1 December – Metema, Ethiopia - Galabat –
Doka, Sudan – 88 km
Not being early risers, it was late
before crossing the border from Ethiopia into Sudan at the scruffy
border town of Metema. The immigration office was no more than a mud hut
under thatch. Upon emerging from the dark and dingy room, one found
oneself in super
conservative
Sudan.
The day was hot and windy, and not feeling 100% riding
became a struggle, only reaching tiny Doka towards the end of the day.
The tents were pitched in the vicinity of a police checkpoint at the
turn-off to the village. Camping close to the police wasn’t the safest
place, as the trouble in South Sudan was ongoing and police were
continuously under attack. The only reason for camping near the
checkpoint was water availability, and thus worth the risk. Checkpoints
had plenty of water and we could wipe ourselves down cook and fill our
bottles. Water is a significant concern in the desert, and fortunately,
the police didn’t mind sharing.
Before setting up camp, Ernest and I first rode to the
market. As Doka was no more than a few simple homes, a mosque, and a
small market, only a few potatoes and tomatoes were available.
Laying in my tent, I grinned as never in my wildest
dreams did I think I would cycle Sudan twice!
2 December – Doka – El Gadarif (Al-Qaārif)
– 90 km
The next morning, we pushed onwards to
Gadarif, a slightly larger town a further 90 kilometres north. The day
turned out another scorcher, and again I had to drag myself along and
felt weak, nauseous and without energy.
Filling our water bottles at a petrol
station, a farmer befriended us and gifted us 50
Sudanese
pounds (a substantial amount of money in those days). After thanking
him, we headed straight to the nearest hotel. Our benefactor will never
know how handy his donation came in. My entire night was spent vomiting
and I could at least do so in the privacy of a room.
3 December – El Gadarif – Migreh – 97 km
By morning, I felt considerably better
and could at least look around Gadarif’s markets which are famous for
selling sesame and sorghum. Anyone entering Sudan had to register with
the police within three days of arrival. Ernest and I thus proceeded to
the police station, where they appeared reluctant to perform this task.
Staff informed us it was “hard for them to do so”, and that it was
better to register in Khartoum, more than four hundred kilometres away
and not a distance doable in a day. Big eye-roll.
By the time all was done, the time was
11h00. Thank goodness the wind died down a tad, and Migreh was reached
without too much difficulty. Once again, camping was near a police depot
with nothing but desert surrounding us.
4 December - Migreh – Desert camp – 110
km
Sadly, the route north ran straight into
the prevailing wind, thus not making for enjoyable cycling. Nonetheless,
it remained a task that had to be done. Encountering a headwind is never
a pleasant affair, but facing it daily became a mission. Most days we
had our heads down, one pedal stroke at a time.

I was only 100% sure of one thing, which
was nothing ever stayed the same. Everything passes, and sooner or
later, the wind had to subside. It was apparently not going to happen
that day. The only positive thing was the many small settlements at
regular intervals along the Nile to get a Marinda or Pepsi. The luxury
of buying something sweet to drink became a daily highlight.
Albeit a tarmac road, it was in poor
condition and congested with predominantly large trucks. They were all
seemingly heading to Port Sudan, Sudan’s main port situated along the
Red Sea. As a result, I was dead tired almost every night. Ernest did
the cooking, following which I usually went straight to bed. Not that
there was much else to do when camping in the desert.
5 December – Desert camp – Wad Medani –
41 km
A short cycle led from our desert camp to
Wad Medani, located on the west bank of the Blue Nile and only 41
kilometres away. Being the
centre of a cotton-growing region, Wad
Medani was quite a substantial town for the desert and had a population
of nearly 300,000.
Moreover, the town was established due to
the Gezira irrigation scheme and consequently sported accommodation and
food. Staying the night was a no-brainer, and we spent the evening
stuffing our faces with falafel. To this day, I swear Wad Medani makes
the best falafel in the world.
A good deal of the political trouble at
the time was in the Darfur region. Still, a strong military presence
prevailed virtually everywhere. The killings of villagers increased, and
the government failed to disarm the armed militias, known as the
Janjawid, who
continued
to attack civilians in Darfur. As a result, hundreds of civilians were
killed in Darfur and Chad, and some 300,000 more were displaced.
6 December – Wad Medani – Desert camp –
81 km
It was a good thing we were well fed as
the next day was an exhausting ride in blistering heat and into a
howling wind. Sudan wasn’t kind to me and I felt tired and nauseous -
things were not going my way. Upon pulling off the road to set up camp,
I immediately had about 100 thorns in my tyres. This was the last thing
I needed. Ernest was a star and quietly went ahead and changed both
tubes and filled them with sealant. I had no energy to even think of
changing tubes.
