Day 51 – Aswan

Egypt

18.02.2012

Jules writes:

It seems that we will definitely be spending quite a bit of time here. We still have heard no word from either Mazar or Kamal about when the ferry will leave or arrive, and so we are going to have to stretch out our sightseeing here so that we are not left with nothing to do but kill time while we wait for the bikes.

After breakfast at the hotel, we once again split up, John and Dad going to explore the town and museum, and the three of us went down to the river to get a ferry across to Elephantine Island. Ten pounds and five minutes later, we were on the other side and started walking through. The Nubian people inhabit Northern Sudan and Southern Egypt, and are renowned for their friendliness and hospitality. As we walked around, we received several offers of tea, which we politely declined. The village was neat, with some beautifully decorated houses. Sheep, goats and children roamed through the streets in bands, the latter stopping to chat to us, and one group even started singing to us. Apparently they know songs in several languages, and upon discovering the nationality of a visitor, will start singing, although Hayato confessed that he had never heard the song that they started singing to him when they found out he was Japanese. We eventually made it to the southern end of the island and soon were walking through ancient ruins, some of which had been partially rebuilt using some of the original stones, complete with hieroglyphics and frescos. It must be akin to building the worlds largest puzzle. Except there is no picture on the box, most of the pieces are missing and everything is made out of 50 kg stone blocks. While we were admiring one temple, a man came and asked for our tickets. When we explained that we had just wandered onto the site, he shrugged and politely escorted us off the site. Considering that the tickets are normally 30 pounds each, we got a pretty sweet look around. As we were leaving, we were invited by an elderly man to have some tea. We accepted the offer and were soon being shown small crocodiles in glass tanks from the rooftop terrace of his house. It was a lovely place, but the trays of curios for sale implied that maybe some of the decorations and artworks were more for the sake of the tourists. When we declined the offer of cigarettes, he conspiratorially whispered to Shan that he also had marijuana, which he confessed to smoking quite liberally when his wife was alive, although since she passed away, he’s been cutting back. Once we were finished, we caught the local ferry back to the mainland for a mere 1 pound each. On the way, the toothless ferryman tried to tell us some story, in Arabic, involving swimming. Confronted with our blank stares, he explained again more enthusiastically, even lying down on the bottom of the ship miming a swim, exclaiming “hup, hup, hup, hup” with each stroke. Although highly entertaining, we had got the point that somebody swam on the first go, and were not able to extract  any further information from his frenzied efforts.

For lunch, we found a restaurant that actually served real beer (Egyptian beer as sold in the markets, is proudly non-alcoholic). We even tried Baba Ganough, which turned out to be some kind of aubergine paste. We then took a felucca across to the West bank of the Nile to see another, much larger village. Our captain, Hamada, gave us a turn steering, although almost from the moment we stepped onto the vessel he began trying to convince us to come to his house for a traditional meal, and no amount of polite declining or Inshallah’s (“If God wills it") would deter him.

Once on the other side, we strolled between the beautiful houses, chatted to some local children who showed us their crocodile and got a feel for village life. As we were walking along, a small girl started walking next to us, calling “hello” in the most gloomy of voices that I have ever heard. She clearly wanted money, but any response to her was met with another mournful “hello”. After walking with us for a few minutes, she stopped, although doleful “hello”s continued to follow us down the street until we eventually turned a corner.

As we passed a particularly beautiful house, the owner, talking to a friend outside, invited us to come in. As it is always nice to be able to chat with someone who understands some English, we accepted, and soon met the whole extended family including wife, cousins, aunts, nieces and nephews, and spent a wonderful hour sharing dates and hibiscus tea while talking about life in the village and the state of Egyptian politics. At about 4:30, we realised that we had to make a move, as Hayato’s train was due to leave at 6:00, and we still had to cross the river and return to the hotel. We strolled back along the road, greeting people that we passed, until upon saying hello to one small girl, she turned reproachful eyes at us and we realised that we had found our morose former companion, the “hello” girl, who picked up right where she had left off.

We got back to our boat at around 5:00, but soon after we pushed off from the shore, we realised that our sail had tangled, and so we had to spend about fifteen minutes trying to get the rigging in order, leaving us very tight for time. While we were struggling, Dad and John sped past us in their own felucca, out enjoying the late afternoon on the river. We made it back to our side of the bank, with the irrepressible Hamada continuing to extend his offer of a meal at his house on the Island. We dashed back to the hotel, and then said our farewells to Hayato.

We discovered to our joy that the internet had finally started working, and so the rest of the evening was spent with various electronic devices, trying to catch up on news, check messages from home, post blogs and generally get some contact with the outside world, although only having one laptop meant that it was in high demand. Eventually, we had done what we could and headed for bed.

