Rocking the Cradle of Civilization

2009-02-01T00:14:00.002-05:00

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...

A Straight Line From Misadventure to Adventure

2008-08-23T13:11:00.003-04:00

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?

Sudan Part 1 - The Comfort Zone is Well and Truly Ditched

2008-08-02T09:49:00.012-04:00

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?

The Aswan Ferry

2008-08-02T09:46:00.001-04:00

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.

Adventures in Aswan

2008-08-02T09:40:00.001-04:00

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.

Luxor - Tomb-Raiding and Temple-Gazing

2008-07-13T08:52:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-13T07:41:00.011-04:00

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!"

Egypt - Pathos

2008-07-07T12:39:00.008-04:00

Ah Egypt. I'd been dreaming of this place since a picture book of ancient history was first pressed into my hands. The monumental, towering temples, the claustrophobic mausoleums and sanctuaries, the colossal figures floating amongst the desert's undulating, sandy waves were visions carved into my mind like the cartouches on the massive, granite and alabaster stones. I wanted it all - the heat of the desert, the cool of the Nile, the magnificent constructions of nature and ancient man coexisting in exotic harmony. Could anything stand up to those expectations? Despite all my problems here, Egypt comes damned close.

Getting here was a ordeal in and of itself. We had planned on taking the fast ferry from Aqaba to Nuweiba - a supposedly hassle-free customs procedure on the Jordanian side followed by a speedy, relaxing hour sail across the Red Sea. The reality could not be any more different. Tom and I dived into the ticket purchasing office of ABMaritime, the ship's operators, and were immediately assaulted by the smells, the sounds, of a chaotic, unwashed mob. It was, as Tom put it, like a video game - at every step you had to dodge crowds of people, jump over puddles of water, duck past hanging electrical wires, deal with distractions, and find poorly marked queues... all to get the proper stamps to board the ship. One of the craziest moments occurred when an anxious father raced down the hall way I was in, trying to find a doctor for his sick daughter. Predictably, the only one on-site was out. As such, I decided to step in, seeing as how it was going to be me or no one. Tom valiantly continued solo, as I obtained a fragmented history, and conducted a physical exam.

We were finished all of the paperwork by 11:30 -ostensibly a half-hour late, given our prior research, but Tyson, who had been melting under the middle eastern sun, watching our bikes in the queue of vehicles waiting to get on the ferry, assured us that no ferry had arrived. And so, we waited. And waited. And waited. The hours ticked by, and still no sign of an impending departure. As the hours ticked by, the crowd became increasingly restless, and every now and then, someone would charge the gate. By 5:00 pm, we stated to get antsy ourselves, and decided to rush the gate as well, since our previous experience with middle eastern queues suggested that this might well be the only way to get aboard. Alas, we were turned away, and sent back into the queue (albeit the front of it). About 1o minutes later, someone with a walkie-talkie directed us to the gate once more, and we started towards them, the rest of the queue following behind us. There was some more confusion, and we thought we were going to be refused entry a second time, but finally, the guards relented, and let us (and only us} pass. In the brief moment the gates were open to let us through, the seething crowd boiled over. First one man, then another, and then yet another broke through the cordon of police and made a run for it. All around us, people stared yelling -the police at the stowaways, the stowaways at the police, the crowd at everyone. The police gave chase... batons were raised, then brought down hard... and we were rushed away from the scene - around a corner, past some parked buses, onto the pier, and towards the ferry, which lay docked at the end of the pier, it's ramp raised like the drawbridge of a castle under siege. Apparently, this was the last line of defense against the unwanted passenger. As we approached it was lowered, and we rode up only to be stopped just in front of the deck. Passports and documents were presented, and suddenly, there was chaos once more. "In or out" we were told, and I gunned my bike up the last few feet and onto the ship. Behind me, the guards frantically raised the ramp - apparently, the castle was under siege. We parked our bikes, made our way upstairs to the main deck, and got our first bit of food since breakfast that morning.

And then we waited. And waited. At some point during this interminable waiting, chaos ensued once more as the hordes of passengers assaulted the ship. It was like they were fleeing a warzone, and we were on the last ship out. The crowds with thick and teeming, noisy and obviously irate. At this point, the ship's captain found us, and directed us upstairs to the first class deck - apparently, there wasn't going to be much room to go around.

And then we waited... again. It wasn't until 8:00 pm that the ship finally started to move... and let me tell you, the cruise was far more than an hour. Had we somehow stumbled onto the slow ferry instead of the fast? In truth, the Saturday ferry had been cancelled, and as there was no Sunday ferry, there was a 2 day backlog on the ferry service to Nuweiba. Some people had camped out for days to be on this boat. Oh well, at least we were finally en route.

We arrived in Egypt some time around 11:00 pm, and began what proved to be the most time consuming, inefficient, and generally painful customs process one could possibly imagine. There was not a single computer on site, and everything was noted on pieces of paper of varying sizes and colours - we had to hold on to these all important scraps without losing a single one, and ferry them from one incomprehensible agent to the next... a manila file folder was generously provided for that purpose. Assisting us in this herculean task was an officer of the tourist police - he guided us from one booth to the next, deliberated with the agents, translated, and told us what we needed to do. The whole process was just dragging on and on... and then another hitch. As it turns out, the ABMaritime officer in Aqaba who filled out our papers had spelt my name wrong on a form (not hard to do in English, nevermind Arabic}, and nothing could be done until this error was fixed. And so the officer and I traipsed out of the customs zone, through the city, and into the Nuweiba offices to sort the matter out. Of course, the ABMaritime officials hemmed and hawed, refusing to reopen their records. Words (and cigarettes} were exchanged, and then, miraculously, we had our papers. Back we went to the customs buildings, and after a few more payments, we were done. It was now 2:00 am, and the whole, terrible process had cost us greatly. In Aqaba, the damage was some $1301 USD... in Egypt, it was more like $200. My reserves had been well and truly tapped.

Exhausted and hungry, we rode out of the port, and found ourselves a nice beachside resort to crash at for the night - it was the only one still open at 2:30 am. For some reason we ordered dinner, then passed right out.

The next day, I woke early and buzzed into town to see if I could find a diveshop that could sell me a new drybag and/or sandals. No luck. However, as I drove back to our resort along the highway, I witnessed one of the most sublime sights I have ever seen. Before me, a herd of camels was crossing the roadway. I pulled over to watch the incredible sight, cursing myself for not having brought my camera. They looked so noble and stately as they sauntered across. With each long-legged step, they would sway like velvet-clad models on a catwalk, their necks held high in the cool, sea air. I was mesmerized. And then, as they crossed onto the soft sands lining the roadway, they broke into a trot, and were off. What a sight, and what a privilege. I took off myself, and made it back to the resort in time for a quick dip in the Red Sea before we hit the road once again.

The Sinai desert was breathtaking. The sandy coastal plain was narrow, framed on one side by the turquoise-tinged azure blue of the Red Sea, beyond which the shores of Saudi Arabia beckoned, and on the other by a rocky mountain range. After a while, the coastal plain was crowded out,and we were in the hills,dipping and rising through crags and cracks, panoramic vistas opening and closing before us. We passed quiet coves and ruined castles, ducking for a time into a brilliant canyon painted in crimson, gold, and ebony. We stopped to take a few requisite pictures of wheelies, and after a brief detour during which Tyson's odometer turned past 40,000 kms, we struck inland towards Cairo.

Away from the bright blue of the coast, finally we were enveloped by the desert - enfolded on all sides by the wavy dunes and craggy rocks of the Sinai. I was exhilarated. This was everything I had dreamed of a desert to be-wide, broad, and bright. I loved the play of light on the sand, and the myriad of colours the desert displayed as the day grew long. I drove on, speachless, as we neared the Suez Canal. Here was the geographic divide between Africa and Asia - today we would cross over into a new continent.

Tyson was dead set on seeing ships ply the Suez Canal, and we diverted into the city of Suez to do just that. He had heard that since the desert encroaches upon the canal so closely, they seemingly float on seas of sand. I had my doubts the city would be the best place to see such a site, but we gamely followed - after all, the canal was a great work of nature defying human ingenuity with incalculable political and economic importance. We arrived, snapped some shots, and were off, having seen no ships at all. Ah well...

The drive to Cairo was manic. I was leading now, and it seemed that with each passing mile, the drivers became more and more insane. For one, it quickly became apparent that lights were for sporadic use only. Pitch black trucks would crawl in the passing lane, darkened vehicles would switch lanes with no apparent warning, and speeding cars would float up invisibly behind me, only to switch on their high powered beams at the last second, coupled wit a simultaneous lean on the horn. Once in Cairo, any and all semblance of order dissolved completely. Here, anarchy reigned, and the only rules to right of way were a) size matters, and b) the strength of many. traffic lights meant nothing, and I couldn't tell you what the many traffic cops we saw were there to do. We filtered like mad, weaving in and out of the mostly stalled traffic amid a cacophony of horns, yells and brake squeals. Soon, I actually started to enjoy it - this experience took every ounce of concentration - my whole body felt alive and attuned to the sights, sounds, and sensations of driving in Cairo traffic.

When we reached our hotel - Hotel Luna - I was invigorated, but a long day stretched ahead of me - tomorrow, my mission was to find replacements for all my lost gear, while Tom hunted down the much-coveted Sudanese Visa, and Tyson found us knobbies for the abundance of off-road riding which awaited us in Sudan and beyond. I crashed, eagerly anticipating a day in the manic streets of Cairo.

The next day, we decided to send our clothes off for laundry. Indeed, it had been almost a week since our last laundry day, and we were all running out of clean clothes to wear. Moreover, the heat of the desert was doing a number on our jackets - they were caked with grime mixed with sweat, and were starting to smell a bit ripe. With great smugness, I removed the pads from my jacket - I had forgotten to remove them in Istanbul, and was right pleased with myself for remembering this detail now - and handed my clothes over to the receptionist. Then, I went to the hotel's internet terminals to hunt down sports/camping stores in Cairo. A few hours later, I had a suitably impressive list, and prepared to venture out into the light of day. At the last moment, I decided to pick up my ATM card, in case I needed some extra cash. Now, where did I put it?

The answer hit me like a ton of bricks - the inside pocket of my riding jacket. It was in my "secret wallet" - the one that held my driver's license and a few larger American bills. I had been so pleased with my having remembered the pads my secret wallet was completely overlooked... heck, I had forgotten to empty my breast pockets of the bits of paper that had been accumulating there over the past few days. I had never had a secret wallet before this trip - Tyson had convinced my of it's utility sometime ago, in Turkey, but I wasn't used to having to remember it. In any case, the time called for action, not stupefaction. I approached the desk, and had them call up to the laundry room - it wasn't in my jacket. I asked to be shown myself (it's easily missed) - still nothing. I scoured the laundry room (it may have been dropped, or throw out) - more nothing. The laundry-room workers looked on, alternately amused and angry, until I had had enough. All of the pockets of y jacket were turned out, and it was obvious to me that someone had taken my wallet - likely for the $60 USD it contained. Actually, I didn't give a damn about that - the ATM card was all that mattered. But alas, it was gone. I left the hotel to go on my hunt, cursing my stupidity at losing the most important card in my financial armamentarium. I'll never lose it indeed.

My mission in the city of Cairo was only partially successful. I managed to find a good, cheap pair of sandals (Timberlands) and swimshorts, but drybags and gloves were a bust. Instead, I picked up a cheap knock-off diesel bag that looked pretty reflective ("should serve me well amongst the crazy drivers of Sudan and Ethiopia") and had enough pockets that I was certain not to lose anything ever again. Waterproof it was not, but I had spent an entire evening a few nights back duct-taping the thing to submission - I hoped that would be enough. I got back to the hotel quite late to hear that both Tyson and Tom had been successful in their missions as well - we went out to catch a late dinner, and they went off to do some picture uploading. I must admit, I was slightly annoyed - I had wanted to get up early, and hit the pyramids of Giza for a few hours before heading off to the pyramids at Saqqara, but reluctantly agreed at a 9:00 wake-up. Heck, I was so far behind in my own log at the time that I tought I could maybe get a post or two in myself. I got to bed at 4:00, and went to sleep excited at tomorrow's incredible itinerary - Giza by noon, entry into the Great Pyramid at 1:00, riding around the pyramids of Saqqara (which include the bend pyramid and the step pyramid of Dzozer [the first true pyramid]) between 2:00 and 5:00... followed by a ride along the Nile to Bani Suwaif. It was going to be a great and wonderful day were my last thoughts as I fell asleep. Little did I know that my trials until now were mere child's play compared to what was in store for me.

