Long Way Down

by Ewan McGregor

  After a while we went back to the trees and another group of kids came over. Dark-haired and bright-eyed, they sat and watched us, eating watermelon. Ewan glanced from them to me and back again. ‘You want to see if can get us some melon, Charley?’ he suggested.

  I followed the boys to a house and found their mother squatting on the floor with her back to the wall; she was wearing robes and a shawl around her head. She too was eating melon. Normally the women we came across shied away from the camera, but not this one. She positively revelled in it, pushing the shawl away from her face and showing her best side. She indicated for me to help myself to the slices of melon that lay cut up in a bowl on the floor.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  She just smiled again, sat back and offered her face to the camera.

  Back in the shade we ate the melon; cool and dripping, it was delicious. ‘This is the hottest place I’ve ever been,’ Ewan told me. ‘And that road just now – like a washboard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We have to find the smoothest line, try and save the suspension.’

  After a while he spoke again: ‘I can’t believe these trees. How does that happen? They must water them, I suppose. They’re the first trees I’ve seen since we’ve been here.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. You’d think there’d be more. We’re supposed to be really close to the Nile here but I haven’t seen it. It’s just desert. If this is the Nile Road we might as well have taken the other one.’

  EWAN: Back on my bike I was into the ruts, the road much nastier than before. It rattled bones; my legs were aching, my arms, the small of my back. The crosswise ridges were deeper, more uneven and they covered the whole road. I don’t know how they get there, trucks or something, but it felt like the earth itself had shifted. I was being battered around like a football and when I talked I sounded like I was gurgling.

  There was apparently some disruption in the camp and it really pissed me off; for Christ’s sake this trip wasn’t about our petty grievances, it was about the experience of Africa. My mood dipped considerably, not helped by the road. It was a shame because that last place had been wonderful. I’d been enjoying today, we’d been off on our own, and though Claudio had had a nasty crash he hadn’t been hurt. We’d been on top of things, but now the road was shaking the shit out of me and we had this other business to contend with. Fuck this road, it was like being on corrugated iron. I was puffing and panting, so hot I couldn’t believe it.

  CHARLEY: Jesus, it was tough, a baking wilderness and I was going through water like you wouldn’t believe. But we’d been having a great day up until now and I’d found a comfortable niche riding the soft stuff where the lip curled into the sandy edge of the road.

  We were climbing again, the land getting rougher, more rocks and closer to the road. I saw Ewan in my mirrors bouncing around like a horseman trapped in a trot. That wasn’t right; sweat was pouring off him, the bike smashing into the ruts so hard I could almost hear it.

  Something was wrong.

  He pulled up shaking his head and we took a look at the back of his BMW. The springs around the shock absorber were compressed, the adjustment knob cracked.

  ‘Fuck it, Ewan,’ I said. ‘Your suspension is shot.’

  We were in forty-eight degrees of heat, blazing sunshine by the side of the road and there was no sign of Claudio. He’d ridden on to set up a shot and he doesn’t use his mirrors. Ewan was still inspecting the shock. ‘It’s completely collapsed,’ he said. ‘I can’t ride like this, Charley. It’ll wreck the bike.’

  ‘We’d better try and get hold of Claudio and get him back here,’ I said. ‘Good on him, though, for carrying on. That fall didn’t faze him in the slightest.’

  Ewan tried calling him on the sat phone but there was no answer. ‘We’d better tell the others,’ he said.

  I was pointing to a bunch of rocks. ‘Let’s move to the shade, they’ll still be able to see us.’

  ‘Just let me get through first.’

  He spoke to Jimmy Simak and told him what had happened. ‘Tell him we’ve got a spare shock absorber,’ I said.

  ‘Spare?’ He looked incredulous. ‘You put one in?’

  I nodded. ‘Last minute, I saw it and chucked it in. I don’t know why, I didn’t think we’d ever use it. It’s the original BMW,’ I told him. ‘By the way, they’re going to love this, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, they are.’

