Escape from Beijing

It's that time again... After working during the Olympics I have enough jingle to hit the road, and I mean hit it! The overland route is Beijing to Beijing overland via Laos, Thailand, Burma, India, Bangladesh and Nepal.

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http://escapefrombeijing.blogspot.com/

See you there!

Dune Boarding

A trudge reminiscent of Lawrence of Arabia, brings you to the top of an 80 meter sand dune. From here our guide explains proper form, how unrelated dune boarding is to any other board sport and then teaches us how to the wax the boards. "Don't lean forward or you will bury the lip," he warns. During my first run I find out why burying the lip is bad. As burying the lip buries your lips and the rest of your face into the sand.

After three more runs, he encourages us to try the face first boarding. "Elbows out and pull the front up," he explains "If you start spinning around, drag your feet to correct your direction." A light push sends me speeding down the hill. A waxed piece of particle board separates me from the sand though I feel I am soaring just above the sand. A smaller dune acts as a crash pad, stopping me in my tracks. The guide below shows me the speed gun--65km/h.

We return to our sand boards and try a few more runs. I master the right turn, but have trouble turning left. We take another run on the face first boards from a higher point on the dune. "The record for this run is 82km/hour. I wax my board extra well and I begin my run. They also mentioned that I would get some air on this run, and before I know it, I am in the sky and landing hard on my chest, but I am still clinging on. When I reach the bottom they show me the speed gun, 75km/h. My speed placed me second, the winning speed for the day just one kilometer faster.

We take our last trudge to the top of the dune and the guide asks us which of us are ready to attack the jump. "Jump? Jesus, I just learned how to turn," I think. "Chris, how about you show everyone how it is done?" the guide says. Before I can reply he is tightening my bindings and giving me pointers. "Ok, don't lean forward or you will bury the lip," he says. I already know this and imagine the landing like a sprung mousetrap, my momentum the spring, the board my fulcrum and my face slapping the sand.

"Keep your body centered, don't lean," he continues. Before I ask how to land, he lines me up for the jump and give me a push. I've heard people say that things go in slow motion during a traumatic experience, though this wasn't the case for me, as all I remember is hitting the jump and hearing the thud of my board hitting sand. I stick the landing for a half second and then eat sand--the fall worthy of a sport blooper video.

Time off in Swakopmund, Namibia

I'm on day four of my four day break from the tour. My time off began when crossing the Botswana/Namibia border. Four of us were able to convince a truck driver to bring us four hours to Windhoek--the country's capital. Our bags were stashed with the cargo of 'nappies' or, as we would say, diapers and we set off into Namibia's stark landscape.

This was my first time in an 18-wheeler and I now understand why they own the road. Lumbering nearly 3 meters above the road, the cab's suspension sways with each bump and correction of the wheel. It is like rocking cradle. We sat on the cab's lower bunk and awkwardly slouched below the upper bunk or leaned forward until our haunched went numb. Alternating between comfortable positions took half the ride, the other half was spent decifering the Afrikans braised English spoken by the trucker.

German architecture signaled our arrival in Windhoek. With sleepy legs, we crept from our perch and walked the streets to find a cab to a Backpackers. An evening of beers and great conversations finished my first day of vacation.

My reason for choosing Windhoek as my vacation time, was because of a Chinese embassy. I ask reception where I can find the Embassy. She replies, "I'm not sure where it is, but if you meet these people you can probably find it." She hands me a slip of paper: PROTEST AGAINST CHINA ARMS SHIPMENT TO ZIMBABWE. Perfect.

My visa needs to be arranged before I return to China, so I rise early to beat the protest. Entering the office, the visa officer had other plans. He watched as I filled out my paperwork and then asked for my work permit. "I work all over Africa and have no work visa for any country," I explain.

With most things in Africa, things change and change quickly. He pointed to a pinup printout dated 18 April 2008:

VISAS FOR ENTRY TO CHINA GRANTED ONLY TO NAMBIANS RESIDENTS OR FORGINERS WORKING IN NAMBIA

Thus a week ago, I could have everything straighted for my return to China. After more arguing, I accept defeat and leave the Embassy.

An Angel's Gaze

Things have been difficult the past month on TDA.  It is the same day in day our grind and it is finally taking its toll on the staff.  I suppose you could say I am burnt out.  Physically I am more lean and fit, but my body is wearing down at the same time.  Right now I am sick with Bronchitis and I rarely get sick.  Nearly every experience at the beginning of the trip inspired me to write an update and bring you along for the ride.  My little notebook has not been written in since Ethiopia though I carry it with me nearly every day. 

 

Maybe it was the break in Arusha that sent me on my downward writing spiral.  Everything I have written as of late, has been work related, and it is getting more and more difficult to write as the trip wears on.  Call it writers block or whatever you would like, but I will do my best to get in a few more updates before this trip is over.

 

Visiting Victoria Falls was an enthralling and inspiring experience that would be a shame to no write about.  When Dr. Livingstone, the first European to cast their gaze upon Victoria falls, inquired about the falls to a local chief, the chief asked Dr. Livingstone if he had ‘Smoke that Thunders’ in his homeland.  In the doctor’s journal he wrote of the falls that they were more spectacular than anything found in England and that angels in flight must have cast their eyes upon the falls.

 

The falls are truly magnificent.  I’ve seen the highest waterfall in the world (Angel Falls, Venezuela) and the waterfall that dumps the most amount of water (Niagara falls).  However both pale in comparison to the 1.7km stretch of falls separating Zimbabwe and Zambia.

