Click images to view larger versions

crossing the sharqiya sands

MC rode his XR400R across the desert – and back – in two days

Thursday, August 9
12 noon
I filled up on fuel at Mintrib and also strapped two bottles of petrol on – one on the front fender, another behind me with my bag. I also took a sleeping bag and some basic camping gear (meaning Swiss Army Knife) and some clothes.

I soon realised that with the bag strapped above my back wheel it was almost impossible to shift my body to the back and the result was a near fall over the handlebars on one simple steep part. I quickly lifted the motorbike and, luckily enough, succeeded in starting it on my first try. The dunes were relatively easy but my full tank did not help manoeuvrability and sometimes my front end slid away. I reached a well after a long while and splashed water on my face.

I didn’t want to waste time. I hopped on (that was a bit like the can-can dance, what with bag on the back, high motorbike, all the gear loaded) and off I went. I wanted to get to my first major waypoint below the tree on my 70km mark as soon as possible. I was looking forward to the tree, shade and food.

From a distance I saw that below the tree was parked an old Toyota, with an even older Bedu sleeping beside it. Awakened by the roar of my Honda he came to shake hands, and after he heard me saying “A’salaam aleykum” he started talking to me in Arabic, but when he finished I nodded and said “sorry but mafi Arabi, just shwey-shwey!” He wiped his metal bowl with sand from ground and offered me water – I drank a little bit but silently swore as it was full of sand (and who knows what bacteria), thinking about my clean cold Pocari in my backpack. Another pick-up arrived, with three boys of about 15, 11 and four years. The driver was the 11 year old. I asked if they would sell me some petrol.

“Come, come,” said the 11 year old, already pulling the hose from behind his seat. He stuffed it to the tank and sucked a mouthful out, immediately spitting all over my seat, missing my GPS by millimetres. Anyway, we managed four bottles down my tank. Then the boss (the 11 year old) started to show obvious money gestures with his fingers. The smallest note I had was RO5 – my mistake. That disappeared in their hands in a second and I didn’t even know who had it. I asked for it back but after a while of not getting anywhere I just waved my hand and rode away. It must have been the most expensive trade per litre of petrol in the history of Oman.

5 pm
With 190km on the odometer, I knew I was coming to the end of the Sharqiya Sands, with just 20km to go. Unfortunately, my GPS track led me at a 90º angle to the strong wind and sandy bumps, so it was quite nightmarish. Everything on the bike rattled – especially my bones and jaw. But after a while I was on the trail again, and saw the flat bit before the Shannah/ Mahoot road. That’s when it hit me: I had crossed the Sharqiya desert! I punched the air, hit a ditch, and almost toppled over. Further celebration could wait till I was in Mahoot. By now, the wind was so strong I was riding at a 70º angle, the goggles on my open-face helmet pushing my sunglasses into my face so hard I had to take them off.

It seemed like forever till I got to the Mahoot Motel, and I didn’t hesitate a second. I took the room – plus sand in shower, minus seat on toilet – but at RO10 a night I thought it was a bargain. I filled myself with curry and cola, and the bike with petrol. Turns out three Coca Colas are too refreshing, and together with a noisy family shouting and banging doors till three in the morning, the night was a bad one.

Friday, August 10
8:20 am
Mahoot is now connected to Filim by a new blacktop road, so I got there very fast. One of the beaches around the village had huts made of palm fronds, fences of fishing nets. I felt as if I were discovering a completely different world, somewhere closer to the roots of life, without all our mobile phones, Internet, computers, traffic jams and plasma screens, property markets and money exchanges.

I proceeded up the beach from Shannah, but quickly got in up to my knees in sea water. I turned back trying to make my way through a series of huge sand dunes. I stood on the foot pegs, twisted the throttle and started climbing the first incline. At that moment I was hit by a strong gust of wind full of sand, blinding and throwing me off balance. At 70kmph I realised I was over the edge of the dune, into thin air. I flew over the handlebars, motorbike upside down, petrol pouring out of the cap pipe, gloves full of sand. As soon as possible I made a knot in the tank pipe and then rescued my GPS before it was damaged by petrol.

I tried to kick-start the bike many times, but I am getting tired. It was almost 11:20 and I couldn’t move the bike. I walked around and saw the dhows anchored in the distance. Alright, worst case scenario: I walk back. Another attempt and bike coughed, roared for half a second and died again. The worst thing was that in the hole there was no wind so I was sweating a lot. I climbed up again to cool down, looking around and searching for a way to escape. Thankfully, my next attempt was successful, but my resources were shattered.

Hours later, after digging my axle into the sand and digging myself out again, I finally spotted an ancient Land Rover buried in the dunes, a landmark we often used. I was on track again. As I made my way up the desert coast, I passed deserted fishing villages. Were they abandoned after the cyclone? Many of the ramshackle and rusty desert filling stations – little more than drums in the sand – were abandoned, rendered useless by the new road that runs from Al Ashkharah to Khuwaymah, and will eventually extend till Naqdah and Shannah.

3:30 pm
I was on the last 75km of off-road track, racing through the desert woodlands. It had started to get hot, and I realised how much cooler the coast had been. The woodlands soon turned to open plain, and then graded road. I splashed through the wadi before Jalaan Bani Bu Ali, washing away all that salt from my gear and bike. I photographed the bike in front of the famous 42-domed mosque. Local boys soon gathered around, but hid their faces in their football jerseys when I tried to shoot them. The first restaurant I tried shooed me away – “No food, no food!” – but I was luckier with the next one, gulping down chicken biriyani while my boots and socks dried outside.

And that’s that. Further on there was just blacktop to Kamil, where I was tempted to explore desert tracks, but decided not to push my luck, and carried on to Mintrib instead. And so I did it, alone – about 580km mostly over sand, with an average of 55kmph on and off the road.