014 CYCLE TOURING EGYPT

Land of Ancient Wonders, Modern Chaos, and One Very Tired Cyclist

EGYPT
27 December 2007 – 20 February 2008
2,332 Kilometres – 46 Days

MAP

PHOTOS

PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIPBOOK

 

Prelude — Egypt

Egypt arrived in my journey like a sudden change in weather: loud, bright, chaotic, and determined to rearrange my sense of what travel meant. One moment I was slipping quietly out of Sudan on an expired visa, praying no one noticed; the next, I was cycling into Aswan, swallowed whole by a city that seemed to run on noise, Nile water, and relentless haggling.

It was a country of extremes — temples older than imagination, winds strong enough to rearrange personality, deserts that glowed in impossible colours, and people who could turn even a simple purchase of toilet paper into a theatrical event.

I didn’t know it then, but Egypt would become one of those chapters that stayed with me: a place where the road stretched long, the wind stretched longer, and every day felt like stepping into a different century.

 

 

46 Days, 2,332 km, and One Very Nervous Border Crossing

 

The Great Escape from Sudan

We woke up with one mission: get out of Sudan before anyone noticed our visas had expired. This required a full morning of stamps, signatures, and men in uniforms pretending to be very official while somehow missing the most important detail in our passports. I wasn’t about to remind them.

The ferry was scheduled for four o’clock in the morning, a time normally reserved for bakers, insomniacs, and people fleeing countries with expired visas. I splashed out and booked a cabin, leaving Ernest to marvel at his good fortune. The deck, I suspected, was for people who enjoyed suffering.

Somewhere in the middle of Lake Nasser, the border lurked. A speedboat zoomed up, police leapt aboard like an action movie filmed on a tight budget, and our passports were whisked away. I tried to look casual, which is difficult when you’re silently screaming inside. Miraculously, no one noticed the dates. We were free. I could have kissed the nearest crocodile.

Once the drama was over, we relaxed and watched the sunset over the Aswan Dam — a surprisingly peaceful moment considering we’d just committed a minor international crime.

We arrived in Aswan around nine the next morning. Still, we only touched Egyptian soil at eleven, proving that even disembarking a ferry in Egypt requires patience, paperwork, and possibly divine intervention.

Egypt, as they say, is “a visit back in time”. In our case, it was also a visit into chaos.

 

Aswan: Welcome to the Circus

We cycled the short 20 kilometres into Aswan, dreaming not of temples or tombs but of a hotel, a hot shower, and a beer — in that order, and preferably simultaneously.

After a month in Sudan, Aswan felt like someone had turned the world’s volume knob to maximum. The Nile was lined with four cruise ships, the streets were a tangle of touts, stalls, and felucca salesmen who could smell fear. Buying toilet paper required the bargaining skills of a seasoned diplomat.

I spent most of the first day hiding in my room, watching the madness through the window like a Victorian child observing street urchins.

Three days and many Stellas later, we felt brave enough to step outside without flinching.

 

Nile-side Theatre at Edfu (116 km)

We finally set off, pedalling along a beautifully smooth road beside the Nile. After Sudan’s endless desert, Egypt looked like someone had discovered the “green” setting and applied it liberally: sugarcane, corn, rice, clover, mint — basically the contents of a salad bar.

We passed the double temple of Kom Ombo, built between 180–47 BC, where more than three hundred crocodile mummies were found. I tried not to imagine the smell.

The entire route felt like one continuous village. Every few kilometres, a policeman appeared, waving us into yet another escort. By midday, we had a full convoy. Our arrival in Edfu was announced by sirens, lights, and enough fuss to make us feel like visiting dignitaries. Egyptians can make a meal of practically anything — and in this case, the meal was us.

Edfu’s ancient temple, dedicated to Horus, loomed impressively. The Egyptians believed it was built where Horus and Seth had their epic battle. Arriving under police escort, we felt appropriately godlike.

 

A New Year Ride (122 km)

The last day of 2007 dawned, and I realised I’d been on the road nine months. Looking out at the Temple of Horus from our window, I felt oddly proud — and slightly amazed I hadn’t yet been arrested.

We continued north along the Nile, dodging police escorts by slipping onto smaller tracks. It wasn’t that the police didn’t see us — they simply operated on the principle that if we didn’t pass directly in front of them, we didn’t exist.

We reached Luxor just as daylight was packing up for the night. Believing the campsite was on the West Bank, we hopped on a ferry, only to discover it wasn’t. Back we went on a cheaper public ferry, eventually collapsing into the New Everest Hotel — named, I suspect, for the staircase.

Luxor swallowed us for three days. We visited the Temple of Luxor, Karnak, and the Valley of the Kings — all magnificent, all enormous, all requiring more time than we had.

