Sudan ...not what you expect!

A chapter from Rupert & Fanny's Cape Town to Shanghai motorcycle adventure.

Sudan was always intended to be a country we had to go through to get from Ethiopia to Egypt, and so we had not given it as much thought as the other countries we planned to ride through. What I knew about Sudan was not much, mainly facts gleaned from my GCE "O" and "A" levels during my school days about soils, geology and the physical geography of the River Nile. I am keen fan of the travel writer, Colin Thubron, but Sudan also seems to have escaped the vividness of his prose and so we were really venturing into uncharted territory, at least for Fanny and I.

At the time of our journey, the news painted a very negative impression of modern day Sudan. The President of the United States had deemed it one of the "Axis of Evil" along with Iran, Iraq and North Korea. There had been a long and brutal civil war between the north and south; atrocities committed in connection with Chad and Darfur; international arrest warrants for Sudanese leaders for alleged breaches of human rights and war crimes; and a complicated history that includes the Ottoman empire, Egyptian rule and from the late 19th century until 1965, British colonization. General Gordon and all that.

When we entered Sudan at a town called Matema the country had very recently separated into a Black Christian South and an Arabic Islamic North. The Sudanese infrastructure was extremely chaotic and so we expected to be delayed with "admin" and paperwork at the border ...and we were.

Arabic was now used instead of the Amharic used in Ethiopia and we soon learned the standard phrase, As Salamu Ali Kum, a commonly used and very peaceful greeting that always brought a very warm response.

Immediate impressions were that the people seemed very mild in temperament, friendly, calm, welcoming, but very conservative.

There were of course new rules and protocols to adhere to that were unfamiliar, and very different to those that I was brought up with, and generally ignored, during my English middle class "roaming catholic" upbringing. No doubt they were also very different to the “Confucian communist atheist sports school” upbringing that Fanny had growing up in Shanghai.

We had been fortunate to get our Sudanese visas in Nairobi, thanks to the very useful consular letter given to us by Ms Li in Cape Town (Consul General). The Chinese seemed to be very much in favour in Sudan and so Fanny acted as our trump card to smooth the way, not only because she was Chinese, which helped, but she has the ability to charm anyone we meet.

Conversely, the UK foreign office did absolutely nothing to help me throughout the whole expedition. Attempts to get a letter from the British Embassy in Nairobi, or anywhere else, were met with sniffy refusals from the "jobs worthy" British officials. I got far more help from the Chinese authorities than I did from the country I am indigenous to.

Regrettably, the period of stay permitted in Sudan was only two weeks which clipped our wing feathers somewhat. Also, we were required to register again within three days of our arrival and part with even more cash at the immigration offices in Khartoum, which would prove to be a very frustrating and tedious procedure. Its seems that Sudan is to bureaucratic efficiency what King Herod was to babysitting.

Still, it could be worse…we hadn’t encountered Egyptian officialdom yet!

We had been told by fellow travelers we met coming from the north that Sudan was rather boring, there was very limited food, fuel and water, that it was blisteringly hot, but on the positive side that the Sudanese people were very friendly. Our experience was that only the last two things were correct. The food was plentiful, cheap and delicious. Every meal was served with the staple, "ful", a dish made from beans and lentils, and I suppose the Sudanese version of the Ethiopian "tibis".

The good news about the availability of food was just as well because when we opened our motorcycle panniers to retrieve our precious supplies that we purchased in Ethiopia all the tomatoes, cabbage, onions and chilies had dissolved into a bag of hot grey slime. I was brought up in England and it resembled the slop dished up for school dinners...but still... I'd rather not.

The temperature in Sudan was incredibly hot and reached up beyond 50 degrees centigrade at certain times. We were now very grateful for the 30-litre water bag the Dutch motorcycle riders gave us in Malawi. Water discipline is very important in desert regions like Sudan and you need to keep drinking large quantities of water, even when you don't feel thirsty.

In the hot dry deserts there appears to be no sweat on your body, but in fact you are dehydrating quickly and perspiration evaporates immediately. Fortunately, in Sudan there are communal water drinking vessels and large earthen ware jugs placed almost everywhere, and whilst it might be pushing the hygiene envelope somewhat, the alternative of dehydration is serious to health and well being and will creep up on you if you are not careful.

Fanny standing out from the local crowd.

As a probationary inspector at the Royal Hong Kong Police Training School in Wong Chuk Hang (near Aberdeen on Hong Kong Island) in the mid 1980s we used to stand to attention during foot-drill lessons on the parade square, bare chested, dressed only in baggy shorts, DMS boots and with a peaked cap on our heads in temperatures that could reach the late 40s. It was so hot that the polish would sometimes melt off our boots.

Whilst standing bolt upright to attention we would have to discreetly shift from foot to foot, much like those lizards do in the outback of Australia, to reduce the heat coming up from the parade ground tarmac and scorching our feet.

I can safely report that Khartoum was even hotter. It was one of the few places that the faster you rode on the motorcycles the hotter your face and skin became. It was like putting a hair-dryer onto full blast and pointing it directly at your face for hours on end. This is why we, and the locals were covered head to foot. Far too hot to allow any flesh to be exposed to the elements. I think this, and the abrasive desert sand blown in the scorching winds, is the real reason Muslims and Arabs cover their heads with scarfs.