I woke at 9:00 on the button, and started getting my things together. We packed up and were out before 10:30 - almost record time for us. I was happy as we joined the sparse, early morning Cairo traffic, and drove towards Giza. Soon, the traffic began to increase, and within an hour we were filtering again. Tyson was way ahead of us, and since we couldn't see him by the side of the road, we pressed on to the Great Pyramid, which loomed above the encroaching city like the mountain it was. We expected to find Tyson waiting for us there... wrong. We waited at the main entrance... still no Tyson after 15 minutes. Suddenly, the text messages arrived in a volley. "waiting by the side of the road..." "where are you..." "going back to the last place I saw you..." "I've gone back quite a ways, and still no sign of you..." and so on. We sent off our own messages, and settled in. Almost an hour passed before Tyson arrived - it was now just past noon. Still on schedule, but time was a-wasting.

We got our tickets and rode up onto Giza Plateau. The Pyramids were magnificent, I thought. I had been led to believe that they were a let-down, especially because of their location (basically in a park in the centre of a sprawling city), but I thought them all the more majestic. Here was the indomitable ego of mankind projected 5000 years beyond his time in the shape of a mountain, forged over 80 years by hundreds of hands... in communication with the insatiable needs of one of the worlds mega-cities, growing, teeming, roiling across the supposedly inhospitable desert. Man-made mountains standing up to the onslaught of wind, weather, time, and man. I loved it.

As soon as we arrived, we hunted for a place to park our bikes, and get them in a picture with the colossal structures. One slender gentleman, clad in traditional Arab garb, made his way towards us, and helpfully directed us to a suitable spot. We took some pictures, Tom rode around a bit, and we brought our bikes to rest in the designated spots. I got there first, and waited for the cinematograpy to end. Tom and Tyson exchanged a few words with the man, came over, and dismounted their bikes. The man, who introduced himself as Emad, began taking us around the site - I assumed that Tyson and Tom had settled on hiring a guide. That was fine by me, I was just happy to be here. We were shown one of the Queens' funerary chambers, got a quick tour of the slaves' tombs, and were offered a camel ride. Tom seemed skeptical, but Tyson and I were game, and so we agreed. The price quoted was 180 Egyptian pounds - some $36 USD. Why we agreed to this price I have no idea - Emad just seemed so friendly and honest, insisting it was the student rate, and a big discount from the going rate. In addition, he impressed upon us that only camels and horses were allowed into the desert on the Pyramids' eastern edge, and we had really wanted to ride our bikes out there for the "Ewen and Charlie shot". Oh well, they had paid thousands for the privelege, and we were no actors, so camels would have to do. Only days later did I discover that the suggested rate was more like 30 Egyptian pounds - we had overpaid by 5 times. In addition, the benchmark by which all other services would be measured had now been set, and we were none the wiser.

The camel ride itself was actually quite a lot of fun. The so-called "taxi of the desert" was a bit painful on the bottom, due to its lurching gait, but the height, and the precarious perch, in these surroundings guaranteed a uniquely unforgettable experience. We trotted out to into the desert - Emad seemed to be shelling out quite a bit of coin to various tourist police officers scattered about the site. It looked like the "donkey and camel monopoly" required constant intervention to protect. We reached a panoramic viewpoint, and pictures were taken - some silly, some sublime - and it was back on the camels. By now, my backside was starting to chafe, but there was one more site to visit - the Isis Papyrus Museum. Whatever. We arrived, dismounted, and went inside. The place was rather small, and the walls were posted with half-rate papyrus paintings. Yawn. We were offered a drink (on threat of our host lopping his head off), shown how papyrus was made, and toured around the shop, our guide explaining several of the scrolls to us as we passed. And poorly I might add - I had had some exposure to ancient Egyptian mythology, and this guy was pathetic. I milled about trying to look as bored as possible, and noticed Tyson and Tom doing the same. We decided to leave, and were getting ready to go, when round 2 began. At this point, another, older fellow, apparently the manager of the joint, came down the stairs and invited us to sit wit him for a while. Tom and I looked at each other exasperatedly, and Tyson just looked pissed. He was just getting out his books to show us the reams of satisfied customers from every corner of the world... the echelons of satisfied companies for whom he has sourced papyrus and perfume in the past, when Tyson snapped. We were out of there in a flash, the managers protestations fading into the background.

On the way back to our bikes, we passed the Sphynx,which was actually quite small and unimpressive relative to my imaginings. At the bikes, we paid for the ride, and started planning our next step. We ad wanted to ride around Saqqara on our bikes, ut it was now fast approacing 3:00 - we likely would not get there until 3:30 or 4:00. Emad, wo had overheard us talking of the site before, insisted the entry gate closed by 3:00, and that, with him as a guide, we could get in through the backroads and stay as long as we wanted. After the Papyrus Museum, I was somewhat skeptical, but Saqqara was calling too strongly. Plus, Tyson seemed equally enraptured by the idea of riding our bikes around ancient stone monoliths - the deal was sealed when we got the price down from 300 ep each to 250. And then... another hitch. Emad wanted to bring one of the camel handlers along - Salouma, the handler with whom I had ridden, and whom I had repaid with my bottle of SPF 30 sunscreen (for all you dermatologists and dermatologist wanaees out there). Apparently, I was the designated driver for this kid - I guess he wanted me to return the favour. Remebering my experiences in Wadi Rum, I had serious misgivings, but Emad and Salouma assured me that he would dismount once we hit the desert. I had tem repea this 3 times, just to be sure. It didn't do much good.

We tore off from the pyramids, me with a passenger for only the second time, ever. We drove down back city roads and dirt paths, finally reaching a streatch of sandy ground. Salouma, contrary to what we had agreed, stayed on the bike as I skimmed along its surface. In front of me, Tyson almost bailed in a patch of deep sand - I stopped te bike, told Salouma to get off or I was going back, and forged over it. Having made it across without issue,I was quite pleased with myself when Salouma got back on the bike. We took off after the others along a sandy it of road. In front of me, Tyson careened in the sand again, but pulled through - I was not so fortunate. The bike slid out in the deep ruts, and dropped on its side, dumping Salouma and me unceremoniously to the ground. I quickly got back up, and with Salouma pushing, powered the ike through. Back on he got, and we caught up wit the others on a bit of road as it curved through the sand. Ahead of me, Tom was just starting his approach on a particularly steep hill of sand and garbage - this was apparently the backroad to Saqqara Emad had been tellin us about. He tore off at a good pace, and blasted his way up the hill, Emad standing on teh crest jesticulating madly. Tom almost made it, and with Emad's help, powered the ike over the last little bit. Then came Tyson. He got a running start, revved his engine, made for the hill... and stalled half way up, his back tire spraying sand to the four corners of the earth. After a few attempts, he got off, and managed to half push, half power the bike up the rest of the way, with Emad and Salouma pushing.

And now, my turn. I looked at the hill with skepticism. Both Tom and Tyson had basically destroyed the est approach - all the traction-providing garbage had been cleared, and the sand well and truly churned. I just didn't think it was possible to power through a dune like that - not with a fully loaded mule, at any rate. Nonetheless, I gave it a shot. I took a long approach, slammed the bike into second, and gunned it up the hill. As predicted, my ike sank into the pool of sand churned up by my compatriots. I brought my ike back down and gave it another go - this time at an untouched, albeit steeper, approach. This time it was gravity that did me in - the approach was too steep for me to make with the speed I had aquired... and the traction was only marginally better than the previous attempt. Plus, my bike was redlining. Damn. There was no way I was getting up this one. Tom came back, took my bike, and went with Emad to find another way in.

When we were all reunited with our ikes just beyond the sea of garbage, it was time to set off once again. From here on in, it was all sand, and I thought Salouma would be walking, as per our agreement. Fat chance. He took one look at Emad, riding high on Tom's bike, and insisted on getting on. I don't know why, but I relented. After we got going, I actually found it easier than I had thought - the knobbies were really doing their thing, and the traction was surprisingly good. We were cruizing along nicely, when I saw Tom stopped on a hill in front of me. As I approached, I looked down at my temp guage - redline. Good enough place to stop, I thought. Bad move. Altough the ike cooled down nicely, I had just happened to stop in a particularly deep bit of sand. It took 3 attempts, my bike falling twice, to get my bike out of there, and even then, my ride collapsed after 10 meters as the wheels got caught up in the deep stuff. Another attempt, then another... something was wrong with my bike. Although power was eing tranfered to the rear wheel, it didn't seem its usual strength... another drop. I tried to power my ike out - no go. I tipped it over, got it out of the rut, and tried again - still nothing. In fact, it seemed as if my rear wheel wasn't spinning at all. Oh shit. I lay the bike on its side, and tried the throttle again - it didn't even move.

At this point, I was sweating like a race horse, my mouth was parched, and I was oerheating in my riding clothes. The frustration wasn't helping matters, and I knew I ad to cool down, both literally and figuratively, or I'd be toast out here. It was blisteringly hot, and my camelback was almost empty - I threw off my jacket, tossed off my helmet, and made a beeline for the shade of some nearby trees, leaving Buffy laying in the blinding sun on her side. I sat and composed myself, taking small sips of water from my camelback and controlling my breathing. Shortly, Tom appeared, and the two of us surveyed my bike. It didn't look good. I held out hope that it was the drive chain, but I feared it might be the clutch, or the gearbox. I kept thinking back to that noise I had wanted Tom to check out at the Dead Sea - I had been fairly aggressive with the clutch in our cross-european adenture, and never haing driven standard before, imagined that I might have strained it then. In fact, I was never convinced of Tom's diagnosis of the problem as a vibrating dash. In any case, we had one more chance to rule out something that serious - Emad had arrived at the scene, Salouma in tow, and assured us that a road passed near to our location - we would head there and try to bump start the bike.

Our present task was to push a fully loaded KLR650 (a good 350 lbs) across deep sand to the swatch of trees under which Tyson was luxuriating, blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama. With Tom and I at the front, steering and pulling, and Emad and Salouma in the rear, pushing, we somehow managed to cajole the east of burden to the required location. Damn was I hot, and tired. And thirsty as hell. Tyson was chilling on a blanket y a little shack under a tree, sipping on tea. I stumbled over, collapsed to the ground, and drained what remained of my camelback. After similarly draining the glass of tea that was pressed into my hand y a weathered old man, I explained the situation to Tyson. His presumptive diagnosis - a urned out clutch, a la Uwe Diemar. Hope, wich some say springs eternal, dried up. This was exactly my worst fear, and here was independant confirmation. Bullocks.

What to do now? We resolved to try one final, desperate ump start by the side of the nearby road, and if that failed, to load the ike onto a truck and bring it in to Zagomar in downtown Cairo (the same place Tyson had had our tires changed). Hopefully, they could find the parts and replace them - we certainly couldn't do it ourselves. Emad had another plan - he said that he would call a pickup truck, but tat in the meantime, we should check out te pyramids (at least the closest one or two) while we were here. Later, we could try to bump the bike, and failing that we'd load it onto the pickup, and he'd take us to a mechanic. Apparently, he knew of one in the area, and would be happy to take us there - he seemed to imply that now that misfortune had befallen us, he would move heavewn and earth to help us. Now, we were brothers in adversity - the time for business had passed. Indeed, he had helped move my bike quite a distance, and seemed to want nothing in return, insisting that the agreed-upon price coered any and all contingencies, foreseeable or no.

Thus, we went off to explore the nearby pyramid, led by the weathered old man - the "guardian" of these pyramids. He took us around the site, explained (through Salouma) the markings, and the nature of te stones, and led us to the top. We surveyed the surrounding desert, which streatched off into the horizon speckled with man-made mountains. What a site! We were traipsing over the ancient tombstone of a god-king and here the horizon was filled with them! I was awestruck.

We made our way back to the ikes, had another tea, and set to pushing my bike to te road. This time, it was me, Emad, Salouma, and the guardian, straining to get the bike up precipitous, sandy inclines, and down steep, rut-filled slopes. What a job. Soon we were sweating and straining with the effort, the salt stinging my eyes. Nonetheless, we finally got the ike out, and slumped to the ground by the side of the road.