 

A walkway allows visitors to walk along the falls, giving an impressive view.  Not only is it a great view, but you get absolutely soaked walking through the park.  From a narrow bridge, water shoots vertically from the pits of the falls.  The bottom is impossible to see because of the haze of water vapor flailing in every direction.  Along with dozens of rainbows, Victoria Falls wayward water vapor creates a microclimate hosting tropical vegetation.  That evening, we took a two hour cruise along the upper reaches of the Zambezi River, and in the distance we could spot the falls from the plums of water vapor rising high above.

 

Walking along Victoria Falls reminds me why I am here. 

 

Arusha

We have left the dire situation of commincations that is Ethiopia Telecom and have flown into Arusha. All my communication gear is on a truck, barreling through Kenya and I am planning to climb Kilimanjaro in the next day or so. Thus, there will not be any updates for about another week. Internet should be better from here on out, so expect another surge of updates and writing shortly.

All the best,
CB

Blue Nile Gorge

Peering over the edge, a river as thin as floss, divides the gorge.  I have difficulty imagining the razor thin Blue Nile cutting such a swath.  The gorge looks prehistoric, as though a swooping pterodactyl would not be unusual.   Seeing the tin roofs far below, glittering like glass shards, I’m brought back to the 21^st century.

 

The river’s gumption is unbelievable.  If you were to have told the river it must carve a plain into a 1700m abyss, it would have probably given you the finger.  There is no way, I think to myself, that a thin strip of water could create such a dramatic scene.

 

We slowly descend 1700m and travel 22km to the bottom of the gorge.  Gravel grinds beneath our tires, adding to the lunar dust coating everything near the road.  My hands sweat and leave dirty fingerprints on my book pages as the temperature rises with the falling altitude.  Burning brakes add a rubber fragrance to the decent.

 

…To be continued         

 

Say Chinese in Khartoum

We’ve arrived in the capital of Sudan, Khartoum.  It was here in 1998 that Bill Clinton decided to bomb a pharmaceutical factory to divert from the Lewinski scandal.  As can be expected, the locals have mixed feelings towards Americans.  I do not mask my being American, but I have found that upon learning where I am from, our conversation hit a lull.  As Africans know best, a bad government does not reflect from the citizens.  A common saying of theirs is, “Good people, bad government.”

 

Yesterday, a group of us walked into a typical falafel restaurant for dinner.  The owner spoke great English and struck a conversation with us.  I mentioned to a shop owner that I was American which followed by an expected lull.  Breaking the silence, I asked him if this was his only business.  “No,” he replied, “I have another one in China.”  Then asking him Ni hui shuo pu tong hua ma?[ Do you speak Chinese?]  He laughs and responds—in Chinese. 

 

Here I’ve found a Sudanese shop owner, who speaks respectable English and Chinese!  Two non-native speakers are conversing in Chinese in the middle of Sudan.  He asks if I have a Chinese girlfriend and I ask if he drinks baijiu(China’s infamous noxious alcoholic beverage).  He is Muslim, thus does not drink, but asks, Ni yao jiu ma?— Do you need liquor? 

 

Sudan is one of the few countries left that heed Sharia—Islamic Law.  This form of law governs by the tenants of Islam.  Examples are eye for an eye or a thief is punished by chopping off the offending hand.  As it is against the religion to drink liquor, it is illegal to drink, serve or sell alcohol in Sudan.  As no one else knows what we are talking about, in the late afternoon, in a busy market place, he is asking if I want liquor. 

 

Yao! Yes I need liquor!  We have gone nearly two weeks without a drink, and I begin thinking that it is the longest time I have gone without a drink in several years.  He makes a phone call and asks for 32 Sudanese pounds (about 16 dollars) and gives my money to an unscrupulous character.  I feel like a minor again, waiting and hoping that he returns with the contraband and doesn’t steal my money.

 

As I explain the situation to the rest of our group, two Sudanese walk up wearing sunglasses and carrying black nylon briefcases.  A quick slip of cash and my money disappears inside a pocket. The accomplice brings a yellow grocery bag concealing four Coca-Cola bottles filled with a milky-white beverage, and sets it in the middle of our table.

 

“This is strong, you must mix it with 7up or Coca-Cola,” the owner explains to me.  Xie Xie, Xie Xie, I thank him in both Chinese and English.  The other staff sits with dropped jaws at what just happened.  I’m glowing and grinning ear to ear.

Matema's Two Worlds

Entering Ethiopia from the border town of Matema was a border crossing unlike any other.  The mosques, prohibition and other bits of Arabian culture stopped at a decrepit bridge, with no water passing below.  The tarmac ends and a dusty, gravel road lay ahead.          

 

The customs hut was a sad structure.  Goats foraged through heaps of litter by the entrance.  The fence and doorway were corrugated sheet metal and a beaten dirt path led to the immigration hut.  Inside were two desks, one emigration, the other immigration.  Tossing my passport onto a stack of others, I watched the finger of the immigration officer scan across an ancient-looking book, his finger dragging over hundreds of names.  Seeing this was no small task, I decided to walk around the corner for a much awaited beer.  

 

It is amazing the difference fifty yards can make.  Seated in a room strikingly similar to the immigration office, I drained a local Dashan beer and learned some basic Ethiopian.  Two locals, both able to speak some English taught me: Indene—How are you? and Amasiginalo—Thank you.  Though I cringe when I hear tourists butcher Mandarin; we are slated for 21 days in Ethiopia and likely longer because of skipping Kenya, so learning a few words can’t hurt, no matter how bad my pronunciation.      

