Egypt

Posted on July 19, 2011 by Arlene

THE PYRAMIDS, THE SPHINX, PHAROAS, HEIROGLYPHICS, BAKSHEESH, SHEESA,CAIRO, TAXIS, SMOG, HOOT,HOOT, PARP,PARP, RED SEA, THE NILE, LUXOR, ASWAN VALLEY OF THE KINGS,  ARNAK,WESTERN DESERT,EASTERN DESERT,SUEZ AND SINAI AND MUCH MORE.

John’s love affair and my flirtation with the motorbike have come to an untimely end.  It’s on with the show.  No  riminations, no divorce courts, no alimony payments, nada.  Time to move on. No time for tears as we head for Egypt, the land of baksheesh and the land of milk and honey.

The ferry from Wadi Halfa in Sudan to Aswan in Egypt is a bit of a nightmare.  I steer clear of too much water and liquids and am on a mission to see how long I can refrain from using the toilets.  I do really well and go twenty hours after checking out of our hotel or should that be dive. Eventually I hold my breath and do what I have to do. We are in 2nd class (there is no class after this) and it is downstairs. We are packed onto benches and it is like being in kindergarten there are so many kids, one family has nine, but you can see they are excited and enjoying themselves. With your ticket comes a free meal and Arlene and I end up eating in the 1st class dining room, well they call 1st class but it isn’t really, the only difference is the plastic table cloths. We eat with long teeth, it is hard to enjoy a meal when there are people smoking blowing clouds of smoke into the air from their cheap cigarettes, and even the waiters are walking around with fags in their mouths dropping ash all over the place, steak ash and chips please, in your dreams. The ferry steams along at a good nick, the scenery is good and the sunset spectacular and we are very grateful that the aircon is working.

I think about Lake Nasser and the cost to the Nubian people.  Their displacement, their relocation, compensation if any. Now we see them with metal detectors in the desert looking for gold and are assured they are finding it.  Lots of it.  We are not too sure.  Is it an urban legend in the making? I don’t want to think of the greed of men.  Will others come to lay claim to this find if in fact there is gold?

We make it to the Hathor Hotel, but not after John brings the taxi driver down from 50 Egyptian pounds to 30.  We know we are still being overcharged but are desperate for a shower and a bit of sleep.   Only later do we find out how much we were
ripped off.  Still ended up paying more than double the price. Put it aside, is what I say. Our room is small, spotlessly clean and air conditioned with a brilliant view of the Nile.  Feluccas reflected in the early morning sun and again in beautiful sunsets.  All this for R128 for both of us and breakfast thrown in.

The hassle factor has gone up dramatically, if measured on the Richter scale it would be ten out of ten. No matter how much
you tell a person no they just keep on going and as you get rid of one the next one is just a few steps away. I am like the Johnny Walker advert and just keep on walking but Arlene feels obliged to stop and try and explain that we don’t want to go on a tour or whatever. They have all the tricks in the book – just look you don’t have to buy or what’s your price or just for you my friend. They might have fought for a change of government but when you need change for money there is never any change. After travelling through many countries in Africa and being on the receiving end of their honesty and hospitality you wonder how some of these Egyptians get like this.

I keep with the story that John has a hearing problem.  The sympathetic looks and gestures make me feel quite ashamed and I know that my confession and contrition will have to include these indiscretions even if it is only to maintain some semblance of sanity for Johnny Boy.  Deep down I feel for these people who are just trying to make a living.   And after John’s irritation has subsided he too feels the same. Tourism’s life blood is but a trickle.  The owner of the hotel we are staying shares his woes on how the problems with the subsequent protests have made people wary of coming to Egypt. Syria and Libya’s problems have just exacerbated Egypt’s as far as he is concerned.

It is with this all in mind that we try to be more understanding of these over exuberant  salesmen who fight their despair with all the means at their disposal.  Even the little ones who are out on the street selling, mangos etc.  They too have the sales patter down to a fine art.   ‘Rrrremeberrr me’ (All bad salesman start of with the remember me bit.) ‘5 gunays misterrrrr,  OK ,Ok forrr you 2, no,no,no  for rrr you, just forr you 1’

We get to do the obligatory sunset felucca trip on the Nile.  We get together a motley crew.  Seven of us.   A Vietnamese, a pom of Indian descent, an Aussie, a South African and a Phillipino.  John and I provide the supper of Egyptian bread and rolls, two different cheeses, chips and for puds, halwa.  Supper for 7 of us R33 and thee were left overs. The cost for 2.5hrs excluding the tip R10 each.  There were three adults manning the felucca. A pittance for working and trying so hard.  They even served tea and coffee thereafter.  We tried to induce them to share supper with us which they declined. It turns out to be a lovely evening.  None of us want it too end.  But as the old saying goes.  All good things come to and end and this is no exception.

It’s my turn to get a haircut.  The hairdresser is as nervous as can be.  My hair is in such need of a cut that I figure I can’t look worse or can I?  It might not be the best haircut I have had but then I guess it’s not the worst.  After all I do have a photo which bears testimony to my mother’s hairdressing skills.  A dastardly perm and haircut at about age five. Mother what were you thinking?  The up side is that at least she didn’t dress me funny.

The Hotel Isis is over the road from us and for the few nights we are in Aswan there are at least three weddings every night.
We are not sure if they end on the pavement or if they start there.  John seems to think that all the weddings we have been seeing in Khartoum and here have something to do with Ramadan coming up.  Everybody wants to get married before
Ramadan.

Because both John and I have been to Egypt before, him in style with Independent Newspapers and me slumming it on $10 dollars a day.  Those were the days.  We don’t have the Luxor, the pyramids, etc to look forward to.  So we head for the Red
Sea.

HURGHADA

Now that we are in Egypt with only the beginning of a plan we decide to head to Hurghada. Spring board to dive sites that we know people from all over the world come to dive. Not that we know how to dive or have the finances to go on one of those beginner courses.  We’re thinking a little holiday.  The Red  Sea, a bit of snorkelling that kind of thing.

The bus, Oh! The bus.  It’s now we miss the bike.  The bus from Aswan to Hurghada is a nightmare.  Filthy dirty, rattling windows, stops at every frigging dorp, town and village along the way.  No air con. But for want of one, a missing
window provides fresh air.  The fact that it suffuses the whole bus with hot desert air is of no consequence.  We almost sat at that open window but thankfully moved down a few rows.  The only other tourists on the bus have their hair whipped about their heads, their breath taken away in the process but they survive and so doe we.  It does not mean we are in a good mood by the time we get off ten ours later.

This time we end up in a hotel that has an aircon that works so well that we snuggle up in snow white sheets and a blanket for luck.  The bathroom is a real bathroom, snow white tiles, snow white towels and snow white enamel basin with a snow white toilet that one can even sit, oh Yes! And even snow white toilet paper.  It’s too good to be true. All that is left is for the seven dwarves to pitch up so we can live happily ever after. All this for R175.

We get into the holiday spirit and go on a boat trip to Gifton Island to do a bit of snorkelling. The water is warm and its just like the brochures and the ads one sees on TV… Different hues of blues and turquoises. It takes about an hour to get to our dive site,
Arlene is fine ( I was taking no chances and took the required meds before starting off)and we end up having a beautiful day, bloody hot though. The snorkelling is so much better than I expected the different kinds and colours of coral and fish and other living organisms are just hard to believe, no wonder the Red Sea is popular.  $20 each for the whole day, plus lunch, water etc. Even in these hard times for Egypt there are hoards (we think they are hoards but according to our hotel manager they are a drop in the ocean.  Hurghada has 32 000 beds for tourists) of boats and tourists out here, mainly from Poland, Czechoslovakia,
Russia and Germany. We are the only ones on board who speak English; even the guides are fluent in different Slavic languages and not too bad at English either. A good day and worth every cent, a tick for Egypt.

The hotels along the’beach front’ all have their own private beaches.    There are approx 173 hotels in Hurghada (so our manager tells us).  I would estimate the majority of hotels here are 5 star. Ours is a two star.  We get to use the private beaches at a cost of 20 Egyptian pounds for two days until we discover that our hotel has access to these beaches.  Too late she cried.  Hurghada, Itself, the town part is a bit tacky, more than a bit tacky.  There seems to be hundreds of buildings either in the process of being built or being broken down.  Almost like contactors came in, got started, stopped and left the rubble out on the streets.  And then some copy cat came in and does the same, again and again and again. Although we see loads of boats packed with tourists out at sea we don’t see them out on the streets.  So we presume, it’s the package tour kind of  people.  Fly in, straight to the hotel, which has everything with in their confines.  Restaurants, beaches, curio shops, beauty parlours etc.

I must admit that the construction of these hotels in various stages of completion looked to be of a very high standard. No el cheapo concrete blocks here, it was all good old fashioned red clay bricks used for the walls. But when it came to the plumbing their always seemed to be a hint of a sewage smell around even at the top end of the market let alone the bottom end if you excuse the pun. And on the electrical side also a bit dodge, our room at the El Rosa, when you switched the lights off at night to go to sleep the place turned into a disco, the lights kept flashing every five seconds or so, luckily the bedroom light wasn’t too strong but the bathroom was like a good old strobe light, we had to keep the bathroom door closed, It was flippin ridiculous. The first night I thought we were in danger of starting an electrical fire. But when I reported it to the manager he said that this was a problem on the 2nd floor, so it wasn’t only our room, and that it had been happening for a long time ever since they had some electrical work done, sometimes you just have to laugh if somewhat a bit hysterically.

