8 Hours in Monaco

Posted: April 5, 2025 | Tagged: Monaco

The Principality of Monaco was granted observer status in June 1956 and became the 183rd United Nations Member State on 28 May 1993 and is the 2nd smallest sovereign state in the world after the Vatican.

The country is divided into four areas: Monaco-Ville (the old city), the Condamine (port quarter), Monte-Carlo (business and recreation), and Fontvieille (recreation and light industry).

Monaco has long been considered a tax haven (though there seems to be some discussion as to whether Monaco is still a tax haven) because of its favourable personal and corporate tax rules. The country does not tax individuals on their income, and corporations have favourable tax treatment.

It's a place for the rich and famous, the elite. The likes of Bono, Lewis Hamilton, Novak Djokovic and Roger Moore, who is buried in the Monaco cemetery.

So, Monaco is definitely not for the backpacker which is why I just made a day trip of it. In fact, I spent just 7 hours backpacking the luxury delights of this tiny principality.

I took the train from Nice-Ville to Monaco-Monte-Carlo station and later left on a train to Ventimiglia and then Genoa.

Get your passport stamped at the Monaco Tourism Office

Monte Carlo Casino

Monaco Grand Prix Circuit

The Monaco Grand Prix is one of the most prestigious and iconic races in the Formula 1 championship. Every year, it attracts thousands of enthusiasts from all over the world to the tiny principality to experience the excitement of racing cars whizzing through the narrow streets of Monte Carlo.

The 82nd edition is being held May 22- 23, 2025.

https://www.senategrandprix.com/monaco-circuit-map

Monaco City

Monaco Courthouse

Cathédrale de Monaco

Point de Vue Port de Fontvieille

Place du palais

Passage de la Miséricorde

Apotheosa Monaca

Port Quarter

Travelling from Nice (France) to Monte Carlo (Monaco) by Train

Posted: April 5, 2025 | Tagged: France, Monaco

How to get from Nice Côte d'Azur Airport to the City Centre by Tram

Posted: April 5, 2025 | Tagged:

Europe 2025

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Europe 2025

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Europe 2025

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Overland from London to Beirut

Posted: February 1, 2025 | Tagged:

In 2010 I set off on a journey that would last 549 days.

I began on June 1, 2010, and returned home, on December 1, 2011.

I travelled through 34 countries.

This section, London to Beirut, the UK to Lebanon, encompassed 12 countries:
The Netherlands, Germany, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, Turkey, Georgia, Armenia, Syria and Lebanon.

I would have continued, but I wasn't sure I'd be granted another Syrian visa, so I flew to Amman.

It remains my favourite adventure, much more so than Cairo to Cape Town or London to Monrovia.

And this adventure took place in a seemingly different era. There were no smartphones. I used WiFi cafes to do my research and send messages back home. I had a digital camera, but travel blogs weren't really a thing, though some had started. I just uploaded photos to Facebook.

I wrote my diary, I sent postcards.

And in the first weeks, yes, I booked train tickets where ever possible, as you can save a shit load of money by advanced sales, but I didn't make any hostel bookings. For Amsterdam, Berlin, and Poland, I had a few hostels pinpointed on Google Map print outs. After that, i just made it up as I went along.

Overland from London to Monrovia

Posted: February 1, 2025 | Tagged:

In December 2012, I travelled overland from London to Monrovia, the capital of Monrovia.

I called it The Final Project. I had dreams of making it to Cape Town. But ended in Liberia.

I travelled through 10 countries. It was a tough adventure. West Africa has some of the toughest roads ever, and I just wasn't up to it. The journey wore me down. I wasn't having fun. OK, so there were some great times, but mostly, it was a struggle. I should have stopped somewhere and recovered a little, but I pushed on.

I travelled through France, Spain, Morocco, Mauritania, Senegal, The Gambia, back into Senegal, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Sierra leone and Liberia.

Times had moved on. I travelled with a ASUS laptop. I still didn't have a smart phone. Places were starting to have Wi-Fi. And when they didn't, I just wrote my diary and read. I had Lonely Planet PDFs as back up but mostly I travelled by the seat of my pants. I had made a few bookings in Paris, Lyon, Carcassonne, Barcelona. After that, I reverted to travelling sans reservations. Old School!

And I had started blogging. I wrote (badly) on my now defunct WhiteMonkeyTravels blog. A blog that a few years later earned me more money than I do now.

Here are some of my diary extracts from that journey:

Travels in France

DAY 1 DECEMBER 1 2012. On my way to Paris.

The Final Project: what could be better for a start date than December 1st, 1 year to the day after the 18-month Epic finished. I never envisaged that I could/would be back on the road so soon, yet here I am with a new 48-page passport in my pocket, my bag on my back and as free-spirited as ever I was.

This morning was just like any other. Dad went about his morning routine as I took my breakfast; bread and jam with milky tea (just for the record), then I shook the old guy's hand, picked up my bags and that was that.

Walked the 10 minutes to the station. The train took me to London. Turning left on Euston Road to the Eurostar terminal. Drank a coke.

And here I am. The 11:24 to Paris, Gare du Nord. As easy as that. Life can be so sweet!!

Day 2: Out and about in Paris

Blessed with perfect weather for my first day here. The winter sun, low in the sky creating long shadows. I walked from Trocadero to the Eiffel Tower, to the Louvre, to the Eglise de Notre Dame and back up to the 19th arrondissement.

Day 3: out and about in Paris #2

I slept good, a sure sign that I am getting into the swing of being back on the road. What to do on a rainy day in Paris? Get the rain jacket out and carry on regardless. I had to do a friend a favour and drink a coffee in Starbucks for her so I went up to the Moulin Rouge. By the time I had finished my Long Black, the rain had stopped and I hit the streets walking all day looking for photo opportunities

Day 4: Lyon - Nice times

It's late. Earlier, on my way to get some dinner I took a photo from the main bridge in town and as I waited for the water to boil to do my rice, I spontaneously posted the photo on FB. Within 1 hour, my friend Bruno had sent me a message and was inviting me for a beer. I had met Bruno at a bus station in Yangshou in 2011 and we rode the night bus to Shenzen before crossing to Hong Kong. We cut costs and shared a room for 3 nights. I had forgotten that he lived in Lyon. The beers flowed. We talked about China and his trips to Mali and Burkino Faso, both which lay on my intended route. We climbed the narrow stairs up to La Rousse and drank more beer at a cute little bar.

Day 6: On my way to Carcassonne

Yesterday, after meeting with an ex girl friend who had moved to Lyon from Lille, I explored the alleyways from last nights tour, in day light. In the evening had a long heart to heart with a girl who was in town hoping to find work as a nurse. We talked travel 'til late.

Day 8: Coffee for one in an off-season Carcassonne

I'd stayed in Carcassonne back in 2007 and had wanted to come back. It was off-season and pretty much deserted. Was a delight to wander the citadel. From there, I made plans to cross the mountains, through Andorra, but in the end, I hitchhiked all the way to Perpignan before crossing into Spain.

Spain

Day 9: Barcelona

The expected bad weather came to nothing. The morning was calm and sunny if a bit cold. I made my way down the hill from the old Cite in Carcassonne and stuck my thumb out. Exactly the same routine I had done 5 years previously when I had last been here.

Then I had taken a series of rides, including being invited home to Sunday lunch and a ride on a motorbike, to Narbonne. This time I was hoping to get to Perpignan. It's sometimes hard to predict how the hitching will go. You never know where exactly you are gonna be dropped off. I have had a few of those moments before but thankfully the guy kinda knew what was best and dropped me off where the road crossed the Route National. So it was just a matter of clambering down the grassy bank, over a fence and a 500m walk back up to the roundabout where the traffic would be slower. Another 15-minute wait and I was on my way again. I got dropped off right at the station in Perpignan, and to the 12:10 FROGBUS to Girona where I took a train for the final 100km to Barcelona-Saints. A metro ride to Catalunya and a short walk to my lodgings. All new and shiny, the building vibrates as the metro passes below the building and I know a night in this city will not allow much sleep. People don't come here to Barcelona to sleep, they come here to party. Soon I will be in Morocco and early nights will be the norm.