A very weather beaten and tanned Fanny Fang and her very orange KTM 990 Adventure causing a bit of attention in town.

We didn’t have a great deal of time to get to Khartoum and so we set off on good roads through rather flat and featureless terrain. The motorcycles were going brilliantly…no problems at all with reliability or sandy surfaces. This is what KTMs are designed for.

I was a bit worried the scorching heat might affect the LC8 V-Twin engines, but as long as we were moving along at a good pace and getting any air across the radiators the temperature gauge seemed to be OK. Whenever we stopped, of course, it made sense to switch off our engines to prevent them overheating, which happened later in the traffic jams of Cairo.

We arrived at a town called Al Qadarif as the sun was going down and searched the GPS database for a place to stay. We had wanted to bush camp just outside town, but the food had spoiled and we couldn't find a safe and suitable place to pitch our tent and so we decided to ride into town and find a budget hotel.

After riding around the very busy town and feeling quite tired from a journey of more than 400-kilometres from Gonder in Ethiopia, including a reasonably stressful border crossing, we were not too bothered where we stayed so long as the bikes could be parked up safely, and we could lie down.

Eventually we stayed in a very cheap and very basic hotel, in a room without windows or air conditioning. It was not very nice at all and so we quickly unpacked, secured the bikes inside the lobby next to a guard, dumped our things in our very depressing cell like room and went for a walk around the town.

Rupert's KTM 990 Adventure R next to the Meroe Pyramids

The food was delicious in Sudan... as it was later in Egypt and Turkey.

The town was an unexpected and welcome surprise, teeming with activity, the markets and bazaars were still in full swing at 7 p.m., and it was full of restaurants and exotic food stalls.

We had truly left so called “Black Africa” and were now in the Middle East, with all its exotic smells, noises and sights. As for food, we were spoiled for choice and settled on Arabic style grilled chicken, falafels and ful with bread and delicious fruit juices.

There may be no beer or booze allowed in Sudan, but they know how to make great tea, coffee and fruit juices. In the streets was a prevailing smell of aromatic of apples, cinnamon, cloves, raspberries and other flavours coming from Shishas which were bubbling and being puffed on in all the coffee houses and street corners.  

We spent some time sitting very prominently outside a cafe in the hustle and bustle, with men in white robes (jallabiyahs)  and turbans or embroidered hats who politely welcomed us and asked kindly about our trip and impressions of their country.

So, this was Sudan.

After an excellent dinner and an explore of the markets and bazaars we ambled back to our hotel, and despite stifling heat got an early night as we were both exhausted. As soon as we woke up we escaped our hot cell and were pleased to find our motorcycles in the hotel lobby, exactly where we left them. We found a petrol station, re-fueled using the our “Steve Thomas” filtration invention to protect the fuel pump, with no hassles from the patient and friendly attendants, despite the fact we faffed about and spilled petrol everywhere, and then we headed off towards Khartoum along a straight desert highway that was strewn with cast off tyre treads.

Hot riding through the desert

After a full days riding along decent roads with moderate traffic we arrived in Khartoum and it was not what I was expecting.

Addis Ababa in Ethiopia was run down, dilapidated and chaotic, but Khartoum was more modern, interesting and well organised. There were car show rooms on the outskirts of the city, much like in other developed cities, but interspersed with lots of mosques and minuets. The traffic lights worked, unlike in Addis Ababa, and nearly everyone was neatly dressed in the white jallabiyah. I did not see many women, but those we saw were conservatively covered as required by Islamic custom.

We were not sure where to stay, but we had earlier bumped into two German motorcyclists, Tobi and Kati riding southwards on the Ethiopian side of the border. They were riding smaller engined enduro bikes and we swapped notes and they also recommended we stay at the National Camp in Khartoum where the Sudanese athletes are trained. Not at the more popular "Blue Nile Camp" which was universally considered by all reviewers as ‘pretty revolting’… especially the public bogs.

Now in the Capital of Sudan we found the National Camp, the coordinates of which I had already entered earlier into my GPS from a notice board at Wim’s Holland Guest House in Addis Ababa, among other useful coordinates for Sudan. It was common for travelers to share the GPS coordinates of places to stay and useful locations such as garages, repair shops and fixers.

The camp was a bit bleak, utilitarian and spartan, dominated by a huge mosque right in the middle of the grounds, but it was a very welcome sight, nonetheless.

We explained to the security guards that we wanted to stay, registered yet again and were shown to a very nice little spot where we could pitch our tent, right under a minuet’s loud speakers which were adorned with colourful purple and pink fluorescent strip lights... which were on all the time. Insha Allah.

Fanny took out her baggy "MC Hammer" modesty trousers that were made for her in Tanga on the east coast of Tanzania and we settled into camping along side Sudan’s national football team and the country’s other athletes.

Very soon after arriving were discovered by Vladimir, a Ukrainian oil engineer who was "marking time" in Khartoum while his papers were being organised for his new posting to an oil refinery in South Sudan.

Vladimir had been told that his papers “will be ready tomorrow”, for several months, and rather than living in a tent like us, his company had splashed out on two adjoining air conditioned containers with satellite TV and other creature comforts while he waited. He quickly briefed us on the lay of the land, rules, what to do and not to do, and importantly where to get food.

