Across The Nubian Desert - March 2002
Day 1 in the Desert
Day 2 in the Desert
Day 3 in the Desert
Day 4 in the Desert
Day 5 in the Desert
Day 6 in the Desert
Day 7 in the Desert
Day 8 in the Desert
Kitchen Of Khartoum
As we readied ourselves for the off, we were joined by a strange looking fellow. After a few formalities, it transpired that he was a Danish Moslem who was traveling the Islamic world. His purpose was unclear and his funding also dubious. He joyfully told me that he had only spent 50 dollars since Turkey following the same route as us. He was hitching and blagging food and accom from his fellow believers along the way. Now I know that giving charity is a pillar of the Moslem faith, but expecting charity from one and all seems a bit rich to me. Somehow or other, he managed to get the passenger seat in Stevie's Landy. And so we set off.
Hippy and I knew the road and so it all seemed pretty straightforward, although uncomfortably bumpy. We pitied poor Sculley on his sports-sprung bike. Not far beyond our camping spot, we came upon our first soft sand and we promptly fell off at the first deep section. Oh dear, I guess there is bound to be a bit of a learning curve. Shortly afterwards, we hit the next section of soft sand and.... Hippy thought that perhaps it would be easier with her riding in the back of the Landy. I was not arguing - in fact I was nursing my bruised ribs. With Hippy and a bit of the gear off, things seemed a good deal better. Until I hit the next deep section of soft sand... Sculley of course sailed through these obstacles as if they were not there.
The problem is this. My bike is pretty heavy. When the wheels are in a sandy rut, the side of the tyre tends to rub on one side of the rut or the other. This has a tendency to grab that side of the tyre and turn it tighter into the side of the rut making the bike try to turn across the track. Should the front wheel manage to cross the top of the rut, the bike is now heading off the side of the road and one has to steer back along the track with great haste. Now, the front wheel is one rut facing along the road and the back wheel is in another facing across the road. The secret is in body balance and hitting the gas to hop the back wheel over the bump in the middle to join the front in the other track. Mr Hyde my old gym teacher made no comment about my lack of balance on my school report, which was, I think, about the only pleasant thing he ever did. But it has to be said that this is not my strong point. Sculley's advantage is that his tyres are the same width and his bike one third of the weight and so he does not really sink into the sand in the first place. Plus, he has more bottle and a reasonable sense of balance.
Anyway, even though I had a few very low speed plops into the sand, nothing came off other than the luggage I deliberately removed. Sculley lost his front mudguard after 3 km. followed by his right rear indicator, left rear indicator etc.
But this is little compared to the losses suffered by the Hot Rockers. We had been advised at a tea stop that they had managed to get two hours ahead of us. But as we rounded the corner, there they were. Their suspension mounting had collapsed.
While Pat was falling off the bike, I was riding in the back of a very rocky Landy. As mentioned the height and upper weight of the van on the corrugated sections make the van rock backwards and forwards and the bumps in the sand make it undulate sideways. If the bumps were too repetitive it put the vehicle into perpetual motion. Meanwhile, Mohamed, the sponging prophet was wittering on about faith in Allah to get us there. Stevie, admitted that her faith was in Brumus, her Landy. On the sight of the Hot Rockers broken down, he commented something to the effect that that will teach people to have faith in a vehicle. This certainly felt like a snub to Stevie's belief in her van and her generosity in giving him a lift. Her retort was perfect ' Well you had better get Allah to give you a lift then!'
As the Hot Rockers were in trouble we understandably stopped to see if they needed help. Their plan was to wedge it and to limp to a supposed gold mine about 1km off the main track. Those of you that have read about our trip to Kaiteur falls will realise that this is not the first time that gold miners have leapt to our assistance. Realising that there may be a need to give a Hot Rocker a lift to the next village 20km further on we followed to the mine.
At our decision to leave the main road the sponging prophet began muttering. "This is the main road we should be going the other wayî. Clearly charity only applies in his direction, and he was most put out that the journey would be delayed because we planned to check whether our friends needed help. Shame! By now both Steve and I were fed up of this bloke. By now we knew had an ex-wife and 3 kids in Denmark that he was failing to support, while he sponged of Islamic charity and he had already asked 2 two women to marry him en route, whose families had quite rightly told him to buzz off.
I don't think she likes him!
