Egypt to Sudan

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I left Hannah looking very red and flustered at the gangplank of the ship. All we wanted to do was board the bloody thing and find somewhere to sit down, just anywhere to collapse in the blistering sun, waiting to set sail for Sudan. Instead, the policeman guarding the door insisted that the 6 hours that I had been running around collecting paperwork from various offices just wasn’t enough - I had one last piece that I needed to complete the collection. Hannah was wilting, but I had no choice but to leave her looking after our luggage while I went back to collect the ‘tasjil,’ which apparently was another essential form which nobody tells you about until after you need it.

It took the best part of half hour to wait in an Egyptian non-queue for the tasjil, and then I returned to Hannah, feeling very flustered and dehydrated after nearly 7 hours of queuing, waiting, sweating and stressing. Had it really just been seven hours ago?...

We had woken at 5:30, to leave Aswan and go down to the ferry port. I had checked every detail for that day with at least half a dozen people, policemen, officials, hotel staff. I had it all sorted and confirmed. All we had to do was arrive at the port early, buy tickets from the hatch and ride straight on to the boat, as all the customs and paperwork would be sorted within the port area. Sounds so easy until you remember that you are in Egypt, and nothing is easy, and if it is easy, you are probably paying too much for it.

The half hour drive to the port was the first time for several days that we had been comfortable on the bike. The tarmac was cool enough not to burn toes when changing gear, the wind was down so we weren’t being sand blasted, and the temperature was down in the low thirties. The sun rose above the Aswan high dam as we crossed it, setting the stone still waters on fire, and sending shimmering shadows of the buzzing transformers across our path. As with the last three times we had crossed the dam, the police at the end told us we had to pay for a tourist pass to get off of it, presenting us with a bogus ticket from the visitor centre. We laughed them off, and waving and smiling, we rode off into the sun, and into the port.

Of course, the ticket office wasn’t open, so our five o clock rise was all a little pointless - we were told it would open at nine. Hurry up and wait. Never mind, I was in the army long enough to get pretty damn good at waiting. We were among the first to arrive, but after a few minutes, trucks and cars began pulling up, disgorging unbelievably diverse loads. Everything from toys to cement, sinks to televisions was being prepared for transit - as well as fridges - lots of fridges. The queue for tickets was building up, and at eight I eventually forced myself to join it. The office didn’t open until nine, but even as I walked over, and hour before that, a fight broke out as people jostled for position. The cashiers window was no bigger than a computer screen, and heavily barred, but that didn’t stop nearly half a dozen people hanging off of it, ready to fight the other five to be first to be served. In the next hour, several more fights broke out, and tempers flared up and down the line. Why can’t people just bloody queue? When the window clunked open, the line went kinetic, things got angry and noisy.

I shouldn’t refer to it as a line or a queue. For anyone who has waited in an Egyptian ‘line,’ you will know that it is more of a scrum, a pile, a mass or a brawl than a line. People join from the front, and for every one person that gets served, another pushes in from the left, another from the right, and the weight of everyone pushing from behind prevents the successful queuer from getting out, further gridlocking the situation. The weak find themselves pushed to the back, the strong get to the front - who said natural selection was unfair? I’ve overcome some of my Britishness, and got to the front within half hour, only to be told I couldn’t buy a ticket. Then some of my Britishness leaked back out, in the form of misplaced and blustering indignation, before I realized I was being a fool, and removed myself from the fray.

I couldn’t buy a ticket, because I hadn’t got the correct pieces of paper. What else do you expect in Egypt? The correct pieces of paper, which the ‘tourist police’ had assured me I would receive once inside the port gates, had to be collected before buying a ticket. They also had to be collected back in the main town, and within the next two hours, or we would have to wait another week for the ferry - which meant extending our visas as they would run out within 24 hours. Two hours?! Bat out of Hell time. Well, as close to bat out of hell speed as you can do on our overloaded and beleaguered batmobile.

One hour and fifty five minutes later, we arrived back at the port, sweating , but having handed in our plates and Egyptian license, and in possession of the vital paper we needed to buy tickets. We bought the very last second class tickets to be sold, and rolled onto the dockside.

I’m not even going to describe the customs properly. Lets just say they were very Egyptian and took far too long to do far too little.

Which brings us back to Hannah. With all our paperwork correct, it was time to sit down and enjoy 24 hours of doing nothing on a relaxing cruise. Ha.
When I got back to the boat, Hannah looked a lot better than when I left, which took me by surprise. She was even smiling. Then as I got closer, I saw she was standing with a Western man, ah, I see why she was happy, she had someone to speak to who wasn’t Egyptian. From a distance, I didn’t recognize the guy, but as I got slightly closer, the bouffant hair, and the rugby players frame jogged my memory. What the bloody hell was Will my old boss from Baghdad doing in Sudan?

I think I need to drink more water, or drink less booze, either way, it was obviously not Will. As I walked up, NotWill turned, and offered me his hand. ‘Alright mate, how’s it going? I’m Andrew, nice to meet you.’ He gave me a smile a thousand times more genuine than anything I had seen since we entered Egypt, and I immediately liked him.

In a faint South African accent, which I later found out had been tempered by ten years living in England, he explained that he had seen Hannah on the gangplank, looking as if she was about to drop dead from heat exhaustation, and so had brought her down a bottle of water. I most probably came across as very rude and impolite, as I attempted to foist off bakshish bounders and thrust my newly inline paperwork into the hands of the policeman. Hannah gave her thanks to Andrew, and we struggled on to the packed boat, still being tailed by a gaggle of deckhands wanting money for nothing. We pushed our way on to the top deck and were looking for somewhere to collapse, when I heard someone calling in an Eastern European accent, 'hey motorbike, motorbike.' At first I couldn't see where the voice came from, until I saw a hand waving from beneath a lifeboat. I followed the hand, and the deckhands followed me.

