‘I think he’s barking,’ I said softly. ‘The captain; quite the toughy, isn’t he, a real salty old seadog.’
‘Or not so salty maybe,’ Charley said, ‘given this is a lake. I reckon he’s seen a few things in his time, though. Don’t you?’
‘Yeah. Like one too many freshwater crossings.’
We tried to pluck up the courage to ask if we could go through, but the bloke on his knees was still washing the floor and the others were shouting at each other now with another yelling over the loudspeaker. In the end we asked if we could film the captain and he just kind of looked at us and we made our way through.
Downstairs in a salon area we found Dave and Amelia, the couple who had been sheltering under the lifeboat. Dave was from Australia and was backpacking around the continent, Amelia was headed for Darfur and a summer of volunteer work. They’d just hooked up together as travellers often do. We spoke about Aswan and the unfinished obelisk. I’d heard it was unfinished because the stonemasons carving it discovered a crack which rendered it pretty useless, so they just left it. Amelia had been to see the Temple of Isis and we ended up talking about stuff in the British Museum and the little sarcophagus that had carried Tutankhamen’s organs. Of course that brought us back to hooks and noses and bottoms and I was at pains to point out that your bottom is a larger orifice than your nose.
Later in my cabin I hung out the window. The sun was going down, the sky plum coloured and the water almost black. I watched as it grew darker and darker and then finally the sun seemed to hiss into the lake and for a moment the whole sky blazed gold. There was a sense of silence despite the engine noise and the hubbub from the decks – night on an old boat. I felt as if I was back in the thirties.
Lying on my bunk I took a moment to reflect and knew instinctively that there had been something really important about going to Kenya. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly, but I was inspired again, my batteries recharged, and I was itching to go on with the adventure. The village clinic had been unbelievable; wonderful to find people dedicating their lives to helping others. In many ways I thought the riders had the best job in the world, riding bikes to keep people alive.
CHARLEY: I just loved the chaos; the boat was full of so much colour and noise, so many incredible characters. There was a method to everything despite the bedlam and when we went to the cafeteria we just grabbed what we wanted to drink and then these waiters would appear in blue and yellow uniforms and food would be on the table in a matter of moments. When you were eating it was easy to forget where you were; you’d look up and be astounded by all the different clothes and hats, some people wearing turbans or bands of cloth like the captain, others in little caps, women completely shrouded. There were guys with marks on their foreheads from praying, and cool dudes in baseball caps and shades, smoking long cigarettes and saying nothing.
Waking early I knocked on Ewan’s door. We were passing Abu Simbel and I really didn’t want him to miss it. Ramy had told us that from the boat it would be something special.
It was on our right close to the shore, a couple of flat-topped bluffs the colour of the desert. The sky was a kind of thin blue, that early morning stillness about it. I knew it was going to be a really hot day. From a distance the structure just looked like a sloping hillside with tall shadowy portals cut into it. When you looked closer, of course, they weren’t portals, but massive figures, four of them sculpted from the stone.
‘Pretty cool,’ I commented. ‘Nice little resting place for someone important or someone of self importance maybe.’
It had been built by Ramasses II as a monument to himself and his queen. This wasn’t the original site though; he’d built it in the thirteenth century BC, but it was moved lock, stock, and barrel in the 1960s just before Nasser flooded the place. Up on deck we took a closer look and saw that moored to one side was an old-style paddle steamer, real Death on the Nile stuff.
EWAN: We’d crossed a line of floating barrels that spanned the lake, the border I assumed, which meant we were now on Lake Nubia in Sudan, close to the port at Wadi Halfa. I could see the desert stretching away to the horizon. I knew that Sudan and Ethiopia, by their very terrain, would demand that we take more time.