Day 50 – Aswan

Egypt

17.02.2012

Jules writes:

After a night on the ferry, we could not help but sleep well, and so after a shower (bathroom: flushing toilet – check, toilet paper – check, shower – check, shower curtain – check, shower curtain that works – no check) and breakfast at the hotel, John and Dad went off to explore Elephantine Island, a large island in the middle of the river containing two Nubian villages and some ancient ruins. Shan, Hayato and I took a walk down along the Nile to see the new Coptic cathedral, essentially a mega-church, complete with TV screens throughout the central church hall, a large sanctuary upstairs with it’s own gallery and massive domed roof, even its own gift shop downstairs. We continued on to the Nubian Museum, easily one of the best Museum displays I have seen, with exhibitions on the building of the Aswan Dam, and the subsequent flooding of the Nile Valley, resulting in the submersion of countless ancient temples and tombs, including the iconic Abu Simbal temple, which was relocated in its entirety further inland, an incredible feat of engineering.

After we had seen all we could, we went back down to the Nile, passing the numerous offers of “You want felucca”, a type of local sailboat that seemed to cover the water, making the whole town seem like a larny local yacht club. Some of the captains are quite persistent, but we managed to escape into an interesting looking restaurant, where we had some really interesting juice made from various fruit that I have never heard of. For lunch, I had the whimsically named “Ladies fingers”, which turned out to be a stew made with okra (although later, walking through town, I was waved at by a man so digitally deficient as to make one suspect that there may be another restaurant somewhere serving “gentlemans fingers”).

After lunch, we wandered back into town to see the cemetery, which contained some graves dating back to the 9th century. The air of solemnity and melacholy was somewhat shattered by several groups of kids playing amongst the tombstones, while the local caretaker gave us a guided tour of the place, muttering a bit at the end when we gave him a mere 10 pounds. But I suppose that in a culture of baksheesh, it is almost impossible to please everybody.

As the afternoon started to cool, we walked up to the big mosque in the city centre, and were allowed to walk around inside, admiring the the ornate architecture and delicate, detailed artwork that covered the walls. While wandering through the grounds afterwards, Shan had her bum grabbed by an overambitious vendor, earning him a scathing earful from me as her enraged husband. With the sun starting to set, we meandered back through to market to our hotel, where we rested for an hour or two before heading out again for supper in the souq.

Either Aswan is a serious tourist trap, or the local people have an inexplicable taste for tacky curios. Everywhere along the streets, vendors are flogging miniature pyramids, necklaces, scarves and the like, nestled in amongst spice shops with baskets of cumin and hibiscus jostling with cellphone outlets, shisha bars, and roadside shawrma stands. I absolutely loved it. Although Egypt is not technically a “dry” country (alcohol-wise), we had been struggling to find any local beer. We eventually found a place that served Egyptian Beer, but this turned out to just be a glamorous way of saying non-alcoholic beer. We settled for some local fare, tea and a shisha pipe, which it seems is smoked by every second person in the street.

Back at the hotel, we saw Dad and John, who had had a fantastic day exploring the Nile and islands. Upon arrival on Elephantine Island, they had met a young guy called Allah (no relation), who had given them a tour of the villages on the island, then invited them back for a traditional Nubian meal. They had then gone on to Kitchener Island next door, which is given over entirely to a magnificent botanical garden, before heading back to the mainland for supper.

Day 49 – Aswan

Egypt

16.02.2012

Jules writes:

I awoke at around 1 AM with the wind gusting around us. And it was COLD. It seemed that maybe getting the upper deck to sleep on may have been a mixed blessing. The stars were out in full force, and this far from home, already starting to look unfamiliar. Motionless dark shapes around the deck seemed to indicate that everyone was asleep still, and so for the rest of the night, I drifted in and out of sleep, waiting for the dawn to bring some much appreciated warmth with it. As the sun started to warm the sky, people slowly unfolded themselves from their blankets and began to move around the deck. We all slowly emerged from our sleeping bags and began to pack up our bags, hoping that we would be arriving soon. We realised that we must have crossed the Tropic of Cancer at around 8 AM, and by 9:00, the small port town started to crowd the banks of the Nile.

