into the night again. By the time we broke camp, nobody on the truck was able to muster enough strength to prepare any sort of dinner. I chewed on some raw garlic before dozing off. We arrived in Dirkou early the next morning and checked in with the local police. The strenuous portion of the trip finished, we caught the daily 'desert shuttle' and found ourselves in Bilma by evening.
<< Home