To Remind Me I'm Alive...

"Don't cycle in the North of Sudan, many foreigner die trying to do this",
"Why do they die" I Replied,
"Wild animals", the immigration officer replied.

The guide book has a section on banditry, Osama bin laden
used to call this home, slavery in is still a problem and even
more tragically Darfur and genocide keep popping up in the
news. This was Sudan. Would its live up its horrendous media
image, I would have to wait and see. I was happy to be
here, nervous and extremely anxious about the cycling but
glad to have got so far.

Another thing niggled on my mind Sudan was dry, no alcohol,
could I really live without a drink for one whole month??

The 17 hour ferry ride from Egypt had been a lot more
pleasant than expected. The boat, an old German ship
probably condemned long ago by the German authorities
and then promptly sold to the Sudanese. It didn't look
so bad but I was glad I was on a calm lake and not the
open sea. I wasn't the only foreigner on the boats. Ten
South Africans with Motor Bikes driving from Cairo to Cape
Town in 8 weeks, three Finn's with a beat up 4X4 trying
to do Helsinki to Cape Town in 2 months and half a dozen
other backpackers. I was surprised at the amount for foreigners
but glad of the company as I was preparing myself for a solitary
time in Sudan.


The port town of Wadi Haifa wasn't so much port or even
a town more a ramshackle affair of mud buildings most of
which looked like they had grown from the earth as apposed
to being built. The roads were pure sand and the donkey
was the preferred mode of transport. My hotel was a modest
affair with a sand floors and thatched roofs, with no running
water and very limited electricity I knew I'd finally reached Africa,
at least the Africa of my mind. I shared the room, with a
Palestinian, an Egyptian - both businessmen and a young
Indonesian student. The hotel was busy, the town was
busy. I liked the atmosphere they was an air solidarity whiffing
by. To enter Sudan this way you had to be committed. After the
seventeen hour ferry journey you were either faced with thirty-six
hours on the train to Khartoum or days and days to do the same
journey by bus. People weren't here on a whim, you had to really
want to go somewhere to do this journey. I ate dinner with
the South Africa bikers they even shouted me the meal when
the bill came. The talk was of roads, notorious as some of
the worse in Africa, I was apprehensive about it, very apprehensive.

As much as I'd cycled through the desert it had all
been on sealed roads where supplies were plentiful and
distances predictable. So many locals were telling me
not to cycle and no body really seemed to know the
proper state of the road. The first section was the
only real worry. The road left the banks of the Nile
and headed straight through the desert. For 140 miles
it ran through the desert before rejoining the Nile.
The bus trip was an estimated 8 hours for the 140 mile
journey, this wasn't encouraging it showed that the road
was in a bad state. The 1st strench was the most worrying,
60 miles before the nearest stop. On a asphalt road I
could make it, largely flat I could carry 10 liters of water
and be sure to arrive safely, but on a road possible largely
made of sand if I'd had to push the bike all 60 mile that
could take 3 days. With no passing traffic to rely on for
water I'd be dead. I felt silly, like I was very under
prepared and didn't know what I getting into. I may of
cycled nearly 5000 miles but this was a different league
- I thought in over my head. I was questioning the idea all
night feeling foolish and childlike. Some decent advise
fell my way, one of the South African's said
"Were not testing your bravery mate", he had a point.
I could take bus, stay safe and
enjoy the next 50 odd years of my life. Amin a
Sudanese guy I'd met on the ferry was trying to talk
me out of it. He said he knew I wanted adventure but
this was dam right stupidity. I listened and the next
day took the bus the 140 mile, 8 hour journey.

The bus arrived at Abri a sleepy town on the Nile. Town
not really being the right word. The shops were huts, the
streets sand and houses mud. The Nile hotel was the place
to be seen in town, for US$2 I took a dorm room that again
had no running water or electric, I shared my room this time
with a nest of sparrows. Ian and Tom an Aussie and an
Englishman had also stopped at Abri and we spent the days
drinking chai, chatting and in the cool of the afternoon wandering
along the Nile.

Harvey came off the roof of the bus missing half of
his front pannier rake. Nothing else had been stolen
my bags all complete. I still like to think it probably just fell
off with all the rattling of the bus, but know I'm kidding myself.
Sudan seemed like the safest place in the world. Security was
none existant. I couldn't shut or lock my door in the hotel as
the sparrows wouldn't of been able to leave and nothing went
astray. I decided to have a new rack made the next day, but the
next day was Friday and a sleepy town went into a coma. The
following day a mechanic with the present of a grizzly bear made
me a new front rack, which is as strong as him, all for a mere US$12.