Underneath the lifeboat were 6 white people, lounging on sleeping bags, and wrapped in wet sarongs. The owner of the hand ebulliently shook mine, and introduced himself as Alex, from Russia. He insisted we sit with them. There was just space by the bulkhead for us to squeeze in and sit down. A set of railings seperated us from the boat, and the deckhands leaned over it, still asking for money. We ignored them, as our new friend passed us water. We had become charity cases.

The group were an odd sight, mostly overweight, with the exception of one tiny girl, who looked about sixteen, and thouroughly pissed off. Alex introduced us all. He was on his way to Cape Town, together with his wife, his son and his daughter, and their boyfriend and girlfriend. All of them except his son's girlfriend were attired in crazily bright clothes, exotic garments picked up on his travels - which we were to constantly hear over the next few days, had been extensive. The oddest item in their communal wardrobe were Alex's trousers, cotton breezy items that looked comfortable, but featured a checked print of Stuey from family guy. Each to their own, I looked like someone had dragged me all the way to Aswan behind their pickup.

While we were being introduced, and Alex was telling us of his travels and plans in heavily accented English, the deckhands were still leaning over, badgering us for money. I told them they would get nothing, as they did nothing to help us. They went away.

Then came back with their friends. They hassled Hannah, probably as an easier target. Then, I am ashamed to say, I lost it a little bit. I repeated that they were going to get nothing, in abundance, but they began to list all the services they had performed. I interrupted them rudely, and began to shout in Arabic. They claimed they had parked our bike, carried our lugagge, helped us find somewhere to stay, given us document assistance, and all manner of etceteras. I listed everything that they hadn't done, and everything I had, 'I parked the bike, I carried the luggage, I found where to stay, I processed the documents.' When that didn't work, I called them useless, called them lazy, called them swindling thieves...and then looked at the Russians, who were all staring at me. I realised was embarrassing our new friends.

I gave up, shoved a twenty into the hand of the nearest deckhand and told him to go away. Bugger, they'd won. Never mind, it's only two quid English for a little bit of peace.

Alex carried on chatting away, even after I had made a scene. He was a big guy, and had a big personality to go with it. We were later to find out his incredible generosity, but for now, we made do with listening to stories of how far and extensively he had travelled in the last eight years, while we lay in sweaty heaps on the deck.

That evening we spent in our little Western enclave under the lifeboat. Andrew came up from the comfort of his first class cabin to rough it with us deck class hudlums, and brought with him his fiance, Angela. The ten of us sat with our legs dangling over the side of the boat, as it steamed through the silent waters of lake Nasser. The sun set on a day that had reached fifty degrees, bringing with it the cool half light of dusk. In the still sauna thick air, the faint smell of vodka drifted over from the Russians, mingling with the hum of unwashed bodies and the mossy scent of the impossibly still waters.

Andrew and Angela told us of their plans, to drive to Cape Town to get married, and we shared our experiences of the route down. It is amazing how different people can percieve the same things. One of the only things we fully agreed on, was that we wouldn't want to go back to Egypt. So good to know we're not alone. The tales of their trip are at www.togetherinafrica.co.uk, read them, you'll not meet a nicer couple on the road.

As we chatted, we suddenly realised that the rest of the boat had gone silent. When we turned round, dozens, if not hundreds of people had lined up along the length of the boat. An Ustaadh in front of them began to incant, 'Allah, Akbar, la Allah ila Allah' and the ranks performed their ritual in complete harmony. No sounds except the rumble of the engine and the rustle of clothes in the wind were audible over his rythmic and hypnotic chanting, it was a beautiful sight, showing how powerful, peaceful and unifying Islam can be. The edifying togetherness almost made me forget the hypocrisy, hate and corruption within the religion that I have seen so many times elsewhere. Then the two minutes were up, and the moment was gone.

Bedtime. Sleeeeeeeeeeeep.

As we woke, the sun crept up behind the boat. We could feel it warming the already hot air, even though we couldn't see it from our perch. I rolled over, and looked at the hills of Sudan sloping past to our left. A fishbone of cloud was catching the suns rays, reflecting the light down onto the lake, where it shone a bright arrow towards Wadi Halfa, god knows how far distant to our prow. As I sat up, my feet brushed the wire wool head of a sleeping Sudani. As far as I could see around me, the deck was packed with sleeping forms. We were lucky, we were up against the side of the deck, with a bulkhead behind us. Others were less lucky, we had heard them stumbling around in the dark, shining mobile phone screens in an attempt to find a vacant spot to lie down in.

The fifteen foot cubby we had occupied had been empty except for us two. Angela and Andrew had retired to bed, and the Russians had bought a cabin too, leaving us alone...but not for long. As the spaces were vacated, they were almost immediately filled with Sudanese, until there was barely space to roll over in the thick dark. Each time I shuffled in an attempt to get comfortable on the sweaty steel deck, my feet hit the head of the young Sudanese guy below me. I felt I should apologise, but when I did, he would have none of it, 'it is normal, we all do it, your feet on my head, my feet on his head,' pointing to his legoman-haired friend, who gave me a smiling, thumbs up affirmation, that this was indeed 'normal.' Even though I had played footsie with his head all night, the first guy introduced himself as Jasim, smiled the biggest, most textbook, stereotypical African smile you can imagine, and offered me a cigarette. I think I am going to like Sudan.

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