Well. I should probably set the record straight - I'm alive. In fact, I've been alive all this time, resting (as well as a med student can be expeted to) in blustery Toronto. I did indeed make it to Cape Town - heck, I even mae it to Cape Agulis, having raced the sun to get there. Despite the inexperience, the accidents, the lost travel documents, and the breakdowns, I pulled the damn thing off. Of course, I got back to Toronto, and my studies, some 2 weeks late, hidden behind the bushiest, scraggliest beard known to man. But made it I had.
All that remains is to fill in the month or two gap between Sudan and the Cape. Rest assured, that will happen sooner rather than later.
In the meantime, check out my Flickr site for a photo diary of my travels.
By the way, stay tuned for our next poorly thought out adventure - to the Arctic circle - this coming summer. From Africa to the Arctic...
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A Straight Line From Misadventure to Adventure
What a week it's been indeed.
Regular readers of our three blogs will note 2 things immediately - I am incredibly far behind in my posts (and have no pics), while Tyson is basically up-to-date, and has tons of photos clogging up your precious bandwidth.
Ah well, such is the price I pay for my ridiculously detailed posts.
Under normal circumstances, I would sit here by the computer for hours in a futile effort to punch out the weeks and weeks of information milling about in my braincan, only to finish 2 or 3 days. But, these are not normal circumstances.
If you have been to Tyson's blog recently (I mean the past 2 days), you know what I mean. If not, I direct you there (http://www.tysonbrust.com), because this internet cafe closes in 1/2 hour, and I have to write the epilogue to my tale, at least.
Since Tyson, Tom, and I parted ways 4 days ago in Mbeya, I have travelled the breadth of Tanzania - to Dar es Salaam, and back. The reason for this massive detour is this - I lost all my travel documents (and all my clothes but for those I was wearing) on the road from Sumbawanga to Tunduma. Passport - gone. Carnet de passage - ditto. License? Registration? Sayonara, suckers. Travel insurance documents? You guessed it. All gone when I lost my right pelican case. I keep refering back to the movie "The Gods Must Be Crazy" in imagining it's further adventures. Alas, in that movie, the coke bottle was a sign of consumerism and greed (it certainly played havok with the poor fellow's idylic little tribe), and had to be gotten rid of - in this case, it looks like the pely was only too happily retained.
Fortunately, I am now in posession of one (1) temporary passport, one (1) police report, one (1) temporary import permit for a 2006 KLR650 (slightly worse for wear) and three (3) photostats of my registration, license, and original passport, which I have been assured is sufficient to cross into any non-carnet country. Moreover, Zambia is one such country - hence my presence withoin spitting distance of Tunduma now.
Yep, I'm back on the move. I'm getting a replacement carnet shipped to Livingston, Zambia, thanks to the efforst of my mom, dad, and David Steventon, of the CAA. Like the U.S. Postal service. Just replace wind, sleet, and snow with bum knee, cracked frame, and missing travel documents. I'm going to Cape Town, come hell or high water. Heck, that's what you paid for (if you've donated to Dignitas), and I always deliver.
Oh, and if you haven't donated, why the heck not?
Regular readers of our three blogs will note 2 things immediately - I am incredibly far behind in my posts (and have no pics), while Tyson is basically up-to-date, and has tons of photos clogging up your precious bandwidth.
Ah well, such is the price I pay for my ridiculously detailed posts.
Under normal circumstances, I would sit here by the computer for hours in a futile effort to punch out the weeks and weeks of information milling about in my braincan, only to finish 2 or 3 days. But, these are not normal circumstances.
If you have been to Tyson's blog recently (I mean the past 2 days), you know what I mean. If not, I direct you there (http://www.tysonbrust.com), because this internet cafe closes in 1/2 hour, and I have to write the epilogue to my tale, at least.
Since Tyson, Tom, and I parted ways 4 days ago in Mbeya, I have travelled the breadth of Tanzania - to Dar es Salaam, and back. The reason for this massive detour is this - I lost all my travel documents (and all my clothes but for those I was wearing) on the road from Sumbawanga to Tunduma. Passport - gone. Carnet de passage - ditto. License? Registration? Sayonara, suckers. Travel insurance documents? You guessed it. All gone when I lost my right pelican case. I keep refering back to the movie "The Gods Must Be Crazy" in imagining it's further adventures. Alas, in that movie, the coke bottle was a sign of consumerism and greed (it certainly played havok with the poor fellow's idylic little tribe), and had to be gotten rid of - in this case, it looks like the pely was only too happily retained.
Fortunately, I am now in posession of one (1) temporary passport, one (1) police report, one (1) temporary import permit for a 2006 KLR650 (slightly worse for wear) and three (3) photostats of my registration, license, and original passport, which I have been assured is sufficient to cross into any non-carnet country. Moreover, Zambia is one such country - hence my presence withoin spitting distance of Tunduma now.
Yep, I'm back on the move. I'm getting a replacement carnet shipped to Livingston, Zambia, thanks to the efforst of my mom, dad, and David Steventon, of the CAA. Like the U.S. Postal service. Just replace wind, sleet, and snow with bum knee, cracked frame, and missing travel documents. I'm going to Cape Town, come hell or high water. Heck, that's what you paid for (if you've donated to Dignitas), and I always deliver.
Oh, and if you haven't donated, why the heck not?
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sudan Part 1 - The Comfort Zone is Well and Truly Ditched
For me, Sudan has always symbolized the turning point in this adventure - where tourism finally givews way to trial. The temperature is sweltering (an average of 50 degrees centigrate in the summer in not uncommon), the roads are awful (if they exist at all), and the landscape jaw-droppingly beautiful. Moreover, we'd spent a great deal of time, energy, and money to ensure our entry into this most isolated of countries - the visa process required an info-gathering trip to Ottawa, a payout to a Norweigan numbered account, and a hotel reservation just to ensure we would get the Visa before we left - never mind the expense of the visa itself. And of course, there is the political situation to consider. Darfur was never far from my mind in planning this leg of the trip - not because I thought it was dangerous to enter Sudan, but because the conflict was so heart-breakingly familiar, and so painfully intractable. Ethnic tensions on top of land disputes on top of institutionalized racism... and a military dictatorship weakened by years of civil and ethnic strife. On the other hand, the Sudanese people were widely touted as some of the friendliest on earth, and after the constant assaults and demands for baksheesh in Egypt, I was looking forward to the experience.
Our first glimpse of Wadi Halfa was somewhat shocking - a smattering of squat, mud-brick homes dotted the horizon just beyond the dock. We docked at midday - it then took a few hours more for the security personnel to process our entrance visas and registration. Unfortunately, the barge carrying our motorcycles would not arrive for another day since it has no radar, and consequently cannot travel at night. And so we settled into our hotel - the Deffintoad, Wadi Halfa's swankiest accomodations - for a leisurely day of R&R. Note here that I say swankiest, not swanky - the rooms were of pockmarked mud-brick, posessed a single ceiling fan, and the washrooms were basically a series of outhouses. Nonetheless, I was grateful for a place to kick up my feet for a while.
Dinner was another shocker. We sauntered over to a restaurant with a patio, where a cword of people were crowded around a TV set, watching The Lord of the Rings. We sat down (Peter and Steffan were still there, having eaten constantly for some 3 hours now) and ordered our meal. Actually, we chose it - the shopkeep invited us into the kitchen to peruse his offerings. We all ordered the curry and a knuckle of beef, together with the requisite Fantas - the meal was absolutely delicious. The waiter brought the bill, we paid it, and were on our way back to the Deffintoad when the shopkeep rushed after us, yelling something in Arabic. Having been conditioned in Egypt, I steeled myself for an arguement over what we had ordered, and what we had paid. But to our surprise, the shopkeep was insisting that we had overpaid! Apparently, the waiter had charged us for 5 meals (Peter and Steffan had paid long ago), instead of 3. Astonished, we insisted he keep the difference as a tip. Now it was his turn to be astonished. Beaming from ear to ear, he grabbed each of our hands in turn in a vice-like grip, and pumped them like he was seeking water after a long period of drought - I thought my carpals would snap.
Sleep. We were all tired, and looking forward to some sleep. Alas, fate had something else in mind. The power went out all throughout town sometime around 1:00 am - the fan stopped turning. An ominous sign. Shortly thereafter, the temperature started to rise... and rise... within minutes, the air was stale and warm, and we were drenched in our sleeping bags. We tried in vain to catch some shut-eye, but no dice - in addition to the warmth, it sounded like a steel mill out in the hallway. We tossed and turned for hours before the fan came back on, at which point I finally passed out. It was only the followign morning that we determined the origing of that infernal racket - Debbie and Andrew, obviously the most intelligent of us Overlanders, had moved their beds outside, into the cool desert night. Tossers.
The following day, whilst waiting for our bikes to arrive, we bought more supplies for the trip to come - water (lots of it), and canned pineapples. These beauties are a Godsend! Nutritious (?) and delicious pineapple slices luxuriating in a sucrose bath... Mmm Mmm Good!
