013 CYCLE TOURING SUDAN

SUDAN

1,611 Km – 26 Days

1 December – 26 December 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

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1 December – Metema, Ethiopia - Galabat – Doka, Sudan – 88 km

Not being early risers, it was late before crossing the border from Ethiopia into Sudan at the scruffy border town of Metema. The immigration office was no more than a mud hut under thatch. Upon emerging from the dark and dingy room, one found oneself in super conservative Sudan.

The day was hot and windy, and not feeling 100% riding became a struggle, only reaching tiny Doka towards the end of the day. The tents were pitched in the vicinity of a police checkpoint at the turn-off to the village. Camping close to the police wasn’t the safest place, as the trouble in South Sudan was ongoing and police were continuously under attack. The only reason for camping near the checkpoint was water availability, and thus worth the risk. Checkpoints had plenty of water and we could wipe ourselves down cook and fill our bottles. Water is a significant concern in the desert, and fortunately, the police didn’t mind sharing.

Before setting up camp, Ernest and I first rode to the market. As Doka was no more than a few simple homes, a mosque, and a small market, only a few potatoes and tomatoes were available.

Laying in my tent, I grinned as never in my wildest dreams did I think I would cycle Sudan twice!

 

2 December – Doka – El Gadarif (Al-Qaḍārif) – 90 km

The next morning, we pushed onwards to Gadarif, a slightly larger town a further 90 kilometres north. The day turned out another scorcher, and again I had to drag myself along and felt weak, nauseous and without energy.

Filling our water bottles at a petrol station, a farmer befriended us and gifted us 50 Sudanese pounds (a substantial amount of money in those days). After thanking him, we headed straight to the nearest hotel. Our benefactor will never know how handy his donation came in. My entire night was spent vomiting and I could at least do so in the privacy of a room.

 

3 December – El Gadarif – Migreh – 97 km

By morning, I felt considerably better and could at least look around Gadarif’s markets which are famous for selling sesame and sorghum. Anyone entering Sudan had to register with the police within three days of arrival. Ernest and I thus proceeded to the police station, where they appeared reluctant to perform this task. Staff informed us it was “hard for them to do so”, and that it was better to register in Khartoum, more than four hundred kilometres away and not a distance doable in a day. Big eye-roll.

By the time all was done, the time was 11h00. Thank goodness the wind died down a tad, and Migreh was reached without too much difficulty. Once again, camping was near a police depot with nothing but desert surrounding us.

 

4 December - Migreh – Desert camp – 110 km

Sadly, the route north ran straight into the prevailing wind, thus not making for enjoyable cycling. Nonetheless, it remained a task that had to be done. Encountering a headwind is never a pleasant affair, but facing it daily became a mission. Most days we had our heads down, one pedal stroke at a time.

I was only 100% sure of one thing, which was nothing ever stayed the same. Everything passes, and sooner or later, the wind had to subside. It was apparently not going to happen that day. The only positive thing was the many small settlements at regular intervals along the Nile to get a Marinda or Pepsi. The luxury of buying something sweet to drink became a daily highlight.

Albeit a tarmac road, it was in poor condition and congested with predominantly large trucks. They were all seemingly heading to Port Sudan, Sudan’s main port situated along the Red Sea. As a result, I was dead tired almost every night. Ernest did the cooking, following which I usually went straight to bed. Not that there was much else to do when camping in the desert.

 

5 December – Desert camp – Wad Medani – 41 km

A short cycle led from our desert camp to Wad Medani, located on the west bank of the Blue Nile and only 41 kilometres away. Being the centre of a cotton-growing region, Wad Medani was quite a substantial town for the desert and had a population of nearly 300,000. Moreover, the town was established due to the Gezira irrigation scheme and consequently sported accommodation and food. Staying the night was a no-brainer, and we spent the evening stuffing our faces with falafel. To this day, I swear Wad Medani makes the best falafel in the world.

A good deal of the political trouble at the time was in the Darfur region. Still, a strong military presence prevailed virtually everywhere. The killings of villagers increased, and the government failed to disarm the armed militias, known as the Janjawid, who continued to attack civilians in Darfur. As a result, hundreds of civilians were killed in Darfur and Chad, and some 300,000 more were displaced.