 

As they taught and I repeated, dozens of children stopped by the entrance, backlit by the relentless sun.  Their enormous white and brown eyes danced around the room, quickly landing on me.  “You, you, you, you,” they hoot.  “Me, me, me, me, me,” I respond.  This confuses them and they wander off. 

 

I say amasiginalo to my teachers and return to the immigration hut.  Sitting inside, my eyes wander about the room.  Someone had tried to spruce the inside by painting it with purple and green paint, but as the mud aged, it cracked, making the walls look like a painted, dry riverbed.  An Ethiopian calendar advertises beer by featuring a breathtaking Ethiopian woman, tilting her head, beaming a smile towards the bottle and me.  A unclad women and beer, two things you will not find 50 yards east. 

 

The calendar states, as have many banners I have seen since, that it is the Ethiopian Millennium.  The Ethiopians follow their own calendar and along with their calendar, they follow Ethiopian time.  I was told in the immigration office that it was eight in the morning, whereas following the Sudanese time 50 yards away, it was nearly two in the afternoon.

 

The immigration hut was also the first place I saw Ethiopian script.  I am told by Wondey, our local support, that the language has over 200 characters.  Two or more characters make up a word, and the letters are phonetic, like our alphabet.  While reading a book on Eritrea, Ethiopia’s petite northern neighbor, it mentions how the Ethiopians are very adept at learning languages with nearly perfect pronunciation.  The English language has a possibility of 44 unique phonetic sounds.  Though I am not sure of the exact number, Ethiopian language has 70+ phonetic possibilities.    

 

I’m asked my profession and receive my entry stamp.  A little buzzed, as we have not had much to drink over the past two and a half weeks, I walk to our camp.  On my walk I’m hassled by a local, a consequence of their ability to speak English fairly well, and I feign ignorance.  They try more and more desperately to speak with me, with the effort ending with a Fine, Fuck You!  Yes, fuck you too I think to myself, unflinchingly, as not to give up my facade. 

 

On my short walk, Ethiopian culture is thick.  It seems to battle with the Sudanese for supremacy, and this is likely due to the Ethiopians being very proud people.  So proud of their language (they have the only written history in sub-Saharan Africa) and culture that many will deny they are Africans. 

 

Women are dressed comfortably and lively music blasts from huts.  Crowding the sides of the dusty road are huts no different from the immigration hut.  Walls are constructed from dried mud and straw and the roof is a thatched roof. 

 

In the shade of many huts, groups of five or six huddle around a large dish.  A thin, crepe-like bread sprawls across the large plate, slightly spilling over the sides.  In the middle of the dish is either a meat or bean paste.  Everyone uses their fingers, pulling thin trails of bread and using this to sop sauce and retrieve beans.  The pinched burrito disappears with one bite.  Ethiopians are very proud of their food, so proud, they call it National Food. 

 

Two days earlier, at a spectacular camp along the Nile, I was able to hang my hammock beneath a canopy of trees.  Yellow bursts of flowers, soft and round like felt spheres, carpeted the ground beneath me and choirs of birds chirped all about, happily distracting me from my book.  Occasionally a new species would flutter by, singing its song for a moment, and finding no reply, it continued its search for mates along the bank.  Soft chugs from a diesel pump echoed in the distance.  Our Zimbabwean driver wandered by, speaking as not to disturb the birds, “Yes, now it is beginning to be Africa.”

 

Back in Matema, chickens and roosters cluck throughout the day and into the evening.  Several hee-haws screech above the clucking.  As the sun sets over Sudan, we notice the hills are afire.  They flame not from the fading light, but from brush fires.  Burning to clear grasses and nourish the soil for subsistence farming.  The smoky haze and charred scent add another dimension to Matema.  Yes, after a month of travel, we have finally arrived in Africa

You, you, you YOU!

Locals are everywhere, and we fear we have not seen the worst of it.  Children continue their hooting of You you you you you you! and have added, Where’s my money.  Give me Burr [rolling the ‘rr’ it is the local currency].  Census results vary, but most agree the population is over 75 million people.  The two days of cycling into Gonder have been relatively peaceful. Ethiopia is notorious for the highest amount of stone throwing [scarily accurate, as children throw rocks to herd sheep and to hunt] and theft.

 

As one can imagine, they are masterful of English’s profanities.  After having a stone thrown at you, the verbal response is an irrepressible reflex: What the fuck!? Fuck you!  To which they somewhat innocently repeat, What the fuck? Fuck you!  Their insults are the most entertaining, from an American perspective, when they draw from British exclamations: Piss off! You Wanker! Bugger Off! You Bloody Muppet!

 

I’m still trying to put my finger on Ethiopians.  I’ve been told by others that they are impossible to understand (not unlike the Chinese).  For example, my boss once ran an NGO here.  Many of the Ethiopian staff were stealing and were soon fired for stealing.  When my boss brought them to the office to fire them, they innocently asked, “Why am I being fired.”  “You stole from me,” my boss said.  “No, you gave me the opportunity to steal, therefore it is your fault,” they replied.  After this happened several times, an Ethiopian friend of his told him, “Stop firing people when they steal from you.  Each new staff member will steal, because they think it will be the only chance they have.  If they steal and there is no consequence, they won’t steal anymore because they can steal at anytime.” 