We tied off at the grimy, oil-stained docks and there was the barge and our bikes and the trip was on again. Or at least we thought it was. It was 11.30 but by two p.m. we were still on the boat. We’d tried to get off but it was a rugby scrum and officials from Sudan made sure that despite the mass of heaving, sweating humanity it was paramount that a photocopier disembarked first. A couple of fuckwit cops were barking at everyone, really lapping up their bit of power. I retired to my cabin, somehow knowing we were in for the long haul. A few minutes later David appeared and informed me that the cops had got really irritated when they saw video cameras and word filtered through that they intended to take them off us. That was a little alarming. Charley came in shaking his head. ‘This could be interesting,’ he muttered.
Finally we did get off, cameras safe, and everything was unloaded. I noticed a couple of bull-nosed trucks already straining under the weight. It was five kilometres to the customs compound where the barge had docked and our vehicles were waiting. Along with about a hundred other people we jammed onto the bus. Sweat was pouring off us now, the heat like nothing I’d ever experienced; it had to be well into the forties.
At the customs yard we checked the bikes then settled down for the carnets to be worked through. I perched on a wall of rock, staring beyond the compound gates to a sand road that stretched into the distance. I had my scarf, my white keffiyeh, and I used it to shade me from the sun. Charley wandered over, sweat marking his jeans, and complained about a patch of damp on his bum.
‘We need more wet wipes,’ he joked.
‘And an umbrella maybe. Remember in Ted Simon’s book how he’d carry an umbrella and have a kip under the shade on his bike? He told us we should take umbrellas and we didn’t listen.’
There were two massive customs sheds, lots of men in blue uniforms and one man who spoke English wearing long robes and a headscarf like the boat captain. He was an older guy and he smiled a lot, asking our names and shaking hands. It was almost six by the time we were finished and even then we weren’t free to leave entirely: we had to come back in the morning for our passports and registration documents.
We went off to find a camp spot and I was thinking God, this is Sudan and a whole new chapter is opening up. We stopped to chat to some people, all of them incredibly friendly and the first two speaking English. Mambru wore a white cotton shirt and he asked me who I was and what we were doing. I told him my name was Ewan and we shook hands and I explained about Cape Town and Scotland. He wished us luck. I spoke to a couple of kids and then a wizened old fellow called Mohammed. He too spoke English and also wished us luck. Perfect, I thought; really good luck.
The road was hard sand, gravel almost, but I was a little discomfited when I noticed all the vans had sand rails fixed on the sides; they use them to get out of deep sand and the sight of them was less than inspiring.
CHARLEY: We camped beside one of the few hills dotted across the land. Apart from that it was sun-baked sand, rolling out endlessly in all directions. I’d been told that the road was dirt most of the way to Khartoum and that was nearly eight hundred miles. I couldn’t wait to get started. First though, I adjusted the suspension settings on the bikes to make sure we had the play we needed, then reduced the tyre pressures. I hadn’t decided whether to put my tent up or sleep on one of the bivouac bed mats as Ewan was planning. Dai, however, already had a hammock slung between the bull bars of the two Nissans and he was lying back clutching an inflatable sheep.
I burst out laughing. Russ came alongside, shaking his head sadly. ‘A Welshman and a sheep,’ he said. ‘We should have thought about that.’
‘Have you met Barbara, Charley?’ Dai was in fits. ‘I was keeping her till morale got low but…Anyway, she’s ready and…We’re going to sn
uggle up together later.’
I spoke to my dad on the phone. He was in good spirits having got the go-ahead for a film called Hadrian’s Wall (those Romans again). He’s such a talented guy and I was delighted for him. The sun went down, and gazing across open land I saw it disappear behind a mountain, its smooth sides suddenly serrated. This was it; sand tracks all the way to Khartoum, the Nile Road and who knew what we would encounter. A new adventure was beginning, and with it came a rush of excitement: sun, sand and sweat.
‘Bring it on,’ I muttered.
15
The Sand in Sudan
CHARLEY: I was up early and itching to get riding. No sooner were we on the bikes than Ewan hit deep sand. His front wheel started to wash out and he tried to save it. He almost did but the bike went down and he was off.
‘Better here than out there,’ I told him.
‘Right.’ He was checking the bike. ‘My least comfortable surface, Charley. The only sand I remember is the beach in Wales when the police chased us off.’