Being winter, it became dark almost
immediately after sunset, and it was best to find a camping spot at
around 18h00. The mozzies were ferocious! I had no idea there were that
many mosquitoes in the desert. It felt like they had been waiting for
the unsuspected cyclist to set up camp. The safest place was in the
tents, at least until way past sunset.
7 December – Desert camp – Truckstop – 71
km
On waking to the violent flapping of the
flysheet, I knew we were in for an additional day grinding into the
wind. Ernest in front and me following closely behind, a difference to
our usual formation as I’ve long learned he didn’t like taking the lead.
Still, little headway was made all day.
There might not have been beer in Sudan,
but at least all settlements had water. Each community had a shelter
where pottery urns filled with water were kept and not once were we
refused this glorious and lifesaving liquid.
The
water stayed surprisingly cool in those pots, even in the extreme heat
of the desert.
In the dying moments of the day, a truck
stop with a restaurant, showers and toilets came into view. Here one
could camp at the rear and enjoy the luxury of a
shower. Sitting outside our tents, a
Sudanese man who spoke English befriended us. He was immensely proud of
his
English and showed us his English
textbooks.
The conversation took a bizarre turn. He
accused me of lying because, according to him, a woman couldn’t cycle
such long distances. I wondered how he figured I got there. He then
inquired whether I had any education. I confirmed I attended school for
12 years, after which I spent quite a few years pursuing further
studies. Not believing me, he threw me a few questions (to check, I
guessed). Luckily, the questions weren’t awfully hard, more like general
knowledge. Still not happy, he insisted I couldn’t drive a car. Upon
confirming I had not one, but two vehicles back home, he exasperatedly
exclaimed, “But you can’t climb a mountain!” By then, I’d lost interest
in the conversation as we were clearly worlds apart. One couldn’t blame
the man as he was taught that from a young age. His way of thinking
confirmed my belief that children shouldn’t be exposed to political or
religious beliefs at a young age. Instead, both should be taught as a
science at school; otherwise, it’s nothing but brainwashing.
8-11 December – Truckstop – Khartoum – 50
km
In the morning, we turned the bicycles in
Khartoum’s direction. Once there, camping was at the Blue Nile Sailing
Club, a favourite amongst overlanders. It was also the place I camped
during my ride from Cairo to Cape Town two years previously. The sailing
club had a superb
location
on the Nile, with a gentle breeze coming off the water. Outside was a
shack
that sold fruit juice consisting of half
mango and half avocado in two distinct layers. The stall was immensely
popular!
The sailing club was where one met
practically anyone travelling overland north or south. So, it was no
surprise to meet Clive and Denise, a British couple on a 1954 Triumph en
route from London to Cape Town. As can be imagined, they had enough
experiences to keep a conversation going through the night. Also camping
at the club were Charles and Rensche on motorbikes heading south.
Meeting them was a blessing as we learned where to find water further
north. Unfortunately, the route to Wadi Halfa involved an open desert
crossing and therefore a serious lack of water.
The next four days were spent in Khartoum
trying to extend our Sudanese visas (without success) and registering
with the police. The rest of the time was spent (as usual) eating
anything in sight.
12 December – Khartoum – Desert Camp –
106 km
We finally rode out of Khartoum on
Wednesday, 12 December (winter). It became one more day battling into a
stiff breeze. By five o’clock, we’d done a mere 105 kilometres.
When biking in Africa, it’s best to cycle
north to south as the chance of the prevailing wind being in your favour
is far greater.
Camping in the desert usually meant one
could go about your business undisturbed. Pitching tents and hauling out
cooking equipment when people were nearby typically brought a crowd of
spectators. Generally, they kept their distance and observed the madness
in wonderment and awe from afar.
13 December – Desert camp – Desert camp -
86 km
The following day, our path left the Nile
and led straight into a desert storm.
It must be mentioned that when leaving
the Nile, there is no reference and the landscape
looks
similar whether one looks north, south, east or west. The wind was
exceptionally fierce and whipped up sand to the extent that visibility
was down to a few metres. With bandana-covered faces, we dragged the
bicycles through the thick sand. By then, there was no visible road,
direction, or path; we could only hope we were heading in the right
direction.
At one stage, I lost my cool, threw the
bicycle down, kicked it and shouted to the wind, only to realise I
might’ve broken a toe. Feeling defeated, I had no choice but to pick the
bike up and, hobbling, pushed the bike into the wind. We must’ve made a
sad sight - two lonely cyclists at a snail’s pace through the desert.
14 December - Desert camp - Desert camp –
81 km
From our desert camp, Ernest and I only
managed 81 kilometres. There were barely any water stops on this day.
