013 CYCLE TOURING SUDAN

Two Desert Rats and a Broken Toe

SUDAN
1,611 Km – 26 Days
1 December – 26 December 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIPBOOK

 

Prelude

Sudan was never meant to be easy, and it certainly wasn’t. Over 1,600 kilometres and 26 days, Ernest and I pedalled, pushed, dragged, cursed, and occasionally befriended our way across a country that seemed determined to test every fibre of our being. We battled winds that behaved like sentient creatures, sand that behaved like glue, and bureaucracy that behaved like performance art.

We also met some of the kindest people on earth, ate the best falafel, drank the best juice imaginable, and learned that the desert has moods — all of them dramatic.

This is the story of two increasingly dishevelled cyclists, a broken toe, a handful of chocolate biscuits, and a ferry we absolutely had to catch.

  

 

Into Sudan, and Into the Wind (88 km)

Ernest was not an early riser. In fact, if there were an Olympic event for “slowest morning departure,” Ernest would have been a strong contender. So, it was well past the respectable border‑crossing hour when we rolled out of Metema — a town that looked as if it had been built entirely from leftover materials no one wanted.

The immigration office was a mud hut under thatch, the sort of place where you half expect a goat to be behind the desk, stamping passports with its hoof. Emerging from the dim interior, we found ourselves suddenly in Sudan — a country so conservative it made my grandmother look like a Vegas showgirl.

The day was hot and windy; I felt like a boiled sock and regretted the previous night's firfir. By late afternoon, we limped into Doka, a village consisting of a few homes, a mosque, and a market selling exactly two tomatoes and one potato. We camped near a police checkpoint — not because it was safe (it wasn’t; police were being attacked regularly), but because it had water.

Lying in my tent, I grinned. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d cycle Sudan twice. Clearly, I needed new dreams.

 

Heat, Nausea, and an Unexpected Donation (90 km)

If Sudan had been trying to impress us with its heat, it was succeeding magnificently. The ride to Gadarif was another scorcher — the sort of day where you begin to suspect the sun has developed a personal interest in your demise. I dragged myself along feeling weak, nauseous, and generally like a Victorian heroine about to faint decorously into a shrub.

At a petrol station, a farmer approached us with the friendliness of someone who had never met two sweaty cyclists before and wasn’t entirely sure they were real. He handed us 50 Sudanese pounds — a small fortune at the time — with the casual generosity of a man who had clearly never been cycling in Sudan.

We thanked him profusely and headed straight to the nearest hotel, where his donation turned out to be the best‑timed act of kindness in human history. My entire night was spent vomiting — spectacularly, repeatedly, and with the kind of commitment that would have earned applause had anyone been present. At least I could do so in the privacy of a room rather than behind a thorn bush, which felt like luxury.

 

Sesame, Sorghum, and Bureaucratic Acrobatics (97 km)

By morning, I felt considerably better — not quite ready to run a marathon, but at least capable of standing upright without whimpering. I wandered Gadarif’s markets, which are famous for sesame and sorghum. I have never seen so much sesame in my life. If you ever need sesame, Gadarif is your place. If you don’t need sesame, Gadarif is still your place, because it will give it to you anyway.

Sudan requires all visitors to register with the police within three days of arrival. Ernest and I dutifully presented ourselves at the station, where the staff regarded us with the weary resignation of people who had hoped we wouldn’t show up. They informed us that registering us was “hard for them” and suggested we do it in Khartoum — more than 400 kilometres away. I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something.

By the time the bureaucratic dance was complete, it was 11h00 — the worst possible time to start cycling in Sudan, unless one enjoys being roasted alive. Fortunately, the wind had taken pity on us and died down a little, and we reached Migreh without too much difficulty.

We camped near yet another police depot, surrounded by nothing but desert. Sudan has many things — heat, wind, checkpoints — but scenery at this point was not one of them.

 

The Road of Relentless Wind (110 km)

The route north ran straight into the prevailing wind, which in Sudan is not so much a meteorological phenomenon as a lifestyle choice. It blew with the enthusiasm of something that had been waiting all year for the chance to ruin our day. Cycling into it felt like trying to pedal through a vat of invisible porridge.

We spent most of the day with our heads down, one miserable pedal stroke at a time, like penitents on some obscure religious pilgrimage. I kept reminding myself that nothing lasts forever — a comforting philosophical notion that was, unfortunately, not true of the wind. It showed no sign of passing, subsiding, or even pausing to catch its breath.

The only bright spots were the tiny Nile settlements where one could buy a Marinda or Pepsi. These became the highlight of our days — small, sugary miracles in glass bottles. Sudan may not have had many luxuries, but it had cold drinks, and that was enough to keep us going.

The road was technically tarmac, in the same way a biscuit is technically food. It was cracked, patched, and crowded with enormous trucks all thundering toward Port Sudan. By evening, I was so tired I could barely speak. Ernest cooked, and I crawled straight into the tent. Not that there was much else to do in the desert except lie down and hope tomorrow’s wind had found someone else to torment.

 

Falafel Salvation on the Blue Nile (41 km)

A short ride delivered us to Wad Medani, a surprisingly substantial town perched on the west bank of the Blue Nile. With nearly 300,000 residents and a cotton industry to keep them busy, it felt almost metropolitan after days of sand, wind, and existential despair.

Thanks to the Gezira irrigation scheme, Wad Medani had food, accommodation, and — most importantly — falafel. We spent the evening stuffing our faces with what I still maintain is the best falafel in the world. If UNESCO ever creates a category for “Outstanding Chickpea Achievement,” Wad Medani should be first in line.

The political situation in Sudan at the time was grim. Darfur was in crisis, militias were terrorising civilians, and the military presence was impossible to miss. It was a sobering backdrop to our falafel feast — a reminder that while we were battling wind and thorns, others were facing far worse.

 

Thorns, Exhaustion, and Desert Mosquitoes (81 km)

It was fortunate we’d stuffed ourselves with Wad Medani’s miraculous falafel the night before, because the next day Sudan resumed its favourite pastime: trying to kill us with heat and wind. The wind howled, the sun scorched, and I felt tired, nauseous, and generally like a damp sock someone had dropped behind a radiator.

When we finally pulled off the road to camp, I immediately collected roughly 100 thorns in my tyres. Sudanese thorns are not delicate, poetic thorns. They are industrial‑grade, military‑spec thorns, designed specifically to ruin your day. Ernest, bless him, quietly changed both tubes and filled them with sealant while I lay nearby in a state of moral collapse. I had no energy to even pretend to help.