 

6 December – Wad Medani – Desert camp – 81 km

It was a good thing we were well fed as the next day was an exhausting ride in blistering heat and into a howling wind. Sudan wasn’t kind to me and I felt tired and nauseous - things were not going my way. Upon pulling off the road to set up camp, I immediately had about 100 thorns in my tyres. This was the last thing I needed. Ernest was a star and quietly went ahead and changed both tubes and filled them with sealant. I had no energy to even think of changing tubes.

Being winter, it became dark almost immediately after sunset, and it was best to find a camping spot at around 18h00. The mozzies were ferocious! I had no idea there were that many mosquitoes in the desert. It felt like they had been waiting for the unsuspected cyclist to set up camp. The safest place was in the tents, at least until way past sunset.

 

7 December – Desert camp – Truckstop – 71 km

On waking to the violent flapping of the flysheet, I knew we were in for an additional day grinding into the wind. Ernest in front and me following closely behind, a difference to our usual formation as I’ve long learned he didn’t like taking the lead. Still, little headway was made all day.

There might not have been beer in Sudan, but at least all settlements had water. Each community had a shelter where pottery urns filled with water were kept and not once were we refused this glorious and lifesaving liquid. The water stayed surprisingly cool in those pots, even in the extreme heat of the desert.

In the dying moments of the day, a truck stop with a restaurant, showers and toilets came into view. Here one could camp at the rear and enjoy the luxury of a shower. Sitting outside our tents, a Sudanese man who spoke English befriended us. He was immensely proud of his English and showed us his English textbooks.

The conversation took a bizarre turn. He accused me of lying because, according to him, a woman couldn’t cycle such long distances. I wondered how he figured I got there. He then inquired whether I had any education. I confirmed I attended school for 12 years, after which I spent quite a few years pursuing further studies. Not believing me, he threw me a few questions (to check, I guessed). Luckily, the questions weren’t awfully hard, more like general knowledge. Still not happy, he insisted I couldn’t drive a car. Upon confirming I had not one, but two vehicles back home, he exasperatedly exclaimed, “But you can’t climb a mountain!” By then, I’d lost interest in the conversation as we were clearly worlds apart. One couldn’t blame the man as he was taught that from a young age. His way of thinking confirmed my belief that children shouldn’t be exposed to political or religious beliefs at a young age. Instead, both should be taught as a science at school; otherwise, it’s nothing but brainwashing.

 

8-11 December – Truckstop – Khartoum – 50 km

In the morning, we turned the bicycles in Khartoum’s direction. Once there, camping was at the Blue Nile Sailing Club, a favourite amongst overlanders. It was also the place I camped during my ride from Cairo to Cape Town two years previously. The sailing club had a superb location on the Nile, with a gentle breeze coming off the water. Outside was a shack that sold fruit juice consisting of half mango and half avocado in two distinct layers. The stall was immensely popular!

The sailing club was where one met practically anyone travelling overland north or south. So, it was no surprise to meet Clive and Denise, a British couple on a 1954 Triumph en route from London to Cape Town. As can be imagined, they had enough experiences to keep a conversation going through the night. Also camping at the club were Charles and Rensche on motorbikes heading south. Meeting them was a blessing as we learned where to find water further north. Unfortunately, the route to Wadi Halfa involved an open desert crossing and therefore a serious lack of water.

The next four days were spent in Khartoum trying to extend our Sudanese visas (without success) and registering with the police. The rest of the time was spent (as usual) eating anything in sight.

 

12 December – Khartoum – Desert Camp – 106 km

We finally rode out of Khartoum on Wednesday, 12 December (winter). It became one more day battling into a stiff breeze. By five o’clock, we’d done a mere 105 kilometres.

When biking in Africa, it’s best to cycle north to south as the chance of the prevailing wind being in your favour is far greater.

Camping in the desert usually meant one could go about your business undisturbed. Pitching tents and hauling out cooking equipment when people were nearby typically brought a crowd of spectators. Generally, they kept their distance and observed the madness in wonderment and awe from afar.

 

13 December – Desert camp – Desert camp - 86 km

The following day, our path left the Nile and led straight into a desert storm. It must be mentioned that when leaving the Nile, there is no reference and the landscape looks similar whether one looks north, south, east or west. The wind was exceptionally fierce and whipped up sand to the extent that visibility was down to a few metres. With bandana-covered faces, we dragged the bicycles through the thick sand. By then, there was no visible road, direction, or path; we could only hope we were heading in the right direction.

