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Tozeur was hot but we found a shower and all was well. De-sanded (as best we could) and a little cooler, we hunted for supper, slept and then back up for another day’s travel. Having given up on Libyan visas we were heading for Tunis and a ferry back to Italy, but on stopping for lunch we discovered a text with visa reference numbers from our contact. Route change, we sped to Sfax in order to visit the Libyan Consulate there. Big palaver and several unhelpful doormen later and we were back on the road to Tunis by midday the following day. It seemed visas were “work for the Tunis people”. Invading our kind host Sylvia again, we were too late to visit the embassy by the time we arrived. A pleasure to save for the next morning…

We were almost the first at the embassy the following morning, and duly shown the waiting room. Clearly this was going to try our fast disappearing patience. Every obstacle was put in our way, and despite speaking to a couple of people who clearly held a little sway, we told the reference numbers we had would not be recognised, and we would have to reapply – another ten day process. It seems if you stand up to the bullshit proffered, and raise you voice a little they tend to react. We got further than we expected, being invited into the office of a couple of apparatchiks, but despite all our efforts they were not going to roll over and the thought of another ten days of maybe maybe were too much. We mooched back to Sylvia’s sanctuary, packed our freshly washed cloths, and headed to La Goulette and the ferry terminal.

Bad tempered and feeling hardcore we decided not to leave anything to chance and, after buying a couple of boiled eggs from a street seller for our picnic, we pitched camp outside the closed ticket office. Two and a half hours and numb bottom cheeks later we were glad of our prime position. Around 40 fearsome men had also gathered outside the ticket office, pressing closer and closer until some were almost lying prostate over my lap. Clearly last minute tickets were somewhat sought after. I waved my helmet wildly around to fight off the braying (and increasingly rowdy) crowd while Matt stood tall in his padded bike kit. We weren’t letting anyone past. The ticket man arrived, a punch up commenced but we stood firm and managed to procure two foot passenger tickets sans cabin, and a bike pass. The road to Sicily and the Balkans was set.