The itinerary so far:
Spain - Morocco - Western Sahara - Mauritania...

Some travel books say a Mauritanian guide is essential to steer you through this untended wasteland. Others say it's straightforward by yourself. I decided to go for the latter option. Mines? Pah, I thought "we'll be fine..."

The border between the Western Sahara and Mauritania has a bit of a reputation. Mauritania once laid claim to this disputed territory as did (and still do) the Moroccans and the Saharawis.

As a consequence, there are live mines still lying around the 7km-long strip of no-man's-land that stretches from Moroccan soil (or sand, even) to the Mauritanian side.

Timbuktu by motorbike Pt 3: Morocco to Mauritania

Alison Thomson and husband Jez go in search of petrol in the desert - but there's always a solution....

Timbuktu by motorbike Pt 2: roaring through Spain

On a three-month career break, Alison Thomson and partner hit the continent but find life on the road tougher than expected

A career break to Timbuktu

When Alison Thomson wed last year, she was promised adventure... a three-month journey to Timbuktu by bike

The roads are long and empty through the desert - no distractions, no advertising hoardings, no information overload. So, for the pillion passenger who doesn't have to think about changing gear, your mind has plenty of time to tick over.

I spent far too much time imagining several worst-case scenarios. What if we run out of fuel - again? What if we hit a camel in the road? or a dune? And most of all, I thought long and hard about falling off the bike.

For much of the pre-departure, I (excuse the pun) put my head in the sand. The Sunday Times Travel writer Steve Bleach, himself a biker, turned up at work with an arm in plaster just before I left. “I don't want to know,” I scowled.

If I don't think about the bad things then they wouldn't happen. If I gave them too much time, they might get the better of me and I might not be able to go on the trip at all.

Hot and hungry after a four hour drive from the pleasant seaside town of Dakhla (with the most beautiful paradise bay I have ever seen) we navigated our way through Moroccan police, army and customs with relative ease. We confidently dismissed all offers of help from the Mauritanian guides loitering at the border and drove through the brick archway denoting the beginning of our first stage of hell. If this was a park, it was Dante's version of one.

Two days earlier in Boujdour, we met a rather excitable Frenchwoman in her mid-fifties who was heading home to Senegal. She had made the journey overland from France several times before and dismissed the border crossing with a Gallic sweep of the hand. “You don't need a guide,” she told us. “Just follow a lorry.” Sound advice, except there were no lorries to hand as we went through.

She also told us, “they make false pistes to confuse you." There were a bewildering number of tracks heading in all directions through the wastes of sand, scrub, and derelict cars strewn everywhere. It was like a scene out of Mad Max, a vision of post-apocalyptic hell. “They leave burnt-out cars to scare the tourists,” said our informant. It worked for me - I was terrified.

Five hundred yards in, and Jez was grappling the bike with terrific force through the rugged terrain. I gripped him tight, trying not to squeeze the life out of him with my knees. We were all over the shop, but he was doing a great job keeping us upright and inching slowly forward.

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