10th Feb 2005. Kiffa.

There's exactly 1 pothole in the 145 miles of tarmac between Magta and Kiffa, but it's a big one. I'd still be planted face down in it now if a gust of wind hadn't blown me into the middle of the road, as I was gazing at some camels as I passed it.

I'm rushing this bit of the trip (as far as my coccyx will allow) because I want to get to Ghana ASAP. I've heard various reports about when the rains start. Also Doug is in Bamako and he's found a cheap bar (this is booze-free day number 5).

Now onto the topic that's on everyones lips - my bowels.* Here at the "Phare du Desert" auberge, they have hole-in-the-floor crappers with, unusually it seems, a flushing mechanism.
I managed to hold out yesterday (at one point I found myself addressing my complaining intestines with the phrase "sorry lads - nothing doing") but today their arguments seem to have gathered weight.
"What's the worst that could happen?" I ask myself, immediately picturing several horrific scenarios involving inaccuracy and slippage.
Of course it all turns out to be fine, and the most natural thing in the world and so on. To the uninitiated I would suggest waiting until you find one with a shower no more than two feet away.
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I reckon I can get from here to Bamako in four days. But then I thought I was only going to spend two days in Mauritania.