It wasn't long before the pickup truck got there - in fact, it seemed to appear almost immediately. As such, we never did get our bump-start, whatever good it would have done. We decided to go with Emad's mechanic since he was closer, and could at least tell us what had to be done. Thus, the bike was loaded onto the flatbed (for the first time) and we were off. We arrived in Gaza city, and I was struck by the similarity with India - 3-wheeled rickshaws plied the roads, and narrow, garbage-strewn alleys separated dilapidated concrete houses. Businesses were run from any manner of roadside structure, and animals (dogs, cats, cows, camels, chickens, and sheep) wandered aimlessly, and seemingly wild, along the busy thoroughfares.

The motorcycle shop was just one such an estalishment, in a small, three-walled structure nestled between two similar such buildings. The man came out and we explained the problem. He took te oil cap off and sniffed inside - that was enough for him. Through Emad, he conveyed that I had "caused a fire in my engine" by "giving benzine while open clutch and no walk bike". That's a pretty accurate description of how to burn a clutch. Also through Emad, he said he could fix it, tough it would require some time to find clutch friction plates of appropriate quality. He guessed the cost for the plates, labour, and oil to be 700 ep - about $140. I figured that to be aout rigt, based on the cost of our previous day's tire change, the fact that we had only seen one large bore engine in the entire middle east so far, and the fact that KLRs aren't sold outside of North America - high quality friction plates for a relatively rare (here anyways) japanese bike of greater than 500 ccs seemed a bit of a tall order to me. He would start looking for it immediately, and would have the part by 11:00 or 12:00 pm, Ish'n allah.

There was not muc to be done for it, and we resigned ourselves for a bit of a wait. Emat generously offered his place to us, promising a shower, dinner, and a place to sleep. We were amazed at his hospitality. All the while, he insisted we were his brothers - that he was inviting us into his home, and that we were to consider oursleves his honoured guests. After our experiences in Syria and Turkey, we were inclined to be trusting, and readily followed him to his home. There, we dined on camel meat, an oily spinach sauce, tahini, eggplant, rice and pide - easily the est food I'd had in Egypt yet. The shower was refresing, and invigourating - as night fell, we were happily seated on his couch, stuffed full and scrubbed free of the days grime and sweat, watching Emad as he played with his young 3 1/2 year old son, Karim. It was a touching scene, for he obviously loved his son greatly (though his daughter didn't seem to comand the same attention). As we sipped on tea, Emad offered us another surprise - late-night camel and horse ride through the desert to watch the pyramid Sound and Light show from te top of a nearby sand dune. Our eyes lit up. Coul he really e so hospitable? He would have no dissent, and pretty soon, we were brought downstairs to our waiting rides - 2 camels, and 2 horses.

Rock/Paper/Scissors relegated me to the camel, and at first, I was delighted - it appeared that I would be in the driver's seat, a far more comfortable place than riding in the back. Alas, as we left the city and reached the desert, the handler climbed up the camel's neck like a possum, and usurped my spot. Damn. Without my riding pants, tis ride was quickly starting to chafe, and I looke enviously at Tom and Tyson as they rode their horses proudly. Once in the desert, Emad let Tyson and Tom fly, and they galloped off towards the campfires in the distance. As for me, I found myself being treated as well - Emad told my handler to get down and pass me the reigns - I was now in charge. The experience of driving a camel is like no other I have ever had - I have ridden horses before, but camels were something else entirely. They litteraly towered over their distant cousins, and their trot, though slower than that of a horse, felt comfortably solid on the soft desert ground. Muscles tensed and relaxed under my legs, and I kicked my charge into a run. Magical! We raced across the desert at a cool 30 kph - top speed, I beleive - but it felt so much faster up there, on the ack of thius elegant, striding creature.

After too short a ride, we reached the campfires, were given a bedouin tea, and settled in to watch the light show on the pyramids. They looked so magical at night - black monoliths jutting out of a black inlet, surrounded on 3 sides by the twinkling lights of Cairo. Their blackness was deep and all encompassing - they dominated the landscape like no other structure I have seen before. And then the light show started - they were lit up in blues, greens, yellows, reds and purples in turn - a wonderous sight. We snapped pictures by the dozens, and then... it was time to go.

On the way back, I had the horse... and was eager to put her through her paces. She seemed more than happy to oblige, tearing off with the slightest encouragement. We galloped across the desertscape at a frantic pace, descending into a gulley - blackness surrounded by blacckness, surmounted by yet more blackness. It was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I had the most tenuous control on my horse as we rode at speed into a void. And then, from wya behaind me, Emad called me back. Damn. I circled around and waited. When we had rejoined the group, we went back into the city, and Emad's place for the final meal of the night - a camel stew cooked on a fire for better than 2 hours. It was delicious... but for the cartilage and gristle. Full and content, we sat against the wall in our appointed bedroom... and the bomb dropped. Along the way, we passed the motorcycle repair shop - poor Buffy was up on her centerstand, her clutch housing hanging off her right side. Still no parts - we would have to wait until tomorrow evening, since Friday was a holiday, and shops wouldn't open until the afternoon. Damn. Making Aswan this week was looking increasingly unlikely.

We had assumed, perhaps naively, that all this was part and parcel of Emad's hospitality. Alas, we were mistaken. As we sat there, full to the brim on his food, in his room, our belongings strewn about, 2 of our bikes in his hallway, and one bike disemboweled at his friend's place of business, he told us the cost of our outing... 400 ep. That was a very special rate, apparently, which he was offering to us only because we were guest in his home, and brothers in adversity... thus, haggling was unnecessary. Were we OK wit this? I was stunned. I dind't expect this at all. Certianly, I had entertained notions of how much I was planning on tipping him, but I was not prepared to consider this now. Neither, it seemed were the remainder of my party. All of us, Tyson, Tom, and I, nodded dumbly. And then Emad added: "Good. 400 ep each. OK?" Huh? Where did that come from? Had we really agreed to that? Emad singled us out. "Tyson. OK?" Yep. "Tom. OK?" Yep. "Yarema. OK?" Yep. Like lambs to the slaughter.

And so the night ended, each of us struck dumb by what had just happened.

We woke at 7:00 te next day. Our plan had been to visit the Cairo museum a veritable treasure house of ancient egyptian artefacts, including the famous Tutankhamen exhibit. However, we had decided, based on the previous night's events, to take matters into our own hands. We went to an internet cafe, and began researching local dealerships perhaps we could find the part ourselves. Indeed, if the ecanic had not found the part by the end of today, we would pull the bike and have it brought to Zagomar - a place we could trust. In the meantime, as insurance, we would see about getting a set of friction plates shipped in to Cairo from Canada.

By the time we had eaten breakfast and acquired the necessary telephone numbers, it was 11:30 - we were to be picked up at 1:00 pm sharp. We headed over to the museaum for a laughably short and frantic race through its massive collections - I made a beeline for the Amarna and Tutankhamen exhibits, Tom went for Tutankhamen and royal jewels, while Tyson hit the Royal mummies. Certainly, I was not dissappointed. The Tutankhamen collection was magnificent - everything was gilded in gold. Sarcophagi, wooden beds, entire rooms... everything. The funerary mask was stunning, and downright eary - I had seen it in picture ooks and television shows countless times, yet here it was in person, the boy god-king's countenance staring back at me, glittering a golden, ethereal aura.

And then, too soon, we were waiting outside for our ride ack to Giza. After a lunch of camel with Emad, we piled back in the car to see about progress wit the bike. Still nothing - he wanted until 11 pm (again). Now Emad took on an air of righteous indignation, and we set off for another motorcycle dealer he knew - we would have 2 agents scouring the city on our behalf.

We asked to get dropped off at an internet cafe, and put our plan in motion. We bought long-distance minutes on Emad's cell phone, and stared making our calls. First was Kahuna cycle - no clutch plates in stock... Monday at the earliest. Then we called A Vicious Cycle... Bingo! they had aftermarket plates on hand, and could ship them right away! Eric, the gentleman I spoke to figures a maximum of 6 days transit time - we would have the plates in time to make next week's ferry in Aswan! I passed on my credit card info, and the deal was done!

Thus reassured, we went back to Emad's place for a nap. I wanted to go back to the internet cafe, such that I could inquire about a tracking number... Emad's friend gave me a lift. We were hunting around for another cafe, the connection being down at the firsat place, when Emad called. Motorcycle dude #2 had found a clutch plate and was making his way over to Emad's, so he could be directed to the bike, where he would see if it fit. We raced back, and let my spirits soar a bit. Finally, progress! At the bike shop, my spirits sank again - the friction plate this guy had found looked like it was salvaged from a dump. Moreover, it didn't fit properly (it was slightly too small), and he had only one wit im - he would need to find the rest. Damn! But if that was it, that was it. We set off for dinner, and planned our next move. Was it better to go for the unknown,and install these plates, or miss the ferry,delaying our trip by one week, and wait for the one's from Canada?

Over a dinner of Khufta and rice, salad, tahini, and pide, another wrinkle was introduced into the unfolding drama. Emad, who had been on the phone the whole time, informed us that motorcycle dude #2 now wanted 2400 ep for the crap friction plates he had found - some $480. I nearly choked on my food as I struggled to contain my indignation. This was a ridiculous price, and I made that abundantly clear. Emad explained that the dude thought he had us over a barrel, and felt he could charge whatever he wanted, but he also suggested that motorcycle dude #1 was still out looking for a set of plates. "You can wait for the mechanic, or you can give the second man an answer. Watever you want." At this point, I started getting downright suspicious. If sounded too contrived - an exhorbitant rate, a mysterious "missing" shopkeeper who may or may not be able to get the plates... it felt like Emad was on a fishing expedition to see what we would be willing to take. I asked for the phone, called A Vicious Cycle, and was relieved to talk to someone I knew was above-board. Eric was better than his word, he had shipped the parts out a few hours ago, had sent me the tracking number, and even gave me a guarenteed arrival date. I hung up happy as a clam. That's it, I said. We could see what motorcycle dude #1 comes up with, but dude #2 can go to hell. If there were no clutch plates at the shop when we got there after dinner, we would pull the bike, and get Zagomar to install the plates from Canada. Done.

With dinner done, and a plan in motion, we went with Emad to see my bike, and the shopkeeper's progress in finding a set of plates. On the way, Tyson, Tom and I areed that 1000 ep, or roughly the cost of the plates from Canada would be the maximum we would be willing to pay before pulling the bike. Miraculously, when we arrived at the shop, a set of brand-spanking-new plates was resting slung over the right footpeg - opened wrappers indicating them as being "made in Japan" littered the floor. Also miraculously, te rpice was now 1000 ep - coincidentally,the same price we had agreed to in the car. Suspicious, I asked the shopkeeper what the price was, using broken arabic and mime, but Emad, who was hovering like a hawk, interjected. "1000 or 1100, as I said". Again I tried to go directly to the source, but Emad was circling. Oh well, they did kind of have me by the balls - especially in regards to the quality of oil they could put into the bike. Also, I wasn't completely certain this was a set-up, and Emad had one more tactic - he indicated that he might pay the 300 ep from his own stash. As our stuff was still strewn about his place, and he knew te mechanic better than I, I decided that 300 was decent insurance for our security and that of our possessions, and a job well done. The mechanic would need 2 hours to do the job.

In the meantime, Emad suggested we join him at his friend's wedding. We agreed... and stepped into the rabbit hole. This waqs a wedding like no other I have ever seen - I couldn't imagine a stranger wedding if you poured vodka laced with peyote down my throat. First off, there were no women present. Apparently, they had their own party a block or so away, and would join up wit this one at some later moment. Emad justified this by indicating that they would just object to the drug use, beer, and rampant womanizing. Men were alternately smoking hookas, toting cigarettes laced with hashish,or drinking heinekens - all the while the most bizarre music I have ever heard wailed in the background. Imagine, if you will, Trent Reznor playing his rendition of a Door's song on a church organ, with Haitain drummers banging along on more drums than you can count. The "singing" amounted to various men screaming into a heavily reverbed PA- and the whole thing was just loud enough to inspire a tinge of feedack. Meanwhile, the "bellydancer" arrived to a not insignificant degree of commotion, ascended the stage, and sat down in a chair by one of the band members. She just sat there, song after song, pulling on cigarettes. If her belly was dancing, it must have been a very subtle performance. And now the piece de resistance - someone had brought a horse into the party, upon which a baby dressed in white robes was supported - both baby and animal looked hopelessly stunned. These poor creatures were led, obviously against their will, through the din and commotion of the party. The Mad Hatter had nothing on this.