Everything was “No problem” with Vladimir and although I don’t think he was bored, because he seemed a busy, smart and energetic sort of chap, he was clearly very lonely and so when two foreigners rocked up through the gates he was very happy to have some company, even if they were English and Chinese.

Vladimir had gone sort of native, could speak very good Arabic and had given up drink, but only through necessity. When I told him I still had two bottles of fake whiskey and vodka in our panniers he was very alarmed and warned me I could get 40 lashes for alcohol possession. I had actually completely forgotten that we still had these bottles and not given it much thought as I just assumed you couldn’t buy alcohol in Sudan…not that you would be severely punished if you actually possessed it.

Very soon after we had set up our tent Vladimir sidled up to me, looked left and right in a very guilty looking manner and said in a whisper, ‘I have a proposition for you’. ‘You bring over vodka to my room and we watch film and enjoy air conditioner, yes?’

Sounded like a plan to me and I gave commander like instructions for Fanny to get the contraband and bring it over.

‘Why me?’ She protested.

‘Because they are in your pannier, you are a woman, you can hide them in your baggy trousers, no one will search you, and we need to get rid of the evidence’

You can’t argue with that logic, and a few minutes later Vladimir and I had our feet up on his table, “Johny Varder” whiskey for me and “Smearitoff” vodka for my new Ukrainian friend whilst we watched films on his DVD and descended into a conversation of scribble and an evening of muted laughter, lest the alcohol police come round and take us off to chop chop square for a good whipping.

Fanny wasn’t having any of it and decided to spend an evening in the camp Internet office which was air-conditioned down to a positively chilly 22 degrees Centigrade from the outside temperature of over 45 degrees. She left Vladimir to seriously fall off the wagon, and for me to acquire a hangover that lasted for three days.

For some bizarre reason all foreigners had to register again within three days of entering Sudan. Actually its not a bizarre reason, its a blatant tactic to screw more money out of any person visiting the country. A double whammy of visa and processing fees. So, we got up early and in temperatures that were already high and rising quickly we set off through the streets of Khartoum to where Vladimir told us the government offices were located.

Government Buildings in Khartoum, Sudan

It took us about an hour weaving through the unfamiliar city streets to find the immigration offices, but even so we arrived bright and early at 7.30 a.m. so that we would be first in the queue. However on arrival we were told the offices did not open until 9.00 a.m and so we went for a wander and came back later to discover that the government officials were still reading newspapers behind the glass of their cubicle compartments.

‘Excuse me I’d like to register, what do I have to do?’ I enunciated slowly.

The official, without looking up, pointed up at a clock on the wall which was indicating a few minutes still to go until exactly 9.00 a.m.

And so I stood exactly where I was watching the seconds tick by, and spot on 9.00 a.m. asked the same question. The official made a sort of irritated huff and slowly folded up her newspaper and instructed me to photocopy every piece of documentation we had, and which we already had several photocopies of. All of which we could have done earlier if they had bothered to tell us.

‘What’s wrong with this photocopy?’ I pleaded, waving a wad of paper at her. Without a word or even looking up she prodded her finger towards an old fellow who was sitting in a corner of the office with an ancient looking and well used photocopier…at a pound a sheet. Oh for goodness sake, but there was no choice.

Things got no better and this tedious and completely unnecessary pen pushing and red tape went on for about an hour with the officials displaying every annoying trait learned by public servants across the planet. Inevitably a document was required that we didn’t have and we were instructed to find an agent or go to a hotel that would issue us with an invitation letter. 

Ta Ma De! Couple of deep breaths, calm down, and just get on with it… no point arguing the toss … and so we left the government buildings and rode through Khartoum to the other side on the city in temperatures that were to reach over 50 degrees centigrade by mid morning.

In fact, we had to go to the only other campsite we had heard of called Blue Nile and after eventually finding the manager, he scribbled some Arabic on a largely already completed proforma and handed it back to us in exchange for ten US dollars.

By now it was ridiculously hot and the city was busy with traffic, mostly SUVs and 4x4s with their tinted windows firmly closed and air-conditioners on full blast. Our GPS was not very accurate or up to date and so by accident we ended up exploring most of the city.

By midday we got back to the immigration office, handed over the required documents and the fees and had our passports endorsed for the remainder of the two weeks stay. Why couldn’t all this have been taken care of at the border crossing? Why was it necessary anyway?

Anyway, by then I was too relieved it was all over to be angry any more and so rode off back into the city and found a shady spot to park the bikes next to a local restaurant and had ful and salad for lunch – and breakfast.

In the afternoon we decided to play the game, “Find the Egyptian Embassy” as I still did not have a visa to get into Egypt. Fanny had already got her visa, not just any old visa but a diplomatic one having charmed the Egyptian Consul General in Shanghai before she set off. I heard it was possible to get a visa on the Wadi Halfa to Aswan ferry, but it made sense to try and get one in advance… just in case.

Eventually we found the passport and visa section of the Egyptian Embassy about an hour or so later after nearly being arrested for riding our motorcycles too near to the presidential palace. Apparently it is an offence that only a motorcyclist can commit ...no idea why. A tank or one of the many pick-ups with a mounted machine gun on the back I could understand, but why specifically a motorbike?