Day 12: Demons

I don't know what's wrong. I have always thought that this trip would either make me or break me. But right now it's breaking me down in a way I never felt before. And I am not even in the tough bit. Easy comfortable life in Europe. For 3 days I have crisscrossed Barcelona on foot, from Muntjuic to the end of Barcelona beach, through the old town and up and down La Ramba more times than I care to remember. I walk all day and feel so alone. When I am back in my room I chat with my roommates and feel normal again. When they have gone I sit there staring into space and I think that this life is totally frivolous. I hope that it is the city life doing this to me.

Soon I will be in Morocco. More open spaces, less familiarity. Tonight I take a bus to Madrid (from where I jump on another bus direct to Grenada), where I hope that I will wake in a better mood. Cos this is my dream. I am living this dream that so many can never achieve. It feels like there is no escape. Nowhere to hide. There is no going back. The only way is forward. To where I don't know. To the end of the road perhaps?

Day 13: Diary

I'm about 80 ks out of Grenada. I took the night bus from Barcelona to Madrid, got a coffee before taking the 8am bus on to Grenada where I will stay tonight and then take an afternoon bus to Almeria, another 150ks further south and then the night ferry to Melila, one of the 2 Spanish enclaves attached to Africa. The boat will get in around 8am and then I will proceed east towards the Algerian border and stop in Oujda for the night before continuing south.

Morocco

Day 15: Hotel Majestic, OUJDA. Morocco

Welcome to AFRICA.

The border crossing at Beni Anzar, from the Spanish enclave of Melilla into Morocco was a right bordello. Touts handed out arrival forms for a small fee, offering to help me jump the queue. Old ladies pushed thru, a father and daughter did the same, 'but my child is sick' and some others who simply did not want to wait, passing a few notes to the official, who then himself did a vanishing act for 20 minutes. Guess I am gonna have to get used to this, all over again. Everything is on Africa time and if someone needs a coffee, lunch break or to call his mistress, it won’t matter one bit if there is a queue 50m long.

By 1:30, the bus had arrived in Oujda, I headed to the centre and found a good looking hotel up a side street and at 60MAD a night, I took it. I was expecting to have to pay much more and the good exchange rate means I got a nice room for less than a fiver. There isn't much here to detain the traveller but it breaks the journey up. No point in doing crazy long bus rides if I don't need to and gives me a chance to stop in a place I haven't been to before.

Day 16: Figuig and the end of the road

So how is it at ‘The End of the Road’? Well getting here through the endless ‘nothing’ was good. Except there is never nothing. There are the power cables, small settlements, stray donkeys, goats and their herders, the road and my bus. Sometimes there were just people just walking across the scrub.

And Figuig itself? Rather like a one camel town. A main street with all the normal Moroccan amenities in a dusty kind-a way. I am staying in one of the only 2 hotels in town. It’s called Hotel el-Meliasse. The other hotel is unimaginatively called, Hotel Figuig. The rate is just 50 Dirhams per night. Even better than last night. So I paid for 2 nights up front. It’s just too far to come for 1 night. I told the guy maybe I’ll stay for 3 nights. There is no other reason to come here other than to see life at the end of the road.

3km away lies the Algerian border which has been firmly closed since 1994. They should re-open it!! Put up an Algerian consulate with visas issued ‘same day’ and get this overland trail going again.

I could open up a travellers hostel. Do free shuttle bus runs to the border, have showers that work and hot water. Can’t be that hard, put the water tank on the roof and let the sun heat the water up. Well that’s the option for winter. In the spring and autumn a cold shower would be welcome. In summer time I’d close up. Basic rooms with an option to sleep on the roof, provide plenty of shade and blankets, reading material and home cooked food. Moroccan bread with various fillings and couscous and rice with veggies on the menu.

Dinner was a Tajine of mutton. This forms the staple diet of any traveller in Morocco. It’s either a tajine with mutton, poulet, legumes or a plate of couscous.

So what am I gonna be doing here? I want to experience life at the end of the road for a few days. The isolation and the fact there is ‘nothing’, appeals to me far more than a big city. Of course there is always ‘something’.

There are 7 ksars; fortified strong holds, here in town and I wanna go exploring though these. Each one controlling an area of palmeraie. The palm groves, which is where the water is found. The one just where I am is called the Ksar Loudaghir. The main feature is the Ouled Ziyane mosque (below) with its octagonal Pierreux minaret dating back to 13th century.

I have some more ideas for my blog in the form of a photo essay. Within the main gallery page I will add a photo that will be linked to an extra page with various themes throughout the African part of my trip and some writings with each photo. Wi-Fi would be good right now as my head is buzzing and have to write all this off line.

Day 18: Figuig

Today, I feel totally relaxed and at ease with my Final Project. Just a feeling of contentment, washing over me. A day of people watching, reading on my lap top, ‘Running with the Moon’, so many things he writes run true and makes me feel good and understood. The strike is running for a second day but there are more shops open than yesterday. I was planning on going to the cyber café next door and asking if I could plug in my lap top. Would be good to up load pics to my blog and get that map working. Guess I will have to wait a bit longer. I hope the only restaurant in town will be open as last night I had a tin of sardines and some bread with added crunch. I guess they dropped the dough on the floor.

I’ve got my bus ticket for tomorrow at 8 back to Bouarfa where I will catch an onward bus to Er-Raichidia and hopefully I can get to Erfoud by tomorrow evening. Christmas is one week away. Would like to wake up in the Sahara. Let’s hope there are other travellers, being alone no longer worries me but I’d like to share the cost.

Day 19: Er Rachidia

Wasn’t planning on stopping here. Just that the bus was late arriving having been pulled over by bored gendarmes, so I have taken a room in a quite unremarkable hotel but they do have hot water showers. Not that I mind cold water ‘baths’ but there is no point passing up a hot one.

Day 20: Todra Gorge

‘Le Col de Todra’.

One of my favourite spots in Morocco and the feeling I get from being here is perhaps the best anywhere.

I was up at 7:30, out the door by 7:45. The bus was set for an 8:30 departure so I took a quick breakfast across the road. Had Malaysian style bread. Met a Japanese guy, an older version of my travel buddy Yuta, from my first trip here in 2009. “Are you tourist?” Memories! Yuta, what are you doing getting married? You should be out travelling!

Two hours later, arrived in Tinerhir and got a Grand Taxi up the gorge straight away and secured a very good deal. Room with half pension for just 120MAD. 10 UK pounds. Nice one!

Within an hour I had eaten and changed into my running gear and was under way. Through the gorge, left behind the souvenir stalls and then up and up.

A Berber girl with 4 donkeys in tow. I wanted to talk to her. To know more about her life. They live high up where there is no water, no fire wood, scorching hot in summer. I have seen before a couple of nomad tents. I asked her if they were coming down for the winter, which surely must be around the corner. She waved her hands in a giro motion which I understood as I know some of the paths but can’t find the words to write it down. However removed they seem to be from the modern world, they know all about asking ‘Foto?’ for which you are obliged to pay. Normally I don’t do that. We are intruding on their privacy but they are from the mountains and I feel certain infinity with these people. This is what makes this pass special to me.

We carried on our separate ways and 10 minutes later I reached the pass which I have named, ‘Col de Todra’

DAY 21. TODRA GORGE

Made the complete loop above the gorge, following the donkey tracks. Met the same Berber girl again coming down on her daily water collecting mission. Up to the pass, hang a left, follow the well, worn track, traverse the hill side, up again and then down and round and back to the road. Another great day. Have good feeling right now. I met my first back backers here in Morocco. 2 from Japan. I invited them to do the loop with me tomorrow. And after a couple of Dutch climbers. I get the guys here to bring me hot water for my tea and the heat up enough water for 2 buckets, so I can take a shower.