Because it was winter, darkness fell instantly after sunset — as if someone had flipped a cosmic switch. We aimed to find a camping spot by 18h00, mostly because that was when the mosquitoes arrived. I had no idea mosquitoes lived in deserts. Apparently, they do, and they wait in great numbers for unsuspecting cyclists to stop moving. The safest place was inside the tent, preferably zipped up to the point of suffocation.

 

Water Pots and a Curious Conversation (71 km)

We woke to the violent flapping of the flysheet, which is never a sign of good things to come. The wind was still at it, determined to ensure we made no meaningful progress. Ernest took the lead — a rare event, as he generally prefers to cycle behind me, possibly because it lets him observe my suffering for motivational purposes.

Sudan may not have beer, but it does have water, and in the desert, that is infinitely better. Every settlement had a shelter with pottery urns filled with cool water. The water stayed surprisingly chilled, even in the heat, and not once were we refused a drink. Sudanese hospitality is extraordinary: they may not give you shade, comfort, or a break from the wind, but they will give you water.

Just as the day was dying, a truck stop appeared like a mirage — complete with restaurant, showers, and toilets. We camped behind it and revelled in the luxury of washing off a layer of desert grime.

A Sudanese man approached us, proudly announcing he spoke English. He showed us his textbooks, then explained that I was lying because women cannot cycle long distances. I wondered how he thought I’d arrived at the truck stop — perhaps by camel, or divine intervention.

He asked if I had any education. He quizzed me on general knowledge, clearly expecting me to fail. After answering his questions, he frowned and declared that I certainly couldn’t drive a car. I informed him I owned two. He looked pained. “But you can’t climb a mountain!” he exclaimed, as if this were the final, irrefutable proof of my incompetence.

By then, I’d lost interest. We were clearly from different planets, and I couldn’t blame him — he’d been taught these things from childhood. It only confirmed my belief that political and religious ideas should be taught scientifically; otherwise, it’s just brainwashing with extra steps.

 

Khartoum: Juice, Overlanders, and Visa Limbo (50 km)

The next morning, we pointed our bicycles toward Khartoum. Once there, we camped at the Blue Nile Sailing Club — a legendary overlander haunt and the same place I’d camped two years earlier on my Cairo‑to‑Cape Town ride. It sits right on the Nile, with a gentle breeze that feels like a divine apology for everything Sudan has done to you so far.

Outside the club was a juice shack selling mango‑avocado juice in two distinct layers, like a delicious tropical parfait. It was wildly popular, and for good reason — after days of desert cycling, it tasted like nectar.

The sailing club was a magnet for overlanders. We met Clive and Denise, a British couple travelling from London to Cape Town on a 1954 Triumph motorcycle. They had enough stories to keep a conversation going until the end of time. Also camping there were Charles and Rensche on motorbikes heading south. They told us where to find water further north — vital information, as the route to Wadi Halfa involved an open desert crossing with absolutely no water.

We spent the next four days trying to extend our Sudanese visas (unsuccessfully) and registering with the police. The rest of the time was spent eating anything edible within a 500‑metre radius. Sudan does that to you.

 

Back Into the Breeze - Leaving Khartoum (106 km)

We finally rolled out of Khartoum on 12 December, fortified by juice, bureaucracy, and the faint hope that perhaps — just perhaps — the wind might give us a break. It did not. Sudanese wind is a committed employee: punctual, energetic, and determined to make your life difficult.

By five o’clock we had managed a mere 105 kilometres, which sounds respectable until you realise how much of it was spent muttering curses into the breeze.

Cycling in Africa is best done north‑to‑south, because the prevailing winds tend to be polite and helpful in that direction. We, of course, were going the wrong way. It felt a bit like trying to walk down an escalator that was going up — technically possible, but only if you enjoy suffering.

Camping in the desert usually meant peace and quiet. But if anyone happened to be nearby when we pitched our tents, they gathered at a respectful distance to watch us with the fascination normally reserved for rare zoo animals. They didn’t interfere; they simply observed, as if waiting to see whether we would spontaneously combust.

 

Sandstorm, Lost Temper, Broken Toe (86 km)

The next day we left the Nile and immediately entered a desert storm. The moment you lose sight of the Nile, Sudan becomes a beige infinity. North, south, east, west — all identical. It’s like cycling inside a giant bowl of semolina.

The wind whipped up sand until visibility dropped to a few metres. With bandanas over our faces, we dragged the bicycles through thick sand, hoping vaguely that we were heading in the right direction. There was no road, no track, no sign of civilisation — just wind, sand, and two increasingly irritated cyclists.

At one point, I lost my temper entirely, threw my bicycle down, kicked it, and shouted at the wind. The wind, being wind, did not care. My toe, however, did — I realised immediately I might have broken it. So, I picked up the bike, hobbled forward, and continued pushing into the gale like a tragic character in a desert opera.

We must have looked pitiful: two lonely figures inching forward at the speed of continental drift.

 

Raw Goat and Sandy Pasta (81 km)

We managed 81 kilometres, which felt like a triumph given the conditions. Water stops were scarce, but the one we did find was unforgettable. It consisted of a dhaba — a basic food stall — where Sudanese men in jallabiyas sat calmly eating raw goat.

We stared at them. They stared at us. Both parties were equally baffled by the other’s life choices.

By evening, gale‑force winds made pitching the tent a competitive sport. Everything was instantly covered in sand — the stove, the food, the tent, us. Ernest produced a sandy pasta meal, which we ate without complaint. Sand had become a food group.

We crawled into our equally sandy beds. I know I keep mentioning the wind, but truly, there are no words for how relentless it was. If the wind had been a person, it would have been fired for harassment.

 

Reunion with the Nile (111 km)

Eventually, the route spat us out at the Nile again, and it felt like greeting an old friend — one who doesn’t talk much but whose presence is deeply comforting.

The wind, however, continued its vendetta. Setting up camp outside and packing up became daily battles. I’m fairly sure I lost half my belongings to the wind: socks, spoons, bits of dignity.

We found a derelict building on the outskirts of Al Dabbah and camped behind it, dragging the bikes through thick sand. Doing this with a broken toe was especially delightful. I vowed never to kick a bicycle again, no matter how much it deserved it.

 

Desert Hospitality and Goat’s Milk Cheese (92 km)

By this point, Ernest and I had begun referring to ourselves as “the two desert rats,” partly because we looked the part and partly because it felt like an evolutionary inevitability. We pedalled the 92 kilometres from Al Dabbah to Sali, following the Nile like two exhausted moths drawn to a watery flame.

