Wednesday, 20 February 2008

014 CYCLE TOURING EGYPT


EGYPT
27 December 2007 – 20 February 2008
2332 Kilometres – 46 Days


MAP

PHOTOS

PDF

FLIP-BOOK




27 December - Wadi Halfa, Sudan – Aswan, Egypt (by ferry)

We were keen to get going as this was the day we purchased our ferry tickets and got police stamps to exit Sudan. Even after all the checking and stamps, no one said a word about our expired visas. We couldn’t wait to board the ferry and get out of Sudan before anyone noticed. The ferry was an overnight one that departed at four a.m. Ernest was lucky as I splashed out and took a cabin instead of sleeping on the deck.

The border between the two countries ran somewhere through the middle of the lake. Following a day of sailing, a speedboat came hurrying along, police jumped aboard, and our passports were nervously handed over. Mercifully, no one noticed the dates, and we were free to go. Phew!

Once all the formalities were done, one could unwind and enjoy a beautiful sunset over the Aswan dam.

The ferry from Wadi Halfa, Sudan arrived in Aswan, Egypt, around nine o’clock the following morning. We, nevertheless, only managed to place our feet upon Egyptian soil at about eleven. The saying, “Egypt was like a visit back in time”, seemed true in more ways than one.

Ernest and I cycled the short 20 kilometres into Aswan. The first thing upon our minds wasn’t the history or the magnificent monuments and sand-covered tombs, but finding a hotel, a hot shower and a beer.

Egypt came as a culture shock after spending a month in Sudan. Aswan was an overly commercialised madhouse with busloads of tourists and substantial passenger liners laying 4-deep on the Nile. The streets were jam-packed with hotels, stalls, curio shops, and touts selling felucca rides. Feluccas are simple, traditional Egyptian sailboats, a popular means of transport upon the Nile. We clung to each other staring at the madness wide-eyed. The aggressive haggling when buying anything from toilet paper to water was enough to send me scurrying to the safety of a room. My first day was thus largely spent indoors looking at the chaos through the window.

After three days of mainly eating and drinking; we were more accustomed to Egypt’s craziness and felt brave enough to face the Egyptians head-on.

 

30 December – Aswan – Edfu – 116 km

Three days and many Stellas (the local beer) later, we finally got underway and biked the 116 kilometres to Edfu. The route was a well-maintained tarmac road that ran next to the Nile. In stark contrast to Sudan, the landscape featured green crops of sugarcane, corn, rice, clover, and even mint. The way led close to the palm-lined Nile sporting excellent views more or less the entire day.

In the process, we cycled past the unusual double temple of Kom Ombo, constructed between 180-47 BC. It was further in this vicinity where more than three hundred crocodile mummies were discovered. The whole way felt like one endless village, and barely ever did one get the feeling you were in the countryside, the exact opposite of Sudan. Halfway through the ride, police insisted upon escorting us to Edfu, where our arrival was announced by sirens blaring. The Egyptians can make a meal of practically anything.

Edfu was known for its ancient Edfu Temple constructed between 237-257 BC and dedicated to Horus, the falcon-headed god. Ancient Egyptians believed the temple was built where the battle between Horus and Seth took place. So, arriving under police escort with flashing lights and sirens wailing, we ourselves felt like two Egyptian gods.

 

31 December – 2 January 2008 - Edfu - Luxor – 122 km

The last day of 2007 arrived, and I couldn’t believe it’d been nine months since leaving home. Looking out the bedroom window at a view of the Temple of Horus, I realised how much my life had changed in this relatively short period.

The way north continued along the Nile and had opportunities to escape police escorts by following smaller paths. It wasn’t that the police didn’t notice us, but more a case that if one didn’t pass in front of them, stopping us wasn’t in their job description. Finally, Luxor was reached in the dying moments of the day. Having the impression the campsite was on the opposite side of the river, we hopped onto a ferry to the West Bank. There was, however, no campsite and another ferry boat ride (this time a public ferry at a fraction of the cost) took us back to where a bed at the New Everest Hotel was home that night. I’m sure the name referred to the stairs one had to climb, not something I appreciated at such a late hour.

Three days were spent in Luxor, indulging in all the tourist attractions, including the Temple of Luxor, Temple of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings. Luxor was rightly known as the biggest open-air museum globally and contained a third of the world’s most important antiquities. That bit of information was such a mouthful. I read it twice before the words sank in! Unfortunately, even though three days were spent in the area, it would take substantially longer to visit everything Luxor had to offer.