DAY 23. TODRA GORGE

My last night tonight. I have walked up to the pass 4 times and twice continued to complete ‘la marche’ as they are calling it here. Today, at the pass, I headed off to the right. Passed some more camps high up and quite a long ways off. Sat for a while. Just watching, enjoying the silence and then the Berber girl I had met on my first day here, slowly came in to view. She had told me she lived up to the right and every day at around 12 she sets off for the valley to collect the days water. She has all these 5l jerry cans and make-shift saddle bags for her 4 donkeys and 1 horse. She’s always at the pass around 1. She greets me with ‘salaam’. I try out my new leant phrase. ‘la-bas’ which is an informal hi, how are you? She smiles and returns the ‘la-bas’ which is like the French Ca va?! I let her carry on and then catch her up. I follow her down. I return to my room, get changed and take a 50 Dirham note and buy some bread and two tins of mackerel. I return up the gorge to where the fresh water spring is and offer the Berber girl 1 tin and half the bread. She tucks it away for later and is happy. I pass her a 20 Dirham note. ‘shukran’ she says, and carries on filling her water bottles. Well, today is December 23rd, mum would be proud of me and am in a festive mood. Christmas is soon. I eat my picnic. Tomorrow I will get to Ouarzazate. I need to do laundry and need internet to post all my writings and wish everyone a happy Christmas. Not forgetting, of course to let people know I am still alive after 9 days with no comms. :) have been happy here. Have all that I need but a Christmas beer would be nice!

DAY 26. MARRAKECH

Marrakech just wouldn't be the same without the freshly squeezed OJs from the stalls at Place Jamaa El Fna and trying something new. Snails. Needed some garlic though.

So I arrived in this wonderful city. Yes, I am going to stay a few nights. The drive here was over the 2260m Col du Tichka. There was some snow lying around but not much and so I will go to Imlil for a few days. That's at 1700m so it won't be too cold. Last chance to get some trekking in. Can't pass up that opportunity. Am basically am killing time before going up to Rabat to apply for Mauritania. and then push south.!!

DAY 30. TSAMPA DREAMS

I woke up and was thinking about Tsampa (Tibetan porridge). Memories from Xiahe in central China filled my mind. A bowl of yoghurt with barley flour on top with a spoon of sugar. It’s what I fancied for breakfast.

Bobby, a girl I met there, had told me a way to ease my belly issues, which since Marrakech has come back to haunt me. She was into alternative remedies. I placed two fingers either side of my belly button and pressed. Then 3 fingers above and below my belly button. Pressing down hurt, it made my belly growl. Too much wind and gas.

Yesterday I'd hiked a tough 6 hour loop. The ground was rough. Very cold in the shade and warm in the sun. This was after a meager breakfast of just some bread and jam. A lunch which I ate too fast, cos time was running and I did not wanna be out too late into the afternoon as when the sun goes down, the temperature drops like a stone. I did not have enough water with me. I had to use a 3rd of what I had to attend to the needs of nature; my bowels gave me grief half way up the second climb! I love being high in the mountains....

I haven’t consumed anything solid since. A bowl of tsampa would go down a treat just now.

DAY 32. HAPPY NEW YEAR

After a very calm 2 weeks in Morocco, trying to leave Marrakech irritated me. The baggage handlers at the bus station wanted to over charge me. I climbed aboard the bus with my bag. There were 2 empty seats across the aisle and one next to me. No one wanted to take the broken seats nor the one next to me. The bus guy got crazy, started shouting his head off left. Then some drunk got on and started demanding money. Eventually some one took the seat next to me and the bus driver got ready to leave and then suddenly, 5 people got up, said good bye to loved ones and got off. So we needed another 5 people. I thought it quite bizarre. This made the bus guy mad. The mentality of people here is just unfathomable. Most days I can thank my lucky stars that I come here as a visitor. I can always leave.
I plugged my MP3 player in and sought escapism with some Neil Young, Johnny Cash and Janis Joplin and as the bus hit the highway I felt soothed and good; happy to be on the move again. Cos the BIG adventure is coming up.

I have arrived in Rabat. I am in the HOTEL Marrakech. 8€ a night. Spotlessly clean and bright pink walls.

DAY 33. JANUARY 2 2013 VISA RUN

Posts on the various travel forums detailed chaos and aggro at the Mauritanian embassy in Rabat. In reality, obtaining the visa was as 'easy as'.

Fabricated stories make for good reading and the reader will think, "wow, they are so cool doing this, so brave". Yeah right. Pussies.

You arrive early. You can get the visa application form from a guy who comes every morning with a stack of photo copied forms and sells them for 1€. There is no copy shop situated across the road from the embassy. It's a guy who sits on the pavement!. He is doing you a favour as going to an internet cafe and paying to print out 2 sides, will cost more than he charges. There was no list, there was no mafia type guys... we all just waited patiently and were dealt with quite efficiently.

It's true that the Moroccans had a hard time. They were repeatedly told to fill the form out correctly, responding to all questions. For me and a Canadian guy, the embassy guy barely glanced at our forms. The form was in French and I wasn't sure about some of the answers. I just left those bits blank. We paid and were told to come back at 3pm to collect the visa. Getting to the embassy had been harder than getting the visa.

DAY 35. THE ROAD SOUTH

Casablanca, Marrakesh, Agadir, Goulmime, Tan Tan, Laayoune and finally Dakhla (Da- Hla). Endless Hamada. 1700km in one push. Not recommended and I promise myself no more long haulers like that.

I had taken the city bus to the gare routiere at 8am yesterday and arrived here at 3pm today. But it passed relatively painless except for the usual twitching legs and numb butt.

There is no public transport to the border. As in 2009 when I was last here, attempting to get all the way Timbuktu, I was met by some of Mauritanian business men looking for travellers to share the fuel costs on the return journey.
I have got a ride for tomorrow to Nouadhibou. We leave at 6.

Mauritania

DAY 36. NOUADHIBOU

Welcome to the RIM. Republique Islamic de Mauritania. Country number 52. 4th on this trip.

The 5km section of ‘no–man’s land’ between Morocco and Mauritania is a desolate place. Just tracks where drivers searched for the best surface. A dumping ground for fridges and TVs or ancient PC monitors. And a grave yard for cars who have not survived the journey til now. Everything usable, having long been stripped to leave only the shell intact. There were signs warning not to stray too far from the regular piste. Mines!

The border guards were friendly, no scenario for extracting a bribe. They just laughed at my pronunciation of today’s destination. Noria-boo. They asked where I was gonna be staying, but they answered for me. Camping ‘Chez Abba’.

The final 50km was paved. I was expecting piste. My driver stopped to get me to change money. Not sure whether he was making on it but had done a good job in getting through the Moroccan formalities. I had been mulling over the choice between over landing like I do using public transport or having your own transport.
Getting through borders is a lot cheaper and quicker doing things my way. Two French guys with an not so new, Mercedes were relieved of 40€ by the Moroccan guys and no doubt paid the Mauritanians some beer money too.

This is more like Africa!!

A lumpy mattress but clean sheets. Hot water all day long and a chance to do laundry and of course I am the only one here. LOL.

Not sure how things work here. Is it safe to walk around at night? Do I just get stuff from the market or are the restaurants gonna be open? Everything gets imported save the fish and I heard the food is simple. Rice would suit me just fine.

Day 37. NOUADHIBOU

It’s dusty, dry as a bone, goats pick through the piles of garbage, taxi drivers honk their horns, cars being repaired everywhere, people walk by African style; slow and unhurried. The people are friendly. There is such a mixture here. The lady who ‘cleans’ this place is Senegalese, married to a local. A guy I met yesterday is from the Gambia, there are men in their flowing robes, the blues and whites of the desert, women in long colourful dresses or in contour hugging jeans and the girls just love wiggling their asses when they walk.