The Temple of Luxor, begun around 1400 BCE, remains one of the most beautiful in Egypt. Karnak, meanwhile, is so vast it feels like someone tried to build a small country out of stone. The Hypostyle Hall alone has 134 columns and covers 16,459 square metres — a fact I read twice before my brain agreed to believe it.

The Valley of the Kings was equally astonishing. Crawling into dusty tombs while surrounded by hordes of tourists made me feel like a very sweaty Indiana Jones.

 

Police-Dodging - Luxor to Qena (70 km)

The road to Qena was dotted with police roadblocks, all eager to escort us. We ducked and dived along minor tracks like two fugitives on bicycles and managed to avoid every single one.

Qena was refreshingly normal — no touts, no cruise ships, just good cheap food. We feasted on ful (brown broad beans) and aish (pita-like bread), which tasted far better than it looked.

 

One Stubborn Cyclist - Qena to Wild Camp (84 km)

Qena is known for the ruins of Dendera, which we didn’t visit because we were officially “ruined out”.

Ernest insisted we cycle to Cairo via the Red Sea Coast. I warned him it would be windy. He ignored me. He is, by nature, a hard-headed man.

After 84 km, we reached a tiny settlement with a police checkpoint and a few shops. Ernest was unwell, so we camped nearby. It was noisy, dusty, and directly in the wind’s line of fire — a perfect introduction to the Red Sea route.

 

Wind and Mountains to Safaga (84 km)

We cycled through the Eastern Desert — a dramatic mountain desert with colours that looked painted on. The day began beautifully, then the wind arrived and tried to blow us back to Sudan.

Safaga finally appeared, battered by gale-force winds. It’s a popular spot for kite- and windsurfers, which tells you everything you need to know. We staggered into the nearest hotel and prayed for calmer weather.

 

Pure Misery to Hurghada (64 km)

The wind did not calm. It intensified. Cycling out of Safaga, I was nearly blown off my bike. Somewhere between Safaga and Hurghada, I lost my sense of humour. I didn’t find it again until we turned west days later.

The Red Sea coast is a windswept, arid, unforgiving place — the kind of landscape where even the wind farms look exhausted.

Hurghada, once a tiny fishing village, had transformed into a 40‑km sprawl of resorts, half-finished buildings, and architectural crimes. We found a budget room in the old town, which suited us far better than the mega-resorts.

Ernest, miraculously recovered, drank a heroic quantity of Stellas. Hurghada offered little besides scuba diving, and as the weather was cold and windy, we did what any sensible travellers would do: eat and drink. Ernest claimed he still wasn’t well. I suspected “wine flu”.

 

Wind, Sand, Tailwinds, Pyramids, Bureaucracy, and Beer

 

False Hope - Hurghada to Desert Camp (52 km)

The wind finally eased its tyrannical grip, and we optimistically set off. Winter meant darkness by six, which meant short cycling days, especially when one set out late — which we did, of course. We managed 106 kilometres before pitching camp, congratulating ourselves prematurely. Egypt, however, was not done with us.

 

Wind-Induced Self-Pity to Ras Gharib (52 km)

The route led to Ras Gharib, an oil town on the Red Sea coast. The wind returned with renewed enthusiasm, battering us for all 52 kilometres. I weakened at the thought of a warm room and clean sheets. Ernest pretended not to notice my suffering, which is one of his special talents.

 

Philosophical Reflection and Sand (72 km)

The next morning, I suggested waiting out the weather. Ernest rejected the idea with the confidence of a man who had absolutely nowhere to be.

I later learned this was typical of early-cycle-tourer psychology: destination‑minded, time‑obsessed, and allergic to sightseeing. Some cyclists savour cultures, food, and landscapes. Others — like Ernest — treat the world as a giant endurance test. These differences, if not discussed, can ruin a cycling partnership. I filed this under “Things I Wish I’d Known Earlier”.

We managed 72 km before spotting a giant dune that seemed likely to shelter us. It didn’t. Instead, it created a vortex that coated our tents, bikes, and sleeping bags in sand. Dinner came with “a generous sprinkling of sand”, and we crawled into our gritty beds, grateful only that we weren’t still cycling.

 

A Raging wind to Zaafarana (40 km)

Zaafarana was only 38 km away, but the wind was somehow even stronger. I didn’t think that was physically possible. I complained nonstop. Ernest said nothing, just pedalled grimly into the gale while I followed, swearing at the atmosphere.

I later read that Zaafarana and El‑Tur were the windiest stations in Egypt. “I surmised something like that!”

 

A Miracle Tailwind - Zaafarana to Desert Camp (84 km)

I climbed onto my bike with the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner, but the day held a surprise: Tour d’Afrique riders, flying south with a glorious tailwind. Among them were Wimpy, Errol, and Thor from my 2005 tour — seeing them was like spotting old friends in the desert.