At one stage, I lost my cool, threw the bicycle down, kicked it and shouted to the wind, only to realise I might’ve broken a toe. Feeling defeated, I had no choice but to pick the bike up and, hobbling, pushed the bike into the wind. We must’ve made a sad sight - two lonely cyclists at a snail’s pace through the desert.

 

14 December - Desert camp - Desert camp – 81 km

From our desert camp, Ernest and I only managed 81 kilometres. There were barely any water stops on this day. With heads down, we pushed into the wind until time to set up camp. The only water stop encountered couldn’t have been more fascinating. These places often had a dhaba (a basic stall selling food, usually only one dish). They were places no one ever passed without stopping. So, we sat in wonderment, staring at Sudanese men, dressed in jallabiyas, eating raw goat.

By evening, gale-force gusts made pitching a tent challenging; in no time, the whole shebang was covered in sand. Eventually, Ernest lit the stove and produced a sandy pasta meal. Not much later, we crawled into our equally sandy beds. I know I’ve been harping on about the wind, but there are no words to describe how challenging cycling and camping can be in such dire conditions.

 

15 December – Desert Camp – Al Dabbah – 111 km

Eventually, the route spat us out at the Nile at Al Dabbah, and it almost felt like meeting an old friend. The wind seemed stronger each day. Biking was challenging, but setting up camp and packing up was equally problematic. I’m sure I lost half of my belongings to the wind. We located a derelict building by evening and, after dragging the bikes through the thick sand, set up camp behind it. With a broken toe, this was even more tricky, and I vowed never to kick the bike again.

 

16 December – Al Dabbah – Sali – 92 km

On a Sunday, the two desert rats (which we jokingly called ourselves by then, as I’m sure we looked and smelled the part) pedalled the 92 kilometres from Al Dabbah to Sali. The route ran close to the Nile, with numerous settlements on the riverbank.

We were promptly invited in after turning into one of the settlements to get water. The stove was hardly lit to make supper when a large tray laden with goat’s milk cheese, olives and dates arrived. The desert folk were incredibly hospitable. I think they gave us their sleeping quarters while they slept in the kitchen area.

 

17-18 December – Sali – Dongola – 71 km

A further 70 kilometres led to Dongola and it became another day grinding into a stiff breeze. Therefore, I was in no mood for petty bureaucracy arriving in Dongola where authorities required us to register with the police before booking a hotel. I suspected the reason was being a woman. I was not happy and with my lip dragging on the ground set off by tuk-tuk to the police station.

This was where General Herbert Kitchener killed 15,000 of the indigenous Mahdist tribes in 1899. The British were brutal in those days. First, they killed the people but later killed the wounded, raising the overall death toll to over 50,000.

The following day was spent in Dongola. True to its location in one of the hottest and driest regions in the world, the weather was sweltering. Dongola was an excellent place to do much-needed laundry, bicycle maintenance, and stock up with provisions for the road ahead. All while stuffing our faces in anticipation of the next big desert starve.

 

19 December - Dongola - Kerma – 54 km

Following a well-deserved break, we departed Dongola along the western side of the Nile, heading north to Argo, where crossing the Nile was by a small ferry. Upon arriving at the crossing point, it was prayer time and thus not a soul in sight. All one could do was wait until the boatman returned from the mosque.

Once on the opposite bank, the road veered away from the Nile, making finding the way almost impossible - it was a good thing Charles gave Ernest the GPS coordinates where to meet the river afterwards. Camping was along the bank of the Nile under palm trees which sounded far more romantic than it turned out.

 

20 December – Kerma – Kahli - 53 km

From Kerma, a further 53 kilometres took us to Kahli. The midges were ferocious and got in everywhere - nose, ears, mouth and food. In the evening, it became a matter of pitching the tent in record time and hiding inside till sunset, when they miraculously disappeared.

By then, we were well entrenched in the Nubian lifestyle of drinking sweet black tea and could barely wait to pitch the tents and boil water. Strange things one does when there’s a lack of beer - my mother would’ve been proud of me.

 

20 December – Khali – Desert Camp - 54 km

Our plan, after Khali, was to do an open desert crossing. We therefore continued straight where the river made a big loop as it was considerably shorter. By then, we were almost in the middle of the Nubian desert, which, surprisingly, wasn’t all sand. Instead, the terrain became mountainous, rocky and corrugated. In other places, one sank deep into the soft sand and the bicycles were dragged along with great difficulty. As expected from a desert, the area was plagued by windstorms which became our biggest nemesis. With bandanas tied around our faces, we leaned into the wind, sometimes pedalling and other times walking (the toe was never the same afterwards).