I actually don’t know why they have a law stating that that cars must drive on the right hand side of the road when every car, bus, truck and donkey cart is driving on the wrong side, and then it is game of who moves over last. And this isn’t just t Egypt but was also evident in Sudan and Ethiopia as well. Change the law and drive like the poms, get over the French/Italian thing.

Our intention is to take a ferry to Sharm el Sheikh, another world renowned diving site as well as host to a good few peace talks if I remember correctly and also to a terrible bombing disaster.  But as fate would have it that ferry has been out of commission for about eight months.  We are not sure if it’s because it’s not viable for so few tourists or if the problem is a mechanical one.

So it’s off to book bus tickets for Cairo.  The bus station is to hell and gone, but we decide to walk it in the midday sun which sees not an even the mad dogs let alone an Englishman on the streets.  It is here that a young boy, actually a little boy tries to foist his papyrus upon John.  He is s sullen little boy and keeps on pushing and shoving until eventually I stop him in his tracks and do the stern headmistress thing with him.  John realises that the kid is trying to pickpocket him. And as I straighten up I notice another three kids up real close and personal but the game is up and out of the blue a taxi stops and all four of them pile in. The taxi driver in cahoots and the Fagan of Hurghada no doubt. It is in one of my guidelines or rules when you are travelling – ALWAYS – buy pants with deep pockets, so when you are sitting in the back of a bus or taxi all scrunched up with your knees around your ears, nothing will fall out of your pockets and also with nice deep pockets it is difficult for somebody to pick pocket you. It made my blood boil to even think they could be so brazen about it and having
the taxi as a backup – oh for just a small hand grenade.

All in all Hurghada has been a nice experience.   Lovely to sit on the veranda gazing out across the Red Sea with a Stella or two, Magic. And the Stella seems to have got better and with temperature still well into the late thirties. Stuff dreams are made of.

CAIRO

The bus journey to Cairo is way better.  We have air con and it makes a huge difference.  For quite a way we drive with the red sea running along side us on the one side and the desert on the other side.  It’s quite a contrast leaving the desert looking harsh and ugly.  It’s not that shifting sand kind of desert.  It’s stony and alongside the road, the ubiquitous dumping continues.  Dumping of all and sundry.  Mounds of rubble, plastic bottles, glass refuse you name it.  Dig a hole for goodness sake.

As we come into Cairo both John and I are in our own worlds remembering our last time here.   Coming into Cairo at 11pm at night was there most overwhelming arrival in a place I have ever experienced. It was as if every taxi tout, every hotel tout and their whole family and extended families had heard that four women were coming into to town on their own. Carol and Charmion were even holding hands. And I’m thinking I know what to expect this time.  Then I have another flash back.  Crossing the roads.  He who hesitates is lost should be displayed on posters through out the city and for luck maybe announcements in the same vein could be made.

The traffic is almost at a standstill, the incessant hooting or is that parping? Sounds like a stuck record.  The bus driver know the buzz and like every one else just putt, putts along.  And you know what? This time Cairo is welcoming, it’s easy.  We are still petrified to cross the roads and when we make our dash I’m hanging onto my mantra of ‘please Lord get us through this safely so we can see our family and friends again’ I think I actually close my eyes when I run across the streets.  They are wide and it seems to take for ever.  Once on the other side it takes a few minutes to gather ourselves before we set off to cross yet another.

We taxi it to book our bus tickets for Taba for the next day and then off to our hotel, The Roma, it is on the fourth floor and you have to ride in one of those old wrought iron gated lifts with iron meshed sides. The hotel reminded me of an old Agatha Christie type place, our room has a high ceiling with big windows and wooden shutters. The furniture consisted of an old desk and two carved wooden chairs with an enormous bed. All the fittings were solid brass. In the dinning room is an old piano with brass candle holders, I could imagine the scene of days gone bye with guests standing around, suitably attired for dinner, drinks in hand, listening to Cole Porter melodies.   Soirees which we wish we could have been part of.

Downtown Cairo was buzzing being Thursday evening just before the weekend and we were entranced with the colours, smells, noises and bustle that happen in a massive city. But the hassle factor was zero, everybody just getting on with their own lives but every now and again someone would shout welcome and bring a grin to our faces. Our gobble go meal was excellent and pizza chef was something of an exhibitionist swirling the pastry only to happy to pose for pics.

The atmosphere is electric with fairy lights and ropes of coloured lights strung across the streets.  The tangle of wires snaking to find an electricity point is another story.  The window displays are colourful and inviting and it seems that every bit of
merchandise must be displayed in the windows to attract buyers.  Yet peep into the doorways and the merchandise is packed floor to ceiling.  The pavement vendors are trying to outdoor the shopkeepers and the competition is stiff.  Music of every
kind is blaring out from speakers on the pavements.  The sound is cranked up as imams bring the word to the streets, Arabic music fights for it’s space and then the music of the young squeezes it’s way in and do they no how to make their presence
felt.  It’s like carnival time.  Maybe again it’s got something to do with Ramadan coming up.  We don’t know.  But we are loving it and wish that we had stayed longer.

Tarir Square is quiet, a few makeshift tents are up ad we see two tanks armed and at the ready.  Fridays after prayers are protest days from Syria to Egypt.  No doubt Tarir square will look a different place tomorrow.

We leave Cairo and the guy washing the pavement hails a taxi for us.  We offer him Baksheesh but he refuses with a big smile and a handshake.  And then it strikes us that we have heard very little, hardly any cries for baksheesh.   So guys give Egypt
break.

Another bus ride takes us across the Suez.  An inspection point sees us all alighting form the bus and lining our luggage up as a sniffer dog sets to work.  Then it’s off again.  The only real thing one sees is the army posted out in the Sinai. Tanks and guns all at the ready.   At one pint we see a sign that says something like No foreigners allowed to travel through this area.  We presume it means in their own vehicles.  Our bus is stopped regularly but only once do they ask for our passports.

We are thinking that we will say a few days in Israel seeing that we have to pass through it to get to Jordan.  We get the third degree from the immigration officials.  Our passports sport a Sudanese stamp that sets the cat amongst the pigeons.  An hour later of interrogations and searching of our bags we find a taxi.  R90 for a 4km taxi ride into town.  The hostel we head for is
full.  Its summer holidays here.  Two months of it and it’s also Friday start of Shabbat.  So no transport etc for two days. We decide to give Israel a miss pay the exit fees and don’t even get a chance to sing Hava Nagila Hava.

It’s goodbye to Africa on a Wing and a Prayer as we make our way across to Jordan.  Where to next only time will tell.  Getting to Turkey from Jordan is turning into a mess an at a price, a hefty price.  No planes fly into the smaller airports at
the bottom end of Turkey.  It’s Istanbul or bust which means a lot of backtracking and public transport wields a hefty price as well. With Billy Connelly’s words of wisdom ringing in our ears ‘You can change your mind as often as you want’ off we go.

Categories: Egypt | 3 Comments

Sudan

Posted on July 12, 2011 by Arlene

DESERT, DONKEY, CAMEL, CAR, NOMADS, MUSLIM, ANIMISTS, CHRISTIANS, MOSQUES, THE SOUTH, DARFUR, THE NORTH, FUUL (STEWED BROWN BEANS) FALAFELS, THE BLUE NILE, THE WHITE NILE.

DALABAT – GEDAREF

Even though we left Ethiopia at about 6.30am by the time we cross both borders we are starting to cook in the heat.  But  before we truly get on our ‘bicycle’ we need to fill up with petrol.   Luckily the first petrol station is only a km away.  The first one looks a little dodge and we see another one just up the road so off we go.  Well, trying to explain that we want petrol, not diesel, not benzene and not gasoil is not easy.  We are going to have a language issue here and guess who is feeling just a little irritable?  Anyway three petrol stations later and the bike is seriously in need of a drink, (and so is John but the thought of 50
lashes sorts that need out)a ‘benzene’ attendant puts his nose well into the opening of the tank and declares ‘benzene  that’s what you need benzene’.  So there you have it.  The signs may say Nile Petroleum but it’s benzene we need.

It’s a long day and the heat takes its toll. The heat coming off the road is so intense it feels as if we are riding into a furnace, our mouths are continuously dry which we learn later is not a good sign, you just have to drink regularly to ward off the thirst. We
stop at a couple of roadside oasis’s but no sooner have drunk our fill and got on our way that our mouths are dry again. Just before Gedaref we are stopped at another police road checkpoint with the usual questions asked, where yourrr going, wherrre you come from, we try and keep it light and friendly behind clenched teeth, when one police man wants to write a message on the sidecar, we play along and give him a highlight pen to do what we think will be a goodwill message. Everybody watches and seems to nod their approval and we ask what it means, and the bugger answers President Al Basheer, (it’s a sensitive time in Sudan and the last thing we need is to offend some one.), it’s right next to our portrait of Madiba We are furious, but act all happy, whatever happened to Welcome to Sudan or something similar. A km down the road and already Arlene is trying to rub it out with a damp tissue. I n Gedaref we are given the run around trying to find a hotel, the language thing is going to be  testing. That night we are both a bit delirious from heat exhaustion and our dodgy hotel room doesn’t help matters either, oh for a room at the Hilton, in our delirious dreams.