Then, as we reached Sukhna, the road turned west toward Cairo — and the wind turned into a tailwind. I grinned like a lunatic. We pitched camp a few kilometres later, praying the wind wouldn’t change. That night, I toasted the wind and performed a small wind dance. It felt necessary.

 

Into Cairo - Tailwind Glory and Urban Terror (130 km)

The breeze stayed in our favour. I felt I should be named the next Modjadji, Rain Queen of the Wind. We packed at lightning speed before the gods changed their minds.

Cairo appeared after 130 km — unfortunately during rush hour. No one wants to enter Cairo’s traffic on a bicycle. With 9.5 million inhabitants, the city is a swirling mass of honking, weaving, shouting chaos. We ducked and dived through it, miraculously arriving downtown.

We grabbed the first budget hotel we saw, showered, and headed straight to a beer joint. Ernest deserved it. I didn’t think his celebrations would last a week, but that’s Ernie.

Our days were spent trying to obtain visas to Europe — impossible, as “one had to apply in your home country”. Extending our Egyptian visas was equally maddening: forms, queues, offices, and, finally, the announcement that it would take 10 days. Phew.

We visited Cairo’s sights: the Great Pyramids of Giza, the Stepped Pyramid, the Bent Pyramid, the Red Pyramid — all magnificent, all enormous, all requiring more energy than we had.

I dragged Ernest to the Cairo Museum. He resisted. I insisted. The museum was mind‑boggling, filled with treasures from the Rosetta Stone to Tutankhamun’s tomb. It’s astonishing what the ancient Egyptians thought necessary for the afterlife.

Then back to our favourite beer joint, where the beer was cheap and came with hot fuul and salad.

 

Toll Road Bliss leaving Cairo (122 km)

We had itchy feet and left Cairo, planning to return later for our visa extensions. Escaping the city took two hours, but eventually we found ourselves on a toll road — smooth, quiet, and blissfully easy.

We headed north toward Alexandria and camped after 120 km, feeling almost civilised.

 

Desert Rain - Desert Camp to Amriah (97 km)

It rained during the night. Rain. In the desert. I was astonished, though I shouldn’t have been — we were nearing the Mediterranean.

We continued north past farmlands and pigeon lofts. Grilled pigeon was a local speciality. I decided not to think too hard about that.

 

A Week of Storms in Alexandria (42 km)

We reached Alexandria easily. Once home to the famous 120‑metre lighthouse and the Great Library, the city now offered only terracotta lamps and traffic more chaotic than Cairo. Crossing the street felt like a death sport.

A vicious storm arrived: wind over 30 mph, horizontal rain. We stayed put. Day after day, the storm raged. We cleaned and oiled the bikes (Ernest did), repacked bags, read books, and watched the same movies repeatedly.

Our visa extensions were ready, so we hopped on the express train to Cairo — 250+ km in under three hours — and returned that evening.

 

Tailwind Heaven to Baltim (140 km)

The storm finally cleared. We cycled 140 km east toward Port Said, tailwind‑assisted and cheerful.

We crossed the Nile Delta — surprisingly unimpressive for such a mighty river. Mostly farmland and canals.

Baltim, a summer resort, was deserted in winter. The room we found was dusty and clearly unused for months.

 

Ship Watching at Port Said (140 km)

The weather stayed mild, the breeze stayed friendly, and we gunned it to Port Said.

Port Said’s Corniche offered views of giant cargo ships and tankers gliding through the Suez Canal — a hypnotic sight. Ernest was fascinated. Staying another day to watch ships felt inevitable.

 

Canals, Bedouins, Mountains, Hippies, and One Last Ferry Ride

 

Finding Sunshine and European Flair at Ismailia (87 km)

We left Port Said under a glorious sun, gliding along with a gentle tailwind. It was one of those rare Egyptian cycling days where nothing tried to kill us.

Ismailia made a perfect midway stop. Founded in 1869 during the construction of the Suez Canal and named after Khedive Ismail, the city still carries a faint European perfume — French architecture, leafy streets, and a sense that someone once tried to make it elegant. It was originally built to house European engineers, and it still shows.

 

A Room Best Forgotten - Ismailia to Suez (115 km)

Leaving early was easy: our room was “one of the filthiest in Egypt”, and we fled before nine. The streets were silent — Egyptians, being desert people, sensibly do most things after sunset.

We’d hoped to bike along the canal, but police roadblocks made that impossible. Instead, we followed the main road to Suez, where we spent days watching massive ships squeeze through the narrow canal. It’s hypnotic — like watching elephants tiptoe through a hallway.

More astonishing was learning that a canal linking the Red Sea and the Nile existed in the 7th century AD. This little historical nugget blew my mind.

