Badger Diary

Day 0 - "Here we go..."
Day 1 - "The length of France"
Day 2 - "No room at the inn"
Day 3 - "Snow, snow and more snow..."
Day 4 - "And we were doing so well..."
Day 5 - "And we were doing so well..."
Day 6 - "The lowest point so far"
Day 7 - "Africa-ca-ca-ca-ca..."
Day 8 - "Gearbox number 2..."
Day 9 - "Brushes with the law"

Photo gallery 1 - Days 0 - 3
Photo gallery 2 - A load more photos
Photo gallery 3 - The final stretch

Day 0, 16th Feb 2005

Here we go...
Balham – Portsmouth
120km
2.00 cumulative time driving

So the big off. Kind of like knowing what it felt “going over the top” in the trenches during the first world war. Except with less guns and death. And a racing caravan.

(Den) Doing the Plymouth – Dakar seemed like a good idea over a beer in a nice warm pub in Clapham, and after a few more beers towing a caravan even seemed like a good laugh. However its now or never, we’re really going to do it. And the caravan (from now on known by it’s official title of The Sett) now seems like a proper dumb-ass idea. After Bill and the lads at Motor Wey Mitsubishi in Putney gave the badgermobile the once over, and discovered there were no bolts holding the gearbox to the car, I spent most of the afternoon trying to re-attach it! By the time I’d packed and was ready to go, Benja had snapped the lighting cable for The Sett. Already late and with lots of swearing and duct tape, we were ready to leave. The first mile was surreal. Lots of looking at each other , yelling and “shit, we’re actually doing this!” Pretty straight forward run to Portsmouth, apart from trying to get on the Isle of Wight ferry. One of the dock workers said, “where you off to?” Our reply of “Africa” warranted an in depth explanation of how he’d once ridden his bike from Plymouth to Portsmouth. Couldn’t see the connection myself. Getting used to the looks we get from civilians, who are obviously thinking, “ is that a caravan?” Steak and chips and a bottle of red, followed by 2 pints in the disco and we retired to our luxury accommodation (a cabin smaller than The Sett)

Day 1, 17th Feb 2005

The length of France
Caen – Toulouse
800km (920km total)
12.30 cumulative time driving

(Den) At precisely 5.15am, Brittany spears ferries pipes in to every cabin German waltz muzak. Uninspiring as a wake up call. With 4 hours sleep, a quick shower does nothing to un fog your head. A search for coffee revealed that everything is shut, and we have to get off the ferry in 5 minutes. Sweet. I do first leg, trying to find the autoroute, end up in a shopping center. Does not bode well. Eventually aim ourselves in the right direction, find the autoroute and take a good 5 minutes trying to reach 60 mph, or the magic 100 if you’re metric. Feels like 100 mph, what with the huge badass off road tyres humming away, the slightly torn roof flapping above your head and the fact that fifth gear is actually used to engage a jet turbine engine. Or so it seems from the high pitch whining the afore mentioned gear selection warrants. The Sett is remarkably stable at speed, thanks to the discounted damping system we acquired from Tam leisure in New Malden. The whole rig seems more stable than the car did on its own! Already a bonus to taking a caravan with us. Ha! We settled into a rhythm, cruising quite happily, then saw a sign. Mulsanne, 5km. Hmmm. I know that name. Le mans! With a racing caravan. Over to Benja.

(Benja) Time for a quick detour? “Mais Oui”, as they say in “Cheese Eating Surrender Monkey-land”. Time was short so we did a “hot lap” with the world’s first racing caravan. We were probably a couple of seconds outside the lap record, but this was mainly down to tyre choice and some high speed snacking which distracted Den, the more experienced racer of the two. Music of choice had to be some Chesney Hawkes - ”I am the one and only”, a truly inspirational piece of modern orchestration.

We were warned by a prior entrant to the PDC that snacking is essential on long stretches of driving to maintain team concentration and moral. The amateur “snacker” in France will resort to poor ham and cheese sandwiches and a can of coke from French motorway service-stations. However the experienced “snacker” knows the value of a quick expresso, and a carefully balanced combination of Lays crisps and mini-pizzas gives a far more balanced experience.

So after proving our racing credentials to “Johnny Foreigner” it was back on the road to Toulouse. A steady speed of 100 km/h was set for cruising, which considering Banjul was just 5,500km away on the GPS meant we could expect to be there in just over 2 days. Easy-peasy, where’s the challenge in that we thought. Probably team stupidity we suspected.

After running on fumes for a fair distance, we pulled into a service-station just in time only to be followed in by another Plymouth-Dakar challenge (PDC) team - Sid, Ewok and Jason – Team Dadson. They were soon followed by the Conedodgers – Declan and Ed who had decided to take the scenic route. Indeed, the route was not scenic enough going forward, so Declan had earlier in the day decided to spin his Volvo estate whilst negotiating a round-about. This might have something to do with his nickname of “Captain Sideways” and the fact he has welded his diff shut, so the Swedish Tank corners like a patrol car from a 70’s American cop show.

After 11 hours at the wheel, a slight loss of paintwork on the Sett (when a French HGV driver dropped his Galuiose and accidentally aimed for the badgermobile as we were crossing a bridge) we arrived at Jackie (Loon) and Henri’s in Toulouse. The hospitality was awesome. Within seconds of making it in the door we had beers in hand and stories of how the work-shy Frenchies refuse to do a full week’s work. Thanks guys for putting us up – very much appreciated. The team were knackered.

Day 2, 18th Feb 2005

"No room at the inn"
Toulouse – Lamassan, Andorra
280km (1200km total)
17.27 cumulative time driving

(Benja) We’ll just pop over to Andorra (70km away) and have a nice day snowboarding. “Great plan gringo” I said. When we finally made it up, did some fixing of the car, and topped up the oil (we have a fairly chronic leak somewhere) it was about 2pm.

“Road to Andorra is closed” said the road-sign in excellent French. “Shit” we said in barely passable English. So the 70km’s turned in 280km as we had to detour via Spain to come in the other side. “So what else can wrong?” we chuckled to ourselves…..