Whether looking north, east, west or south, the landscape remained one vast desert. Yet, in the distance a structure loomed. Upon reaching it, we discovered not only the ruined remains of a building but four men on motorbikes huddling together, trying to have a bite to eat out of the wind. Astonished to see us, they offered us a few chocolate biscuits, a prized item in the desert. Albeit going with the wind, they had problems of their own. Their motorbikes were significantly heavier and sank far deeper into the sand. Eventually, they wished us good luck, and we set out into the wind, fuelled by the chocolate biscuits.

 

21 December – Desert camp – Desert camp - 52 km

The past few days, we could only manage approximately 50 kilometres of riding and at night camped in the wadis (dry riverbeds), cooking our fast-dwindling supply of rations. Moreover, the nights and mornings were bitterly cold. Reluctant to emerge, the time was usually nine-thirty or ten before getting underway.

 

22 December – Desert camp – Desert camp - 72 km

The next day, the two desert rats managed 72 kilometres, a distance we were pleased with as biking days were short when departing late as the sun set around 6 o’clock. During the day, we uncovered a dhaba selling foul (pronounced fool) and aish (warm pita bread), a dish that became our favourite while cycling Sudan.

Even though trying our level best to do longer distances, the going remained dreadfully slow. Therefore, catching the weekly Wadi Halfa/Abu Simbol ferry in four days seemed more unlikely by the day.

The fascinating part was that our camp was amongst the ruins of a deserted town. To this day, I wonder about its history, but Maslow was correct and all I was concerned about was food, water and pitching the tent.

 

23 December – Desert camp - Akasha – 74 km

Albeit trying to get underway earlier, the time was 9 o’clock before getting going. Our eyes were set on the small community of Akasha, almost 74 kilometres away. At least we were cycling along a road of sorts, but it deteriorated as soon as it left the Nile. Conditions were becoming increasingly challenging, and the wind, sand, corrugations, and mountains seemed even worse. At least Akasha was reached before dark, which sported a tiny shop where one could buy a few items. The shop had a relatively limited supply, but we were delighted and excited about buying more tea and a few sweets.

With full water bottles, we headed out of the village to camp in a nearby riverbed. Later, Ernest warmed water to wash as the weather became downright freezing beyond sunset.

 

24 December – Akasha – Desert Camp - 59 km

It’s surprising how cold the desert gets in winter and after drinking our morning tea, we packed up and departed. Unfortunately, the day was again marred by soft sand requiring walking the bicycles through sand or over stony terrain. Although there were no water stops or settlements, we came across a road camp approximately 30 kilometres into the day. Staff were kind enough to fill our water containers, allowing enough water to cook and wash that evening.

Our days started to follow a familiar rhythm of shivering while drinking our morning tea, followed by pushing the bikes into the wind through sand or over stony terrain, generally, in the oppressing heat. By evening, we pitched the tents in the wadis while dressed in our warmest clothes.

 

25-26 December – Desert Camp - Wadi Halfa – 72 km

Awake early we were keen to get going as this was the final stretch to Wadi Halfa. The only way to get from Sudan to Egypt overland was by ferry from Wadi Halfa to Aswan in Egypt across the Aswan Dam.

Being a weekly ferry, it was essential to get the boat the following morning or wait a further week. Unfortunately, our visas expired more than a week before and we were desperate to get the coming days’ ferry.

Great was our surprise to find the last 30 kilometres into Wadi Halfa paved. With smiles and an immeasurable sense of relief, the two desert rats made their way into the small port town of Wadi Halfa. I was relieved (and I’m sure so was Ernest) being out of the desert and in a dirty room with a sagging bed. We were even more delighted with the many food stalls and being in time to catch the Aswan ferry.

 

27 December – Wadi Halfa, Sudan – Aswan, Egypt

The following day was an early start to purchase ferry tickets and get our police stamps to exit Sudan. Even with all the checks and stamps, no one said a word regarding our expired visas, and we couldn’t wait to board the ferry and get out of Sudan before anyone noticed. Being an overnight ferry departing at four a.m., I splashed out and treated us to a cabin.

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

The remainder of the evening was spent chatting with fellow travellers and enjoying a beautiful sunset over the Aswan Dam.

