2004-11-06 - 12:16 p.m.

The title of this entry is “How I Almost Lost a 500 Dollar Bike in the Saharan Desert”. Although for a good Forty minutes I thought it would be “How I Lost a 500 Dollar Bike in the Saharan Desert”. You see while the events of this story were unravelling, I became conscious that I was creating the experience into a story. Though aware as I may have been, the process did nothing in the way of relieving stress. I’m not sure that it ever does. If I were trapped in an elevator for 48 hours, I’m sure the last thing I would want to hear from any of my fellow detainees is “You know this is going to make a great story.” None of this is the point of the entry of course. Actually, I don’t even think the title is all that appropriate, however, it is catchy and recounts one of the more interesting aspects of the tale. I’d say the main subject of this entry is the innate human desire to climb inanimate objects. Well, I guess that limits the subject heading, so we can broaden to all objects. Personally I have observed that this desire is stronger in some people than in others. It may be that the decrease in some has to do with a fear of heights and/or death. Although, it must be more than that because my personal level of climbing desire is through the roof, yet I have an intense proclivity toward both of the aforementioned fears. This desire seems to have no evolutionary function as it in no way increases my level of fitness. It seems only useful at placing me in near death situations that later make for good storytelling.

As I have mentioned before, the house in which I currently reside is on the southeastern outskirts of town. Without my bike living there would be totally unfeasible, but I am able to make trips into town readily on my Peace Corps issued Raleigh. My relationship with the bike is love/hate. In regards to function I couldn’t be happier. It operates as an extension of my body whisking me to any destination with a quickness. At the same time it does not help that the bike would probably cost around 500 dollars in the states, and could just as well shout out to everyone in town “Hey look at me. I’m white and I have a lot of money. No I will not use one of the crappy bikes Mauritanians do. I am above that and require an aluminium frame and front suspension.” I can’t go anywhere without someone asking me if the can borrow, buy or take the bike.

My route on the way home keeps me facing south. In the distance a line of grandiose mesas span panoramically in front of my field of vision. At times it seems as though they were calling out to me welcoming me to visit their distant peaks. Over the last few weeks the greetings have become increasingly persistent, to the point of near mockery. “What’s the matter weakass? Can’t make it out to see us?” I’ve been delaying to take the trip on a weekend morning, but when they come I always seem more motivated to sleep in. Yesterday evening, as the mesas mocked me with a newfound fervour, the desire to climb couldn’t have been higher. “That’s it Mesas. You will be mine tomorrow morning.”

During the week I get up at a quarter to 6, so I allowed myself a bit of extra rest, but was out the door by 7:00. I couldn’t ride directly towards the mesas because the way is blocked by the Atar airport. I back tracked to the road and took the path that separated it from the adjacent piece of land. Once past, I was in open rocky terrain and was doing my best to weave between thorny bushes and boulder patches. My depth perception when it comes to large mountain like objects is anything but accurate. I attribute this mostly to never having it developed during my childhood in the flat cornfields of Iowa. A trip I thought would have taken 20 minutes ended up being closer to an hour. Granted, there were many long stretches where I was forced to carry my bike across expansive boulder fields. I cannot deny, however, that my voyage took me much further from town than I had expected.

Nearing the mesas travel became more difficult. Most of the last 500 yards my bike rested squarely on my back as I did my best not to break my ankles. About 100 yards from the base I laid my bike in a spot I thought would be easy enough to locate again later. It was an open area and on the border of the mountains shadow. I remember thinking for an instant how stupid this was, as assuredly when I returned the sun would have changed positions, but the pull of climbing desire was too great. I needed to move upwards as quickly as possible, and little else mattered. To make the assent easier I chose a cove where erosion had created a gentle slope of decaying sandstone. Nearing the top I headed to the right for a flat face I could do some real climbing on. My hand recoiled in pain after trying to get my first grip. The rock was like none I had felt before. It was as though some one had cemented together millions of glass shards. I attempted to climb again, and managed a ten-foot assent. The rock was great for getting grip, but looking at my hands all I could see was cuts and scrapes. My right thumb had started to bleed, and the pain was less than pleasant. I wouldn’t be doing any more face climbing in this area.

Above I saw an outcropping that formed an odd jetty from the mesa head. This was as good a destination as any, so I began to move higher. Upon reaching it I looked back down into the valley, and the city of Atar, which now seemed so far away. My bike was obscured from my view, but I still had a general idea of its location. Behind me I could see the ridge I believed was the mesa’s top. It called out wishing me to come closer. Listening intently I did.