 

Ships Sailing Through Sand - Suez to Desert Camp (113 km)

We left Suez via a tunnel under the canal. I later learned many foreigners don’t realise Africa is connected to the Middle East. To me, the tunnel felt more like a subway than a geopolitical revelation.

The Sinai coast was stunning — blue sea, pale desert, and the surreal sight of giant ships gliding past with no visible waterway. They looked like they were sailing through sand.

We cycled through desert terrain dotted with farms growing olives and tamarinds, passing Sinai Bedouin settlements. By evening, we camped a few kilometres past Ras Sedr.

 

Tea and Mountains (130 km)

The day delivered spectacular desert mountains, the kind that make you stop for tea every hour just to stare at them. Eventually, the road turned inland toward St Catherine.

Bedouins still live throughout the Sinai and are famously hospitable. They believe a guest should stay three days: Day 1: greeting. Day 2: eating. Day 3: speaking. After that, you’re pushing your luck.

 

Uphill Beauty and Frozen Fingers at St Catherine (106 km)

St Catherine sits at 1,570 metres, and the entire 106 km was uphill. We barely noticed — the mountains changed colour constantly: white, red, blue, black, purple. It felt like cycling through a painter’s palette.

We passed Ferrin Oasis, the largest wadi in Sinai, lush with palms. By the time we reached St Catherine, at the foot of biblical Mt Sinai, it was long past sunset and absolutely freezing.

At Fox Camp, we pitched tents at record speed. Ernest cooked while I curled up in my sleeping bag, refusing to emerge until the sun warmed the world.

The next day we visited St Catherine’s Monastery (527–565 AD), sacred to Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. It’s said Moses received the Ten Commandments here, and the Prophet Muhammad wrote about it in his Letter to the Monks. Not bad for a neighbourhood landmark.

Fox Camp’s massive Bedouin tent became our evening refuge — warm fire, travellers swapping stories, and the kind of atmosphere that makes you forget your toes are numb.

The following day we thawed only by midday and climbed Mt Sinai. The summit held a mosque still in use and a Greek Orthodox chapel. After exploring, we hurried down to the fire-warmed tent.

 

Ice and Hills (91 km)

We woke to ice on the tent — a clear sign it was time to seek warmer places. We left at midday (again) and followed the hilly east coast road. Darkness caught us, and we wild‑camped en route to Dahab.

 

Finding Paradise (45 km)

Dahab was a warm, turquoise‑blue miracle after Sinai’s cold. Once a Bedouin village, it’s now a low‑key diving haven with a hippie‑holiday vibe: palm trees, beachside restaurants, cheap rooms, and a sea so clear it looks Photoshopped.

We found a place practically on the beach, complete with an upstairs bar and happy hour — irresistible. Snorkelling, books, sunshine, and good food made us linger. Dahab is the kind of place where people arrive for two days and stay for two years.

 

Leaving Paradise - Dahab to Nuweiba (82 km)

Leaving Dahab required willpower. A breeze picked up — our universal sign to move on — and we cycled a hilly, windy route to Nuweiba.

We arrived late and checked into Dolphin Camp, right on the seafront. Nuweiba was Paradise: sunrises over Saudi Arabia’s Hijaz Mountains, the Gulf of Aqaba shimmering below. We stayed a few days, mesmerised.

 

One Last Ferry Ride

From Nuweiba, cyclists can either go via Israel and Lebanon or take the ferry to Jordan and continue on to Syria and then Turkey. Since entering Syria with an Israeli stamp is nearly impossible, the ferry was the obvious choice.

I was convinced a cheaper boat sailed from Taba, but could never confirm it. The Nuweiba ferry left at 5 p.m. instead of 3 p.m., so we arrived in Jordan after dark, which meant an hour of cycling in the dark to reach the city centre.

 

Epilogue — Egypt

By the time we rolled into Nuweiba and watched the sun rise over the mountains of Saudi Arabia, Egypt had worked its way under my skin — not gently, but insistently, like sand that refuses to brush off.

I had cycled past pharaohs and pyramids, through windstorms and monasteries, over the Nile Delta and up the spine of Sinai. I’d eaten sandy meals, slept in freezing tents, dodged Cairo traffic, and found unexpected peace in places where the desert met the sea.

And then, as simply as turning a page, it was time to leave. The ferry to Jordan pulled away from the Egyptian shore, and I stood on deck watching the lights of Nuweiba shrink behind us. Egypt had been maddening, magnificent, exhausting, and unforgettable — a country that demanded everything and gave back even more.

Ahead lay Jordan, Syria, Turkey, and the long road north. But Egypt remained — a chapter of wind, wonder, and the strange, stubborn joy of moving through a place that refuses to be ordinary.

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.