The riverbank settlements were a delight. Turning into one for water, we were immediately invited in — Sudanese hospitality being one of the few forces stronger than Sudanese wind. We had barely lit the stove when a tray appeared, laden with goat’s milk cheese, olives, and dates. It was the sort of spread that would make a Mediterranean grandmother weep with pride.

I’m fairly sure they gave us their sleeping quarters while they slept in the kitchen. Sudanese generosity is astonishing: they will feed you, house you, and treat you like honoured guests, even if you smell like two people who have been living inside a sandstorm.

 

Dongola Heat and Bureaucratic Grit (71 km)

Another day, another stiff breeze determined to make sure we never enjoyed cycling again. By the time we reached Dongola, I was in no mood for bureaucracy, which unfortunately was exactly what Dongola specialised in. Authorities insisted we register with the police before booking a hotel. I suspected this was because I was a woman, and my lip dragged so low it nearly touched the ground.

I climbed into a tuk‑tuk and rattled off to the police station, muttering darkly. Dongola, incidentally, is where General Herbert Kitchener killed 15,000 Mahdist fighters in 1899, and then — in a display of British efficiency — killed the wounded too, raising the total to over 50,000. It is not a place with a gentle historical aura.

We spent the next day in Dongola doing laundry, maintaining bicycles, and stocking up on provisions. The heat was sweltering — Dongola being one of the hottest and driest places on Earth — but it was an excellent place to eat everything in sight in preparation for the next round of desert starvation.

 

Ferry, Prayer Time, and Palm‑Tree Camping (54 km)

After a well‑deserved break, we headed north along the western bank of the Nile toward Argo, where we planned to cross by small ferry. Upon arriving, we discovered it was prayer time, which meant absolutely no one was present. Sudanese prayer time is wonderfully consistent: everything stops, including ferries, commerce, and any hope you had of getting across the river quickly.

Eventually, the boatman returned, ferried us across, and we continued on. The road veered away from the Nile almost immediately, becoming impossible to follow. Fortunately, Charles had given Ernest GPS coordinates, without which we would likely still be wandering the desert, living off dates and despair.

We camped under palm trees along the Nile near Kerma, which sounds romantic but was mostly an exercise in avoiding falling midges.

 

Midges, Tea, and the Nubian Way (53 km)

The midges were ferocious. They got into everything — nose, ears, mouth, food, clothing, thoughts. Pitching the tent became a race against tiny airborne demons. Once inside, we hid until sunset, when they vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared.

By now, we were fully entrenched in the Nubian lifestyle of drinking sweet black tea. It became our evening ritual, a sort of desert cocktail hour. Strange things happen when there’s no beer — you begin to look forward to tea with the enthusiasm of a Victorian vicar. My mother would’ve been proud.

 

The Shortcut That Wasn’t – Khali to Desert Camp (54 km)

After Khali, we decided — in a moment of optimism bordering on delusion — to take an open‑desert shortcut. The river made a large loop; we did not. This seemed sensible on paper, but paper does not account for the Nubian Desert, which is less a landscape and more a cosmic prank.

Contrary to popular belief, the Nubian Desert is not all sand. It is also rocks, mountains, corrugations, and other geological features specifically designed to make cyclists cry. In some places, the sand was so deep we had to drag the bicycles like reluctant livestock. In others, the ground was so rough it felt like cycling over a field of angry tortoises.

Windstorms arrived with clockwork regularity, each one more enthusiastic than the last. With bandanas tied around our faces, we leaned into the gale, sometimes pedalling, sometimes walking, and sometimes simply standing still and reconsidering our life choices. My toe — still suffering from its earlier encounter with my temper — protested loudly.

The landscape was identical in every direction. North, south, east, west — all beige. It was like being trapped inside a giant bowl of couscous.

Then, miraculously, a structure appeared in the distance. Upon reaching it, we found the ruined remains of a building and four men on motorbikes huddled together, trying to eat out of the wind. They looked astonished to see us, as if two cyclists had wandered out of a hallucination. They offered us chocolate biscuits — a prized desert commodity — and wished us luck. Even going with the wind, their motorbikes sank deeper into the sand than our bicycles. Misery, it seemed, was democratic.

Fueled by chocolate biscuits and misplaced confidence, we set out again.

 

Wadis and Winter Cold (52 km)

We managed about 50 kilometres a day, which felt heroic given the conditions. At night we camped in wadis — dry riverbeds that offered shelter from the wind but none from the cold. The nights and mornings were bitterly freezing, the kind of cold that makes you question whether deserts have been misrepresented in popular culture.

We emerged reluctantly each morning, usually around nine‑thirty or ten, like two hibernating animals forced out of their burrows.

 

Foul, Aish, and Desert Ruins (72 km)

The next day, the two desert rats managed 72 kilometres — a triumph worthy of celebration, if celebration hadn’t required energy we no longer possessed. The sun set around six, so late starts meant short days.

During the ride, we discovered a dhaba selling foul (pronounced “fool”) and warm pita bread. It became our favourite Sudanese meal — hearty, comforting, and blissfully free of sand.

Despite our best efforts, progress remained dreadfully slow. Catching the weekly Wadi Halfa/Abu Simbel ferry in four days seemed increasingly unlikely. The desert was winning.

We camped among the ruins of a deserted town. To this day, I wonder about its history — who lived there, why they left, whether they too were defeated by wind. But Maslow was right: food, water, tent. Everything else could wait.

 

Akasha and the Joy of Tea and Sweets (74 km)

We tried to leave earlier, but “earlier” in the desert meant 9 a.m. at best. Our goal was Akasha, 74 kilometres away. The road — such as it was — deteriorated immediately after leaving the Nile. The wind, sand, corrugations, and mountains all seemed to have formed a union dedicated to making our lives difficult.

We reached Akasha before dark, which felt like a small miracle. The village had a tiny shop selling a few items — tea and sweets among them — and we were delighted, as if we had discovered a gourmet supermarket.

With full water bottles, we headed out to camp in a nearby riverbed. Ernest warmed water for washing, and we scrubbed off the day’s grime as the temperature plummeted. The desert may be hot by day, but by night it becomes a freezer with sand.

 

Cold Mornings and Road‑Camp Kindness (59 km)

It is astonishing how cold the desert becomes in winter. One imagines deserts as places where one is slowly roasted alive, but in reality, they are more like giant outdoor ovens that someone keeps turning off and on at random. We shivered through our morning tea, packed up, and set off into yet another day of soft sand and stony terrain — the sort of surface that makes you question whether bicycles were ever meant to exist.

