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.

 

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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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