 

I mentioned their time and calendar in a previous entry.  Driving to dinner last night, I saw another banner for the Ethiopian Millennium.  Joking with everyone in our car, I said, “On right, I forgot, happy millennium everyone!”  Our Ethiopian guide (and driver at the time), angered by the laughter, told me not to joke about their millennium.  I asked for the date of New Years Day.  He replied, “You should already know.”   

 

All I can say after three days in Ethiopia: the Ethiopians are a very proud people.

 

A Coffee Break

A continent where the mind purifies, the spirit repairs itself and we find God. Oh vast silence, oh nights spent in the open air, how you invigorate the body and strengthen the soul.
–Ferdinando Martini

The sun emerges like fiery peach against the purple plum horizon. It soon hangs in the empty desert sky, refracting along windborne sand. The ride is silent, except for the hiss of sand. It drifts across the road in steady streams, like beams of light, intent on collecting and covering the tarmac scar.

As oncoming trucks approach, I cower like an entrenched solider. The groan of the diesel engine gets louder and I wait for a spattering of sand. It passes and I point my face towards the ground. A second later, shrapnel-like sand numbs the front of my body and echoes off my helmet. Soon, sugar cube dwellings and a checkered water tower signal an upcoming village. I decide to stop for a coffee in a sad courtyard.

Three gentlemen crouch across from me as the water boils. Shroud in a tasseled, brown blanket, one squats and sips spiced chai, holding the base and rim of the glass with his thumb and forefinger. A stained white turban envelopes his head below the blanket. His ashy feet and scaly legs match his brown plastic sandals.

Squinting into the sun, he opens his mouth, exposing yellowing teeth, likely due to the amount of sugar in the local coffee and tea. He pulls a blue Nivia can from his pocket. Looking at his skin, I am doubtful that the tin still contains moisturizer. He opens the tin, takes a pinch tobacco and puts it under his lip—an adding factor for his yellowing teeth.

He pulls out a lid to a Twinkie box and flips it to show the cardboard underside. It has crude drawings of busses and trucks. The artist seems to be 18 or so but the drawings look like they are at a 2nd or 3rd grade level. There are two wheels with a rough frame that exaggerates the cab and clearance for wheels.

The other two gentlemen have three parallel lines on either cheek. They look like down turned whiskers. I ask about them and they gesture with their fingers that they are related to each other. They are all leaning against a cement wall looking like it has been blasted by sand numerous sandstorms. Flecks of paint are the only clue that this rundown courtyard has not always looked like this.
I finish my coffee and am on my way.

Football at the Zoo

I kick a cantaloupe looking ball with the local children that cleaned the zoo for us. They were nice enough to pile the litter and then burn it in small clumps throughout the property. We enjoy the cleanliness, but lament the sour smell of burning trash. We continue to kick the ball around and a passerby decided to join for a few minutes. He hikes up his robe, exposing sandaled feet and dribbles past the children using his slick moves.

Dongala

Our rest day is in Dongala, a small town between Wadi Halfa and the capital, Khartoum.

I took a ferry across the Nile though it was more akin to Noah’s ark. Passengers included an unhappy camel, whining the entire way, a heard of goats, a donkey cart laden with onions, fellow humans and several pickup trucks.

An abandoned zoo is our campground for the next two nights. Broken cages, sprawling trees, and grass surround our enclosure. We bring the zoo back to life. Children peek through the metal bars of the gates shouting and whistling, trying to get our attention. They scream hello and money, hoping for some sort of reaction.
Observing the locals and our group, we are the zoo, we are the animals! A watering hole after five days in the desert and where does everyone congregate? We are like animals at an oasis—cleaning ourselves, playing in the water, and watching out for predators.

Taming my Steed

My body limp like a cowboy, I cling to my handlebars, trying to control my bucking bronco of a bicycle. Thick sand and gravel send my bicycle into a frenzy. It is trying to follow the tangle of tire ruts in the sand. Correcting each wayward movement, I manage a course. Another patch of deep and I’m bucked successfully. I saddle up once again.

I continue to battle through thick sand, it feels as though three children from the last village are hanging on to my back wheel and digging their heels into the ground, slowing me to a crawl. The wind, whistles through my brake cables and I feel as though I am in a country western. All I need is a bar with swinging doors to burst through. Since alcohol is forbidden here, I will have to settle for a small café and a sarsaparilla.

AK-47s and Shisha

Our protection, AK-47 wielding Sudanese police, took a break to lie against a sandy bank. They were smoking shisha and enjoying the day’s final rays of light. One waves their arm and invites me to join their shisha circle. They point to the Nile and say Kneel, the way Arabic pronounce Nile and then pointed to the water in the glass base. We’re filtering the shisha through the waters of the Nile. As the sun disappears behind the opposite bank of the Nile, we look towards camp and see a poorly staked tent blowing across camp and into the desert. Laughing, we take another puff and watch the frantic owner chase his home.

Walking the Shore

My feet trod the silty shores of the Nile. A combination of silt and sand, I feel as though I am walking atop black, sticky cotton. Sinking in slightly, it is a slight strain snap the suction and continue the step. Lush patches of cultivated crops, grass and palm trees patch the banks and the northbound Nile splits the shores. The silt shoals look like brewed finely ground coffee grinds. The lapping waves create a milky brown froth, not unlike the top of a cappuccino, which floats above both the sand and the water. Song birds chirp their cheery songs heavily contrasting the barren desert only 50 meters away.

Nile Child

The shores of the Nile support many villages, all brimming with children. Children are both the most enjoyable and the biggest obstacle of our ride as they offer support and encouragement, but also throw rocks, shout obscenities, and jab sticks into our spokes. Their curiosity intriguing, it is always a treat to find one afraid of foreigners.