There were no settlements, no water stops, no signs of life. Just sand, rocks, and the occasional gust of wind determined to rearrange our facial features. Around 30 kilometres in, we stumbled upon a road camp. The staff kindly filled our water containers, giving us enough to cook and wash that evening — a small mercy in a landscape that offered very few.

Our days had settled into a rhythm: shivering through tea, pushing bikes through sand, sweating in the heat, then pitching tents in wadis and layering on every item of clothing we owned. It was a routine that made us feel both hardy and slightly ridiculous.

 

The Final Push to Wadi Halfa (72 km)

We woke early, eager to tackle the final stretch to Wadi Halfa. The only way to get from Sudan to Egypt overland was by ferry from Wadi Halfa to Aswan, and it ran only once a week. Missing it meant waiting another seven days — something neither of us had the emotional fortitude for. Our visas had expired more than a week earlier, so catching the ferry was not just desirable; it was essential.

Great was our surprise — and borderline hysteria — when we discovered the last 30 kilometres into Wadi Halfa were paved. PAVED. After weeks of sand, corrugations, and geological hostility, smooth tarmac felt like a gift from the gods. We practically floated into town, grinning like two people who had just escaped a desert-themed reality show.

Wadi Halfa was small, dusty, and perfect. We found a dirty room with a sagging bed and were thrilled beyond measure. There were food stalls — actual food stalls! — and we were in time to catch the ferry. The two desert rats had made it.

 

Ferry Escape and the Slow Arrival in Egypt

The next morning began early with the usual bureaucratic dance: buying ferry tickets, getting exit stamps, and hoping no one noticed our expired visas. Miraculously, no one did. Sudanese officials stamped our passports with the cheerful indifference of people who had far more pressing things to worry about.

The ferry departed at four a.m., and I splashed out on a cabin — a decision that felt decadent after weeks of sleeping in sand-filled tents. Somewhere in the middle of the lake, a speedboat zoomed up, police boarded, and our passports were handed over with the nervousness of people who knew exactly how long their visas were expired. Mercifully, no one checked the dates. We were free to go. Eish!

We spent the evening chatting with fellow travellers and watching a spectacular sunset over the Aswan Dam — a scene so serene it felt almost suspicious after the chaos of the desert.

The ferry arrived in Aswan around nine the next morning, though it took until eleven for us to actually set foot on Egyptian soil. Egypt has a charming way of making time behave strangely, and the saying “Egypt is like a visit back in time” felt accurate in more ways than one.

 

Epilogue

Crossing into Egypt felt like stepping out of a fever dream and into a slightly eccentric museum exhibit. The desert dust finally settled, the wind lost interest in us, and the world resumed its usual habit of behaving more or less sensibly.

Sudan had given us heat, wind, thorns, hospitality, raw goat, falafel, bureaucracy, and a sunset over Lake Nasser that made every miserable kilometre worthwhile.

We arrived in Aswan tired, relieved, and faintly triumphant — two desert rats who had survived the Nubian gauntlet and lived to tell the tale, preferably over a large meal and with absolutely no sand in it.

012 CYCLE TOURING ETHIOPIA

Riding the Roof of Africa (One Struggle at a Time)

Photo by Ernest Markwood

012 ETHIOPIA
716 Kilometres – 15 Days
9 November 2007 – 30 November 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

PDF

 VOICEOVER

Prelude – Ethiopia

Some journeys begin with careful planning. Others, like this one, begin with a fresh passport, a slightly questionable level of fitness, and a vague sense that things will probably work out.

Ethiopia, however, has never been particularly interested in anyone’s expectations. It keeps its own time (starting at sunrise), follows its own calendar (happily celebrating the year 2000 while the rest of the world moves on), and presents its landscapes in one consistent format: uphill.

I arrived knowing what lay ahead—or at least, thinking I did. The altitude would bite, the hills would test my resolve, and injera would feature heavily in my daily diet. What I had conveniently forgotten was how unpredictable everything else would be: the humour, the challenges, and the strange, unforgettable rhythm of the road.

So, with Ernest by my side and Sudan somewhere in the distance, we set off once more—northward into a country that doesn’t ease you in gently, but rewards you all the same.

After all, it was only 716 kilometres.

How difficult could it really be?

 

Cape Town, South Africa to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia (2400 m asl)

My return to South Africa from Amman, Jordan, was prompted by a rather urgent and unglamorous reason: I desperately needed a new passport. Nothing says “world traveller” quite like running out of pages. To my surprise, Ernest also showed up in Cape Town—but unlike me, he had abandoned most of his belongings in Addis Ababa. Priorities clearly differ.

After a solid month of eating, drinking, and reacquainting myself with both friends and my waistband, I proudly collected my shiny maxi passport—more pages, more possibilities, and slightly more responsibility not to lose it.

Following some enthusiastic (and possibly overcaffeinated) discussions, Ernest and I decided to reunite forces and head to Addis Ababa. I was thrilled. Ethiopia has it all: history, mystery, altitude—and marathon runners who make the rest of us look like we’re standing still.

This is a country where the Ethiopian Orthodox Church claims to guard the Ark of the Covenant (no big deal), where Lalibela’s rock-hewn churches were apparently carved by angels working overnight (impressive turnaround time), and where Emperor Haile Selassie is revered by Rastafarians worldwide—making Ethiopia a sort of spiritual headquarters for Bob Marley fans.

And then there’s the food. Injera—Ethiopia’s beloved sourdough pancake—serves as both plate and cutlery. Tear a piece, scoop your stew, and voilà—minimal washing up. It’s genius. It’s also slightly dangerous when you realise you’ve eaten your plate.

We spent a week exploring Addis, including a visit to Lucy—the 3.2-million-year-old fossil who, at 1.1 meters tall, clearly skipped leg day. Most of our time, however, was spent on the thrilling adventure of visa applications. Hours melted away as we navigated Ethiopian time (which starts at sunrise—because why not?) and a calendar that runs gloriously out of sync with the rest of the planet. While the world was in 2007, Ethiopia was joyfully celebrating the year 2000—complete with lights and festivities. Honestly, they might be onto something.

To top it off, I bumped into Wondey, one of the 2005 Tour d’Afrique guides. Because apparently, the world is just a very small, dusty village.

 

A Humbling Start (And Unexpected Hills)

After seven days of “preparation” (and by preparation, I mean eating), we finally got on our bikes. What should’ve been a short 80-km ride to Muka felt like an Olympic event. Either Addis got hillier while I was away, or my fitness had quietly slipped out the back door.

The countryside, however, was spectacular—lush greens and golden fields, dotted with farmers still ploughing with oxen like it’s the 1800s (because in many ways, it is).