We left at around 1:00 am, and made our way back to the shop. There, my bike, finally in one piece, awaited me. I couldn't contain my glee - we could set out tomorrow and still make the ferry! Thus resolved, we went back to Emad's and prepared to bed down. Suspiciously, I had to pay Emad for te bike - he said the shopkeeper was angling for more, and he had negotiated the price to the 1000 ep we had agreed on. Whatever.

Despite all these issues, we ended up paying Emad 300 ep each as a tip for his hospitality - an incredible amount in a country such as Egypt. However, we were happy - we would rise with the sun tomorrow, and set out bright and early for an epic 1000 km trek through the desert to Aswan. It finally seemed as if our luck had changed - despite all the setacks, we were still on schedule! We went to bed with those happy thoughts, lulled to sleep by thoughts of the great adventure that lay before us, in Sudan. Good-bye Egypt! I exulted.

How wrong I was.

Jordan - And So The Trials Begin

2008-07-07T09:41:00.004-04:00

Well, I proised to fill you in on my happenings since we left Bulgaria, but alas, Turkey and Syia will have to wait. oth of these countries were absolutely amazing - my favorite by far, up to now, but the week beginning with our entry into Jordan until now has been so ridiculous as to boggle the mind. It honestly feels as if the wheels just fell right off the Jerry train... either I'm really starting to show my age, or I'm reliving a mythical odyssey, having offended some deity or other. Don't expect iambic petameter, however, or one-eyed giants, but hopefully, you'll find at least some amusement in my not-so-epic struggle.

It all began as we entered Jordan from Syria. Here we were, three intrepid travellers, entering the lands o the Bible. The scenery was (I think I'm starting to over-use this phrase by now) breathtaking as we rode trough desert hills in the fading light of day. However, we were heading to Amman and as a result I was in a bit of a funk - I was citied out, and missed our encampments. Also, we were bypassing Jerash and other amazing historic cities for the hustle and bustle, and chaos, of yet another middle eastern metropolis. And so, when we turned of the higway to get some pictures of our bikes as the sun set on the desert landscape, I charted my own path trough the sand... directly towards a gapig hole, hidden from me by the adjacent dunes. Seeig it at the last moment, I swerved and dumped my bike. And then I kicked Buffy while she was down. It wasn't her fault, but I kicked her anyways, and maybe, like the eponymous vampire slayer, she really, really didn't like it... I think that I've been atoning ever since, as you will see as my story progresses.

We etered Amman at night, and made our way to the city centre. I, and apparetly Tom, had been led to beleive that Amman was the prototypical westernized middle-eastern city - all modern glass and concrete, sweeping vistas and flowering gardens - but this was nothing like that. It looked shabby, run down, and rather grimey when we inally stopped to look for a hotel so much so that Tom was convinced we were in another city. A police officer found us then, and explaine we could not park the ikes on the sidewalk - he generously stuck around as we (slowly) unloaded our luggage and brougt it up to our hotel room, then personally directed us to a nearby parking garage where we could park our bikes. Once there, he even bargained on our behalf to get us a decent rate - very generous and decent of him.

We wound our way ack to the hotel, and started looking in the guidebook for some place to eat... in the process, we discovered that we had somehow decided to stay in East Amman, which is home to thousands of palestinian refugees. We decided to head off to West Amman to see the modern half of the city... it was worlds apart. The streets were bright and wide, the guardrails of the highways were trimmed with LED lights, the shops were large and airy, and the uildings modernist constructions of limestone, glass, and concrete. I simply could't beleive that this was the same city as where we had just come from - the standards of living must defy calculation.

That night, when we got back to our hotel (a ordeal in and of itself, as none of us had bothered to remember the names of the hotel, street, or city district - the cabby who picked us up told us to say something like "because Illnini" or alternately "wanted Husseini") we decided to plan our stay in Jordan. You could cut te air with aknife, the tesion was so thick. Tom wanted to see the Dead Sea, and if possile, Jerash as well, in addition to Petra and Wadiu Rum. This was, he kept saying, the country he was most looking forward to, and he wanted to give it at least 2 full days. Tyson on the other hand, was worried about catching the Aswan ferry (the one we just missed in the aoe post) and felt that if we skipped Jerash and the dead sea, and made a beeline for Petra along the King's highway, we could shae a day off of our schedule, and leave some room or unexpected events. For my part, I wanted to see the Dead Sea as well, though Jerash was probably a lost cause, as it required some backtracking, but my real goal was Egypt - land of my childhood dreams. In the end, we settled for a compromise - we would veer off the King's highway to see the Dead Sea, make our way to Petra ad possibly check it out either that eveing or the following morning, then head to Wadi Rum, where we would camp before taking off for Aqaba, and the ferry to Nuweiba, Egypt. Basically, we had settled on 2 days... the room for error was gone. You may insert ominous music here, if that is your want.

And so, we woke early the next day, got our bikes, ad were on the road by 8:30 am. Our route took us soutward, along the Jordan river through a spectacular canyon with winding, climbing roads. I flet like I was a charioteer in Ben Hur, wizzing by the rock-strewn desertscape, flying past donkeys shuffling along on the shoulders under collosal palm fronds. the cliff gace rose dizzyingly above me, and I could almost see anciet scribes usying away on scrolls in the caves that spekled its sheer facade. And then the canyon openned up, reealing the Dead Sea and expanse of sapphire blue tinged with turquoise and the purest, crystaline white. The shores were encrusted with salt, and salt seemed to precipitate right on the water itself, forming paisley patterns on the currets and eddies contained within. We drove along in awe at the sight - we had each of us predicted the Sea to be fairly hidden by exclusive and swanky resorts, but no - after aout a kilometer or two of soem widely spaced resort hotels and beaches, it was barren as barren could be, but for a few desolate military outposts... whether keeping people out, or in, or both, I could only guess. Israel was a scant kilometer or so across the water - and Jerusalem a few kilometers more beyond that... history, and politics, weighed heay here. We bypassed the resort beaches, thinking that we would take a dip in more secluded waters further south, prior to the turnoff leading to the King's highway. However, the further south we went, the more muddy the beaches became, until the best option afforded us was to ride out onto the salt pan, and find a spot to enter the water there.

Now that was a blast! We rode off the hiughway, down a rock-strewn dirt road (no fireblades allowed) and thence, onto the mud of the salt pan. Man oh man, I loved it! It was technical riding, ut so much fun - I blasted by ike through ruts, over rocks, around trees, up muddy terraces... we finally came to a rest about 100 meters from the water, a short jaunt across the mud and salt. After taking copious shots of my bike, I changed into my swimsuit, and made for the water. 3 locals were already there, and preparing to get in - they were fasciunated by oiur bikes, and the story of our journey. One of them took off his shoes, and started into the water. I thought he was putting on a show, for he verilly ran in, kicking his feet up like a marrionnette, ad shreiking all the way. Bizarre. When Tom did the same on his run in, I started to wondering. I went next, and as my feet hit the groiund, I finally realized what the fuss was all about - you could not design a more painful experience if you tried. The mud was deep and was searingly hot - my feet were scalded each time they sunk into it, and I finally realized why lobsters shreik the way they do. On top of this, the mud was encrusted througout with salt crystals as big as rocks - their shart facets cut my skin with each step, and soon, my feet were as lacerated as if I had walked through barbed wire. And then... the water. Although it stang my woulds, it felt incredibly good - it was as warm as bath water, and had an almost oily consistecy due to the high salt content. I immersed myself in it, and whammo! my feet popped right back out like a couple of corks. What an experience! The water was so bouyant, it was actually difficult to walk in - I was floating around on my stomach, feet and arms splayed out and out of the water, and my face was one dry! I did a few log rolls, a couple of twists... all the while, I just lay there, floating just at the surface of the water! The experiece was actually, at least in my mind, well worth the pain of entry, and of the impending exit as well.

You may be wondering in what way this experience can be construed as a struggle. Well, hold your horses - I'm getting to that. Even Odysseus had his scenic boat rides, no?

We exitted the Dead Sea in another agonizing exposition, tended our wounds, chaged, and mounted our steeds once more. Our goal now was the King's highway, one of the world's most spectacular roadways, passing as it does through the mountains and valleys ranging from Syria to the Red Sea. First, however, we stopped at a service station to get some supplies.

I had been noticing a strange sound in Buffy's motor each time I opened the throttle, and asked Tom to check it out for me. I gave him the keys, having taken my gloves and helmet off, and he took off down the road. I went to sit with yson under the awning, and awaited his return. Some kids were milling around us, and we exchaged names, and struck up a conversation in pidgeon english and arabic, and various overly exagerated hand motions. Tom came back, and not having hear anything out of the ordinary, we sat there for a while, eating snacks and drinking Fantas (our drink of choice in the hot middle eastern sun). I got up, went inside to buy some more snacks, and returned to a veritable uproar. While I was inside, some other kids had shown up, and apparently, that was all the spark it took to set our previously amicable friends off. Now, Tyson was arguing with one of them over his knife - it had mysteriously aished from where he had placed it. Of course, they wanted money for it, ut Tyson managed to get it back by offering it upon return, and then refusing to pay up. Now, they wanted money for everything. Suddenly, it was time to leave. I went to my bike, they followed, and started gearing up. My gloves, however, were nowhere to be found. Glummly, I realized that I usually place my gloves on the panniers at a stop, and that Tom must have ridden away with them still there. We searched up ad down the road and quizzed the kids to see if they had picked them up - all to no avail. And so began my spree of losing items hiter and yon.

Dejected at having lost my favorite pair of gloves just as the riding was getting hot, we rode up into the mountains. I was lifted in my spirits by the sight of clous curling around jagged, rocky boulders, and the glorious vistas formed over millenia by earthquakes, floods, and wind in this aged mountain range. Canyons scarred the bright, weaterbeaten faces of gumdrop mountains, and bedoin plyed their calves and sheep across scrub grasses through high mountain plateaus. we rode through pass after pass, valley after valley, along mountai ranges... all around us, the landscpae strectched far and wide in resplendent, panoramic beauty. It was easy to see why these lands were so coveted by countless civilizations - their strategic importance in no way oversadowed their incredile beauty. The only downside of this ride was the people - some of the children lobbed rocks at us as we passed, or whipped us with ropes... Tyson even got dinged in the knee in one of these ambushes.

However, we finally made it to Petra as the sun was begining to set (after admission hours, however), and settled in for a early start the next day... but not before I recieved some bad news via e-mail that trew yet another wrench into my journey.

The next day, we awoke in Petra, and eelined for the ancient site. We parked our bikes by the police station, with the permission of the constable on duty, and entered the complex. The site was entered by way of a winding canyon fissured into the rock by an ancient earthquake - the base of the walls was carved into an elaorate series of catch basins no doubt designed to bring water to the complex below. We reached the treasury building just as the sun was breaking down into the canyon - the lighting wasn't as cinematic as in The Last Crusade, but we buzzed around te site taking shot after shot, experiementing with our camera setting trying to get the all-illusive money shot. We then ambled further into the complex - it really was an impressive site! A byzantine monastary was carved into the cliff face on one side, flanked by yet more rock-carved temples. Mausoleums dotted the cliffs, and the remains of roman-era temples and fori stood stolidly on the desert floor. We traipsed trough the mountains, leaping from outcropping to outcropping, and I couldn't help but be reminded of the Deccan plateau in India, and my traipsing through the ruins of he Vijayanagr culture. Fortunately, the end result was not the same, ad I left the site with all limbs intact and in proper working order. My bike, however, was not as lucky. Apparently, the constable on duty had not othered to inform anyone else tat we had permission to park in the police parking lot - when we got back, Tom's ike had been moved, and an angry letter was jammed in our mapcases. Morevoer, once we got going, I noticed my handling was off - the bike was wobbling at low speed. Quickly, I pulled over, and called to Tom for his pressure guage - yep, someone had let all te air out of my front tire. Whether it was teh police, or someone else, I guess I'll never know... but it certainly was a potetially dangerous and spiteful act.