We parked the bikes, again in a shady spot to stop them melting and banged on the doors of the embassy until someone came. Its closed we were told. And tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. Was there any way I could apply for a visa? No.

And with that I had had enough of dealing with Sudanese officialdom for one lifetime and we returned to the camp, despite the GPS trying to get us arrested again.

Above: General Gordon's Last Stand (George W Joy)

Below: Promissory Note signed by General Gordon (1884)

Khartoum War Cemetery

The next day we packed up and left while it was still dark and just before calls to prayer started to wail from the pink and purple loud speakers above our head.

Khartoum wasn’t that bad a city, the camp-site was a pretty decent one and apart from the government officials most people treated us very well, but time was running out and we had a long way to go.

We filled our 30-litre water bag again with water that Vladimir had assured us, through his own scientific content analysis of the communal water tanks, was safe to drink.

Vladimir gave me a Sudanese woven white hat that made me look a bit daft, but I accepted it gratefully, wore it proudly and we bid our farewells and vowed to visit each other in Ukraine one day.

Our Internet research, our trusted Michelin map of north east Africa, and the unreliable GPS map were not helping with the planning of the route ahead. Basically Sudan just looked like a huge yellow desert with a squiggly blue line through it that depicted the Nile.

Khartoum is where the Blue Nile and White Nile merge and further north it is just the Nile–an incredible river that cuts through the nothingness of the desert all the way to the Mediterranean sea, the lush banks of which have spawned some of the worlds oldest and greatest civilizations. It is truly amazing to see and we count our ride through Sudan as one of the highlights of the entire trip.

There is in fact a tarmac road that follows the Nile for several thousand kilometers in roughly the direction we wanted to go, but allegedly there was also a road of unknown quality and surface that cuts across the Nubian desert. The existence of this road could not be verified by my GPS or any maps, but the local Nubian people were adamant that it existed and so we took a risk and decided to try and find it.

As we rode north through the town of Shendi on the road towards Port Sudan we could see the road littered with tyre re-treads that had come off the numerous overloaded trucks that used this busy route.

By stopping and getting directions from people in the street we found the new road and decided to follow it in a west north west direction through pristine white sand deserts. It was not marked on my GPS which just indicated we were “off road”, but it did exist and was very good quality and evidently very new. Often the fine sand drifted onto the road and the wind would blow it about and form patterns like flowing water. Quite mesmerizing.

I am quite sure if the road was not used and maintained regularly that it would completely disappear and become engulfed in the desert as the sand was constantly blowing about and encroaching onto the fresh tarmac.

A Souvenir from the Sudanese police. We never saw the speed cameras and no idea how they were camouflaged. In the end the police just gave us a warning and let us keep the pictures.

As it started getting late we were both keen on bush camping, but our attempts to find anywhere around Atbara were proving difficult. We actually looked around a very colonial part of town that had big British style family houses that were beginning to look quite sorry for themselves and all traces of Britishness had now been Islamified, a bit like Bradford, and indeed the nearby village of Utley where my ancestors come from in Yorkshire, which now looks like a squalid suburb of Karachi on “bin day”.

‘Let's camp by the Nile’, I suggested to Fanny, and she was quite keen and so we zigzagged through the back streets to the banks of the huge river and found a grassy spot which we could camp on and make a fire.

The site was perfect with a great view over the magnificent Nile, but we were soon discovered by the sort of menacing teenagers found throughout the world that you don’t want to meet. They were very much like the hyenas in the movie “The Lion King”, a couple of cocky ones, and a very dumb one.

It was obvious to me that they were “scoping” us out to steal or rob from later, perhaps during the night. The “Idiot Boy” kept giggling to himself, and he visibly dribbled when he caught sight of our cameras and other possessions as I opened my tank bag. They continued to hang around and annoy us with feigned and insincere friendliness. Like anywhere else in the world you have to be suspicious of teenagers who actually want to spend time with adults. Inevitably there is always an ulterior and selfish reason. I was slowly losing my patience with them and so I discussed with Fanny in Chinese what we should do.

Had I misjudged the situation? Nope, I didn’t think so. My sixth sense that always seems to serve me well had kicked in and I recognised it for what is was. A bad place to be and a bad place to set up camp.

I have a passionate hatred of feral thieving yobs that started from my police days when I saw the viciousness and harm they could cause their innocent victims, often preying on the elderly and most vulnerable. I decided to err on the side of caution and made an executive decision to find another safer camping spot where we could relax and sleep in peace.

We had noted that the opposite bank of the Nile looked more remote and so we went back into town, rode across the main bridge, down into the papyrus fields and weaved our way across agricultural paddy fields to a sunny spot by the banks of the river.

We thought we were alone but soon realized there were some people inside a thatched hut next to the river. It turned out that inside were some very laid back middle aged guys who were smoking hashish and appeared to be very relaxed and chilled. We broached the idea of camping with them. ‘No worries’, came the answer, ‘you like some?’ one added offering us a huge spliff.

‘No thanks’, I replied, ‘I never smoke and ride’.