John’s in bad need of a cotton long sleeve shirt.  There’s no way we can be out in this sun with t shirts etc.  The market place is easy and organised and if it were not for the heat could have been a lovely dawdling little experience.   Strangely we don’t
see those big bales of second hand clothes that are found in the rest of Africa.  Maybe they are in hiding.  Forty rand later he has a nice cotton shirt to keep the sun off those muscular arms. Still doing his push ups etc. every day. There is not a chance in hell that another tourist has ever stopped in this town let alone slept in a hotel here. Don’t get me wrong, it’s  just not on the tourist route.  We have been in Sudan only one day and have had several pit stops along the way just to have five minute break, a coke and a smile and already we know that the Sudanese people are going to bring a very special dimension to our lives.

WADI MEDANI

We are up early, waiting for it to be light enough to head out in the cool clear morning, not a cloud to be seen. Where are they when you need them? Its into the cross wind we go and I am taking serious strain with the sidecar pushing to the right, after about 40 kms I am forced to stop at an oasis for a coke and a rest. Onward we push and the strain is relentless, it is twisting me like a koeksister, my arms shoulders and ribs are burning with strain, I am going to have to try and fix the settings on the
sidecar wheel myself, something I have been reluctant to do giving my history of fixing things. I once played auto electrician to our family car and a month later the engine caught fire and the car burnt out completely, I have been banned ever since from touching anything to do with a car engine. Another 20 kms and I have to rest again, this really is not fun. I do what I have to do
and I hand over to my co pilot Arlene Full Throttle McCormack and as luck would have it the road takes a turn in direction and the crosswind now becomes a tailwind, halleluiah. I can almost read Arlene’s mind, “Men are a bunch of babies.”  (John neglects to mention that there are times I too had to ride into that headwind.  My flabby arms flapping in the wind.  The difference is what I lack in strength I make up in stamina and determination and no four letter word outbursts). We have also noticed in Sudan a lot of dead cows on the side of the road in various forms of decomposition, skins pulled tight over their skeletons, teeth bared in a death grin. We lose count at fifty in a 60km stretch; the desert is a harsh place.

It’s not just another hard day in Africa, but another hot one as well.   Our travelling distance is shorter getting here.  All we can think of is the Nile, the Blue Nile, I’m even thinking of wallowing in the Nile.  I have this picture in my mind of an oasis
kind of place, cool, calm, inviting.  From a distance we can see the ‘oasis’.  Our hotel the Continental is separated form the Nile
by a road.  Well when you’re expecting your hotel to be on the banks of the Nile it is a bit of a disappointment to find it is over the road. It’s a big old colonial place and like most of the other places in Africa need a little bit of loving.  OK! They need more than that, a helluva lot more.  The room is huge and for want of an en suite they have just sort of put a square hut in the corner  The electrical system is the things nightmares are made of and the globe  one of those new fan dangled electricity
saving devices dangles precariously from the bathroom wall Sort of has this  torture chamber kind of look. I wonder mischievously if I should fix it, the fire would be spectacular on the banks of the Nile.

Anyway we do get to spend the evening on the banks of the Nile, watching the kids swim, families out for a walk etc.  And again we get to know the hospitality of the Sudanese.

We have lunch at an eatery, for want of a name.  It’s the traditional fuul with grated sort of feta cheese.  And is it good?  And it costs a pittance.  We are unable to finish it.  But the owner lets the kids who hang about outside eat the left overs and they in turn wash the plate.  I know this may sound unpalatable to most but you know it works.

In Sudan there are big clay water containers all over the towns and cities that anybody can drink from to combat the heat and dehydration. At this restaurant I sample some and it is the nicest sweetest water I have ever tasted. I tell the owner this and he remarks with a saying – that once you have tasted the waters of the Nile you will always return. We will have to wait and see about that.

I take the plunge and a deep breath and keep my fingers crossed, pray, Arlene says a thousand Hail Mary’s and I adjust the camber on the sidecar. We take a test drive and as pull off I immediately feel an improvement, Johnno the mechanic is back, pass the spanner please.

KHARTOUM

You really have to pronounce Khartoum with gusto.  Like we say it sounds so whimpish and wet.  And anyway nobody understands us without the required gusto.  Coming into Khartoum is quite scary affair.  Traffic de luxe.  After stopping a few times for directions, difficult, difficult.  Remember what I said about the language issue.  Eventually when we get to within 3minutes of the Sudanese Youth Hostel (which we are still not sure are going to have us) and then it takes another one and a half hours to find the place.  I’m serious.  Everybody is just so keen to help us that we are just going round in circles. Until a guy who speaks bloody good English walks us to our place of residence.

There is always a conference when you ask someone for directions,  (always so eager to help) passers-by are called to help and you are sort of excluded from this conflab, and it is never quick, and invariably they come back to you with – go down this street and at the junction ask someone else – you just want to strangle someone.

One of the first things on our agenda is to register at Alien affairs.   We are given three days to register once you enter Sudan.  And today is the day.  What a run around again.  Even though we have the address in Arabic our taxi driver still gets  confused.  We get there only to be sent away because we need a letter from the hostel.  Next day we return and all is sorted for a fee and a fine.

Now it’s off to get our Saudi visa.  Trouble on the horizon.  Although being assured in Pretoria by the Saudi Embassy that we would have no problem getting our visa for Saudi in Khartoum. The fact that we are on a motorbike does not enamour the embassy bureaucrats to us.  Paper work has to be physically sent to Riyadh, don’t ask us why but this is how it
is.  It’s going to take longer than two weeks and there is a holiday in between. Our visa for Sudan is only for 2 weeks so that sorts that out. (We find out as we are leaving the country that the registration procedure actually gives us another month.  Something nobody bothered to tell us.)

I knew we were in trouble when then the two guys behind the counter are holding hands. They are also quite podgy even in
their jelabiyas (spelling) and they eye us out contemptuously –‘ you want what? - motorrrrbike, oh no no no misssterrr’

Every now and again, whether it’s on the news or via the grapevine we are confronted with obstacles that threaten to stop us in our tracks. We often talk about what if.  Never once has it entered our minds that the visa for Saudi was going to be a problem.  We had heard of a guy that was not allowed to drive his left hand vehicle in Saudi.  But that was sorted by
putting it on a flat bed truck to the Jordanian border.  There goes our emergency fund, but that is what it was for.  Then we remember the words of a South African we met in Nairobi, who worked in Saudi for a number of years.  ‘The Saudis will not let you in or even try to accommodate you.’  Confident because of our meeting with the Saudi consul in Pretoria we take no heed at all.

Nairobi is the last place we meet any one going in the same eventual direction as we are. A motorcyclist Dirk from Belgium
and Dave and Naomi who are raising money for charity.  From there it seems like we are on our own.

Plan D or is it G at this stage kicks in.   The only alternative as we see it.  Egypt with its abundant red tape. We know we are in for a hard time because we do not have the carnet for Egypt. There is no turning back because the bike will definitely not make the Marsabit – Moyale trek back and getting an Ethiopian visa will be a nightmare.  First we have to get a visa for Egypt. The South African Embassy really rises to the occasion when we need a letter of introduction.  Mr Arrie Boer makes a plan and gives real meaning to the saying ‘ n’ boer maak ‘n plan’.

In the meantime I have spent hours and hours on the internet these past weeks trying to fathom out our plan of action.
Syria still in tatters. Our prayers for peace there and in the rest of the world is unfaltering.  And if we have to be honest because the Syrian crisis affects us we put in extra time in this department.  We are trying to get schedules and costs of
ferry crossings from Israel to Turkey.  And at every turn we     are thwarted.  The big boy’s services have been suspended.  I check the Alexander to Italy Ferry, no go.  Everything is up in the air. All we can do is hope for a solution.

In the meantime this does not deter us from getting to know Khartoum and its people.  In our many years of travel and the many well travelled people we have met there has always been the same consensus.  Jordan has the friendliest people in the world.  Always without exception.  We’re thinking the Sudanese are going to give them a good run for their money.  Time will tell.  So Jordan is ready for us to deliver  the verdict.

At every turn we are met with so much kindness. Too many to mention.   Here are just a few little stories to restore our sometimes jaded outlook on the human race. A sign of hope for the world.  A little jaunt in a rickshaw to the embassy costs 4 pounds and all that John has is a ten pound note and a two pound note.  While we are standing on the pavement pondering the situation, out of the shade of a Neem tree steps a young man and pays the rickshaw driver the two pound shortfall.  Will not hear of us returning to refund him. His name is Thomas and hails from Darfur and makes his living from selling cigarettes to customers from the pavement. He has a permanent smile on his face and seems so content with life no matter what it throws at him. We do return to give him his money but nothing will make him accept it.  It makes us more determined each day to give a little away.