Eighty kilometres later, I arrived in Muka—exhausted, humbled, and questioning my life choices.

 

Short Ride, Long Complaints

At a lofty 2,780 metres above sea level, Fiche wasn’t far, but my backside staged a formal protest. A short ride was declared necessary for survival.

The locals were fascinated by us, particularly the children, who greeted us enthusiastically with, “You! You! Give money!”—followed, if ignored, by a small but effective rain of stones. Not malicious, just... persistent marketing. And impressively accurate. Olympic potential, these kids.

Into the Blue Nile Gorge

A scenic but hilly ride led us to the Blue Nile Gorge—an absolutely stunning sight. Vast, dramatic, and exactly the kind of place that makes you forget how much your legs hurt for about three seconds.

The Blue Nile, one of the Nile’s two main tributaries, begins at Lake Tana in Ethiopia. The White Nile begins… somewhere. No one seems entirely sure, which is oddly comforting.

That night, we camped on the rim of the gorge, admiring one of the most incredible landscapes in Ethiopia—and possibly wondering why humans ever thought cycling through mountains was a good idea.

 

Down Easy, Up the Hard Way

The descent into the gorge—1,500 meters—was surprisingly manageable, thanks to some paving. A rare gift! The climb out, however, was a different story: steep, gravelly, with major roadworks.

Having cycled this stretch before, I opted for a truck ride. Ernest, fuelled by determination (and questionable judgment), chose to cycle.

In Debra Markos, we treated ourselves to market goods—beans, potatoes, onions—and Ernest whipped up a stew. A welcome break from our near-exclusive diet of injera.

Local history added humour: when the Italians arrived in 1936, they announced they’d come to free the locals from their oppressors. The locals, confused, reportedly asked, “Which oppressors?” Awkward.

 

Rolling Roads and Dollar Luxury

Rolling hills led us to Finote Selam, where a room with a hot shower cost just over a dollar. Luxury!

Vegetables were scarce, but bananas and oranges were plentiful. You take what you can get.

Ethiopia continued to impress—an ancient country that largely avoided colonisation, with a fascinating language (Amharic) that looks as complex as it sounds. Place names, unfortunately, come in multiple spellings, ensuring perpetual confusion for travellers trying to read maps.

 

History, and Regrettable Meals

A pleasant ride—punctuated by the usual “Where you go?” followed by increasingly ambitious requests: money, clothes, occasionally even the bicycle.

Dangla, a modest town, once played a role in the African slave trade. History hides in the most unexpected places.

Dinner was firfir—fried injera in spicy sauce. Delicious at the time. Regrettable later.

 

When the Body Says No

This ride was... character-building. The kind that makes you question everything.

I eventually staggered into Bahir Dar, a surprisingly pleasant lakeside town. There were actual hotels! Restaurants! Civilization!

I splurged on a bed instead of camping—because pitching a tent felt like summiting Everest. Unfortunately, I was unwell and missed out on exploring Lake Tana’s monasteries and the Blue Nile Falls. A bitter disappointment. Still feeling unwell, an additional day was spent in Bahir Dar. Little did I know that whatever I'd contracted would linger an awfully long time.

 

Flat Roads and Fragile Stomachs

The route to Addis Zena led along Lake Tana and was mercifully flat. Finally.

Addis Zena provided stunning views of the foothills of the Simien Mountains. That evening, Ernest made spaghetti—a welcome break from Ethiopian cuisine while my stomach negotiated a truce. We ate our food while admiring Mount Asaba, Addis Zena's famous landmark.

 

The Castles of Gondar

The ride to Gondar delivered spectacular scenery. Gondar itself was a treasure—once Ethiopia’s capital and filled with castles.

The walled Fasil Ghebbi fortress is a vast complex of forts and palaces measuring 70,000 square metres. It contains numerous restored castles and other buildings and has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site. However, the main attraction remained the immense 17th-century castle of Emperor Fasilides, which featured a surprising mixture of architectural styles and, frankly, made your average castle look a bit lazy.

 

Ernest pedalled ahead, but I stayed back to explore, as this was my second visit to Gonder and I didn’t want to race through it like the first time. Priorities.

I visited Debre Berhan Selassie Church and wandered the markets. Schoolchildren greeted me with cheerful cries of “Good morning, teacher!”—a title I was definitely not qualified for.

 

Gondar to Metema (by bus)

The bus journey was an adventure in itself. Fees were charged for loading the bike, unloading it, and presumably thinking about it.

The seats were so hard that I arrived more uncomfortable than if I’d cycled. Impressive.

Metema, a border town, was dusty and chaotic, with “rustic” accommodation—a mud hut with a sagging bed and electricity that came and went as it pleased.

Ernest arrived looking like he’d wrestled a dust storm—and lost.

We upgraded to a slightly better room (emphasis on slightly) and enjoyed our last beer before entering Sudan, where alcohol was strictly forbidden. No surprises, then, that the border town had plenty of pubs.

 

Cross the border from Ethiopia to Sudan (88 km)

We crossed the border into Sudan via what can only be described as a mud hut masquerading as an immigration office.

Sudan greeted us with heat, wind, and a sharp cultural shift. Cycling was tough, and we barely made it to the tiny village of Doka.

We camped near a police checkpoint—not ideal, but it had water, which in this environment is more valuable than comfort.

As I lay in my tent that night, I couldn’t help but smile. Cycling through Sudan—again—was never part of the original plan. But here I was again! 

 

Epilogue – Leaving Ethiopia (and a Few Illusions Behind)

By the time we reached the border at Metema, Ethiopia had done what it always seems to do—left me equal parts exhausted, amused, and quietly in awe.

It wasn’t just the kilometres, though there were plenty of those. Nor was it the hills, which seemed endless at the time and somehow steeper in memory. It was the accumulation of small moments: the children calling out from dusty roadsides, the constant negotiation between expectation and reality, the laughter that somehow finds its way in even when things aren’t going entirely to plan. 

But if you keep moving forward—sometimes slowly, sometimes with great reluctance—you eventually find yourself exactly where you’re meant to be.

010 CYCLE TOURING SYRIA (1)

 Between Sand and Citadels

           

10 SYRIA (1)

570 Kilometres – 23 Days
22 September – 14 October 2007

PHOTOS

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER 

PROLOGUE

 

Syria arrived first as a whisper on the wind, a name carried across borders like a rumour of ancient things. A land older than memory, where stones keep their own counsel and the desert watches without blinking.

I entered it twice —once with the naïve courage of a woman who believes the road will always rise to meet her, and once with the quiet resilience of someone who knows that sometimes the road does not.