(Den) What else can go wrong? When you’re in a traffic jam, and causing said jam is a couple of nonchalant gendarmes turning away vehicles from the up coming mountain pass, everything can go wrong. What are they checking for? Snow tyres? Bon Jovi cd’s? Who the hell knows. As we wait our turn, a couple of cars and a big bloody truck are refused further passage. We gradually accelerate towards them, fully expecting to be stopped with a sneer and “where do you think YOU’RE going?”, but in French of course. Didn’t even give us a 2nd look. They must see loads of cars covered in writing towing caravans with racing stripes. On we go. Roads very windey, sometimes covered in snow, car goes well, not half as bad as expected. Amazing scenery. Pass the blocked turning for Andorra and head for Spain.
Arrive in a town called Bourg de Madame, sign has 2 options, right for Spain, or turn left for not Spain. Option 1 puts us in a traffic jam. I can see the sign up ahead which proclaims the border. With passports at the ready, no one wants to see them, and into Spain, our 3rd country so far. Take an accidental detour into a small Spanish town, find the sign for Andorra and hope it’s not taking us back the way we’ve just come. By this point the sun is low in the sky and we head due west. Now I start swearing properly. I mean, even Benja is starting to look embarrassed. One of the jobs on my list was “change passenger side wiper blade coz it’s crap.” I know where the new blade is, it’s in the car not on the car. Rock salt and general cack off the road, coupled with the setting sun dead ahead has rendered the windscreen as transparent as the road. Activation of windscreen wipers just moves it around a bit. Good job the force is strong with this one because my eyes are no good for anything except sharp left hand corners.
We’re in text contact with the Conedodgers and team Dadson, who claim to have taken the only 2 rooms left in Andorra, this being a school holiday and all. Arse. We pass a campsite, proclaiming “camping, bar, restaurant.” We may have to unpack The Sett before expected. A text-mayday is sent to anyone near the internet. The delightful miss Caroline Brakewell of team badger racing support crew fame, rings informing us that we are booked into a 4 star hotel called abba sweeeeeeeet. I like it all ready. A short time later, we take a right for Andorra. Quite a narrow 2 lane road. Customs checkpoint looms, with cars being emptied out, and for the 2nd time this trip, a mighty prayer is offered up, “don’t ask to look in the caravan.”
The first thing we happen upon in our 4th country is 4 massive service stations, all selling fuel at about 80 cents a litre. Also fags and booze dead cheap. Not much tax here. Our chosen salute to our transport of choice, the venerable Mitsubishi Montero (or shogun or pajero) is a high five when spotting a brother to our badgermobile. Law of averages were we’d see a few a day. It got very boring very quickly in Andorra as it seems every other bloody car is a shogun. Shows it’s a good car though. A permanent “high five” amnesty exists in Andorra. The fella from the hotel rings to give us directions. Our map gives Andorra about 8 square cm. don’t know how far we have to go. Spend an hour and a half queuing up the valley, suddenly find open road.” Look at all those muppets stuck in traffic.” We had a good old laugh until we saw a sign for the town we wanted, but you guessed it, pointing down the valley. I’m getting really good at swearing, even invented some new words today.

The sudden urge to perform a screaming u-turn was tempered; a) by the fact that there was a traffic jam to get into and b) we’re towing a caravan which does not make for an easy 3 point turn in Tesco’s car park, let alone a narrow mountain road. I tried not to look at the jam we were passing, knowing we’d be joining somewhere near the back, whilst also experiencing an unusual urge. I WANT A ROUNDABOUT. Benja meanwhile is chatting to the fella at the hotel, who assures us we keep going up. I don’t believe him. “what were the directions?” “well,” says Benja, “come up the valley, following signs for Les Escalades.” My interruption that we’d been through Les Escalades 10 minutes before furrowed his brow some what. “Anyway, then we turn left for llama land, and follow the road till we go through 2 tunnels, or bridges or something, then there’s a spar on the left and we’ll see signs for abba sweeeeeeet.” At the next petrol station, the nice lady drew us a map, which seemed to take us on a secret road, coz there was no bloody traffic. Back into Les Escalades, found the sign for La Malland, up through 2 tunnels, past the health spa, and there was the sign for Abba Suite. Uncoupled badgermobile and Sett for the 1st time in 3 days, and took up 2 parking spots in the underground car park. Very nice hotel. Got to the room, 2 double beds 2 bathrooms, and a mini bar, which is now considerably lighter. Benja went 1st shower, no problems, I just finish my shower, the phone rings, asking us not to use the stand up shower because it’s flooding the restaurant. Oops.
I finish this primary entry of the log with a sense of awe at what we have already done and have yet to do. At Loon’s place this morning, with the map of Africa spread on the floor, we joked about camels and quite proudly bragged that we fully intend to wake board behind the car. This is now very real. We’re on our way to Africa. It may seem strange, but it was all very abstract in London, theoretical. It’s sinking in now, and I’m not nervous, very excited. We’ve already seen places for the first time, and there’s a hell of a lot more to come.

Day 3, 19th Feb 2005

Snow, snow and more snow….
Andorra
32km (1232km total)
3.10 cumulative time driving

(Benja) Early start today – 7.30am alarm call, Den crawled out of his pit at about 8 after some heavy cajoling. A mainly meat-based breakfast was followed by a slightly surreal experience of rigging the caravan in an underground garage and we took off in the badgermobile “sans” caravan, as those snail munching garlic lickers would say.

And hit traffic. And more traffic. And then some more traffic. We were aiming to meet up with Ed and Declan (the Conedodgers) for some snowboarding. Whilst I rapidly hired some kit and was ready to go Den had to find a shop which catered for his frankly ridiculous size 14 feet. With no “freaky flipper feet are us” in town we had to resort to a trek over to some specialist shop, where Den managed to persuade some poor Andorran chap to lend him some trousers as well. Something he had not considered packing. When going skiing. MENSA have his number and are just itching to call.

At about eleven thirty we eventually made it onto the mountain. I noticed Den started sweating a bit and was looking about as comfortable as a pedophile in a primary school. Until that point he had failed to mention that the donor of the trousers was even for Andorran standards classed as a midget. (Not many people know the Andorran’s are especially short because with all the mountains there’s far more gravity than you might find in other countries such as Frog-abusing onion-lover-land)

[the observant of you may have noticed a slight theme of French-abuse here, its not intentional, but they do tend to smell excessively of cheese]

Anyway, back to the story. Den achieved a single run (which considering his propensity for snowboarding accidents was nothing short of a miracle) before his trousers exploded. Literally. And not in the way you dirty people think.

So that was Den’s day over. 1 run, €20 board hire, €41 lift pass and really cold nuts, but he seemed quite satisfied. No accounting for tastes. Suffice to say I stayed out for a few more hours and did a few powder-covered tree runs and had a whale of a time. The snow was falling now quite hard and we suspected that the journey home would cause Andorra to become the worlds largest car park again. And we weren’t wrong.