‘No worries, be happy’ and they offered Fanny a regular Sudanese tobacco cigarette which she gladly accepted. I am pleased to report that Fanny has subsequently given up this disgusting habit, as indeed a former professional athlete and recipient of the Shanghai Sports Personality of the Year Award should.

We did a quick recce of the river bank and worked out the optimal position to pitch our tent. A location that looked dry, smooth and flat and yet sufficiently safe from any nocturnal visits by crocodiles, snakes or scorpions, all of which we were assured were plentiful, although I couldn’t see any sign of them and was slightly doubtful that any would cause us any trouble anyway.

While we were looking around another man came up and introduced himself as Ahmed and the owner of the land– all of it. I apologised for trespassing and asked if it was OK for us to camp on his land.

‘No problem’, came the answer, but after a pause he said, ‘but here not good place’ and then added some Arabic words which we did not understand, but through sign language we found out meant snakes and scorpions–and apparently a lot of them. What about Crocodiles? – Yes some of those too.

‘Stay at my house…good’, he insisted. ‘Marhaban' (  ????? ,Welcome)

After some thought, that included wondering about Sudanese snakes and Nile crocodiles, and getting over the initial embarrassment of too much unfamiliar generosity, we agreed to go back to his house.

Ahmed ambled along paths and across small ridges and bridges spanning the irrigated farmland, and we followed him slowly on our bikes. Irrigation pumps were chugging along, turning the parched Sudanese soil into fertile paddy fields and lush pasture.

As we approached the nearby walled village, crawling along and wading our bikes as slowly as he was walking, Ahmed gave a running commentary and introduced every house we passed– it seemed every single one of them belonged to some kind of relative or family member.

Eventually we arrived at a gated complex, not too dissimilar in looks to the infamous compound Osama Bin Laden was captured in in Pakistan a few months later and after riding through some impressive wooden gates, we parked up our bikes in his courtyard. Ahmed then went off and I was really hoping he wasn’t going to reappear with some mates armed with various sharp bladed instruments, orange jump suits and a video camera.

When he did come back he was dragging some steel framed beds and I will admit the first thought that went through my mind was that we would be tied down onto them and become the latest stars in some macabre YouTube video, but all Ahmed was doing was setting them up in the courtyard outside his house with mattresses, sheets and pillows so we would be comfortable for the night.

I looked at Fanny and she was positively brimming with excitement at this latest development in our adventure. Ah the Chinese… bless them … no imagination whatsoever. I, on the other hand, with far too much imagination, was already in the advance stages of an escape and evasion plan.

Once the beds were set up we hung our huge mosquito net above them using our pannier bungee cords attached to nearby trees, unpacked the minimum amount of overnight kit, prepared the bikes for the next day and washed ourselves. Finally I started to relax and we both looked around in amusement at the strange situation we found ourselves in.

Later, just as the sun set we were treated to a meal that consisted of everything that Ahmed and his wife had in their pantry, a truly eclectic mix of food items that included jam, tinned pineapples, some kind of sweet coconut and milk mixture, tinned sardines and processed cheese triangles, just like the ones I used to eat as a kid. Clearly they were not expecting guests.

Ahmed was apologetic that the meal was not good enough and pleaded with us to stay a few days so that he could show us around Atbara and prepare a lavish banquet of roasted goat, Nile fish and other Sudanese specialties. It was indeed very tempting, but the visa problem remained.

Ahmed explained that one of his eleven brothers was a high ranking general in Khartoum and everything was ‘No Problem’. ‘Visa– no problem’, ‘Stay, please’, ‘Everything no problem’.

With a great deal of regret we had to turn down his generous offer to stay longer. I am never entirely sure of the polite and correct protocols and etiquette when being offered such kindness, but with an internal time clock that was nagging me to press on and having discussed with Fanny we decided to get going.

One thing is for sure, my previous impressions of Sudan, its people and its culture was changing rapidly, and very much for the better.

As it turned out Ahmed was very well connected. The house next to the courtyard we were sleeping in was still being renovated and Ahmed gave us a guided tour of the many rooms inside. He very proudly described the decoration in progress, right down to gold leaf covered ceilings and bejeweled curtains. It was obviously going to be a palatial home and we agreed we would love to visit again in the future. Ahmed was insistent that we should return and stay with him and his family. He was also, so it seemed, very taken with Fanny, clearly a candidate for wife #4.

We had an amazing and restful sleep under the stars, protected from any insects by the mosquito net and wafted with gentle breezes from the Nile and surrounding deserts. Could not be better and we slept soundly, occasionally waking to wonder where we were and take in the star studded sky.

We were greeted in the morning to amazing coffee and breakfast. We swapped contact details, met some of Ahmed’s children, one of his wives and many of his extended family, learnt more about Islam and Sudanese life and again, as was all too often on the trip, we had to bide our farewells to a new friend all too soon. They were absolutely fantastic people and we were truly humbled by their kindness and hospitality.

Later after we had left Fanny asked me how the women in Arabic countries put up with being hidden away in the shadows, as we rarely saw any in public, and how they put up with being married to a man with other wives. I replied its probably just the same as in China as many so called successful men I know keep a mistress, sometimes a few, and sometimes by the hour. ‘You know what KTV lounges in China are for, don’t you?’

‘Karaoke’, she said with a laugh. Yeah, right!