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

012 CYCLE TOURING ETHIOPIA

Photo by Ernest Markwood

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

MAP

Photos

FLIP-BOOK

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9-15 November – Cape Town, South Africa - Addis Ababa, Ethiopia (2400 asl)

My return to South Africa from Amman, Jordan was due to a dire need for a new passport. To my surprise, Ernest was there as well, but he had an entirely different reason. He left nearly all his belongings in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia whereas I'd all mine. So, following a month of eating and drinking with friends and family, I collected my shiny new passport. This time, it was a maxi passport containing more pages.

After much deliberation, Ernest and I decided to join forces. We flew to Addis Ababa and I was happy to be back in Ethiopia. Not only was Ethiopia home to some of the fastest marathon runners in the world, but a country with a captivating history and religion. Ethiopians mainly belong to the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church, which claims to possess the Ark of the Covenant, kept under guard in a treasury in Axum. Ethiopia is further home to the famous rock-cut churches of Lalibela dating to between the 7^th to 13^th centuries. Legend has it that angels helped carve out the churches within twenty-four hours.

Furthermore, Ethiopia was the home of Haile Selassie, seen as a messiah among followers of the Rastafari movement, and Bob Marley thus considered Ethiopia his spiritual home. Most of all, Ethiopia is home to coffee from the Ethiopian highlands and injera, a traditional, sourdough-type flatbread or pancake. Traditionally, injera is made from teff flour, but any grain can be used. The flour and water mix is fermented for several days before being baked into a giant, flat pancake with a slightly spongy texture. Usually, a variety of small amounts of stews are scooped onto the injera. When eating, small pieces of injera are torn off and used as utensils to scoop up the food using one's fingers.

An entire week was spent in Addis exploring all the city's attractions, including visiting the famous early hominid "Lucy". Lucy is the 3.2-million-year-old fossilised remains of a female skeleton uncovered in 1974. Surprisingly short, she only measured 1.1 metres tall with an estimated weight of a mere 29kg.

Much time was spent organising visas to Egypt and Sudan, a long and frustrating process. Performing these mediocre tasks can make anyone feel transported into another dimension as, in Ethiopia, time starts at sunrise. Hence an hour beyond sunrise is 1 a.m. Moreover, the Ethiopian calendar is a solar calendar beginning on 29 or 30 August in the Julian Calendar, adding to the confusion. At the time of our visit, the Ethiopians were celebrating the millennium. Albeit 2007, Addis was a blaze of colour and light as they celebrated the year 2000.

In Addis, I bumped into Wondey, one of the 2005 Tour D'Afrique guides. What a small world.

 

16 November - Addis – Muka – 80 km

Seven days passed before biking out of Addis to pedal the relatively short distance to the Sudanese border. I'd become surprisingly unfit, or maybe I'd forgotten how hilly Addis was. The countryside was colourful and the farmlands were in different shades of green and yellow - November is an excellent time to visit Ethiopia.

Eighty percent of Ethiopians are farmers, and the road north leads past fields, where farmers still use oxen and wooden ploughs. The hills encountered virtually killed me and, exhausted, I reached Muka a mere 80 kilometres away.

 

17 November - Muka – Fiche – 38 km

Even though Fiche (situated at an altitude of 2,780 metres above sea level) was only 38 kilometres further, my backside wasn't used to cycling, and it was best to make the ride a short one.

As expected, Ethiopians were fascinated by us. The children called, "You, you, give money!" and, if ignored, stones came flying. Yes, kids did throw stones at cyclists, but I don’t think the act was ever intended to hurt but more a way of getting a person's attention. These kids are pretty good at aiming; they wouldn't have missed if they wanted to hit you. It’s, however, a habit that remains highly annoying.

 

18 November - Fiche – Gohatsion (Goha Tsion) – 76 km

The 76 kilometres to tiny Goha Tsiy was wonderfully colourful but hilly and, thus, slow going. Soon, the famous Blue Nile Gorge came into view where overnighting was at the rim of the gorge, which came with a view of one of Ethiopia's most dramatic landscapes.

The Nile is considered the longest river in the world and consists mainly of two tributaries, the Blue Nile and the White Nile. The White Nile begins somewhere in Rwanda or Burundi (no one seems quite sure of the exact location). The Blue Nile originates at Lake Tana in Ethiopia. From Ethiopia, the Nile flows through Sudan where it meets up with the White Nile and then flows into Egypt, eventually draining into the Mediterranean.