In one particular settlement, I noticed a 5-year-old girl; having caught sight of me, she vanished behind her mother’s legs. Backlit by the sun, the eyes of the child shone white against her dark skin, intensifying her scared, curious stare. Her hair flames from her head in random sprouts and she wears dirtied clothes.

As her father brought her close, maybe to see that I meant no harm, her features balanced. Crusty snot shone beneath her nose and above her lip and she innocently nibbled on one of her fingers. The way she was hoisted, her serenity, and her casual scrutiny of me, it looked as though I was watching a commercial: For just one dollar a day, you too, can give a child like this, a bright future. Though her village was small and poor, I feel that this child and her family are content.

Two Little Birds, On My Door Step

Two Egyptian vultures wait just out of camp. They look like plump, scruffy seagulls with a searing orange beak and willy-nilly grey head feathers. I can imagine they are happy to see us move along, perhaps happier about what we have left behind.

In the hinterland of desert and Nile, unusual plants thrive. During a desert walk, I came across a plant unlike the rest, as it was lacking thorns and other typical defenses for such a ripe looking plant. Wrinkled branches independently extend from the soil and directly from the branches, grow thick plate-like leaves. A green or brown fruit grows beneath delicate white flowers beneath the shade of the leaves. The fruit looks like a plump wrinkled walnut.

After asking our driver about the plant, he explained is not local. It is an invasive alien species. The fruits are actually seed pods filled with white, fuzzy seeds that burst upon maturity, sending seeds across the desert. It lacks thorns as the plant is poisonous to animals. Also an alien species here, I think to myself, I hope my impact is not as destructive.

Road to Dongala

The stucco clouds above complement the texture of our new riding environment. Steep, rock strewn hills surround us and ecru sand is everywhere; the sand licking towards the crests of the sinister looking mounds. It is as if we are visiting a distant moon or roving across some unknown planet.

Shaken to the bone, we cycle along the heavily rutted road leaving Wadi Halfa. The deep sand and gravel strewn route was an immediate sign that we are no longer in Egypt. Sudanese roads are rough. Patches of sand inhaled tires, slinging some riders to the ground or leaving others fishtailing to safety. Unavoidable ruts, caused by infrequent flooding, punished those without front suspension. We spent the better part of the day keeping a keen eye ten meters ahead and choosing the most solid patches of road. We see only as far as the hills and continue the ride across the craggy, tortuous road to Dongola.

Entering Waldi Halfa

Customs officials greet us in Waldi Halfa.  Between our filming equipment and my communication instruments, we could be considered a professional news crew—and not allowed in Sudan.  As planned, we hid our equipment deep within a mass of baggage.  The customs official began opening bags.  The first eight bags were opened and the official fussed through the top layer.  The next eight bags arrive, zippers are opened and the official nods his head.  The next eight arrive and are not even opened.  Now it is a race of customs officials slapping inspection stickers on every bag and bike.   Our bags are inspected last and after no more than a glance by the customs agents, we stepped pass the boarder, entering Sudan.

 

Our trucks voyage was longer than ours, their ferry having yet to arrive so we put together a basic camp and then took a short stroll into Wadi Halfa.  The late afternoon sun behind us, our shadows stretched across the barren, desert landscape.  This place is much different from Egypt, I thought to myself, even the desert looks different.  We return to camp and do our best without two of our three trucks. 

 

Tonight’s full moon casts a white glow over camp.  During the night, the effulgent disc drifted its way across the night sky, its brightness extinguishing all but a handful of stars.  Sudan is still except for several clusters of locals.  They are huddled around one of three televisions, all broadcasting the Egypt football match.  An Egyptian goal sends the spectators into a craze and they jubilantly pump dark fists and cheers into the night. 

 

A Local Restaurant

We visited a local restaurant for a coffee and a shisha.  Prancing around the bar in his robe, the owner encourages us to chant with him.  Su-dan, Su-dan, Su-dan.  There is a soccer match on television and we are cheering the home team.  After a goal, the owner grabs a large soup ladle filled with incense and topped with reddened coals.  Proving the theory of centrifugal force, the owner manically swings the ladle running inside and out of the restaurant continuing his incantation.  The owner notices me, sunken in my chair, and perhaps senses my uneasiness of burning coals swinging around the restaurant.  He approaches me, pauses, and with the ladle in front of my face, blows on the coals completely dwarfing the smoke from my shisha.  I am coughing, he is laughing while a trio of minute embers drift from the ladle, extinguishing just before landing on my jacket.

Thomas

In the quiet hours of the morning, when the sun and moon are on both horizons, stiffened riders strut like wide-legged cowboys, taking down their tents and packing their gear.  We ride along a corridor of date palms and past squat, leafy groves of bananas. 

 

At the end of our ride, I met Thomas, a 23 year old man looking more like 13 year old boy.  He explains that his entire family looks like this.  I didn’t believe him at first, but as we spoke, both his command of English and understanding of business lead me to think otherwise.  Everything was business with him, including his gaze, concentrating on my every word; I could see he was intent on understanding every utterance.  As I spoke, he would take the last three words of my sentence and repeat them, like a mantra.  Muttering these changing words and then yes, yes, yes, he nodded his head and cast his staring eyes towards the Nile.  We sat along a whitewash wall, smoking shisha and watching busses and empty horse carriages trot along.