At last the bikes arrived. We hurriedly processed them through customs, and then it was off. We tore down the road (or what was left of it) out of town, thoughts of the coming adventure sending goosebumps down my spine despite the sweltering heat. True to form, the road ended about 5 km out of town. Yep - it just ended. The Garmin clearly showed a road stretching off along the Nile - but our eyes could not corroborate this apparent fact. And so, it was off the road, and across the floodplain. As we tore across the scrub grass, I felt alive. This was what I had signed up for - an adventure beyond maps, be they digital or cartographic. We swept in a large arc, hoping to find a track to the marked roadway - at last we found it. The track was nothing more than a few tiretracks in the sand, but it was enough. We tore off along the trail, kicking up sand and dirt in long plumes behind us. As we hit a particularly sandy bit, I had to stay well back to see the trail - and then I ditched my bike. With the sand obscuring my vision, I had slowed down too much in the deep sand - and killed my momentum. I got off the bike, tried to pick it up... and felt my knee protest. Quickly, I let the bike drop, and checked my ROM. Everything seemed to be alright, but I decided to unload my bike before I tried to lift it again. I was in the process fo removing my pellis when Tom came by, and helped me right my beast of burden. And then we were off, yet again.
One more sandy stretch, and we were on the road at last - if it can be called that. This road - the main road linking Wadi Halfa to Dongola - was essentially hard-pressed sand and rock. Apparently, these roads are groomed every now and then by machines which impress the surface with a corrugated, washboard texture that is absolute murder to ride at anything but breakneck speed. Of course, one still has to watch out for the rocks, loose gravel, and sandy ruts. All this to look out for, and yet the scenery was all I could see - my eyes were transfixed. The landscape we were riding through looked positively lunar. Jagged, craggy rocks jutted from the sandy, rock-strewn ground like the teeth of some massive, subterranean creature, whilst whisps of sand and dust streaked between them in unending ethereal ribbons. The road wound a tortuous course through this otherworldly scene, and we plunged through twists and turns from one spectacular vist to the next. Evry now and then, one of us would stop to photograph the others as they raced past - red and black KLRs stark against the beiges and browns of he Sudanese desert.
Night came fast upon us, and we turned off the road to encamp just by a particularly tall hill of weather-worn rock. The moon was almost full, which made our work easy - and made our adventure seem all the more surreal. Our tents pitched, Tyson and I started up the hill. I mean, what else did you expect? I saw the expereince as a particularly fun form of physiotherapy - and given my failure to pick up my bike earlier that day, it seemed as if I needed lots of it. Moreover, you'll notice that I didn't go alone this time, for any of you recollecting my ill-fated scrambling in India. The climb was longer and harder than we expected, as the hill was covered by loose shale, and quite steep in parts, but at last we reached the summit. There, someone had biult a little Jenga-like structure of stones - we added a few stones of our own, and turned to savour the view. All around us, from horizon to horizon, the undulating sand of the desert was pierced by rocky outcroppings - the moon bathed this landscape in a soft, silvery light.
Tyson started down the hill, and I, a bit reluctantly, followed. In the meantime, Tom had started gathering wood to make a fire - shortly, we had a nice little blaze throwing bronze and gold into the black and silver of the night. Alas, we had sent the only stove we had brought back to London with Tom back in Turkey - our feast that night consisted of instant noodles. With dinner done, we gazed at the bright, starry sky, crawled into our tents, and passed out, cooled by the gentle desert breeze.
The next day, we rose with the sun, broke camp, and set off down the road towards Dongola. More washboard and sand, but now the rocky landscape gave way to the dunes of the desert, and the more hospitable verdant shores of the Nile. Early on, we passed through a quiet little village - squat mud-brick houses hid behind squat mud-brick walls - the only colour being the doors - these were decorated in unique patters of bright, bright blues, whites, reds, and yellows. Every now and then I passed a Sudanese gentleman or lady - all of them, without fail, waved at my passing. I felt priviledged to bear witness to their lives - to seemingly pass through time as well as space and visit these people living much like their predecessors of centuries past.
A few towns later, I lost sight of Tyson for the first time. I had been following some distance behind him again, as the dust and sand he was kicking up obscured the road. I saw him make a turn, then nothing. Tom and I headed on along the road indicated by the Garmin, expecting Tyson to have done the same. 10 minutes passed... then 20... still no sign of Tyson. We made for a small town along the main road, and headed for the downtown area to see if he had stopped there for some breakfast. Not finding him there, I texted him on my cell... 5 minutes later, we established his location further along the road. Much further. The ride there took us almost 15 minutes, and when we finally got there, Tyson was sitting on the steps of a school building, drinking a tea with some locals.
Apparently, Tyson had found his way to a portion of tarmaced road - the Sudanese government was building a paved road between Wadi Halfa and Dongla in piecemeal fashion - and hoofed it. The tosser had even had breakfast, offered him by the locals, and had taught that morning's English class to the Sudanese children. I can't say I was all that pleased - after all, Tyson had insisted on the need to stay together when Tom had raced ahead in Romania and Bulgaria. Nonetheless, when Tyson had finished his tea, we prepared to set off. Tyson left first, followed shortly by Tom. As they left, the schoolteacher cased me down, and pressed a bag of flatbreads into my hand. "For you - breakfast." He said. I thanked him, handed him some of the Canadian pencils I had on me, and set of myself to catch up with the others. By now, they were far ahead of me - all I cold see were a few plumes of dust on the horizon, and I raced towards them on the road, dodging rocks, skidding across gravel, and plowing through sandy ruts. Each time I came upon a dust plume, it proved to be neither Tom nor Tyson - I became increasedingly concerned that I may have missed them turing off at some point. The piecemeal highway paralleled the road, and though much of it was closed or under construction, it seemed possible that Tyson may have taken it and put much distance between us as a result. On the other hand, I was having a glorious time flying along the Nile route, making my way from town to town, passing the invariably smiling, waving Sudanese people... there really was only one way to go, and sooner or later, we were bound to meet up. And so, I started savouring my surroundings - slowing in town to say a few words to the locals, stopping to take pictures of my bike by the Nile. During one of the later instances, Tom pulled up behind me. Apparently, he and Tyson had indeed taken the unfinished highway. Noticing my absence, Tom had turned back, and made his way onto the Nile road to find me. And so we set off to find Tyson. Again.
I think both of us had expected Tyson to stop somewhere close by - after all, he wasn't being followed by either of us. It wasn't until some time later, however, that we finally came upon him - on a stretch of road that broke from the Nile to pass through the desert. None of us was particularly pleased by the turn of events, but as noon was rapidly approaching, and with it, the sweltering heat of midday, we made plans to head to the next town (Delgo) for some lunch, and a shady spot to rest in. On the way there, Tom dropped his bike in some particularly deep fesh-fesh (very fine sand - riding through it is like riding through water), but finally we made it... though closer to 1:00 than 12:00.
When we got into town, we were all thirsy, hungry, and tired. Tyson set off to find some gas - I went to find some drinks. Apparently, both of us cleaned out the town - Tyson of petrol, and I of Fantas. We then hit the only open restaurant in town for some lunch.
As we were finishing or meal, a gentleman in arabic robes sat down beside us, and struck up a conversation. Where were we from? What were we doing here? What did we think of Sudan? Of Delgo? He told us he was an engineer, born of Delgo, who was visiting his family after a protracted employment in Saudi Arabia. In essence, he was an ex-pat - he had associated with some politically unpolular groups in university, and was essentially blacklisted from working in Sudan. He proceeded to talk to us about Sudan's many problems - Darfur, the civil war with the SPLM/SPLA, the widespread ethnic tensions, and the shaky political situation. His openness was astonishing - though perhaps he, an outsider by necessity, saw in us, outsiders by birth, a certain kinship. In any case, we talked for a while, then said our farewells and headed off towards the Nile for a nap under the palms.
Honestly, I don't think we could have planned more scenic reststop if we tried. We arrived on the bright sandy banks of the Nile through a short path through waving palms. Camels paced languidly by the waters edge, and beyond them, the Nile flowed broad and blue, coursing around a few palm-studded islands. But the piece de resistance was the New Kingdom Pharaohonic temple of Sessibe crowning a hill on the other bank. We found ourselves a shady place under some palms, and lay down in the soft sand for some shut eye.
About 2 hours later, Tyson and I woke up, and began planning what to do next. Both of us wanted to see the Nubian ruins at Kerma. Tom wasn't nearly as eager as we when he finally woke - actually, he seemded a bit under the weather - but agreed to our plan nonetheless. And so we set off once more. This time, we found our way to the unfinished highway rather quickly. However, it soon petered out, and we were forced to detour once more. Tom was leading, and broke right through some deep sand back to the Nile road. Tyson followed some ways behind, and then it was my turn. Here, my problems in the sand returned. I ended up dropping my bike twice - both times, Tyson had to help me right the damn thing as my knee still wouldn't have me pick the bike up on my own. In the end, Tyson drove my bike out of the deepest part of it, and we rode off down the Nile road to meet up with Tom. Or so we thought. We kept going and going... no Tom. We did, however, see evidence of his passing - we could see the familiar marks of the Duro tires in the sand, and evidence of at least one major drop. But no Tom. And so we rode on, hoping to overtake him, or at least meet up with him in Kerma.