We then headed back onto the King's highway, to Wadi Rum and my next trial. Wadi Rum is a famous desertscape - T.E. Lawrence stopped here on his drive to Aqaba across the desert, and we wnated to see if we could camp amongst the historic dunes. It really was a sight to behold - this was the desert to end all deserts. Expansive, wide, and all-encompassing, the sand poured and flowed about the road like water. The wind sent it flying, like ocean spray, into our helmets, throughout our clothes... I could just imagine Rommel conjuring up his tactics of desert warfare whilst envisioning ships plying the endless waves of sand. We entered Wadi Rum, but were dissapointed to find that we couldn't take our motorcycles into the desert. This was probaly just as well - the little bit of desert riding we did do resulted in my dropping the bike no less than 3 times - the KLR650 was a beast to hadle in the deep stuff... so vastly differe from the little 230 cc Honda I used to carve up the Mohave desert all those months back in California. Not to be discouraged, I tried a few more times outside the park, with varying results, but I was certainly improving, I thought. We were winding our way through a small Bedouin town when we pulled over to decide on our next campsite. Suddenly, a pickup truck pulled up in front of us, and a man jumped out of the cab. He yelled something unintelligible, went to the flated, and pulled out a blue bag. It was torn and mangled in spots - it looks as if it had been run over. I looked at it quizically for a moment, and suddenly, I realized what I was looking at... my blue MEC drybag, the one I had kept strapped to my bike. There's no way it could be called a drybag now. Moreover, I realized in panic that my sandals and swim shorts, which I had placed in a bag and strapped on top of the drybag, were gone. Suddenly I understood what had happened - the drops must have loosened the sandals bag, ad going over some of the speedbumps i town must hae jarred the whole ting loose.

I set the crew back to see if they could find them, and reattaced my no-longer-drybag to my bike. I then set off back throug town to see if I could spot them, or find someone who had, myself. Here, I was assisted by a group of kids who flagged me down just on the outskirts of town -one of them goit on the back of my biuke, and we rode through town - him looking at the side of the road and inquiring about the bag, and me, I guess, giving him a bit of a joyride. Alas, nothig came of this search, and I resigned myself to their loss. Damn - those were my favorite sandals - they were with me in Peru and India, including my trials on the Deccan plateau, and I was particularly attached to them. Ah well, as Tom said, they're on another adventure now, much like Dr. Sam Beckett in TV's Quantum Leap... in one fell stroke, he dated both of us.

By now, the light was fading fast, and not having the time to hunt for a suitable campsite in the desert, we headed off for Aqaba, to spend the night on the shores of the Red Sea. We stayed at a place called Bedouin Moon Village - we slept that night under the stars, the sea breeze cooling us, and the sounds of the waves crashing to the shore lulling us to sleep.

The following day, we had planned to catch the Aqaba to Nuweiba ferry - the only plausible route into Egypt which avoided the dreaded Israeli stamp (which would deny us entry into Sudan). W had some time in the morning though, and decided to fill it with an hour and a alf of snorkling. The Red Sea is famous for its coral reefs, and the myriad of sealife one can find nestled within and about - and rightly so. My experience was downright magical - I had dived previously in Tobermorry (in Northern Ontario), but never in tropical waters - this was just incredible. te colours boggled the mind - sparkling blues, vibrant, flashing yellows, crimson reds... it was all there. Fish flashed by not 3 feet away from me, sea anemones blew lazily in the ocean current like an alien wheat field, and spikey sea urchins crawled alog the sea floor and amongst the cracks and crevasses of the reef. I was actually sad when the experience finally came to an end, but Egypt beckonned. Just as I was leaving the Middle East to cross into the land of my childhood dreams and longings, so too did I hope to leave my string of bad luck behind, and settle back into the carefree groove of the first 3 weeks. Alas, I couldn't be more wrong.

Welcome To The Fall

2008-07-07T07:43:00.004-04:00

As you might have gathered from the blogs of my compatriots, I am well and truly behind in my posts - a good 2 weeks, by my estimation. This has a lot to do with my prefered posting style, which tends to be rather detailed, and chronologically ordered. I do apologize, but resta assured, the gaps will be filled in.

However, I am going to break with protocol for this one post, since it is an important one, and jump ahead to the events of 2 days ago - since many of you are appropriately most concerned about those at the current moment. Plenty of time for Syria and Jordan afterwards.

It was Friday morning, 5:00 am sharp, when we woke from a mere 3 hours of sleep in the cockroach infested attic apartmet of a Giza toiur gude. More on that later. Our plan had been to make the Moday ferry in Aswan to Wadi Halfa, meaning that we would have to be in Aswan by no later than 9:30 on Sunday, due to the extremely chaotic, and onerous, customs procedures - but we had been delayed by mechanical problems with my bike, and the associated struggle to find replaceent parts in Cairo's sooqs. So we had a long ride ahead of us as we set off southwards.

The first thing we noticed was the handling of the bikes. Tyson had spent a good full day with some mechanics at Zogomar, in Cairo, replacing our pavement-oriented Pirellis with off-road tires, which are studded with chunky rubber knobs. These tires didn't have early the grip of the Pirellis, and caused our bikes to wobble at or around 110 kph. As such, we were't making great time at all. To compound matters, Tom was haing problems staying awake, so we stopped at Al-Fayyoum for a coffe/nap break. The town's denizens were haing none of Tom's sleeping in their city - he had 2 men clustered around him, asking questions on where we were from, what we were doing, and where we were going by the time Tyson and I got back. Ad so we set off again.

Some time around here, my navigation got thrown out of wack. The Garmin's map had petered out around here, showing two lines (the highway we were on, and the highway we wanted to get to) fading into nothingness. The physical map was alright, but the roundabouts were getting increasingly chaotic, the signs increasingly unitelligible, and the roads more or less indistinguishable. Apparently, english subtitles quickly peter out as you leave major urban centres. As such, I decided to chance a route directly from our current position to the highway we wanted, ad took the crew southeast out of the city. Soon, we were on country lanes and dirt roads, passing through dusty egyptian towns, sleepy roadhouses, and verdant fields. I was actually ejoyig the scenery - this was rural Egypt at work - but getting increasingly anxious at finding a reasonale road to the highway. Projecting the line of the highway we wanted on the Garmin, we should have been coming right up on it, but the country roads just kept on going. Partly out of frustration, and partly out of desperation, I picked up the speed on my bike, shifting into 4th gear on a paricularly ice, tarmaced part of the road. Bads move. I had forgotten, or chose to ignore, the cardinal rule of motorcycling - don't ever let your emotions dictate your actions. Just as I was at my most distracted, and travelling at my fastest, I rounded a curve and saw a massive speed ump just up ahead. I hit the brakes - not too hard relative to Pirellis... but hard enough that I lost traction on the knobbies we had just put on our bikes. I went into a skid, which I managed to control at first, just as I approached the speed bump. I quickly thought "give it some throttle, and get your traction back!" ut it was too late. My ike hit the bump in a slide, and any remaining stability was lost. My bike leaned to the left, and I leaned to the right in an attempt to counter. No good. I felt the bike, and my left knee, hit the ground, and soon I was in a slide. I did a full turn with the bike, then broke free, coming to rest some 4 meters from Buffy, who did another full turn ahead of me.

I looked around, saw no traffic, and started to get up. Yes, I know you're not supposed to do that, but what can I say? The adrenaline was rushing, and I wanted to check out the bike for damage. Plus, nothing screemed in agony - quite unlike the fracture I had sustained in India - so I had a pretty good idea nothing was broken. I got up shakily, stood for a moment or two, took a pace towards the bike... and collapsed to the ground. My left knee had gien out from under me. "F*%K!" I yelled, then again. "MY F*%KING MCL!" I was worried that I had strained, or even torn, my MCL (medial collateral ligament, for all you non-meds-geeks out there), which keeps the medial portion of your knee together. If that were the case, this trip was over for me, and the situation could not have een more prevetable. I was right pissed. I sat on the ground, and quickly started doing the knee exam on myself, swearing all the way. Fortunately, there appeared to be no positive findings, except for some pain on pressure on the patella, and tenderness in my gastrocnemius. No laxity in the MCL, thank God. However, I was relieved when Tyson came over - some of the manouevers are far more sensitive when done by another party. I quickly told him my worst fears, and he set to work testing my ligaments himself - good news all around, but for a bit of crepitus on the grind test. Bah, I've always had crepitus there -I am 32, after all.

By this time, a crowd had gathered, seemingly out of nowhere, and was milling about. Tom was off to check out Buffy (only some scratches on her Peli, thank God), and Tyson, with the aid of some of the locals, was moving me off the road to a bench. Fortuantely, I was able to touch weight bear, and even bear some weight in certain geometries, so things were starting to look up from just moments ago. We got to a bench, and I took my pants (which had a tear along a seem just above my knee) off so we could do a full physical exam on my lower extremity. On inspection, I had an angry looking scrape over my patella, and nothing else, really. No punctures or wounds - really, it looked no worse, and perhaps even looked better, than some of the injuries I've sustained on my bicycle. Again, there were no significant findings on exam. Tyson and I cleaned the scrape with some alcohol pads, dressed it, and applied a tensor bandage lightly over the knee. Then, we set ourselves to deciding wat to do.

The adrenaline still rushig in my veins, I insited on getting back on the bike and riding to Aswan. I think Tyson and Tom were shocked out of their gourds, but they were stoic in the face of my insanity. I wanted nothing other than to get back on the road, and basically started prepping mysel for doing so, putting on the shin guards I had purchased in California which I had intially planned to bust out in Sudan, and getting my gear back on. Tyson tried to reason with me - "This is where you apply RICE (rest, ice, compression, elevation) right?" My response - "That's what the highway pegs are for. Hell, I can throw my foot over the handlebars!" Tom looked at Tyson worriedly, then piped in "How are you going to support the bike, Jerry?" My response - "I'll stop with my right foot." He continued "We'll probaly have to help support you at a stop, or at a turn..." Silence. Then, Tom asked Tyson for his opinion. They both thought that we should put my bike on a truck, and head to the nearest town with a hotel... I was still adamant at clambouring on my bike, though I was now talking about getting to Asyut, and checking my leg there. Tom tried again "Look Jerry, why don't you just try and get on your bike then, and see for yourself?" I was just about to do just that, when reason finally alighted on my brain. I thought, we're a team, the three of us, and I can't make these decisions unilaterally. Grudgingly, I asked both of their opinions, and finally relented. We were going to miss the Aswan ferry, and I felt right poorly.

The locals had also thought me daft to think I could continue riding, and had been motioning towards a pickup truck a it further up the road, apparently owned by some friend of thiers. Now here's were my experience really soured. Suddenly, we found ourselves haggling oer the price of the transport - the bidding stared at 300 egyption pounds. I'm sorry, but I've never been in, or helped out at, an accident where price was haggled over in this way. Sure, we were planing to offer some cash for the trouble of the transport, but this just seemed weird. Finally, we settled on 200... 100 of which went to the guy who made the phoe call to his friend. And so, Buffy was loaded up on a pickup for the second time this trip, and I got myself, under my own power, into the cab. Damned if I was going to let anyone help me there.

We drove down the road a few hundred meters, made a left turn at a small town, drove a further klick or so, and there was te highway. Man I felt stupid. So close, and yet so far... We passed it, and headed for Beni Suwaif, a medium-sized city about 150 kms south of Giza on the banks of the Nile. I was glum. Now we were going to have to spend another week in Egypt, our journey on hold as I convalesced, and as we waited for the once-weekly ferry to Wadi Halfa. The ride to eni Suweif was a long one - some 40 kms, and at one point, we lost Tyson due to some electrical problems. We also had a security escort for part of the way - the truck driver apparently didn't know the locations of any hotels. At one point, I though we were caught up in another scam, and hid my larger bills in my glove seruptitiously, though as it turned out, my suspicions were unfounded. Also during this trip, my knee and calf started ballooning - the long trip was starting to take its toll. I kept checking pulses and wiggling my toes, and tried to keep the damn thing in the air, which was akward in the cramped confines of the cab. What higway pegs would have done, I know not. In the end, we arrived at a hotel in Bai Suweif, the truck driver was paid (his flateed apparently hadn't survided Buffy unscathed), and I got carried fireman-style by Tom and Tyson up 3 flights of stairs to the top floor of the hotel - the only floor on which there was a vacant room.

There, I threw back a few more Advil and fell asleep for a while, in the hopes that rest might help keep the sawelling down. About a hour or two later, I awoke - the swelling was still there, and actually increasing. It was actually staring to hurt. Tyson and I, in true U of T Meds fashion, started to consider the most unlikely conclusion - compartment syndrome. Of course, the pain was minor, there was no paraesthesia, and my dorsalis paedis, never mind my posterior tibialis, was strong and regular, but no matter. We were concerned enough to walk down 3 lights of stairs, clambour into a taxi, and drive o to the local clinic, where I was placed in a wheelchair in a waiting room full of egyptians who actually had something to complain about. The guy next to me took one look at my leg, made a wrapping motion, and directed my attention to his own thumb, which he had very nearly severed with an axe.