I changed some money. 150€ got me 59,120 UM in 2000 notes so quite a big wad of cash, about 1/2 of an inch. The guy before me left with 4 brick size wads, no kidding. I went to the internet café. After 1 hour I had sent 2 emails and posted 1 thing on FB. And I stupidly plugged in my memory stick as I wanted to try and up load my stories. Bad mistake. I was at the front desk. The guy plugged in the stick and confirmed 2 files were viruses and deleted them for me and then printed out a fiche and copied it 10 times with my passport. This is a document which lists the details they want to know at the many check points. Passport number, issue date, profession, places I will be visiting. It’s not necessary but it helps reduce waiting time. So thankfully I had copied my notes on to my desk top last night. All my writings and my attempt at writing a book, safe and then the guy confirms that I could come in with my lap top and use the wifi. LOL. Should of asked in the first place!

I went to bed last night under my mozzie net. There was 1 or 2 buzzing around at dusk. And the head ache I had all yesterday afternoon was still with me after 10 hours of sleep. And the belly rumbles. A combination of bright conditions and some hard days travel. So I must use my sunnies at all times and take better care.

The Gambian guy called me over and asked why I had not appeared at dinner time yesterday. I apologised as he has saved me a table. Five minutes later I was tucking into onion stew with rice. Great to be eating rice again. The stew was tomatoey with unknown lumps of very chewy meat which I chewed for a while, sucking out the juices before spitting out.
My first meal here. Tomato and onion stew with chewy meat. You get what you pay for. A dollar 50 inc. a can of coke:

The kitchen girls. They are from Senegal. Mauritania is considered very poor. My first thoughts were, 'if people are coming here to find work, what state will Senegal be in. Mauritanians, I later discovered are lazy. The Senagalese men come here and make a killing as fishermen. Their wives are great cooks, and they flirt alot.

Day 40. ATAR

One of the craziest things you can do here in Mauritania, if not the whole West Africa, is to travel from Nouadhibou to Choum, riding in the empty iron ore wagons. It’s free, cold and dusty as hell.
The trains are about 2,5km long and bring the iron ore to the coast and then run empty back to the mines out in the desert. No kidding. About 180 wagons, 3 engines and 2 passenger cars. Each wagon is about 5ft deep and I measured it out with my size 9 shoes, 29 long and 9 wide.

I decided to take a wagon just for my self. My reasoning being... my belly had been giving me grief since the snails I had eaten in Marakech and the idea of having to empty my bowels inside the wagon with on-lookers was clearly a NO-NO. I didn't know if it was even acceptable to do that. Would I have been expected to climb up and hang my ass in the wind at 80kph?

I climbed up, some what awkwardly with my bags and watched the others further up the track. They threw up their possession and then all joined in to haul up the heavier items. Fridges, TVs and all manner of stuff. I was just watching and like WTF.

The engines kicked in to life, the wagons jerked, as the engines took the strain of 180 wagons. The noise was unbelievable. The wagons slammed into each other. It knocked me off my feet. It was all like a Mexican wave in a sports stadium. We picked up speed, the dust started to swirl.

Sun glasses and a BUFF over my mouth. It got worse. The dust was so thick I could not even attempt to open my eyes to see it all. I heard the engines slow and the wagons slammed again, forwards then back wards, I fell on my ass again. After just 30 minutes I was covered in thick dust. I would have loved to have been able to take some shots. Had I been more prepared, one of those water proof camera bags than divers some times use, would have been ideal.

When the train slowed, I would watch. Other wise, it was just a question of sitting on my back pack, with my Tuareg head scarf wrapped tightly around my head. I had seen pictures of the locals cooking up some stew and making a brew. How was this ever possible? I lay down on the hard floor.
One of the things I had done in preparation for this ride from hell was to purchase some cheap clothing from the market in Nouadhibou. I had my long johns on with some 2€ pants on over the top. I wore 3 long sleeved tops and a cheap T-shirt over the top and then my 10€ duvet jacket I had bought in Fes, Morocco, back in 2009. A few times I drifted off to sleep and then BANG! The train had slowed. So deafening.

Fast forward 10 hours.
I missed the stop at Choum. The one disadvantage of having a wagon to myself, there was no one to confer with. We had been stopped for a while, a few had gotten off. I just assumed that this was a just a random stop in the middle of no-where as is often the way. There was no station or lights or anything for that matter. It wasn't 'til we started heading north that I realised that that was Choum. 5-8 hours would be added to my train ride from hell. As if 10 hours wasn't crazy enough.
The iron ore train fully loaded on the last few kilometers to the coast. The guy with his arm up, is signalling to me that I shouldn't be taking photos.

Inside one if the wagons before the dust started swirling:

Zouerat, the end of the line. A mining town in northern Mauritania. It's where I could thankfully get off the train. I shared a taxi into town. I was checked and quizzed by some police at 2 road blocks and found my way to the taxi stand and was then mobbed by angry drivers. My bag was out of the car before I was. I grabbed it back. I asked about a ride back to Atar. One taxi was leaving straight away or so I was told but then some crazy dude started going on at me, in English, that the taxi driver was a 'bad' man. He drove too slowly.
That was sort of fine by me. He started pulling at my bag, then others pulled my jacket. I was tired after the trip and pretty dehydrated and was n't in the mood for this. Shouting is normal here, it's not like in Asia where loosing your cool is not recommended and this suited me just fine. I shouted back but to no avail. I held up my hands, 'Hey! LA!' they stepped back. Yes the tourist could say a few words in Arabic. La meant no. I then swore at them in my best German and they just stood there. I then switched to french and then they sorted of treated me with a bit more respect.

The taxis are all operated on a collective, just like buses are run. You pay in the office, not to the taxi driver. I climbed aboard the brand new Hilux Toyota pick up. I was out of the sun, away from these mental people. I had my ticket. I was no more a target.

DAY 44. CHINGUETTI

Way out in the desert, about 90km from Atar, lies the oasis town of Chinguetti. A medieval trading town. It was originally founded in 777 and within Africa, it is considered the 7th most holiest city of Islam.

The Sahara is and has been on the move for years and is slowing reclaiming everything in it's wake. The original town lies 3Ks from where the present 'old' town is, and has mostly been buried but the mosque can still be seen. It's where I walked to on my first afternoon.
8th century mosque out in the dunes nr Chinguetti.

I am staying in the new old town, at a guest house run by Limame. On the second day he asks me to accompany him as he runs his errands. He needs a new gas bottle, he needs Gasoil for his beaten up old Mitsubishi 4WD, he needs vegetables for my dinner and then we drive out to a small oasis. He’s an expert at handling the vehicle. The ‘cat-cat’ (4WD) does not work. In fact the whole gear box is buggered; he wrestles with the steering wheel, the engine screaming as he can’t afford to let the vehicle slow as he will never get it moving again in the soft sand. We pull up in centre of the small village. A collection of rough stone buildings and make shift shacks.

We step inside a small shop and sit cross legged on the dirty floor. A cushion is offered. My eyes adjust to the less bright interior. An old lady in the corner pours into a bowl a milky liquid from an old water bottle. A spoon of sugar and then water. She stirs it with a spoon which she picks up off the sandy floor. She dips her finger in it, tastes it, adds more sugar and tries it again. She’s happy and passes the bowl across to me. Limame confirms my suspicions. It’s camel’s milk. It’s really quite good. I pass it to Limame. He drinks half of it before passing the bowl back to me telling me to drink the rest. Payment is refused.

He also runs a little side line taxi service and takes 2 old guys back to the new town. The fare is 200UM each. Just about 1€ in total. It’s not a profitable trip. He has used much more than 1€’s worth of gasoil.

A hectic morning calls for refreshment. Back at the guest house we sit on a dirty blanket in the cooking room with the sand, the bread crumbs from this morning’s breakfast, some chicken bones lying there since last week or probably longer and the cooking pots from last night. He prepares the tea.

