Day 41 – Bahir Dar to Al Quidarif/Gederef (510 km)

Ethiopia to Sudan

08.02.2012

Jules writes:

Today was going to be a swine, so at 5:15, the alarm started beeping with the kind of cold mechanical malice that only inanimate objects can employ. fifteen minutes of snooze button later, we were up and packing, the air just cold enough for the hint of mist to form on ones breathe. Just after 7:00, we were on our way to hunt for petrol. It is quite curious how few fuel stations actually sell petrol (called benzene here for some bizarre reason), considering how many small petrol bikes and tuc-tucs there are buzzing through the streets. Eventually, after three failed attempts, we finally found a place, and were ready to go.

The reason that today was going to be such a beast was that we had 350 km to go to the border, then an unknown amount of time crossing, and then another 150 km into Sudan to find the first town of any notable size. As always, the countryside seemed to play like some kind of slide show, with fertile grassland merging into high green mountain peaks, then into desolate deserts, all in the space of about a hundred kilometres, with the temperature rising swiftly as we descended from the highlands. At some point in the morning, we crossed the 10 000 km mark, quite a milestone. I was very impressed by everyone, as, apart from a few photo stops, we pushed on throughout the morning without any breaks. This was not without cause. We had learned our lesson from crossing into Ethiopia, and were very keen to try and arrive before everyone disappeared for a two-hour lunch break. Unfortunately, due to a slightly later start than planned, and then the hunt for fuel, we arrived at the border post at around 12:15, and sure enough, lunch had started, three hours this time, as they didn’t want to take any chances in the heat. As always, where there’s a dollar, there’s a way, and it seems that $20 was enough for the official to postpone his lunch break by about 20 minutes. Now, a curious feature of border posts is the number of civilians who seem to be able to operate some of the mechanisms of bureaucracy, and we had one such, a most painful individual, who seemed somewhat uncertain as to what we were actually supposed to do next, and so tried to chivvy us from one station to the next, then seemed impatient when we actually went and did something, complaining that they were waiting to check our bags for customs after having told us to report to immigration.

We happened to arrive at the border post at the same day that the cyclists from the Tour d’Afrique were crossing the other way. The Tour is a truly epic challenge, for those who feel that self-flagellation is too tame a form of masochism, in which a group of about 50 cyclists cycle the entire distance from Cairo to Cape Town, typically covering about 100 km each day, and then camping for the night. They had only covered two countries, and already the scrapes and bruises were in profusion. They actually arrive in Cape Town a couple of weeks after we (hopefully) arrive back, so we will definitely go and see them in, maybe even ride the bikes in with the group.

Once we had completed everything on the Ethiopian side, we crossed over into Sudan, leaving our odious assistant behind. Upon arrival at the Sudanese immigration desk, we soon experienced a sinking realisation that the Sudanese border post at Meteme is a study in inefficiency. For starters, one has to queue for a form, and once that has been given, one has to sit down and fill in said form (the second question, after “Name:” is “Mothers Name:”. Quite odd. Once that form has been filled in, one re-joins the same queue, and is then processed. Once that is done, we headed over to the customs building, a good couple of hundred metres further down the road, where our documents were processed by a man who was clearly being paid by the hour, not by the amount of vehicles that he processed. In fact, it took in an hour and a half to complete our forms, and when we looked at them, we saw to our rising ire, that he had filled in about eight lines of writing for each of us. Even the most patient of foundation phase teachers would have screamed in frustration and gone for a lie-down. In the meantime, Shan had attempted to purchase some cold-drinks, a task which proved insurmountable. And it goes a little something like this:

Shan (walking into shop number one): Hi, I”d like to buy some drinks

Shop lout: Sit, sit

Shan: I don’t want to sit, I just want to buy some drinks

Shop lout: No, sit. Have some food with us

Shan: No, I really don’t want to have food, I just want to buy something to drink

Shop lout: No, sit, sit.

Shan: #&*@ (and walks out)

Shan (walking into shop number 2): Hi, can I buy some cokes? (gesturing at the fridge in the middle of the shop filled with cokes)

Shop Drudge: No coke

Shan: But I can see it right there, in the fridge

Shop Drudge: No, no coke.

Shan:….

And so on. In fact, she never did manage to buy any drinks.

Finally, once the worlds most cautious scribe had finished our documents, we returned to the immigration desk. Sudan has a quite frankly moronic policy that any persons entering the country must register them selves as aliens with the police within three days of arriving in the country. Why this is not just a standard part of the immigration process, I do not know. One of the ladies travelling with the Tour d’Afrique informed us that they are able to process that at the border post, but only if you begged them. Yet despite our most heartfelt entreaties, they brusquely  refused, and would not supply a reason, eventually, fed up, we left to try and find some fuel, having now spent almost five hours at the border. As usual, the first place we stopped did not have any, but just further down the road, we managed to find a station that could fill our tanks. That done, we turned our bikes towards Sudan, the eighth country on our journey.

We set off around 5:00, but the temperature was still a sweltering 38^o C, and the ground was parched and dry. Some immediate differences were the dramatically reduced population density. We saw hardly anyone walking along the road except near towns, and the roads were almost empty, although the more-than-occasional pot-hole helped to keep us awake. Every 10 km or so, a dead cow would adorn the road, so desiccated that even the most ravenous hyena would have had to approach the task of eating one with considerable determination (and possibly some tomato-sauce)! The sun seemed to hang suspended in the dusty haze, as if reluctant to miss even a moment of the site of these four strange travellers winding along the roads.

Eventually, we arrived at Al Quidarif, and were offered two options by the Lonely Planet guide: either small and tatty, or plush, but with a rude owner somewhat reminiscent of Basil Fawlty of Fawlty Towers fame. As is often the case with us, we ended up going into the first place we saw, which happened to be “small and tatty”, which proved to be quite pleasant, if a little Spartan. With the temperature still hovering in the 30’s long after the sun has set, the fan in the ceiling will no doubt be a welcome feature.