The gold mine was a hive of activity and had the organization of the Belgian who ran it. We waited sunset for the main man to arrive and give permission for us to stay. He of course was a gentleman, and the Hot Rockers could stay until they had fixed the vehicle, which incidentally he was happy to spend a day welding back together. The sponging prophet sought sanctuary with his fellow Moslems at the camp who were blissfully unaware of his true nature and typically fed, watered and offered him a bed for the night. We were relieved that we didn't have to pretend to like him.
For our thoughtfulness in seeing whether the Hot Rockers needed help, they supplied with treacle pudding to have with our tea. What more could we need.
I awoke with a few nagging pains. I'd fallen on soft sand each time, but various bits of bike stick out and are designed, it seems, to cause injuries to remind the rider not to drop the bike. My major problem was a crisis in confidence. Could I really manage to get the bike down to South Africa when I had had such a dismal showing on the first day? I resolved to give it ago and attempted to convince myself about learning curves and all that. Hippy was very supportive and gave me plenty of scope to back out if I chose.
Actually, things went rather well for a bit. Only one small drop and other than that my confidence was increasing. Sculley, of course lost a few more parts - but nothing of mechanical significance. We made reasonable progress on the road, but our Michelin map of Africa is such a huge scale that we did not seem to have moved forward.
Stevie was managing to keep it together even though her poor home was being shaken to pieces and invaded by an ever increasing pile of clutter off the bikes. Progress was difficult to get right as Pat and Sculley would shoot off into the distance and then wait for us. As soon as we caught up, they would shoot off again.
Yes, itís difficult with such different vehicles to all keeps together. The point was to give us all mutual support. I felt quite guilty that I was the one who benefited most from this arrangement and did my best to peg back Sculley and keep everyone happy. Hmmm. The bikes obviously needed to keep some speed up to get stability, wheras the converse was true for the landrover. Waiting in the scorching sun was real uncomfortable for us and the only shade to be found was the odd thorn tree which offered more in the way of punctures than shade.
We found a lovely spot by the Nile to camp that night...... until the flies arrived at dusk. The last two days had taken us away from the banks of the Nile through pretty (actually totally) arid badlands. Poor Hippy hid under a mozzie net filtering water while the rest of us put up Stevies Palace. Forgot to mention this before, but as well as the kitchen sink, Stevie also has the most wonderful tent capable of sleeping 8 and with the potential for a high wire act. So much more pleasant than slummimg it in our pocket version.
First thing in the morning, we looked for fuel as a major priority. Remarkably, the first village we came to was able to supply us even though most of the town was closed for Eid. A little lad with a drum of petrol did a crafty bit of siphoning and we would have been ripping down the road were it not for a broken down truck needing my tools. It was unclear how long they would be needing the 11 mm spanner for and so we squatted in the dirt for a while with the best of them. Eventually, he fixed his diesel injector using a piece of thread from his mateís shirt. Clever trick if you can do it.
Meanwhile I was on waving duty. I wasnít sure whether this was normal Sudanese behaviour of if this was a special for Eid. Through every village children and adults alike run out of their homes to greet us, waving frantically, gesturing to stop, come in and eat. If we had stopped each time it would have been impossible to leave a village. So regrettably, our thanks were only returned with hectic waving.
Passing by another broken down vehicle, we looked back to see Hippy and Stevie taking a parallel route to us through a village. We stopped for a mo and one of the guys with the Toyota asked if we had a 14 mm spanner. Regrettably, I carry a full range of spanners and feel that I cannot pass someone with problems at the side of the road. This does slow progress up somewhat. Still, it did give us the chance to get Stevie and Brumus out of the sand trap that had appeared. Sand ladders and low gears and the Landy was out in two shakes. It seems that the main problem with Brumus is his refusal to stay in Low ratio with the diff lock on. Answers please on a postcard. There was a rather more protracted delay as the 22 mm spanner was called for and a complete strip down of the front suspension was undertaken.
Having helped push Stevie out of the sand I took shade under a tree. Three women sheltering from the sun by a wall waved me over. Having ignored so many invitations it was time to accept. The women seemed intrigued by the idea of sun cream, and I gathered from the gesturing that there seemed to be a belief that white people use sun cream to keep white! Evidence that correlations donít prove causation. Then there was more confusion and more weird gesturing as they intimated that my red lips must have lipstick on, and only repeat attempts to rub it off proved that it was not artificial.
