Missing Entries

After visiting the official blog for the tour, I see that many entries from previous years have been removed, mine included. Therefore I am posting all of my post-Ethiopia blog entries. The most recent are listed first.
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Cycling along Namibia’s Fish River Canyon is a silent treat. The scent of a cool morning lingers in the air while the sun slowly warms my back. As I ride along, I notice the canyon inhales sound as much its beauty draws attention. Patches of desert grass shiver from ghostly winds, the rustling gasped by the canyon. The somber colors of these sparse shrubs contrast the radiant purples, reds and blues of the canyon walls. The ride is tranquil and is the ideal time for reflection.
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It was difficult to ride away from Namibia’s serenity, but entering South Africa was especially exciting as it the beginning to the end. Many were expecting a lush landscape similar to Zambia, but northern South Africa feels as though we are cycling along the contours of a crocodile’s back. The rippling and swelling hills are like scales—cracked, dry and in a predictable pattern. Recent rains have spurred the growth of desert flora and add a dark green hue to the hills.

Four days lie between us and achieving a goal we have focused on for the past four months—cycling across Africa.
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The Zambezi Zone

Zambia’s undulating landscape and vast plains have provided some of the most spectacular riding on the tour. Many riders have commented that Zambian scenery is how they pictured the entire ride across Africa—towering elephant grass, undulating hills and roadside wildlife. Zambia is putting into perspective our cycling odyssey, as we just now greet the landscape we imagined cycling through.

The previous three months come to mind, our unforeseeable experiences, and how our impressions of Africa fluctuate with its capricious character. We’ve sweated in the dusty, dry deserts of Egypt and Sudan. We’ve labored across the mountains of Ethiopia’s highlands and pedaled beneath Tanzania’s vast skies and along its lush fauna. We’ve battled Malawi’s mosquitoes and sipped its famed tipple on the shores of Lake Malawi. In Zambia, everyday seems like a safari and upon entering Botswana, we are sure to have close encounters with its scores of elephants. Namibia and South Africa have yet to unveil their treasures and we can’t wait to uncover them.
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Tired legs found rest in Windhoek, Namibia’s capital city. Since our two days there, we’ve tackled two lengthy riding days that begin the finishing stretch to Cape Town. Leaving Windhoek, a capital cuddled by mountains, the scenery seemed too perfect, as though it should reside in Disney’s Epcot Center. It is as if the city, mountains included, were picked from Germany and dropped in the middle of Namibia’s plains. The fact we are 310 kilometers out of Windhoek and haven’t seen a hill since, only gives credence to this theory.

Namibia’s plains are just as vast and featureless as in Botswana. The significant change is the roadside grass. The ear high elephant grass has been replaced by a feathery knee high grass. Strong gusts make the grass shimmer in shades of gold in much the same way a retriever’s coat shines when he twists to dry. Numbers of roadside game and wildlife are diminishing and Shop Rite and Spar, BP and Total are taking their place.

The slender road to South Africa brings us frighteningly close to speeding traffic. The hum in the distance brightens into a roar as it barrels past. We cringe and clutch handlebars, holding a straight line until taillights are safely ahead. The drivers are no less reckless than in countries past, but the unbent road and lack of policemen beckons speed from even the most conservative of drivers.

Tonight we sleep in the abandoned Gibeon train yard. Ten riding and one rest day separates us from Cape Town.
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It is not often that one can assimilate to a country by merely seeing their flag; however, Botswana’s flag of light blue and black band running across the center perfectly represents our Botswanan riding experience. The black stripe being the thin ribbon of tarmac we occupy every day, and the predominance of blue represents every day’s vast sky overhead. We are more than three quarters along the bisecting black line and nearly to the final section of the tour, the Diamond Coast.

Chilly nights are reminding us we are no longer in the northern hemisphere’s spring, but experiencing the onset of fall. Another more obvious reminder is the species of animals we are encountering along the road—sable, zebra, giraffe, and elephants, of which we have seen many. Winds are shifting in our favor, easing the mental trauma of cycling consecutive centuries. Lastly, towns are becoming increasingly Western, stocking goods we’ve craved since leaving the pyramids.

With only three more bush camps and an equal number of rest days away between us and Cape Town, we are realizing this odyssey is drawing to a close. Our kilometers remain big, our accommodations improve as we progress southward, and we are beginning to think about the first thing we will do when back home.

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Five minutes on a ferry and we are over the Zambezi and in Botswana—TDA 2008’s seventh country.