  He was right. We only changed the shocks in the first place because Ohlins had such a good reputation. Ewan told Jimmy where we were and we shifted the bikes to the shade.

  ‘Not a great day, Charley,’ Ewan stated a little bitterly.

  ‘No, started well. This morning was good.’

  ‘It was all good until four o’clock.’

  Claudio got back just as the others arrived. He had indeed gone on for a shot and had been setting up but of course we didn’t show up. The trucks found us and Jim came up with his tool kit. I noticed David was particularly quiet, a little apart, not his normal self at all. There was nothing I could do about it and in a way I was sort of glad we had a problem to solve.

  Taking a considered look now I found the seals on the shock had blown and the nitrogen had been lost. There was no compression and the springs sagged; it must have been like riding an old hardtail across a river bed. No wonder Ewan was complaining of a rick in the small of his back.

  He lifted the wheel while Jim and I took the seat off. Russ climbed on top of the truck and dug around in the boxes until he found the spare shock absorber.

  EWAN: Charley’s a star. He’d been brilliant all day; not worried about the route or the pace we were travelling. I know he can ride three times as fast as me on this kind of stuff yet he pootles along never making me feel like I’m not up to it. Not only that, he was fixing my bike. I don’t know why. I could have done it – it was me who replaced the shock with the Ohlins in the first place. But it was like something off the Dakar, he and Jim attacking the thing like a pit crew.

  I had a word with David and he was very withdrawn. I really felt for him. It seemed that he and Russ were really getting it in the neck on this trip.

  Charley and Jim got the new shock absorber fitted and the bike back together. We prepared to ride to a camp spot that our Sudanese fixer, Amir, said was particularly beautiful. He had a cook with him, something we’d never had before, and I was looking forward to some properly prepared food. Having said that, Russ and Charley thought we should talk the situation through all together and I have to say my guts were churning at the prospect.

  Charley came over sucking a bottle of water.

  ‘Hard day,’ I said. ‘More politics. Some might call it a chimp’s tea party.’

  ‘Yeah, a bit too much drama-queening going on. It’ll blow over.’

  With my bike feeling sound again I rode the few kilometres to a high plateau sheltered by a hill of black rock, lying in slabs like chunks of liquorice. The sand was a wonderful colour, a burnt yellow with boulders mottling it like little islands. Looking back I noticed Claudio lurching along as if his bike was about to fall over.

  One glance at the back wheel told us all we needed to know: his suspension was shot as well, the springs all but fused together. The second shock absorber to go and we had no more spares. I shook my head, reminded now of the last trip when Claudio’s bike had to be freighted to Ulan Bator and he rode that little Russian motorbike we nicknamed the Red Devil.

  Russ clicked into gear; problem-solving is his forte, and he’s really good at it. I hoped that this new crisis might put things into perspective for everyone and shove any lingering emotional crap to one side.

  Claudio was muttering: ‘I can’t believe the suspension has gone on two of the bikes in one day.’

  Charley’s bike seemed OK but then again we had no way of knowing whether it really was or whether it was about to die on us as well. He was the best rider, though, and always found the smoothest line. But we were still tw
o hundred miles from Dongola and Claudio couldn’t ride his bike so he’d have to go in the car. This really was one of our more eventful days. Russ was in his element, however – shirt off, phone out, he was taking care of business.

  Off the phone momentarily he came over. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll get a truck from somewhere and load Claudio’s bike onto it. He can ride in one of the cars. Charley, we get the weight off your bike and hope the suspension lasts. I’ve been on the phone for spares but we can’t get them to Khartoum till Sunday at the earliest and even then there’ll be customs issues.’ He scratched his head. ‘I’ve not figured the details exactly yet because we can’t get visas for anyone to fly in from London.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ I asked him.