As the heat of day was approaching in the late afternoon we took a delightful family up on their offer of food. The host had 15 children, 3 wives countless nieces and nephews who all wanted to meet the foreigners. Whilst we chatted, ate, made origami birds the host told us that he been trying to get a school for the village, as the nearest one was 5km away and this was too far for the young children to walk. We furnished him with a few names of appropriate charities, but left in the knowledge that his little village is probably not in a dire enough situation to warrant attention. Letís face it people only tend to contribute to funds when they see pictures of starving children.
This poor guy had a few problems. The Nile has receded in this area leaving only about 30% of the land farmable anymore. He was keen to know where he could get a pump. This brought back memories of pictures of loads and loads of donated tractors standing for the want of spares. It was hard to explain to this guy the strategies of donor agencies. As he put it ìWhy do not the developed countries give up a part of their wealth to help us.î As we tucked into the generously given meal, it was hard to find an appropriate reply.
Replete and after extended goodbyes we headed off to decline further invitations to eat and to cover another 2 hours before sunset. The heat at the end of the afternoon is murdersome and in the van we struggled to not overheat.
Sculleyís race bike was also beginning to suffer the constant thrashing through the sand and low gears were taking their toll. He was having to stop to cool it down regularly.
That night we found a lovely spot by the Nile and watched the most beautiful sunset and ate dates supplied by one of the broken down trucks. It seems that it becoming increasingly hard to spend money here. Stevie and I had gone down to the Nile to try and wash off the half a ton of sand that seemed to have covered every mm of our bodies ñ clothing seems to be no defense against powder sand when you help push motorbikes out.
A stressful day. Sculley managed to fall off at last. We now know that his weakness is mud. Didn't expect to see much of that before we got out of the desert! In a low section, a bit of water had collected. As I rounded a corner, I saw him horizontal. I was so concerned that I shouted "Four - one". He seemed OK
He got up and started his bike and headed for the next bit of mud at break neck speed. Only to fall off again. By this time, I had ridden by on a dry bit and could see a sensible way out of the hole for yer maun. When I pointed it out, he just refused to hear of it and insisted that the mud would not be the beating of him.
I argued my point to no avail. Booting it into gear he ripped into the next mud pool to emerge the other side, once again horizontal. I went ballistic at this point about how we were traveling together and should take the safest options where we could.
Stopping to watch Sculley, Stevie was a bit more tentative about following the same route as ëSlipperyí Sculley, but with caution ploughed through with out problems.
At the tail end of the day, we were looking for a route out of a village while looking for a place to camp. First off, Stevie managed to pick up a power line with the roof rack. To be fair, we hadnít really been looking up at height clearance until this point ñ I mean itís not an issue on a bike is it? I came back to look for them and found Hippy aloft holding the cable out of the way. Knowing the quality of power cabling in these parts, this was a brave act indeed.
Round a corner and the road seemed to disappear altogether. A helpful local pointed the way to us, but in my reckoning it was not really suitable for Stevieís Landrover. I asked her whether she thought that she could make it and she set off. Halfway through, the van swayed alarmingly to the left and then settled back onto an even keel. She made it through, but I was nerve wracked in the extreme. When I next pulled up along side, she laughed that it had been a close shave. I replied a little sarcastically that it was not really a laughing matter.
In the van Patís inquiry about whether we could get through seemed more like an instruction. Stevieís apparent frivolous attitude to the instability of the van was more down to nerves than being reckless. So Patís short comments were not taken well and left me making excuses for him.
A little later, Sculley disappeared off ahead and as we couldnít see which way heíd gone, we switched off and waited and waited and waited and waited. We then fanned out in search of him ñ no sign. I then went further afield to see if there were any signs. After asking a pickup driver for any news of him in a village and receiving a negative answer, I turned back (coincidentally in the same direction as the pickup). I followed at a sensible distance, but all of a sudden, he engaged reverse gear and headed straight for me. I couldnít get out of the way and so the bugger smashed into my pannier, narrowly missing my leg, and bowled me over.
I was not best pleased. In fact, as I looked up, the driver and passengers were exchanging amused glances. As I managed to get out from under the bike, I went around to the driverís window and began to haul him out by the shirtfront. Amazingly, a whole host of people turned out to rescue him before I killed him. The crowd persuaded him to cough up cash to placate me. This was a blessed relief because when I asked for the police to be summoned, they pointed out that there are no police!