Then there’s the time our little Arabic note flapping in the breeze attracts the attention of yet another good Samaritan.  Not only does he take us to the required bus stop, but on the way he stops to buy us a fresh mango juice and at the bus stop he gives the connie instructions where to put us off and then promptly pays the conductor our fare.  We could go on and on.  We see a young man pay the fare of and old man and walk away with no want or need of thanks.  It’s all so overwhelming and as
I tell some of the stories to a man we meet along the way I burst into tears.  Then off he dashes to get us some hibiscus tea because it’s good for my blood pressure.  We have lost count of the many times we have been welcomed, of the, many times that this was the only English some of the people have known.

It’s hard to reconcile this easy friendship with the ongoing horror in the South, the Darfur region, Juba, etc.  Every now and again we hear something on the news and on more than one occasion I switch the radio off.   It’s hard o to believe. With the birth of the a new country  “The republic of South Sudan” just days away, the 193rd country on the planet, there are rumours of the Sudanese govt funding a rebel movement in South Sudan to start another war just as the new govt takes power. We pray that this is not going to happen and all will be peaceful.

We are told that a lot of the people we see on the streets, like the tea ladies (not all) etc are refugees from Darfur.  In fact our tea lady is from Darfur She has seven kids and her husband died in the violence.  It seems that those who drink her tea are sympathetic and treat her and her little boy well.  Again a kindness shown to us by Mohammed (who runs the Sudanese youth hostel) who continually makes phone calls for us but will accept no payment is just so happy when John says he will give the tea lady some money.

I have discovered that the above mentioned tea lady makes a mean cup of ginger coffee and I have become accustomed to
wandering down there for my morning cuppa. She provides her customers with a little iron framed stool strung with plastic cord which is super comfortable to a bum which has been sitting on a bike for thousands of kilometres, she also burns incense to keep the flies away. So here you sit, on the pavement, in the shade of a Neem tree observing the passing parade enjoying a glass of coffee that puts fire in your belly, I feel as if I could beat Bolt in a 100mtr sprint but be disqualified for too much caffeine in the system. She also roasts and grinds her own coffee beans as well, you couldn’t ask for more. All this for one Sudanese pound – about R2.

In our planning stages we try to map the things we would like to do and see.  Like Lalibella, Petra etc.  And here in Khartoum we have got to see the Halgt Zikr.    So Friday we set off across the city over the Nile in search of these Soofies who worship Allah in a different way.  We end up in a cemetery with a funeral in process. The Hamed el –Nil Mosque stands proud in the dusty cemetery.

It’s hot and dusty, what else can one expect.  We wait and we wait and then it all comes together.  We are in a circle and it seems like story time.  We don’t know what is being sung and said but it’s a happy occasion as the men and women take turns in coming into the circle to do their bit.  It’s only the attraction, a warm up for the main show.

We are entranced as the dervishes stir up the dust and cannot begin to imagine how they spin so fast and stay upright.  It goes on for hours and hours until the sun sets.  This Friday afternoon praise and worship brings all kinds of people together.  Tourists, babies in arms, old scar faced ladies, a few good men no longer in touch with reality.  I especially take a liking to the one who walks around with one gold high heel clutched to his chest.  He has this look that makes me think he is searching for the other high heel and he goes about it feverishly, scratching in the dirt. There is a band and a group of singers and everyone joins in with the  chanting Allah Allah while swinging their arms and swaying to and fro. There are also groups of Muslim elders who walk around encouraging the dancing and singing and I can describe it as a sort of Muslim rave, everyone bobbing and weaving while chanting, it was good fun. I will give a full demonstration when I get home.

Khartoum flaunts itself in the old and the new.  High rise blue glass buildings that have a Dubai kind of look.  Wide streets, spiffy European type buses that run alongside , battered and bruised smaller buses, mini buses and rickshaws dressed up to the hilt.  I swear hardly a vehicle of any kind is without a scratch, a bump or just plain ‘pranged’.  There are loads of local little eateries, plastic chairs and ropey little stools in the dust.  And a minutes walk from them European styled deli’s take ways etc.  Really not a bad city to be caught up in for a few days.  Safe to even be out at night.

It takes a day to get our visa form the Egyptian Embassy.  Still we are pressed for time as we have to catch the ferry from Wadi Halfa to Aswan in Egypt.  The only way to do it at super speed is to truck the bike over night and us to bus it.

We set off still not knowing what we will be doing further up the road.  It’s about 950kms tar road, narrow but good. Its really hard knowing the distances here because there are no sign boards saying telling one how far you are form our destination.  There are milestones now and again but they seem to be in reverse telling one how far you have come, or so we think.  We never truly fathom it out it’s through the desert.  Very little in between and not a helluva lot of traffic going to and fro.  I keep thinking of being stranded out there and it’s scary and I actually feel sick just thinking about it.  It’s a cruel place, the desert. What is also cruel is the music we have had to endure for the twelve hours on the bus, its bearable for one or two hours but when it becomes a marathon session the repetitive high pitched songs bore into your brain. The music seems to be a combination of Indian, Arabian, and sort of Turkish influence and the songs carry on for what seems to be fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. But what we are relieved about is that the bus has aircon, you can see the heat shimmering off the landscape, and what is interesting is the bus would stop every now and again in the middle of nowhere to let some men to get off and you would see them wandering off into the desert with their little suitcases and tools. We learn later that there is gold to be found and these guys have metal detectors to find the stuff which is close to the surface. Good luck to them!!

WADI HALFA

Talk about a desert border town.  This one is just like in the movies.  Sweltering low mud brick kind of houses, same colour as the desert.  A few two story painted buildings trying to muscle in.  Hot as hell. And not to mention dusty, we are pointed in the direction of what is supposedly the best hotel in town, it is dump, I would hate to see the rest. In the meantime the bike has not
arrived, why am I not surprised, we are assured it will be here in the morning. Back at The Kilopatra Hotel we have been given the room opposite the communal ablutions. Its going to take all my self control  not to get hysterical. I tell myself its only for two nights I can survive this, only forty eight hours in a room that the temperature never gets below 30 degrees, and that’s a conservative estimate. On the bright side at least it’s a dry heat. I feel as if you could fry an egg on my forehead and if you wait a few months at the rate I am losing hair, an omelette on my head.

The next morning its down to the bus station which in this metropolis is a hundred mtrs away where we are assured that the bike will arrive (language barrier), the driver is having breakfast somewhere. A coffee later and the bike is delivered, sprinkled with onions, crooked mudguard and broken sidecar wind shield and one of the flickers dangles at the side like  a dead man dangling from the end of a rope. I bite my nearly bitten off tongue again.

Mazar our Mr Fixit  (the same one who helped The Scooters pizza crew – so he tells us .  Also he that has helped goodness knows who and how many through the process, even rattles off the names of Charley Bornman and Ewan Mc Gregor who did not actually sleep at his place but rather in the desert) arrives to assist us with getting papers for the dreaded Egyptian officialdom, It’s is all bad news, without the hugely expensive carnet required only and I stress only for Egypt we are up the
Nile without a paddle.

The logistics are not insurmountable but the cost  to our fragile headspace and the financial cost is the dilemma. The scenario plays itself out in our heads and out in the open each minute of the two days we have to make the final decision.  Getting a carnet brought to us in Aswan, (R5500)  (a carnet that will give us 7 days to get out of Egypt which is not going to be possible. The shipping agent in Alexander has yet to come back to us on the availability of a space on the ship and also which day of the week it leaves.  Then the costs once we hit Egypt (another at least R3000 + number plates etc) The shipping fees from Alexandria to Turkey (R3500 + landing and clearing costs in Turkey) All these costs and more and then when we eventually arrive in the UK with what will then be a virtually  worthless bike, remember the frame is broken in two places and other little defects, and the hole in the radiator albeit repaired with putty (costs R7000 to replace) we would probably end up throwing  it into the tip, read dump. We have had a million dollars worth of pleasure out of the beast and we decide it is time to move on, cut our losses and leave the bike on the banks of the Nile in Wadi Halfa (wtmb). Anyone who wants to ride it back to SA is free to do so, carnet for East  Africa is still valid till October. Any how we will try to pass it on or it can spend the rest of its days in Sudan.   In effect we have given it away.  The problems of registering it in the name of whoever in Sudan becomes theirs. We have a willing buyer for $600 dollars.  Let’s see what he manages.  Then it’s the fixer’s after a year if we cannot fathom out any other plan.

In essence we have truly left the bike behind in every way.  All that we have is the wheel flap that says ‘Have a smile’  Our hearts are heavy initially the decision making takes it’s toll.  We are not eating properly and neither are we sleeping.  There’s no place or time for playing the blame game. The time of what if has come and gone. But amazingly we are pretty  philosophical about it as we share it with each other and those we meet.

The dream was to do lay off of public transport in Africa and have the freedom of Africa on our own three wheels.  If that’s freedom we have had it.

Sad, but that’s reality. We now turn our attention to boarding the ferry for Aswan in Egypt, steaming up Lake Nassar for sixteen hours in the testing 2nd class.  (our burdened hearts are lightened but our luggage packed in bags given to us by Mazar are
heavy  Somewhere along the line we will have to make a plan to get proper back packs.  We still have a way to go to get to London.  My thoughts of torching the bike somewhere along the line and swimming
the rest of the way were not far off.