(Den) By the time I’d checked out most of the bars in the village for the quality of their soft drinks and my nuts had warmed up, Benja and the conedodgers were done for the day. Declan and Ed were to shoot off into Spain, heading apparently for Sierra Nevada and more snow. Our morbid curiosity nearly paid off, as watching them pull out into traffic, the rear end of their Volvo just missed a wall. Snow tyres or not, welding the differential means sliding back end. Stocked up on booze and fags, and headed for the badgermobile. Poor thing was under 2 inches of snow. I volunteered to drive, so Benja got to clean snow off the car. He’s a very lucky boy. I new I’d forgotten something earlier in the day, but in the melee of finding trousers it slipped my mind. For those of you who don’t know, in colder climes, one lifts one’s windscreen wipers so they don’t freeze to the car. That’s what I forgot, so as Benja lifted the crappy passenger side blade, the wiper arm came up, but not the blade. Instead of swearing, I actually laughed so hard I nearly choked. It wasn’t really that funny, but then benja was outside in snow, and the heater had just started working.
Up until this point, we’d never put the badgermobile into 4 wheel drive. Mainly I was worried all the bits would fall out. No dodging it now. 6 inches of snow on the road and everyone in snow chains, except the Mitsubishi’s of course. After I let Benja back in the car, we gingerly edged out onto the road. Took it easy for the first 500m, then tested the brakes. I thought Benja was going to shit himself. Only a little slide, but I got a good idea of the available traction. Oh, I forgot to tell Benja I was going to do it. Honest guvnor. Cruised down the road for about 2km, and came across a local doing 15kmh. Peugeot 206? Pah! Sailed past him no worries. This car rocks! It makes sense there are so many up here. Overtook a few more non Mitsubishi’s, then arrived at the traffic jam. We sat there for 10 minutes. Got bored, turned on the radio. Andorra FM mostly plays Tina Turner and Bryan Adams. Left the cd player in the hotel. Doh! Both windscreen wipers were moving, but only the drivers side was removing snow. What’s that 5 cars ahead? It’s a Volvo estate, covered in stickers. I start flashing the lights in a friendly “hello”, the French cheese monkey surrendering garlic licking snail head face cake blah blah blah fella( that enough for you Benja) in front gets out of his car, but goes for a piss. Stealth ninja Hedley ambles down the road and leaps at Ed in the passenger seat. The car rocked sideways from the recoil. Comedy moment over we sit in traffic, gradually moving down the valley, the frightening sight of cars with no snow chains sliding all over the road, and sometimes aiming towards us , keeps us alert. 2 hours after setting off, we arrive at the left turn for our hotel, a steep hairpin and 500m of super-steep uphill. A ford focus is stuck at the bottom, the driver looking at us hopefully as we thunder by. A quick right turn and we’re back in the under ground car park, the Sett fully unmolested. As we repack the car, an awful thought dawns. We’ve got to get down that same snow covered hill tomorrow, towing a caravan. Shit. The next thing I type will reveal our fate.

Day 4, 20th Feb 2005

And we were doing so well...
Andorra - Madrid
648km (1880km total)
27.35 cumulative time driving

(Benja) Let's start at the beginning. The snow stopped during the night and the decent proved OK. Rather than offer in-car support to Den driving down the steep hill I thought it would be far more important to get out and film him for comedy value him in case he lost it and totalled the caravan. Anyway, if he did lose it its better only one of us died a messy and painful death at the bottom of an Andorran cliff. However, much to my disappointment and Den's relief we survived.

We also heard a good story today from Nick Bays, who's coming along to film the rally with 2 cars, and 4 other team-mates. They had 2 cars - a reasonably healthy Ford Bronco and an Isuzu Trooper which they got for free. There was a very good reason for this, and it was well proven when the Trooper died on the epic journey from North London to Dover. However (and we don't know the full story yet), but somehow they managed to get another car and are now heading south towards Spain .

As any long-distance tourer will know, it's important to stock up on essential staples for a trip. Such as 3 litres of hard spirits, 50 cans of beer and 1600 cigarettes.

As any Spanish customs officer will know, it's important to stop idiots in knackered cars from taking too much cheap booze and fags into Spain.

As you may guess Team Badger Racing will not be endorsing the Spanish customs authority on this trip unless they give us our 45 Euros back.

We headed to Madrid . Although it only looked about 3 and a half inches on the map, the GPS told us it was more like 650km. That might take a while. We were also slowed down by a combination of more wind than you'd find at the French onion-farmer's annual onion-eating competition and the aerodynamics of a breeze block, meaning that we spent most of the day drifting across the carriageway trying to stop the racing caravan over-taking us. Keen little caravan that it is...

(Den) After all my worrying last night, the very efficient Andorrans ploughed and salted the roads. I tried to make the caravan skid a bit, just to look dramatic on the video. Steady as a rock. No traffic on the way out, just completely nonplussed customs lady. 45 euros. Ta. Fantastic scenery all the way across Spain . Started in mountain gorges, then onto the plains, with decidedly gusty cross winds. It keeps you on your toes, guessing the next gust whilst trying not to end up underneath 40 ton trucks. Spain is vast. I don't know if I'd imagined more towns or people, I just didn't expect it to be so desolate. Looked spectacular, though. We even drove over a tumble weed at one point. Stopped for a sarnie and a toilet break, Benja took over. Pretty much immediately we passed a wind farm. It was a huge area, miles on a side. Awesome spectacle, actually watching the electricity being generated. There were hundreds of them, enormous with 3 blades, each the size off a jumbo jet wing. Very graceful and not the eyesore some claim them to be. The ultimate clean energy.

So far I've been a good passenger, but today I became bored rather rapidly. There's only so much wide open expanse of sand, rock and bushes you can examine with interest. Any video footage seen from this day will bear witness to this. I managed my co-pilot duties of lighting ciggies, dispensing drinks, and changing CD's, but that was all I had to stimulate me. I resorted to counting railway pylons per kilometre, and compare that number with the previous kilometre. There seems to be more when the railway goes over a bridge. All the while, the road is climbing. After the fantastic, warm sun of the lowlands, we had a few brief snow flurries. My keen eye spotted a flashing yellow light. Oh, goody, something interesting. A snowplough parked up. Then about 8.345km later, another. Then 9.221km yet another. At the forecast of snow, the Spanish authorities send out the snowploughs to wait for the snow. That's bloody efficient. Are you listening England ? At this point I was playing a little game with myself, called "guess which Spaniard is going to crash first." But I guess they must be playing their own game of "I'm going to pass you whether you move or not." The rules are simple. Minimum speed of 140kmh, left indicator must be on, and if you can see the number plate of the car in front, you're not trying hard enough. Oh, and a roof rack with skis/snowboards on top is essential. From what I could gather, yellow Seat Ibizas are the world champions, followed by Porsche Cayennes and BMW x5's.

Another fuel stop, my turn to drive again. The last 80km into Madrid looked simple enough. The traffic levels were building, so when I had to overtake slower vehicles, mainly trucks and occasional Renault 4's, the Spaniards didn't like a "gringo" joining their game. I lost count off the number of cars I thought were trying to pass underneath the caravan. I'd eventually move over, and a string of cars would accelerate past.

My friends Tash and Giles have lived in Madrid for a while now, and gave us directions to a large shopping centre, to the south of the city. We would meet there and follow them in. After battling our way round the m40, a version of the m25 on speed, we took the designated turning. A wonderful night time view of the city showed we were at least heading the right way. The enormous sign of Carrefour was our meeting point. A big hug from me and introductions to Benja out of the way, the two of them looked over our pride and joy.

"It doesn't look half as bad as I thought," said Tash. My beloved Vanessa, in her emails, had given the impression we had a battered up old car and a psychedelic caravan. "Ha, this things brilliant, hasn't gone wrong once", I replied. Whenever we compliment the car, Benja and I say "touch wood" and tap our heads, in a daft, superstitious way. Or so we thought. We didn't this time. Very flipping bad goddamn move, idiots.

With cold cerveza's waiting, we head out of the car park in convoy. Waiting at a set of lights, we chat about the run down to southern Spain in the morning. Light turns green, engage 1 st gear, off we go.

What the f**k is that noise?!? A banshee scream is emanating from the gear box. 2nd gear, same noise. Cue brief swearwords and a short shift into 3rd. Cliché, I know but the silence was deafening.