It’s quite a long winded process. Heating the water in a little tea pot, warming the glasses, adding tea, many spoons of sugar, pouring the tea in to small glasses from a great height to mix the tea and promptly return it all to the tea pot, adding yet more sugar, heating up again and then pouring into one of the glasses and from this glass to another one about 10 times and then back in to the tea pot and finally he pours out 2 glasses.

After a few days out in the desert I headed back to Atar and then down to Nuakachott which was a dump and quickly continuing south.
The mini van's engine blew up. Loud bang, black smoke, vehicle grinds to a halt. The driver hitches a ride back north, quite a job as there are not many vehicles on the road and those that are, are always full. With another guy, I get a ride in the third car that has space, south!

The driver was an immigration officer at the border post. Officals from all walks of life are notoriously corrupt in Africa. Was it a good move to get a ride with some one working at the border? In the end, it worked out just fine. I am thru the melee just before the border before I even realise it and am dropped out side the immigration hut. Within a few minutes I was to cross the estuary in a small pirogue and enter Senegal.

Senegal

DAY 48. St. Louis

1 hour out of Nouakchott the engine of the mini van I was riding in, blew up. F1 style. The engine raced, black smoke poured out the back and we ground to a halt. I was on my way to Rosso, another well documented for it's hassle, border crossing to Senegal.

I was meant to have met the Canadian dude from the embassy in Rabat at the bus station but I was anxious to leave and he had not arrived by 7am, our planned meet up time. I actually preferred to go it alone. I wanted to see how I would fare at this particular crossing.

I sat squashed up in a 7 share taxi van. After the mini van died, the driver got a ride back to town and we all just waited. Vehicles out on the open road rarely have empty seats.

After a wait of 1 hour I managed to hitch a ride with one other guy in a car going right to the border. The driver in fact worked at the immigration office. Was this a good thing or not? Time would tell.

Border guards are well know for being corrupt. 5Ks from the border we stopped out side some factory and the guy went in side and changed into his work clothes. I paid the asked 2000UM as is the way here. Gas is kindda expensive for the locals. We arrived at the gates. I handed out another copy of my 'fiche' and we drove through, he pulled up out side the immigration office and pointed to the window where I had to go. I waited my turn. People pushed documents through. I did the same as I was ignored. My passport was taken. A quick inspection and then asked if I was entering or exiting Mauritania. I got stamped out, ever careful to check that they had done it correctly. I looked around at what was happening. I knew that there were 2 types of ferry to cross to Rosso-Senegal. A vehicle ferry that went a few times per day and the pirouges that crossed regularly. Some guy tried to get me on to the vehicle ferry as it was leaving but I searched out the pirouge and paid just 50€ cents to cross.

The Gambia

Senegal #2

Back in Senegal after the foray through Gambia.

After our 6 hour bird watching trip up the river, we got a ride with some locals on the back of their pick-up, back to the high way. The first car came along. We duly stuck out a thumb. They pulled over for us. A British guy with a friend going our way. In fact there was a local guy also waiting for a bus. He came along too and at the end, at the junction with the road to the border, he was amazed that the ride was 'free'. Then the border was only another 500m down the road from the junction.

Checking out of Gambia was a pain in the ass. The guys wanted a 'payment' but let us through after about 30 minutes after I asked a for receipt.

We got a ride across the 'no mans land' and then waited around for enough passengers to fill the taxi. The guys were eager to get going but we did not want to pay for the extra seats. We did not like the fact that they wanted to go but for us to pay for the seats. We kindda worked it out in the end. We had to get going as the road to Ziguinchor was under curfew due to rebel activity. Some how we got thru before they closed the road for the night, getting in to town at around 9pm.

The next morning, I said good bye to S, she headed to Cap Skiring and I head to a camp site where I could get a cheaper room and I wanted to sort out a Guinea Bissau visa, which in the end took less than 30 minutes.
Visa in hand, I took breakfast at the same hotel we both had stayed at and used their wifi. S was on line and she told me cap Skiring was great and that we could have the room for just 10€ for the 2 of us. She told me where she was and I headed for the bus station. We met up at the small home stay and relaxed for 2 days. A long long walk on the beach. Good food. Chilled.

Then we went out to Diembering, just a short drive to the north and then hiked out to Cachouane, an 8km walk along a rarely used 4WD piste. Soft sand made the going hard. With me taking all my kit with us as we planned on making a loop.

Chilled out at a french owned home-stay. We talked a lot, drank beer and read a lot. In the end we returned the way we came. 8km back on the piste and then I road walked alone the next 11km back to Cap Skiring, whilst S headed off to another part of Senegal. I stayed at the home stay again. I had been too long out in the sun.

It took me ages to cool down, I spent time re hydrating, I needed it! and endless afternoon showers. I stayed an extra day, hanging out with a local girl who was renting a room in the home stay. In the after noon heat we showered together, scrubbing each others backs and rinsing down with cool water, touching and kissing but before it got too advanced, I got cold feet.

The next day I was back in Ziguinchor. Not even bothering to go in to town I found the taxi to the border @ M-Pak / San Domingos and on to Bissau. Guinea Bissau.

Guinea- Bissau

Day 66 Guinea Bissau Country no. 55

The road from the Senegalese border was paved all the way but big holes were frequent. The rear car door kept popping open every time we hit a bump, threatening to eject the female passenger.
Actually may be the driver should have tried a little harder to lose her as she had bags and bags of material she had bought in Senegal and we were subjected to numerous customs checks. The police weren’t remotely interested in me.

Guinea Bissau was not really part of the original plan but from Senegal, through and on to Guinea provides me with a nice route. The capital, Bissau is another fine example of what an African country on the edge looks like.

A shame really cos there is some lovely colonial architecture from the Portuguese days. And despite little money being available, they do clean the streets and come evening time they burn it all, on each street corner.

There are quite a few ex pats here. And they drive around in their big 4x4 and there are bars to accommodate their needs. The main roads seem ok but the side roads are more holed than surface but the taxis look in better nick than those in Senegal.

I headed up to the main market last evening. I tried out some new snacks. There was not much on offer. I got some deep fried potato rolls and 5 scoops of sour milk which I drank walking back.

Today I was down at the port. At one stall, well more like ‘mat on the floor’ where I got some fresh carrots there was a pile of what looked like mocha ice cream. Well actually it kindda looked like a pile of poo. Check out the photo below. And NO I did not try it. Normally I am up for tasting anything but I do have my limits.

Luckily for me, they speak French too as well as the official language of Portuguese but my ‘Bom Dia’s and ‘obrigado’s get some smiles.

The main reason for coming here is to get the visa for Guinea. There was little drama involved. The embassy is located a 2 minute walk from the Swiss/Guinea-Bissau run guest house. Just a matter of filing in the form and coming back at 3 to pick it up.

The 2nd day I headed on to Gabu. Another town along the way, to rest for a night before finding onward transport.

DAY 68. On the road from Guinea-Bissau to Guinea

8:30 am. Gabu bus station.
The road is said to be rough and am happy cos I have a place up front, next to the driver and it’s a Land Rover, supplied a long time ago by a garage in Chertsey, Surrey (England). It promises to be a good day. People pay lots of money to go ‘off-roading’ why not just come here? The road less travelled will always be an adventure.

This is ~not~ the local scrap yard, it is in fact the local bus station or rather taxi stand in Gabu where I waited 5 hours for enough people to fill the aging Land Rover.

Yet another breakdown. This was a regular occurrence. Vehicles are so badly maintained. This time it was the fuel line that was blocked caused of cheap fuel.

After leaving Morocco there was never a single journey without some mechanical failure or puncture.

Guinea

1:30pm. Kondika, Guinea immigration post.