Once we had docked, we still had to wait on the ferry as documents were processed, although Shan and I managed to find a shortcut that got us right to the front of the queue. Then, that finished, people began to disembark, and we were met by Mr Kamal, the fixer on the Egyptian side. We moved, pushing and shoving through the throng towards the customs officials, passing through several security checkpoints. Soldiers were everywhere, trying to keep everything together. At one small door, an official was struggling to keep a man from pushing through, until a soldier marched up to the man to shout right at his face. I watched in in fascination as he breathed in through his nose so hard, it seemed as though he was preparing to spit in the mans face with everything his oesophagus could muster. Just as he was about to let loose, the door opened and the crowd surged through, leaving the soldier with a foul taste in his mouth, in every sense. In the musty customs hall, it seemed that everywhere there were people getting really really angry, with shouting matches flaring up, only to die away just as quickly. As a spectator, it was wonderful to see, something out of a story book.

Once all of our luggage had been cleared, we began to load up Mr Kamal’s car. I now have a good idea of how those clown cars are pre-packed for the circus, as somehow we managed to put eight peoples bags into the boot and balanced precariously on the roof, and then stuff nine of us (the four South Africans, three frenchmen, Hayato and Mr Kamal) into various yoga positions in order to get the doors to close. After a kilometre or two, it seems that even Mr Kamal was a bit worried about losing something (in fact, I think the weight itself may have caused the engine to simply lose all power), and so we offloaded into another car. As we rode towards Aswan, Shan and I launched into that most entertaining of travelling activities: trying to get some local information from someone who has a fairly tenuous grasp of English and shares a mutual struggle top understand each others accents.

Shan: Is there any food that we must try in Egypt?

Kamal: Is good food.

Shan: But is there any food in particular?

Kamal: Orange

Jules: And cooked food?

Kamal: Orange and manga.

Shan: Are the mangoes nice?

Kamal: No, no manga

Jules: Is there any Egyptian food that is very good, like Shawrma?

Kamal: Orange is good.

Jules: Ok, great. Thanks.

As a general rule of thumb, if you can’t find out what you are looking for after three attempts, it is probably best to give a polite “thank you” and try again with someone else. While we were driving, he casually mentioned “Barge will arrive Tuesday, maybe Wednesday” This was a bit of a bombshell, as everything that we had heard indicated to us that the barge (on which our bikes will be coming) leaves on Thursday and usually arrives on the Saturday. This would essentially delay us for an extra three or four days, particularly problematic as my Mom was flying in to Cairo to see us, arriving on Monday morning.

We arrived at the Hathor hotel, beguiled by the Siren-song of Wifi. John and Dad took a double room, and Shan, Hayato and I shared a triple room. Hayato was going to be in Aswan for a couple of days, and so we decided that it would be great if he joined us for his time here, as we would be wanting to see similar sights, and it saved on accommodation costs.

Once ensconced in our rooms, we unpacked, showered (something that we haven’t been able to do for at least the last week) and took some time to collect ourselves. It turns out that our hotel has a great location, directly opposite the Nile, and right by one of the entrances to the local Souq. Shan, Hayato and I took a quick walk through the narrow street, followed by impassioned pleas of local merchants wanting us to come and buy some spices/scarves/fruit/food/curios/hairbands(?) and the like. We settled for some dates and some koshery, a local dish made from pasta, rice and lentils, fairly plain, but tasty all the same. Back at the hotel, we ate our food on the roof, with a magnificent view of the Nile, the Islands just across from us, the desert on the opposite side littered with monasteries, tombs and small villages.

That evening, I took a walk around the souq by myself, and tried my hand at bargaining. One merchant decided that my life would simply not be worth living if I did not immediately purchase from him a woollen scarf. Although I made it clear that I had no money with me, he insisted that I name a price. He started at 250 pounds, I responded how preposterous that was, that I was a humble traveller, and so the back-and-forth proceeded, until we eventually arrived at a figure of 100 pounds. As I had no money on me, the point was moot, but he seemed satisfied that if I returned, he would have a guaranteed sale on his hands, and so I continued on my way. From 250 to 100 is not bad going, methinks. This sort of thing continued as I walked down the street, until eventually I had had my fill of haggling, and wandered back to the hotel. John and Dad had also had a nice evening out investigating the local market and retired to their room. Frustratingly, but perhaps not unsurprisingly, the internet wasn’t working, and so I headed for out with Shan and Hayato to explore a bit further along the main road, eventually settling into a large coffee shop and ordered a round of Turkish coffee so thick that the sugar bounced off the surface as you poured it. We swapped stories about life in South Africa and Japan, and our travels. Finally, close to midnight, we made our way back to the hotel, passing groups of children still playing in the streets.