 

Sent from my iPhone

Thoughts on Egypt

I am very excited to leave Egypt.  The most magnificent parts of Egypt has turned a people into greedy, cheating people.  It is typical to be cheated in most any purchase, they see foreigners as non stop source of income as few actually decide to spend more than a week within Egypt’s borders.  What makes the situation worse, is that the little English that is spoken is enough to encourage and welcome visitors.  They are overly nice and then increase prices as you get ready to pay.  Paul Therox relates them to a very helpful, friendly individual that at the last minute will pick your pocket.

 

The pyramids, among Egypt’s other treasures are a sight to behold, but to be honest, I would highly discourage one to visit Egypt.  Seeing the pyramids has always been a dream of mine, but the amount of tourists, the commoditization of these treasures, and the sheer cheating nature of locals spoil the Pyramid’s splendor. 

 

The children were another obstacle of Egypt—I mean this in a literal sense, as they hurl stones, sticks and even run after you when cycling.  I had children shout Fuck You and spit at me.  It was not just one spit, but a rapid fire succession of spit that the child must have been quelling from his mouth for quite a while.  I think that American children would not do this.  Perhaps they might out of boredom, if there was no Nintendo or TV to keep their attention. 

 

Really I think that American kids would not care if 63 Egyptians were cycling along a local road.  It is the young boys that are the worse, as they must impress their peers and take taunting a step further with each cyclist.  I think back to my childhood and the only memory I can recollect is me and a buddy throwing sticks at the under carriage of passing traffic.  It was not the smartest thing to do, standing on the corner directly in front of my house.  After about eight cars, I was caught and brought to my front door, ready to be scolded by my angry mother. 

 

I am looking forward to the sands of Sudan, no children, honest people and a barren desert to focus my mind.

 

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Walking around Aswan

Walking through the streets of Aswan, I observed the winds from the Nile blowing against men’s traditional robes, causing the robe to press against their bodies.  For most men it exposed a round gut, as if each man was hiding a basketball beneath his frock.  I also encountered three adolescents, either death or dumb, gesturing with their upper bodies.  Their movements seemed to mimic the harsh sounds of Arabic.

 

Riding along, we see men riding donkeys.  They look like a child riding a Labrador, dwarfing their transport with feet dangling inches above the road.  Idle Egyptians line the roadside with stalks of sugar cane, tearing away the green husk with their teeth.  Their hands draw the cane away from their mouth and gnaw on the white interior until it is bland, then begin on the next section of stalk.

 

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Valley of the Kings

Overlooking the Valley of the Kings, I relax on a high cliff.  Climb to my perch is layered like flint, threatening to slice my exposed toes.  Low clouds makes the Nile barely visible in the distance.  Varying sizes of green squares lay closer and a poor section of Luxor skirts the base of this quarry.  The dim, brown hillside is pockmarked with holes, each leading to a tomb of a previous ruler.  Threadlike trails run like a network of veins, sending locals and the odd tourist to unkempt tombs.      

 

My group and I deviated from the usual tourist entrance to find this roost.  Avoiding an 80 pound ticket, we found a narrowly beaten trail into the surrounding hillside.  We pass a hawker, selling Nile postcards and other tourist kitsch, and hike along the upper reaches of the Valley of the Kings—watching the paying tourists far below.

 

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Shisha

Shisha, a syrup marinated tobacco smoked from a water pipe, lifts my head as I sip a mint tea.  I am at a typical coffee shop serving tea, Turkish coffee and shisha.  In the haze of Shisha, Egyptians daze towards either me or the linoleum floors, as they puff their pipes.  The pipes rest either in their mouths or against the nook of a smile.  It looks as though they are playing an oboe or charming a snake, except inhaling rather than blowing. 

 

I also gaze downward, looking at the dirt that refuses to leave my fingernails.  My unwashed clothes are beginning to dull and I only notice my stench if I catch the scent of soap or something else clean.  Looking at the locals, I notice a darkened spot at the top of the forehead.  In muslim slang, it is called a raisin, resulting from pressing the head against the ground during daily prayers.  It is said that people who have raisins atop their head are pious.  An outside breeze sends ash from the coal across me, landing on my clothes like ashen snow and I turn my attention to my water pipe.        

 

Pulling air along the amber coal lights the shisha, sending the smoke it into the water beneath.  It then bubbles into a smoky waiting area and finally into the lungs.  They say that a session on a Shisha pipe is like smoking a pack of cigarettes.  Since we will enjoy only a few weeks of Arabian culture, I continue to indulge.

 

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The Ferry Crossing

The motto for our ferry crossing is hurry up and wait.  Our early arrival at the terminal saved us from the most chaotic seen imaginable—a weekly ferry being loaded with goods destined for Sudan.

 

A man is crouched in the entranceway, sweeping sugar from a burst bag.  He is blocking main entrance into the ship.  While waiting, I observe another man, also waiting. He has a few tomato seeds on his shoulder and a light stain of pink juice.  A bag containing tomatoes must have colored him as it was hoisted on his shoulder. 

 

As I make a climb to the top deck, we walk the through third class cabins.  There are rows of orange benches, all double backed.  The floor is painted white. Between foot traffic and dragging of boxes, the floor has been scratched to bare metal and dirtied with mud.  Turbaned men and scarved women lay with their children and are watching me walk through the mess.  They lay lazily, awaiting the ships departure. 