NOTE: there's Guinea-Bissau with Bissau as its capital and then there's Guinea with Conakry as its capital. Sometimes it's best to say Guinea Conakry to avoid any confusion with its neighbour. Both countries are poor beyond belief!

After finally leaving Gabu, we broke down 4 times in total. By the time we roll into Bruntuma, the border crossing it has taken 3 hours for the 66km. That’s slow going.

The Land Rover parks up and the driver waits for passengers heading back to town.

Exiting Guinea Bissau was swift. 5 others from the Land Rover also crossed so it made getting onward transport easy. I let them haggle over the fare for the ride across no man's land to the Guinea border post. It’s always good in the company of locals at such places. They helped me change money.

We go to the customs post where I am asked to empty my bags. The other passengers pay a small bribe and go straight to the immigration. There is no attempt to extract a bribe from me. The guys seem to be doing their job. Randomly check people. They wish me a Bonne Route.

I repack my bag and wander over to the immigration hut. My fellow passengers are waiting. I join them. I just go with the flow. I am asked for my passport. He flicks through it and duly stamps me in. I am told to leave the building and join the taxi driver and a couple of new passengers he found.

We wait. 15 minutes becomes 30, then 45 and then 1 hour. Slowly they all file out. They have all paid a bribe. I am bewildered. Here's me, obviously the richest person for miles around with a couple of grands worth of dollars and euros stashed about my person and I am dealt with efficiently and politely.

I think that all of the reports of the traveller website forums are written by those with their own vehicles. A sure target for extracting some sort of bribe or the dumb tourists who hire expensive-looking 4WDs with guides. I am travelling like a local. Using the cheapest option possible but then the locals who are obviously poor, are always getting targeted.

21:00 Koundara

From the border, we stopped in Sareboido. A change of taxi was required. It didn't take long. The price was fixed and no extra for the baggage.
At 3:30 we arrive in Koundara. One of the young ladies with whom I chatted with, wishes me luck. I ask her where I can find a hotel. I was hoping that I might get invited back to meet the family but she points up the road.

I am directed up a dirt track to a building with no sign outside It's a bar. I wander in. Girls laze around smoking and swigging beer. They are wearing denim shorts and just bras. 1 larger lady, is lying on the bench, snoring her head off. She is topless. Huge boobs hang at her side.

I am taken out the back to a small courtyard and shown a room, bare except for the bed. At least the sheets are clean. There ain't even a light bulb. There's a small shower room attached. Water will be brought for me later, in a bucket and am given candles and a small box of matches.

This ain't no ordinary hotel, It's a brothel. (Image below at 7 the next morning). But they are used to travellers turning up periodically. I noticed in the register that 2 passed through just 3 days ago. The room costs me just 25,000GF about 2€60.

I get a warm beer and watch TV for a bit. Then I go out exploring. I find some food, and change some more money. When I change money at the borders I normally only change my leftover cash and maybe 10€s worth, just to get me to the main town where the rates will be better.

On the way back, I head for a bar, Football is on the TV. No one notices me. The others are drinking heavily. Things just don't change the world over. The only difference here is that the beer's warm.

DAY 69. SOMEWHERE AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

Africa, you just gotta love it!

We are at the side of the road. Soon the sun will be gone. The gear stick linkage is buggered, again. And the driver and his mate (or is he just another passenger?), try to fashion a repair.

Earlier this morning, we were seemingly ready to leave but it took 2 more hours before we did. I never knew what we waited for but eventually whatever it was had occurred.
The road was good. Mile markers showed the distance still to cover. 265km. well at this rate, I thought, it’d be an easy day.

At around km 65 the paved road ended.

Loading up for another day on the road which turned out to be my toughest days travel ever.

A typical day on the road. Squashed by an African mama. I take the window seat so I can hang the top part of my body out, get some fresh air, and take selfies. The arm warmer is protection against the African sun.

The engine keeps overheating. We make the first of many stops to re fill the water reservoir.

Then we lose the gears. The linkage from the gear stick is gone. They fashion a repair and sometime later we hit a village where a boy of about 12 makes another bodge.

The sun has gone down. The driver and his mate are still under the car. They have made a repair twice and both times it has failed. It’s seemingly no longer bodge-able. It’s been a very long day and am not sure how things are gonna proceed.

DAY 70. THE NEXT MORNING. LABE

At what stage does “adventure” become simply irritating and damn hard work?

The two guys were still trying to fix the car for an hour after sundown. They acquired a piece of metal rod from a passing taxi along with some pliers. It was our best chance to fashion a repair. Third time lucky.

Two army guys who had bummed a ride had gone off into the bush and came back with some food. What looks like tree roots and white on the side. It’s good.

The rest had their evening prayers. I asked one of them:

‘I hope u prayed that the guys can fix the car, otherwise, we will be here all night.’

Somehow, they frigged it so we could drive. We had gears again but no first. And with some careful clutch control and a few times having to get out and bump start the car in 2nd, we made progress.
The road was ever so slightly not so bad. We came to a small village catering for motorists. We ate. The driver went off to find a new part. The old ladies slept on the floor. I was bored. And the guys played with their worry beads.

A guy turned up with a part for the car which he fitted within minutes. The linkage for the gear stick.

We got more water, and some air in the tyres and set off. It was 10pm. 30 minutes later we got a puncture.

At 1am, we stopped shortly before Labe and we lost the old ladies and 2 guys and then a heated discussion started about paying for extra baggage.

This place was unbelievable. It was the middle of the night and we were at the side of the road having a shouting match. By this time I am completely hacked off. If it goes on like this every day I will soon be a physical and mental wreck.

I joined in to help speed up the process by untying the ropes. And we offloaded their shit. That’s me the driver's mate and the 2 army guys. The people who owned the bags did nothing. Ok, so 5 were old ladies and 1 was a young woman but the two other guys, all related, did nothing.

At 1:30am we arrive in Labe. I organised a moto taxi, thinking we would be at the bus stand, 2km from town as noted in the Lonely Planet. After 100m we arrive at my hotel. (This is what it's like in the days before GPS and Google Maps) It’s like WTF. I argue the case. But it’s a pointless task.

The room is hot. There’s a bath, a bidet, a loo and a wash basin. None of which are functioning. I have 2 buckets of water. I still have power. A miracle of sorts. I set up my mozzie net. Freshen up a bit but the towel becomes dirty as I dry off.

The night watchman was a real jerk. He was overcharging me, I could see the price list on the wall and demanded my passport, which I refused and then he almost got me to pick up my bags and leave.

I paid him so I could go to bed. The mosque woke me up at 6, so my mood was not so good. I used the bath as the loo. I had no more bucket water so I used what was left of my mineral water to wash my ass and got the hell out of town.

I went to Dalaba for a few days where stayed alone in a guest house. Had my stuff washed by the owner's daughter, giving her a nice tip, you should have seen the state of my long pants. It was a great place for some short hikes. The ladies in the small roadside shack serving food were great. They always found me an ice-cold cola and served me rice with veggies. I'd just hang out, watching life go past. Not much was happening.

After a few days, I headed for the taxi stand and found that I could travel directly to Coyah, the junction with the road to the border with Sierra Leone, thus alleviating the need to head into Conakry.

We dropped out of the hills. The humidity increased tenfold. And there were pineapple stalls lining the road. The new seasonal fruit.

I wanted to overnight in Coyah and continue to Freetown in the morning but I couldn't find a cheap place to stay, not even a brothel for less than 20€. Not that the girls bothered me, It was just that there was a disco attached. At 5pm I headed for the border, a mere 100km away.

It would be yet another epic day and would mean arriving in Freetown in the middle of the night. Far from ideal. But was willing to throw caution to the wind instead of playing it safe all the time.

Sierra Leone

I was on a mission to travel from London to Cape Town, down the West Coast of Africa. At that time I had not even done, Cairo to Cape Town, down the 'easy' East Coast.