On the way, we came to a particularly hairy bit of sand. The Nile road disappeared into a wash of fesh-fesh, criss-crossed by deep ruts. Tyson and I gingerly made our way into the fine, powdery mess, and soon Tyson had his bike mired in the stuff. He got off and walked his bike out as I snapped a few shots. Getting back on, he spied a route out of the deepest portion, and started across a track of ruts.
What happened next was frightenning to behold. Apparently thinking the ruts to be entirely composed of fesh-fesh, Tyson gunned the throttle in order to blast through them with the appropriate momentum. Alas, the ruts were, at their core, hard, packed dirt. Tyson's bike launched into the air in imitation of Buffy back in Luxor - he must have cleared at least 3 feet with both tires before he fell back to earth, the bike landing badly and falling to the left. Tyson was pinned underneath, and for a while, I thought his leg might be hurt. However, he slowly got to his feet, and by the time I was beside him, he was convinced it was nothing serious. We did a brief assessment on his leg and thigh, but since there were no findings, and he was weight bearing with no problems, we decided he was good to go - at least for now. We wrestled the bike out of the rut, righted it, and pushed the bike across the track.
Then it was my turn. Instead of trying to get across the track, I decided to press on through the deepest part of the fesh-fesh. I had barely got 10 feet when my right foot got hung up in some sand, just as the bike lurched rightward through a rut. The right pelli caught my heel, the sand caught my toe... and the bike fell hard, the pelli pinning my foot in an akward angle. Tyson ran over and liflted the bike off - fortunately nothing was injured. And so we were off once more.
The road wound from one town to the next, alternating between washboard, sand, and fesh-fesh. As always, the landscape was mesmerizing - here green and leafy... there stark and rock-strewn. All the while, the sun wheeled overhead, making its way inexorably to the distant horizon. Just before sunset, the road widenned into a field full of tracks heading every which way. the Garmin, out of all proportion with reality, showed 2 roads diverging in common fashion - it remained to simply stay to one side of the field or the other, blasting along and through ruts hither and yon. Every now and then, a Toyota Hilux (and only a Toyota Hilux) would appear, careening from one track to another, either overtaking us or braching off on one of the roads many branches. Somehwo, Tyson and I got separated - hea headed off on one trunk, while I tore off on another. I just happened to look over to my right and spied him (or rather, his dust cloud) as he passed between a grouping of rocks. I had to wait until the giant berm of sand that had formed in teh field gave way, then doubled back and made my own way through the rocks. I ran into Tyson just as the sun was setting - we grabbed our cameras and snapped some pictures of the desert in he dying moments of teh day, when the light reflects off the sand with a warm red glow, and paints the sky in pastel colours.
And then it was off one more time. We were close to Kerma, and wanted to get a bite to eat before we hunted for a campsite on the other side of town. Also, we were certain that Tom would be waiting here, since this was our chosen destination earlier that day. How wrong we were. Tom was nowhere to be found, and our efforts to reach him on his cell were, predictably, unsuccessful. However, just as we were settling down to a particularly unsavoury meal of deep-fried Nile perch (a staple in these parts, for some reason), Tyson's phone rang. It was Tom, calling on a local phone, from Dongala. He had completely bypassed Kerma, and was now some 50-60 km ahead of us. We would meet in Khartoum the following day. The tosser. Tyson was convinced this had been his plan since the morning's problems - he had never been keen on ruin-hopping in Kerma. Ah well, it looked like ruin-hopping was ut of the question for us as well, now tht we had to book it to Khartoum the following day - nearly 600 km away.
With Tom whereabouts and dinner out of teh way, all that remained was to find a place to sleep. Easier said than done. my headlight was not at all oriented properly - I was illuminating trees and buildings, not the road in front of me as we wound our way along the Nile, looking for a route out of the city. However, the city would not let us go. Every stretch of road was lines with buildings of one kind or another, and the road was getting harder and harder to navigate as the blackness of night obscured the ruts and rocks in front of me. Finally we had had enough - we turned inland, hoping that the city would peter out towards the desert. We made our way along canals, down alleyways... at one point, we came to bridge where a mule obstinately obscured my path - despite me revving the engine, honking the horn, or yelling. Mule meets mule. I guess he must have considered Buffy attractive. In any case, I had to get off and slap the bugger hard across the rump before he finally moved on.
Soon we were driving our bikes along narrow paths bordered closely by irrigated fields. At one point, I dropped my bike again - Tyson's bike was kicking up a bunch of sand, and I was following quite closely so as not to lose sight of his tail-light. Of course, my headlight was reflecting off of the dust and sand in the air, making it seem as if I was riding into a fog. I hit a rut the wrong way, and the bike just tipped over. To my shame, I kicked Buffy for a second time this trip.
We found a suitably secluded field shortly thereafter, and set about making camp. We had just got our tents out of our pellis when an old man and a young boy walked over. Apparently, this was their field. However, they weren't upset at our trespassing - quite the contrary. They wanted to invite us to stay at their house! We insisted that we wnated to camp, and that we would not burden them - they seemed truly dumbfounded by our preferance for sleeping outdoors, but allowed us to camp anyways. We shook hands, thanked them profusely, and watched them depart.
That night we slept under the stars, in a farmer's field fed by the Nile, surrounded by palm trees. How many people can say they've done that?
Our first glimpse of Wadi Halfa was somewhat shocking - a smattering of squat, mud-brick homes dotted the horizon just beyond the dock. We docked at midday - it then took a few hours more for the security personnel to process our entrance visas and registration. Unfortunately, the barge carrying our motorcycles would not arrive for another day since it has no radar, and consequently cannot travel at night. And so we settled into our hotel - the Deffintoad, Wadi Halfa's swankiest accomodations - for a leisurely day of R&R. Note here that I say swankiest, not swanky - the rooms were of pockmarked mud-brick, posessed a single ceiling fan, and the washrooms were basically a series of outhouses. Nonetheless, I was grateful for a place to kick up my feet for a while.
Dinner was another shocker. We sauntered over to a restaurant with a patio, where a cword of people were crowded around a TV set, watching The Lord of the Rings. We sat down (Peter and Steffan were still there, having eaten constantly for some 3 hours now) and ordered our meal. Actually, we chose it - the shopkeep invited us into the kitchen to peruse his offerings. We all ordered the curry and a knuckle of beef, together with the requisite Fantas - the meal was absolutely delicious. The waiter brought the bill, we paid it, and were on our way back to the Deffintoad when the shopkeep rushed after us, yelling something in Arabic. Having been conditioned in Egypt, I steeled myself for an arguement over what we had ordered, and what we had paid. But to our surprise, the shopkeep was insisting that we had overpaid! Apparently, the waiter had charged us for 5 meals (Peter and Steffan had paid long ago), instead of 3. Astonished, we insisted he keep the difference as a tip. Now it was his turn to be astonished. Beaming from ear to ear, he grabbed each of our hands in turn in a vice-like grip, and pumped them like he was seeking water after a long period of drought - I thought my carpals would snap.
Sleep. We were all tired, and looking forward to some sleep. Alas, fate had something else in mind. The power went out all throughout town sometime around 1:00 am - the fan stopped turning. An ominous sign. Shortly thereafter, the temperature started to rise... and rise... within minutes, the air was stale and warm, and we were drenched in our sleeping bags. We tried in vain to catch some shut-eye, but no dice - in addition to the warmth, it sounded like a steel mill out in the hallway. We tossed and turned for hours before the fan came back on, at which point I finally passed out. It was only the followign morning that we determined the origing of that infernal racket - Debbie and Andrew, obviously the most intelligent of us Overlanders, had moved their beds outside, into the cool desert night. Tossers.
The following day, whilst waiting for our bikes to arrive, we bought more supplies for the trip to come - water (lots of it), and canned pineapples. These beauties are a Godsend! Nutritious (?) and delicious pineapple slices luxuriating in a sucrose bath... Mmm Mmm Good!
At last the bikes arrived. We hurriedly processed them through customs, and then it was off. We tore down the road (or what was left of it) out of town, thoughts of the coming adventure sending goosebumps down my spine despite the sweltering heat. True to form, the road ended about 5 km out of town. Yep - it just ended. The Garmin clearly showed a road stretching off along the Nile - but our eyes could not corroborate this apparent fact. And so, it was off the road, and across the floodplain. As we tore across the scrub grass, I felt alive. This was what I had signed up for - an adventure beyond maps, be they digital or cartographic. We swept in a large arc, hoping to find a track to the marked roadway - at last we found it. The track was nothing more than a few tiretracks in the sand, but it was enough. We tore off along the trail, kicking up sand and dirt in long plumes behind us. As we hit a particularly sandy bit, I had to stay well back to see the trail - and then I ditched my bike. With the sand obscuring my vision, I had slowed down too much in the deep sand - and killed my momentum. I got off the bike, tried to pick it up... and felt my knee protest. Quickly, I let the bike drop, and checked my ROM. Everything seemed to be alright, but I decided to unload my bike before I tried to lift it again. I was in the process fo removing my pellis when Tom came by, and helped me right my beast of burden. And then we were off, yet again.