 

The ferry’s cabins and orange benches are numbered in Arabic.  Assuming our number characters are based on Arabic numerals, one would imagine it would be easy to figure out the cabin number.  If the cabin is labled 19, and you guess the number means 19, you would be correct.  However, assuming that cabin 10 is in fact cabin ten, you would be mistaken, as the “0” signifies a “5”.  You are looking at cabin 15. 

 

Foot space in the third class cabin is much a ground for argument.  One could comfortably have their feet occupy the space or sacrifice comfort for storage.  I witnessed several squabbles over this highly prized area, with one argument almost coming to fists.  Their argument halts traffic, as they block the aisle.  Passengers still try to bump through the argument, adding more rage to the quarrel.  The seated passengers retain their silent, lazy composure and watch the quarrel with a disinterested gaze.  A few gentlemen raise their jet black mustaches, exposing the white teeth, which seem to shine even brighter beneath the mustache.  They smile.  Perhaps they are reflecting on a time, in their younger days, where they were in such a predicament.  Or maybe thankful they are safely away from the action.  Any regular passenger has seen this hundreds of times.

 

Three hours past our scheduled departure time, goods are still being loaded onto the ferry at a feverish pace.  Unmarked cardboard boxes and their carriers barrel through the narrow aisles; unlooking they step on everything and people going the opposite direction against the wall.  Their frantic grunts of Arabic echo off the cabin walls as a staff member tries his best to slam the door shut.  Once the door is closed, loaders scream from outside and angry fists pound the steel door.  This dissuades the doorman to keep the door closed and a fresh flood of boxes and their carriers infiltrate the ferry and the frenzy resumes.

 

The artery of the ship begins at the entrance and then connects with a series of corridors, sending traffic throughout the ferry.  The main entrance smells of curdling cheese and some squatters have decided to make the hall their beds for the overnight journey.  It is hot with bodies, making the smell suffocating. 

 

On the top deck, life is cramped but much fresher.  The clouds from last nights sprinkling catch up to the dock and all of us are nervous about another cloudburst. This would soak us and all the goods sitting along side us.  The cool breezes from mainland smell damp and every sign points to rain—except for average rainfall statistics.  The ominous clouds loom until dusk, but are reluctant to deliver a reprise.  They do, however, block a blinding full moon that would have surely kept us awake.

 

Perpendicular, overfilled trucks defy the slope of the loading ramp.  Five men dangle their bodies from the higher side, using their negligible weight to counter the top heavy load.  An Egyptian frees ropes, causing an avalanche of cargo.  Sofa sized grain bags topple to either side as well as onto the anticipated place, a barge, now connecting our ferry to the dock.  White robed men scramble amongst the trucks, lifting the fallen grain bags and load the barge at a terrific pace.  Trucks leave empty, with a coil of rope in their bed. 

 

The assortment of good aboard ship is mystifying.  Half of the boat is laden with deteriorating cardboard boxes, exposing their wares the curious: rugs, pots, televisions, copy machines, printers, produce, cement mix, shoes, while the other half is filled with Twinkies.  Yes, Hostess Twinkies.  Our mouths dropped at the sight of trucks piled boxes of Twinkies.  The red and blue logo of Hostess and then the enlarged, underscored denotation of Twinkie.  We know that if the unthinkable happens, there are enough Twinkies to live off of or enough for each of us to have a box to float to shore.  To top off the strange assortment of cargo: 73 foreigners and 73 bicycles, hugging the rails watching the bedlam unfold.

 

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Best Seat in the House

The shrill screams of children and a busy road bring us to Luxor. From the doorways of mud huts across a canal, children gather to shriek Hellos and How are you?s to us. Some of the closer ones stand with stalks of sugarcane, ready to insert through our spokes; however, most just wave and hope we return the gesture.

Behind the children are fields of sugarcane, and further behind, a red streaked plateau. A line of palm trees buffer the fields from one another with the odd palm lost amid the crops. The branches of the lone palm seem to burst from the trunk like a firework frozen during its most spectacular moment. The palms make the landscape look primordial.

During a peaceful part of the ride, a caravan of tour buses shattered the silence and tore past us in speeds in excess of 150kph. This is in response to terrorist attacks on tourists in 1998 and again in 2002. The coach’s drawn curtains meant that eyes were likely closed or focused on television screens. What a way to experience Egypt, I thought to myself. Dodge manure, slip past donkey cart, pedal harder, avoid smiling child, smile and wave back, sip some water, switch gear, hop speed bump, stand to stretch legs; my mind and body are fully engaged. I smile knowing that my seat is the best in the house.

Pictures are posted:
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Mustafa

Our time skirting the Red Sea has come to an end and we are now gaining altitude. Steadily climbing away from the sea, we follow a road nestled amid dusty, corrugated mountains. I’ve been told that in previous years, this stretch has been particularly difficult due to strong headwinds. I am stationed at a refresh stop, 100km into the ride. This is where I meet Mustafa.

Mustafa is an Egyptian policeman. He and his crew sport military issued wool sweaters, long johns and a canary yellow oxford separating the two. It is hot outside. They laugh as I tug my thin undershirt and then point to their heavy garments. I am embracing each slight breeze and chance cloud that lessens the sun’s intensity—if only for a few moments. Mustafa puffs a hookah as we speak. Each inhale reddens the coals above and sends the water below into frenzy of bubbles; the glass base intensifies the sound. He exhales, sending two plumes of smoke across his think, ebony moustache.

We take a break from our gesticulating to munch typical Egyptian morsels; their favorite being foul. Don’t let the name fool you, foul is a delicious bean dish similar to unsweetened American refried beans. Served with copious amounts of vegetable oil, the dish is complemented with chili powder and other ground herbs. With a fork to further mash the beans and mix the dish, I savor each bite.

