‘He’s amazing in situations like this,’ Charley added. ‘He stays incredibly calm and never gives up.’
I felt sick with muscle ache but ahead of us at last were the lights of Tobruk. With the end in sight I brightened. It had been pretty exciting. We had ridden the desert trail in a monster sandstorm and still reached our destination. It felt like a huge achievement – really exhilarating after everything we’d been through.
It was after eleven when we finally got off the bikes. I dragged my helmet over my head, my eyes running from wind and sand. Charley was loosening his tank bag. ‘Deserve a little shower,’ he said. ‘Don’t we?’
Nuri came over and told us he’d found a mechanic who was prepared to come out as soon as Russ and Jim got there. We’d left them on the highway maybe twenty minutes behind.
Nuri wanted our passports. ‘I tell you,’ he said, ‘I’ve never seen sand storming for twenty-four hours. The miles we covered in those conditions, it’s amazing.’ He smiled then and taking the passports turned to go inside. ‘Yeah,’ he added. ‘The Force is strong with you guys.’
11
Ice Cold In Alex
CHARLEY: I woke up feeling worse than when I went to sleep. It had been a marathon of a day – we’d ended up riding more than five hundred miles. I suppose I did feel some sense of satisfaction, but it was tempered by the danger we’d put ourselves in. I wasn’t sure if it had been worth it. I wasn’t sure at all.
I took a moment to look around my room; the walls filthy, paper peeling, the torn strips of lino on the floor. Tiles were missing in the bathroom and a coating of rancid-looking grime caked the bath. I had quite a view, mind you – the contrasts of Libya, perhaps – in the distance the massive Tobruk power plant, in the foreground a terrace and the crystal blue of the sea. I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked exhausted, despite a full night’s sleep – puffy around the eyes. The sand, I guessed. I kept thinking about the crosswind, the incessant pounding, my head being buffeted all day. Jesus, no wonder my neck ached.
At least the Nissan was fixed. Last night before I went to bed I saw Jim under the bonnet again and he told me a pipe had slipped off the turbo. With that in place everything should be working as normal. God, what a journey. Looking back I know I’d seemed enthusiastic but that was only because we had to get the ferry. Having said that I suppose it was a sort of Ice Cold in Alex moment, and our destination had been Tobruk where the Allies held out against overwhelming odds. In 1941 the army had been pushed back to Egypt and the whole area, save Tobruk, had been under enemy control.
I’d been through so many emotions yesterday. I’d switched from being exhilarated one minute to really fed up the next. Eating late hadn’t helped; we should have learned by now that we had to eat properly. We needed all the energy we could get.
I changed my visor back to a dark one; it was much easier here in the hotel room than it had been in last night’s tempest. There had been times when I didn’t think I could cope with the wind, the sand and the dangers of riding at night.
This morning I was still full of apprehension. The latter part of the ride had been really depressing, not just the elements but the towns had been real shit-holes. I remember one that looked as though the inhabitants just walked out their front doors and dumped their rubbish in the street. It was piled everywhere and blowing everywhere too. God, I really had the collywobbles this morning. I was thinking of the miles, the bigger picture, how everything was going to be. I think it was exhaustion, we’d had no real rest day and it was manic: today we were crossing the border to Egypt and that alone could take all day.
EWAN: Both Charley and I were emotional enough already after yesterday’s epic ride. We hadn’t prepared ourselves for how the war graves at Tobruk would affect us.
I had spoken to Eve earlier in the morning. I spoke to my daughters too. Sometimes it’s really easy to have a laugh and mess about with them on the phone; but other times like this morning it’s really hard. I was absolutely exhausted, and speaking to my family just made me want to be home.