One more sandy stretch, and we were on the road at last - if it can be called that. This road - the main road linking Wadi Halfa to Dongola - was essentially hard-pressed sand and rock. Apparently, these roads are groomed every now and then by machines which impress the surface with a corrugated, washboard texture that is absolute murder to ride at anything but breakneck speed. Of course, one still has to watch out for the rocks, loose gravel, and sandy ruts. All this to look out for, and yet the scenery was all I could see - my eyes were transfixed. The landscape we were riding through looked positively lunar. Jagged, craggy rocks jutted from the sandy, rock-strewn ground like the teeth of some massive, subterranean creature, whilst whisps of sand and dust streaked between them in unending ethereal ribbons. The road wound a tortuous course through this otherworldly scene, and we plunged through twists and turns from one spectacular vist to the next. Evry now and then, one of us would stop to photograph the others as they raced past - red and black KLRs stark against the beiges and browns of he Sudanese desert.
Night came fast upon us, and we turned off the road to encamp just by a particularly tall hill of weather-worn rock. The moon was almost full, which made our work easy - and made our adventure seem all the more surreal. Our tents pitched, Tyson and I started up the hill. I mean, what else did you expect? I saw the expereince as a particularly fun form of physiotherapy - and given my failure to pick up my bike earlier that day, it seemed as if I needed lots of it. Moreover, you'll notice that I didn't go alone this time, for any of you recollecting my ill-fated scrambling in India. The climb was longer and harder than we expected, as the hill was covered by loose shale, and quite steep in parts, but at last we reached the summit. There, someone had biult a little Jenga-like structure of stones - we added a few stones of our own, and turned to savour the view. All around us, from horizon to horizon, the undulating sand of the desert was pierced by rocky outcroppings - the moon bathed this landscape in a soft, silvery light.
Tyson started down the hill, and I, a bit reluctantly, followed. In the meantime, Tom had started gathering wood to make a fire - shortly, we had a nice little blaze throwing bronze and gold into the black and silver of the night. Alas, we had sent the only stove we had brought back to London with Tom back in Turkey - our feast that night consisted of instant noodles. With dinner done, we gazed at the bright, starry sky, crawled into our tents, and passed out, cooled by the gentle desert breeze.
The next day, we rose with the sun, broke camp, and set off down the road towards Dongola. More washboard and sand, but now the rocky landscape gave way to the dunes of the desert, and the more hospitable verdant shores of the Nile. Early on, we passed through a quiet little village - squat mud-brick houses hid behind squat mud-brick walls - the only colour being the doors - these were decorated in unique patters of bright, bright blues, whites, reds, and yellows. Every now and then I passed a Sudanese gentleman or lady - all of them, without fail, waved at my passing. I felt priviledged to bear witness to their lives - to seemingly pass through time as well as space and visit these people living much like their predecessors of centuries past.
A few towns later, I lost sight of Tyson for the first time. I had been following some distance behind him again, as the dust and sand he was kicking up obscured the road. I saw him make a turn, then nothing. Tom and I headed on along the road indicated by the Garmin, expecting Tyson to have done the same. 10 minutes passed... then 20... still no sign of Tyson. We made for a small town along the main road, and headed for the downtown area to see if he had stopped there for some breakfast. Not finding him there, I texted him on my cell... 5 minutes later, we established his location further along the road. Much further. The ride there took us almost 15 minutes, and when we finally got there, Tyson was sitting on the steps of a school building, drinking a tea with some locals.
Apparently, Tyson had found his way to a portion of tarmaced road - the Sudanese government was building a paved road between Wadi Halfa and Dongla in piecemeal fashion - and hoofed it. The tosser had even had breakfast, offered him by the locals, and had taught that morning's English class to the Sudanese children. I can't say I was all that pleased - after all, Tyson had insisted on the need to stay together when Tom had raced ahead in Romania and Bulgaria. Nonetheless, when Tyson had finished his tea, we prepared to set off. Tyson left first, followed shortly by Tom. As they left, the schoolteacher cased me down, and pressed a bag of flatbreads into my hand. "For you - breakfast." He said. I thanked him, handed him some of the Canadian pencils I had on me, and set of myself to catch up with the others. By now, they were far ahead of me - all I cold see were a few plumes of dust on the horizon, and I raced towards them on the road, dodging rocks, skidding across gravel, and plowing through sandy ruts. Each time I came upon a dust plume, it proved to be neither Tom nor Tyson - I became increasedingly concerned that I may have missed them turing off at some point. The piecemeal highway paralleled the road, and though much of it was closed or under construction, it seemed possible that Tyson may have taken it and put much distance between us as a result. On the other hand, I was having a glorious time flying along the Nile route, making my way from town to town, passing the invariably smiling, waving Sudanese people... there really was only one way to go, and sooner or later, we were bound to meet up. And so, I started savouring my surroundings - slowing in town to say a few words to the locals, stopping to take pictures of my bike by the Nile. During one of the later instances, Tom pulled up behind me. Apparently, he and Tyson had indeed taken the unfinished highway. Noticing my absence, Tom had turned back, and made his way onto the Nile road to find me. And so we set off to find Tyson. Again.
I think both of us had expected Tyson to stop somewhere close by - after all, he wasn't being followed by either of us. It wasn't until some time later, however, that we finally came upon him - on a stretch of road that broke from the Nile to pass through the desert. None of us was particularly pleased by the turn of events, but as noon was rapidly approaching, and with it, the sweltering heat of midday, we made plans to head to the next town (Delgo) for some lunch, and a shady spot to rest in. On the way there, Tom dropped his bike in some particularly deep fesh-fesh (very fine sand - riding through it is like riding through water), but finally we made it... though closer to 1:00 than 12:00.
When we got into town, we were all thirsy, hungry, and tired. Tyson set off to find some gas - I went to find some drinks. Apparently, both of us cleaned out the town - Tyson of petrol, and I of Fantas. We then hit the only open restaurant in town for some lunch.
As we were finishing or meal, a gentleman in arabic robes sat down beside us, and struck up a conversation. Where were we from? What were we doing here? What did we think of Sudan? Of Delgo? He told us he was an engineer, born of Delgo, who was visiting his family after a protracted employment in Saudi Arabia. In essence, he was an ex-pat - he had associated with some politically unpolular groups in university, and was essentially blacklisted from working in Sudan. He proceeded to talk to us about Sudan's many problems - Darfur, the civil war with the SPLM/SPLA, the widespread ethnic tensions, and the shaky political situation. His openness was astonishing - though perhaps he, an outsider by necessity, saw in us, outsiders by birth, a certain kinship. In any case, we talked for a while, then said our farewells and headed off towards the Nile for a nap under the palms.
Honestly, I don't think we could have planned more scenic reststop if we tried. We arrived on the bright sandy banks of the Nile through a short path through waving palms. Camels paced languidly by the waters edge, and beyond them, the Nile flowed broad and blue, coursing around a few palm-studded islands. But the piece de resistance was the New Kingdom Pharaohonic temple of Sessibe crowning a hill on the other bank. We found ourselves a shady place under some palms, and lay down in the soft sand for some shut eye.
About 2 hours later, Tyson and I woke up, and began planning what to do next. Both of us wanted to see the Nubian ruins at Kerma. Tom wasn't nearly as eager as we when he finally woke - actually, he seemded a bit under the weather - but agreed to our plan nonetheless. And so we set off once more. This time, we found our way to the unfinished highway rather quickly. However, it soon petered out, and we were forced to detour once more. Tom was leading, and broke right through some deep sand back to the Nile road. Tyson followed some ways behind, and then it was my turn. Here, my problems in the sand returned. I ended up dropping my bike twice - both times, Tyson had to help me right the damn thing as my knee still wouldn't have me pick the bike up on my own. In the end, Tyson drove my bike out of the deepest part of it, and we rode off down the Nile road to meet up with Tom. Or so we thought. We kept going and going... no Tom. We did, however, see evidence of his passing - we could see the familiar marks of the Duro tires in the sand, and evidence of at least one major drop. But no Tom. And so we rode on, hoping to overtake him, or at least meet up with him in Kerma.
On the way, we came to a particularly hairy bit of sand. The Nile road disappeared into a wash of fesh-fesh, criss-crossed by deep ruts. Tyson and I gingerly made our way into the fine, powdery mess, and soon Tyson had his bike mired in the stuff. He got off and walked his bike out as I snapped a few shots. Getting back on, he spied a route out of the deepest portion, and started across a track of ruts.
What happened next was frightenning to behold. Apparently thinking the ruts to be entirely composed of fesh-fesh, Tyson gunned the throttle in order to blast through them with the appropriate momentum. Alas, the ruts were, at their core, hard, packed dirt. Tyson's bike launched into the air in imitation of Buffy back in Luxor - he must have cleared at least 3 feet with both tires before he fell back to earth, the bike landing badly and falling to the left. Tyson was pinned underneath, and for a while, I thought his leg might be hurt. However, he slowly got to his feet, and by the time I was beside him, he was convinced it was nothing serious. We did a brief assessment on his leg and thigh, but since there were no findings, and he was weight bearing with no problems, we decided he was good to go - at least for now. We wrestled the bike out of the rut, righted it, and pushed the bike across the track.