Botswana’s Elephant Highway Section was kicked off with a 40k time trial. Jos Kaal places first for the men with a time of 0:58.22 and Chris Willie takes second with a 1:00.06 finish. Natalia, an expedition rider turned racer, finishes first for the ladies with a time of 1:09.18 and Deb Corbeil takes second place with a 1:13.05 finish.

As each day passes, our cycling tour across Africa feels as though it is becoming a cycling safari. Just before leaving Zambia, one rider spotted a giraffe and upon cycling the few kilometers between the Botswana border and tonight’s camp, a few others watched as an ottoman sized warthog foraged along the roadside. As I type, a group of ringed mongooses are scurrying along tents, every so often pausing to poke their pointed heads above the grass. The electrified fence encircling the camp is a promising sign that even bigger animals await our discovery.

After our refreshing rest days in Livingston, we’re thrilled to be in a new country and cannot wait to spot more of Botswana’s wildlife.

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Long reeds of elephant grass shoot from the either side of the two lane highway connecting Lilongwe with Lusaka. The towering grass hangs lazily above the road, bobbing and swaying with the wind. The grass, when coupled with the many hills and blind turns makes for a thrilling ride through southern Africa’s hinterland.

Zambia’s landscape is a stark change from our previous three months of cycling. Many riders say riding across Zambia is how they pictured the entire ride across Africa. The hills, blanketed in green, are numerous and occasionally expose the odd rock formation. The tarmac is smooth and the traffic sparse. The rural populations are notably smaller, as most Zambians (40%) live in cities. In fact, one tenth of the population lives in Lusaka, where we find ourselves today.

With the improving landscape comes increasing distances. Our longest day thus far was several days ago, clocking in at 197km. From Lusaka to Victoria Falls will be our longest consecutive days averaging to three 165km days. We are pedaling furiously, taking in the landscape and mentally preparing for our Cape Town arrival only a bit over a month away.

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Upon crossing the Malawian border, the afternoon sun showers of Tanzania have changed to late evening and morning showers, making packing up in the morning a wet affair. Most agree it is better to begin drenched and dry throughout the day rather than the other way around. With the rains come cooling zephyrs. When the sun hides behind the patchy clouds, the air turns brisk and gives us respite from the muggy humidity.

Though Malawi occupies very little space on Africa’s face, we have experienced a very diverse landscape compared to other countries. For example, our past rest day found us on the sandy shores of Lake Malawi and during the last few days, we’ve spent riding atop a mountain range. We’ve seen farmers sewing rice in the lowlands and heard chainsaws growling against timber in the mountains.

Tomorrow we enter Lilongwe, capital of Malawi, and terminus of the Malawi Gin section. We bid farewell to Jurie and Herman and welcome five sectional riders. Only three more days until our next country.
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Since our strenuous seven day stretch, road conditions have vastly improved and the weather has held off—until yesterday. Last night’s camp was easily the wettest on tour. During dinner, everyone huddled beneath a tarpaulin stretched from the truck. As we ate, we watched a river of rain flow along our feet and into several unlucky tents. Had they not been staked down, they would have certainly floated away.

As patches of sunlight fall on camp, many emerge from tents to hang clothing. We await the approaching storm clouds and ready ourselves to retrieve our clothes at the first raindrop. Everyday the rainy season cycle repeats itself—pouring rain, searing sunlight, puddles evaporating into clouds, a stroke of thunder and another dousing of rain.

Subtracting Kenya’s kilometers, today’s lunch marks the tour’s halfway point of 5,200km. Celebrations are planned for our next rest day, when TDA 2008 enters its fifth country—Malawi.
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Below the equator, life on the TDA has changed. In the southern half of Africa, not only does the water spin the other direction—it is everywhere. We’ve happened upon the rainy season, a time when plants are a brilliant green and flowers are abundant. The periodic sun showers bring thick raindrops that puddle into milky pools along our route.

Leaving Arusha two days ago, we were fooled into thinking that Tanzania would be a piece of cake. Six kilometers into yesterday’s ride, the tarmac ended and Tanzania showed its true face. Rough russet roads and afternoon sun showers are challenges unlike those of Sudan or Ethiopia.

Cycling in Tanzania is a full body workout. Rutted and rocky roads send handle bars in all directions. From the hips up, all strength is spent wrestling the front wheel forward. Throw in some steep climbs, snaking descents and sporadic ditches and you’ve got the average cycling day in Tanzania.

Tomorrow we enter Tanzania’s capital, Dodoma, and then continue onwards to Iringa.

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.

This will be a separate blog so please update your RSS feeds with the following address

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.