Original subtitles

COUGHING

Headquarter company,

the Royal Gibraltar Regiment

will fire a royal gun salute

on the occasion of the birthday of Her Majesty

Queen Elizabeth II.

Fire!

GUN SALUTE CONTINUES

Number 2 gun...

fire!

I always have bad dreams before a new journey, dreams of being late

or forgetting to pack my underwear or being shot at.

What do I need? Maps...

boots...

mosquito net... Mosquito net!

Stay calm. Read the paper... Might be the last you'll see for a while.

My destination isn't that far away now.

From here, you can almost see it. It all seems so easy.

Last lunch on British soil whilst looking out to Africa!

GUN SALUTE CONTINUES

What terrors can the Sahara possibly hold

when it's only 300 miles from a British Home Stores or a bobby

or a pint of warm beer?

Setting off's like getting up on Monday. I know I have to do it, but I put it off till the last minute.

There are no more last minutes. It's time to go.

The Sahara Desert is huge, the size of the United States

with the population of Norfolk.

It's as alien and hostile as anywhere on Earth.

It's unknown territory for me. I'm ready to be tested again...

if necessary to the very limits of endurance.

Good heavens! It's like going up a lift shaft 15 floors at a time!

Well, I'm not in the desert yet, but I'm on a camel, I'm on the sand.

You may laugh - it's the sand of Tangier's beach,

but it's a good place to practise for a lot of camel-riding later. It doesn't come naturally to me!

I get vertigo on top of these!

We're going to have a go. OK, Mohammed...

Imagine the dunes around, forget the hotel blocks...

There aren't any girls walking round the Sahara either!

The beach at Tangier is only 12 miles from Gibraltar,

but it feels African.

Thank you, Fatima.

It's friendly and there's always a game of football on.

I haven't played for years which soon becomes painfully obvious.

I've done the splits!

Ah!

I've screwed my leg up!

An injury...

I've really just hurt...

I shouldn't have done it.

Never play when you're over 57! That's the time to stop.

Injuring yourself on camera is a good thing.

Doing it on Day 1 - not so good. But this is the Arab world.

Treatment is close at hand.

The oriental steam bath, the hammam

is not just about cleanliness, but also about meeting new people,

doing interesting things...

OK...

Stretching my groin...

Oh...

Ah...

That's good. It feels... Ow!

Ah...! Ah...!

That's OK.

It's amazing how quickly you make friends!

Before this, we hardly knew each other!

That's good.

Ow...! Yeah... OK, that's good.

Within half an hour, I feel completely cured.

From the 1920s to the 1950s, Tangier was a free port

in which Europeans and Americans built elegant villas,

seduced by blue skies and relaxed morals.

Today, it's part of Morocco,

and, though the morals are less relaxed, the old town streets that drew the likes of Oscar Wilde,

Ronnie Kray and Errol Flynn, are largely unchanged.

This innocent-looking square, the Petit Zocco,

was once described as "the sinkhole of iniquity".

I asked a present-day resident, writer Jonathan Dawson, if this wasn't a bit strong.

Was it ever that? Yes, it was.

When you say is it still, it's not obviously here,

but, like all these places, everything is there if you want it.

You can have boys, girls, cockerels, anything you want, hashish...

It's the national past-time, smoking, for the Moroccans.

It's not legal, but it's slightly not illegal. I don't encourage it!

To find out what brings people to Tangier today,

Jonathan recommends I go to church... if I could find it!

The Anglican church of St Andrew.

Hello. Hello. I'm Michael. Really happy! Thank you very much.

I'm Mustafa Chergui. Mustafa...? Church caretaker. Caretaker?

Excellent. I wanted to see the church. I've been here 38 years. 38 years?

38 years. 38 years. 38...? I'm very happy for English church people.

Can I see the church? Thank you. 109 years a church, thank you very much.

109 years old? Yes, thank you.

Thanks to Mr Chergui, the church and its garden are immaculate,

a rich mix of Arab and Anglican.