Day 48 – Wadi Halfa to Aswan (via ferry)

Sudan to Egypt

15.02.2012

Jules writes:

After another surprisingly comfortable sleep, disturbed only by the occasional feline brawl on the roof above us that would periodically drop dust and plaster from the roof above, we got up and started packing the bikes, determined to be early for the ferry. Amazingly, we managed to get everything packed and ready by around 09:30, and by 10:00 we were down by the ferry wharf. Now, the ferry was due to leave at 2:00, but inevitably that deadline was extended. And extended. And extended. Eventually, after waiting around the ticket booth for about 4 hours, Mr Mazar, our fixer, called us to bring our bikes around for the customs official, who duly inspected them and pronounced them cleared. We drove the bikes down to the ferry, and unpacked them, racing to find the coveted spot underneath the lifeboat. Our spot secured, we could then relax, and spent the next few hours chatting with the other passengers. Finally, at around 5:00, the ferry’s engines cranked up a notch, and we started to pull away down the river. The ferry ride itself promised to be around seventeen hours, so we settled in for the long haul, laying out our sleeping mats, and continuing to hear about the adventures of different groups of travellers. As the sun started to set, most of the men on the boat gathered in a section of open deck and began the communal prayer. At around 9:00, we passed Abu SImbal, a collection of gigantic statues that had been moved when their original location had been flooded with the construction of the Aswan dam. They were all quite beautifully lit, and although they were a good 500 m away from us across the Nile, it was still a majestic sight.

Slowly, we began settling down for the night, and by around 11 o’ clock, the quiet was only disturbed by the lapping of the water against the boat, and the muted rumble of the engines below us.

Day 47 – Wadi Halfa

Sudan

14.02.2012

Jules writes:

We awoke the next morning having slept surprisingly well, and, considering that we had nothing of any real significance to accomplish, had a bit of a lie-in. At around 9:00 we emerged and began tinkering with the bikes, trying to sort out the issues with the reserve tanks on Dad and my bikes, and adjusting Shan’s throttle, which had been sticking (that is, the throttle on Shan’s bike). It appears that everything is now working fine, although I have no doubt that the bikes will choose some inopportune time, like driving across some desert to assure us that the reserve tap is by no means fixed. That done, there was not much to do, but wander through the town.

It appears that our prudence in arriving two days early was well founded, as group after group arrived at the hotel, only to find that most of the places in town were now full. By lunchtime we had met a pair of Americans biking down to Cape Town, a German couple on their way home after travelling down to Ethiopia over the course of eighteen months, a Japanese photographer doing a world circuit, a group of three Frenchmen who had travelled on old Russian bikes with sidecars all the way from Uganda, an Irish guy and an Australian back-packing down from Jordan to Cape Town and Seid from Yemen who was travelling with the French group. All-in-all, quite an eclectic mix, everyone on their own adventure, yet there was a definite bond shared by all these people who had left their own countries to explore the unknown and see something new. Most of the afternoon was in fact passed swapping stories, making plans to meet up in other countries. We have now extended invitations to so many people that, if they all were to arrive at once, we would have to hire out a small hall just to sleep everyone.

Shan and I spent some time walking around the town chatting with Seid, who was full of interesting stories, from how to cure snake bites, to Arabian horse-riding, to oil drilling in Saudi, the list goes on.

As the shadows lengthened, Shan and I climbed up one of the small hills near the town, where we found Hayato, the photographer, and we watched the sun take its nightly plunge into the depths of the Nile. Down in the town, the minarets began calling the faithful, and next to one of the restaurants, a number of large carpets were placed together and we watched as about fifty men performed their evening prayers together.

We climbed down from the mountain and made our way to one of the restaurants. As we made our way there we noticed that most places had a TV set up facing the streets, with significant crowds on seats watching something. It turned out to be a documentary on John Cena, a WWF champ, and every place was screening the same show.

Supper was was the usual fare (time for some new food, methinks), but as always, the company was great. That evening, Mazar came round to give us back our passports, and final instructions for tomorrows ferry ride. Looks like we’re all set for Egypt, country number nine, and the last African country on our journey…

Day 46 – Dongola to Wadi Halfa (410 km)

Sudan

13.02.2012

Jules writes:

With a modest distance of 400 km to cover along new tarred roads, we allowed ourselves the luxury of a sleep-in and breakfast with the family, then hit the road at about 9:00. The road would take us North along the Nile, tantalizingly close to a number of ancient temples that sat several kilometres on the other side of the Nile, essentially inaccessible to us due to our limited time. At Wadi Halfa, all fuel has to be drained out of the bikes prior to being boarding on the ferry, and so our goal was to try and arrive there with a close to empty tanks as possible. We filled up for the last time in Sudan and went on our way. We happened to have arrived in Sudan right in the middle of a massive swarm of tiny biting insects, whose main function is to pollinate all of the date palms along the banks. That, and attempt to crawl into every facial orifice that they could find. And they were unrelenting. The only way to avoid their unwelcome advances was to either stay indoors, or to completely cover your face, with, say, a motorbike helmet, and even that wasn’t fool proof. My visor was soon splattered with constellations of hapless insects, and necessitated the occasional stop to dislodge a particularly enterprising invader from an ear canal.