Houston, we have a problem.

I am not, nor could be described as a delicate fella, but every gear change from then on nearly convinced me otherwise. We parked the caravan out the back of the apartment block and took the car in to the underground car park. Whilst we were unloading, Giles had a word with the security guard, who said he would keep an eye on the Sett. He moved the camera so he could watch it for us. What a geezer!

In the flat, with beers in hand, Tash put a wash on for our barely worn clothes. I borrowed Giles' clippers and strimmed my head. A quick shower, then out for some food. Van tells me I'm boring for many reasons, one of which is I repeat myself, same story, over and over. I don't care. Every time Madrid is mentioned, I have to talk about Casa Mingo. I'm reliably informed it's northern Spanish cuisine. Again, I don't care. They serve chicken and cider, and not much else. Perfect roast chicken, and fantastic cider. When developers tried to demolish Casa Mingo, there was a protest rally, and the issue was brought before parliament. Suffice to say its still there.

As we sat eating chicken and drinking cider, I made a bold diagnosis for the car. "The gearbox is knackered."

It seems the responses at the table had the overall theme of "No shit, Sherlock." Tash and Giles could hear it from inside their car. I'll actually go out on a limb, on record and say I think it's either the synchromesh or the bearings on the 1 st and 2 nd gear shaft. I'm hoping we can find a good mechanic, who'll fix it for us, pronto. I do not want to have to shell out for a new gearbox. That would be rubbish. By the time you read this, it will be sorted, one way or the other, but I'd like to think some of you might have inadvertently crossed your fingers or sent us some good luck. We may just need it. I like Madrid , but I'd rather not stay too long.

Day 5, 21st Feb 2005

And we were doing so well...
Madrid - Sotogrande
640km (2520km total)
35.10 cumulative time driving

(Den) My typing skills are appalling, 2 index fingers prodding away. It took until 4am to complete yesterday's update. I need to start earlier.

With 5 hours sleep, I felt like crap. And I'd had a dream that our gearbox was made of cheese. Tash made us espresso that she declared "was like injecting lead." Not sure I'd try that, but the coffee definitely made the sunlight less painful.

We formulated a plan. Benja texted the Conedodgers, Bucking Broncos and the Sons of Hasselhoff to inform them we might be in Madrid for a bit. I phoned the very helpful Bill at MotorWey Mitsubishi in Putney (if you've got a Mitsubishi, I'd definitely take it there for a service.) I may not be a fully trained mechanic, but my diagnosis wasn't far off. "Sounds like the bearings or the synchromesh" said Super Bill as we shall now refer to him.

Next stop was to find a local mechanic, not some big dealership, someone who might be sympathetic to our cause. Apparently, the building maintenance man was a local fixer; anything you need, he knows someone. We find him in the courtyard. We think he said, "yeah, just over the bridge, turn left, easy peasy." This is not because Tash has dubious Spanish, the opposite is true, it's just matey boy is from some obscure region of Spain. To quote Tash, "he sounds like he's talking Japanese."

Benja heads to the underground car park to retrieve the sickly Badgermobile; I will accompany Tash in her car to act as lookout. She's still getting used to driving in Madrid . It also makes filming action shots easier. Early that morning, Giles had to fly to Turin to make sure you and I can watch the winter Olympics next year. He works in telly, you know. The previous night he'd had to find parking on the street as we needed security for the car. We don't know where he parked. I know it's a blue golf diesel; last 3 letters of rego are BNY. This is news to Tash. Luckily, standing in the street, arm above her head pressing the alarm button, we see flashing lights. "I thought it was a GTI" she said. Tash and I go way back to when we were students. One day, it seemed like a great idea to pool our student loans and buy a car. Enter a 1980, "classic" Alfa Romeo GTV6. What an absolute pile of rubbish. It was great fun to drive for the 3 months it survived. Ironically, the gearbox finished it off.

Benja emerges from the garage, the Badgermobile looking mighty fine we head out into traffic. We weren't quite sure which bridge, or which left. Tash suggested one road, "Nah, looks to small" said Den the expert navigator. After numerous dead ends, we tried Tash's suggestion. "Is that the garage there then?" "Erm, yes" I replied sheepishly. Earlier that day, we scoured the Spanish dictionary for gearbox (cambio), driveshaft, oil and knackered. Oh, and charity. Tash did a brilliant job. She got the message across. Julio was great. He stopped everything. The transmission was thoroughly examined, and a diagnosis returned. I don't know what he said, but it probably involved the word knackered. Through our wonderful translator, we explained we had a further 3000 miles to go, and would it be possible to make it all nice. Nope. With careful driving we would make it and by the way we've lost fluid from the transfer box. (Here's the science bit; a transfer box is a 2 nd gearbox to make the car 4 wheel drive). He topped up the fluids and sent us on our way. We asked how much we owed him. With a wave of the hand, and a shake of the head, he refused to take any money. We tried to give him €20; he was having none of it. So we forced a 6 pack of san Miguel into his hands, bid him "muchos gracias" and headed back to the flat.

Tash had to rush off to work by this time, so we said our goodbyes, and packed up our kit. A quick look on the map indicated south bound for the M30. We would have to use the compass already. The Sett was again unmolested and quickly hooked up. Not quick enough because a large traffic jam formed behind us. As we pulled away, we realized the noise in 1 st and 2 nd gear had almost gone. Neither of us said anything to jinx it, but an exchanged look was enough for confidence to return. The motorway was pretty easy to find, and we soon hit cruising speed, eventually joining the a4 south to Cordoba .

Ambling along at 95kmh, we had a long day of driving to look forward to. We'd left Madrid at 12.30, and thinking everyone else ahead of us would be wondering if we could make the rendezvous at Sotogrande. Our conversation was interrupted by a blue Vauxhall Calibra beeping at us. Instantly noticeable was the Plymouth-Banjul sticker on the side. The second thing I noticed was a fella standing up through the sunroof pointing a camera at us. Not a svelte handy-cam, this thing had a furry microphone on top. It must be Nick's mates, the rest of the film crew, AKA Bucking Bronco. I'm sure they were supposed to be in an Isuzu trooper. We shouted greetings, and then followed them into a service station. Waiting there was the bronco and the golf of the sons of Hasslehoff. Hands were shaken, introductions were made.

"Hi I'm Alex", said the driver of said Ford Bronco.

"Christ, you look like shit" replies Den.

It transpired that they were only just leaving Madrid because they'd been drinking drambuie until 6am . The bronco had a hole in the fuel tank, so could only do 160km before filling, the Isuzu trooper had conked out on the way to Dover , and the Hasslehoff boys had to hold their bonnet closed with duct tape. We didn't feel so out of place. It transpires that the guy who came to tow away the trooper gave them a replacement, free, gratis, no money. Unbelievable. We decide to travel in convoy, and now feeling better at having joined up with others, headed up the open road.

(Benja) As the faster cars heading off we were left with the Ford Bronco. Suddenly it swerved off the road and Alex the driver jumped out and ran over to the barriers. And was sick. And then sick again. And again.