Let us share with one another the sign of peace.

The congregation is a pretty rich mix too.

MOBILE PHONE RINGS

SINGING

MOBILE PHONE RINGS

The expats of St Andrew's are outnumbered by Nigerians

who've crossed the Sahara on the way north.

Do they have particular problems because they're moving into Europe?

What's life like for them here? Very precarious.

Quite a lot of them get arrested and shoved into Algeria.

Moroccan and Algerian governments play a game of putting their undesirables across the border.

About half the congregation seems to be Nigerian.

Well, it was about 200 people. Really? About seven old hands in 200...

They're wonderful people, but... Did you hear the phones ringing? Yes. Quite interesting themes.

At Christmas, they all rang with Jingle Bells.

Everybody had a great laugh at it!

You must actually come and meet Birdie. I'd love to.

Perhaps tomorrow? Yeah, sure.

OK. People have been very friendly here - lots of invitations.

Well, come tomorrow at 11.00 if you want. Mid-morning? All right. Lovely.

..Yeah, it's great...

'Just as I'm thinking how dreadfully British this all is, Mr Chergui has someone he wants me to meet.'

This is a pretty courtyard.

Fatima! Very nice. Lovely tiles.

Lunch...there we are...

We're having chicken.

Hello. La cucina. Yes.

For lunch. Hello, Fatima.

Thank you very much. We're all from London.

Nice to see you. He's been very good to us today.

He showed me around. Thank you.

We'll leave you to it...

40 years! There must be something right there!

Yes, before... Mustafa...

Well...

We'll leave you to your Sunday lunch.

Next day, I arrive at Jonathan's apartment, eager to meet Birdie, whoever Birdie is.

In these circles, it could be his wife, auntie, an old golfing chum...

I'm completely wrong. Birdie is a bird.

Jonathan... Yes? It's a bit of an unusual pet...

I thought it was a hen and it would lay me an egg for breakfast.

He was lying in a box in the market and I thought... Hello, Birdie. I'll grow him for a breakfast...

Overexcited. Stop it, Birdie!

Bit of nerves with the camera. I thought he'll be good for...

I like the odd boiled egg, but he turned into a fella which was a hell of a shock.

Tangier is one of those places where it's hard to tell who's a fella... He's trying to sum me up!

He's going to crow.

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!

How did you know that? I know when he's going to crow.

It's 4.00 in the afternoon!

He doesn't stop at one! You need earplugs.

It's abnormal for a bird to be sitting on a sofa in a library. He's not exactly reading a book.

He is a dog with feathers. I love that beak!

I'm sorry to say that, but I do...

There's no way of reaching the Sahara without crossing the Atlas Mountains,

a series of long steep ranges that stretch right across Morocco.

In amongst them are some of the oldest cities in North Africa.

This is Fez, thought by many to be the most perfect medieval city in the Islamic world.

Is this the point where the cars stop

and the donkeys take over - or the mules? Yeah.

Once inside its walls, you might as well be in a maze, but it's one that delights all the senses -

sight and sound and smell.

If you're used to shopping at Sainsbury's, you won't make much sense of it.

That is why I need my indispensable guide Abdelfettah a local artist,

who'll guide me through this labyrinth of souks and sweatshops.

Those pots are for cooking preserved meats. Preserved meats?

Which lasts for the whole winter. Ah...

Like all the best guides, Abdelfettah's determined to end on a high note.

That is amazing!

It's exactly how it looked in medieval times.

From the narrow passageways, you've suddenly got so much space.

I've never seen anything like that anywhere.

What's going on here?

Obviously, for dyeing and tanning, all the different colours...

Talk me through it. It's the stages of the treatment of the hides.

There's the washing machine there.

Then they get the hide into holes with some lime and pigeon poo...

Pigeon poo? Pigeon droppings? Yeah. Is that good for stripping...? Yes. It's got some sort of acid...

and it also feeds the hide. It's quite a pungent smell. It is.

And then...? Then they get them into these vats,

where they are going to take the final colour.