Between those two crossings lay sandstorms and citadels, courtyard homes and chaotic streets, the laughter of strangers, and the soft, stubborn beating of my own heart as it learned — again —that the world is far kinder than it appears from a distance.

 

 

SYRIA (1)

 

22–23 September – Atakia, Turkey – Aleppo, Syria (110 km)

Leaving Atakia, Turkey, I pedalled toward the Syrian border with the kind of optimism that only comes from not fully understanding the situation. I had absolutely no idea whether visas were issued on arrival — a detail most sensible travellers would have checked before cycling toward a new country. But there I was, rolling toward the unknown, rehearsing my most innocent smile and hoping it would translate across cultural and bureaucratic boundaries.

Just as I was preparing myself for the possibility of sleeping at the border like a stray cat with panniers, the universe intervened. Four motorbike riders appeared — the rugged, dust‑covered, overland‑to‑South‑Africa type who look like they’ve survived at least three deserts, two corrupt checkpoints, and a questionable kebab. They introduced me to Ahmed, a tour guide who seemed to possess supernatural administrative powers.

Ahmed took one look at me — sweaty, hopeful, clutching my passport like a toddler holding a favourite toy — and immediately adopted me. He guided me through the forms with saintly patience, nodding kindly as I fumbled through basic questions. Then, in true mystical‑guide fashion, he vanished. Not suspiciously — more like a man who had other bureaucratic fires to put out.

Three hours later, he reappeared with my visa as casually as if he’d just fetched a loaf of bread. I could hardly believe it. Three hours! That’s practically warp speed in visa time. I’ve waited longer for toast. I thanked him profusely, thanked the motorbike riders, thanked every deity I could think of, and cycled into Syria before anyone could change their mind.

My first thought upon entering was: What have I done? Everything was different — the culture, the language, the landscape, the food, the architecture. Even the air felt ancient, as if it had been circulating since the dawn of civilisation. Syria wasn’t just a conservative Muslim desert country; it was one of the oldest inhabited regions on earth. Archaeological finds date back 700,000 years, which is roughly how long the traffic jams feel.

The day’s cycling was uneventful in the way that only long stretches of cotton fields and quiet villages can be. Each community had the same comforting trio: a mosque, a market, and modest courtyard homes that looked plain from the outside but were apparently palatial inside. I loved the idea so much I swore I’d build a courtyard home someday — preferably without Syrian traffic outside.

Speaking of traffic: biking into Aleppo at 18h00 during Ramadan was like entering a video game set to “Impossible Mode.” Thousands of hungry drivers were racing home, and as a woman on a bicycle, I was somewhere below “stray goat” on the traffic hierarchy. Then the heavens opened, the streets flooded instantly, and I rode straight into a drain cover that tried to claim part of my anatomy I may have a use for in the futher.

Miraculously, I survived and found a reasonably priced hotel called — appropriately — the Hotel Tourist. Achmad from the hotel took pity on me and offered to show me around. Bless him.

The next day I explored the citadel, market, and museum, then got lost in the labyrinth of identical alleys. By evening, Achmad accompanied me again, and we ended up in a typical Syrian eatery. Syrians, I discovered, are some of the friendliest people on earth — endlessly curious, endlessly kind, and endlessly amused by a lone woman on a bicycle.

 

24 September – Aleppo – Idlib (66 km)

I left Aleppo feeling rather pleased with myself for having survived the traffic, the flooding, and the drain‑cover incident that nearly ended my future romantic prospects. As I was wheeling my bike out the door, Achmad — sweet, earnest Achmad — presented me with a watch. A whole watch. I stood there blinking at it, unsure whether this was a cultural gesture, a personal gesture, or a “please don’t get lost again” gesture. Whatever it was, I thanked him profusely, strapped it on, and pedalled away feeling both touched and slightly bewildered.

My first full day of cycling in Syria was a 60‑kilometre battle straight into a headwind that clearly had unresolved emotional issues. It pushed against me with the determination of someone trying to prevent a bad decision. The landscape rolled by in shades of dusty beige and muted green, and every now and then a passing driver would slow down to stare at me as if I were a hallucination brought on by dehydration. An unaccompanied woman… on a bicycle… in Syria. It was as if I’d broken several laws of physics simultaneously.

By the time I reached Idlib, I was sun‑baked, wind‑whipped, and ready to collapse into any accommodation that didn’t involve livestock. I asked around for a place to stay, and in the process met Ahmad — yes, another Ahmad. Syria is full of them, and they are all delightful. This Ahmad invited me to stay with him and his wife, Somod. Before I could even protest, I was ushered into an entire apartment that they insisted I take for myself. I felt like royalty, albeit a sweaty, wind‑blown version.

That evening, I was invited to supper with Ahmad, his wife, his brother, and sister‑in‑law. They sat on a mat and ate with their fingers, and I joined them, trying my best to mimic their graceful movements. They laughed kindly as I fumbled, dropping bits of food like a toddler learning fine motor skills. Despite Ramadan, Somod had prepared a feast — fragrant dishes, warm bread, and flavours that made me want to weep with gratitude. Ahmad was the only one who spoke English, but somehow, we all communicated, laughing, gesturing, and sharing food in a way that transcended language entirely.

When I finally returned to my room, I was full, humbled, and deeply grateful for the kind of hospitality that makes you question whether you’ve ever been truly generous in your life.

 

25 September – Idlib – Latakia (130 km)

The next morning, I set off on a 130‑kilometre ride toward Latakia — a distance that sounded manageable until I remembered the mountain range standing between me and the coast. The road wound up and over the hills, and the headwind returned with a vengeance, as if it had been waiting for me. I pedalled slowly, stubbornly, and with the grim determination of someone who refuses to admit she’s made a terrible route choice.

The people I encountered along the way were endlessly accommodating. They waved, smiled, and offered food and drink with such insistence that I began to worry I’d never make it to Latakia because I’d be too full to move. Asking for directions, however, was a challenge. Most people couldn’t read English maps, and my Arabic consisted of “hello,” “thank you,” and “please don’t run me over.” Still, they tried. They pointed, gestured, argued among themselves, and eventually sent me off in what was hopefully the right direction.

For most of the day, Syrians simply stared at me, mouths agape. I could almost hear their thoughts: Is she lost? Is she mad? Does she know where she is? To be fair, I wasn’t entirely sure of the answers myself.

By late afternoon, I rolled into Latakia, exhausted but triumphant. The traffic was as chaotic as ever, but the sight of the Mediterranean lifted my spirits. I’d made it — wind‑burned, sun‑scorched, and slightly delirious, but I’d made it.