Keep reading the full story from Sierra Leone

Liberia

Things got heavy after Senegal. Horrendous roads, riding for hours on end in ancient Peugeot 505 estate cars, the local 'bush-taxis. I have always loved the travelling from A to B part of any journey, perhaps more so than the destination itself.

Here, every journey became an ordeal. Hanging around for hours on end for enough people at the bus stand and then the endless breakdowns and being squashed into the back with African mamas who gave me little room for my skinny white ass.

I got into problems whenever I wanted to take photos. The locals always assumed I was pointing my camera at them and they did not take too kindly to having their picture splashed across social media networks. Understandably so as all the men across SL have blood on their hands from the civil war. But it became a hassle even to take photos of buildings and point my camera at a Mosque one time in Bo, even after I asked permission first, a subsequent bystander had other ideas.

There was no freedom. Come 6pm, you de-camped to your hotel balcony and drank the evening away from relative safety. Even then the local women would come knocking asking if you would like some 'fuck-fuck'.

But once you said 'no' they were never pushy and always become chatty. I'd sometimes go to the local shop and buy my dinner and share it with them. The good Samaritan, my view is that they deserved to have a full belly once in a while without having to open their legs. We'd watch TV, chat a bit and then I'd get them to leave.

The girls who cleaned the hotel in Freetown were fun. They'd whisper sweet nothings in my ear and then run off, returning with hot water for my coffee or with a plate of rice and meat stew.

Crossing into Liberia, was a breeze as I shared the trip with some PEACE CORP volunteers. We crossed the bridge and did the formalities at the immigration and we all talked about where we were all going and how we were going to proceed.

We crammed into a taxi to the next town, re-organised ourselves and with one other I headed into the capital Monrovia. We were dropped off at a place which was regarded as 'UNSAFE' and waited for a taxi. I let the American sort it out. He knew the score, I did not and it was pitch black.

A big flashy car pulled up and my new buddy spoke to him and we bundled in. It was all happening a bit too fast for me. I like to cross borders in daylight so I can see all that's going on around me and do my own organizing.

I was heading for the Catholic Mission in town where you could get a room for 20$. Everywhere else in town was 80$ plus. Liberia is Americanized. You can pay in dollars, US products are available everywhere and most things are at US prices. I stayed at the convent in Monrovia which had a whole section solely for travellers like me. I was warned, once again, not to walk around at night.

'There are a couple of bars down the road, where you can get a meal and a beer or two. It's safe there but do not even think about walking back. It's only 300 meters away but get the girl there to call you a taxi. OK?', 'OK!' but I walked!

The next morning I met 2 Irish brothers and a Dutch girl who were cycling. At least the daytime seemed safe. We walked the markets, and people always seemed very friendly. But the situation would sometimes change in an instant.

We swapped stories. They had met in Guinea Bissau and had teamed up. They were having a much more enjoyable time than me. I had been toying with the idea of pulling out. The trip was giving me nothing. Long hours sat squashed like sardines in deathtrap taxis with fumes pouring in. You travel all day, see nothing and when you arrive anywhere, there's nothing to see or when there is you can't even take a photo.

The boys sympathized with me. They were also going to pull the plug but not until Ghana. The girl too. She said she'd get to Abidjan on Ivory Coast and then fly to Cape Town. Once I get something in my head, there's no point. I headed to the bar once again used fast WIFI and bought a ticket to Paris.

I had BIG dreams for my trip down through Africa. I knew it was gonna be tough, yet I was not really mentally or indeed physically prepared!

My idea had been to get to Cape Town. I had visions of finding work there, getting a life, transferring my money to an account there and from then on, using a SOUTH AFRICAN bank card until I found somewhere else to LIVE and do the same there.

It was meant to be the final adventure! I had no plans to return home! I'd spend the rest of my days on the road.

On the afternoon of my first day, I made the decision to bail out. I wasn't having fun. There was little freedom.

Using the bar WIFI I booked a flight back to Paris and got the girl to arrange a taxi to pick me up at 3am from my lodgings.

The next day I was in Paris. I had thought to fly to Istanbul and then go east. I needed time. I had quit too easily and the whole concept of the final project, being on the road, had come to a premature end.

It had been tough, I had not enjoyed the last weeks but I was still alive. I had not been shot at, robbed or even sick. I took the Eurostar to London. It was over...I didn't want to go back to England but that's what I did.

I was angry at myself. I tried to console myself that something good would come out of the 'knowing when to pull out'. I called my boss from the previous summer and secured a contract for 6 months of work. I had 9 weeks. I flew to Istanbul and headed slowly east to Baku. I could have flown to Istanbul from Paris, or even Morocco...Grrrrrrr ... could have done, should have done....!!

Seven and a half months on, going over the typed-up stories once again, reliving the experiences. I see that I must approach such trips where the going is not easy, with a different frame of mind. Not every day will be a barrel of laughs. Not giving up too easily, like I did with the need for the permit for the diamond mines in Sierra Leone.

In hindsight, I should have gone and got the permit and/or paid a bribe. Paid for 2 seats in the bush taxis to give me some more comfort, paying for a guide like I could have done in Dalaba for a 3-day hiking trip.

Well, the next trip is up soon. I have a bigger reserve of money and a stronger desire to get off the beaten track.

Let's hope I have learned from Africa.

The only photo taken in Liberia! Sadly. But 4 years on I feel I would cope much better and indeed, If I can get 20,000$ together I would return

I'm Not A Good Storyteller

Posted: August 10, 2024 | Tagged:

I'm not a good story teller; though I wish I was.

Yet again I find myself pondering the future of NomadicBackpacker.com.

What is NomadicBackpacker.com?

Nomadicbackpacker.com provides travellers with much needed intel.

The goal of the NomadicBackpacker.com travel blog is to provide an income

Backpacking in Spain: Visiting the 2nd century Roman Amphitheatre of Italica

Posted: June 2024 | Tagged: Spain

Italica was the first Roman city founded in Hispania in 206 BC.

The Roman amphitheatre of Italica was built during the reign of emperor Hadrian (think Hadrians Wall - who was born in Italica), between the 117 and 138 AD and was one of the largest in the Roman Empire with a seating capacity of around 25,000. The Amphitheatre in El Jem in Tunisia, just for comparison, had an estimated seating capacity of 35,000 but a long way off that of the Colosseum.

The Amphitheatre was used to host gladiator fights and animal hunting.

How to get from Seville to Italica by bus:

It's June (and it's fucking hot) so I started early. The site opens at 9 am. I took the 8 am bus from the Estación de Autobuses “Plaza de Armas”:

The fare is 1.65€. I paid cash. Drivers prefer exact change as most people pay with their Seville travel card.

The ride takes 30 minutes. So you can get a coffee across the road from the restaurant.

Travel Hack: How to do your laundry when travelling

Posted: May 10, 2024 | Tagged: Travel Hacks

This is how I do my laundry:

One of the things I hate about travelling are the smelly travellers you end up sharing your hostel dorm with.

It might not be the actual traveller smelling bad, but rather the clothes they are wearing and the dirty clothes they have stored in their backpacks, awaiting laundry day.

A flash back to a hostel dorm in Istanbul, 2010. 2 Aussie dudes had just arrived having flown in from South America and were sorting their gear out in the dorm. They had a pile of clothes bigger than my backpack. I thought, dang, I don't even own that many clothes when living at my dads. And they were on travels. And the smell, OMFG.

Another flashback, to Cambodia I think and I fell into conversation with another traveller who was shocked at my travelling set up of just 2 T-shirts and 1 shorts. He was one of these (new at the time), anal flashpackers, backpacking the world on daddy's credit card and because I only has such a minimal supply of clothing, he assumed I was some smelly bastard. So I let rip.

I had been in the tropics for months and my mo for surviving the intense heat was to shower as often as I could and wash my clothes out, each and every night. I would sleep in my sarong and my shorts and T shirt would be dry enough to put back on the next morning.