By now we had become the point of interest for the whole village it seemed, each pickup stopped to see if we needed help, each person gave a different direction for the way the motorbike had gone and a gaggle of children sat stalwartly and watched the aliens intently.
Then, Sculley turned up! His explanation had the logic of an Irishman. He had thought he heard Pat follow him at the junction, when he finally realized that Pat was not behind him, he thought it best to cut across to the other road (bear in mind that this is an area with a multitude of ill-defined tracks). He had then reached the desert were he got stuck in the sand a number of times before he finally found the road back.
Back at the junction, Sculley had appeared and although he was apologetic for his thoughtlessness, I couldnít help but vent my frustrations about being knocked off and all other matters of safety and practicality to the assembled team.
Patís actual comment was something on the lines of ëîwe should all be a little more grown up, so that we can all get safely across the desertî
Stevie, rightly, put me down good style. She described me as condescending, sanctimonious and pointed out that I was not addressing a class of school children now. Point well made I thought and I kept my gob shut for a while.
We camped where we were even though it was little more than a road junction. Sculley redeemed himself by going for the shopping. He failed miserably. Even though he returned with everything we required and more, he had failed to pay for any of it and it can therefore not count as shopping!
We settled in for the evening under the gaze of a hoard of well meaning locals.
We awoke to a rainstorm. Donít be ridiculous, it was sand blowing against the tent. In fact the morning brought us our first sandstorm ñ the Khamsin. Bolting out of the tent and packing as quickly as possible, we sheltered ëtil the afternoon in the van playing cards. We had found a small cluster of vegetables by the back door of the van in the morning and throughout the day, the local children braved the sandstorm and passed a succession of carrots, peanut butter and god knows what through the window to us. I felt something like an ape at the zoo being fed by naughty day-trippers.
Things eased off at about 1 oí clock and we decided to saddle up and bolt for Dongola. There followed a goodly bit of sand wallowing and avoiding cables in villages and the usual hassles. At last I began to get the idea of how to ride in sand. In virgin deep sand it was easy. Just open it up and squirm around to your hearts content. Quite a laugh really. Then the ruts came back and I was OK when crossing them at a reasonably steep angle but when the playing area narrowed again and I had to follow the ruts I was back to square one again. Much bogging and falling and being helped out of patches by Helen. The panniers were now off as well, but I still wasnít up to it.
The ferry cross the Nile at Dongola was a reasonably convincing 12-car ro-ro and went fairly promptly. On the other side wasÖasphalt. We opened up the bikes ñ because we could. Found a hotel at huge expense, but the promise of hot water was too much to miss. Bit of a saga getting round town to register with the plod, but we were at the hotel ready to move in at dusk.
Then the Hot Rockers appeared again. The truck was now suffering from a sick clutch, but the guys at the mining camo had effected a top welding job on the suspension.
R + R in Dongola. Not the level of cheapness that we had expected, but most products were available including doughnuts. Not one of my all time favourites, but its amazing how just being there is enough to develop a craving.
Poor Stevie spent the day trying to get the sand out of her van.
There was a bloke that spoke excellent English that was helping Fi and Stevie to find mechanics etc. UntilÖI was sat in the hotel courtyard mending one for the tank panniers that had ripped in a fall and the man approached. He just seemed curious about what I was doing but as he lent over his hand brushed my thigh. Hoping this was just a mistake I moved my leg, but the action was repeated.
This was no accident! Later he returned and asked me to take some food at his home. This being a common request in Sudan, I thought I shouldnít jump to conclusions but played safe by asking if he had spoken to my husband. To which he replied he would ask permission. After I suggested that I would be glad to go if Pat came with me, unsurprisingly the offer was retracted. What peeved me most was that I discovered later in the evening that I was the fourth in his line of prey. What an insult!
We had been warned that the section of road from Al Gabba to Debba was the worst section of the route to Khartoum. Some consolation when we considered how crap we had done so far!
The road out of town was asphalt for 15 km. Then graded hardcore for 15 km. Then sand. Oh, bollocks. At least there was sufficient play area for me to blast along and so things went reasonably well. Then we stopped to help a guy in a Toyota pickup. He was bloody useless and we grunted and pushed and used Stevieís sand mats and towed. After 40 mins we had him out and he agreed to lead us in to Debba by the best route. Then he buggered off at such a speed that we could not keep up. Did he stop to wait on hard bits? Oh, no.