Alex's co-driver Nick, who helpfully doesn't drive, walked over and explained that Alex was in no state to drive and wondered if one of us could help out. Den, who was now very attached to the Badgermobile, volunteered me to take over. So we headed onward. Apparently the Bronco has a big bad 3 litre V6 engine in it. However the boys now suspect that their "mechanic" using the loosest sense of the word swapped in the engine from a Ford Fiesta. To say it's slow is like saying Den quite likes cake.

Anyway the journey continued. The highlight of the day had to be after 5 minutes of driving when Alex felt sick again and we couldn't stop in time. Halfway through a conversation he went a bit green and then covered his shoulder, the side of the Bronco and the windscreen of the following Badgermobile in regurgitated Big Mac. I was laughing so much I was almost sick. Fortunately for Alex, the whole incident was captured on film.

We headed south towards Malaga . As you would expect in the Costa del Sol we hit a blizzard on the way over, the other teams got lost and the Bronco overheated. But we were closing in on our stop of the night Sotogrande, near Gibraltar . Eventually we found the other teams and made it to the hotel Las Camilas where we were supposed to meet the entire rally. It turns out that most of the guys had already gone over to Africa . Not a good sign.

By this stage the transfer box was leaking oil like an alcoholic leaks meths. We were however slightly encouraged to hear that one team had made it in a Volvo with only 4 th gear, a VW Polo was leaking more fuel than went into the engine and a Citroen had lost both driveshafts. One guy has had his passport and all his documents stolen. Maybe things aren't so bad after all.

Also I have to mention Team Sons of Hasslehoff (Mark and Jeff) who we're meant to go in a previous group but their VW Golf gave up the ghost the day before they were meant to leave. They have eventually fixed it and they're now with us. However what is more impressive is that they had to take their driving tests to do the rally, one passing in September and one in November. Between them they had probably driven about 200 miles before getting on the ferry to go to France . Now that's commitment..

We had a swift meal with all the guys and went for a couple of quiet beers. Then straight to bed for 10pm .

Ummmm, well not quite. We staggered to bed at 3am after a beery session in the knowledge that if the car made it over to Africa it would be a small miracle. The gearbox is knackered and could give out at any moment. The transfer case is leaking oil and is probably empty. It's likely to seize at any moment. However on the bright side, they did serve cider in the local bar. So that's OK then...

Day 6, 22nd Feb 2005

The lowest point so far.
Sotogrande - Gibraltar - Sotogrande
86km (2606km total)
37.06 cumulative time driving

(Benja) We got up fairly late. Late enough that a lot of teams had already left for Africa. I should at this point mention quite how knackered the car is.

The gearbox is on its way out. Estimates vary from 500km to 3000km of normal driving, however we're towing a caravan across the Sahara , and that isn't really classed as normal driving. Also the transfer box (which is just as important as the gearbox) has been leaking oil from a seal. We can't fill it up with more oil because we can't get the filler plug off. It's probably dry of oil now, and will seize at some point. Team moral has taken a big hit here.

We pull ourselves together and head for the local garage. The mechanic claims he can't do anything more complicated than change the oil and points us to another garage. The owner speaks no English, and our Spanish is limited to "cerveza por favor". Using a combination of Spanish, English, French and gesticulation he gives us directions for the nearest Mitsubishi garage as he can't help either.

We eventually find the San Roche Mitsubishi garage and find someone who can speak English. Its 5 minutes before his 2 hour lunch break and he's about as enthusiastic as a volunteer for the first test run of the electric chair. First the good news. He can fix the gearbox and the oil leak. Brilliant we say. Now the bad news. It's going to take 2 weeks. Things are not looking good.

OK, how about just the oil leak? Thursday if he orders the part today - 2 days away and we're already a day behind. If we don't make it to the desert crossing with the other teams then we may as well give up, because breaking down in the Sahara could be fatal. This was probably the lowest point so far. It looked as if we were pretty much stuffed now.....

OK - we asked if another dealer might have one. He didn't think of that. We offered to drive and pick it up so they could fit it. After lots of teeth sucking he reckoned he was too busy today. Right then. How about tomorrow? He eventually gives into our enthusiasm and books us in for 10am when the part should have arrived.

We console ourselves with the height of American cultural achievement. I have a Big Mac meal and Den goes for about 5 burgers. Tomorrow we should get the transfer box fixed, but we still have the gearbox issue. There is no way that gearbox will be able to pull a caravan across the desert. The car is model that has been out of production for almost 20 years, we speak no Spanish and even the local dealer reckons it takes 2 weeks. We need a plan..

(Den) I was looking for inspiration in a big mac. Ok, it might have been 3, but definitely not 5. We'd figured out, with help from Ed and Declan, that the bit that's supposed to keep the oil in was broken, and after convincing Mr Mitsubishi that it would be handy to leave Spain sooner than 2 weeks, we deserved pie. Generic pie, not mcpie.

Anyway we had a good old chat about stuff, like how the hell would we get to Africa . The gearbox is getting worse. We will not make it with the gearbox we have. A decision was reached. We need a new one. Now.

We adjourned from mcd's and were going to head back to the hotel when Benja announced he wanted to go and buy supplies for the trip. Due to lack of security on our vehicle, Benja went to Lidl's alone, and I went to buy fuel. I spied a trailer shop and thought they may have a spare wheel for the Sett. By this time Benja was outside the shop, rather quick, I thought, then realized he'd only bought beer. Good lad.

By this time I was getting very frustrated, no breakthroughs were forthcoming. I mentioned to Benja the garage I'd seen next to the trailer shop, he suggested trying there for a gearbox. Worth a go. I parked up; Benja got out and found a mechanic. I could tell from their body language they were communicating rather well. Benja's Spanish must have come flooding back. Impressive.

As he came back, he said "that bloke had a London accent." Not impressive at all. What was impressive was the information shared by the cockney Spaniard. He knew of a spares place in Gibraltar that had loads of Japanese parts in stock. With the scent of a lead, we got our arses in gear and set off the wrong way down the motorway. A swift u turn later, we followed the signs for Gibraltar . That rock is bloody huge. It dominates the landscape for miles.

I had a song in my head, and if you've seen the bond film," the living daylights", and remember the chase scene at the beginning, you might guess what it is. It's by a-ha and called the living daylights. Directions were; go past the airport and take the first left. We crossed the border into Gibraltar , and it was like being back in England . Very surreal. Looking for the airport, we realized we were in the airport. The departure lounge is a small building by the side of the road, the road which crosses the runway. There are traffic lights which go red when a plane is landing. Not a good place to break down. I think we got a bit lost, so eventually stopped at a Hyundai garage. Benja disappeared inside and was there for a while, so I pulled out the trusty Haynes manual to see if there was a chapter for the switch that makes the gearbox work properly again. Couldn't find it.

Looked up as Benja approached the car, piece of paper in hand. "I've found us a gearbox." What?! Do Hyundai gearboxes fit Mitsubishi's? No, not quite. Mr. Hyundai had a mate who owned the only scrap yard in Gibraltar, he'd rung him, and it turns out there was a virtually identical, same year and engine size Montero sitting in his yard. He was expecting us. But had to close in 15 minutes.

In the gentlest and most careful way possible, I floored it.