We then packed up and left a crowd of cheering and waving friends and relatives of Ahmed, crossed the Nile again just outside Atbara and we would not cross it again until we reached Merowe, 400 kilometres away on the other side of the Nubian desert.

Our kind host Ahmed and his family in Atbara

As we rode at a steady 100-kph we entered a world very few people will ever see. Pristine white sand desert, sand dunes, rose coloured rocky mountains, Bedouin camps and the occasional camel. There was very little traffic and none of the tyre retreads littering the side of the road that we had seen on the highways around Khartoum and on the relatively busy route to Port Sudan.

Our GPS database was completely unaware of this road, as it must have been quite new. It appeared, as indeed it was, that we were in the middle of nowhere. It was all that adventure riding was meant to be. I absolutely loved this bit of our trip.  The route from Atbara cut through the desert to the ancient pyramids at Jebel Barkal and across the desert again to Dongola where we would pick up the Nile again and follow it north to Wadi Halfa near the border with Egypt.

After about 150 kilometers we stopped for a rest and a water break at a straw hut in the middle of the Nubian desert and found out they had coffee. So this must be Strawbucks.

The people who lived here in the middle of the desert recognised themselves as Nubian rather than Sudanese or Egyptian.

We drank very good coffees under the shade of a canopy, were encouraged to take some water from large earthenware pots using a long ladle and played with the children. We had been balancing a huge water melon on the back of Fanny’s bike for many miles and here seemed a good place to cut it open and share with our Nubian friends.

In the sun the temperature was in the late forties, but in the shade of the straw hut much cooler. And so we sat eating cool water melon, drinking coffee and enjoyed the incredible friendliness and hospitality offered by people with no real material possessions. In reality they had more than most people.

Stopping at "Strawbucks" for a cup of coffee

Later on after another stretch of riding for a couple of hours we stopped for another water break. We each had to drink about 8-10 litres of water a day in Sudan as it was so hot and dry.

We were again in the middle of a dry sandy desert and when we attempted to get going again Fanny’s bike wouldn’t start. Its not a good feeling to break down in such a remote place, but I had a tow rope and there was a small town about 40 kilometers away next to the Jebel Markal temples and pyramids we could get to.

I did try to bump start her bike, but with a 1000 cc V-twin engine it is nigh on impossible, especially on hot slippy sandy roads. I then did some banging on the starter motor and fortunately the engine got going again.

I was, however, a bit concerned about what the problem actually was and whether we could get it fixed and get to Wadi Halfa in time for the once a week ferry, and before our visas run out.

We cruised into town and Fanny stopped the bike and it refused to start again and so I had to push it until we found some people who directed us to a very small garage and workshop which seemed to be mainly repairing tut tuts, the three wheeled taxi things found across the world from Thailand to India and to Egypt.

We were soon surrounded by a huge crowd as I started my attempt to explain what had happened and what I thought was wrong with Fanny’s bike. I was very concerned that their general enthusiasm to help might disguise general incompetency to understand the complexities of a modern KTM motorcycle, as most bikes they would have come across were the generic and ubiquitous Chinese 150 cc ones covered in chrome, with little more sophistication than motorcycles from 40 years ago.

Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers and a mechanic started poking about with his lighted cigarette hanging from his lips and dangerously close to the fuel tanks, with of course much debate and heated discussion from all the people around. He spoke no English whatsoever but somehow or another we managed to communicate and we eventually became quite good at rather technical discussions.

The KTM 990 Adventure is not the easiest bike with which to get to the guts of the LC8 engine and electronics and requires removing fuel tanks, panels and importantly remembering where all the bits originally came from and were attached to.

From my EOD bomb disposal days I learned tidy, systematic procedures and discipline which are often employed by western mechanics, but in Africa they do it their own way, and this always stressed me out as bolts and wires were strewn about in the sand, being collected by me and placed in logical sequence in a container, only to be knocked over by one of the many onlooker’s flip flops and strewn about in the sand and debris again.

Back in the day ... again on my knees with a multi-meter!

A very nice brass, and much used, multi-meter tested all the circuits and eventually we came to the conclusion, as I correctly guessed, that the starter relay had a problem. If it was hit with a spanner it worked, but eventually this technique stopped working despite ever larger spanners and heavier tools being used to bang it. 

Short circuiting the electrical connectors at the top of the relay did start the bike, but to a dangerous firework display of sparks and when it was put back together this would be too dangerous and inconvenient to do, and so a generic Chinese starter relay was sourced by Fanny from somewhere or another.

I inspected it closely as it bared little resemblance to the KTM one, certainly it had less wires sticking out of it, and no safety fuse along the main circuit. I am quite sure KTM put a fuse along the main circuit for some reason.

We tried fitting the relay in parallel to the existing relay and it worked but it would no longer fit inside the Touratech belly pan protector, and the mechanic’s suggestions to use gaffer tape to secure it to the side did not appeal to me…whatsoever.

The only solution was to replace the KTM relay with the Chinese one and use a circuit junction box that I had packed with the spares in my panniers. I insisted on using this rather than joining the wires with tape as suggested by one of the local mechanics. I also made sure that a 30 Amp fuse was wired into the circuit, scribbled the wiring circuit onto the inside of an opened cigarette packet, tested the circuits with the multi-meter and then started the bike several times to make sure everything was OK.