With the cool of the morning air I left Abri and set
off along the road. Finally I was to find how bad it
really was, finally the test of strength and determination
were to be tested and tested to the full. The road started
well and my mind was racing. I was so happy to be here,
to of got to Sudan, to be cycling through the desert, the hair
on the neck stood up and I screamed in joy at the desert
horizon. The road was bad thought, huge sections of pure
sand. I'd drag Harvey along my speedometer reading a
speed at one point of 0mph, shit that was slow. When the
road wasn't sandy the corrugations began. It was basically
impossible to cycle. The corrugations rattling by bones, my
bike and my brain to pieces. I'd constantly swerve all over
the road just trying to find the flattest easiest patch. They
rarely was one. By noon the temperature was in the late
thirties and I slept under a tree, flies buzzing constantly
around my head while giant ants crawled over my body.
A friendly farmer brought tea and biscuits and fueled with
caffeine and sugar I set off in the late afternoon.

Through every village I passed
people smiled and waved, the children were well
mannered and courteous. I farmer shouted out to me and
I stopped to ask a favour. Akmed was quiet and shy, but
when I asked if it was possible to camp he promised me a bed.
His English was surprisingly good although he shyness made
conversation a little difficult. His children all demanded photo's
and Akmed looked a little embarrassed by the episode, he
himself choosing not to photographed. Two of the children had
the vague signs of malnutrition their pop bellies made my heart
bleed. What the fuck was I doing here? Making a holiday out of
this. It wasn't right. I'd seen malnutrition before in Asia and each
time it had brought home where I was. The kids want they photo
taken, I take it, they happy for a moment I then a leave. I couldn't
offer Akmed money, he was obviously far to proud to ever except
it. But what else I had brought, nothing. This wasn't right. This was
fucked. I didn't want to except food from him and produced my
stove and explained I'd cook myself, he wouldn't hear of it and we sat under the
moonlight out side his house and ate. We ate meat and
vegetables with bread and I wondered why the two
children were in such a state. Abdullah brought out a
bed and I slept outside his house under the stars. I
was awoken with tea and biscuits watched the sunrise
over the river sipping my sweet milky tea.

The road twisted and turned, leaving the river at some
points so the only view was sand and rocks and sky.
Huge sand dunes covered in black rock towered over the
road the scenery resembled the moon more than anything
I'd every seen before. I battled the road, the sand
the rocks and the heat. The villages were quiet, very quiet.
Many didn't contain even one shop and when they did bread
was even hard to come by. Some days I'd see only 2 vehicles
all day and nothing before 5pm. Every village did contain
a water station though. Two large clay pots full of Nile water,
kept in the shade and with what I can only describe as magic
became ice cold. I knew the water was untreated and
pumped or carried straight from the river. But from the
every present communal cup (which has obviously never
been washed) I drank and drank and drank not ever getting
remotely sick.

Along the road I was fed, watered and shown beds more
times than I can remember. The Nubian people who live
in the North of Sudan claim there ancestry to be
closer to ancient Egyptians than any other race. They
certainly are a very dignified and hospitable race.

I spent one night in a police tent at the side of the
road, the police being well equipped with satellite TV. When the generated kicked in at 8pm, we watched Charlie's angels, the coppers impressed by the scantly
glad women doing kung fu. The generator turned
off at 10pm, we took our beds outside, washed from a
jug and pissed into the sand.

The third day of the road and my body tiring from the
exhausting days. The road appeared to be getting
worse. The sand was becoming incomprehensible. Tracks
would lead from the road where countless vehicles had
tried to find a better route. I'd follow thinking the
sand looked a little more hard packed on other trails
only to find myself a couple of hundred meters away
from the "proper road" stuck in deep deep sand and
having to drag Harvey all the way back to the
corrugations and gravel.

As long as the road always followed the Nile I knew
I'd be ok, with water they was life and my life at
that. The road had twisted into the desert often but
not for more than a couple of miles at a time. At one
point I found the road right out into the desert. With
pure sand I was pushing 80 percent of the time and
riding only for seconds before grinding to a halt. The
mid day sun beating down on me I suddenly felt very
very vulnerable. Isolation is a very subjective thing.
It is not simple a matter of how far you are from
something, its a matter of how far you feel from
something. I was a little panicked. I knew there was
another road which crossed the desert but I was sure I
wasn't on it. With no shade and only a heat haze on
the horizon I was scared. I told myself no to be, but
a niggling doubt that I'd gone the wrong way was worrying me.
I was riding full on into the wind when the wind had
been on my back. I was confused, with another person
there it wouldn't of been a problem but on your own
situations magnify a thousand times. I took out my
compass I was heading back west, back to the river. I
couldn't go wrong, if I traveled west I would hit the
river no problem. I pushed on two miles and saw
the river in the distance, I was relived. I was
never more than 5 miles maximum from the river and
still on the correct road, but the feeling of
isolation in those minutes were stronger than I'd felt
this journey.

The temperature was soaring and I took shelter under a
palm tree on the banks of the Nile. As I sat
contemplating the road, my thermometer hitting the 40c
mark I stared out over the river to see an old
Ottoman fort on the opposite bank. A huge eagle soared
over head and I smiled. The peace, the quiet, the heat
the tree, the eagle and the fort were all perfect. I
couldn't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. I
contemplated taking a photo but knew it would never
capture the moment so decided to leave it, thinking
that I'd probably always remember this.