  ‘Don’t know yet. I’m working on it with Lucy back at the office. Now,’ he went on, ‘Amir reckons we can get someone out here with a truck and load up Claudio’s bike either tonight or tomorrow. I’ll go with him and get that organised. We can get the bike to Khartoum or, if there’s a problem with spares, all the way to the Ethiopian border. Is that all right with you, Ewan. You and Charley on your own with Clouds in the car?’

  ‘It’s fine with me,’ I said.

  ‘OK, good. We’ll be back.’ With that he and Amir climbed into the Nissan and headed off down the basin.

  I drilled some holes in my boots to try and reduce the heat. I was wearing solid off-road ones because I wanted the security after breaking my leg. When they were fully ventilated I left them and climbed the hill – mindful of scorpion burrows given I was in bare feet. I wanted some peace and quiet and I wanted to soak up the atmosphere. I love the desert; it’s so beautiful and inspiring. I walked to the top of the rise and when I made the crest I stared out towards the horizon. Breathtaking. The sand drifted among volcanic boulders; a savage, staggering beauty, barren and uncompromising. Below me the trucks, the camp, the people seemed so small, petty almost, insignificant in the enormity of this place. I realised that if we weren’t careful the personalities were in danger of overtaking the trip. I was sure that the best way forward was for everyone to concentrate on where we were and why we were here.

  CHARLEY: What an amazing few hours. I walked away from the camp to watch my sunset. It was becoming a habit but then there’s nothing like the sun going down on an African horizon.

  It had been a good day despite the setbacks, but then as we’d so often been told it’s the interruptions, the incidents, that create the journey. Ewan had been terrific after his spill, riding well in conditions he hardly favoured and Claudio was stoic as ever. For the first time the roads had been really challenging and it was kind of cool to know that if the need had arisen I could have blatted along at full chat. I would do the Dakar again. I had decided that for certain now. I had unfinished business and this was merely a taster.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Russ coming back, a pair of headlights sweeping the desert floor. He and Amir had found a village and persuaded someone to come out with a truck. The chap only had a small pickup but Russ thought we’d get the bike on the back without too much trouble.

  ‘Now as far as spares are concerned,’ he said, ‘I’ve been on the phone again and apparently people from Tanzania can fly into Khartoum, so we’re getting someone from there to meet Robin.’ Robin was one of our production co-ordinators. ‘He’s flying to Cairo with spare shocks and he can give them to our man from Tanzania. He can then fly them into Khartoum for us.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Ewan said. ‘How did you organise that?’

  ‘Not me, Lucy thought of it. Good old Luce.’

  Then he showed us the Nissan, roof rack askew and a dent in the bonnet. ‘The bad news is the roads we’re hitting tomorrow are worse than what you were just on, at least for a good few miles anyway.’

  He told us that they’d dipped into a deep rut so hard he thought they’d smashed the front. The roof rack worked loose, shunting forward six inches, the ladder was bent and the spare wheels fell off, whacking the bonnet and almost smashing the windscreen.

  ‘Christ,’ Ewan said. ‘If Charley’s suspension goes I could end up riding on my own.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him, ‘I’m going to nurse that puppy all the way to the tarmac.’

  EWAN: That first day we’d only managed to get sixty miles south. The next day, once Claudio’s bike had been shipped out, we put 120 under our belts and were completely wasted by the end of it. For some reason I’d woken up today not really looking forward to the ride. Weird, because apart from the last ten minutes or so I’d really enjoyed yesterday’s ride: it had been hot and hard but I’d only peeled off in the really deep stuff, the fesh fesh as Charley calls it. Tonight we’d camp on our own.

  I’d miss the cooking; this idea of someone preparing our meals was great and I was sure that’s what happened on bigger expeditions. It was hardly hardcore but I didn’t care, particularly when the chef was Sudanese and bloody brilliant. Charley suggested we throw him on the back of one of the bikes or have the fixer follow us lock, stock, and barrel, leaving the support crew to their boil-in-the-bags. They were having none of it, of course, so we thought about a call from the satellite phone, a takeaway in the desert. It wasn’t going to happen, though in the spirit of goodwill Russ did take our order.