By now we have met a few more foolish travellers, there are five of us altogether and I must admit that our trip seems like luxury compared to how and where they have been.   We are thinking they are young and reckless and no doubt they are thinking we are old and foolish.  Maybe we have a lot to learn from each other.  On the ferry we meet up with Dirk again. He is thinner and needs some fattening up before he sees his wife.  His bike is still in one piece.  He has hopes of shipping the bike from Israel. It’s the end of part one so to say or rather nearly the end as we traverse Egypt by foot, felucca, ferry and flipping buses. We have an invitation , a sincere one to stop off in Belgium to spend time with Dirk and his wife.  He has a plane which he built himself, that he promises to take us up in on one condition that we fly it when we are up.  Tempting, very tempting.

Egypt here we come.

Categories: Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Ethiopia – Part 2

Posted on June 30, 2011 by Arlene

BAHIR DAR

To local tourists this is the Riviera in all its glory.  Wide streets, pavement cafes turning out smoothies and macchiatos to die for.  The odd little traditional coffee ceremony in process on quite little corners.  Our hotel commands the best spot on Lake Tana.  Beautiful gardens and Oh! So much potential.  The rooms, the rooms are another story.  Big but crying for more than just a coat of paint.  The decorators have used a jumble of different curtains across the windows and put them on back to front in the process.
The good news is that there is tv and hot water.  Well not in our room.  Or rather they are there but don’t work. Oh! for a toilet seat that doesn’t shift sideways when you sit on it or fall off altogether.

Across the Lake are some Monasteries but I cannot be induced to cross the Lake no matter how they try to convince me it is calm, very calm.  Just up the road is an Orthodox Church.In the early hours of the morning their chanting starts and  continues for about two hours.  We decide to pop in to have a look at the art.  The doors are locked but devotees come up and bow low kissing the surrounding ground, the steps and even the doors. It’s the norm even to stop on the outside of the church walls to do the same.  Making the sign of the cross etc.  All signs of reverence.

Throughout Ethiopia ‘shoe shine boys’ abound.  And I mean it’s not unusual to see eight on one block.  They don’t just shine.  The scrub trainers and takkies while they are still on your feet.  They make them look brand new.  The fact that you walk away with a little water squelching between your toes seems to worry nobody.

I can’t quite put my finger on it but there seems to be a change of culture here.  There seems to be a mix of people not quite African.  The features change, the hair changes. I am thinking that I could quite easily mistake a lot of these people for Indians.  I’m confused. Certain ladies have tattoo’s on their faces and necks, we ask and are told these are done at a very young age, why and what are lost due to the language barrier. No matter how much we play charades. One of the lady’s tells us that it’s the farmer girls who have it done not city girls.  They are only about 4 or 5 when they are tattoed.

Some have a lot more tattoos than others.  I ask them if the ones who cry a lot are the ones who have the least.  They seem to understand and just giggle.

We also see a helluva lot of blind people about.  And often we have a little chuckle as we see the blind leading the blind.  It’s classic.  Most of those we see sell tombolo (lottery) type tickets and they also man the scales you see on the pavements to weigh oneself.  And the war cry is ‘you want balance’?

We decide to head to the market I’m trying to track down some frankincense for Fr Massimo.  Every now and again you come across a ‘broker’ who wants to help you find what you want.  Well, one finds us and irritates the hell out of me that I end up not making my purchase and leave it for another time.

LALIBELA

At long last we are off to Lalibela.  If there has ever been a reason for me wanting to come to Ethiopia it’s been Lalibela. It’s one of the major tourist destinations here in Ethiopia where a lot of people just fly in.  There is a circuit of tourist spots here that can be done by plane.  But not so for us.  For some inexplicable reason the last 65km up to Lalibela is rather dodge.  No asphalt as they say here.  We cannot take the chance of wrecking the bike on that road so we have to hit the public transport.  A mini bus for about 200kms and the last 65km with a bus that takes 3hours.  So you can imagine the road.  Takes  about 4hrs to do the first 200kms.

Arls Zanzibar nightmare returns to haunt her, as per normal we are given the worst two seats, back row in the jack horner, and it is another spectacular scenic route that Ethiopia throws up and before long has Arlene throwing up as well, at least here we can stop the taxi to allow Arlene to stick her head in bush on the side of the road while the rest of the passengers get a chance to stretch their legs. Honestly when you have to whoops you have to whoops.  You get to the stage that you don’t really care who is watching.  No inhibitions, no shame, nada.  If my knees are shoved up under my chin you can imagine how John is doing.  When he manages to change position you can see that a hip replacement is overdue.

Lalibela is more than we can wish for. We decide to splash out on a guide.  There is so much I cannot take it in.  John seems to be doing pretty well with the facts.  It’s amazing to hear how the churches were carved.  11 churches in all carved from the top down and freed from the surrounding rock.  Once this was done work inside was begun.  Many of the churches have passages that link up.  We come across some priests chanting and playing drums.  In corners, in doorways ain little rooms, sometimes bathed in a shaft of light you come across a monk engrossed in prayer his cross clasped with reverence.  A beautiful sight.

I get to have a bash at playing the drums and dancing with a bit of chanting.  The chanting I don’t fare too well, but my ‘teacher’ says I’m doing good.  If the truth be told John is the chanter in the family.

It took just  23 years to carve the churches, the villagers worked during the day and so the story goes the angels worked at night and did double the work compared to the day shift.. What ever you believe it took a superhuman effort and knowledge to complete such a massive project for the 12th century. The churches are wondrous, and you cannot help but think of all the
worshippers that have prayed and chanted here, it is as if you can still feel their presence. We could have spent a couple extra days in Lalibela, the trekking in the area is quite renowned let alone climbing the mountain just outside Lalibela to see a church right on its summit.

The trip back to Bahir Dar could have seen us having our funeral service at Lalibela. The taxi we caught at one stage had 23 passengers (I lost count or sight of all the heads) plus the driver was not shy on the accelerator, another hell trip. We had to change taxi three times before we got back to Bahir Dar.   We live to tell another tale.

GONDER

Gonder is our last stop as we head to Sudan.  On the way there we talk about our days before entering Ethiopia.  Of the few people we met on the road none had anything positive to say about the people.  We heard about the stone throwing kids, kids that spoke no English but knew the F word.  We heard about flea infested beds and how crowds just overwhelmed tourists. Of course Lalibela,Axum and the Simian  Mountains get glowing reports. So armed with this information we step into Ethiopia with reservations.  Each time I see a kid bending down I think is this our time to get ‘klapped ‘ by some stone throwing kids.

In Gonder I opt to do a little sight seeing on my own.  The Royal Enclosure has quite a bit of history.  The palace must have been amazing in it’s day.  Talk about double volume, this is where it must have been born.  The walls would be the envy of those seeking a paint technique rich with patina and stories just waiting to be told.

In addition we met a young disabled guy whose wheel chair gives us a good run for our money.  It’s bright and funky and looks good standing next to ‘the Africa bike’.  Then we are on our way again.

We’re about 100kms from the Sudan border and we are just revelling in how all the negative comments we heard have come
to naught. When we spy a group of kids none older than  about three.  Believe it or note when the smallest of them all I’m sure no older than two lobs a stone at us.  Of course it plops down in front of his little feet.  I give him a severe wagging of my finger and that’s that.  Just went and spoilt a friendship he did.  We had no fleas in our beds; the food was good, the coffee par excellence, the people friendly, the scenery, the mountains beautiful and the roads not to bad at all.  And as far as road signs there were loads compared to the other countries.

We make it to the border quite early.  The Ethiopian side is a conglomeration of little shops, with people all over the show.  A bus is blocking the way and John waits patiently for him to move on.  Lo and behold if he does not start reversing.  We’re shouting, bystanders are shouting and banging on the bus, John’s standing up and he is spewing forth a few choice words.  I’m thinking that God they can’t understand him because I have no doubt besides cutting out his tongue they would have
removed his heart and possibly another one or two organs.

It all happened in slow motion, (in that slow motion I can just see the bike being crushed to within an inch of it’s life and us with it) I was trying to blow the hooter, put the bike in neutral and then push it backwards and also shouting to alert the driver that he was about to run over us. Thank heavens the locals also joined in the shouting.

One of the bystanders got a tongue lashing from John who thought he was the bus driver.  luckily he too did not understand English. The height of the bus took in the mudguard and squashed it down on to the tyre.  Luckily no damage to the tyre and the
tupperware mudguard although twisted soon regained it’s shape. It was a heart stopping moment but with no serious damage and with a friendly wave to the driver we went on our way.  Later on we find out that the lights are not working.  Some where along the line we will have to get it sorted out.

Some trekking in Ethiopia and time in Axum would have been good.  Who knows maybe another time.  Now days we tend to say we will not live long enough to see all the places we want to see and the reality on a pension how much further can we get.

I do love John’s explanation when people ask how come he converted to Catholicism so late in life.  It’s a classic.  He is cramming for his finals.  And I guess that’s pretty much like our lives at this stage.

Until next time.