I passed another Ottoman fort along the road a few
days later. I stopped and wondered around. The site
a mere reminder of the powerful empires which once
florished here, now eaten away sand. There was no plack
explaining what it was, no entrance fee, no tourists,
just the wind and the hazy sky.

I kept on battling the sand and the rocks. I was
determined to get to Kerma that night, the idea of a
wash and a rest the following day sounded like heaven.
I knew Ian and Tom would be there and it would great
to talk eat fuul and chat. I pushed on and on every local
telling me a different distance of how far kerma actually
was. The sunset and the darkness drew in, the
road at this point became impossible, the road was bad
enough when I could see where I was going now in
darkness I constantly hitting thick sand. I was cycling through houses now so town must be close. The houses seemed to go on forever and ever but at 8pm I finally arrived in a small square, food stalls and electric lights surely meant the centre. I saw Ian and Tom sitting drinking Pepsi and cycled up. I was glad to see familiar faces and delirious requested an ice cold beer, they laughed I settled for a Pepsi. After washing the dirt and sweat from my body I was happy to eat dinner and catch up with friends.

Harvey had stood the road well, with only 1 puncture
and no other problems I was happy for him. My panniers
on the other hadn't faired so well. The constant up
and down had destroyed them, and the whole thing was
held together with cable tires and bungee cords. I had
them fixed in the market the next day and prayed that
they would last me till at least the end of the road.
The days so hot we spent a most of the time sitting
drinking Pepsi and tea, talking, sleeping and reading
and trying to forget how good a beer would be.

I was optimistic I could reach Dongola in 1 day and
from there I knew it was only one day to the asphalt
and the smooth road to Khartoum. At 60 miles I was
hoping for a better road as I battled
all day and only achieved 40 miles a day. The road
wasn't any better in fact it was probably worse. Thick
thick sand all the way. If a stayed on the bike for
more than 2 seconds that was good going. I'd crash into
the sand every few meters, before pushing a little
getting back on and crashing again. I was going so
slowing crashed only consisted of me putting my foot
down and only twice did I get enough speed to actually
crash and be thrown from the bike landing in the soft
sand. On and on my patience was straining with every
meter. Fuck it. Time to get the bus. I'd figured that Dongola
was about 40 miles away and at this point I was purely
pushing Harvey. I had no idea how far I'd done the road
being too much for my speedometer. The pervious it had
simply been shaken from the bike the plastic bracket not
holding up to it, now I had no way of knowing how far
I'd gone or had to go. Locals had given me distances of
13km's, 75km's and 100km's all in about 3 miles of each other so
it was difficult to work out how far it really was. I figured
that it was about 40miles. For this mere 40 miles it would take me 2
days to walk and it just wasn't worth it. I sat for an
hour or two waiting for a truck and nothing passed. I smart looking 4X4
drove by, the window winding down and the driver greeting
me in fluent English. I said I'd given in and that I
was waiting for the bus as the road was too much, why
he announced Dongola was only 10km's from here. Really I
reapplied. Yes 10 km's max. wow I couldn't believe it, how
could I of gone so far, it just didn't make sense. He
gave me some white sliced bread and processed
cheese before wishing me a safe journey and driving
off. I pushed on, I could push for 10km's I thought,
then the sand finished, literally 200 meters from
where I had sat for two hours. It became hard and compacted
and fairly easy to ride. My spirits rose, but still I
doubted that Dongola was so close. I arrived at the
ferry port 45 minutes later and caught the ferry across
the Nile to Dongola. A beautiful sunset turned the
water pink as we sailed across the river. I asked at
the other side in my best Arabic how far Dongola was,
1km I was told. I still didn't believe it. I cycled on
hit the main street and saw Ian and Tom sitting
outside the hotel again drinking a Pepsi. It was good
to see them and they reassured me that I really was in
Dongola but I still couldn't believe it. Either my map
is totally totally wrong and Dongola isn't as far as I
had thought or I managed to jump through some kind of
space time void and miss out or forget about 40 miles
of a journey.

From Dongola a tough two days followed before the road
turned to asphalt and with a tailwind I spend two very long
days heading through the desert to Khartoum. I managed
200 miles in two days the desert changing from pure
sand to shrubs and trees while camels crossed the road
in front of me. Truck stops were about 30 miles apart
and a bowl of foul at each gave me the energy to
complete such huge distances. I arrived in Khartoum
dirty, tired and in need of a rest. I pealed my
clothes from my body, washed and stared at the blue
Nile, thankful to be alive and to of passed what it
suppose to be one of the toughest parts of the east African trip.

Could I of managed the 1st part where I chose to
catch the bus, probably yes I'd of made it fairly
easily, (I heard later it was only 30 miles without a water stop),
but I have no time for regrets and each night I'd
lye in bed in the middle of the desert and look up at
the thousands of stars and thank God that I was in
Sudan and be thankful I was living my dream.

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