The cemetery was in the middle of nowhere, a massive place with beautiful sandstone walls and a pitched roof portico at the entrance. It was a tranquil place tended by an elderly Libyan man who acted as our guide. Through the gate we were greeted by a path of baked earth that led to the first of three memorials. There was one for Australians, another for Poles and a third for Czech fighters. Our guide told us that British soldiers lay here as well as New Zealand, South African and Yugoslavian forces. They occupied what he called the commonwealth cemetery, and lying next to them, with their headstones facing Mecca, were Muslim dead from Libya, Algeria, Sudan and India. I gazed the length of the stillness to low walls and the flat envelopes of desert beyond. The place was beautifully kept with cactus growing in spiky flowers between the silent graves. We came to one where a Private Edmondson from Australia was resting: he’d been awarded the Victoria Cross after saving his friends from a German position whilst taking the bullet that killed him. We came across many plots whose occupants were unknown, the same inscription on all of them: ‘Soldier of the 1939–45 war, known to God’.
Everyone had been someone’s son or husband, somebody’s father. Charley pointed out another inscription that had resonance for both of us. ‘Our Loving Son, loved by all. Peace, perfect peace.’
I found a young man called T P Lawson and that intrigued me. He was from Ladybank in Fife, and had died when he was just twenty-seven years old. He shared his name with my grandmother on my mother’s side. I took down all the details, his regiment and serial number. It was possible this man was a relative and I’d ask my grandmother when I got home.
Sitting in the cemetery, I felt a deep sadness close in. So many young men, so many families bereaved. Being in this place with so much loss brought home the conversation I’d had with my children in a big way; it made me almost angry: with myself, the time pressure, the fact that long days and hideous miles put us in situations where accidents were more likely to happen – the theme kept recurring.
CHARLEY: Some of the inscriptions had been written by the wives of those who’d died, or by their mums and dads and they were so touching. I walked among the stones, trying to imagine the men who lay there, who they’d been and how they’d died, how their families had learned of the tragedy. I saw one man from Waterford, an Irish soldier who’d also been awarded the Victoria Cross. I wasn’t aware any Irishman had won it and this was close to home, Waterford being the neighbouring county to where I grew up. I thought about my own mother and father, their loss, and how any parent must feel when a child is taken from them. Russ had also been moved by what we saw and said that seeing all those fallen soldiers lined up together made him realise how important it is, especially in modern times, that we all unite and stick together.
Back on the bikes we set off for the border and all I could think about were those young men who’d died so gallantly – it touched my heart hugely and riding along I was teary. I thought again about Telsche, my sister who died eleven years ago. I missed her so much it hurt; it was almost as if I was reliving the grief by being in the cemetery. She’d been so young, so beautiful. I’ve said before I felt her with me on Long Way Round, the Dakar too, and I knew how those soldiers’ families must have felt. I could imagine their pain and riding along I cried my eyes out, blubbering away in my helmet on the flat, dusty road to the Egyptian border. I always think about Telsche but especially on these trips, when I’m on the bike and strained physically and emotionally. I just wish she could be here, could have seen what I’ve done. I knew she would have been so proud of Long Way Round and the Dakar. I wish she could have seen my children grow up, but more than anything I just wanted to talk to her.
EWAN: We stopped for lunch not far from the Libyan–Egyptian border and found the BBC news playing on the TV in the corner. The report was about the horrors in Darfur; the Bush administration using the term genocide to describe what was happening. George Clooney was speaking; I h
ave always admired the way he stands up for what he believes in, and isn’t afraid to speak his mind. We caught the tail end of the piece. He was talking about the millions who would die if what he called ‘real and effective measures’ weren’t put in place. It was a complex situation, but when the populations of entire villages were raped and killed, the bodies of the dead thrown down the drinking wells, it ceased to be complex and just came down to a matter of right and wrong.
The fighting has been raging in the western part of the country since 2003. It was like some kind of old-style range feud only with political overtones; on one side there’s a militia called Janjaweed whose members are mostly camel-herding nomads from the north. On the other is the Sudanese Liberation Movement, and their fighters are mostly farmers – land tillers or sod-busters as they were called in the American West. Whilst publicly denying it, the Sudanese government has funded the northern militia and joined in with attacks on the tribes from which the Liberation Movement is drawn.