We stopped for a quick detour to the Third Cataract of the Nile, and climbed a small hill that overlooked them, scrambling over the ruins of some old building. John speculated that it may have been a palace to house some Pharaoh who loved a good view. Actually, we found out later, it had been the site of an ancient prison, although it seems that the Pharaoh may have also had a room for himself built on the side, hardly conducive for a peaceful nights sleep, at least for the Pharaoh.

We stopped for a midday break at a large tent on the side of the road, which served as a kind of halfway house, with one corner containing a group of men praying, and a pair of mechanics fixing the rings of an engine on the other side. We bought a few cold drinks, and shared the friendly, but slightly embarrassed looks that one gives a stranger with whom you possess absolutely no means to communicate.

We drove on, passing into hill country, although still devoid of anything resembling life. Dad and my bikes had been having trouble with the reserve tanks, and although there was still fuel in the tanks, switching to reserve provided a mere 10 km or less, indicating that we were probably dealing with a blockage somewhere. About 80 km from Wadi Halfa, my bike sputtered and died, conveniently right by the vehicle of an Englishman who was in the area preparing to dig for some of the gold that had been rediscovered in the area. We had been carrying some extra fuel, and so we topped up our tanks, although he did offer to provide us with some additional fuel. It was going to be a bit of a race to see if we could all get to the town, as we weren’t sure if either of the other bikes were also having problems with the reserve.

We drove slowly, and although the other two did switch to reserve along the way, we managed to make it into town, where we searched for the Cleopatra hotel. We managed to find it, although it turned out to be the Kilopatra hotel (as in a thousand Patras). It was also fully booked, and so we eventually had to settle for the Defintood hotel, and perhaps no other place that we have stayed at thus far is more deserving of the term “Seedy Dive”. We will post photos to illustrate our point, but the rooms are Spartan to the point of making the gents from the movie “300” mutter amongst themselves that maybe they should find another spot. For the moth-eaten sheets and pillow covers, the colour “white” is a mere myth, any attempt to wash them in water would probably lead to their instantaneous disintegration, a la Wicked Witch of the West. A thorough investigation of the toilets would lead scientists the world over to marvel at the tenacity of life to exist at beyond the fringes of what was previously thought habitable.

Anxious not to spend a moment more in the hotel (lol, “hotel”) than was absolutely necessary, we wandered down to a local restaurant and enjoyed some more of the standard fuul, shwarmas and falafels, washed down with some fresh orange juice. We took a walk towards the Nile, but the sun set before we even got close, so after admiring the sunset, we turned back and tried to make the most of our beds, although both Shan and I were very careful to spread out our sleeping bags on top of the sheets, and used our own pillows. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed-bugs bite” took on a far more sinister tone…

Day 45 – Atbara to Dongola (544 km)

Sudan

12.02.2012

Jules writes:

Today we would be leaving the sanctuary of the Nile and heading across the desert to the town of Dongola. Not quite knowing what to expect, we once again left before the sun was up, and crossed the Nile into the unknown. Reports of the quality of the roads had differed wildly, but as we drove, we were very pleasantly surprised to find that the roads were all very good tar, no potholes at all. In the early dawn light, the desert seemed alive with possibilities. Half-hidden structures on the dusty horizon looked like ancient ruins that had been revealed by a night wind with an archaeological bent. Closer inspection revealed that it was just a factory, but during the whole drive, I was so very aware that underneath these shifting sands could be entire cities, forgotten and buried, waiting for the chance to reveal themselves to some lucky explorer. As the sun slowly climbed above the distant horizon, long shadows stretched away from us. The dunes seemed covered with tiny dark rocks, giving them the appearance of a five o’ clock shadow. We stopped for a break at a lone hill by the side of the road, and enjoyed a fantastic view of the surroundings, and took the opportunity of the long stretches of open road to play around with the bikes and cameras. The cooler weather that we had had for the previous few days continued to hold, and we had a really great ride across the desert, and around lunch time we reached Karima, a small town perched on the Nile.

We went into what turned out to be a restaurant and bakery, and tucked into a great lunch of fuul, a local bean stew, shwarmas and a type of local baklava, very sweet. When we went downstairs, John told us that we had been picked up by a local security official who had wanted to see his passport and then told him that we had to go to his office. However, he had then ridden off on his bike, so we took the opportunity to quickly gap it out of town, as we didn’t particularly feel like wasting any more time with Sudanese bureaucracy.