Categories: Ethiopia - Part 2 | 1 Comment

ETHIOPIA

Posted on June 24, 2011 by Arlene

BIRR AND ST GEORGE BEER, DONKEYS, MULES, HORSES, DONKEY CARTS, BIG HORNED CATTLE, COFFEE, INJEEERA, ORTHODOX AND COPTIC CHRISTIANS, GABRIEL HAILE SELASSE, DOUBLE DECKER HUTS, LAKES, VULTURES,KING SOLOMON,THE ARK OF THE COVENANT, AXUM,SIMEAN UNTAINS,OMO VALLEY,MONASTRIES AND LALIBELA.

MOYALE-YRGA CHEFE

Getting through both border posts is a cinch. John stays with the bike and I get to sort out the paper work.  The Ethiopian side has no electricity so the computer stands or is it sits on the desk like an ornament.  Then we are off.  Got to get used to riding on the right hand side of the road now.  On the Ethiopian side of Moyale we are practically stormed by the kids and adults who want to get a look at the machine.  The kids are in absolute tatters, dusty, snotty nosed and dirty.  And that’s all still OK.  But the flies are hectic.  They are so at home on these kids.

Thank heavens our helmet to helmet communication thingies are charged.  Thanks Marion.  We stop at the bank to exchange a ‘few dollars more’, forty to be exact as there are no atms in this part of the world.  About two hours later it dawns on me that everyhing is not quite right and that the birrs I have been given do not tally with our calculations.  And as I’m wrestling with this problem I’m also wrestling with the bike.  I’m not sure if it’s the camber of the road which is forcing the weight of the sidecar towards the right and in effect is pushing me off the road  or if it is a problem with the sidecar  wheel that has not been set properly or a bit of both.  I’m feeling really anxious because this is the first time that we have ridden the bike since its major surgery.
I am literally sick to my stomach and fight off a wave of nausea.  We need petrol but the bowsers are not working because there is no electricity.  A little further on we manage to get a bit of petrol that does not need electricity to be pumped.  A ten litre can poured by man does the trick. Actually John walks away from this ‘petrol station’ because the ‘attendant’ has just upped the price by 5 birr which is about R2.20 per litre more.  This John of ours is not paying the ‘farengi’ price.  Just as well for us that the ‘attendant’ sees the error of his ways because we don’t’ see anybody selling petrol for a very long time.

Initially the road is a dream.  No traffic and pretty straight.   It’s dry and to me it looks like desert.  The cattle herders carry guns. The Marsabit- Moyale road has many a story that lingers about bandits and in fact in Nairobi we hear of a Frenchman who was shot in the face but survived. Anyway our truck driver way back says there are bandits but in that they are cattle rustlers.  Obviously the herders have to be prepared.  Well we think they are the herders but for all we know they are the cattle rustlers.

We see a dead camel and the remains of some cattle.  Initially we think they have been hit by a vehicle but as we go on we notice many more and they are not really that close to the road.  Can only surmise that they have died of thirst and hunger.  It’s desolate. We see very few people around.  A harsh and angry stretch of land.

The road starts to climb, the vegetation changes, it’s obviously been raining and the banana trees take on gigantic proportions.  Water is still a problem.  Alongside the road where water has gathered people are collecting the muddy water in all manner of containers.  We spare more than just a thought for them.   We have become really sensitized to the need of water here in Africa.

As the road twists and turns it also becomes wall to wall with villages and this means that you have to have eyes in the back of your head.  Its kids, donkeys, horses, goats, and cattle you name it.  All straying into the road.  It’s hard enough keeping the bike on the road. It gets colder and colder and eventually we put on our rain suits to keep out the cold.

We are stopped at a boom gate and wait patiently for somebody to come forward when I turn around to find somebody scratching in our bag that’s strapped to the back of the bike.  In no uncertain terms I voice my dissatisfaction with a stern look and a wagging finger and then zip the bag up again. If the woman does not proceed to try her luck again.  Well this time I jump off the bike to reiterate my displeasure when she says she is customs.  Well then it’s John’s turn to jump out the side car.  And is he uptight?

It’s a bit tiresome because every village one seems to go through seems to have a pole of some kind.  Some are stretched across the road and others stick up like disused flag poles.  If one does get stopped you’re asked a few questions and off you go.  Now this woman wants to search our bags for contraband.  I let her have it.  We have travelled all the way from South Africa 7000 bloody km and she is the first one to search our bags. (At least he does not go into that story, we are old (speak for your self) what kind of contraband do you think we will be carrying? Blood pressure tablets, blood thinning tablets, arthritis medication)

I’m telling John to let me handle it.  It’s her job and that’s that.  But he won’t let up.  I have to tell him to shut up which is loud and clear because the communication system is on an and broadcasts to the bystanders.  A soldier comes to try and diffuse the situation.  John calms down and the soldier asks him if he is still angry.  He says no but is still seething.  I shake hands and smile, get back on the bike and proceed to give John a tongue lashing and a reminder to let me do the talking.

It’s a long hard day and unfortunately John does most of the riding.  I battle to keep the bike on the road.  We find a little hotel but before settling in have to head off to the bank which again has no atm so we have to change a few more dollars.  By this time we have looked at the last receipt and seen that John was given birr for only $20 dollars instead of $40.  I mention it to the bank teller at the bank and as it happens to be the same bank, the manager takes it in hand and with in ten minutes he has phoned the bank in Moyale, apologised profusely for the mistake and has put into our hot hands the remainder of the birr.  Believe me nowhere in the Western world would that have happened.  We would have waited God knows how long for investigation etc.

After yet another long hard day in Africa, a few beers do the trick and it’s off to another bucket shower, hot this time and a bed that has a mattress that one would swear is a water bed.  An inspection reveals it’s not, just a very odd mattress.

AWASSA

We opt to cut the distances we travel because of the strain we take on the roads.   With that in mind we stop off at a lake side town.  What a good decision.   We stumble on a quiet lakeside hotel called Circle of Life which the security guard assures us is very tranquil and unique.  We feel like tourists.

We take a baja baja (three wheeler) to St Gabriel’s Church.  From the outside it’s the gold domes that attract. The building itself gives nothing away of the delight the interior holds.   A service is in progress.

The men are lined up on the left hand side and the ladies or on the right.  They are all clothed in prayer shawls.  White ones. Some of them hold long staffs.  It’s mystical almost haunting.  The altar is in a little alcove up front and the priest is facing an icon of Mary on the altar and chanting (sort of).  And then a rich maroon velvet curtain is drawn and everybody continues the prayers with the priest behind the curtain doing his thing.

Then the coup de gras (spelling?) is a baptism takes place.  The priest and his assistants all come out dressed in white satin scalloped robes with the main priest being ushered behind the curtain once more and shielded by a green and gold embossed very round looking umbrella.  Holy water is then handed out.  The men get theirs in little white cups.  Some of it they drink and some they wipe over their faces.  The ladies have to bring their own containers.  A young man does explain that we have not been included in this because you have to partake in this on an empty stomach.  We do get offered a heavily embossed maroon and gold bible to kiss.  Which we do. Reverently and respectfully much to the delight of those around us.

But the priest does not come to give us a blessing or to have his hand kissed and I’m in two minds as to whether I should step forward.  I don’t in case it’s not an inclusive thing for outsiders.

We get to take some pics of those beautiful icon type of paintings Ethiopia is so famous for.  I note that there are two depictions of the last supper and both contain a disciple that looks like a woman and I wonder if the artist has seen the Leonardo Da Vinci last supper because I doubt very much if the artist has read the Da Vinci Code.

We spend a few days relaxing at the lakeside.  In the evening we sit outside and watch a few of the street kids play soccer.
They hang around outside the hotel but never make nuisances of themselves.  The kids are onto a good wicket because the hotel patrons and the hotel management seem to keep them in supply of left over food and I see some even give them a few birr.  They get to bath in the lake and are pretty clean.

On our arrival the one little boy runs ahead of us to open the back gate to bring in the bike.  That evening John gives him 5 birr.  The look is priceless as he dashes over the road to go and buy him and his friends some lovely freshly fried fish.  As hard as we try sometimes we give in to our rule of not handing out food or money. There are good few times we break the rules and we are sorry and we are not sorry.

We offer to buy the security guard a coke or a coffee one evening.  He opts for a draft beer.  I’m thinking he is going to get fired, but the manager does not seem to mind in fact I think he is a little put out because we don’t get him one.  We have a quite a chuckle as Mr Security tells us with his hands over his heart how much he loves us and he has not had his drink yet.

Then just as we are starting to feel at home it’s time to ‘Hit the road Jack’.  This little laid back town (actually it’s the biggest town in the South of Ethiopia) lets us know that it’s not that laid back.  We’re settling in for the night when we hear a gunshot and it’s really close.  Sounds like it’s in our compound and then two more shots.  We don’t even dare stick our noses out the door to investigate. The next morning we are told that the ‘mafia’ held up one of the patrons as he was leaving and tried to take his lap top and cell.  Luckily the police were in the vicinity and caught the ‘mafia thieves’.

No better time like the present to move on.  Next stop Addis Ababa. Trying to stay calm wondering what is in store for us.