Stevie who was already non too impressed with the blokeís attitude vowed to ëPunch his lights out, if she found him. The ungrateful b*******!í
When we got to Debba, which pickup should we see parked up? Stevie was so fired up there was no stopping her. I briefly warned to try to avoid violence and she marched towards the vehicle. Only to find that the driver was absent although the goat, wife, children and passenger were all there. My feeling is that he saw her coming and was hiding round the corner.
We just wanted to get to the asphalt road and get to Khartoum. We did a bit of shopping, but the vibe here was quite different to the whole of Sudan so far. They tried to rip us off and were generally semi hostile. We were pleased to leave town to find somewhere to camp as soon as we could.
Sculleyís chosen spot meant that Pat got stuck about 5 times before he managed to get the bike on a hard patch. This must be the beginning of the bad it. Looks like a hard day tomorrow. The wind and sand did not make life easy and the night was restless.
An early start - to catch the sand a little less soft (or at least this is what the textbooks tell us) and to make the most of the coolness of the day. We had by now dispensed with the idea of breakfast prior to leaving and instead stopped after a couple of hours for brunch.
The going was tough, both Pat and Sculley were alternately getting stuck and Stevie and I were on pushing duty. Sculley by now had developed a squeak in his suspension that sounded terminal.
When we were out of sand zone and nearing the promised tarmac, brunch was supplied from Stevieís van while Pat did running repairs on the Sculley bike.
Yeee hah! Asphalt. Only 240 miles to Khartoum. I was up for going all the way but Hippy and Stevie voiced disquiet and I satisfied myself with the idea of a short bit left for tomorrow into Khartoum itself.
Then the asphalt stopped. Groan. Then it started again. Hurrah.
All the time, a hooly of a wind was blowing on our backs and we were sailing along at quite a pace. While we took a break at 4, we weighed up the options. Really there was only one thing we could do. The wind showed no sign of abating and this stretch offered no cover whatsoever. We had to make it to Khartoum and the luxurious sounding Blue Nile Sailing Club to make a decent camp.
It goes without saying that after a long haul in the saddle, the first check point you come to they are bound to be awkward bastards. In Sudan, one needs a travel permit to pass through particular areas. These have to be registered along the route. Regrettably, people in the past have had photocopies to give to checkpoint Charlies and so they now insist on them instead of writing the info themselves. We of course had no photocopies and had to take one of the guards down to town (10 km) to get them. Strangely, he did not want a lift back. It was obvious that he was actually going off duty and simply wanted a lift to town on the most exciting bike to come that way for some time. If only he had said, I would have obliged straight away. Instead we had to go through a stupid routine of moaning and insisting before we set off.
It was dark by the time we got to Khartoum and we donít like navigating in cities anyway. Enough said.
So, we made it. And guess who was there ñ the Hot Rock truck. With the kettle on, bless em.
The campsite at the Blue Nile Sailing Club is overlooked by a curious clubhouse. It is in fact a small gunboat Manufactured by Vosper Thorneycroft in Southampton. Shipped in parts through the Suez Canal to Ismalia (Egypt). Carried overland to Wadi Halfa. Shipped up the Nile in flat-bottomed boats to Berber. Assembled there and sailed up the remainder of the Nile to Omdurman to bombard the Mahdiís fortress on the orders of a certain Mr Gordon. Were they mad?
The whirling dervishes of Khartoum are the original and best The idea is that on a Friday, before evening prayers, they congregate outside a small mosque, beat drums, chant and gradually work themselves up into a frenzy which heightens their spiritual receptiveness. We were most chuffed to find that one of their most recurrent chants went ìOh, Oh, White Armyî It sounded like that to us anyway and I gazed upon them wondering whether a couple of Dervishes whirling at The Reebok would change the fortunes of my holy ones.
Saturday brought the painful news of a draw against 10 man Blackburn. Get those Dervishes signed up fast, Sam. We intend to visit a set of most excellent pyramids at Meroe in a couple of days to further charge the mystic batteries of the magic scarf. We do all we can.
General paperwork duties held us up in Khartoum for a few days, but to be honest there was a certain amount of wound licking involved, too.