 

19 November - Goha Tisy – Debra Markos – 70 km

In the morning, the route descended into the legendary Blue Nile Gorge and, to our surprise, we discovered the 1500-metre descent half-paved, making the ride a piece of cake. However, the sharp 1500-metre climb out was still under construction. Workers had put down a thick layer of gravel, making riding somewhat tricky. Having already biked this section previously, I saw no need to cycle it again and opted for a ride on a truck to the top. Ernest was, however, determined to cycle.

Debra Marcos was our overnight stop and allowed for plenty of time to shop. At the market, we uncovered dried beans, potatoes, onions and chillies, which Ernest concocted into a stew - something different to injera eaten almost daily.

History has it that when the Italians arrived in Debra Markos in 1936, they told astonished villagers they'd come to free them from their oppressors. This news left them baffled as they were unaware of said oppressors. I giggled at this information, imagining the surprised look on the Ethiopians' faces.

 

20-21 November - Debra Markos – Finote Selam – 85 km

From Debra Markos, an undulating road ran 85 kilometres to Finote Selam where a room with a piping hot shower at 30Birr ($1.13) became home that night. Vegetables were hard to get hold of; maybe November was the wrong time of year to buy vegetables. But, at least, the market offered plenty of bananas and oranges.

I found Ethiopia more interesting than ever; not only is it Africa's oldest independent country but a country that had never been colonised, apart from a five-year stint by Mussolini. Amharic, Ethiopia's official language, is equally fascinating and is written using an abugida, or syllable alphabet, based on the Ge'ez script. Unfortunately, there’s no formal method of translating Amharic writing into Roman or Latin characters and thus the reason for the variety in the spelling of town names.

 

22 November - Finote Salam – Dangla (Dangila) – 99 km

From Finote Salam to Dangla was a pleasant and comfortable 100 kilometres accompanied by the usual, "Where you go?" from kids, before demanding money, clothing and even the bicycle at times.

We finished the day's ride in Dangla. Though a tiny village with a mere 25,000 inhabitants, the town had a long history. The city was said to be the centre of the African slave trade route back in 1930 when the British maintained a consulate in town.

Supper was firfir, my favourite food, being injera fried in butter smothered in a hot sauce. By the time I went to bed, I knew the meal was a mistake.

 

23-24 November – Dangla – Bahir Dar – 80 km

The next day became a most challenging ride (I will not go into detail), and the 80 kilometres to Bahir Dar felt like a lifetime. Finally, and to my great relief, I crawled into touristy Bahir Dar in the late afternoon. The place wasn't exactly swarming with tourists, but it had a few hotels and restaurants.

The Dar Gioa Hotel offered camping along the edge of beautiful Lake Tana. Still, I weakened at the thought of a comfortable bed as I had no energy to pitch a tent. Still feeling unwell, an additional day was spent in Bahir Dar. Little did I know whatever I'd contracted would linger a long time. Again, feeling sick, nothing came of my plans to explore the island monasteries or the Blue Nile Falls. I felt disappointed at this lost opportunity.

 

25 November - Bahir Dar – Addis Zena – 88 km

The route to Addis Zena stretched along Lake Tana and was thus flat and scenic. Addis Zena marked the end of the day's ride and had a superb location at the foothills of the Simien Mountains and the start of the immensely impressive Ethiopian highlands. By evening, Ernest offered to cook spaghetti as I still wasn't up to Ethiopian cuisine. We ate our food while admiring Mount Asaba, Addis Zena's famous landmark.

 

26-27 November – Addis Zena – Gondar – 100 km

Spectacular views greeted us as we pedalled the 100 kilometres to Gondar. The following day was spent roaming the streets of Gondar, an old town offering plenty to explore. The town was further our last chance to buy essentials prior to heading into Sudan.

Gondar is a historic city and was once the capital of Ethiopia (1632-1667). As a result, there were plenty of remnants of ancient castles and fortresses.

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, as it included a surprising mixture of architectural styles.

 

28 November - Gondor

Ernest headed to the border, but I decided to stay an extra day and take a bus as I'd already cycled this stretch not too long before, but never had time to investigate the area.

I popped into the Debre Berhan Selassie Church, famed for its elaborate murals and ceiling. At leisure, I wandered the streets and markets of Gondar, giggling at school kids greeting me with a sing-song, "Good morning, teacher".