ADDIS ABABA

The road does get better and time wise we are doing well.  That is until we’re about 40kms out of Addis.  Its bumper to bumper trucks.  Everybody is taking chances with the overtaking etc.  I’m still wrestling the bike and know I’ll be needing a couple of anti inflammatories to end the day.  The strangest thing is that the closer we get to the city centre the more the traffic eases up.  We stop a few times to ask directions and before we know it we’re at our place of residence for a few days.  Wim’s Holland House. Our room has a huge painting of the ‘Tulips from Amsterdam’ hanging above the bed.  It too sports a bath with a geyser.  And do we languish in that bath.  Oh Yes! It also has a very nice bar and restaurant with ice cold beers.  Just what the doctor ordered.

Addis does not intimidate.  We hear the stories from other travellers about the kids out on the street who sell the tissues being pickpockets of note.  But we are watched over.  We take a mini bus out of the city and then another to deliver a letter to the Missionaries of Charity.  We get to see another side of Addis and then decide to walk back to the city.  It’s a long walk but luckily downhill all the way.  Addis is way down in a bowl.  We pass the university and at the bus stop a very proud lady standing in her graduation outfit, mortar board still perched on her head waiting for a bus.  We pop into a photographic exhibition at the museum; pass the Lion  Park which I doubt has any lions ‘cause over the fence we see a ferris wheel going at a furious pace.  We pass some beautiful children’s parks that are empty.  And why?  Because there is an entrance fee.  What a waste.

I must say the Ethiopians come over as pretty orderly especially in the towns and cities.  At bus stops etc there is no chaos.  Everybody queues in an orderly fashion.  No shoving and pushing and no climbing through the windows.  We also go past the
soccer stadium, the queue snakes around the block and the game is in progress already.  Still they wait patiently.

Addis is a big bustling city with most people just going about their business.  Lot’s of little coffee shops, down market, up market, gobble and go’s,   Restaurants big and small.  Street vendors, coffee being served in the traditional way often on the pavements.  We go into a little shop that sells Greek Orthodox religious vestments, crosses etc and are invited to lunch.  Which we politely refuse. John has found a liking for the coffee and food of Ethiopia especially the Injeera and I note eats the food in the traditional way as well.  No utensils.  Totally immersed in the culture (most days).  Back to the injeera, it’s like a big pancake served with everything.  I do not like the look or the taste.  There is a fermented type of taste and it looks like tripe.  Depending on the area the colour can go from creamy to grey.

We meet up with some of the young guys we met in Nairobi, young Israeli guys who left from Cape town and will go all the way back because Sudan will not allow them entry.  What a pity.  Where will it all end?

It’s a cold grey Sunday morning as we leave Addis.  It’s nice to see so many people going to church, their heads and shoulders covered in white.  The runners and walkers are out getting their exercise.  There’s a sense of community that makes us realise that all over the world even those at war people need some sort of normalcy to survive.

DEBRE MARKOS

I’m desperate for a bit of the ‘normalcy’ we know.  Africa eventually gets to me.  The poverty, the despair, the hopelessness, the anger, the lack of water, the hope, the happiness the tears, the fears.  A land of great contradictions..  I want to find the hope, the hope for Africa, for the world, that we found in Porto Novo, the Songhai legacy. But for today Africa or the most of it is just a big black hole.

I end up weeping into my helmet, for the many children we have seen, fly infested and some even going blind.  For the children on the streets, for those already thieves so early in their lives.  I weep for the poor donkeys in so much distress for the many dogs dead along the road side.  I cry for the people in Syria, Pakistan and the world.  I’m doing a real good job.  It’s not easy crying into your helmet.  No place to wipe your nose so the tears and snollies just run down my face onto my neck. The tears won’t abate.  I cry for friends and family, for our grandchildren and children Greg and Tracy included, for my mom and dad, for John’s Mom and Dad that I never even knew my brothers and their families, for John’s sister and her family   I cry for my soul sister and then for my sister.  It’s then I realise I have to put a stop to all this because I don’t even have a sister.  Its cathartic and I know that in a day or two I’ll be back to my old optimistic, hopeful self once more.   Just a little bit of a wobble.

This long road is taking its toll on us, we are most probably at that stage of the journey where it is along way from home and it looks a mighty long way still to go. Sometimes we must just focus on the day or perhaps the country we’re in. Sudan is our next destination and the halfway mark in our journey looming or there abouts. But the road is relentless and we have to be strong, the crowd pressure in Ethiopia is chronic but as we move north the culture is changing, less intense and more diverse in lifestyle and definitely more style as if the Italians did leave something behind.

The first hotel room I look at in Debre Markos is a pig sty, how anyone could have the audacity to call the place a hotel is a disgrace so we find our way to the Shebel Hotel and we are in a place that has at least seen a lick of paint in the last two years and has hot water. They also serve a very fancy coffee, so fancy that we had to photograph it. The next morning is cold and misty so it’s on with the thermals as we head for Bahir Dar.

Categories: ETHIOPIA | 1 Comment

NYAHURURU

Posted on June 16, 2011 by Arlene

Once again the scenery getting here is  good. The first 30km on the road sees John often standing astride the bike like a rodeo rider.  He swerves all over the show trying to miss the potholes.  Often he takes to the dirt alongside the road.
I just hang on for dear life. I’m getting some good practice for the dreaded Marsabit road to Ethiopia.  Have we heard stories?  which I shy away from thinking about let alone talking about.  Let’s get out there and conquer the road ahead first.  Arlene’s pretty angst.  Can’t deny it.  I just want to linger a little longer and take our time getting there.  All John wants to do is hit the road and get it over with. In Nairobi I even manage to find somebody who will put the bike on a truck for that section only the price still has to be negotiated.  But after speaking to all and sundry John opts for the hard, hard way up.

No camping tonight as we head for the Safari Lodge Hotel. It’s a huge block of rooms.  Fair sized and clean.  John with his preference for through drafts proceeds to open the balcony door with the front door key.  Well we had to call in the handyman who just shook his head and proceeded to take the whole lock apart, handles and everything.  That sorts that out and we are moved to another room.

Nyahururu is one of those passing through kind of places which takes more time getting the pronunciation right than passing through.  On our way out we get to visit Thompson’s Falls which delights many a tourist.  Unfortunately we spend less time appreciating the falls because we cannot say no to the multitude of vendors who just want us to look.  So we traipse up and down looking and even if it crossed our minds to buy a little something we desist because we can’t bring ourselves to favour one above the other.  So stupid.

NANYUKI

Mount Kenya looms high above us and the cloud cover reveals nothing.  We are not sure if it’s the time of the year or if it’s just a hit and miss affair. We pass Meru on the way which seems like a nice place and apparently the best khat around is grown there.  We see khat being chewed around Kenya.  We are told its legal here, in Ethiopia and in the Sudan but in Tanzania beware.

John is being adventurous and decides we should stay at the Nanuki Riverside Camel Camp.  Again the road leading up to it is a training ground for what lies ahead.  Before we have even proceeded beyond the gate it looks like the bike is going to topple over and John has to put out his foot out to steady the animal, which by the way still has no name.

The campsite consists of traditional Somali huts and I let John do the inspection. Well the first one he enters, he bolts something akin to Sea Cottage trying to flee the bullet.  He is almost back on the bike when our Somali man gets him to look at another hut.

This is the honeymoon suite.  Mirrors on the headboard and a big spanking real brand new mattress.  Does not go with the traditional hut but I am not going to dissect the merits of where tradition starts and ends. Nothing wrong with a little bit of both for comfort sake. As evening falls I get two chairs and two beers and get ready to stargaze. Just to set the record straight the two beers are for John – Tuskers which he says he does not really like.  Could have fooled me.  Our Somali host sits and chews his khat and I partake of the chewing honey.  Honey with the honeycomb. After a few hours the cold drives us in side.

I am trying to stay outside for as long as possible because while John was being shown around I see two little mice playing the fool.  Ok it’s not anywhere near our hut but have no doubt they know the way.  It’s going to be a long night because all I can imagine is the scurrying back and forth of the mice in between the straw type of stuff.  I make John put a chair in front of the doorway which sports a curtain of rope just in case.

That night we are serenaded by the rasping bark for want of a better description of a Hyrax duo.
That’s what our host tells us it is in the morning.  One more stop and then it’s the Marsabit Road.

ISIOLO

Once again we land with our bum in the butter and are invited to stay the night with the Brothers of the Missionaries of Charity.  For those who do not know Mother Teresa also has an order for priests and brothers.  The brothers run a school in the area and also have a little home for ‘intellectually challenged’ people.  The community here in Isiolo are poor, poor, poor.

On the road to Isiolo there is a dramatic change in vegetation.  It’s dry and the earth is parched. That verdant fertile Kenya that we have got to know is no longer as we head north.  Even the look of the people change.  There are Somalis, and Ethiopians, Turkanas,Samburu and Boran.  We battle to make out which are which.  The women are dressed beautifully in oranges and lime greens, purples and reds.  What I would not do for a good picture.
Bright and early the next day, at sunrise we head off for the 1st leg of the dreaded Marsabit Road.  It has earned a hellish reputation.  It’s a stretch of road that is approx 313km.  Of which approx 135km has just been tarred by the Chinese.