Russ was concerned about the effect any overt American pressure might have on David and Jimmy’s presence when we tried to cross from Egypt. In Libya they had been victims of circumstance, the US made it hard for Libyans to enter America so Libya reciprocated. It was tit for tat and happened in various guises all over the African continent, not just with America but also with former colonial powers like France. Hoop jumping, Russ called it; simply as retaliatory action.
CHARLEY: It took five hours to cross into Egypt. Not too bad really and I pulled the obligatory wheelie. Telling me not to do so is like being told not to drink for six months. And I don’t mean alcohol.
We were in Egypt and although the landscape looked much the same, we had crossed to another country and it felt like it. The difference was as discernible as it had been when we passed from Tunisia into Libya. I’d enjoyed Libya, the people had been very friendly and, given how restricted we’d been, Nuri had managed to make sure the presence of ministry officials hadn’t been overbearing. But here in Egypt, everything already looked fresher, cleaner…wealthier.
We watched some women about to cross from Egypt into Libya, hoisting their skirts up then taping up the knees of the massive bloomers they were wearing underneath. It was the oddest thing I’ve seen at a border crossing. Once the tape was in place they stuffed box after box of cigarettes down their pants in full view of us, the guards, everyone. They’d cross into Libya and sell them for ten dollars a carton then come back for some more – capitalism at work all of a sudden.
Egypt was clearly busier; the towns we went through were bustling with shops and markets, open-air stalls packed with produce. The cars were better quality too, though still very crowded and not a lot safer. We passed one pickup with a canvas hood where a kid was perched on the tailgate. The buildings seemed fresher and better kept; we passed a few mosques and some isolated hotels and apartment blocks. The roads started to become more interesting; climbing higher we hit some bends, a welcome distraction after the arrow-straight and windblown tarmac of yesterday. We were still on tarmac, had been since we left home except for that one dirt road in Tunisia. Strangely enough I was looking forward to some real riding. In Sudan for example, the road was pretty grim and I was eager to pit myself against it. I’d done the Dakar; I’d trained off-road for a year and this (albeit potholed) asphalt was becoming a little boring. I love off-road riding; it’s dangerous and unpredictable but massive fun. Watch the Steve McQueen movie On Any Sunday and you’ll see what I mean. A bunch of mates with the same passion working on dirt bikes all week then clearing off at the weekend to race and win, or pitch off and break arms and collarbones. Then laugh about it.
EWAN: We’d met up with David and Jimmy and it was great to have the whole team together again. I’d apologised to them both for being flippant about the Libyan affair and they were cool about it. We were off again, in convoy with the trucks sitting in line astern the bikes. I thought I saw black smoke coming from Russ’s truck and he tested it by flooring the throttle a couple of times. In the end it seemed all right.
Egypt certainly had that different feel; the buildings were built much closer to the road and the towns were more vibrant and colourful. Alexandria was 506 kilometres away and we’d be there for lunch tomorrow. Lunch in Alex: that would be good. I’d always wanted to go there – the old black and white movie where Sir John Mills arrives after crossing the desert is one of my all-time favourites. I don’t drink, but I love that image of him sitting down at that bar and watching condensation glisten on an ice-cold lager. I felt more upbeat again: another country, another adventure, a whole new world to ride through.
The climb into the twisty stuff was invigorating, a beautiful bay in the distance and once again the kind of bends where you really don’t want to make a mistake. It was now getting dark, we were an hour beyond the border and Charley and I rode two abreast. I couldn’t quite believe we’d ridden to Egypt, and what that meant: the pyramids, the Nile, the Red Sea. Alexandria, Cairo, Luxor – they were names to conjure with. Equally, I couldn’t believe we’d only been on the road a couple of weeks: we seemed to have travelled so far it was hard to imagine we had at least two months to go and that thought was both exciting and intimidating at the same time. At the border I’d spoken to Eve again and she told me she’d ridden a hundred miles the day before. She was really getting into it. I couldn’t wait for her to come and ride with us, husband and wife in Africa together at last.