For some dumb reason, I was rushed in to see the good doctor aead of all these people, which made me feel even worse for having come. He took a look at my knee, plapated around the patella and along the joint line, and sent me off for an x-ray. Tyson snapped pictures as we waited, and whe the films were done, the technician passed them over to us. Our 2nd year meds opinion - they looked fine. The docor concurred, and was abou to conlude the exa, when I asked about the swelling. Almost as an aterthought, he mumblled "Edema no problem". Well there you go. The whole thing, plus prescriptions (for Diclofenac potassium, chymotrypsin/trypsin, and a broad spectrum antibiotic) cost a total of 130 pounds. Wow, what a bargain. At least my mom will have some piece of mind in that my bones are structurally sound.

And so, for the past few days, I've been chilling in an air-conditioned room on the banks of the Nile. It could certainly have been worse, and I'm thankful for that - the trip will, hopefully, resume tomorrow.

Bulgaria (days 12, 13)

2008-07-02T19:29:00.003-04:00

We woke in Medgidia, and made a bee-line for Constanta. After a typically cursory look around, and a bite to eat near Constanta's bustling port, we took off or the Bulgarian border across Romania's flat coastal region. The ride as dull, if fast, and we made Bulgaria before noon. Bypassing the line, we pushed through the border with relative ease, and drove along the coast to Varna.

The coastal regions of Romania and Bulgaria were as different as night and day. Where Romania was flat, Bulgaria was hilly, verdant, and on a tourist-powered roll. We drove along winding roads which hugged the sides of cliffs as they fell away to the Black Sea below. Resort towns dotted the landscape - almost anywhere a building could fit there either was one, or would be one shortly. Real-estate offices were everywhere, and investment was pouring in.

I was truly surprised by Bulgaria. I had expected living standards to slide as we travelled through Eastern Europe, but Bulgaria was a marked upswing after Romania. It was neat, the drivers were (more or less) orderly, and the roads were modern, wide, and twisty.

We found a nice spot to camp on the Black Sea just outside of Burgas, and settled in for the night. I woke up early and grabbed a quick dip in the sea - no ill effects yet, some 12 days later - and headed off for Turkey. Our goal was Istanbul (an ambitious goal, by our standards, but a doable one). Tom had a plane to catch in Antalya, a town some 750 km south of Istanbul, in 2 days, and time was of the essence. Given Tom's undestandable anxiety over this schedule, the events that followed are predictable. He sped along the winding Bulgarian roads, and soon a gap had formed between us (Tom, Ted, and I) and Tyson - aided abd abetted by the slow-moving semis which often clogged up the hairpin turns. Tyson wasn't sure where the appropriate turn-off was, and ahd stopped at a gas station some miles back from us... it was some time before he finally realized his mistake, and made his way up to the rest of the team, waiting at the turn-off. And then nature intervened. Just as quick as in Hungary a few short days ago, the heavens just opened up. We sped to the gas station to suit up... and here, our frustrations came to a boil. Tyson just told Tom to boot it to Istanbul... which is exactly what he did. He sped off, the sheets of rain enfolding him... closing around him...

We waited until the rain had stopped some 20 minutes later, then followed after him. Our route took us through a protected natural and cultural district - more twisty roads, more spectacular scenery... but you've heard it all before. This stretch of road was another of Bulgaria's many surprises - it was an absolute joy to ride. The road was still slick in parts, and where the sun peirced the forest to hit the tarmac, it steamed - an amazing effect as we tore through the mountainous, forested countryside.

Romania (days 10, 11, 12)

2008-07-02T05:18:00.007-04:00

Romania was, in many ways, the first country in which our adventure began in earnest. In all our previous countries, communication wasn't much of an issue (I have a tenuous, but assable grasp of conversational German, which seems to work whenever English fails, and both Czech and Slovak bear enough similarity to Ukranian that I can get my point across eventually), the drivers were, for the most part, orderly and law-abiding, and the context and culture were familiar.

Romania was different. None of us could make heads or tails of the Romanian language, and our only recourse to the confused look was to add gestures and mimes to slow, fragmentory english phrases. As for the drivers... what can I say? We saw a few cars marked as student drivers in our progression across the country, and each time I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. It seems that the only extant driving rule is: "Go as fast as you possibly can." Moreover, everything from quaint horse-drawn wagons to lumbering semis, and smoke-belching Dacias (the Romanian Lada equivalent) to brand-spanking-new BMWs share one lane in each direction on some of the most winding, treacherous roads I've ever seen. Passing (or being passed) is a harrowing experience - cars (or motorcycles, semis, whatever) will swerve into the oncoming lane (be it on a straightaway, or at a blind corner) without notice, gun it, and swerve back into the smallest of spaces. I counted some 7 ambulances over the course of our 3 day trek through Romania - we even witnessed a crash only yards away from us when a car slammed into the back of a horse-drawn wagon (fortunately, he had slowed enough before the impact that no major injuries resulted).

As for the context, I have this to say - the Romanian countryside is breathtakingly beautiful. On the first day, our course took us through the rural countryside in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, into the mountains of Transylvania, and Nestled amongst the foothills were countless small villiages that looked as if they had been lifted straight out of the Ukranain storybooks I had read as a child - telephone poles were topped with stork nests; goats, chickens and cows wandered the streets; and elderly women - their hair covered with a cloth I'd always called a babushka - ambled between the wood-frame, whitewashed, thatch-roofed houses. The air was filled with the smells of the rural countryside - animals, straw, flowers and dust. Here, as we wound our way from villiage to town, up into the hills and back down again, we would stop to take action shots of our bikes rounding various bends - our bikes captured in a lean against sweeping, panoramic vistas.

This was also the day that we first lost Tom. He had gone on ahead of us, and as we had no definitive plans to meet anywhere we decided to stop after a while to have some dinner. Our thought was that Tom would eventually turn around, having not seen us for a while, and see our bikes parked by the road, in front of our restaurant (if it could be called that). 10 minutes passed... then 20... then 30... and still no Tom. Text messages were sent out and phone calls attempted - but we were unable to get a response. After an hour, we really started worrying... 20 minutes later, Ted went out to see if he could find him. not 15 minutes after tha, he returned, with a bewildered and upset Tom in tow. As it turns out, he had found a (better) restaurant of his own just down the road, and had decided to wait for us there. We ended up eating a very long dinner there (including one of the best desserts I have ever had - the truly mouth-watering papanasi. This was first described to me as a "heavy doughnut", and how could I say noi? Though heavy it was not, it certainly was tasty - picture a warm, light, fluffy doughnut with apple jam and fresh cream, and dusted with icing sugar. Wow.

On the second day, as we ascended into the mountains of Transylvania, the climbs grew increasingly more vertical, and the driving more treacherous. However, the vistas were awe-inspiring - it's easy to see why this place engenders so much romance, myth, and legend. Broad mountains are blanketted with lush, emerald green forests, and tiny medieval towns perch on their broad shoulders. The roads wind tightly from one to the next, thouh we stopped at only a few, and there only briefly - Sighisoara (the alleged birthplace of Vlad Tepes, the man behind the legend of Dracula) and Brasov - the archetypal medieval mountain town.

Brasov. Tyson had wanted to visit this town ever since he had read its description in Lonely Planet, and we were all looking forward to a lunch off its famous central plaza. Alas, fate intervened, and our visit had to be cut short... and our enjoyment forestalled by anxiety at the fate of one of our party. Tom had blasted on ahead of us some time before, and he had expected to meet up with him before entering the city. However, we passed sign after sign, turn-off after turn-off... and he was nowhere to be found. We half hoped that he had decided to leave us, and book it to Istanbul, since he was pressured on time, and half-feared that he might be pinned under some over-zealous semi somewhere. Thus, it was quite a relief to us when he called - just as we were about to check our e-mail for any sing of his supposed departure (the texts and phone calls still weren't getting through). As it turns out, he had set up for a shot at exactly the point which we had detoured around - this stretch of highway was apparently new, and signs still showed the way to Brasov as passing through a village, rather than along the main drag (which we hooked up with just a bit farther on). One can imagine Tom, his excitement at having set up a beautiful shot for us to pass through fading with each passing moment of our too-long absence. As he relates it, he actually thought we had stopped somewhere in a repeat of the previous day's events - he thus turned back and tried to find us... only to give up in frustration when we were nowherre to be found. We met up with him, all of us confused and upset, just past Brasov... and headed towards the coast.

We blasted down the supposedly toll highway (the toll booths had not yet been built) and ate up the milage from Transylvania to the coast. Here, we got off at Cernavoda to find a place to eat, and a place to camp, sine light was fading fast. We decided to drive along the river, and eventually came to a paking lot across from some factory or other, beyod which stretched a good-sized swath of parkland. This place seems nice, we thought, and Tyson went off to scope out a decent campsite. He came back about 7 minutes later, looking somewhat frazzled - he gone quite far inot the parkland, and had come across a pack of dogs - Cujos, all of them. They gave chase, but apparently, were happy to stay far enough back that Tyson thought they wouldn't pose a problem if we decided to camp. We were just entering a waypoint into the Garmins so we could find our way back after getting a bite to eat when a security guard from the complex across the street sauntered over. He was talking to Tyson, saying that we couldn't stay here - Tyson was doing his best to conviince him otherwise. He kept saying something about "stancia", and it slowly dawned on me that he was, in fact, speaking russian. About the same time, my eyes drifted over to a sign positioned just above the entry to the complex that I had somehow overlooked - "Stancia Nuklearenergia". Ah. We had decided to camp directly across from a nuclear power station - in fact, Tyson was still arguing that we should.

In the end, we ended up staying in a little hotel in Medgidia - a blue-collar town if ever there was one. Less damatic, to be sure, but just a little bit safer.

Our Blitz Through The Czech Republic, Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary

2008-06-16T17:53:00.005-04:00

Day 7

We roused oursleves, broke camp, and made a bee-line (as much as the route would allow) to Vienna. The distance was relatively short compared to our travels to date, and we arrived inVienna in midafternoon. Tom had a few issues to sort out wıth his KLR - the front-end had been wobbling at low speed for some time, and we had given up on finding the appropriate tool for tightening the headstock. Moreover, a stopover at a motorcycle shop just inside the Czech republic reinforced our worst fears - the bike might well require new bearings. We had a quick bite of dinner, which I predıctably followed up with some Kaiserschmarnn, or "Emperor's whimsy" - a dısh of sweet, doughnutty pasty covered wıth icing sugar and berry jam. I had had this dessert in a previous visit to Vienna (and far too infrequently since then), and had looked forward to having it again. It certainly didn't disappoint, but I have to say - the monks of Westvleteren still won out with their Abt. 8 infused ice cream.

We rode out to the outskirts of town looking for a place to camp - the Garmin had pointed the way to a park we thought might be a suitably reclusive site. Alas, it turned out the park was located in Vienna's industrial district -it was surrounded by aging and derelict factories, a rail spur, a highway, and a jogging route. As Tyson put it - if the site had only 3 of these, it might have been acceptable... but all 4? We headed back to town, and made our way to a camp site we had found online earlier that day.

Day 8

The next day, we sent Tom on his way to a Kawasaki dealer while we finished packing our gear. After a few unintended de-tours (we had given the Garmin to Tom, and hadn't bothered to make a map for ourselves, we met up with him, and had the bike looked over. As it turns out, the bike did require some work, but not the new set of bearings as we had feared. Releived, we set off for Slovakia, and thence Hungary.

The ride to Bratislava was a short and fast one - we passed a few older towns, but for the most part, our journey was uneventful. We entered Bratislava ın the early afternoon, and left wıth barely a second glance. Though regretable, given the city's rıch history, we had a schedule to keep, and Tom had a flight to catch in Antalya, Turkey within the week.

Slovakia was distinctly different from the countries we had previously visited. Here, it seemed as if things were frozen in time - Bratislava wore it's communist history on it's shırt-sleeves, so to speak, while the countryside bore an uncanny similarity to the villiages I had visited ın Ukraine, before the fall of the Russian Empire. The air was pungeant with the smell of freshly tilled soil and fertilizer, and the fields were cut in a strange, intriguing pattern I could not discern the purpose of. Somehow, thıngs felt honest - pure. All but the roads, that is - these were by far the worst roads we had drıven to-date. The concrete slabs of the highways barely fit together, creating a wash-board-lıke ride that was murder on our already sore muscles. I rode sitting far back on the chair, then far forward, then finally stood up on the pegs - nothing seemed to work for any significant stretch of time. Indeed, as I followed Tyson along the road, hıs left pannier flew of his bike, crashed to the road, and spun (fortunately) into the ditch. Ted and I managed to avoid it, and we came to a stpo by the side of the road - semis and cars screamıng by regardless. Turns out my lıttle locktite ıncıdent had some value after all - the vıbration of the bıke loosened the bolts holdıng the pannier to the bıke.

