January 5. Somewhere in southern Mauritania. Michelle, mon petit baguette, I write this by the guttering light of a burning Mitsubishi. The driver will soon be extinguished and so I must be brief.
The weeping has become incessant. At first it was just the Italian bikers, sobbing into their malfunctioning carburettors (I had not the courage to tell them that mucus and sand form a cement-like compound — the dawn will bring fresh heartbreak). But now the night rings with the wailing of Swedes and Australians alike, people unaccustomed to sustained tearfulness and thus horribly gauche in their efforts. We French cry beautifully, as you know, with a delicate flaring of the nostril and a fetching crumpling of the chin: so must Jean d’Arc and Robespierre have wept as they faced their doom. But this is getting quite out of hand. If I see one more lachrymal racer I will slap him with my buckskin motoring gloves.
January 6. Am beginning to doubt the wisdom of embarking on this rally in a Smart Car. It is tres tres chic, undoubtedly, but this afternoon, while rolling end-over-end down a shallow incline, it occurred to me that I might have to reassess my target of finishing in the top three. Later drove at speed into a camel dropping and had to be towed out by a passing trucker.
January 8. Do not be alarmed, mon petit aubergine, but disaster has overtaken me. Somewhere along the road today, while doing a routine roll, my last carton of Gauloise was flung out into the Sahara. When I regained consciousness I retraced my tracks, following the trail of engine parts I have been shedding all week, but of my cigarettes there was no sign. I could not go far into the desert: there have been rumours of roving bands of Tuareg nomads, armed and irritable and dying for a fag. Apparently local warlords have signed a treaty limiting their cadres to three nicotine patches a day, but no man can live like this. Pray for me.
January 9. Bon chance! Formidable! Found an American driver, won his trust with stirring anecdotes about the United States War of Independence and the historical bond between our two proud nations. Told him I had seen a Pizza Hut behind the dunes to our west. He instantly became distastefully homesick and stumbled away into the night, leaving his three cartons of Camels unguarded. Yankee fool! Hid in a small cave until he had gone, then ate 12 of the cigarettes. Will smoke the rest at my leisure.
January 10. Two hundred kilometers east of Wadi Al Qaq I came across a South African family in a combi. Mr Wessels said they were trying to get home to Cape Town after a quick holiday, but they’d got lost. Diagnosed his problem at once: he had bought the Paris-Dakar map, rather than the Parys-De Aar version. Later, while sharing the last of my sun-dried gecko with them, I cornered Mrs Wessels and offered her sex for cigarettes. She seemed interested until I clarified that I was the one after cigarettes. Mon petit escargot, do not be angry. I know you would have done the same. C’est la vie.
January 13. late. Still no Gauloise. Beginning to see mirages: cigarette vending machines laughing at me from the shade of date palms. Will conserve strength, travel by night and smoke only six Camel Lights in the late afternoon.
January 16. Forgive messy handwriting, mon petit cul-de-sac, am writing with sparkplug dipped in engine grease. Am terribly cold. Drank last of antifreeze last night. Have had to smoke my gloves and socks. Not bad taste, good draw. My love, remember the good times …
January 19. Bastille Noir, in bed. Mon petit coup d’etat, salvation! This morning all seemed lost, with terrible hallucinations: Sophie Marceau and Juliette Binoche were in front of me, naked, with a wheelbarrow full of Lucky Strikes. Yes, my love, in my delirium I would have considered lighting up one of those infernal tubes of filth. But then the gentle strains of an accordion were heard, and the aroma of garlic singed my nostrils: a patrol of the French Foreign Legion! I have been smoking almost incessantly since this morning. My throat is gloriously raw, my eyes are a lovely shade of red, the corners of my mouth are reassuringly sticky and yellowish, and I have no appetite whatsoever. I have never felt better. Vive le France! Vive le Paris-Dakar! ÂÂ