We soon joined the main road heading north, once again following the Nile. The Nile really is the life-blood of this country. The road that we were on runs parallel to the river a couple of kilometres away, and for the whole course of it, it is surrounded by thick date palms, and every now and then some enterprising farmer has rigged up an irrigation system and has crops growing. The opposite side of the rode, however, is always barren and apparently lifeless, with hills of scree, and not a single blade of grass growing on the slopes. Around mid-afternoon we arrived in Dongola, and looked for the Candaca Nubian guest house, which had been recommended to us by three separate sources. After a bit of hunting around and asking locals, we found the place, which had recently been opened by a family from Korea.

When we entered the place and started chatting to Young Su, the owner, it turned out that he had actually worked in Cape Town for four years with his family and had worked with an organization that Dad serves on the board of, under Young Ohm, a friend of ours. Truly a small world. The rooms were clean and comfortable, and well decorated, which is a big change from many of the other places we have stayed at, and was a clear sign that the person who had built this place had definitely seen other guest houses and hotels in other countries, and knew the sort of things that foreign travellers like. We spent a couple of hours relaxing and catching up on some admin, chatting to Young Su, his wife and their three boys. As evening started to descend on the town, and the setting sun lit up the skies with colours, Dad and I went down to the police station to report our presence in the town, a task that apparently we were supposed to do in each town that we passed through, but had failed to do without any apparent consequence. Two of the boys, Soul and Nuri, jumped on the backs of our bikes and had a great time, shouting for us to go faster, and then screaming with delight when we did. When we arrived at the police station, the police officer on duty recognized the boys, and chatted away with them. While he was taking down our information, the boys tested our history knowledge, which they deemed woefully inadequate (especially for a teacher, who is supposed to know everything). On the way back home, they asked us to stop at a shop to buy bread, and the shopkeeper there recognized them by name, clearly they are quite a hit in the town.

We shared a delicious supper of curry, rice, salad and kimchi, a Korean staple, as we talked with the family about their travels, people back in Cape Town that they knew, and their plans for the future all under a magnificently starry sky.

Day 44 – Khartoum to Atbara (420 km)

Sudan

11.02.2012

Jules writes:

We had quite a drive ahead of us, and so in order to avoid the traffic, we awoke at 5:30 to the sounds of the Imams, like giant swarms of lazy bees droning through the empty streets. We left the city on still-quiet streets under the watchful gaze of the minarets that seemed to loom from every corner.

The dust was thick in the air, turning everything into Sepia tones, and the sun seemed to struggle to rise above the horizon. When it did eventually come up, it too seemed to be covered in the dust that seems to settle on everything in Sudan, even the leaves of the trees.

Shan had had a bit of a bad start, as she discovered to her dismay that she had inadvertently sent her beloved iPod through the washing machine in the back pocket of her jacket. She tends to have music playing for most of the day, so this was a heavy blow. Her morning was not improved by almost taking John out while going over a speed-bump behind a truck. She managed to get away with nothing more than a wobble on her bike, and a few ripped straps on Johns bike that were later fixed with cable-ties.

Riding through the early hours of the morning was quite cool, even a bit chilly, and there was very little traffic on the road. Burst tyres littered the sides of the road, replacing the leathery cow skeletons from our drive into Khartoum. We were surprised to discover that petrol was still quite tricky to find, and we often had to stop at three or four stations before we were able to find any. At one point, I was down to the last dregs of my reserve tank when we finally arrived at the Pyramids of Meroe.

The pyramids are ancient, dating back thousands of years, and as we approached the site, they seemed to rise up like the crown of some gigantic  buried statue. We paid the entrance fee by the old man who kept trying to shake us down for scotch or brandy,  and then were startled to see a herd of camels galloping towards us, yammering and moaning. When they arrived where we were, the drivers quickly dismounted and all started entreating us to climb about, desperate to show us the clear superiority of his camel over the rest of these mangy creatures. Essentially at random we each selected a camel, and enjoyed the short ride round to the front of the pyramid site, while the drivers who had not been selected forlornly tried to ask us for baksheesh. There were hardly any other tourists there and we were able to wander around and admire the pyramids. They were incredible, and gave one such a sense of history as we gazed at old carving and hieroglyphics on the wall, and tried to imagine what flights of lunacy and spite would lead some disgruntled Italian officers during the second world war to order their troops to blow the tops off these ancient edifices. Probably the same sentiment that inspired “Momu”, whoever the hell that halfwit is, to inscribe his name and the fact that he visited on 11/01/2011 over the top of some priceless engraving of some forgotten pharaoh.