We continue to Luxor.

Weekend Getaway in Safaga

Weathered by the sun, a toll booth operator’s face is shroud in a checkered head scarf. The picnic table patterned headwear is wrapped like a bonnet, as if holding a bundle of ice against a sore tooth. He waves us through and we continue our journey through the deserts of Egypt.

Today is our final day along the Red Sea. Tomorrow’s directions will send us into the mountains we’ve seen on our right for the past two days. As we drive along the freshly laid tarmac, curiosities line the side of the road. Yesterday we saw a rusted tank which has laid unused for at least 15 years. Today's treasure was a half buried King Tut bust and a nest of wire left from the burning of abandoned truck tires.

Moving at a cool 60kph, we follow a truck carrying a payload of gravel. Atop the ashen stones, a man unfurls a tarp, preventing winds from littering the road behind. Like a James Bond fight scene, the man moves between a standing and kneeling stance. His plaid shirt and slacks press tight against his body, while his jacket bottom tries to rip free from his arms. It’s a daring maneuver.

As we enjoy our last day along the Red Sea, I’m struck by the architecture. Purposely or by chance, builders struck a style suiting the surrounding desert and sea. Buildings stand one story, and are unobtrusive. Equidistant windows and modest roofs are the only adornment to the simple russet and red exteriors. Each room enjoys a view of the banks of the Red Sea. The squat style buildings allow passersby to see the Red Sea coast without interruption.

Today we’re enjoying the city of Safaga. The town reminds me of a small beach town found in Hawaii or the Florida keys. Safaga, like many other small resort towns, punctuate the lonely shores of the Red Sea. The palms are no doubt imported, as is the local scuba diving culture. Another unwelcome difference is the small general stores. We are still very much in Muslim territory, thus all of their beer is non alcoholic. The best selling imported beer is Amstel Zero. I’ll trust the reader to figure out what the zero stands for.

My ears are beginning to adjust to the guttural grunts of Arabic spoken by our local support. Nearly every sentence is punctuated with inshallah –God willing. It’s no new insight that to understand a culture, one must understand their language. Inshallah like the common Chinese greeting, Ni chi fan le ma—Have you eaten?, provides a unique insight to a country’s people and their culture.

As I sit in my office, a single outlet beneath a 20 foot thatched tiki umbrella along the Red Sea, popular Arabic ballads play on an outdoor speaker. Local music is one facet of traveling I strive to embrace, but popular music here is only slightly better than Chinese pop. The synthesizer has destroyed what may have once been tolerable. Organ-like interjections, slurred with an intensifying wah-pedal effect, pierce behind the singer’s voice. Our South African driver likens the sound to a cat being spun in circles by its tail.

Onwards to Luxor.

The Egyptian Desert

Instead of turning left to Suez and crossing the canal, our right, southerly route brings us along the shores of the Red Sea. Boulder strewn mountains slope to our right while our left is flanked by the magnificent Red Sea. Straw thatched bungalows decorate sandy shores like a line of diagonally cut sandwich halves. Abandoned umbrellas thatched with straw rest against the sand. Their poles tip to the sky looking like primitive satellite dishes. We speed through the town Mena.

The emerald green coastline seems alive as five inch white waves kiss the rocky shore. After several meters, the depth creates a turquoise layer dividing the clear shores from the majestic blue sea. Each turn provides a fresh look at a sloping finger of a mountain meeting the sea. Our road splits two extremes.

Mountains give way to an extraterrestrial desert. I’m convinced that if I look close enough, I will find the something discarded by NASA. Considering the close proximity of water, it is a wonder there is no vegetation. Perhaps the salinity is very high and all of the top soil has been blown away by the harsh winds currently in our favor.

Tips of lazy tri-blade propellers appear around the next bend. It is a wind farm. The wind is picking up and the blades noticeably gain speed. Road signs rattle to and fro and seem as though they are trying to squirm free from their post. The airborne sand crackles as it passes dry brush and thuds against long abandoned containers.

The increase in wind coats us in sand. It is intrusive; it roosts in our ears, wrinkles—any crevice it can find. Protecting my lips from the sun was a mistake. Lip balm provides a magnetic surface for sand. As I rub my lips back and forth, I can feel the grit of sand.

The Tour Begins

We awoke to a cool satin fog and the wailing of a local muezzin. With the morning just cold enough to send a plume of steam with each breath, a sea of riders surrounded Duncan, the tour leader. Ears beneath shiny new helmets keenly listened to the first of many directions in getting to Capetown. A series of bicycle clicks and the crank of two diesel truck engines meant the official start of our 120 day adventure across Africa.

The low fog set a sureal scene as we wove our way through the streets of Cairo. Amongst the blare of horns and unpredictable traffic, women’s faces framed with a headscarf and men peering from beneath turbans gawked in astonishment as our 62 strong mobile village rolled along.

Signaling our approach to the pyramids, camels and their handlers trotted alongside our convoy, bobbing their heads in rhythm as if listening to some unheard reggae music. Winding our way along the ancient pyramids, we observed people, vehicles, and camels looking much akin to the figurines sold by vendors. The truth being, the pyramids dwarf anything that tries to compete.

Our first day has been windy in the most unfortunate direction—straight in the face. We’re slowly finding our cycling muscles. With today being 128km and a 168km day ahead, everyone is thriving off the thrill of a new adventure.