Then it was my turn. Instead of trying to get across the track, I decided to press on through the deepest part of the fesh-fesh. I had barely got 10 feet when my right foot got hung up in some sand, just as the bike lurched rightward through a rut. The right pelli caught my heel, the sand caught my toe... and the bike fell hard, the pelli pinning my foot in an akward angle. Tyson ran over and liflted the bike off - fortunately nothing was injured. And so we were off once more.
The road wound from one town to the next, alternating between washboard, sand, and fesh-fesh. As always, the landscape was mesmerizing - here green and leafy... there stark and rock-strewn. All the while, the sun wheeled overhead, making its way inexorably to the distant horizon. Just before sunset, the road widenned into a field full of tracks heading every which way. the Garmin, out of all proportion with reality, showed 2 roads diverging in common fashion - it remained to simply stay to one side of the field or the other, blasting along and through ruts hither and yon. Every now and then, a Toyota Hilux (and only a Toyota Hilux) would appear, careening from one track to another, either overtaking us or braching off on one of the roads many branches. Somehwo, Tyson and I got separated - hea headed off on one trunk, while I tore off on another. I just happened to look over to my right and spied him (or rather, his dust cloud) as he passed between a grouping of rocks. I had to wait until the giant berm of sand that had formed in teh field gave way, then doubled back and made my own way through the rocks. I ran into Tyson just as the sun was setting - we grabbed our cameras and snapped some pictures of the desert in he dying moments of teh day, when the light reflects off the sand with a warm red glow, and paints the sky in pastel colours.
And then it was off one more time. We were close to Kerma, and wanted to get a bite to eat before we hunted for a campsite on the other side of town. Also, we were certain that Tom would be waiting here, since this was our chosen destination earlier that day. How wrong we were. Tom was nowhere to be found, and our efforts to reach him on his cell were, predictably, unsuccessful. However, just as we were settling down to a particularly unsavoury meal of deep-fried Nile perch (a staple in these parts, for some reason), Tyson's phone rang. It was Tom, calling on a local phone, from Dongala. He had completely bypassed Kerma, and was now some 50-60 km ahead of us. We would meet in Khartoum the following day. The tosser. Tyson was convinced this had been his plan since the morning's problems - he had never been keen on ruin-hopping in Kerma. Ah well, it looked like ruin-hopping was ut of the question for us as well, now tht we had to book it to Khartoum the following day - nearly 600 km away.
With Tom whereabouts and dinner out of teh way, all that remained was to find a place to sleep. Easier said than done. my headlight was not at all oriented properly - I was illuminating trees and buildings, not the road in front of me as we wound our way along the Nile, looking for a route out of the city. However, the city would not let us go. Every stretch of road was lines with buildings of one kind or another, and the road was getting harder and harder to navigate as the blackness of night obscured the ruts and rocks in front of me. Finally we had had enough - we turned inland, hoping that the city would peter out towards the desert. We made our way along canals, down alleyways... at one point, we came to bridge where a mule obstinately obscured my path - despite me revving the engine, honking the horn, or yelling. Mule meets mule. I guess he must have considered Buffy attractive. In any case, I had to get off and slap the bugger hard across the rump before he finally moved on.
Soon we were driving our bikes along narrow paths bordered closely by irrigated fields. At one point, I dropped my bike again - Tyson's bike was kicking up a bunch of sand, and I was following quite closely so as not to lose sight of his tail-light. Of course, my headlight was reflecting off of the dust and sand in the air, making it seem as if I was riding into a fog. I hit a rut the wrong way, and the bike just tipped over. To my shame, I kicked Buffy for a second time this trip.
We found a suitably secluded field shortly thereafter, and set about making camp. We had just got our tents out of our pellis when an old man and a young boy walked over. Apparently, this was their field. However, they weren't upset at our trespassing - quite the contrary. They wanted to invite us to stay at their house! We insisted that we wnated to camp, and that we would not burden them - they seemed truly dumbfounded by our preferance for sleeping outdoors, but allowed us to camp anyways. We shook hands, thanked them profusely, and watched them depart.
That night we slept under the stars, in a farmer's field fed by the Nile, surrounded by palm trees. How many people can say they've done that?
The Aswan Ferry
Mr. Saleh had told us to be at the ferry docks by 9:30 to start the laborious exit process. Of course, we turned up late. An hour late, to be precise. Immediately, we were latched onto by a fixer - this guy was a legend. A former member of the Egyptian army and a previous employee of the Nile River Ferry Company, he knew everyone, and everyone knew him. We sailed through the process about as smoothly as could be expected in this chaotic, red-tape ridden country.
Finally, it was time to load the barge - a rather clunky old bit of barely sea-worthy steel that ferried everything from cars to refrigerators, clothes to office furniture from across lake Nasser and into Sudan. Apparently, there were to be 8 motorcycles in total ? our 3 KLRs, a KTM 990 and a Honda Africa Twin, an ancient Tenere (the classic bike for this kind of trip), and 2 other KLRs ? all of them making the trip to Cape Town as well. The KTM 990 and the Honda Africa Twin belonged to 2 Italians, Maurizio and Tomasso, who were travelling from Venice to Cape Town with 2 other gentlemen who accompanying them in a support vehicle. They were seasoned travelers, having ridden from Venice to Beijing, and toured South America on motorcycles previously. We had actually met these stalwart adventurers back at the Nile Hotel in Aswan. At the time, Tyson and I discussed what they might have in the back of their support vehicle in addition to the spare motorcycles - an espresso machine, perhaps? Maybe a sparkling, porcelain toilet, complete with velvety bathroom tissue? Almost certainly a pasta maker and a tomato press? The Tenere belonged to Steffen, a flip-flop clad German who had essentially re-traced our path through the Middle East on his own, and who had exchanged e-mails with Tyson in the past. As for the 2 other KLRs, they belonged to Sam Miller and Peter Loewen, two other Canadians who planned on making the ride from Cairo to Cape Town at a frantic pace. They had to be back in Canada by August 19th ? a schedule that makes ours seem positively lethargic.
All of these bikes had to fit just aft of the pilot house, on a narrow strip of deck. Getting the motorcycles on board was quite a feat in and of itself - we walked Tyson's on, while Tom gunned it, hit his skid plate on the gunwale, and skidded to a stop inches away from Tyson's beloved Rossa. We walked mine on as well, seeing as how the deckhands were none too pleased with Tom's boarding method. The Italians, on the other hand, made the whole thing look easy, riding up the narrow plank and over the gunwale like they did it every morning before breakfast. Bah.
In addition to all the bikes, there was a land-rover waiting in to board the ferry as well - Andrew and Debbie, a South African couple going home from a seven-year stint in London, were the drivers of this fine vehicle.
At 3:00 or so we finally boarded to ferry. It was scheduled to leave at 5:00, but nearly everyone we spoke to derided that figure - more like 7:00 or 8:00, we were told. Sorry, try again. How about 10:30? Yep - the ship finally left port at 10:30 at night - a full 5 and a half hours later than the scheduled departure time. And what a ride it was. The ship was absolutely packed - not only were the small number of staterooms completely booked (these were considered first class tickets), but every square meter of deck was packed as well (second class tickets meant spending the night on the deck). As the sun set and the ship set sail, people stretched out across the deck in a jumble of limbs and luggage which was almost impossible to navigate without stepping on some appendage or other. The night air was quite still and warm, and it was some time before I finally drifted off, but once I did, it was one of the best sleeps I have had on this trip. A breeze picked up soon thereafter, and the gentle rocking of the ship, together with the rhythmic slap of the ship's bow against the waves, was remarkably soothing.
The sun rose the following morning like a great red disk from beyond the hills and dunes abutting Lake Nasser. I leaned against the railing with camera in hand, savoring the moment, and wondering at my good fortune to witness such a rare spectacle. 3 hours later, I was back at the same spot - we were passing Abu Simbel, not 200 meters away... the famous temple was a spectacular sight. I could just make out the monolithic statues of Ramses III flanking the entranceway - the tourists looked like ants in comparison. Alas, the ship was moving quite fast, and soon the temple faded from view. All told, it was 17 hours before we pulled into Wadi Halfa in Sudan, and embarked on the next phase of our epic adventure.
Finally, it was time to load the barge - a rather clunky old bit of barely sea-worthy steel that ferried everything from cars to refrigerators, clothes to office furniture from across lake Nasser and into Sudan. Apparently, there were to be 8 motorcycles in total ? our 3 KLRs, a KTM 990 and a Honda Africa Twin, an ancient Tenere (the classic bike for this kind of trip), and 2 other KLRs ? all of them making the trip to Cape Town as well. The KTM 990 and the Honda Africa Twin belonged to 2 Italians, Maurizio and Tomasso, who were travelling from Venice to Cape Town with 2 other gentlemen who accompanying them in a support vehicle. They were seasoned travelers, having ridden from Venice to Beijing, and toured South America on motorcycles previously. We had actually met these stalwart adventurers back at the Nile Hotel in Aswan. At the time, Tyson and I discussed what they might have in the back of their support vehicle in addition to the spare motorcycles - an espresso machine, perhaps? Maybe a sparkling, porcelain toilet, complete with velvety bathroom tissue? Almost certainly a pasta maker and a tomato press? The Tenere belonged to Steffen, a flip-flop clad German who had essentially re-traced our path through the Middle East on his own, and who had exchanged e-mails with Tyson in the past. As for the 2 other KLRs, they belonged to Sam Miller and Peter Loewen, two other Canadians who planned on making the ride from Cairo to Cape Town at a frantic pace. They had to be back in Canada by August 19th ? a schedule that makes ours seem positively lethargic.