With heads down, we pushed into the wind until time to set up camp. The
only water stop encountered couldn’t have been more fascinating. These
places often had a dhaba (a basic stall selling food, usually
only one dish). They were places no one ever passed without stopping.
So, we sat in wonderment, staring at Sudanese men, dressed in jallabiyas,
eating raw goat.
By evening, gale-force gusts made
pitching a tent challenging; in no time,
the whole shebang was covered in sand.
Eventually, Ernest lit
the
stove and produced a sandy pasta meal. Not much later, we crawled into
our equally sandy beds. I know I’ve been harping on about the wind, but
there are no words to describe how challenging cycling and camping can
be in such dire conditions.
15 December – Desert Camp – Al Dabbah –
111 km
Eventually, the route spat us out at the
Nile at Al Dabbah, and it almost felt like meeting an old friend. The
wind seemed stronger each day. Biking was challenging, but setting up
camp and packing up was equally problematic. I’m sure I lost half of my
belongings to the wind. We located a derelict building by evening and,
after dragging the bikes through the thick sand, set up camp behind it.
With a broken toe, this was even more tricky, and I vowed never to kick
the bike again.
16 December – Al Dabbah – Sali – 92 km
On a Sunday, the two desert rats (which
we jokingly called ourselves by then, as I’m sure we looked and smelled
the part) pedalled the 92 kilometres from Al Dabbah to Sali. The route
ran close to the Nile, with numerous settlements on the riverbank.
We were promptly invited in after turning
into one of the settlements to get water. The stove was hardly lit to
make supper when a large tray laden with goat’s milk cheese, olives and
dates arrived. The desert folk were incredibly hospitable. I think they
gave us their sleeping quarters while they slept in the kitchen area.
17-18 December – Sali – Dongola – 71 km
A further 70 kilometres led to Dongola
and it became another day grinding into a stiff breeze. Therefore, I was
in no mood for petty bureaucracy arriving in Dongola where
authorities
required us to register with the police before booking a hotel. I
suspected the reason was being a woman. I was not happy and with my lip
dragging on the ground set off by tuk-tuk to the police station.
This was where General Herbert Kitchener
killed 15,000 of the indigenous Mahdist tribes in 1899. The British were
brutal in those days. First, they killed the people but later killed the
wounded, raising the overall death toll to over 50,000.
The following day was spent in Dongola.
True to its location in one of the hottest and driest regions in the
world, the weather was sweltering. Dongola was an excellent place to do
much-needed laundry, bicycle maintenance, and stock up with provisions
for the road ahead. All while stuffing our faces in anticipation of the
next big desert starve.
19 December - Dongola - Kerma – 54 km
Following a well-deserved break, we
departed Dongola along the western side of the Nile, heading north to
Argo, where crossing the Nile was by a small ferry. Upon arriving at the
crossing point, it was prayer time and thus not a soul in sight. All one
could do was wait until the boatman returned from the mosque.
Once on the opposite bank, the road
veered away from the Nile, making finding the way almost impossible - it
was a good thing Charles gave Ernest the GPS coordinates where to meet
the river afterwards. Camping was along the bank of the Nile under palm
trees which sounded far more romantic than it turned out.
20 December – Kerma – Kahli - 53 km
From Kerma, a further 53 kilometres took
us to Kahli. The midges were ferocious and got in everywhere - nose,
ears, mouth and food. In the evening, it became a matter of pitching the
tent in record time and hiding inside till sunset, when they
miraculously disappeared.
By then, we were well entrenched in the
Nubian lifestyle of drinking sweet black tea and could barely wait to
pitch the tents and boil water. Strange things one does when there’s a
lack of beer - my mother would’ve been proud of me.
21 December – Khali – Desert Camp - 54 km
Our plan, after Khali, was to do an open
desert crossing. We therefore continued straight where the river made a
big loop as it was considerably shorter. By then, we were almost in the
middle of the Nubian desert, which, surprisingly, wasn’t all sand.
Instead, the terrain
became
mountainous, rocky and corrugated. In other places, one sank deep into
the soft sand and the bicycles were dragged along with great difficulty.
As expected from a desert, the area was
plagued by windstorms which became our biggest nemesis. With bandanas
tied around our faces, we leaned into the wind, sometimes pedalling and
other times walking (the toe was never the same afterwards).
Whether looking north, east, west or
south, the landscape remained one vast desert. Yet, in the distance a
structure loomed. Upon reaching it, we discovered not only the ruined
remains of a building but four men on motorbikes huddling together,
trying to have a bite to eat out of the wind. Astonished to see us, they
offered us a few chocolate biscuits, a prized item in the desert. Albeit
going with the wind, they had problems of their own. Their motorbikes
were significantly heavier and sank far deeper into the sand.