With only 100 km to go, we rode on through the utterly barren landscape, where not even the dead brown grass could find purchase. At one of the check-points, we were stopped by cops, who gave us a bit of a hard time because somehow, that guy that had taken two hours to fill in our forms at the border had managed to put John’s name instead of Dads on the customs form. Once we managed to explain to them the situation, they became very friendly, and sent us on our way. We drove into Atbara and managed to find the Nile hotel, a lovely clean place with a very friendly owner. After an hour there, I heard a bit of a commotion outside, and Shan and I walked down the road to find a marching band leading a graduation procession through the streets, all shouting and cheering. It was great to see that many of the graduates were women, as often women are seen as second class citizens in some areas of Sudan. We worked on bikes or slept for the rest of the afternoon, then went for supper along the Nile, enjoying a meal of falafels and shwarmas, tea and juice, which was incredibly cheap, only 36 pounds in total (R72) for two sandwiches each, juice and tea and coffee, although the mosquitoes had their fill and went back for seconds while we ate. Finally, we went back to the hotel with some amazing navigation by John through the back alleys and headed to bed, Tomorrow we will be leaving early again, heading through the desert to Dongola.

Day 43 – Khartoum

Sudan

10.02.2012

Jules writes:

Despite the insistent calls of the Imams throughout Khartoum, we managed to get a bit of a sleep-in, always a welcome treat, and at about 8:30, Jo arrived to pick us up for our big day out.

Our first stop was the Souk in Omdurman, a wondrously sprawling affair of narrow alleys, dark shops, people everywhere out shopping for shoes, or meat or spices. It would be very easy to become lost in these narrow streets, but Jo seemed to know her way, and we managed to find someone who was able to fix a belt of Dad’s that had broken, he even did it for free. We also soon found him a new pair of shoes. We then spent the next hour just wandering around, taking in all the sights and smells. Spices, some that I had never seen before filled huge baskets, hibiscus tea, fruit and vegetables of every variety, meat practically dripping with flies, clothes, shoes, curtains, antiques. It was everything that one could hope for in an exotic, Arabian market. Even doves, considered a local delicacy were sold in paper bags. At the sweet shop, the owner allowed us to sample some of his wares, strange, but delicious concoctions containing honey and almonds and rose water, of the ingredients that I could identify.

After purchasing a couple of coffee pots to take home, we drove to a boys shelter that Jo used to work at. The shelter is a place of safety for many of the boys who live on the streets of Khartoum, and for those that want to, a way for them to find their families. We were told of a story of one boy who wandered in, only three years old. Eventually, after staying at the shelter for quite a while, some of the workers heard about a family who had lost a boy almost a year before. After a bit of investigating, they managed to find out that it was in fact the same boy, and he is now back with his family. Some of the boys that have passed through the program have even gone on to graduate from University. So, some fantastic work being done. It was great to see them and spend some time with them.

It was now almost lunchtime, so we headed over to a popular local fish restaurant, where we had a delicious meal, although eating only with the right hand was quite a challenge. Once we had finished the mountain of fish, we decided to take a ferry across to Tuti, an island in the middle of the Nile that is still the site of a lot of agriculture. We boarded the ferry, and were soon chugging across the waters. On the other side, we wandered through lush fields of rocket (lettuce is not such a big deal here), an oasis of vegetation surrounded by the desert around Khartoum. In front of us, we noticed a local couple holding hands, something that would be absolutely forbidden back on the mainland, but under the indulgent eyes of infidels like us, they seemed happy to let their guard down. As we paused by one field, a man invited us to come and share some tea with him, and we realised that it was our ferry driver. We accepted, and spent a wonderful hour enjoying tea, listening to him play some tunes on an aood, a local stringed instrument and admiring his sizable collection of exotic birds. On our way back to the ferry, the young couple who were walking with Shan seemed so enamoured of her that they kept stopping every 20 m or so to take photos with her under every passing tree.

Once back on the Mainland, we headed off to try and locate the Nubian wrestling, a local sport brought in from the Nuba mountains in the East. Eventually, after quite a drive and a lot of stopping to ask for directions, we arrived at the arena, where we found our seats and started chatting to some local officials while a strange gnome-like man, looking like the henchman to some animated Disney villain banged a drum to warm up the crowd. Finally, the wrestlers emerged, and after welcoming “our brothers and sisters from South Africa” (we had been chatting to the announcer), and the battle commenced. It was fascinating to watch, almost like watching Jiu Jitsu, with wrestlers taking it in turns to try and grapple his opponent onto his back. We stayed for about five fights, but our day was not yet done, and with the sun starting to set, we drove back to the place we were staying.