All of these bikes had to fit just aft of the pilot house, on a narrow strip of deck. Getting the motorcycles on board was quite a feat in and of itself - we walked Tyson's on, while Tom gunned it, hit his skid plate on the gunwale, and skidded to a stop inches away from Tyson's beloved Rossa. We walked mine on as well, seeing as how the deckhands were none too pleased with Tom's boarding method. The Italians, on the other hand, made the whole thing look easy, riding up the narrow plank and over the gunwale like they did it every morning before breakfast. Bah.
In addition to all the bikes, there was a land-rover waiting in to board the ferry as well - Andrew and Debbie, a South African couple going home from a seven-year stint in London, were the drivers of this fine vehicle.
At 3:00 or so we finally boarded to ferry. It was scheduled to leave at 5:00, but nearly everyone we spoke to derided that figure - more like 7:00 or 8:00, we were told. Sorry, try again. How about 10:30? Yep - the ship finally left port at 10:30 at night - a full 5 and a half hours later than the scheduled departure time. And what a ride it was. The ship was absolutely packed - not only were the small number of staterooms completely booked (these were considered first class tickets), but every square meter of deck was packed as well (second class tickets meant spending the night on the deck). As the sun set and the ship set sail, people stretched out across the deck in a jumble of limbs and luggage which was almost impossible to navigate without stepping on some appendage or other. The night air was quite still and warm, and it was some time before I finally drifted off, but once I did, it was one of the best sleeps I have had on this trip. A breeze picked up soon thereafter, and the gentle rocking of the ship, together with the rhythmic slap of the ship's bow against the waves, was remarkably soothing.
The sun rose the following morning like a great red disk from beyond the hills and dunes abutting Lake Nasser. I leaned against the railing with camera in hand, savoring the moment, and wondering at my good fortune to witness such a rare spectacle. 3 hours later, I was back at the same spot - we were passing Abu Simbel, not 200 meters away... the famous temple was a spectacular sight. I could just make out the monolithic statues of Ramses III flanking the entranceway - the tourists looked like ants in comparison. Alas, the ship was moving quite fast, and soon the temple faded from view. All told, it was 17 hours before we pulled into Wadi Halfa in Sudan, and embarked on the next phase of our epic adventure.
Adventures in Aswan
We awoke early the next day so as to reach Aswan in time to arrange for our departure from Egypt, and our entry into Sudan, via the Aswan-Wadi Halfa Ferry. We had heard that this process could take quite some time, and wanted to take no chances on missing this ferry for a second time.
We decided to take the desert route to Aswan instead of the Nile route, mainly because it was said to be shorter (and faster), and because the Nile route was trafficked by the Luxor-Aswan tourist convey - thousands of tourists bundled up in a convoy of coaches, escorted by the Egyptian police. There was no way we were going to risk being caught up in that gong-show.
And so we entered Egypt's desert for a second time. This ride was fast indeed - the road was sporadically travelled, and we had it fairly to ourselves. Tyson immediately gunned it, and pushed on ahead at some 130 kph. I didn't think that a great idea, since we had a long way to go with no guarantee of gas (and the KLR's fuel efficiency drops dramatically after about 100 kph or so), and the knobbies were still a bit wobbly. But hey, after a while I too was flying down the road, Duran Duran's "A View to a Kill" playing in my mind's jukebox (as it is wont to do). The desert was bordered on the West by a mountain range - the East was barren and vast. Every now and then, we'd see the remains of palm trees someone had inexplicably planted in rows alongside the highway - where they imagined the water to feed them would come from, I know not.
We drove through the desert for almost 4 hours, and, as expected, Tyson switched over to his reserve tank well before the rest of us. There was a bit of anxiety over whether he would make it in to Aswan or not, but we found a gas station soon after we entered the city. And then the gong-show began. First, we had to find the office of the agent handling our booking on the ferry - Mr. Saleh, of the Nile River Ferry Company. Easier said than done. Tom had copied some GPS coordinates off of Horizon?s Unlimited (a motorcycle adventure tourist information site), and we headed there first. What a disaster. The coordinates turned out to be located smack-dab in the middle of one of Aswan's souqs - the locals knew nothing of Mr. Saleh, or his company. A call to Mr. Saleh gave us the cryptic instructions to head towards "the large, famous police station - everyone knows about it". An hour or so, and maybe 3 incorrect (but large) police station later, we finally found Mr. Saleh's office. Actually, it wasn't near any police stations at all - we found it using the Lonely Planet guide, of all things. Of course, we couldn't do anything here just yet - we had to return our vehicle license plates, and get clearance to export our vehicles first. This brought us back to where we started - the traffic police station was located near the GPS coordinates we had first navigated to. Alas, we had to go to yet another traffic police station first, in order to certify that we had no traffic warrants outstanding. At this point, Tyson gave up. He was having some GI issues, and wanted to find a hotel ASAP - Tom and I left him to this task, and sped off on our own. This police station was hidden away in an apartment building to the south of Aswan - we spent about a half hour just trying to find the place. And then, when we finally arrived... it was closed. We were 10 minutes late. At this point, I was ready to snap. The temperature was unbearable, and it didn't help that my KLR's engine was close to overheating. I called Tyson, got the name of the hotel we were staying at, and booked it over. Parking my bike required me to climb another curb. I was so gunshy from my previous encounter that I barely got it over - no wheelies through the lobby this time around. I ran up to the room without unpacking, dunked my head under the tub faucet, and ran the cold water at full. Then I stumbled over to the bed, and passed out. Bliss.
The following day we attempted to complete our exit requirements for a second time. Tom was feeling lousy from the heat, so Tyson and I left him to sleep it off in the hotel room, and booked it over to the traffic police office. We got there at 8:00 am - more than enough time to get all the paperwork done by 2:30 (the time Mr. Saleh left his office), we thought. I got the necessary paperwork together and gave it to a local fixer - he brought it, and me, to the managers office, where I was told to wait. And wait I did. 15 minutes passed... then a half hour... then an hour... all the while, the manager and his coworkers/buddies chain smoked (under no-smoking signs), drank chai, and listened to music on their cellphones. The paper files just sat there, collecting dust, as they bantered away. Periodically, I would ask when the documents would be ready. Predictably, Ish'n Allah was the reply. And then, just as I was getting ready to break out some US dollars to help God along, a miracle. The documents were ready - we had just enough time to hand in our license plates (the process took no more than 10 minutes) and head over to Mr. Saleh's to buy the tickets and reserve our spots before he left for the day. Victory, at last.
That evening, we stocked up on supplies for our trip into the Sudanese desert - spam, canned tuna, some rice, a few instant noodle soups, and some cheese from La Vache Qui Rit. What a feast.
We decided to take the desert route to Aswan instead of the Nile route, mainly because it was said to be shorter (and faster), and because the Nile route was trafficked by the Luxor-Aswan tourist convey - thousands of tourists bundled up in a convoy of coaches, escorted by the Egyptian police. There was no way we were going to risk being caught up in that gong-show.
And so we entered Egypt's desert for a second time. This ride was fast indeed - the road was sporadically travelled, and we had it fairly to ourselves. Tyson immediately gunned it, and pushed on ahead at some 130 kph. I didn't think that a great idea, since we had a long way to go with no guarantee of gas (and the KLR's fuel efficiency drops dramatically after about 100 kph or so), and the knobbies were still a bit wobbly. But hey, after a while I too was flying down the road, Duran Duran's "A View to a Kill" playing in my mind's jukebox (as it is wont to do). The desert was bordered on the West by a mountain range - the East was barren and vast. Every now and then, we'd see the remains of palm trees someone had inexplicably planted in rows alongside the highway - where they imagined the water to feed them would come from, I know not.
We drove through the desert for almost 4 hours, and, as expected, Tyson switched over to his reserve tank well before the rest of us. There was a bit of anxiety over whether he would make it in to Aswan or not, but we found a gas station soon after we entered the city. And then the gong-show began. First, we had to find the office of the agent handling our booking on the ferry - Mr. Saleh, of the Nile River Ferry Company. Easier said than done. Tom had copied some GPS coordinates off of Horizon?s Unlimited (a motorcycle adventure tourist information site), and we headed there first. What a disaster. The coordinates turned out to be located smack-dab in the middle of one of Aswan's souqs - the locals knew nothing of Mr. Saleh, or his company. A call to Mr. Saleh gave us the cryptic instructions to head towards "the large, famous police station - everyone knows about it". An hour or so, and maybe 3 incorrect (but large) police station later, we finally found Mr. Saleh's office. Actually, it wasn't near any police stations at all - we found it using the Lonely Planet guide, of all things. Of course, we couldn't do anything here just yet - we had to return our vehicle license plates, and get clearance to export our vehicles first. This brought us back to where we started - the traffic police station was located near the GPS coordinates we had first navigated to. Alas, we had to go to yet another traffic police station first, in order to certify that we had no traffic warrants outstanding. At this point, Tyson gave up. He was having some GI issues, and wanted to find a hotel ASAP - Tom and I left him to this task, and sped off on our own. This police station was hidden away in an apartment building to the south of Aswan - we spent about a half hour just trying to find the place. And then, when we finally arrived... it was closed. We were 10 minutes late. At this point, I was ready to snap. The temperature was unbearable, and it didn't help that my KLR's engine was close to overheating. I called Tyson, got the name of the hotel we were staying at, and booked it over. Parking my bike required me to climb another curb. I was so gunshy from my previous encounter that I barely got it over - no wheelies through the lobby this time around. I ran up to the room without unpacking, dunked my head under the tub faucet, and ran the cold water at full. Then I stumbled over to the bed, and passed out. Bliss.