Leaving the house that morning I had put on the pajama pants that I use for running. They are very light weight and are 3 sizes to big, so quite spacious. On the trip out they had caught in the crank three or four time which subsequently started to tear them apart. The hanging threads stuck like glue to the glassy rock on which I was scaling. By the time I reached what I thought was the top, I was wearing nothing but rags. Scantily clad, I found I hand only made it a quarter of the way to the actual top. Thus I was faced with the dilemma that I and so many other climbers have faced before. Do I keep going, or do I turn back. The desire to move higher was great, but fear had begun to set in. I was no longer sure as to where exactly I needed to go to get back to my bike. In addition, the remoteness of my location began to set in. If I had a bad accident here, there would be no passers-by to help out. Alison and Audrey had no I idea I was out here, so they would not know where to look for me. I was on my own, and if I couldn’t return to Atar of my own volition, then I would die here in the desert. Of course I chose to go higher.

The area that moved up to the base of the next mesa was flat. As I moved closer crevices started to appear in the rock at my feet. At first I took no notice, but glancing down I realized that these were not ordinary cracks. They opened up into long chasms 10 to 15 feet down. They began to open up wider and wider requiring me to play hopscotch between peaks. Fear again began to set in, but I kept moving forward. In the distance I saw movement and discerned a jackal. It looked back at me with just as much curiosity as must have shown on my face. I jumped across a gap to get a closer look, which sent the creature off at a run. It finally took cover behind a small boulder only to pop its head up to get another look at me. Finally in making a simple jump across a five-foot gap I slipped on the landing and cut my hand. It was enough to jolt me out of my climbing frenzy and turn me back down the mesa. As I said, I had lost sight of where I had placed my bike, but I noticed an outcropping that resembled my initial goal when I began my assent. It had a different stripping pattern I hadn’t noticed before, but I attributed this to the change in the suns position and the fact that I was now facing the rock’s back. Upon arrival, looking down into the valley, I saw no indication of my bike. Fear again began to creep up in my mind, but I assured myself that once I had reached the base it would show itself. There was a cove to the outcropping’s side I took for the place I had initially come up. Halfway down, I realized this was not the same cove. The slope was too rough. There was an over abundance of thorn bushes, and the rock was loose. Too loose in fact, I fell twice scrapping my hands and jabbing thorns into my back.

Once at the base I slowly surveyed my surroundings. There was no sign of my bike. In fact I couldn’t remember how far out I had placed it. Was it before the boulder field or after I had laid it down? I remember I didn’t want to take it any further through the rocks, but was that at the very base or further out. I noticed one of the old trail markers laid out by the desert nomads. These are tall piles of rocks that denote a path between cities, camps or oasis’s. Stupidly I tried to climb to the top of this pile to get a vantage point, but fell as the pile crumbled at my feet. Dusting myself off, I headed into the boulder field. “I must have left the bike before I headed through it.” After walking 200 yards out I looked back and realized there is no way I would have left the bike this far out. And headed back towards the mesa by a different direction.

Panic was starting to set in. I had been searching 20 minutes and wondered how I would explain to Peace Corps about losing the 500 dollar bike. Not only that, but how would I get back? It had taken near an hour to get there with the bike. How long would it take to get back? The heat of the day was starting to set in, and I was without water. Continuing to search aimlessly I began to jog, which quickly turned into a run. I probably looked very akin to a mother looking for their lost child in a shopping mall. After 30 minutes of looking true I began to feel true desperation. Tears wanted to flow out, but I bit them back. Closing in on 40 minutes I was on the verge of screaming at the top of my lungs the most horrible string of profanities I had ever constructed. It was then that a glint of light hit the corner of my eye. Far to the East was something metallic. I hesitated for a moment. The position was much to far from where I believed the bike to be located, but what else could possibly give off that much reflectance here in the middle of nowhere. I moved toward it at a jog. Thoughts raced through my mind. The reflectance was much too bright. The bike wasn’t that shiny. It must be some kind of metal marker. These thoughts, however, did not slow the pace of my feet, which increased exponentially in speed. I began to lag left to get the glare of the sun off the object. Less than 100 feet away now, I could see the object clearly. It was my bike. I had been searching nowhere near its location, and was only able to find it by a coincidental reflectance of light. I picked the bike up and kissed the seat five times. By God’s grace I would not go home on foot.

The ride back was very uneventful. I spotted a desert hare hiding in my path and passed a group of camel herders. Walking into my compound I again thanked fate that I had arrived home safely with everything I had left with. The loss of my running pants seemed quite small in comparison to not losing the bike. I will probably make another trip out there when Jeff gets to town, but I will be sure to place the bikes by an easily identifiable marker. As interesting as it may be to tell I do not wish to have a “How I Lost a 500 Dollar Bike in the Saharan Desert” story.

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