The only problem now was to make sure the Chinese relay, which was cylindrical in shape, could fit in the rubber casing that the KTM relay fits snugly into (a rectangle) and Bob's your uncle. With some rearrangements, filing off some corners and securing firmly in place with a few other cigarette packets, wire and of course gaffer tape it worked.

Job done.

Fanny with the kind people who helped us fix her KTM

By now it was 9.00 p.m, dark, I was covered in oil, grease, sweat and Nubian desert and I would quite happily have given Fanny away for a cold beer. Whilst sorting the bike Fanny had been busy and found us a place to stay only 50 meters from the mechanics workshop and had already unpacked all our stuff. 

It was one of the grimmer dungeons we stayed in, but we didn’t mind. To my mind everything was a complete success and after getting most of the grime off in a mosque foot bath we could relax and get some bread, ful and water, get a good night’s kip and get off early in the morning......if, of course, our handiwork was successful.

Despite the grubby surroundings and being in an environment as far removed from anything else we had ever experienced we slept soundly. We were up early the next day and I checked that the relay was working and that everything else appeared to be in ship shape. I refilled the bikes with fuel using the the "Steve Thomas filter" we made in Kenya and we prepared ourselves to cross the Nile yet again and head across another long stretch of desert towards a town called Dongola.

The desert was again spectacular and I reflected on how lucky we were to see it and to ride wonderful motorcycles across it. This was definitely not on the tourist itinerary and later when we saw all the red skinned and lardy Europeans ambling around the tourist spots in Egypt, I thought back to this privilege and how unadventurous many people actually are, and what they are missing out on. Unless you are sailing a small yacht in the middle of the ocean you will rarely experience such peace and solitude.

Video of riding across Africa and through deserts of Sudan .....

https://youtu.be/XjPi7XJ9xdc

I remember conversations in the past with my high salaried Big 4 colleagues and law firm partners who, when not talking about work, or networking to get work, would talk about golf, vicious ex wives, the Hong Kong "knitting circle", or ways to commit suicide. Their only other activity would be drinking excessively to drown the drudgery and disappointments of the day into a soporific haze. You only have to see the pubs and watering holes that surround the financial centers around the world to see this.

Lower down the pecking order, the world’s lab rats sit all day in their cubicles, adorned with cheery holiday snaps of themselves at Disneyland or at the office Christmas party, with “Star Wars” and “Hello Kitty” figurines balancing on their luminescent spreadsheets. They beaver away all day, and often into the evening without a glimmer of recognition for their efforts or a kind word, looking forward to the highlight of the day... "lunch".

To my mind this must be what we Catholics call "Purgatory".

A few enlightened people do live the dream though, and this can be achieved regardless of how much money you have, although having some cash does make it easier. Its mostly about attitude and living life to the full. Travel does indeed broaden the mind and there are a million excuses to say ‘No, wish I could, but…” and only one to say ‘Right, I’m off, zai jian’.

I am often asked about safety on such expedition? Well I think its all about performing proper risk assessments and good old common sense. You are more likely to die of a stress related illnesses, or crossing the road on the way to work than you are running into a Jihad'i nutcase or a hungry lion.

To me motorcycling is about freedom–a modern day way of getting on your horse and trotting off into the sunset, seeing amazing things, being close to the elements, meeting new people, facing new challenges–and overcoming them. The exhilaration of riding a motorcycle is a pleasure that I never get bored of. Its never predictable, boring or mundane.

The desert crossings were also a time when I was quite happy to be just in the moment, not thinking about other things, not wanting to be anywhere else.

I was a tad disappointed when the pristine white desert we had been riding across started showing signs of green, then electric pylons, mobile phone towers, and then evidence of human activity. All too soon we had reached the Nile and would follow it all the way to Wadi Halfa where I knew we would encounter hassle and annoyances in connection with getting our motorcycles and ourselves across the man made border to Egypt.

The road was not too bad and the density of towns and villages was far less than further east. We planned to bush camp in the desert section to Wadi Halfa but as the sun went down we had several unsuccessful attempts to get off the main road as Fanny was very reluctant to ride on deep and soft sand, and every single route to a promising site to pitch our tents required doing so. 

The only alternative was for me to ride my bike first and then come back and get Fanny’s bike but this was more difficult than it seemed as a fair degree of exploration and distance was needed to find a good spot. In the end we decided to “plough” on to Wadi Halfa.

We descended down from the desert mountains and into Wadi Halfa which is the only entry and exit point between Sudan and Egypt. A rather scruffy and dusty town on the shores of Lake Nasser where we would have four days to kick our heels applying for permits and waiting for a barge on the Tuesday to take our bikes, and a ferry the next day to take us to Aswan in southern Egypt.

We booked into the Kilpatra hotel, which was about the only place to stay and acted as a sort of RV point for travelers and the document and ferry fixers. The room was pretty bleak and dirty, but worse, the outside bathroom was absolutely disgusting and made me gag each time I had to go in.

In the end I disobeyed the out of bounds sign and used the women’s bathroom which was only slightly better. I have seen worse bogs in China of course, but I never had to experience such a bad one for so long.

