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?
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