Yeah. ..Either yellow for babuches or red for pouffes and other uses.

How old are these vats, how old is this system here?

It's actually as old as Fez.

Fez started by producing hides and selling them into the open market,

sometimes it was in Europe, so it's very old.

Over 1,000 years old? 12 centuries with no exaggeration.

It's the most extraordinary sight.

It's also like a great paintbox.

I remember when I was young, I opened it and put the water in... That's a nice comparison.

Fez is a magical city and I have to leave it far too soon,

but I've a suspicion it won't be the last temptation that lies between me and the Sahara.

If Fez was a little reserved, then Marrakech is wide open!

If you've got it, you flaunt it - whatever it is, whatever it costs.

Nice shoe, but I can't go as high as 350. How much can you pay?

150. Yes. 150 each. 150 each!

150 each is 300.

350 for both.

I can't... For one, 150.

One's not really enough, is it? Two. I think you need two.

Two - 300. Two for 300. You're coming down?

How about 200? 280. 200. 280.

220 for two? 250. No. Sorry about that. 240.

220, that's it. Sorry.

Anyway... yellow isn't really my colour.

The top? No, it's slippers I'm after.

From Marrakech, it's all uphill to the Sahara.

Passing first through the land of the Berber people,

one of whom is my companion Amina,

though she's spent so long working in America her accent is more Mafia than Moroccan.

Are we already in the Berber...? Yes, we are in the Berber villages.

They were the original inhabitants of Morocco before the Arabs came through, is that right? Yes.

Absolutely. We don't quite know the origins,

but they sure were here before the Arabs, yeah.

Sorry to harp on about this, but what are the characteristics of the Berbers? Warm people...

er...

very ambitious...

hard-working... You're a New Yorker, really? Not really.

I'm a Casawi, as they say... A Casawi? From Casablanca...

That's good. I like that. A Casawi. I'm from Sheffield.

I'm a Sheffieldawi! Talking of that, I must find a toilet.

Here we transfer to a more rugged form of transport.

The luxury pick-up we were promised? Yeah!

OK... OK... Let's go.

Shokran. Thank you. Shokran.

Shokran, shokran...

OK...

SHE SPEAKS ARABIC

It may look as though we're doing this to save the BBC some money,

but once we're out of the village, we can see why they don't encourage cars.

How are you feeling? I feel great!

The rush of blood that comes with nature? Fresh air.

Yeah. Yeah. How do you feel? Yeah...it's fantastic.

We're so suddenly out of the valley and the trees and the cherry orchards and the walnut trees...

Up here, there's nothing... Bare rock. There's a village up ahead? Yes... They're not fooling us?

No, they're not. I hope they're not. I'm sure they're not.

He's laughing - so we're OK. Is there a restaurant?

The Berber village of Arremd, 8,000ft up in the Atlas,

is so well camouflaged you could easily miss it.

It looks cold and inhospitable, but we're in for a surprise.

We're not going to be the only ones eating here. We have to share.

That's the national dish, the tajin.

Yeah, that's...the tajin. That's the tajin...

It's meat, potatoes... Yeah. Olives...

Are those beans or olives? Bean...no, olive.

SINGING

The Berbers are a minority in a predominantly Arab Morocco,

so a dance like this is celebrating more than just a betrothal -

it's celebrating the survival of their own culture.

A coach service connects up the last towns and villages of the Atlas Mountains.

It should take me to the end of Morocco,

where the road runs out and the desert begins.

The sound of the Koran fills the bus, ensuring Allah will protect us on our journey.

TOOTING

At the village of Tademt, we pull in at a motorway service station.

If it's fast food you're after, the signs are not encouraging.

Just deux...

With a little help from a friend, I negotiate for a kebab, but you have to watch what they put in it.

Pas de tete! Pas de tete! Brochette seulement.

Brochette. Brochette seulement.

Dear Delia, I've just eaten a bit of sheep's head.

Would this be best with white-wine sauce or a roulade?

Merci.