 

26 September – Latakia

Latakia deserved a day of exploration, and I set out eagerly, though cautiously, because Syrian traffic is not for the faint‑hearted. There seemed to be no rules whatsoever. Drivers hooted constantly — not out of anger, but seemingly out of habit, boredom, or perhaps as a form of echolocation. Everyone did whatever they pleased, and yet, miraculously, there were no accidents. It was like watching a flock of birds move in perfect chaotic harmony, except the birds were cars, trucks, and three‑wheel pickups carrying everything from people to building rubble.

Those three‑wheelers were my favourite. They chugged along so slowly that I could easily overtake them, much to the delight of the children riding in the back. They would cheer, wave, and shout encouragement as if I were competing in the Tour de France.

Latakia itself was steeped in history — Seleucids, Romans, Umayyads, Abbasids, the French — everyone had taken a turn ruling it. You’d think a city with such a dramatic past would be overflowing with ruins, but strangely, only a Triumphal Arch and the remains of the Temple of Bacchus had survived. The rest had been swallowed by time, war, and modern development. Still, the city had a charm that made up for its lack of ancient monuments.

 

27 September – Latakia – Tartus (85 km)

I woke to brilliant weather — the kind of sunshine that tricks you into believing the day will go smoothly. I set off along the coast toward Tartus, enjoying the sea breeze and the gentle roll of the road. For a few blissful hours, everything was perfect. Birds chirped, the Mediterranean sparkled, and I felt like the heroine of a travel documentary.

Then the itching began.

At first, it was a polite little itch. A whisper of irritation. Then it escalated into a full‑scale assault. By midday, I was covered in lumps and bumps, scratching like a flea‑ridden street dog. I tried to ignore it, but the itching had ambitions. It wanted to be noticed. It wanted to be the main character.

By the time I reached Tartus, I was hot, tired, itchy, and dangerously close to tears. I checked into an overpriced chalet, hoping for relief, only to discover the place was infested with creepy crawlies. Actual, visible, scuttling creatures. I stood there, staring at them, thinking: Of course. Of course this is happening. Why wouldn’t it?

I briefly considered sleeping on the beach, but the coastline was so filthy — littered with plastic, bottles, and unidentifiable objects — that even my itchy, exhausted self had standards. Besides, I didn’t want to scandalise the conservative locals by accidentally exposing an elbow or, heaven forbid, an ankle while swimming.

It was one of those days where you feel profoundly sorry for yourself, and the universe doesn’t even bother pretending it cares.

 

28 September – Tartus

I woke the next morning with a swollen eye and even itchier bites — a combination that made me look like I’d lost a bar fight with a mosquito gang. I was in no mood to explore, but I forced myself out, determined not to let Tartus defeat me entirely.

The historical centre, tucked inside the old Crusader‑era Templar fortress walls, was interesting enough, though surprisingly little of its medieval past remained. A few old buildings clung on, stubborn and weathered, but the rest had been swallowed by modern life. I wandered around, trying to appreciate the history, but the constant staring made me feel like a walking billboard. There were so few tourists that I stuck out like a neon sign, and in my itchy, swollen state, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for attention.

I retreated to my room, scratched miserably, and contemplated the life choices that had led me here.

 

29 September – Tartus – Homs (110 km)

The next morning, I set off toward Homs along a busy highway. Thankfully, a tailwind pushed me along, and I made good time. The traffic, however, remained a mystery. Red lights seemed to be decorative suggestions rather than rules, and traffic police had to physically intervene to prevent total chaos. I watched them with admiration — they were like conductors of a very loud, very unpredictable orchestra.

Later that evening, I took a taxi to a recommended restaurant. The taxi driver, for reasons known only to him, decided to stay and join me for the meal. He spoke no English, and I spoke no Arabic, so we sat there in awkward silence, eating together like two strangers on the world’s most uncomfortable blind date. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to buy him dinner, or whether he was supposed to buy mine, or whether we were simply trapped in a cultural misunderstanding with no escape route. Whatever the custom, I would have been far more comfortable eating alone.

 

30 September – Homs

Since I’d seen almost nothing of Homs the previous day, I dedicated the next one to exploring. I wandered through the ancient markets, sampling pastries so sweet they could have powered a small city, and drank tiny cups of strong coffee that made my heart race like I’d been plugged into a generator.

It was sweltering hot, and I marvelled at how the women managed to stay fully covered in black. The men, at least, had the advantage of long white robes that looked marginally more breathable. The city was a jumble of noise and colour — hooting cars, bustling markets, and the melodic call to prayer echoing from numerous mosques. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly fascinating.

 

1 October – Homs – Damascus (80 km)

The scenery changed abruptly as I left Homs and headed inland toward Damascus. One moment I was surrounded by olive trees, pomegranates, and figs — the next, I was cycling through a vast, empty desert that looked like it had been designed by someone with a limited colour palette and a strong dislike for vegetation. The wind picked up, turning into a ferocious, sand‑flinging beast that reduced visibility to a few metres. Everything was coated in a grey‑yellow haze, including me.

I battled onward, head down, trying to keep the sand out of my eyes and my dignity intact. I was so focused on not being sandblasted into oblivion that I barely noticed the van parked beside the road. A sweet French couple waved me over and offered me a lift to Damascus. Normally, I would have politely declined, determined to cycle every inch of the journey. But this was not a normal day. This was a “take the lift or die trying” day. I accepted immediately, grateful beyond words.

They drove me straight to Damascus and parked their van in the backyard of St Paul’s convent. I pitched my tent in the herb garden, hoping I wasn’t flattening anything sacred or culinary. Parsley, basil, divine intervention — who knows what I was sleeping on.

 

2–6 October – Damascus

I woke early the next morning to the sound of the gardener watering the garden — including, nearly, my tent. I waved goodbye to my French rescuers and set off into Damascus traffic, which was every bit as life‑threatening as I remembered. I found an inexpensive hotel, cleaned it to a habitable level, and settled in to wait for my sister Amanda, who was flying in for a holiday.

While waiting, I made a horrifying discovery: my passport was practically full. I had stared at the expiry date for months, feeling smug about how much time I had left, and never once considered the number of remaining pages. Rookie mistake. I learned that I couldn’t order a new passport in Syria, Jordan, or even nearby Lebanon. My only option was to return to South Africa, get a new one, and hope I could resume my journey without losing momentum — or my sanity. It was a costly lesson, and I mentally kicked myself for not checking sooner.