After putting on another load of washing (many of us were down to our last clean pair of unmentionables), we drove to a fancy local restaurant called Solitaire, where, in addition to the free wi-fi, we feasted on a variety of meals, accompanied by complimentary drinks and desserts, until at around 10:00, they rolled us out, and we returned back home, to put on one last load of washing and collapse into our beds.

Day 42 – Al Quidarif to to Khartoum (430 km)

Sudan

09.02.2012

Jules writes:

(We are running a bit short of time, so we will update this with photos and edit out the spelling mistakes when we get a chance)

After a very comfortable nights sleep (definitely too hot for blankets or even sheets), we packed the bikes. I had my bike packed fairly quickly, and while I was waiting, I saw one of the managers sitting down for some morning coffee. He invited me to take a seat and share it with him, and I jumped at the chance. We had a great time, and the ginger flavoured coffee was delicious. We swapped some words, and so I learned what “hello” and “thank you” are in Arabic, and he learned the same in Xhosa, which I hope he gets to use one day.

When a foreigner arrives in Sudan, they have to register themselves as aliens within three days of arrival in the country. We had heard that the office in Khartoum was a bit of a pain to find, so we decided to try and get it done in Al Quidarif. This proved to be a fairly involved task. We went to the police station, and once we’d managed to make it understood that we wanted to register as aliens, someone from the station guided us to the relevant building a few blocks away. Once there, we settled in for the long haul. I have realised something very important about Sudanese people. They clearly love the bureaucratic process, but on the other hand, I don’t imagine they have to deal with a lot of visitors, as Sudan is not exactly a tourist Mecca. They managed to solve this dilemma by making what little administration that there is to process take a REALLY LONG TIME. This way, something as simple as registering four South Africans as aliens lasts for over two hours. You could practically see the officer quivering with delight as he agonized over the five or six lines that had to be filled in for each of us. Finally, all the paper work was done, and it just remained to pay. The total was 732 Sudanese pounds. As Dad started counting it out, he gave a me a worried look and said “I don’t think we’ll have enough”. We sat and counted up the notes, 100, 200, 300, 400, 500, 600, 700, 720, 730, 731. We had just one pound less than the amount due. Dad felt in his pocket and took out a coin and passed it to me.

One pound.

We had exactly enough to pay the amount, and not another pound to our name. We handed it over, and then decided to go straight to the bank. There, once again, we helped another Sudanese official to have a blissful administrative experience over the course of about half an hour, helping me change $100. There is a curious thing taking place in Sudan at the moment. The banks have fixed their exchange rate at about 2.8 Sudanese pound per dollar. However, the black market gives a much better rate, at around 3.5 pounds to the dollar, it is possible the only country in the world where the black market gives a better deal than the banks.

Finally, all the admin done, we were able to leave town. The temperature was already up in the 30’s by the time we left at around 10:30, and only continued to get hotter, eventually getting up to 40^o C, as the road took us further into the Sudanese desert. We stopped for something to drink in a tiny little halfway house town, and barely even looked at the food on offer, just gulping down juice and water.

We rode on in the afternoon heat, but about 100 km outside of Khartoum, Dad’s bike spluttered and died from lack of petrol. Fortunately, we were only less than a kilometre from a fuel station, so I quickly nipped down and picked up a few litres for him. The bike sufficiently refreshed, we filled up and kept going. As we were about to leave, we experienced some more of the famed Sudanese friendliness, when a man filling up his 4×4 tried to invite us back to his house for some tea and water. We would have loved to have taken him up on his offer, but we were already running really late, and so reluctantly declined.

About 30 km from Khartoum, we were pulled over at a police checkpoint and asked to show our passport. As to be expected, that then took about 15 minutes, as the passports were then taken to another building, and duly inspected by several officials, allowing them to share the bureaucratic thrill. Finally, all done, we headed into Khartoum, where we were off to a restaurant called Ozone to meet Jo Davie, a friend of ours from South Africa who is teaching at a private school. We collapsed into the chairs and ordered ice slushes, while being misted by a series of small valves that emitted a fine spray of water into the air at regular intervals. After the heat of the day, it was an oasis. Jo commented that it was amazingly cool for February. Eish. I can’t imagine being here in Summer, when the temperature is in the high forties.

She had organized for us to stay in the house of some friends of hers that were away for a few days. It was fantastic, the whole house to ourselves, and the washing machine was soon in action, while we tucked into a supper of food bought from the local market. Once we had eaten, we all piled into Jo’s car and headed down to the bank of the Nile, where every Thursday night, the banks are packed as the city’s residents enjoy a cup of tea or coffee as the moon rises over the Nile. It was a beautifully picturesque moment, and after enjoying the tea and doing some people watching, we headed back home to put on one last load of washing, and the get a good nights sleep before our big day of exploring Khartoum.