When Muslims talk about making a journey, they always add inshallah, God willing.

It seems appropriate as we climb to the highest pass on the Atlas Mountains. Inshallah.

Well, now we've crossed the High Atlas, we are,

for the first time on this journey on the edge of real desert,

yet the first village is very familiar.

If you've seen Gladiator, Lawrence Of Arabia, Romancing The Stone, The Four Feathers, you've seen it!

If you've seen Sodom And Gomorrah - which my parents treated me to - you've seen it!

Ait Benhaddou is one of the great film sets of the world.

The towers here are beautiful,

but it's hard to tell which are made of rich red desert earth and which of 4x2 plasterboard.

In this Moroccan Hollywood, illusion and reality play tricks.

From now on, signs of life are few and far between.

The last river sinks into the sand.

The last salesmen make their pitch.

We have a vingt, we have a quinze... How about a dix?

Tomorrow, I'll be in the Sahara... at last.

MUEZZIN CHANTS

CHANTING STOPS

COCK CROWS So this is it!

The last hotel for a while,

but, to be honest, I feel pretty good, glad to be alive...

..and glad that, as from today,

I'll no longer have to ask anyone else what the Sahara Desert looks like.

Well, the comforts of Morocco are now well behind us.

We're beyond the last protective arm of the Atlas Mountains.

Ahead of us is 1,000 miles of sand and stone,

and, unlike Morocco, the Sahara is not welcoming - it's hard and it's hostile,

and, from now on, it gets serious.

South and west of Morocco lies the disputed territory of Western Sahara.

It was once a Spanish colony.

When they left in 1975, the Moroccans moved in.

Those inhabitants who didn't want to be Moroccan were forced to flee.

They were given land near Tindouf in Algeria for four temporary refugee camps...

which is where they still are over a quarter of a century later.

Their military and political organisation is called the Polisario Front.

Their job is to keep the flag flying, make sure the world doesn't forget their plight,

and ensure that nearly 200,000 people are fed and watered

in one of the most inhospitable corners of the Sahara.

The nearest water supply is 16 miles away from the camp.

Over the centuries, this water has filtered down from the Atlas Mountains

to fill huge underground reservoirs.

Because the water is impure, bleach has to be added.

My host Bachir has been a refugee for half his life.

Well-educated and travelled, he lived for a while in Leeds.

That water is for everything? For cooking, for washing, for bathing?

For everything except for tea.

Yeah. Because this is a little salty, relatively salty,

so it's good for cooking and everything, but not for tea.

Tea needs a very...good water. And it needs unsalty water. Unsalty water.

Where does the tea water come from? From another well, very far from here and you can't see it. How far?

It's about...something like...

50 miles. 50 miles? Yeah. For a cup of tea?

The tankers shuttle back and forth across the desert,

day in and day out.

Without them, Smara Camp would die of thirst.

How many people are there in Smara, in this camp?

This camp is the second-largest camp of refugees.

We have here something like 40,000 people. 40,000?

Do people have to pay for their houses? No, absolutely nothing.

Education is free? Education is free, health is free...

Water? Water...

Each house has a tent. Yeah.

It's a...

It's as...we...

The fact that we keep the tents here, it's very symbolic.

Yeah. It shows that we always have the desire to go back to our country,

that this is not our homeland or something like that.

Despite Bachir's unquenchable optimism,

there are more and more of his people each year for whom the time to return home has already run out.

It's sad - a lot of people here, I don't know how many are in this area -

but they're all people who died outside their own country, exiles? Yeah.

They have fled from their own country

and they have came to live here in these very hard conditions,

while they were waiting to go back. But, unfortunately, they died here.

So this is the main market of Smara Camp.

This is where the main shops are?

The main shops - they are very recent.

All these things

since '94 or '95. What did you have before that?

A shopping mall, however basic, would have been unthinkable in Smara Camp ten years ago.

Recently, the Spanish Government agreed to pay pensions to those who'd once served in its army.

This has given some of the refugees enough money to start businesses.

I need two bottles of water and some dates... HE TRANSLATES

Which kind of dates do you like? Have you got any British dates?

No, no...

The best. I'll take his recommendation.

Sheffield dates! Sheffield dates!

You know about those, having been to Leeds!

The only meat I've eaten for the last three days is camel.

I suppose this is where it comes from.

How much is a camel, its head?

HE TRANSLATES

400 Algerian dinars. 400 Algerian dinars. How much is that in sort of...? In pounds.

£4. £4? That's not bad.

Do you boil it? Yeah, we boil it, but it takes a lot of time.

Three hours to four hours to cook it,

because it's not the best part of the camel.

Before my next camel dinner, I retire to the bathroom for a shower,

whilst Bachir's wife Krikiba conjures up another meal for us all.

Sadly, the hot water isn't working.

Ooh!

We're moving on tomorrow... Yeah. On around the Sahara.

One thing I'll remember about Smara here,

apart from the way you've looked after us which was magnificent... Thank you.

..is it's a very well-organised town, and I keep forgetting it's a camp, it's a refugee camp.

To all intents and purposes, you are refugees. Your children haven't seen the country you were born in.

I wonder what the future is. How do you see the future developing?

For us, the future is very clear. We will continue this fight until the end.

WHISTLING

At a school in the desert, these children rehearse for a parade for the anniversary

of the founding of Polisario. With the help of Spanish and Cuban teachers,

these are among the best-educated children in Africa, but where they go from here is by no means certain.

For us, it's time to hit the road... or rather the sand,

as Bachir and his men escort us through the flat treeless wastes

along the borders of Western Sahara.

And when at last they do find a tree, they chop it down.

Well, not all of it - just enough to get a fire going.

While the stew is cooking,

I test one of the unexpected advantages of flat treeless wastes - terrific telephone reception!

Hello?

Hello! Hello, love! You'll never guess where I am.

Oh, you did! The Sahara, yes, but what bit?

We're just into Western Sahara at the moment, came in from Algeria.

The desert is fantastic. It changes all the while.

We're just having lunch. They've chopped down some wood.

They're making a fire. Probably camel again. Yes, camel.

Over the last few days, a lot of camel.

Most of the bits of the camel.

Anyway, we're here, I'm well... Any messages? What?

I've won the Lottery, yes...

Oh, Pat's in to paint the sitting room! Fantastic!

No, tell him I don't want that...

Not that buttermilk we had before.

Can we have it lilac with a purple stripe and the dado in brown?

Yeah... No, it's much better.

No, it's better.

We all get athlete's foot at some time. I am putting the ointment on.

Bye, love. Bye...from the Sahara.

100 miles further south,

I'm with an armed guard, climbing a ridge rich in fossils,

a reminder that the Sahara was once under the ocean.

It looks out over a valley

where a wall and a minefield mark one of the least-known armed confrontations in the world.

Yeah...

I'm a bit jumpy here, because only a mile away

is a wall built by the Moroccans to keep the Polisario out of their homeland.

The wall runs for 1,600 miles and there's 160,000 Moroccan troops patrolling it,

some of them probably looking at us.

It's more tense since the Polisario,

who weren't asked if the Paris-Dakar Rally could go through their land, abandoned the ceasefire.

I think I'll stick to fossils!

The Polisario may have abandoned their ten-year ceasefire with the Moroccans,

but the army detachment I met near the wall looks ill-equipped to back up any sabre-rattling.

..Against tanks. Tanks, yes...

They have very basic equipment, a few anti-aircraft guns on trucks

and Russian tanks, third-hand from the Algerians.

There's no doubting their courage,

but it seems pretty clear that if these defiant exiles are to win their land back,

it'll have to be with the ballot box, not the gun.

We spent last night at an old Spanish fort.

This morning there's a sandstorm brewing as a convoy arrives to take us across the border to Mauritania,

a country which I confess I've barely heard of before,

but that's what travel's all about - learning something new, and, of course, constantly saying goodbye.

Bye, guys. Bye, Michael. Thank you.

Good! Thank you! Thank you.

We never got to play our game together!

Bye-bye. Thank you.

Thank you. Thanks very much.

Hey! My driver! My man!

Best driver in town! Thank you.

Thank you!

The chef man!

'I'm very sad to leave Bachir who gives away his British connections by apologising for the weather.'

Sometimes we don't have storms. You gave us a little of everything.

You're going to disappear into a cloud of dust! Hope you find your way back. We will find it!

Left at Coventry and just take the spur road up the M6.

You find your way through fog, we find our way through the sandstorm!

I hope to see you all again.

Bon voyage! Merci!

Good luck!

Off you go! One, two, three, go!

TOOTING Thank you!

As the conditions worsen,

I fear we might miss the Mauritanian border altogether,

but, suddenly, we're upon it, bouncing out of the sands on to...

luxury! A tarmacked road, the first we've seen in over a week. Oh, bliss!

Even in a sandstorm, the usual formalities have to be observed...

or, in this case, unusual formalities.

THEY SPEAK FRENCH

THEY SPEAK FRENCH

WIND RATTLES AGAINST WALLS

HE SPEAKS FRENCH

'What a noise! Things like that can spark a conversation...sometimes!'

C'est fini?

Merci bien.

Au revoir.

The hotel may not be four-star, but it does have lots of things I haven't seen for a while.

Hot water, a flushing lavatory and, unfortunately, a mirror.

Oh, my God!

Ah!

Thank you. Merci.

Dear Delia, can't get sheep's head for love or money. Shall I do with warthog soup?

Outside, the weather is getting worse.

A ferocious wind is whipping in the sand, stinging and blinding.

The locals know just how to deal with this sort of thing.

The first time I've worn the howli, as they call it in Arabic, turban as we know it.

This is not cosmetic... It's essential.

If you've ever had to tie someone else's tie, you'll understand why most of Mauritania came to help me.

And I can't, as yet, tie it myself.

There we go.

The howli as it's called in Arabic.

A turban as we know it. Thank you.

I see 6.1, 5.1, 7.3.

A good score.

Zouerat is a company town.

Rich iron-ore deposits have turned this corner of the Sahara into a multimillion-dollar asset.

Iron ore makes up almost half of Mauritania's foreign earnings,

and production goes on round the clock to fill the huge trains that carry it away.

Despite the mine, Zouerat has pockets of great poverty.

Here everything is recycled.

An oil drum becomes not only the side of a house, but the roof and the doors and the garden wall.

Five years ago, this family were farmers -

till drought forced them into town.

The outer wall of their tent is made from material once used to wrap mining explosive.

I wanted to know how they stayed so happy.

HE SPEAKS FRENCH

What makes you so happy?

SHE REPLIES IN ARABIC

The country...

Bel maison... The country, the calm, the beautiful house.

Yes, very good!

My beautiful house.

TRAIN HOOTS

Every day, seven days a week, iron-ore trains, more than 2km long, leave Zouerat.

And, unlikely as it may seem, some carry passengers.

After a week in backbreaking vehicles, the chance to cross the desert by rail cannot be ignored.

I've got a ticket, but I'm not quite sure what for.

SHOUTING

The railway officials aren't overhelpful.

Their primary role seems to be to stop anyone getting on.

Not very keen to let us on.

Thank goodness I got a reservation!

Going in there now. Shall we try it?

Come on. Let's go.

BABY CRIES

There's one last hope -

the recycling bin at the back of the train.

C'est la premiere?

Huh? C'est la premiere classe ici, cette voiture?

I'm confused, but I'm told this is first class.

Though you might be forgiven for thinking it was rubbish class.

Well...

OK...

BELL RINGS

SHOUTING

The iron-ore express may take a while to get going,

but then it is the longest train in the world...

probably.

It may look like a bottle bank from the outside,

but it is premiere classe on the iron-ore train in Mauritania,

and it settles down and people get on to their bunks and talk.