 

7 October – Damascus

Amanda arrived in the afternoon, and we immediately set out to explore the old part of town. Damascus, being the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, wears its history like a layered robe — ancient markets, beautiful mosques, narrow cobbled lanes, and a sense of timelessness that makes you feel both insignificant and privileged to witness it.

The markets were fascinating, full of colour and noise and the smell of spices. The traffic, however, was a nightmare. Crossing the street required forming a human wall with other pedestrians and hoping for the best. It was less “crossing” and more “collective survival strategy.”

 

8 October – Maalula

After breakfast the next morning, we took a taxi to the Shrine of Saida Zeinab, said to contain the grave of Muhammad’s granddaughter. The shrine was beautiful, serene, and filled with worshippers. From there, we caught a minibus to Maalula, a historical town where houses cling to the cliffs like stubborn barnacles. Maalula is one of the few places where Aramaic — the language Jesus presumably spoke — is still used. Hearing it spoken felt like stepping into a time machine.

We quickly adapted to the Syrian lifestyle, where nothing opens before ten, breakfast lasts until midday, shops close between four and six, and then stay open late into the night. This schedule suited Amanda perfectly. She thrives in the late‑morning‑to‑late‑evening window, whereas I tend to operate on the “up at dawn, asleep by ten” model. Still, travel has a way of bending your habits, and I found myself adjusting without too much protest.

 

9–10 October – Damascus – Aleppo

We caught an early morning bus to Aleppo, a city with historical records dating back to 5,000 BC. I was excited to show Amanda the covered souqs in the old walled city — a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the world’s largest covered market. The souqs stretched for approximately thirteen kilometres, a labyrinth of narrow alleys packed with people, goods, spices, sweets, textiles, carpets, and the famous Aleppo soap made from olive oil.

The Al‑Madina Souq wasn’t just a marketplace; it was the beating heart of the city. Traders shouted, customers bargained, tea was poured, gossip was exchanged, and life pulsed through every corner. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly captivating.

We also visited the citadel, dating back to the 3rd millennium BC. Perched in the centre of town, it offered grand views over old Aleppo. Standing there, looking out over the ancient city, I felt a sense of awe — and also a sense of relief that I wasn’t currently navigating its traffic on my bicycle.

 

11 October – Aleppo – Hama

Travelling without a bicycle felt like cheating, but it was undeniably efficient. Amanda and I hopped on a bus to Hama, and before we knew it, we were checking into a hotel and hailing a taxi to Krak des Chevaliers — the kind of castle that makes every other castle look like it’s not really trying.

Krak des Chevaliers is the best‑preserved medieval castle in the world, and it knows it. It sits on its hill like a smug stone giant, radiating the confidence of a fortress that has survived centuries of sieges, storms, and tourists. First occupied by Kurdish troops in the 11th century, it later became a Crusader stronghold, housing up to 2,000 people — infantry, crossbow specialists, mercenaries, and, according to records, a mere 60 actual knights. Sixty! The rest were essentially medieval interns.

We wandered through its vast halls and towering walls, marvelling at the sheer scale of it. Amanda snapped photos like a woman possessed, while I tried to imagine what life must have been like here — cold, drafty, and full of men arguing about whose turn it was to fetch water.

Back in Hama, we still had time to visit the city’s famous norias — enormous wooden water wheels dating back to the medieval Islamic period. They creaked and groaned as they turned, lifting water from the Orontes River with the weary dignity of ancient machinery that refuses to retire. There were six of them left, still in working condition, still beautiful in their own rustic way. Standing beside them, listening to their rhythmic moaning, I felt like I’d stumbled into a living museum.

 

12–14 October – Hama – Palmyra

The next morning, we boarded a bus to Palmyra — the legendary oasis town, once ruled by Queen Zenobia and home to the ruins of the “Pink City.” Founded in the 3rd millennium BC, Palmyra had been one of the most important cultural centres of the ancient world, a wealthy caravan stop on the trade route between Persia, India, and China. Even in ruins, it radiated grandeur.

The colonnaded street stretched for 1,100 metres, lined with towering pillars that seemed to glow in the desert light. The Temple of Ba’al rose from the sand like a memory refusing to fade. It was impossible not to feel small in the presence of such history — small, and also slightly sunburned.

While wandering the ruins, we befriended a local man who invited us to visit his family living in the desert. This is the kind of invitation that sounds both magical and mildly alarming, but we were swept up in the romance of it all. Before we knew it, we were packing our belongings and climbing onto camels for the journey.

If you’ve never ridden a camel, imagine sitting on a moving bar stool while someone tilts the floor beneath you. The camels lurched forward with the enthusiasm of creatures who had absolutely no interest in our comfort. We rocked across the desert for hours, our backsides slowly losing all feeling. By the time we reached the Bedouin camp, we were walking like two people who had recently survived a minor earthquake.

The camp itself was fascinating — a cluster of tents decorated with woven carpets, warm and inviting inside despite the harshness of the desert. Communication was limited to smiling, nodding, and hoping we weren’t accidentally insulting anyone. At one point, we were fairly certain we received an offer of a few camels in exchange for ourselves. Not many camels, mind you — we were clearly past our prime bargaining years — but still, it’s nice to be wanted.

That evening, we accompanied the family to a waterhole to give the camels a drink. On the way back, a sand‑bearing wind — a Khamsin — rolled in. We watched it approach like a wall of dust swallowing the horizon. Within minutes, visibility dropped to a few hundred metres, and the sky turned the colour of old parchment. It was dramatic, unsettling, and oddly beautiful.

Back at camp, we sheltered in the main tent with the men, while the women — adorned with traditional facial tattoos — cooked in separate tents. This arrangement made me deeply uncomfortable, but I was a guest, and guests adapt. When the food arrived, it was served on large trays: rice topped with chicken thighs. Being vegetarian, I hesitated, but refusing would have been rude. So I closed my eyes, swallowed the chicken thigh whole, and hoped no one noticed my internal crisis. Unfortunately, my speed was interpreted as hunger, and I was promptly given a second portion. I ate that one too, because sometimes survival requires sacrifice.

The next morning, the camels returned us to Palmyra. Our backsides protested, but our hearts were full. It was an unforgettable experience — surreal, awkward, beautiful, and deeply human.

We barely had time to shop for souvenirs before catching a bus to Amman, Jordan — another ancient land with its own stories waiting to be discovered.

 

  

EPILOGUE

 

I left Syria the way I entered it: wind‑tossed, sun‑creased, and carrying more stories than sense.

The border stamped my passport and released me back into the world, but Syria stayed —in the dust on my panniers, in the echo of the souqs, in the memory of hands offering food before they offered words.

Some places you pass through. Others pass through you.

Syria did both.