I still claim the Temple of Luxor among the most beautiful in Egypt. It consisted of a complex constructed approximately 1400 BCE, and is one of the best-preserved ancient monuments in Egypt. Construction of the temple was started by the pharaoh Amenhotep III (1390-52 BC) and was completed by Tutankhamen (1336-27 BC) and Horemheb (1323-1295 BC) and then added to by Rameses II (1279-13 BC). I only mention this as I considered it a seriously long time ago.

The Karnak Temple was equally impressive and dated to around 2055 BC-100 AD. Being the largest religious building ever constructed, the structure measured 1.5 kilometres by 0.8 kilometres. The Hypostyle Hall, at 16,459 square meters and featuring 134 columns, is still the biggest room of any religious building in the world. In addition to the main sanctuary were several smaller temples and a vast sacred lake measuring 129 metres by 77 metres. One couldn’t help but stand in awe of these magnificent structures. The Egyptians sure had a vast workforce, time and money in those days.

The Valley of the Kings didn’t disappoint either. The ancient Egyptians didn’t just build vast public monuments for their pharaohs but went to great lengths to create hidden underground mausoleums. The Valley of the Kings was such a place and was made famous by the discovery of the tombs of Tutankhamun, Seti I and Ramses II. Walking around and crawling into dusty tomes admiring what remained of these places (even in the presence of hordes of tourists), made me feel like an explorer.

 

3 January – Luxor – Qena – 70 km

On     Luxor en route to Qena, the road again was dotted by numerous police roadblocks requiring convoy riding. We, nonetheless, ducked and dived along minor tracks and managed to avoid all the police blocks. Upon arriving at Qena and finding accommodation, food was next on the list and surprisingly reasonably priced as Qena was out of the touristy area. Our staple of ful, or foul, and aysh, a brown broad bean dish eaten accompanied by a type of pita bread, was inexpensive and could be found almost anywhere.

 

4 January – Qena – Roadside camp - 84 km

Qena was primarily known for its proximity to the ruins of Dendaralat, not visited as we were all ruined out by then. From Qena, Ernest insisted on cycling to Cairo via the Red Sea Coast, even though I surmised the coast would be extremely windy due to my previous experience. He was by nature a hard-headed guy and we made our way towards the coast. After nearly 84 kilometres, and upon reaching a settlement sporting a police checkpoint and a few shops, we called it quits as Ernest wasn’t feeling well. The tents were pitched off the main road, which turned out a tad in the eye and a noisy affair, to say the least.

 

5 January - Roadside camp – Safaga – 84 km

The next day was another 84 kilometres to Safaga through what was known as the Eastern Desert or the Arabian Desert. The area is a mountain desert and features astonishing and dramatic scenery and colours. The day started promising but the wind picked up, and by the time the port town of Safaga came into view, the wind was close to gale-force. Being a windy area, both Safaga and the coast were popular destinations amongst kite- and windsurfers. We hunkered down in the nearest hotel, hoping the weather would improve by morning.

 

6-8 January – Safaga – Hurghada – 64 km

Sadly, the weather didn’t improve and biking out of Safaga, the wind virtually blew me off the bike. On such days, there wasn’t a great deal one could do but battle onwards. In the process, I lost my sense of humour somewhere between Safaga and Hurghada. I didn’t regain it until turning in a westerly direction a few days later. The Red Sea coast was an unforgiving arid and windswept one. The two “desert rats” were travelling into the prevailing wind, a constant and intense wind, judging by the wind farms going ten to a dozen.

At times like this all one could do was put your head down and concentrate on one pedal stroke at a time until arriving at your destination. Hurghada was barely 64 kilometres away but took practically the entire day to reach. Hurghada turned out a nightmare, albeit a tiny fishing village until the 1980s. It by then stretched 40 kilometres along the ocean and sported thousands of tourist resorts. Ramped development by both Egyptians and foreign investors left the area dominated by a multitude of unsightly structures. A budget room in the old town was more to our liking. Ernest was definitely better as he finished off a substantial amount of Stellas.

Hurghada offered little more than scuba-diving, and as the weather was cold and windy, all one could do was eat and drink. Ernest claimed he still wasn’t feeling well, and we stayed an extra day. Maybe he’d a case of the “wine-flu”.

