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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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.