At any rate, we sorted the problem out, took a few photos, and set off agaın. We made ıs to the town of Sturovo, just across the Danube from Hungary, ate some dınner, and crossed over the Brıdge ınto Esztergom. The dıfference was truly shockıng. Whereas Sturovo was clearly stıll sufferıng from Communıst Wıthdrawal syndrome, Esztergom was flourınshıng - and rıghtly so. It was a spectacular town - perched on top of a hıll overlookıng the Danube's languıd bend was a massıve, jaw-droppıng Basılıca - The Church of St. Adalbert - the seat of the archbishop of Hungary. The town ıtself retained much of ıts renaissance buıldıngs, which were ın varıous states of restoration. I hıghly recommend a stop here, ıf you,re planning on visıting thıs part of the world - I'm convinced thıs part of the Danube ıs ın for some major changes in the coming years.

Day 9

From Esztergom, we blazed a traıl through the Hungarıan countrysıde to Budapest - Hungary's storıed capıtal cıty. I had long maıntaıned a wısh to eat some goulash ın a cozy lıttle Budapest cafe, and I was not dısappoıned. We drove ınto town through the suburbs along roads crammed wıth cars, tractors, buses, and semıs. I was surprısd at how quıckly the cıty came upon us, however - one mınute we were chuggıng along by squat, rustıc, whıtewashed houses - the next, we were on an access ramp to the maın thoroughfare ınto the cıty - whıch was utterly vast. I had ımagıned a quaınt, Prague-lıke cıty - thıs cıty had all the sprawlıng scale of Berlın. Although sıgns of conflıct graced some of the cıty's buıldıngs, the cıty's urban form, and most of ıts buıldıngs, had survıved the wars more or less ıntact.

We got lost wıthın the maze-lıke streets, and fınally reconvened at a small cafe - ıt must have left out of my ımagınatıon onto the Budapest streetscape, goulash and all. My dream fulfılled, we struck off for the hıstorıc centre for another quıck photo shoot before headıng off to the hıghway for the Romaınıan border. I'll say thıs about Budapest - I'm hard-pressed to recall a more dıgnıfıed, stately, and romantıc cıty. The hıstorıc centre, ın partıcular, ıs chock-full of beautıful buıldıngs - a real treat for any fan of archıtecture or hıstory. I, for one, wıll come back and gıve thıs cıty ıt's proper due ın the future.

After departıng Budapest, we raced towards Romanıa across the Hungarıan countrysıde. Fıelds and pastures blurred by ın streaks of green and yellow, under a steel-grey sky. The hıghway came to an end some dıstance from the border, and we hopped onto the web-lıke system of country sıde roads, passıng from town to town on narrow, wındıng roads. We were just lookıng for a place to grab a quıck bıte to eat when ıt started to raın. By raın, I mean sheets of water pourıng from the heavens - there were veritable lakes forming in the road after only a few short moments. We pulled to the sıde of the road, and frantıcally struggled ınto our raın gear - some of whıch, I have to admıt, I had stuffed ınto a rather ınaccessıble part of my liggage the prevıous day. As luck would have ıt, we had stopped ın front of a house - the owners of whıch ınvıted us onto theır porch for a glass of coke away from the raın. They even invited us insode, but by then, we were safely ensconed in our raingear, and the rain was finally starting to let up. And so, we were on our way once again, tearing off through the rural Hungarian countryside.
And then... it started raining again. This time, we stopped in a tiny little tavern - the only place we had passed that was open. The news on the telly (when it wasn't showing the Euro Cup game) was reporting on flooding in some parts of Hungary and Romania - just what we needed to hear. After a delicious and nutritious dinner of chips, chocolate bars, and beer, we were off once again - this time to find a place to stay for the night.

Blasting Through Bavaria, and Cruizing Across the Czech Republic

2008-06-16T11:06:00.004-04:00

Day 4

Thıs day saw some of the most exhilarating riding of the trip so far. Our plan was to ride one of the scenic routes indicated in Tom's atlas through Bavaria to the Czech border, and proceed from there to Prague, a much-needed shower, and a laundry machine. We had camped near Heilbrunn, at the start of the scenic route. We hopped on our bikes, powered them out of our camp site (I, of course, had yet another of my slow-speed drops while tryıng to power out of the deep mud and leaves) and hit the road. The two lanes together were no wider than a single lane of a typical North American road, and it wound and weaved a serpentine course round rolling hills and though age-old towns. It was bordered on both sides by impecably manicured emerald green fields - they reminded me of the surreal roads depicted in the movie Toys. We leaned our bikes hard into the turns, and opened up the throttle on the straightaways... perfect practice for the narrow, windıng roads I expected to find in Ethiopia, I thought - braking and downshifting before each tight turn, accelerating and leaning hard through the sweep, and powering out at the end. I was well and truly hooked.

We stopped for dinner in a small town called Bad Berneck, ın Northern Bavaria. Predictably, it was the sign "Biergarten" that lured us in - like moths to a flame. It was a cozy little hotel/restaurant, and our dınner there was fantastic. Tyson and I had a helleskeller each (a dark, bottle-fermented ale), and a local dısh consisting of various meats topped wıth a fried egg. Delicious! We finished off wıth a dessert of local strawberries and ice cream, and ended up purchasing the steins our beer had been served in. We paid our bill, left a generous (but in our minds, well deserved) tip, and were about to get on our way when the lady of the house, obvioulsy shocked by our generosity, ran out after us and pressed a flask of local schnapps into our hands - emblazoned with a picture of her guesthouse.

We rode on, and as the night fell, camped a short ride from the Czech border, in a dense forest along a side road... that turned out to be the driveway of a cottage. Fortunately, it was unoccupied at the time.

Day 5

The dense, mossy ground ensured a good night's sleep, and I awoke refreshed and invigourated. We packed up and hit the road, passing into the Czech republic ın short order. The roads through the mountains along the Czech-German border were at least as spectacular as those in Bavaria - passing through towns that looked frozen in time, winding along fast-flowıng rivers, and slicing though dark, dense forests and gorgeous fields blanketted with yellow and red flowers. These roads seemed to be quite popular with mountain bikers and backpackers - we roared by quite a few this day.

As evening approached, we entered Praha, and headed for the city centre. There, we booked an apartment through the info centre, including parking in a nearby parking garage, and set off to park our bikes. This seemingly easy feat turned ınto a 2-hour drama that saw us enter the loading dock of a grocery store, the wrong parkıng garage, and finally, the proper garage - only to discover that the access card we had been given was the incorrect one. Exhasperated, we decided to drop off our bags at our hotel, have a shower, and sort out the parkıng situation thereafter. The shower, you see, took priority - it had been 5 days since we had properly cleaned up.
At long last, scrubbed clean, and dressed in somethıng other than our (immutable) riding apparel, we sorted out our bikes, and hit the town for some dinner. The laundry, unfortunately, would have to wait untıl we found some soap - all the stores, and all the laundromats as well, had closed by the tıme we got around to this errand. We dıd, of course, find time to stock up on a selection of Czech beers - priorities, you see.

If you've ever been to Prague, you'll know it to be a beautiful, if maze-like city (on account of it's emerging almost uniquely unscathed from both world wars), bustling wıth a palpable, unrestrained energy. Tourists and backpackers were everywhere, and we mingled wıth the crowds to find a place to eat. Alas, it had taken quite some time to sort oursleves out, and all the restaurants we stopped at were closed - all except a rather prıcey one located right on Prague's main square. We were robbed blind, but at least we got something to eat. Our hunger thus stated, we went off to deal with our thirst - pathetıcally, it only took a few Czech beers before our road-weariness overtook us, and we headed back to our hotel... all but Tyson, who had been gunning for Prague since the begınnıng. He headed off alone into the beckonıng night... you'll have to ask him about that adventure yourself.

Day 6

The followıng day, I awoke to the sounds of a washing machıne faılıng mıserably in the execution of it's appointed job. As it turns out, Ted had started doing his laundry in the washing machine in our apartment - an Italian affair studded with a plethora of knobs, and decorated with a multitude of lights. For the past hour, Ted had been turning this knob or that, lightıng up varıous lights in turn - yet somehow, he had failed to get any water flowing into the machine. The floor, however, proved much more receptive, and was coated wıth a nice layer of tepid water. After some effort, we fıially figured the damn thing out, and got started on his load. It quickly became apparent, however, that we would have difficulty gettıng even his load done before our appointed checkout time - never mind the rest of us. I called the reception desk in desperation, and managed to get our stay extended by 1 hour. Frantically, we set about cleaning the water off the floor, and packing our gear - all the while Ted's laundry spun in the machıne. As 12 o'clock approached, his laundry still wasn't done, but we had to leave. I grabbed all the keys and hopped on my bike while the rest of the crew finished packing - I got to the office with 10 minutes to spare.

Our plan had been to tour Prague the whole day, but now we found our plans had changed. We had laundry to do (critically, I might add), an ordeal that ended up taking far longer than it should have. At any rate, we did manage to see the cathedral, and grabbed a few shots of us riding up and down the steep ascent towards it. However, the road called yet again, and we were shorty on our way havıng seen lıttle of the rest of the cıty. Then again, none of us felt any regrets - the road was where the heart of this adventure lay, after all.

We zipped out of Prague, and bolted for Kutna Hora - a UNESCO World Herıtage site just to the east. We arrıved just as all the stores had closed - dinner would have to come from a gas station convenience store. We tore around the almost-abandonded cıty on our bikes, and fınally headed back onto the open road. Darkness was falling, and we needed to fınd a campıng site fast. As nıght fell, we found one off of a side road of a side road - a sheltered spot amongst the trees between a couple of freshly tilled fields.

More to come...

From London to Heilbrunn

2008-06-09T12:11:00.009-04:00

As we enter Turkey, the 12th country on our cross-contimental journey (and the last European one), I find myself surprised by my experience so far. Having vısıted Europe several times in the past, I embarked on this trip expecting our ride through Europe to be fast-paced, and rather drab. Indeed, this portion of our trip was almost an afterthought - I had not picked up any maps or guidebooks for western or eastern Europe. However, almost as soon as we left Tom's place in Eltham, a town on the east side of London (were we were wined and dined in extravagant fashion), I was blown away by the experience of riding my motorcycle through the rolling hills and winding highways and byways of the rural european countryside.

Day 1

Our first stop was the foot of the white cliffs of Dover, where we had booked spots on the ferry across the channel to Calais, France. As we exited the M-20, and began our descent on the A-20, we were enveloped in a thick, typically British fog. With traffic stalled due to construction below, we filtered through (my first time, I must say), and made our ferry in the nick of time. The ferry itself was a monstrously huge affair, filled with transport trucks, tourists, commuters, and our 4 bikes. It plied its way across the channel like an iceberg, ponderously yet inexoribly. As we stood on the aft deck, watching Calais draw closer, I couldn't help but feel a shiver of excitement as the reality of our adventure sunk in - from here on, it was all land until Aqaba, in Jordan - the second of our 3 ferry crossings.

As the boat docked, we hopped on our steel steeds, and roared out of the cavernous hull onto our fırst bit of European soil. Fortunately, Tom had brought an atlas of Europe, and Ted had purchased a series of Garmın maps of Europe, so after a bit of confusion at the first turnoff, we were on our way, chargıng down the highway along France's northern shore to Belgium. Our fırst stop was to be the Saint Sixtus Abbey in Westvleteren, Belgium - the brewers of what is widely considered to be the world's best beer - the Westvleteren Abt. 12. I was determined to make it there in time to sample their entire line of Belgian ales (there are only 3, ın case you're thinking I was planning on getting blitzed), so our stay in France was brief. We did, however, stick around long enough to take a picture of a french cow or two.