The following day we attempted to complete our exit requirements for a second time. Tom was feeling lousy from the heat, so Tyson and I left him to sleep it off in the hotel room, and booked it over to the traffic police office. We got there at 8:00 am - more than enough time to get all the paperwork done by 2:30 (the time Mr. Saleh left his office), we thought. I got the necessary paperwork together and gave it to a local fixer - he brought it, and me, to the managers office, where I was told to wait. And wait I did. 15 minutes passed... then a half hour... then an hour... all the while, the manager and his coworkers/buddies chain smoked (under no-smoking signs), drank chai, and listened to music on their cellphones. The paper files just sat there, collecting dust, as they bantered away. Periodically, I would ask when the documents would be ready. Predictably, Ish'n Allah was the reply. And then, just as I was getting ready to break out some US dollars to help God along, a miracle. The documents were ready - we had just enough time to hand in our license plates (the process took no more than 10 minutes) and head over to Mr. Saleh's to buy the tickets and reserve our spots before he left for the day. Victory, at last.
That evening, we stocked up on supplies for our trip into the Sudanese desert - spam, canned tuna, some rice, a few instant noodle soups, and some cheese from La Vache Qui Rit. What a feast.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Luxor - Tomb-Raiding and Temple-Gazing
Luxor. What can I say?
This place was heaven. I've wanted to come here since as long as I can remember, and here I was. Not as I imagined before I started planning this trip, but I was here nonetheless, and I was going to savour every minute of it.
The day started early - our plan was to try and avoid the worst of the sweltering Egyptian sun by visiting Thebes in the morning, then Karnak in the late afternoon. Hah. Even by 9:00 am, the sun was searing hot - the wind like air from a blast-furnace against our faces. We rode to the Collosi of Memnon, took our requisite bike pics, and then made a beeline for the Valley of the Kings. This amazing place - the necropolis of countless pharaohs from Egypt's New Kingdom period - including Amenhotep I, Ramses II, and Tutankamon, just to name some of the more famous ex-denizens. We traipsed around Al-Qurn, the residual pain in my knee all but forgotten. The entry ticket allows you to enter 3 royal tombs - we randomly chose Tuthmose IV, Ramses I, and Tuthmose III. The first of these was by far the most rewarding. Tuthmose IV had apparently died before his tomb could be completed - as such, the painting was only partially completed, and the pillars and walls rough-hewn in parts. But the depth, the extravagance, the measures employed by the engineers to discourage tomb-robbery were fascinating to say the least. We walked down 2 steep flights of stairs to a causeway built over a deep pit, and through a narrow (previously walled over) doorway in the far wall. The antechamber inside was beautiful - a deep blue sky, filled with golden stars, had been painted on the ceiling, and the walls were covered with images and heiroglyphics depicting the deceased king and the gods he would encounter in the afterworld. Down another flight and we were in a pillared hallway - a bit further and we were there. A massive sarcophagus, by far the largest I have ever seen, commanded centre stage at the far end of a second hall, its sides completely engraved with images of the pharaoh alongside gods and godesses. Isis and Nephthys, if I recall correctly. It was awesome to see this monolithic coffin in its intended context - stark, dim, and claustrophobic.
Our next stop was the tomb of Ramses I, which we reached via a long, broad flight of stairs. Not nearly as dramatic without the twist and turns of the first tomb, but the crypt was complete in this case, and the paintings were stunning. the air was hot and heavy, fairly smothering us as we trudged around the sarcophagus. Finally, we made our way to the tomb of Tuthmose III - the entrance was built high up on the side of the mountain, and was reached by a long steel staircase. We ascended it in the blistering heat of the midday sun, sweat stinging our eyes and pouring down our backs. The air from within the entranceway was stale, humid, and cloying, but we pressed on regardless. Similarly to that of Tuthmose IV, this tomb wound a winding course to the sarcophagus hall. Here, the walls were completely covered by hieroglyphics and images from the Book of the Dead - not an inch of wall space was left unadorned. They looked as if they were painted only a few days ago, so well preserved were the colours. I lingered here for many moments, braving the stifling, heavy air. The guard, noticing my interest, led me to a few of the side chambers (which were closed off and unlit, showing me the beautiful images embellishing their walls. These rooms would have kept many of the pharaohs treasures, which he would need in the afterlife, and the walls illustrated their usage. Finally, he showed me the inside of the sarcophagus - both the floor and ceiling were engraved with the image of the deceased pharaoh - the one on the bottom as he was in life, and the one on the lid as he would be in the life to come.
We left the Valley of the Kings, and headed off to visit some of the funerary temples nearby. The temples of Seti I and Ramses III were foremost on our list - the former was nearly intact, whilst the later has been famously depicted in many historical books on Egypt - Ramses III was by far the most extravagant of Egypt?s pharaohs. Indeed, his ruined temple still reflects its former majesty - massive colossal statues of the pharaoh lie in huge, awe-inspiring pieces about the massive forecourt.Unfortunately, the day was no longer young, and Karnak called from across the Nile. As such, we left the necropolis (without seeing the funerary temples of Hatshepsut and Amenhotep, unfortunately), ate a quick, but delicious lunch, and hopped aboard a boat for the short ride to the famous temple - the largest in all of Egypt. And what a sight it was. The complex was massive, and a good portion was relatively intact - the entrance façade, the stunning pillared hall, and many of the side rooms were well preserved over the vast chasm of time. The pillared hall was particularly impressive - I lingered long within the forest of massive, petrified trees as the sun began its laborious journey through the underworld. We closed the place down.
Luxor. What can I say?
This place was heaven. I've wanted to come here since as long as I can remember, and here I was. Not as I imagined before I started planning this trip, but I was here nonetheless, and I was going to savour every minute of it.
The day started early - our plan was to try and avoid the worst of the sweltering Egyptian sun by visiting Thebes in the morning, then Karnak in the late afternoon. Hah. Even by 9:00 am, the sun was searing hot - the wind like air from a blast-furnace against our faces. We rode to the Collosi of Memnon, took our requisite bike pics, and then made a beeline for the Valley of the Kings. This amazing place - the necropolis of countless pharaohs from Egypt's New Kingdom period - including Amenhotep I, Ramses II, and Tutankamon, just to name some of the more famous ex-denizens. We traipsed around Al-Qurn, the residual pain in my knee all but forgotten. The entry ticket allows you to enter 3 royal tombs - we randomly chose Tuthmose IV, Ramses I, and Tuthmose III. The first of these was by far the most rewarding. Tuthmose IV had apparently died before his tomb could be completed - as such, the painting was only partially completed, and the pillars and walls rough-hewn in parts. But the depth, the extravagance, the measures employed by the engineers to discourage tomb-robbery were fascinating to say the least. We walked down 2 steep flights of stairs to a causeway built over a deep pit, and through a narrow (previously walled over) doorway in the far wall. The antechamber inside was beautiful - a deep blue sky, filled with golden stars, had been painted on the ceiling, and the walls were covered with images and heiroglyphics depicting the deceased king and the gods he would encounter in the afterworld. Down another flight and we were in a pillared hallway - a bit further and we were there. A massive sarcophagus, by far the largest I have ever seen, commanded centre stage at the far end of a second hall, its sides completely engraved with images of the pharaoh alongside gods and godesses. Isis and Nephthys, if I recall correctly. It was awesome to see this monolithic coffin in its intended context - stark, dim, and claustrophobic.
Our next stop was the tomb of Ramses I, which we reached via a long, broad flight of stairs. Not nearly as dramatic without the twist and turns of the first tomb, but the crypt was complete in this case, and the paintings were stunning. the air was hot and heavy, fairly smothering us as we trudged around the sarcophagus. Finally, we made our way to the tomb of Tuthmose III - the entrance was built high up on the side of the mountain, and was reached by a long steel staircase. We ascended it in the blistering heat of the midday sun, sweat stinging our eyes and pouring down our backs. The air from within the entranceway was stale, humid, and cloying, but we pressed on regardless. Similarly to that of Tuthmose IV, this tomb wound a winding course to the sarcophagus hall. Here, the walls were completely covered by hieroglyphics and images from the Book of the Dead - not an inch of wall space was left unadorned. They looked as if they were painted only a few days ago, so well preserved were the colours. I lingered here for many moments, braving the stifling, heavy air. The guard, noticing my interest, led me to a few of the side chambers (which were closed off and unlit, showing me the beautiful images embellishing their walls. These rooms would have kept many of the pharaohs treasures, which he would need in the afterlife, and the walls illustrated their usage. Finally, he showed me the inside of the sarcophagus - both the floor and ceiling were engraved with the image of the deceased pharaoh - the one on the bottom as he was in life, and the one on the lid as he would be in the life to come.