We were stuck with this revolting hole, something on this planet only a human could create and tolerate. It seemed the management of Kilpatra hotel don’t eat pigs, but they seemed perfectly happy to live like them.

It was pretty hot and the room had no fan and no windows. Fanny being a woman was not allowed to sleep outside in the open air corridor where all the men put their beds at night and so we soldiered on, spending as little time in the hotel room as possible and suffering somewhat at night. On reflection we should have camped outside the town, but it would have been inconvenient and a little insecure given the nature of the area and all the administration we had to attend to.

Apart from the hotel we got to quite like Wadi Halfa. We had delicious fried fish each morning for breakfast and salad, ful and falafels each night for dinner. There were stalls selling fresh fruit juices, a few nice walks to go on, we could use an internet cafe to contact the outside world, and watch movies at night on a communal TV, provided it wasn’t showing thousands and thousands of people walking round and around a big cube in Saudi Arabia.

We also met all sorts of other travelers who had gathered at this bizarre bottle neck, the only crossing point along a huge border between Sudan and Egypt.

Problem? No problem ... there is always a solution if you think it through. Here bringing my own customs fixer to sort out the paperwork and admin hassles at the border crossing at Lake Nasser in Wadi Halfa.

New roads had been built along the border, but they were controlled by the military and were not for public use and so the ferry, which takes eighteen hours, was the only way. The Nile is dammed at Aswan where there is a hydro-electric power station and the flooded river creates Lake Nasser that extends as far as Wadi Halfa where the ferrys and barges are moored and where there is a chaotic immigration and customs building, police station and a military base.

Our fixer, who we contacted in Khartoum, was called Magdi, but his estranged cousin Mazaar turned up at the hotel and there was some confusion about who was doing what and looking after us. Some kind of fixer turf war.

In the end I handed all our documents, passports and fees to Magdi who turned out to be very efficient and arranged for our motorcycles to go on a barge on the Tuesday and for us to travel up to Aswan on the ferry the next day. We bought the cheapest seats available which meant we had to camp on the deck, which wouldn’t be too bad for a “Night Boat up the River Nile” (cue song by Madness).

 Riding the bikes off the jetty onto the boat that would transport them to Aswan

The Wadi Halfa loading dock was not designed for riding motorcycles onto boats, the water level being too low from the jetty. Here, cranes were mostly used to load and unload cargo, and so for a small fee the Captain agreed to move the barge to a pontoon a kilometre or so upstream where I managed to ride the bikes off the edge of the pier and plunge a couple of feet down onto the deck of a barge.

My R version KTM 990 Adventure had no problem as the suspension and ground clearance is quite high, but Fanny’s standard KTM had a little less clearance, and so the plunge off the edge had to be timed just right to when the barge was closest and the swell of the water at its highest point.

With a firm hand I helped with and supervised the securing of the bikes behind the wheel house and then we waved goodbye as our only possessions disappeared off in the hands of Captain Hamada and his crew to hopefully arrive in Aswan on the following Thursday, the day when we were also scheduled to arrive on the passenger ferry.

A big dose of trust was needed in such a situation, and perhaps a prayer.

Securing the bikes and all our equipment and riding gear on the open deck

We had of course ridden our bikes to the ferry and so we had to walk back to town, but not without shaking hands with every single customs, immigration, police and army person. I had used up a few “I used to be a policemen” credits to smooth things along and this resulted in dozens of handshakes and back slaps before we could escape and walk back across the desert to the town and relax until the next day.

As we were hiking across a barren and scruffy bit of desert between the shores of the lake and the town a pick-up truck pulled up alongside us and inside was one of the custom officials and he kindly gave us a lift back to town in the back of his truck.

Back in town we had a dinner with some of the fellow travelers we met. Antoine from South Africa had ridden his bicycle all the way from Durban, only taking a flight from Kenya to Sudan as he was not allowed to ride through South Sudan, but he had pedaled across all the deserts, starting very early each day, resting from eleven until three when it was hottest and then cycling again through the late afternoon and early evening. Amazing stuff and if you want to lose 20 kilograms try it yourself.

There was also an “over-lander” truck that had started its trip back in Cape Town, one of the very few overland trips that crossed the whole of Africa. Later, the truck would go missing for a few weeks in Egypt due to the vehicle barge breaking down, property being impounded and some dodgy customs shenanigans.

We very nearly took the same barge, but I did my homework and over some coffee with various officials I was educated about the way things were done and therefore made the right choices.

There were also some guys who were backpacking around the world using public transport and had some amazing tales to tell. One from the French speaking region of Canada and another from the USA (a brave guy given that his country had labelled Sudan as the "Axis of Evil", but he did look middle eastern in appearance and spoke Arabic).

Our camp site on the deck of the Wadi Halfa to Aswan ferry

 The next day we boarded the ferry and due to pulling some strings we got on first and secured the best position on the deck, laid out our sleeping bags and settled in for the eighteen hour voyage to Aswan. I still didn’t have an Egyptian visa in my passport, but importantly the bike documents were all in order and we were onboard.

Three hours later, in the middle of the Nile we saw a small speed boat approach, some documents were exchanged with some officials and we were told we were now in Egypt.

Great, I thought.......now where’s the bar?

 ? Rupert Utley