We entered Belgium through the backroads, and high-tailed it towards Poperigne - the town nearest to the Abbey. The roads in this part of Belgium were incredible - lined by beautifully manicured shoulders with tall, slender trees. We wound our way through small Belgian villages at a decent pace, takıng in the sights and smells of the countryside. Wıth a bit of luck, we found the turnoff to the brewery - the side road was small, narrow, and unmarked but for a tiny inconspicuous sign pointing the way to the Abbey. If we weren't headıng there specifically, I couldn't imagıne us fındıng it.

And so we arrıved at the Abdij Saint Sixtus. Unfortunately, the Abbey and brewery had closed by then, so there was no chance of a tour. The restaurant - In De Vrede - was open, however, and we entered expectantly. Here was my chance to finally sample the hallowed ale from its very fountainhead. I went straight to the Abt. 12, not wantıng to taint my taste-buds wıth lesser beers. Ah... what rapture. The head was light and fluffy, settıng off the dark, rich, chocolate colour of the beer nicley. The scent was of raisıns, cloves, chocolate... but the taste was to die for. The ethanol was subdued for such a strong beer (10.2% abv) - perfectly balanced by the spicey esters and phenols of the fermentatıon process. The taste was of dark, roasted malts - almost caramel-like - wıth cloves and other spices roundıng out the flavour. Yum, yum. And yes - I did end up purchasıng a glass, which wıll take the place of honour in my cabinet upon my return.

But I digress. This isn't ratebeer.com, after all. However, I wıll add that the Abt. 8, while also a good beer, is just not up to the standard set by its more reknowned sibling - for one, I found it to be rather bitter. However, the restaurant serves an ice cream made with this beer that IS worth writing home about (whıch is, after all, what I am doing). The Blonde is actually quite a forgettable beer.

We had planned on spendıng the night amongst the hedgerows, in a Belgian field near the Abbey. What we didn,t count on was Belgium's dense population - there was no suitably discrete spot within walkıng distance of the Brewery (we aren't so irresponsible as to have considered driving, after all). Our solution to this dilemma was therefore to set up our tents in the parking lot of In De Vrede. Yep - our fırst campsite was a stone's throw from the brew-pub, pathetically sheltered by a single, small hedge. Perfect symmetry...

Day 2

We woke bright and early, and hopped on our bikes for breakfast in Poperigne - a small, quaint Belgian villiage with a beautıiul medieval central plaza. From there, our plan was to find the Commonwealth war memorıal gate at Ypres... although we spent 2 hours driving around the Belgian countryside, and saw various WWI cemetaries (including some those of some commonwealth countries, Belgium, Ireland, and even Germany), we never did fınd the actual war memorial. Wıth the rest of Europe beckoning onward, we grudgingly gave up our quest, and made for Brussels, and thence the German border.

Although we spent very little time in Brussles, but I wıll always remember our lunch there. We ate at a small tavern along the main North-South road into the centrum - I ordered ravioli. What I got was a can of Chef Boyardee, dumped ınto a bowl, and sprinkled wıth some random cheese. To boot, the TV in the pub was playing a movie starrıng Buffy (in one of her earlier, pre-vampire slayer roles) as the love interest of a motocross legend who takes it upon himself to train a bunch of kids how to ride dirt bikes so they could win their (uncle's?) farm from some leather-bound biker dudes. The kicker was that the guy's pet monkey turned out to be the best rider of the bunch, and saved the day for our burgeoning motocross superstars.

Thus motivated, we blasted out of Brussels, and took off for Germany. Our route took us through a sliver of the Netherlands, so I'm adding it to the list despite the fact that we were only in that country for a few minutes. As we exitted the Netherlands, and entered Germany's Ruhr regıon, ıt started to rain. The steely sky somehow seemed appropriate, given thıs region's storied industrial history - huge factories loomed on either side of the autobahn, interspersed by rolling hills. Our destınation was Bonn, and we made it in fair time despite the poor wheather.

Bonn is actually quite a nice city, with an attractive central plaza - where we had a bite of dinner on a patio. In typical fashion, we stayed just long enough for a few photos, and then it was off to fınd a campsıte for the night. Tyson found a park just on the outskirts of the cıty, and we set off. Night fell, and wıth descended a thick, damp fog. We rode down the highway to the appointed turnoff, then began a fairly steep ascent to the park - in the dark, and in the mıst. Our lights barely penetrated the blackness, and the roads were slick from the mist, but at last we made it to the top. We stopped, set up camp, and fell asleep in what we thought was a relatıvely secluded area at the end of the access road.

Day 3

I awoke to the sounds of kids playıng, and people talking in German - the sounds seemed to come from all around me. I got dressed, openned my tent, and looked out. Children were riding bikes in circles just down the street, whıle parents lounged by theır cars, engaged in conversatıon. As it turns out, we had camped wıthın spitting distance from a school bus stop. I was greeted by "Haben sie ein gutte nacht?", and sputterıng, responded "Huh?". Ted and I looked at each other quizzically, and finally, I managed a "Oui!". A morning person, I am not.

We had decided the day before to drive down the Rhine, a route that was supposed to be especıally picturesque. It was nothing short of breathtaking. I've ridden Highway 1, from Los Angeles to San Fransısco, and this rıde blew that one out of the water. Castles perched on almost every hill, and small, storybook towns clustered about the wide, blue expanse of the Rhine. It was exhilarating to zoom along the banks of this famous river, overtaking cars and accelerating through the turns, visor up, feeling the wind hard against my face. I could finally understand the almost cult-like devotion bikers have to their machines - my body and my bike moved as a single unit. Every movement I made affected the motion of the bike, and each change ın the environment necessitated an adaptive response - be it a gust of wind that forced me to open the throttle a touch and turn my body just so, or an imperfectıon in the road that called for me to lean the bike.

We rode this spectacular road all the way to Worms, and thence, to Hiedelburg. Not, however, wıthout a Garmin-related detour of some extent through a small town called Oppenheim. We had programmed a complex, multi-city course into the GPS unit to ensure we stayed along the Rhine, and since Oppenheim was actually on a tiny rural road off the maın highway, we ended up backtracking quıte some distance before we realized our error.

As luck would have it, that night we actually camped in an officıal campgrounds we somehow stumbled onto - again after a Garmin-related detour finally resulted in Tyson turıng the thing off. Ted demonstrated his off-road skills for the first time this trip, bringing the Fireblade up to the site through muddy dirt roads.

More to follow...

2008-06-01T01:27:00.005-04:00

Well, here we are - 1 day prior to departure. I'm not gonna lie - there were more than a few bumps along the way. Preparing for this moment was a time- and life-consuming process, involving more than a few late nights in the bowels of Tyson's garage, performing delicate (and not-so-delicate) surgery on Buffy. Yep, that's right - I've decided to call my motorcycle Buffy, 'cause she reminds me of a buffalo. Hands stained with grease, and worn from the concrete and steel, I would stumble home at 2, 3 in the morning, to arise for class like some B-movie zombie. And how can I fail to mention the punishing night-time ride from Chi-town to Toronto... to be followed the next morning by another 5 hours ride to Ottawa? The past month certainly took its pound of flesh...

On the other hand, the success of the latter trip is apparent in our passports - we're basically free-and-clear, visa-wise, until we cross from Kenya to Tanzania - sometime in late July/early August, if everything goes according to plan (which it probably won't). Even Sudan has been acquired, in a process that could have been lifted right out of a dime-store spy novel. Oh, right - they're called dollar stores now. But hey, dime-store just sounds so much more literary...

At this point, on the dawn of our epic journey, I'd like to offer a big thanks to all of you who have donated so far. It really means alot to us that you've helped give our trip some meaning - planning this trip has made us acutely aware of the challenges so many sub-Saharan counties face in fighting HIV/AIDS, as well as the amazing work being done on what really is the front lines of this epidemic. If you haven't already done so, I strongly encourage you to check out Dignitas International at http://www.dignitasinternational.org/

The next posting on this site will be from across the pond. And from thence - the world!
Until then, Cheerio...

The Presumptive Beast of Burden...

2008-05-15T16:49:00.011-04:00

Here it is, in all its splendour - my 2006 Kawasaki KLR650.

The motorcycle of choice for the US Marine Corps, this workhorse of a bike will carry me across asphalt, dirt, rock, sand, mud, and everything in between. If it does so inelegantly, at least it does so.

I actually purchased this bike back in November 2007 - just a few short weeks after I received my M2 license - from a Suzuki of Newmarket. What a chore it was getting the thing back to Toronto. Tyson and I had braved flurries and -15 degree temperatures to make our way up ther, in the hopes that I would drive my new bike off the lot. However, it turns out that being a dealer sale the license had expired, and so it could not be driven back to Toronto. The ride back was disappointing to say the least.

In any case, we managed to get it sipped back to Toronto a few days later, and the work began in earnest. You would think that a fairly new bike might be more-or-less good to go - especially one so well-designed for dual sport use. Alas, this was not the case. Well over $2,000 of aftermarket parts were ordered to forestall known issues on the KLR650 (the infamous doohickey being one), upgrade components we felt to be lacking (footpegs, subframe, braided brake lines, shock and fork springs, locking motor mount, axle, and shroud nuts, centre-stand, magnetic drain plug, monster tubes), and generally armour the bike up (skid plate, engine and crash guards, acerbis hand guards, master cylinder guard, shift lever upgrade). Tyson, being the lanky man that he is, generously traded his aftermarket seat (which was about an inch-and-a-half shorter than stock) for mine (which was an inch-and-a-half taller). The end result is that I can now touch the ground with my toes, while he remains firmly flatfooted. Bah. In addition, we ordered up some Pelican 1550 cases, and pannier racks from Happy Trails to put them on. This is actually quite a story, with plenty of Sturm und Drang. For those of you who want to know more, I direct you to Tyson's blog (see link in sidebar), which will in trun direct you to the AdvRider forum in which the drama takes place.

I should say that all this work was only completed on Sunday, May 11th (or rather, Monday, May 12th) at 4:30 am. Yep, that's right. I stayed up until 4:30 just to say my bike was finally complete. Of course, this wasn't entirely true - a few wires had to be soldered for the installation of a 12 V plug (since completed), and the carb mod remains to be done. But what the hell, at least my hands will have time to heal.

As it turns out, Tyson still has work to do on his bike. Fortunately, he noticed a blown gasket in time to have it fixed. One more trip to T.O. Cylce awaits...

Oh yeah, one more thing. This experience, if it has taught me anything, has taught me to respect red Lock-Tite. After liberally soaking bolts and nuts hither and yon in the stuff (despite Tyson's warnings I might add - after all symmetry is important, right?), I was faced with having to remove a few to replace the washers mounting my Pelican case. What a gong show that was - after stripping one bolt completely, I had to have it decapitated with a dremel, and the knobs are only now (a week later) loose enough to turn by hand.

And so it begins...

2008-05-14T18:33:00.013-04:00

And so, it is with no small degree of trepidation that I put fingers to keyboard (at last) and take just a few minutes more away from my studies to write this, my inaugural post on a blog. Some would see this as a sign of impending doom - I prefer to see it as the Ludite joining the fifth column. Who knows what mischief I can wreak from within the machine?

But enough about that.

The real reason this blog exists is as a vehicle to disseminate my perspective on perhaps the most insane thing I have ever done (and there is plenty of stiff competition, I assure you) - a cross-continental journey by motorcycle from London, UK, to Cape Town, South Africa. In between, we will be visiting no less than 22 countries, spanning 3 continents, for a total distance of 24,000 km. Give or take a few. Below is a a map which illustrates the proposed route quite nicely:

As you can see, this trip is no small undertaking... never mind the fact that my experience riding motorcycles, before this year, was measured in days. And those on an an old Honda Trail 90, something like the one shown here:

This is quite a different machine from the one I'll be fused to over the next 3 months (give or take). But more on that later.

I'll be embarking from London with 3 other fine, upstanding your men: Tyson Brust, Ted Macher (both fellow medical students at U of T), and Tom Smith (representing the UK on this multinational expedition). All are veterans from last year's Tour of the Americas, and some even have the scars to prove it. Ted, however, is not so much going with us as flying on ahead and waiting for us to catch up. This, because while the rest of us will be riding the stolid, dependable Kawasaki KLR650, Ted has settled on a Honda CBR 900RR:

This puppy tops out at somewhere near 300 kph vs. 140 kph for the mules. It also has the mules beat in the looks department (although most things on God's Green Earth can claim the same). I've been parking my clunker next to varous and sundry sport bikes over the past week to aclimatize myself to this state of affairs. Moreover, Ted will be leaving us come Turkey, ostensibly to rocket back to the UK and sell the CBR before flying home. We shall see.