And there was this twat with all of last week's clothes, all rank, slowly rotting, cos nothing ever dries properly, in his backpack.

In Southeast Asia it was always easy to borrow a bucket from the hostel, hotel or wherever you were staying and find a small 100g portion of soap powder in the local store.

I even bought a bucket in one place and left it at the hotel when I moved on.

And then as the travels went on, scrounging a bucket became a chore so I started using an Ortlieb dry sac, which is obviously designed to keep the water out but hey they make great laundry bags.

So the whole operation is quite simple though it requires having a spare pair of shorts to change into while the other ones are soaking.

Put some soap in the bag, fill with just enough water, shake it up a bit, put your clothes in, roll the top and snap the buckles together and shake it, then leave it somewhere for a few hours. Then just rinse them when taking your night time shower.

The issue is with finding somewhere to hang your wet laundry.

I wring it out the best I can, then wring it out again after 20 minutes and repeat. Carpets soak up the excess water.

Quick dry clothing is a God send.

And hand washing laundry never gets the stuff super clean and yeah I do get a machine wash sometimes or just dump it and buy new stuff but mostly I get attached to my stuff.

Backpacking in the United Kingdom: Charing Cross, the Centre of London

Posted: May 10, 2024 | Tagged:

There can't be much to write about Charing Cross that hasn't been written before but what the hell.

I needed to get some admin done at an office very near Charing Cross Underground Station (this story may be blogged about one day soon), so after I had sorted that out, I put my backpack and Nomadic Backpacker cap on and went backpacking.

Charing Cross as seen by Nomadic Backpacker; traveller, and travel blogger:

I Stopped Drinking Coffee, and My Productivity Has Increased

Posted: November 1, 2024 | Tagged: Health

Following my Prostate Surgery, I stopped drinking coffee, and my productivity on the blog has increased.

Cortisol is a hormone that your body produces naturally and it helps you wake up in the morning.

The caffeine in coffee is a diuretic, which can lead to water loss via urination. If we're not rehydrating properly, even mild dehydration can impact our energy levels

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Posted: January 10, 2025 | Tagged:

All you need is a simple QR Generator. Add your website URL and it generates your own unique QR CODE within seconds.

My Favourite Beers in Mexico

Mis Cervezas Favoritas en México

Posted: January 20 2023 | Tagged: Mexico | Donate: PayPal

1. Tempus Doble Malta:

2. Modelo Negra:

Part of the Modelo Group

3. Dos Equis:

Best of the Mexican Lagers, Dos Equis is 4.2% Alc. Vol and my favourite of the regular lagers in Mexico.

4. Corona Extra:

Part of the Modelo Group, Corona Extra (the best-selling Mexican beer in the world).

5. Victoria:

Also part of the Modelo Group, Victoria

6. Carta Blanca:

Carta Blanca is part of the Cuauhtémoc Moctezuma Group, a Mexican brewery based in the city of Monterrey and a subsidiary of Heineken International.

Carta Blanca is one of the cheapest beers in Mexico. 6 cans for 56 Pesos at Bodega and it's the beer that you buy when going to a party. Which is a shame because I quite like it.

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Posted: November 2 2023 | Tagged:

Zipolite: Naked at Mexico's Only Official Nude Beach

Posted: January 3, 2025 | Tagged: Mexico

Christmas Getaway at Playa Zipolite, Mexico's Clothing-Optional Beach

For the fifth year in succession I headed to Zipolite to work on my all-over tan. Ditching your clothing is so liberating. There is nothing embarrassing about a persons nakedness. We were all born that way.

Zipolite, Mexico's only official Nude Beach. 2024 and this is my 5th visit here. I first came here in December 2020. The pandemic had worn me out. It had been a game of staying ahead of ever changing restrictions. I came here to escape life for a bit.

That year, I stayed for 1 month. It is where I met up and connected mi novia, Miss CDMX. Yeah, and we are still together.

We returned in 202, 2022, 2023 and now, in 2024, we are back again.

It's the perfect place to come to and escape life for a bit. Zipolite is Mexico's only official nudist beach, la playa Nudista where clothing is optional. So you can forget about life, you can forget about internet because the connection is mostly slow and you can forget your clothes and no one will care.

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Bushmills: Gateway to the Giant's Causeway and home of Irish Whiskey

October 28, 2024 | Tagged: United Kingdom

First stop out of Belfast, Bushmills, Gateway to the Giant's Causeway and home to Irish Whisky.

My first time in Northern Ireland and I made a logistical error of taking the ferry from Scotland to Northern Ireland on a Friday, without checking the accommodation options first.

For such a big city, Belfast, there aren't too many hostels and on the weekend, the beds get booked out pretty far in advance

I got lucky on the first night but it just wasn't possible for the Saturday and Sunday nights as it was the Coronation Weekend.

So after a brief 1-night stop in Belfast, I took the train to Coleraine, then Portrush.

With frequent onward buses to Bushmills, I backpacked Portrush for an hour before continuing my journey (I posted the Photos from Portrush on a separate page, so please go take a look).

Top 5 things to do in Bushmills

Bushmills is a cute little town. The Bushmills YHA Youth Hostel is a great place to stay, there are 2 decent supermarkets, SPAR and Co-op, a few cafés, good transport connections and some top places to visit.

1. The Giant's Causeway

The Giant's Causeway, Northern Ireland's greatest natural wonder.

Just a few miles east of town, take a bus, ride the tram if it's running or walk.

It's isolated and there is nowhere to shelter so take a rain jacket and decent footwear as the rocks are slippery.

After, you can pop into The Nook for a meal or just a drink.

2. The Old Bushmills Distillery

This is a great activity within the town itself. Just make sure you book online as you must be part of a tour to visit the Old Bushmills Distillery

3. The Northernmost point of Northern Ireland

Benbane Head lies at 55⁰ 15" 6' N, 6⁰ 29" 1' W and is the northernmost point of mainland Northern Ireland.

It is between Dunseverick Castle and The Giant's Causeway. Sadly there are no signs to indicate the position.

4. Dunluce Castle

Dunluce Castle passed me by. It's just a few miles west of town. Easy to get the bus there.

5. Backpack the town itself

The town of Bushmills dates from the Norman times (1150-1520) and was originally known as Portcaman but as water-powered industries developed from the 1600s then so did the village name. At one time there were 7 mills working the River Bush and 5 distilleries.

With the "discovery" of the Giant's Causeway by the outside world in the 1700s, Bushmills became the gateway for visitors who came to marvel at this natural wonder.

By the mid-1800s, much of Bushmills had been redeveloped by the Macnaghten family and boasted 3 hotels, a cattle and produce market, a court house and a thriving distillery.

In 1883, the world's first hydroelectric tramway opened. Pioneered by William Traill of Ballylough and engineered by the Siemens Company, it ran from Bushmills to Portrush where it linked up with the Portrush-Belfast line. The line was then extended to run to the Giant's Causeway.

In 1899 an overhead electric wire was installed and the Tramway was known as the 'first long electric tramway in the world'. It ran for 65 years before it was closed down in 1949.

The Giant's Causeway and Bushmills Railway Company is a non-profit organisation with charitable status and in 1999 work began to reopen the tramway and carried its first passengers in 2002.

I didn't take the Giant's Causeway & Bushmills Heritage Railway as it operates at Easter and from June onwards (though when I got to the end of the line, it says it was running, but the schedule would have meant waiting around a long time to make it worth it) so I walked alongside it in its entirety and spent a glorious day backpacking The Giant's Causeway, Northern Ireland's most spectacular natural wonder.

When the tramway was extended to the Giant's Causeway, Bushmills was bypassed and with new hotels being built in Portrush and at the Causeway, the town went into decline and was left to depend upon the success of the Old Bushmills Distillery to survive. It wasn't until the late 20th century when Bushmills became a destination in its own right that the town began to recover.

There are over 80 listed buildings in Bushmills: