016 CYCLE TOURING SYRIA (2)

Return to the Ancient Road 

16 SYRIA (2)
548 Km – 9 Days
11 March – 20 March 2008

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 VOICEOVER

 

Prelude

The second crossing into Syria didn’t feel like a continuation — it felt like a reset. Five months, one passport, and a bureaucratic odyssey later, I was back at the border, this time rolling north with Ernest Markwood and a strange sense of déjà vu. The landscape welcomed us with gentle roads and green fields, as if Syria were offering an apology for the sandstorms and itchy Tartus fiasco of my first visit. I thought I knew what awaited me. I was wrong, of course — Syria always had a way of surprising me, sometimes with beauty, sometimes with chaos, and occasionally with Ernest riding into stationary vehicles.

 

 

Return to the Ancient Road - Syrian border to Damascus (115 kilometres)

Five months, one new passport, and a great deal of bureaucratic trauma later, I found myself back at the Syrian border — this time cycling north from Sudan with Ernest Markwood. After the mountainous terrain of Jordan, Syria’s flat landscape felt like a gift from the cycling gods. The road stretched ahead in gentle, forgiving lines, and for once, the weather seemed to be on our side. Green fields rolled out like a soft carpet, and distant snow-capped mountains shimmered on the horizon. It was almost enough to make me forget the sandstorms, drain covers, and itchy Tartus fiasco of my previous visit.

 

A City Revisited and a Travel Partner Who Doesn’t Sightsee

We rolled into Damascus around four o’clock, pleasantly wind-assisted and only mildly sun-baked. I was genuinely excited — excited to show Ernest around this remarkable city. After all, I had been here barely six months earlier and had spent days exploring its ancient streets, its markets, its mosques, its layers of history. I was ready to be the knowledgeable guide, the seasoned traveller, the one who says things like, “Ah, yes, this alley — I know it well.”

Unfortunately, Ernest was not particularly interested in sightseeing. He visited the historic walled city and the markets, nodded politely, and declared himself done. That was it. Meanwhile, I was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, wanting to drag him to every corner of Damascus. Instead, I spent most of my time exploring alone, revisiting the places that had enchanted me the first time around.

One of those places was the Umayyad Mosque — the Great Mosque of Damascus — one of the oldest and largest mosques in the world. I had explored it with Amanda months earlier, and it had left a deep impression. The mosque was built after the Muslim conquest of Damascus in 634 CE, on the site of a Christian Basilica dedicated to John the Baptist. Legend has it that the building contains the head of John the Baptist, which I still found bizarre. I mean, it’s not every day you visit a place that casually claims to house the head of a major religious figure. It’s the kind of detail that sticks with you.

 

Tailwinds, Tantrums, and Being Blown into a Ditch (74 kilometres)

We left Damascus with a glorious tailwind pushing us along — the kind of wind that makes you feel like a cycling champion. But as winds often do, it changed its mind. The tailwind became a crosswind, and the crosswind became a howling, bike-toppling menace. At one point, it blew me clean off the road and into a ditch. I climbed out, dusty and furious, only to be blown off again a short while later. By the third incident, I lost my temper entirely and shouted abuse at Ernest, who seemed blissfully unaware of the meteorological violence unfolding around us.

Mercifully, we found shelter at a roadside restaurant. The owner, a kind man with a calmness I envied, offered us floor space above the restaurant for the night. I accepted gratefully, relieved to be out of the wind and off the ground.

 

A Feast for Breakfast and Ernest vs. The Stationary Minivan (95 kilometres)

The next morning dawned calm and clear, as if the wind had simply needed to get something off its chest. We cycled the 95 kilometres to Homs in relative peace. At a breakfast stop, a kind Samaritan invited us to join him for a meal. What began as a simple invitation turned into a feast — hummus, olives, cheese, pastries, and enough food to fuel a small army. We left with full stomachs and renewed energy.

That energy lasted until Ernest rode straight into a stationary minivan. In broad daylight. On a straight road. Nothing was broken except his ego and the van’s taillight, but the incident did nothing to boost my confidence in his observational skills.

We checked into the Al Naser Hotel in Homs, which was easily the crummiest but also the cheapest in town. The toilets were filthy, and the paraffin‑heated shower cost extra — a detail that felt like an insult. Still, it was a roof over our heads, and after the wind-induced ditch episodes, I wasn’t in a position to be picky.

The next day, we took a minivan to Krak des Chevaliers — my second visit in a matter of months. The castle was as magnificent as ever, its stone walls rising proudly against the sky. Built for the Emir of Aleppo in 1031 CE, it once housed up to 2,000 people, though only about 60 were actual knights. The rest were support staff — essentially medieval logistics. We spent hours wandering through the fortress, marvelling at its scale and imagining the lives of the people who once lived there.

 

Short Ride, Groaning Norias, Modest Citadels (47 kilometres)

The ride from Homs to Hama was barely 45 kilometres — a welcome change after the longer stretches of previous days. We arrived with plenty of time to explore the historic norias once again. Their rhythmic groaning and creaking felt almost comforting, like old friends complaining about their joints. The citadel, however, was less impressive — more of a picnic area than a fortress — but it did offer a decent view of the city.

 

The Relentless Ride North and the Comfort of Familiar Chaos (140 kilometres)

I didn’t expect to cycle all the way from Hama to Aleppo in one day. Truly, I didn’t. I had mentally prepared for a leisurely ride, a scenic lunch, perhaps a nap under a tree — the kind of day where you stop to smell the pomegranates. But Ernest had a bee in his bonnet. A very determined bee. A bee that had apparently decided Aleppo was the only acceptable destination for the day, and that stopping anywhere short of it would be a personal failure.

So we cycled. And cycled. And cycled.

The kilometres stretched on like a bad joke, and by late afternoon, I was convinced we were trapped in some kind of Syrian cycling purgatory. The sun dipped lower, the traffic grew more chaotic, and still Ernest pushed on, possessed by whatever mysterious force drives men to do unnecessary things at great speed.

We finally rolled into Aleppo long past sunset, exhausted, hungry, and coated in a fine layer of road dust. Fortunately, this was my third visit to Aleppo, and I knew exactly where to go. There’s a special kind of comfort in arriving in a foreign city and thinking, Ah yes, I know this chaos. It’s like being reunited with a dysfunctional but beloved relative.

The next morning, after a leisurely start and a breakfast that restored my will to live, we headed to the world-famous souqs. Even after multiple visits, the Al‑Madina Souq still amazed me. It was a living organism — a labyrinth of long, narrow alleys, all covered, all bustling, all overflowing with goods and people and noise. Traders shouted, customers bargained, spices perfumed the air, and the whole place pulsed with life.

Aleppo had been at the crossroads of trade routes since the second millennium BC, and you could feel that history in every stone. The old walled city was a UNESCO World Heritage Site for good reason. The Citadel of Aleppo, perched proudly in the centre of town, offered sweeping views over the ancient city. It dated back to the 10th century BC, and standing atop it, you could almost hear the echoes of the countless civilisations that had passed through.

Ernest seemed mildly impressed, which for him was the equivalent of a standing ovation.

 

Across the border and into Turkey (74 kilometres)

The next morning, we resumed our ride toward the Syrian-Turkish border. I felt a familiar flutter of anxiety — the same one I’d felt months earlier when entering Syria from Turkey. Would visas be issued on arrival? Would we be turned away? Would we be forced to camp at the border like two confused nomads?

Rumours suggested that procedures had changed since my last crossing. Rumours, however, are not known for their reliability. Still, we pedalled on, hopeful and slightly tense.

To our immense relief, the rumours were true. We were granted a 30-day stay in Turkey without delay, without fuss, and without the bureaucratic drama I had come to expect at border crossings. I could have kissed the immigration officer, but I restrained myself.

So delighted were we that we parked off in the nearby border town of Reyhanli, basking in the sweet, sweet feeling of having successfully crossed yet another international border without incident. It felt like a small miracle — the kind you don’t question, just accept with gratitude.

 

Epilogue

By the time we crossed into Turkey at Reyhanli, the journey through Syria felt like a whirlwind stitched together by tailwinds, tantrums, ancient stones, and the comforting familiarity of cities I’d come to know almost too well. Ernest remained an enigma — a man capable of cycling 140 kilometres on sheer stubbornness yet unable to notice a parked minivan directly in front of him. Syria, meanwhile, remained exactly what it had always been for me: layered, unpredictable, generous, and endlessly alive. As we pedalled into Turkey with fresh visas and lighter hearts, I carried with me the quiet certainty that this chapter — chaotic, comedic, and unexpectedly tender — would linger far longer than the dust on my panniers.

015 CYCLE TOURING JORDAN (2)

Along the King’s Highway, to Petra and Beyond

Photo By Ernest Markwood

15 JORDAN (2)

624 Km – 18 Days

21 February – 10 March 2008

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PHOTOS

VOICEOVER

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Prelude

Jordan arrived in our journey like a rumour: a place of rose‑red cliffs, ancient trade routes, and more altitude than any sensible cyclist would willingly seek out. We had no idea what awaited us—only that the ferry was late, the currency was unfriendly, and the mountains were already sharpening their teeth. Still, we pedalled in with optimism, falafel, and the vague hope that the King’s Highway might be flatter than its name suggested. It wasn’t, of course. But Jordan had a way of rewarding stubborn travellers: with souqs full of life, tombs that doubled as emergency shelters, and landscapes so dramatic they made even our wheezing bicycles feel heroic.

 

 

A Ferry, a Delay, and a Currency That Hates You

From Nuweiba, Egypt, one could theoretically cycle via Israel and Lebanon to Turkey—if one enjoyed bureaucracy, suspicion, and the possibility of being turned away at borders like an unwanted door‑to‑door salesman. The ferry to Jordan was therefore the obvious choice. It was scheduled for three p.m., which the ferry staff interpreted as “sometime after tea,” and we eventually left at five.

We arrived in Aqaba after dark, which is not the ideal time to cycle into a new country unless you enjoy guessing which shadowy shapes are potholes and which are goats. The next morning, Aqaba revealed itself as a place where Jordanians swim fully clothed, prices are high enough to induce mild vertigo, and the landscape is so mountainous you begin to suspect the entire country is tilted.

Aqaba’s old town was a delightfully chaotic souq full of shisha smoke, men in kaffiyehs, and food so good it made you forget the dinar exchange rate. I bought one JD’s worth of falafel and received two bulging bags—enough to feed a small expedition. I briefly wondered whether I should have bartered for a camel instead of cycling gear.

 

The King’s Highway and Other Bad Ideas

We set off along the King’s Highway, an ancient trade route connecting Africa to Mesopotamia. It sounds romantic until you’re actually on it, pedalling uphill while imagining the Nabateans laughing at your modern suffering.

The hills were relentless. By late afternoon we reached Ras an‑Naqb, pitched our tents at 1,600 metres, and confirmed that yes, Jordan is indeed one long uphill.

 

The Valentine Hotel and a Tomb with a View

A mercifully easy 44 km brought us to Wadi Musa, where the Valentine Hotel—pink walls, red curtains, and a mirror above the bed—beckoned like a kitsch oasis. We stayed several days to explore Petra, which, even on a second visit, remains astonishing enough to make you forget your aching legs.

The entrance through the narrow canyon is pure theatre: you shuffle along, wondering what the fuss is about, and then suddenly—bam!—the Treasury appears, 45 metres of ornate sandstone splendour. Petra was once a bustling crossroads of incense, silk, spices, and probably a great deal of shouting. Their water system was ingenious enough to make modern plumbing look like amateur hour.

On our way back from the High Place of Sacrifice, a hailstorm forced us to take shelter in a tomb. I thought this was rather cool. Ernest thought it was rather cold. The rain continued all night, so we stayed an extra day, listening to the wind and contemplating our life choices.

 

Snowballs and Stone‑Throwing Children

Leaving Petra involved climbing steeply out of Wadi Musa and then continuing uphill for the rest of the day, because Jordan apparently has no concept of “flat.” We encountered the infamous stone‑throwing children, which mentally transported me straight back to Ethiopia. Ernest, ever the optimist, threw snowballs instead.

At At‑Tafilah, we debated our route. The Dead Sea won because we believed it would be warmer. This was the kind of optimism that keeps travellers alive. We camped at a viewpoint overlooking barren mountains and the shimmering Dead Sea far below.

 

A Fast Descent and Aggressive Dogs

The next morning we hurtled downhill from 1,000 metres to 400 metres below sea level—the lowest place on earth. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and probably illegal in several countries.

We floated in the Dead Sea, which is less “swimming” and more “being forcibly buoyant.” Then we pitched our tents, mistakenly believing we were hidden. The local stray dogs disagreed. They barked, circled, and behaved as though auditioning for a horror film. Chasing them only alerted more dogs to our presence, which was not the desired outcome.

 

Amman, BBQ, and Beauty Regimens

The climb out of the Dead Sea valley to Amman was steep enough to make you question gravity. Halfway up, Peter and Jill spotted the South African sticker on Ernest’s bags and invited us to a barbecue. This was the best thing that had happened to us in days. We ate, drank red wine, and were dropped off at our accommodation in a state of bliss.

Amman was cold, and we wore the same outfit for biking and sleeping, which is why I considered any room with a bathroom “heaven.” I searched for a new rim but found nothing. My sister Amanda, along with Leon and Jaco at Cycle Maintenance Centre, saved the day by sending spares—and cup‑a‑soup, pasta sauce, jelly babies, and a buff for Ernest.

We visited Madaba and Mt Nebo, where Moses supposedly saw the promised land and died at 120. Life expectancy in Jordan was only 74, which suggests things have gone downhill since biblical times. There was nowhere to stand and say “Beam me up, Scotty,” which was disappointing.

 

The Parcel Arrives, and All Is Well

Receiving a parcel is always thrilling, especially when it contains bike parts and snacks. The bike shop was friendly, if technologically limited, and by the next day our bikes were as good as new.

 

Face Cream, Border Nerves, and Goodbye Jordan

All smiles, we continued our journey towards Syria. The bikes ran well, and the weather was good, making pedalling effortless. We were slightly apprehensive, not knowing what to expect and whether obtaining a visa at the border was even possible. We were thus ecstatic to learn they were, which felt like winning a small lottery. I bought face cream and a mask at the duty‑free shop—essentials, obviously—and we found a room on the Syrian side to relax before exploring the next country.

And just like that, our short but memorable visit to Jordan came to an end.

 

Epilogue

We left Jordan the way one leaves a good book: reluctantly, slightly battered, and wondering how so much had happened in so few pages. The hills had tested us, the Dead Sea had floated us, and Petra had humbled us. We’d been barked at by dogs, rescued by South Africans. By the time we reached the Syrian border—faces moisturised, bikes repaired—we realised Jordan had been less a country and more a character: unpredictable, steep, generous, and unforgettable. And as we rolled into the next chapter, we carried with us the faint scent of hummus, desert wind, and the knowledge that sometimes the best journeys are the ones that insist on being uphill.

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

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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.