The yard was at the top of the rock. Looked like a long way. In my haste I misinterpreted left turn for straight on. Twice. We found it with seconds to spare. Benja went to have a look, came back looking mildly optimistic. I went round to have a look. Most of the engine was missing, but the gearbox looked the same. The gearstick felt accurate, not too worn.

A lovely lady called Linda seemed to be in charge, asked what we were doing, and was impressed with our answer. She's originally from Plymouth , you see. We had a brief chat, and Linda said we could have it for £180. That's £70 off normal price. She even said we could take a few hoses and fuses. Have I told you what a nice lady she is? We'll take it, so Linda set Mohammed the task of having the gearbox out by 11am.

After thanking her again, we set off down the rock, and towards Spain. You could see the optimism oozing off us. It's a good job we left the Sett at the hotel. Would not have been able to get it through the tiny streets. We headed back to Spain , queuing for 30 minutes at the border. The Spanish customs officer who inquired if we had anything to declare, was surprised to hear us, in unison state quite definitely "No!" We had learnt our lesson in Andorra.

On to the motorway, 20km towards Malaga and back to our hotel to check in for another night. We got a basic room this time, at €45, instead of the deluxe we had the night before at €75. The deluxe had a Jacuzzi, which we didn't have time to take advantage of (it would have been separately, of course). All afternoon, Benja had been complaining of a dodgy stomach, so we were a bit worried he had what Alex had had. No vomiting, but lots of running to the loo. We decided to head out to find some food at the marina. We chanced upon a Chinese restaurant, and enjoyed probably our last oriental cuisine for a few weeks. Benja was definitely not well. All we managed was one pint of snakebite in the pub before returning to the hotel, hoping for an early run to the Mitsubishi garage. My team mate looked decidedly ropey, and was asleep before I'd got into bed. Slightly worrying.

Day 7, 23rd Feb 2005

Africa-ca-ca-ca-ca...
Sotogrande - Gibraltar - Sotogrande - Chefchaouen
220km (2826km total)
42.15 cumulative time driving

(Benja) The day started OK - our first stop was a Mitsubishi Garage in San Roque to get the seal fitted to the transfer box. We've also picked up a spare tyre for the Sett as we reckon it's going to take quite a pounding over the desert. I have to say at this point I've been feeling a bit rough for the last day or so, and the Chinese last night probably wasn't the best idea. It turns out the monkeys at San Roque managed to fit the new seal to the wrong driveshaft in the end, so that was a good €60 wasted, but there you go.

Next stop was the Rock. Now before we go any further I have to send a huge thanks to Linda at Rock Breakers (the only and best breakers yard on Gibraltar ). Linda moved over from Plymouth about 7 years ago after she lost her husband in a diving accident. She runs the place with Johnny and his son, ably assisted by Manuel (as I called him) or Mohammed (as Den called him) who had to be about 5 ft tall and 80 years old. We can't thank her enough for the deal she did us on a new gearbox, radiator, water pump, starter motor and all kinds of other stuff. She's currently in danger of being moved on to make space for some expensive apartments for tax exiles, so the best of luck to her keeping her rightful place there.

We also sure that we saw the land-rover driven over the cliff in the classic Bond film "The Living Daylights" tucked up in a corner at Linda's.

So all we had to do was pick up the Sett from Sotogrande, head for the ferry and meet up with the Broncos, Calibra and Hoffs who were kindly waiting in a mountain town in Morocco .

(Den) That has to be the worst nights sleep in along time, it was so bloody cold. Where's all this sunshine I keep hearing about? We dragged our sorry asses out of bed; I headed for breakfast, Benja to the loo.

We arrived at the Mitsubishi garage at about 10.30, and then spent another 30 minutes filling in paperwork. We'd taken one of the wheels off the Sett and brought it with us to try and find a spare, so I waited with the car whilst Benja went on a wheel hunt. I asked the man in the very clean white Mitsubishi coat if I could watch and learn in the workshop. Following him through, he showed me under the car, I pointed at the front oil seal, he looked slightly confused, started talking in rapid fire Spanish and then ushered me out. Nope, sign language and a bit of French do not make good Espanol.

Sitting outside, I phoned my dad to ask his opinion of our sickly gearbox. After 10 minutes, his expert advice was stay in 4 th gear, less stress on the internals, you see. He also set Michael, my brother, onto the task of scouring the internet for a diagram we could use to diagnose the problem. I signed off, Benja returned with a spare tyre for the caravan. And some pies and cake. 1 st result of the day.

The car finished, we were relieved of €60. At this time we didn't realize they'd cocked it up. Back onto the motorway for a few km's, into Gibraltar and up to rock breakers. We backed the Badgermobile right up into the yard, found Mohamed under a Corsa and decided to see what else we could realistically carry off from our donor car. It was a green, hard top version of ours, whose registration number, G53589 now adorns our bonnet. The previous evening we had discussed how far to take our harvest. We had to trade off time of removal against potential value. I wanted to take the rear suspension, but it would have taken the rest of the day.

Linda appeared and we put to her our request for more bits. "No" she said. Then, as our faces fell, she laughed and said "Course you can, my love." Did I forget to mention she's funny as well?

She told Mohamed what to remove, and then invited us into the office for a coffee. We chatted about how she'd come to be there, and how a compulsory purchase order was about to evict her. Developers were going to build swanky apartments on the land she had. That day, though, 2 guys from the heritage department came up to the yard to look for archaeological remains. Linda's hope was they'd find something juicy, and stop the builders. Mohamed came in a bit later and reported task complete.

With that, the gearbox went in the back first; it's bloody big, and heavy, followed by the front and rear drive shafts, radiator, water pump and fan, starter motor, clutch and loads of fuses. For me the best find was the original fuel cap to replace the crap plastic one we had. The final bill came to £225, an absolute bargain, so THANK YOU LINDA! If you're ever in Gibraltar , just pop in and say hello.

We said our goodbyes, and headed back to Soto Grande to pick up the Sett. Saw team ReVOLVOr who were waiting anxiously for their gearbox to arrive from England , wished them luck, and hit the road.

Arriving at Algacira, we were stitched up like a kipper. A tout sold us a ticket for the "euro ferries high speed cat, leaving in five minutes, hurry, hurry." Bollocks. We sat on the chaotic quayside for nearly an hour as the high speed cat arrived and left, and we were eventually directed onto a fat old boat, full of trucks. No one knew what time we were supposed to leave, or arrive. At 6pm , with 36 people on board, the barge left the dock, and according to the same display, berthed at Tangier 2 and half hours later with 33 people. Some must have got bored and swum the rest of the way.

When we arrived at customs, a flood of hustlers descended on us, most seemingly demanding to see passports. Eventually a guy who actually had the right to demand to see our passports, got to see, erm, our passports. It's not easy for me, typing all this, so just bear with me, ok? The ultimate spectacle occurred when a customs officer wanted to see in the caravan. As Benja and I unfolded our temporary home, everybody, and I mean everybody, came over to have a look. Absolutely fantastic. Made my day.