 

9 January – Hurghada – Desert Camp – 52 km

The wind wasn’t as ferocious as the previous days and we managed 106 kilometres before setting up camp. But, being winter, it became dark by six o’clock, making short cycling days, especially when setting out late.

 

10 January – Desert Camp - Ras Gharib – 52 km

The route took us to Ras Gharib, an oil production town along the Red Sea coast. Unfortunately, the day was again marred by a gale-force wind. Although a mere 52 kilometres to the next place, it was considerably further than what I cared to go in such conditions. Moreover, I weakened at the thought of a clean and warm room.

 

11 January - Ras Gharib – Desert Camp - 72 km

The following morning the panniers were packed reluctantly. I suggested waiting out the weather, but Ernest wanted nothing of it. I’m unsure what his hurry was as we weren’t going anywhere.

I subsequently discovered this was a typical mindset amongst cycle tourers early in their journey. Many bicycle tourers are first destination-minded, and time and distance all-important, allowing little time to sightsee and explore. That said, everyone cycles in their own way; some go slow, exploring and experiencing new cultures, food and sights, others go fast and challenge themselves. For Ernest, it was very much about the latter. These are minor differences that, if not discussed beforehand, can ruin a cycling partnership.

Seventy-two kilometres were all we could manage and towards the end of the day imagined a huge dune could give shelter from the howling wind. However, the dune did little to stop the wind and instead created a whirling effect and in no time, the tents, bikes and sleeping bags were covered in sand. Eventually, Ernest managed to light the stove and as could be expected, the food had a generous sprinkling of sand. Chewing our grainy meal, I was grateful we’d something to eat, and when darkness fell, we crawled into our sandy beds.

 

12 January – Desert Camp – Zaafarana – 40 km

From our sandy home, the distance was a mere 38 kilometres to Zaafarana, more a truck stop than a village. I couldn’t believe the wind was even stronger on this day. I honestly didn’t think it possible.

I complained nonstop. Ernest never said a word, only put his head down and grinded into the unforgiving conditions- me following in his wake, swearing to the wind.

I read the wind farms of Zaafarana and El-Tur were the windiest stations in Egypt. I surmised something like that!

 

13 January – Zaafarana – Desert Camp – 84 km

I was long-lipped getting on the bike, but the day held a surprise in meeting the Tour D’Afrique riders heading in the opposite direction and flying south powered by a tailwind. Wimpy, Errol and Thor, from my 2005 tour were still with the tour, and super awesome seeing them. As soon as the road reached Sukhna, a surprise awaited. The Cairo road turned onto the new highway heading west and thus brought a tailwind.

Grinning from ear to ear we proceeded a few more kilometres before pitching the tents, hoping the wind direction wouldn’t change during the night. That night, I made sure to toast the wind and performed a little wind-dance.

 

14-20 January – Desert Camp – Cairo – 130 km

The breeze was still in our favour the next morning, and I thought I should be named the next Modjadji. Unfortunately, packing up was at the speed of light before the breeze could change direction.

Cairo was reached after 130 kilometres and in rush hour traffic. No one wants to be in Cairo with its 9.5 million inhabitants in rush hour traffic, especially not by bicycle. It took ducking and diving through the horrendous traffic before miraculously arriving downtown.

Being already late, the first budget hotel spotted had to do. So, following a quick shower, we took off to a popular beer joint, which Ernest rightly deserved on reaching one of his primary goals. Still, I didn’t think his celebrations would last an entire week, but that’s Ernie!

Our days were spent trying to obtain visas to Europe but it was a waste of time as one had to apply in your home country. The next challenge was extending our Egyptian visas, an arduous task. Finally, after many filling in forms and being shunted from office to office, we were informed the process took ten days. Phew.

The next few days were spent visiting Cairo’s well-known sights, of which there were plenty. Our exploring brought us to the Great Pyramids of Giza, the Stepped Pyramid south of Cairo, as well as the well-known Bent and Red Pyramids. As, in my mind, no one could leave Cairo without visiting the Cairo Museum, I dragged a very reluctant Ernest to the museum. The museum was mind-boggling, and it was best to hire a guide. One could only stare in amazement at the items on display, from the famous Rosetta Stone to the items recovered from Tutankhamun’s tomb. It’s pretty amazing what was deemed necessary in the afterlife. Then, back to our favourite drinking hole where beer was cheap and accompanied by a plate of hot fuul and salad.