‘Remember what I told you: lean back on the pegs, dump the clutch and use the throttle. Look ahead as far as you can and if you get in trouble throttle your way out. If you come to deeper sand then lean back a little more. Oh, and avoid the tyre tracks. Always go virgin; once you get in the wheel ruts you’ll be stuck. Cut across them to get to the smoother stuff.’
I really felt for Ewan. To put things in their proper perspective I’d trained for a year before I did the Dakar. Ewan doesn’t even ride off-road for a hobby; he just overcomes his fears and gets on with it. If he falls off he gets back on again. Sand is different from any other surface, really hard to judge and you either love it or hate it. Ewan hates it, but hats off to him because he was in the saddle and sliding the back end all the way to the hard stuff.
We said goodbye to our fellow travellers Dave and Amelia, dealt with what we had to at customs and then we were off. Finally. God, it was hot, not much after nine and really beginning to boil. We weren’t wearing jackets, just the inners with the armour attached and for the first time we were sporting knee braces. Standing on the pegs was tiring and the braces give support to the joint, stop it hyperextending when you’re bouncing around all day.
We were headed for Dongola where we would cross the Nile and I can’t tell you how good it felt to be off-road. I was enjoying myself immensely and it was cooler now we were on the move, of course, a little wind to ripple the old clothing. I played around, weaving this way and that, sliding from one side to the other looking for the smoothest line. The scenery was incredible – vast and empty, a sand-filled nothingness, it was beautiful. We had day after day on this stuff and had to look after the bikes so I found a nice smooth line right on the edge of the sand.
The road was barely discernible; the only demarcation the slight rise at the edges, otherwise it was the same colour, the same texture almost, as the rest of the scenery – a dusty floor that went for miles in every direction. Above it a sky so clear it looked as though it was melting.
Dust lifted in front of me: a truck, they were few and far between on this road. I came on it pretty quickly, weaving from right to left to try and figure out where it was exactly then keeping my thumb pressed to the horn. I checked my mirrors for Ewan.
EWAN: I think I’d already drunk most of the water in my camel pack. There’s a tube attachment and you bite down then suck the liquid up. It was a good job we were carrying plenty in the panniers because we’d be supping it up all day.
I’d started well, hadn’t I?
I’ve never pretended to be an expert in the sand and I don’t mind admitting I’m not comfortable. Charley was great, though; helping me out and passing on the advice that had served him so well. I was doing it now, up on the pegs and leaning back and watching the road instead of my front wheel.
I’d been sorry to say goodbye to Dave and Amelia and I wished them well and hoped Amelia would be OK in Darfur. Hanging out with them was the nearest I’d get to backpacking, a gap year if you like; and it was great talking to them.
Maybe a slow speed crash early on was actually not such a bad thing, I decided. I was unhurt, the bike undamaged and my confidence undiminished. I’d just drifted too far right and into some big dips. I made it through the first couple then instead of throttling on I eased up. The steering went, a big wobble, and the weight of the bike tipped it over.
This was fantastic: truly Lawrence of Arabia country. I half expected Peter O’Toole to come riding across the valley on a camel. The knee braces felt secure, though they were creating a little extra heat. The road at least was hard – compact sand and grit – and much easier than the spongy stuff. I was used to the feel of the front now and was confident that with care it wouldn’t wash away without some warning at least. I followed Charley past the truck and Claudio followed me. We were climbing; the look of the country very different here, the sand was changing colour and there were more rocks. It was infinite, so very empty; emptier than anything we’d seen in Libya.
The road felt like a washboard, narrow ruts running across, it was a real boneshaker. I could feel the bike begin to vibrate and made a point of staying loose and relaxed. We climbed higher and up on the pegs I could feel my feet burning – really hot like they were being boiled in a bag. The discomfort however was negated by where we were; it made me tingle just to look around me.
Ahead I saw Charley wobble, on his arse, his feet were off the pegs. Seconds later I was on the same patch of loose stuff. The bike wagged its head savagely but I held my nerve and kept the throttle open. Yes! I was through, adrenalin pumping, suddenly exhilarated.