 

29 November – Gondor – Metema (by bus)

The next morning, a bus took me to the town of Metama, home to the Ethiopian/Sudanese border. The trip was quite an experience. In true African style, the driver charged for loading the bike as well as offloading it. We overtook Ernest, and I expected him to catch up when the bus broke down. I got to Metema dusty and maybe more saddle-sore than on a bike, as the seats were rock-hard.

Metema, being a real border town, was dirty, dusty, and lined with pubs and brothels. I located accommodation consisting of a mud hut containing only a sagging bed. The electricity came on when the generator started and went off when the generator switched off or ran out of fuel. With the lack of individual switches, I kept a torch handy as the toilets were a distance away behind a rickety, corrugated iron sheet.

 

30 November - Metema

Ernest arrived the next day, covered in dust and sweat, and we located a different room (not much better but at least a tad more spacious). We enjoyed our last beer as our path crossed the border into Sudan the following day.

Being a conservative Muslim country, alcohol was forbidden and women were seldom seen outside. This explained the considerable number of pubs and brothels as Sudanese men frequently popped across the border for a bit of R & R.

 

1 December – Metema, Ethiopia - Galabat – Doka, Sudan – 88 km

Not being early starters, it turned out late in the day before crossing the border from Ethiopia into Sudan. The immigration office was no more than a mud hut under thatch. Upon emerging from the dark and dingy room, one found oneself in super conservative Sudan.

The day was hot and windy and, not feeling 100%, riding became a struggle, only reaching tiny Doka towards the end of the day. The tents were pitched in the vicinity of a police checkpoint at the turn-off to the village. Camping close to the police wasn't the safest place, as the trouble in South Sudan was ongoing and police were continuously under attack. The only reason for camping near the checkpoint was the availability of water. Checkpoints had plenty of water; we could thus wipe ourselves down and have water to cook and fill the bottles.

Water is a significant concern in the desert, and the police, mercifully, didn't mind sharing. Before setting up camp, Ernest and I first rode to the market. But, as Doka was no more than a few simple homes, a mosque, and a small market, only a few potatoes and tomatoes were available.

Laying in my tent, I grinned as never in my wildest dreams did I think I would cycle Sudan twice! 

010 CYCLE TOURING SYRIA (1)

 

             Between Sand and Citadels: My Two

                             Crossings of Syria

10 SYRIA (1)

570 Kilometres – 23 Days

22 September – 14 October 2007

PHOTOS

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FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

 

PROLOGUE

 

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

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

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

 

 

SYRIA (1)

 

22–23 September – Atakia, Turkey – Aleppo, Syria – 110 kilometres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

24 September – Aleppo – Idlib – 66 kilometres

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

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

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

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

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

 

25 September – Idlib – Latakia – 130 kilometres

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

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

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

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

 

26 September – Latakia

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

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

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

 

27 September – Latakia – Tartus – 85 kilometres

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

Then the itching began.

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

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

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

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

 

28 September – Tartus

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

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

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

 

29 September – Tartus – Homs – 110 kilometres

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

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

 

30 September – Homs

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

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

 

1 October – Homs – Damascus – 80 kilometres

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

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

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

 

2–6 October – Damascus

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

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

 

7 October – Damascus

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

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

 

8 October – Maalula

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

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

 

9–10 October – Damascus – Aleppo

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

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

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

 

11 October – Aleppo – Hama

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

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

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

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

 

12–14 October – Hama – Palmyra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

SYRIA (2)

 

11–13 March – Syrian border – 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.

We rolled into Damascus around four o’clock, pleasantly wind‑assisted and only mildly sun‑baked. I was excited — genuinely 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.

14 March – Damascus – Roadside restaurant – 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 — preferably not in a ditch.

15–16 March – Roadside restaurant – Homs – 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 had once housed up to 2,000 people, though only about 60 of them were actual knights. The rest were support staff — medieval logistics, essentially. We spent hours wandering through the fortress, marvelling at its scale and imagining the lives of the people who once lived there.

 

17 March – Homs – Hama – 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.

 

18–19 March – Hama – Aleppo – 144 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.

20 March – Aleppo, Syria – Reyhanli, 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 Turkish stay without delay, without fuss, and without any of the bureaucratic drama I had come to expect from 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

 

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

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

Some places you pass through. Others pass through you.

Syria did both.