Left the port, filled up with fuel and headed to a town called Chefchouen. Good roads to start, then gradually deteriorated until the tarmac was replaced by a foot of gravel. Very scary when a car and caravan start sliding on a mountain road. Got hideously lost in the town, did 2 laps of the square, then by luck found it. Hotel Salan. It was 11.30pm . This mad looking bloke came up, talked to me like I had fluent Arabic then grinned. I tried French. It transpires he's the parking guardian and boy do we need one of those. All the shrapnel we had, he received as a tip. €9 is nine times the going rate, but my logic was; he's going to watch our car a lot better. The average daily wage in morocco is €4, so I reckon he was going to have a good weekend.

Rough roads had taken a huge toll on our disintegrating gearbox, it would have to go in for a transplant sharpish. All the boys, Broncos, Hoffs and Calibra had had work done on their cars that day, so we decided, over a late beer to take the Badgermobile in for surgery. Benja was still looking ill, so after the one beer, we hit the sack. This time I was prepared for the cold. Inside the sleeping bag (thanks Bill!) and under the covers I was toastie. Sweet.

Day 8, 24th Feb 2005

Gearbox number 2...
Chefchaouen - Rabat
274km (3100km total)
45.10 cumulative time driving

(Den) Thursday begins with a rousing chorus of cocks crowing. Not from any kind of rural chickens, but from my phone. I thought it amusing to change it from normal to chickens. It doesn't sound great to wake up to. Breakfast, was orange juice you could chew and strong coffee, with toast.

Waited around for the other cars to pack for the short drive across town, left the Sett outside our hotel, and Benja inside, looking totally rubbish. Our car is still rough as a tractor 1 st thing in the morning, but warmed up, it's fine, so I got in and started her up while the other teams loaded up.

Lots of peddlers were attracted to our car, the most surreal of which was some toothless fella who first offered necklaces, then hash, then when he spied our beloved mascot, badger, on the dash, decided he would quite like that, and how many kilos of weed would we trade him for. It took a lot of persuading for him to get the message. See, Mr. Roger Badger, from the R.S.P.C.B. we do take care of him.

Finally, by noon , the convoy headed down into town, and into a backstreet garage, run by a man called Said. (It's pronounced Sigh-eeed, not sed). He greeted the other lads like long lost sons, I told him we required a major surgery; he nodded, and wheeled a Peugeot out of the garage to make way for the patient. Later in the day the lady who owned the displaced Peugeot would return intermittently and glare at me. Sorry missus, it's an emergency.

A disturbing thought had occurred to me. Our skull gear knob was glued onto the old gear stick, which was part of the old box. I conveyed this point to said, he nodded and disappeared under the car. The next 8 hours were tense to say the least. Team ReVOLVOr had discovered that their new gearbox was slightly different to the old one, so their mechanic had to build a hybrid out of the 2. When the knackered gearbox came out of the Badgermobile, it looked identical, but until I had driven it again, there was no telling.

The boys from the Calibra, Team Board Cross (I've just discovered they have their own name, sorry lads!), the Hoffs and the Broncos wandered into town, got food and drink, but I couldn't leave the car. Pablo brought me what tasted like a spam sandwich. Couldn't stop pacing until I knew the patient would be ok, and that our journey was to continue. Said had his sons working for him, and a couple of other lads, who, once we got chatting were remarkably friendly. By about 5, it looked like we would be a while yet, so the other teams bade me farewell, and headed for Rabat .

Now I was worried and lonely in a strange country. Benja texted every hour or 2 to get an update, but apart from that I was speaking French, and it all came flooding back. The new gear box disappeared for a while in the back of an old Renault, with Said's oldest son. I thought I'd better have confidence, that they were not dismantling the car for spares. It turns out they'd taken it off to some wizened old gearbox dude to get it looked over and some advice on fitting. Back it came out of the car and into the pit under our disabled automobile. One of the mechanics, meanwhile had been dismantling the whole gearstick assembly, and successfully transplanted our skull to the new boite de vitesse (that's the French for gearbox).

More waiting, more pacing, and my first glass of mint tea. That stuff is fantastic!

Installation complete, driveshafts attached, Said emerges from under the car looking annoyed. The French I know is limited to everyday things like beer and cake, not mechanical stuff. I figured out that there was a problem with the plug that holds the oil in the bottom of the box, but when he pulled out a welder I was seriously troubled. It turns out he had to weld a bolt onto the old plug, to help undo it. I may keep it, as it looks like a strange little sculpture.

He beckoned me under the car and led me through a check of every single nut our bolt, seal or gasket that had been refitted. Satisfied he then pointed to oil, I said, "Yeah, we've got some." Feeling pleased to help, Said shook his head solemnly. Our backup of 1 litre was 5 litres short of what we needed. Crap.

He got into the drivers seat and directed me to the passenger side. The car started first time, but Said leapt out as if scolded. All the other mechanics rushed over and popped the bonnet. It took me a minute to explain it always sounded like a tractor when started from cold. They didn't believe me and spent 20 minutes oiling and tightening bits of the engine. It was marginally better, but still sounds agricultural.

Said drove, me a passenger and we headed to another garage, an oil specialist if I understood correctly. They filled transfer box and gearbox, and we set off again, me driving. It felt much more accurate and solid, a million times better. Said directed me on a test route, and kept saying, "cascade, cascade". We drove up above the town, Said proudly pointing, and giving me a running commentary, some of which I understood.

Arriving back at the garage, everyone looked anxious until I pronounced the car, "Bon!" Smiles all round, I then asked Said how much. He looked pained as he said €180. I said "no, €200." He was made up. 8 hours labour for 5 men, about £150. Absolute bloody bargain! Embraces and hand shakes sent me on my way, after being made to promise if I was ever in Chefchaouen, I would pop in for mint tea. Deal.

Heading back to the hotel, I informed Benja of the good news, and agreed to meet him outside, at The Sett. We hooked up, loaded and tried to find a way to turn around with a caravan. Just up from the hotel was a slightly wider bit of road, in which a perfect 63 point turn was expertly executed. By this point it was 9 o'clock , and we had 270 km of mountain road to negotiate to Rabat . Benja looked rough, still, so I was going to have to go for it. Plenty of coke and off we set.

These roads are pretty rough, the next few hours a blur. Benja looked over at one point and said, "You look scary." Nah, just concentrating. All bends.

Arrived in Rabat at about 1am , the others had sent us GPS coordinates, and after driving the wrong way up a one way street, a policeman stopped us. I apologized, explained we were looking for Hotel Central, to which he replied, "follow me." He set off in a swift march, the Badgermobile trundling along behind. Our police escort delivered us to the front door; we thanked the constable, and checked in.

Board cross, the Hoffs and the broncos were in a room, drinks on the go. Handed a Bacardi and coke, I slumped onto a bed, telling our epic tale. Sleep followed rapidly. What a day.

(Benja) Not a lot I can add to this section. I spent the whole day in bed going through a series of cold sweats and some feverish sleep. When Den arrived back at about 8pm, we realised that we were so far behind the pack now that we had better crack on. A "quick" drive to Rabat (the capital city of Morocco), we eventually made it to the hotel for about 1am. Fortunately the Bucking Broncos, Calibra Boys and Sons of Hasslehoff had booked us a room, and had the hard spirits ready for rapid recovery.