Fifty yards further Charley pulled to the side. ‘Claudio’s down,’ he said.
I looked round sharply and saw Claudio’s bike lying on its side and pointing back the way we had come. He was on his feet, though, thank God.
‘Typical.’ Charley had his helmet off and started walking back. ‘He always did like to crash in spectacular style.’
When we got to him Claudio was checking the patch of sand. ‘I was too close to you,’ he stated matter-of-factly. ‘I didn’t see it. Look, it’s so fine, it looks like concrete dust, really.’
‘Fesh fesh,’ Charley said. ‘Really deep fine sand. It just sucks you in and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘Are you all right, Claudio?’ I asked him.
‘Fine.’ He slapped his right thigh. ‘I landed here. The bike though, she’s looking in the other direction so I don’t know what happened.’
‘You’re lucky you’re not hurt,’ Charley commented gently. ‘That was fast, Clouds, could’ve been really nasty.’
Claudio had broken the camera leads on his helmet and his panniers were bent. He’d scraped the guards on the engine casing and I noticed the bottom of one of the panniers was shredded.
‘It’s a nasty bit of sand right enough,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine. It’s astonishing it doesn’t hurt you any more, though, falling off like that.’ He shrugged. ‘When it got soft I gave it more power but it didn’t help.’
Typical Claudio, he just took it in his stride. But we’d been shifting along and it must’ve really spat him off. I know what a crash does to you psychologically, especially a big one.
Charley looked at the bike, checking for any damage other than what was obvious. But there didn’t seem to be any, the controls were all working, the fluid reservoirs intact. Taking a big rock he set about knocking the really bent pannier back into shape and pretty soon the lid fitted and we were ready to get going.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Claudio?’ I asked him again.
‘I’m fine.’ He was holding his tank bag. ‘This is broken though.’
I looked closer and saw that the fixings that held it had sheared off.
‘It didn’t survive the crash,’ he said. ‘Never mind, we have cable ties.’
CHARLEY: We had to shift the bikes off the road before we fixed the tank bag because a b
loody great double-decker was on its way and kicking up another cloud of dust. Claudio, of course, was back on the bike as if nothing had happened and riding along at the same pace like the trouper he is. I hoped his confidence hadn’t been knocked too much; it was horrible to have that kind of feeling. It had been a warning, though, and with the dust and sand flying up, we had to keep a good distance from each other from now on. I’d had enough trouble with the fesh fesh and I was leading.
We came to a construction town; or should I say a few flat-roofed buildings in the middle of absolutely nowhere. There were tankers dotted around operated by a group of road workers who came out as soon as they heard the bikes. The section manager – the only guy wearing a hard hat – spoke English. He didn’t look Sudanese, he looked Indian. He sounded Indian too, and told us his name was Mohammed. He invited us to join the men for lunch. Leaving the bikes, we ate bread and cheese and a tin of sardines apiece. Everyone wanted their picture taken. Before we left, Mohammed told us about construction further along the road and to be aware of both vertical and horizontal curves. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant exactly but he said they were very dangerous.
We hit the road again and the heat was all but unbearable. I knew we couldn’t ride like this, not day after day. I decided that tomorrow we needed to be away at first light and when the sun was at its highest we had to be off the bikes and in the shade drinking plenty of water.
We took our time, rode and stopped, rode and stopped, and around four we came to a tiny village made up of a couple of white stone houses and a sort of lean-to with a cloth curtain. There were three trees grouped together casting shadows on the otherwise parched ground. Ewan swung his bike into the shade and took his helmet off.
One of the buildings was a shop with an open front where mats were laid and a man in a white shirt was resting. Another couple of guys were lounging around; kids playing all about. When they saw us they came running over. They dipped wooden bowls into chipped terracotta urns that held drinking water. At the back of the shop was a chest fridge containing cans of soft drinks. We sat on the mat with the others, too hot for anything else, Ewan sipping every now and again from a can. ‘You can’t prepare for this,’ he said, ‘not this kind of heat. There’s no way you could except maybe by riding your bike in an oven.’
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