 

21 January - Cairo - Desert Camp – 122 km

Having itchy feet, we moved along and returned later to collect the visa extensions. Getting out of Cairo took the best part of two hours. Still, our chosen route spat us out along a toll road, making comfortable and effortless biking. The way headed north towards Alexandria and after about 120 kilometres, camp was set up by the roadside.

 

22 January - Desert Camp - Amriah – 97 km

To my surprise, it started raining during the night and I could hardly believe it ever rained in the desert. Upon second thoughts, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise as our route was fast approaching the Mediterranean. The way north continued past farmlands and many pigeon lofts, as grilled pigeon was a speciality found on nearly all menus.

 

23-25 January - Amriah - Alexandria – 42 km

The short distance to Alexandria resulted in a leisurely start, and we soon arrived at the Mediterranean coast. Alexandria was a vast and ancient city, formerly home to one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, a 120-metre-high lighthouse, built by Alexander the Great. There was, nevertheless, no sign of it except a few terracotta lamps in the museum. Alexandria was famous for its Great Library, considered the archive of ancient knowledge in its heyday. But, once again, no sign of its past grandeur remained and appeared replaced by traffic more chaotic than in Cairo. It was scarcely possible to cross a street on foot and even more difficult by bicycle. Nonetheless, the city sported a fancy modern library, incorporating both the old and the modern in its design.

A vicious storm picked up, and the wind blew at over 30 miles per hour, accompanied by horizontal rain. Ernest and I stayed put and waited out the storm. Day after day, the storm continued without any sign of abating. We cleaned and oiled our bikes (let me rephrase that: Ernest cleaned and oiled the bikes), repacked our bags, read books and watched the same movies repeatedly.

Our visa extensions were ready by then. So we hopped on the express train to Cairo and returned that evening (the train covered the 250+ kilometres in under three hours).

 

1 February - Alexandria - Baltim – 140 km

Finally, the stormy weather cleared, and we could resume our journey. The coastal route led 140 kilometres east in Port Said’s direction, along a flat road with a tailwind. I knew it had to happen at some point. In the process, the route passed over the Nile delta, where the river drained into the Mediterranean, an unimpressive place for such a mighty river, consisting predominantly of farmlands along canals. Tailwind-assisted Baltim was reached in good time, primarily a holiday resort in summer, but then deserted without a soul in sight. The digs discovered were dusty and one could tell the room hadn’t been used recently.

 

2 February - Baltim - Port Said – 140 km

The next morning, the weather was mild and the breeze still in our favour and we gunned it to Port Said.

Port Said was the place one could stroll along the Cornice to view giant cargo ships and tankers move through the Suez Canal, an impressive scene by anyone’s standards. Ernest was fascinated by ships and staying another day to eye these giant ships going in and out of the canal came naturally.

 

5 February - Port Said - Ismailia - 87 km

Departing Port Said was on a beautiful sunny day, and biking was pleasurable as we picked up a slight breeze from behind.

Ismailia made an excellent midway stop en route to Suez. Ismailia was established while building the Suez Canal in 1869 and named after Khedive Ismail, the founder of the canal. The city was initially created to house European engineers and labourers who worked on the channel. To this day, Ismailia has a European atmosphere and French architecture.

 

6-7 February - Ismailia - Suez – 115 km

Getting away early wasn’t difficult as the room must’ve been one of the filthiest in Egypt, and we were on the way before nine o’clock. The streets were dead quiet as, typical of a desert country, the Egyptians slept late. Nearly all business was done after sunset. Biking along the canal sounded a great idea but wasn’t possible due to police roadblocks. No other option remained but to head to Suez’s seaport town at the mouth of the Suez Canal along the main road. A few days were spent watching in awe as the massive ships and tankers moved through the narrow canal.

More impressive than the modern-day channel was, a canal dug linking the Red Sea and the Nile way back in the 7th century AD. This little-known fact blew my mind.

 

8 February - Suez - Desert Camp – 113 km

Departing Suez was via a tunnel that ran underneath the canal. I subsequently discovered most foreigners didn’t realise Africa was connected to Europe and the Middle East. In fact, I considered the tunnel underneath the Suez Canal more of a subway.

The Sinai coast was uniquely beautiful and even more so when powered by the wind. Looking back, the unique thing was that one could see huge ships moving along the canal, but not the channel, resembling ships sailing through the desert—an extraordinary view. A great deal of the day was biking through desert terrain dotted by farms cultivating olives and tamarinds. The area appeared predominantly inhabited by Sinai Bedouins who lived in settlements throughout the region.