Word is that Team ReVOLVOr (the last team) is on its way after changing a gearbox posted out from the UK . They should be catching us up some point tomorrow on the way to Marrakech. So onwards and southwards. Over 3000km done so far and about the same to go. At least its getting warmer (20 degrees C) and the gearbox feels OK so far (touch wood!). However we are a good 2-3days behind the pack as a result of the gearbox issues and I can see at this rate we aren't going to make our flights home..

All we need to do now is get up at 8am to buy a parking ticket so we don't get clamped...

Day 9, 25th Feb 2005

Brushes with the law
Rabat - Agidir
590km (3690km total)
54.59 cumulative time driving

(Benja) Doh! - Car has been clamped. Neither of us managed to get up at 8 to buy the ticket. Good news is that it only costs about £3 to get it released. If only London was as reasonable as that. As the camera crew head into town for an hour we decide to crack on - we're aiming to hit Agidir tonight (unfortunately missing out Marrakech, but we're so far behind it would be nice to stop playing catch-up for once). It's a long drive over the Atlas Mountains so should test the new gearbox nicely. Den kicks off with the driving as I'm still feeling crook, and we manage to navigate out of the town by heading south.

The Moroccans have two grades of road - one is nice fast motorway which would put the M25 to shame, and the other is really really shitty. For once we're on the good stuff and can make reasonable time. The scenery is all about contrasts; Westernised petrol stations and shops then people on donkeys stacked to the gills with bushels of crops. It's a country with Western aspirations unwilling to give up (with good reason) its Arabic roots. There is a massive divide between the rich and the poor here, never so apparent as when locals stand at the side of the road trying to sell live chickens to the Mercedes' speeding past.

The people again are a stark contrast between incredibly warm and friendly people who go out of their way to help you in any way they can, to those on the scam. This was fairly obvious when we first made it off the ferry, but it became painfully obvious when I received my first speeding ticket.

We were just leaving a small local market town when we were pulled over the by the police. Most police just motioned us on with a quick "Ca va", however one fellow saw our number plates and smelt pay-day. He reckoned we had been doing 62km/h when the limit was 40km/h. We knew this was impossible as we'd come into the town following a large truck which could only do about 30 km/h. However he had decided that he wanted a 400 dirham (about £30) boost to his beer money this evening (about 10x the daily wage in Morocco ). He then went through the rigmarole of asking about Manchester United (well we are from the UK) and we name-dropped a few players; "Beckham", "Giggs" and so on, and suddenly he decided he could do us a deal. Seeing as we were nice English people (and avid football fans) he would only charge us 200 dirhams. How kind. Strangely enough we didn't get a receipt.

I would like to say that the scenery over the Atlas mountains was breath-taking, but most of our driving was done at night, as a lot of time in Morocco has been spent trying to make up time after our gearbox nightmare. We cracked on. We knew there were a couple of teams behind and a couple ahead, but we were pretty much on our own as we have been for most of the trip. The further south you head, the less traffic you see, and the more lonely it can feel. It's always good to see other cars on route, but towing the Sett it's unlikely we're going to catch them. Or so we thought.

Den has been getting into the "Moroccan" style of driving which mainly involves over-taking on blind corners and "spirited" use of the horn. In fact if there were events at the Olympics for dangerous driving and standing around looking bored then our African friends would come back with a good haul. One of the more entertaining rules in the Moroccan Highway Code is that any vehicle travelling under 20km/h doesn't need to use lights. Including tractors. And the speed limit on a dodgy single carriageway road is 120km/h which is around 70 mph in old money. You get the idea.

We were more than slightly surprised to see three other teams appear out of the gloom on the mountain ahead of us. However probably not as surprised as they were when they were passed by a 20 year old 4x4 towing a racing caravan going up a hill with an idiot hanging out the window waving.

One of the many items on our pre-trip "to do" list that fell by the way-side was to adjust the headlights for driving on the wrong side of the road. As you can imagine, not that many of the thousands of cars we passed in Morocco saw the funny side of this, especially when the caravan on the back and a spare gearbox in the boot was making the car do an impression of a dog taking a dump, and illuminating the stars.

(Den) Awoken by a banging on the door," monsieur, monsieur, parking." Yeah cheers mate. Back to sleep. Next time I woke up we'd been clamped.

Checked out, got pastries and waited for the clamper to return. Freed from the oppressors, we hit the road, reliably informed the rest of the fellas are just behind us. More dull miles of motorway, then 2 lane highway. I've got a new game called, "Moroccan chicken." It involves people overtaking, whether there are vehicles coming or not, and seeing if we're about to witness carnage. Insane. Benja gets a blatant "beer money" speeding ticket. There's no way the government will see one of those 200 dirham.

I've figured out how to survive on the roads here. You pick your own speed, say 90kmh and you overtake those going slower. If you slow down and wait too long to get around them, you get ambushed, because then there are 2 vehicles for others to over take, and they swarm at you. It's bloody scary. So you over take as soon as you can. Some of the blind corners are actually rather open and you can see for miles down the road. When in Rome .. We were always being over taken, as we're not that quick. Heading down from the Atlas Mountains into Agidir, I thought a UFO was chasing us. Like something out of close encounters of the 3 rd kind, this mass of multi coloured lights came up behind us. Trying not to be distracted, I concentrated on staying away from the edge.

Moroccans flash their lights when about to over take, the overtakee responds with right indicator if the way is safe, left if not. We had a long straight ahead, then a corner. I indicated right, and a 40 foot articulated lorry roared past, doing 110kmh. absolute bloody nutter. Looked double the speed he should have been doing. I eased off, not knowing if we'd round a bend and find him on his side. A few miles later we came up behind a convoy of Plymouth to Banjul-ers, who were seriously stuck behind one truck. We over took, beeping and yelling, Benja half out the window. They pulled over to a service station as we went past, obviously needing a break.

Moroccan trucks seem to be divided into 2 groups; one has massive engines, and the ability to corner to make a Ferrari jealous, and fair fly through the mountain passes, the other have a Nissan Micra engine and no brakes. They climb hills at 5kmh. no joke, they look parked. They also descend hills at the same speed, using the engine, spinning at high revs instead of brakes, in which they obviously have no confidence. When you round a corner at a seemingly safe speed of, say, 50kmh and are confronted with a roadblock, it wakes you up.

We'd been in contact with a few other teams and decided that we'd get somewhere nice in Agidir. Located the hotel no problem, as it is huge and has its name in enormous lights on top. Handy for weary drivers. The parking attendant was a really nice guy, had good English and helped us unload. Because we were guests, we got primo parking outside the front door. "Put your car here, your chariot over there." He looked offended until we explained we'd never considered the Sett to be a chariot. Checking in, at 1am, there was no food to be had. We are destined never to eat proper food in a Moroccan hotel. Back to the car, and cracked open a newly discovered pack of Pringles, and hit the bar. A couple of drinks later, we headed to our room, still no sign of the Calibra. They'd spent 3 hours shopping in Rabat. We've got to get an early start to catch up.