MARSABIT

We sail along the first part of the road happy as Larry wondering just how bad the road ahead can be.  It’s unimaginable that it’s going to change.  We revel in the game watching which keeps us pretty occupied.  Giraffe, Warthogs, buck and little duiker type animals. Even see two birds of prey enjoying a free lunch thanks to a bit of road kill.  Don’t get me wrong I’m not embracing the dragon, but am I glad China have built this road.  Thank you, thank you.

The enjoyment of tooteling along like we are out on a Sunday afternoon drive ends rather abruptly when we are met with the dreaded dirt road.
I take over from Arlene and we slow down to a painful 20 to 30kms an hour.  For most of the time I am in second gear.  The corrugations or dogs ribs as they are often called progressively get worse.  It’s a case of looking and trying to judge the best form of attack.  Often you are left with no option at all but to take it had on pole, pole (slowly, slowly).  The road is so bad in some sections that the locals have made a track next to the road which we often take to. Sometimes I am in such a state thinking that the road is no longer in sight and we are going to end up lost and die from the heat and thirst.  But John always gets us back on track.
The state of the road changes all the time.  It never gets better.  At times it’s rocks and huge stones, at other times it’s huge ridges and dongas and then it gets like talcum powder. Every now and again I have to get out and do some pushing.  How I manage is another story.  We are absolutely covered in the’ red talcum powder’ which sticks to the sunscreen beautifully.  I’m starting to look a little like a Himba woman from way up in Namibia.  Just I’m more of an orange colour than a red.

We are having to stop and rest more and more frequently.  The physical exertion is taking its toll.  At times the handlebars (if that’s what they are called) shake and vibrate uncontrollably.  I check the shocks regularly thinking that is the problem.  What I am looking for I’m not quite sure. The kms are coming down awfully slowly.  I try and count down in 10km bites.  It’s as hot as hell.  Arlene takes off her helmet and her hair is plastered down.  Looks like a brylcream advert.  She lets me take a photo  hether it sees the light of day is another story.

We have been on the road since 6.30am and have only covered about 210km.  All this in 6hrs.  That’s including the good road. The last rest we take, a land rover comes past with some nuns in it.  They stop to check how we are doing and one of the sister’s leaves her rosary with us. We are going slightly up hill ( I am saying the rosary) when the nose of the sidecar collapses and I battle to keep control of the bike.

All I hear is this terrible noise and I need to stop this bike as quickly as possible. I’m not sure what has happened but I am pretty certain it’s serious.

In those split seconds all our plans go up in that red dust.  Horrible, horrible red dust.  Before I know it I am out of that side car my helmet is yanked off.  I don’t know what we are thinking. It never ceases to fascinate me how quick Arlene can get out of that sidecar.  Maybe it’s because she dos not have to untangle her legs.

It takes me seconds to see just what has happened. The frame behind the front wheel has snapped in two.  It’s the area that also holds the front strut of the sidecar and supports the engine… Initially we think that the radiator is also finished when we see that green liquid pouring out onto the road.  Then I realise the pipe from the radiator has pulled off.  Why it should make me feel better only God knows but it does.  After all the bike is finished, trashed.  The underside of the sidecar looks like somebody has taken a can opener to it in places.

We take turns in walking round and round the bike and I’m way down on my knees when I spot the cross bar where the petrol tank sits on has also cracked right through as well.   The engine is on the ground.  We are stunned, without words. John can’t believe it and neither can I. We have been told by other travellers that this is quite a busy road.  Well since we have been on it, we have had two vehicles come past us and going in the same direction and about six from the other direction.  It’s in the middle of the friggin bloody Kaisut desert and we are desperate for some traffic.  A water truck comes by and offers to put the
bike on top.  How he imagines we are going to do that is beyond us..  And then he wants one of us to go with him for help.
I just say thanks but we cannot be separated.  We ask him and his assistant just to help us move the bike out of the middle of the road. We give him our cell number and ask him to contact us if he can organise a truck.  Then we discover that there is no network connection out in the middle of nowhere. It’s also getting hotter and hotter.

We head for a little bunch of thorn bushes on the side of the road hoping to find a bit of shade.  Oh Yes! We find a bit, but only enough for John’s bald spot.  We’re just sitting there feeling so forlorn and dejected and in the distance three little boys
come along with about 100 goats.  That’s John’s estimate.  Any other time we would have enjoyed a bit of idle chatter but now we just want a miracle.

After a while they’re on their way with Mama and Papa’s half a loaf of bread.  Every now and again we get up and look longing into the distance for a dust cloud or two or three.  A sure sign that a vehicle is on the road.   There’s a definite frission of anxiety and a bit of hysteria building up on the periphery.  But between the two of us we keep it at bay.

And then the long awaited dust cloud in the distance announces the arrival of help. The first truck to stop is keen to help and sets the price at 10 000 shillings. But they are not too clued up and battling a bit with getting their heads around the problem.  Then yeah! Another truck stops and this man is into making a fast buck.  In no time he has his tail gate off the truck and Viola it becomes a ramp.  But he wants 20,000 shillings. John stands steadfast and says we can only afford 10,000 and that we are old.  I don’t know why that always has to come into the picture now days.  As if anybody cares. So they agree on 10,000 (about R800.00) which we will get from the Missionaries of Charity at the end of the journey.  We play it close to our chests that we carry money on us.

The young  assistant on the back of the truck has verbal running stomach, he is relentless and we are suffering from the heat, hunger, dehydration, what the hell are we going to do now, also a bit sorry for ourselves, dirty, stinky and just want to be left alone. But there still a long way to go and we start to warm to him, it’s a tough life being a truck assistant riding on the back, his clothes are filthy, he is stick thin but he is cheerful and I watch as he wolfs done some food he bought in a nomadic village, beans in a plastic packet, no plate or knife and fork here, he bites a hole in the corner of the packet and squeezes the beans through. Anyway, about 500 stories later from Hussain and numerous requests for us to sponsor him to come to South Africa we reach the sisters, tumble out the truck, organise the money which by the way the sisters think is highway/dirt track robbery and Sister Lily bargains him down from 10 000 to 9 000. The bike is unloaded and perches on top of a bank, bucket showers
are organised for the bedraggled plus our room and as we emerge the welder arrives and announces, no problem, he will be around tomorrow to repair the frame and even make it stronger. I am a bit sceptical, the beast is bleeding seriously hurt with a broken back and shattered leg – but what do I know.

That night we are pretty distracted from our woes with being entertained by the sisters or is it us doing the entertaining.  We are finished and sleep comes easily.  We have spoken very little about what next.  Suffice that we can always bury the bike and head off on foot.  Well that’s me talking.

I‘m pretty convinced that these guys here in Africa can fix anything.  You have to see them on the side of the road, working on the buses, the matatus, bikes trucks etc.  And I very much doubt many of them are trained.  It’s a do or die situation.  By the next morning there’s a heavy mist hanging over the place and a damp drizzle.  Sort of how John is feeling.  And when the welder is not there by eight or nine or ten o’clock John is convinced that he has chickened out.  He is despondent as we talk about what next. I’m still sure that the guy will pitch.   John is not keen to carry on by foot as it where.  To him it’s all about doing the trip by bike and to me it’s about the journey, by hook or by crook.  Anyway I say to him just hang in the welder
will come.  And so he does.  John has already taken all that needs taking apart, apart.  I am playing the lackey making labels for every nut, bolt, bit and piece.  Where they came from etc.

The man arrives and we watch and watch.  And he delivers.  So it seems for the moment.  He welds and then reinforces the broken areas with nice thick strips of curved piping. Now all that remains is to gets the bike onto a truck again for the250kms remaining to the Ethiopian border of Moyale.  It takes a few days but again the sisters work their magic and fro another 10 000 shillings we are off.  The emergency fund is being used again.  Hopefully it lasts.  The bike gets loaded expertly and is well tied down.  Its dark when we leave another anxiety attack looms. This part of the road is even worse than the previous.  But the driver is fantastic.  He has thirteen years of experience on the Marsabit Road and it shows.  Thankfully we have seats in the cab at his time round.  Even though I’m scrunched up with another woman and her child and baggage in the skinny little compartment behind the driver we do ok.

John admits that trying that second section of road would have been fatal.  It would no doubt have been the end.  Even on the truck he worries about the strain that the bike is taking, We reach Moyale in one piece all three of us bike included.  Oh! Yes the other passengers on the roof and in the truck as well. It’s good to see the driver stop now and again to help somebody on the road and also to pick up those who walk long distances to get water.  Never see any money changing hands. Which is nice. The journey takes 12 hours excluding a sleep break for two hours on the side of the road.

Again the sisters have taken care of everything and we are soon ensconced at the home of the local priest for the night.  Showered, fed and watered and a good night’s sleep sees us off on our way to Ethiopia.

The Marsabit/Moyale part of our  trans African trip represents a major obstacle that has been overcome and at least we have experienced what is probably the worst national highway that links two countries in Africa. The Chinese are busy tarring the road and with it removing a major challenge, what the Cape to Cairo route completely tarred, Africa will be for sissies.  So says John

Categories: Kenya Part 2 | 4 Comments