By evening camping was a couple of kilometres past Ras Sedr.

 

9 February - Desert Camp - Desert Camp – 130 km

Spectacular desert mountain landscapes greeted us as we pedalled along, stopping ever so often to enjoy a cup of tea. Eventually, the route left the ocean and turned inland, soon reaching the turnoff to St Catherine. Interestingly Bedouins still lived in the area and wouldn’t be offended if one sought shelter with them. This was, after all, the Sinai Desert. They were generally honoured to offer hospitality to travellers. If you do, don’t overstay your welcome. Bedouins believe a reasonable stay is three days. The first day is for greeting, the second day for eating, and the third day for speaking.

 

10-12 February – Desert camp – Saint Catherine – 106 km

St Catherine is situated 1,570 metres above sea level, and the 106 kilometres were almost all uphill. We barely noticed as the landscape was unique, and the mountains changed colour from white, red, blue, black and purple. En route, the way led past Ferrin Oasis, Sinai’s largest and broadest wadi covered by plenty of palm trees. The uphill ride made reaching St Catherine, located at the foot of biblical Mt Sinai, long beyond sunset.

Being winter and at altitude, the weather was understandably freezing by the time we pulled into Fox Camp, and tents pitched in a tremendous hurry. Ernest made food, while I remained curled up in the sleeping bag.

There was no getting out of bed the next day before the sun warmed the air, and 9h30 before we surfaced. Instead, the day was spent lazing around, solely leaving camp to visit nearby St Catherine’s Monastery, constructed between 527–565 AD. Saint Catherine has an old and fascinating history, important to all three major Abrahamic religions (Christianity, Islam and Judaism). It’s rumoured the place where Moses received the Ten Commandments as well as the site the Prophet Mohamad wrote about in his Letter to the Monks.

Fox Camp was fascinating, and by evening, we joined the other travellers in a massive Bedouin tent where a fire was lit and it turned out surprisingly warm inside.

The following morning, we didn’t defrost until midday and thus late when we started up Mt Sinai. The walk up the mountain was beautiful, featuring stunning scenery and views of the surrounding mountains. At the summit was a mosque, still used by Muslims, as well as a Greek Orthodox chapel. After exploring, we hurried down the mountain to join the others in the tent already warmed by the fire.

 

13 February – St Kathrine’s – Desert Camp – 91 km

Waking to ice on the tent indicated time to seek warmer weather. Once again, it was midday before getting underway and onto the east coast’s hilly road. Our late start made wild-camping along the way, only reaching Dahab the following day.

 

14-18 February – Desert Camp – Dahab – 45 km

Dahab was a smallish town along the Gulf of Aqaba and considerably warmer than the mountainous interior of Sinai. Years ago, pleasant Dahab was a Bedouin community, but today it’s a major (but still low-key) diving destination. It had a real holiday/hippie/Goa feel featuring a turquoise sea, palm trees, waterside restaurants, and plenty of budget accommodation, just the thing needed. Our choice was an abode practically on the beach, and the upstairs bar with its happy hour made it a perfect spot. The warmer weather, snorkelling, an abundance of books and good food made us linger.

 

19 February – Dahab – Nuweiba – 82 km

Laid-back Dahab made kicking back easy. No wonder many got stuck there. A breeze picked up, signalling time to move along. We did precisely that and set out to Nuweiba along a hilly and windy section. The wind made a late arrival in Nuweiba and Dolphin Camp was an excellent choice, located right on the seafront. Nuweiba was as close to paradise as one could wish. A few days were spent watching the sunrise over the Hijaz mountain range of Saudi Arabia and the Aqaba Gulf, a truly spectacular sight.

 

Nuweiba, Egypt – Aqaba, Jordan

From Nuweiba, one could bike via Israel and Lebanon or take the ferry to Jordan and cycle via Syria to Turkey. Being difficult or near impossible to get into Syria having an Israeli stamp in the passport. The uncomplicated ferry crossing from Nuweiba to Jordan was a no-brainer. I was sure a boat sailed from Taba to Aqaba, which would’ve been significantly cheaper, but I could not confirm its existence. Moreover, the ferry departed after 5 p.m. instead of 3 p.m., resulting in reaching Jordan after dark. Out late arrival further meant an hour’s riding at night before getting to the city centre.

Friday, 28 December 2007

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.