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.