The unlucky ones, who travel for nothing, scramble on the wagons with the iron-ore and the rubble.

They can sit there for nothing.

We get this train south.

This goes to Nouadhibou, takes all the iron ore to the coast.

We'll get off before that, but...

Cor! Well...after that, I'm prepared for rush hour anywhere!

We've got six hours to settle down, read a paper,

join the frequent travellers' club...whatever!

Cette pain, tres interessant.

TRAIN HORN

MUSIC: Mon Legionnaire by Edith Piaf

The iron ore goes on its way to the coast -

we turn inland to a classic Saharan town and an even more classic relic of French colonial days -

Fort - now Hotel - Saganne.

This place, Fort Saganne,

seems to represent something quintessential about the French in Africa - the French Foreign Legion,

the glory of France, but largely German.

This place was used by Gerard Depardieu recently in a film called Fort Saganne.

The view is amazing. On one side, Chinguetti, seventh holiest city of Islam,

and, on the other side, the sort of dunes you only see on date packets!

This is my first sight of a sand sea, a landscape as beautiful as any on Earth,

created only by sand and the wind.

So intense is the midday heat -

well over 40 degrees - that Chinguetti only comes to life in the hours before darkness.

Then the streets become meeting places, playgrounds and sports pitches.

A great desert sport is dhaemon, a game like draughts.

All you need to play it are some sticks and a lot of camel droppings.

This is the local grandmaster and, before I know it, I'm given some jobbies to take him on.

Merci.

HE CHUCKLES

Merci pour votre assistance.

Boom!

THEY SPEAK FRENCH

He said, "Let him do it for himself!" Doucement...

Carefully. Carefully... My whole reputation...

on the board...

Yeah... Nodding...

Then he comes in and grabs that...

OK...

With luck, and help from just about every able-bodied man in Chinguetti, I get him into a bit of a corner.

THEY SPEAK ARABIC

Next thing I know, I'm the champion!

Thank you!

Beginner's luck! Beginner's luck...

A natural-born player!

THEY SPEAK ARABIC

They're working out the strategy.

Merci. Thank you, Grandmaster.

He's not taking it very well. He doesn't look me in the eye.

Early next morning, I walk out across the sand sea before the heat becomes intolerable.

The desert looks wonderful, but it doesn't sound right.

ENGINES IN DISTANCE

If that's a mirage, it's moving awfully quickly!

ROAR OF ENGINE

Oh, my God!

MUSIC: Meet Me At The Love Parade by Da Hool

No, it's not a dream.

It's the 24th Paris-Dakar Rally.

320 vehicles, attempting to be the fastest to drive from France to Senegal.

And this is just the press corps!

For one day, the local airport becomes a media city, as live coverage is beamed across the world.

No-one complains, because without TV rights, these competitors would never get the chance

to do something as pointless as racing across the Sahara.

At the furthest, least comfortable end of the airport,

is the only British team left in the race.

Dave Hammond the motorcyclist,

sponsored not by Mitsubishi or Mercedes, but by Webb's Garages of Cirencester.

Dave's technical team is Martin.

52 bikes have crashed out and this David is in with a chance against the Goliaths,

but what does he think of the Sahara?

Do you get any feeling of the country you go through, any sense of being in Mauritania? No...

Not at all, I'm afraid. I know we're going south cos it's getting hotter.

What are conditions like on the road? It's spartan, tent on the rubble here...

What's it like? Have you got showers and rest facilities?

Very little, really. Sleeping bags and roll mats,

showers hanging off the back of the van...

It is sparse, there's no doubt about it, but it's all part of being on the Dakar Rally.

I've scribbled a good luck message on the front of Dave's bike.

As he lines up next morning,

he's lying 21st out of the 166 bikes that started.

There are only six stages left,

but with loops and time trials, that's still 2,000 more miles to go before the finishing line.

This is Atar Airport the morning after the rally,

and the circus is packing up and heading remorselessly for Dakar,

which is where I have to go as well.