As we passed through the towns I noticed there were no pavements, just sand stretching to apartment buildings and market stalls and people saying hi. Men in robes would wave and nod, and beyond the town into the desert a full moon hovered above the highway. It was really quite beautiful and I thought, God I’m riding through Egypt and there’s nothing to my right and nothing to my left and the bike is upright, not at forty-five degrees. The sky was purple and blue, no light pollution, and as darkness took hold the blend of colours was amazing.
We rode into the night, something we’d vowed we wouldn’t do. An hour before sunset to recce a camp spot was how I remember discussing it. The best laid plans, eh? Lights flickered on the horizon now, the town of Marsa Matruh was just ahead, and I was thinking of the night before. I’d been completely out of it by the time we stopped. I’d dumped my gear, stuff strewn everywhere when normally I’m a bit anal about folding everything away. I didn’t care; I just carried the bags in and conked out.
CHARLEY: The following morning we were on our way to Alexandria, Cairo and the pyramids. I was a little grumpy and I detected a similar mood in everyone. Almost immediately we were stopped by a motorcycle cop; a bit of the road coned off as it had been so often in Libya. He was riding an old FZ750; the bike clean enough but aged. I reckoned it must have done a few miles. I think I irritated Ewan because he was getting his passport out to show the cop when I jumped in with my driving licence; his space, my invasion. It was indicative of the way we were feeling.
He roared off and I followed and once more the land was flat, the road straight but at least it was bordered by trees. We were close to the sea, sand drifting onto the asphalt now and again, the sky above a hazy kind of blue.
Up ahead we saw a couple of men driving donkeys pulling flat-bedded carts; as if someone had attached a pair of wheels to a wooden fence. Claudio wanted a shot and he pulled off into the dust and got his camera. Ewan and I were further along, still on the bikes and looking back. The donkey drivers were none too happy and hands out, angrily demanded money.
EWAN: We were kind of surprised although our Egyptian fixer, Ramy, had told us that one in five people here was associated with the police, and those that weren’t liked to get involved anyway. He had warned us that people might be touchy about being filmed and for the first time in Africa the situation felt tense. Not only were the donkey drivers demanding payment but also a car pulled up sharply. Two men jumped out. They were yelling at us, waving their hands and making faces that asked the question: What the fuck do you think you’re doing?
‘OK,’ I said. ‘OK, that’s cool. No photos, sorry. No more photos.’
His mate bent to the road and picked up two dirty great rocks. It was time to leave; Charley spoke to Claudio over the radio and told him to get back on his bike and get the hell out of there. The guy with the rocks was weighing them in his hands, ready to pitch them at us, when suddenly the other guy was all smiles and handshakes. It was a total transformation: a moment before he’d been shouting, now he was joking about football, asking Charley his name and where we were from. It was weird; a complete change of mood, though I noticed the other bloke held onto the rocks a little longer before finally ditching them. It was definitely time to go, though; our mood had been sour enough without this. Gunning the engines we took off again.
That incident really pissed me off. I don’t deal well with that kind of aggression, never have. A mix of fatigue and the riding, the constant race we were in, coupled with people shouting and threatening to lob stones. I fell into silence, no desire to talk, either to Charley or into the video. I hunched in the seat, clicked gears and stared straight ahead. I guess you can tell from all this that the general mood in camp was pretty dour. And it was; the radios quiet for ages, every man jack of us feeling grumpy.
We were in three lanes of motorway now and the massive sprawl of the city loomed on our left. To our right, in contrast, there was the stillness of a bay where the water looked almost pink. And far in the distance, spindly towers like derricks marked the horizon. The traffic was manic, a white van heavily loaded screamed past and Charley and I now spent all our time warning each other about the next nutter approaching.
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