  Last night the trucks had got stuck in the sand. I’d been unpacking my bike when I saw David sinking, and then Dai, trying to get it out, dug it in even deeper. Jim came in with the green truck to give them a tow and he got stuck too. I heard Russ yell out that they should use the winch. That went down well given he was sitting up in the rocks with Charley, though he was probably right.

  With the problems of the dead camera bike taking over, the situation between David and Jim had settled down, thank God. They’d had a heart-to-heart and that seemed to clear the air. Fine by me; I never was one for group therapy and we’d managed to avoid it.

  Charley and I rode out like the desperados we thought we were – him one way and me another until we realised our mistake and I dropped my bike as I tried to back down a hill. A great start and unfortunately the shape of things to come.

  I caught up with him, though, and we headed off together, the trail every bit as atmospheric as it had been last night. But twenty minutes out I realised I’d forgotten the phone. So it was back to camp, grab it and off we went once more.

  Finally we were off by ourselves, hard sand and gravel under the wheels. We passed kids who waved and shouted; all smiles and laughter. Last night a couple had ridden into the camp on a beautiful grey donkey; they were carrying a spray of wild dates still green and hard; sweet enough but not how you eat them at Christmas. Everyone in this country had been so friendly; it was hard to conceive that such horrors as Darfur were occurring only a few hundred miles north-west.

  It was also hard to believe we were still north of Dongola and, like the lake in Mongolia on Long Way Round, getting there had become something of a mission. We had to make it and yet the closer we got the further away it always seemed to be.

  We met a few cyclists on the road; a couple from Switzerland had joined us for lunch yesterday. We had been amazed to learn they’d been on the road for nine years. They were only heading home now because the woman’s parents were elderly and needed looking after. They’d met in 1994 on separate bike trips in Argentina, of all places.

  They had just come from Ethiopia and told us we’d have to watch for kids chucking stones. They told us they’d been hit a couple of times. We’d seen it here; now and then a bunch of kids would run into the road and lob the odd rock as we were passing. They also told us that the Kenyan roads had been a nightmare, deep gravel a lot of them. That was all I needed. I hate sand but at least when you pitch off it’s a relatively soft landing.

  Soon my early lack of enthusiasm lifted and I was riding along quite comfortably. Then I heard a clunk from under the bike. I thought it was the suspension again and my heart missed a beat. The next thing I knew the power dipped and the engine stopp
ed completely.

  CHARLEY: I was still thinking about food. A takeaway seemed like a great idea: phone up with the order and give them the GPS coordinates then sit back and wait for the delivery. Not going to happen, Charley, not going to happen.

  I was looking forward to Khartoum, a name full of resonance and where the White Nile merged with the Blue. We planned to get there tomorrow afternoon.

  I was a little concerned about how my shock would hold up; I had weight on the bike again today. We had a good way to go and it looked like the same kind of washboard we’d been on since Wally hazbeen.

  Ewan was behind me when his bike conked out. I saw him stop in my mirrors and pulled over.

  He told me he’d heard a bang and then the engine stopped. He said his heart was in his mouth as he thought the suspension had blown and he’d be squashed in a truck all the way to Khartoum.

  Checking the bike, though, we saw it wasn’t the suspension. A rock had smashed the sensor that tells the bike when the side stand is down. It’s a safety device and as soon as you engage a gear the bike stops. With the sensor smashed the computer thought the stand was down.

  The bike would start in neutral but if Ewan stepped on the gear lever it died. We looked over the assembly trying to see if there was a connection we could undo, tracing cable up towards the engine until we found one.

  Ewan uncoupled it and tried the bike; it started fine but again died as soon as he put it in gear. We were in a bit of a spot; neither of us sure what to do. There was no shade here and it was blistering.