We left the Valley of the Kings, and headed off to visit some of the funerary temples nearby. The temples of Seti I and Ramses III were foremost on our list - the former was nearly intact, whilst the later has been famously depicted in many historical books on Egypt - Ramses III was by far the most extravagant of Egypt?s pharaohs. Indeed, his ruined temple still reflects its former majesty - massive colossal statues of the pharaoh lie in huge, awe-inspiring pieces about the massive forecourt.Unfortunately, the day was no longer young, and Karnak called from across the Nile. As such, we left the necropolis (without seeing the funerary temples of Hatshepsut and Amenhotep, unfortunately), ate a quick, but delicious lunch, and hopped aboard a boat for the short ride to the famous temple - the largest in all of Egypt. And what a sight it was. The complex was massive, and a good portion was relatively intact - the entrance façade, the stunning pillared hall, and many of the side rooms were well preserved over the vast chasm of time. The pillared hall was particularly impressive - I lingered long within the forest of massive, petrified trees as the sun began its laborious journey through the underworld. We closed the place down.
Luxor. What can I say?
Pegasus Ain't Got Nothin' On My Mule
Well. I always did want a pilots license - and a motorcycle is certainly cheaper than a plane, no?
We had just come off of a 6 hour ride along the nile from a town called Sohag, where we had stayed in what had to be the dingiest hotel of the trip so far (not counting Emad's fine establishment). The ride itself was spectacular - everything I had dreamed it would be. The images seemed to have been lifted straight off of the pages of the Egyptian history books I had read as a child - within the nile floodplain houses of mud and palm bark sat like islands in a vast sea of unrequited greenery, the rectangular plots bordered by palm tree collonades. Beyond this verdant strip, which in some places stretched for several kilometers on either side of the nile, there was nothing but the desert - a desolate, lifeless land. The contrast was amazing to me - one could easily see how a civilization could develop, and thrive, in this land - an incredibly fertile strip of land proteced from the encroachment of others by a massive, desolate, moat of sand and rock.
And so, when we arrived in Luxor, towards which it seems I have been striving for much of my life, I was in a daze (certainly, the heat may have contributed, but nevertheless). We found the Amon Hotel easily enough - it was off a quiet side street in a place called Al-Gezira - in Luxor's west bank and just a quick ride from the storied nocropolis of Thebes. The owners generously allowed us to park our motorcycles within their garden - Tyson and Tom easily rode their bikes up the stairs, through the gate, and along the path to the designated parking spot. I had other plans (unbeknownst even to me, as it turns out). I lined my bike up carefully, asked T-Bone if I should gun it, and let 'er rip. My plan (if only that were true) was to launch my bike 5 feet in the air, do a somersault, wheelie through the doorway, and do a skid stop on the terazzo flooring, and put Tyson's and Tom's earlier stunt-work to shame. I managed to do only the first and third of these stunts. How, you ask? First, a milk crate should be placed in front of the stair and be driven over twice to weaken it to the point of collapse. Next, you should have a history of gunning the throttle whilst climbing curbs, using a heavy clutch to control all that power. Finally, you have to have a bum knee and feel the need to overcompensate for it in order to prevent a dropped bike. With all these factors in place, the final collapse of the milk crate will engender a sudden release of the clutch, and the concomittant transmission of all that power to the rear wheel just as your bike is in the perfect position for a launch. When you finally land, you should be in a monster wheelie, heading towards a very narrow doorway at some 40 kph. Hopefully, the panic-stricken photographer until recently occupying that space has by now realized your plan, and vacated the doorway. A very surprised Tyson certainly did, but stuck arond long enough to capture my moment of unexpected glory.
Actually threading the doorway, as I recall, was a very conscious manneouver, necessitated by the presence of a very solid brick wall. I can remember using my body weight first to help guide the bike through, and once inside, again to avoid a potted plant and statue, which were both just inside and to the left of the door. Unfortunately, the trajectory engendered by these movements aimed me directly at the corner of the far wall - my attempts to thread the bike between the corner and an adjacent pillar were only partially successful here. Buffy's tire and fender just missed the wall (I was on all 2s again at this point), but the right side of the fairing and the right engine guard both hit. As a result, when Buffy came to rest, her fairing had collapsed on the right, and her right engine guard was bent back far enought to have caused a dent in her gas tank. The brick wall bore the marks of this unfortunate meeting as well, as did an advert for a local balloon excursion company.
Surprisingly, apart from this she was in perfect working order - even the headlight emerged unscathed. Indeed, a few hours at a local mechanic's with a vise grip sorted out the bent steel, and Buffy was good to go. Perhaps even more amazing is that her erstwhile stunt-man driver, bum knee and all, dismounted his bike with narry a scratch. My knee was in no way aggravated by my climbing the curb this time around, as planned. As for the hotel - the staff spurned all my attempts to pay for the damage. I wonder whether the spectacle of my entry may have inspired their generosoty - perhaps they made a deal with Tyson to acquire his by-now famous picture. Certainly, in my travels around the city that day and the next, I realized that I had aquired a certain noteriety - "You driver of moto through door!"
We had just come off of a 6 hour ride along the nile from a town called Sohag, where we had stayed in what had to be the dingiest hotel of the trip so far (not counting Emad's fine establishment). The ride itself was spectacular - everything I had dreamed it would be. The images seemed to have been lifted straight off of the pages of the Egyptian history books I had read as a child - within the nile floodplain houses of mud and palm bark sat like islands in a vast sea of unrequited greenery, the rectangular plots bordered by palm tree collonades. Beyond this verdant strip, which in some places stretched for several kilometers on either side of the nile, there was nothing but the desert - a desolate, lifeless land. The contrast was amazing to me - one could easily see how a civilization could develop, and thrive, in this land - an incredibly fertile strip of land proteced from the encroachment of others by a massive, desolate, moat of sand and rock.
And so, when we arrived in Luxor, towards which it seems I have been striving for much of my life, I was in a daze (certainly, the heat may have contributed, but nevertheless). We found the Amon Hotel easily enough - it was off a quiet side street in a place called Al-Gezira - in Luxor's west bank and just a quick ride from the storied nocropolis of Thebes. The owners generously allowed us to park our motorcycles within their garden - Tyson and Tom easily rode their bikes up the stairs, through the gate, and along the path to the designated parking spot. I had other plans (unbeknownst even to me, as it turns out). I lined my bike up carefully, asked T-Bone if I should gun it, and let 'er rip. My plan (if only that were true) was to launch my bike 5 feet in the air, do a somersault, wheelie through the doorway, and do a skid stop on the terazzo flooring, and put Tyson's and Tom's earlier stunt-work to shame. I managed to do only the first and third of these stunts. How, you ask? First, a milk crate should be placed in front of the stair and be driven over twice to weaken it to the point of collapse. Next, you should have a history of gunning the throttle whilst climbing curbs, using a heavy clutch to control all that power. Finally, you have to have a bum knee and feel the need to overcompensate for it in order to prevent a dropped bike. With all these factors in place, the final collapse of the milk crate will engender a sudden release of the clutch, and the concomittant transmission of all that power to the rear wheel just as your bike is in the perfect position for a launch. When you finally land, you should be in a monster wheelie, heading towards a very narrow doorway at some 40 kph. Hopefully, the panic-stricken photographer until recently occupying that space has by now realized your plan, and vacated the doorway. A very surprised Tyson certainly did, but stuck arond long enough to capture my moment of unexpected glory.
Actually threading the doorway, as I recall, was a very conscious manneouver, necessitated by the presence of a very solid brick wall. I can remember using my body weight first to help guide the bike through, and once inside, again to avoid a potted plant and statue, which were both just inside and to the left of the door. Unfortunately, the trajectory engendered by these movements aimed me directly at the corner of the far wall - my attempts to thread the bike between the corner and an adjacent pillar were only partially successful here. Buffy's tire and fender just missed the wall (I was on all 2s again at this point), but the right side of the fairing and the right engine guard both hit. As a result, when Buffy came to rest, her fairing had collapsed on the right, and her right engine guard was bent back far enought to have caused a dent in her gas tank. The brick wall bore the marks of this unfortunate meeting as well, as did an advert for a local balloon excursion company.
Surprisingly, apart from this she was in perfect working order - even the headlight emerged unscathed. Indeed, a few hours at a local mechanic's with a vise grip sorted out the bent steel, and Buffy was good to go. Perhaps even more amazing is that her erstwhile stunt-man driver, bum knee and all, dismounted his bike with narry a scratch. My knee was in no way aggravated by my climbing the curb this time around, as planned. As for the hotel - the staff spurned all my attempts to pay for the damage. I wonder whether the spectacle of my entry may have inspired their generosoty - perhaps they made a deal with Tyson to acquire his by-now famous picture. Certainly, in my travels around the city that day and the next, I realized that I had aquired a certain noteriety - "You driver of moto through door!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)