Eventually, they wished us good luck, and we set out into the wind,
fuelled by the chocolate biscuits.
22 December – Desert camp – Desert camp -
52 km
The past few days, we could only manage
approximately 50 kilometres of riding and at night camped in the wadis
(dry riverbeds), cooking our fast-dwindling supply of rations. Moreover,
the nights and mornings were bitterly cold. Reluctant to emerge, the
time was usually nine-thirty or ten before getting underway.
23 December – Desert camp – Desert camp -
72 km
The next day, the two desert rats managed
72 kilometres, a distance we were pleased with as biking days were short
when departing late as the sun set around 6 o’clock. During the day, we
uncovered a dhaba selling foul (pronounced fool) and
aish (warm pita bread), a dish that became our favourite while
cycling Sudan.
Even though trying our level best to do
longer distances, the going remained dreadfully slow. Therefore,
catching the weekly Wadi Halfa/Abu Simbol ferry in four days seemed more
unlikely by the day.
The fascinating part was that camp was
amongst the ruins of a deserted town. To this day, I wonder about its
history, but Maslow was correct and all I was concerned about was food,
water and pitching the tent.
24 December – Desert camp - Akasha – 74
km
Albeit trying to get underway earlier,
the time was 9 o’clock before getting going. Our eyes were set on the
small community of Akasha,
almost
74 kilometres away. At least we were cycling along a road of sorts, but
it deteriorated as soon as it left the Nile. Conditions were becoming
increasingly challenging, and the wind, sand, corrugations, and
mountains seemed even worse. At least Akasha was reached before dark,
which sported a tiny shop where one could buy a few items. The shop had
a relatively limited supply, but we were delighted and excited about
buying more tea and a few sweets.
With full water bottles, we headed out of
the village to camp in a nearby riverbed. Later, Ernest warmed water to
wash as the weather became downright freezing beyond sunset.
25 December – Akasha – Desert Camp - 59
km
It’s surprising how cold the desert gets
in winter and after drinking our morning tea, we packed up and departed.
Unfortunately, the day was again marred by soft sand requiring walking
the bicycles through sand or over stony terrain. Although there were no
water stops or settlements, we came across a road camp approximately 30
kilometres into the day. Staff were kind enough to fill our water
containers, allowing enough water to cook and wash that evening.
Our days started to follow a familiar
rhythm of shivering while drinking our morning tea, followed by pushing
the bikes into the wind through sand or over stony terrain, generally,
in the oppressing heat. By evening, we pitched the tents in the wadis
while dressed in our warmest clothes.
26 December – Desert Camp - Wadi Halfa –
72 km
Awake early we were keen to get going as
this was the final stretch to Wadi Halfa.
The
only way to get from Sudan to Egypt overland was by ferry from Wadi
Halfa to Aswan in Egypt across the Aswan Dam.
Being a weekly ferry, it was essential to
get the boat the following morning or wait a further week.
Unfortunately, our visas expired more than a week before and we were
desperate to get the coming days’ ferry.
Great was our surprise to find the last
30 kilometres into Wadi Halfa paved. With smiles and an immeasurable
sense of relief, the two desert rats made their way into the small port
town of Wadi Halfa. I was relieved (and I’m sure so was Ernest) being
out of the desert and in a dirty room with a sagging bed. We were even
more delighted with the many food stalls and being in time to catch the
Aswan ferry.
27 December – Wadi Halfa, Sudan – Aswan,
Egypt
The following day was an early start to
purchase ferry tickets and get our police stamps
to exit Sudan. Even with all the checks and stamps, no one said a word
regarding our expired visas, and we couldn’t wait to board
the
ferry and get out of Sudan before anyone noticed. Being an overnight
ferry departing at four a.m., I splashed out and treated us to a cabin.
The border between the two countries ran
somewhere through the middle of the lake. After some time, a speedboat
came hurrying along, police jumped aboard, and our passports were
nervously handed over. Then, mercifully, no one noticed the dates, and
we were free to go. Phew!
The remainder of the evening was spent
chatting with fellow travellers and enjoying a beautiful sunset over the
Aswan Dam.
The
ferry from Wadi Halfa, Sudan arrived in Aswan, Egypt around nine o’clock
the following day. We, nevertheless, only managed to place our feet upon
Egyptian soil at around eleven. Thus, the saying, “Egypt was like a
visit back in time”, seemed accurate in more ways than one.
The remainder of the evening was spent
chatting with fellow travellers and enjoying a beautiful sunset over the
Aswan Dam.
The
ferry from Wadi Halfa, Sudan arrived in Aswan, Egypt around nine o’clock
the following day. We, nevertheless, only managed to place our feet upon
Egyptian soil at around eleven. Thus, the saying, “Egypt was like a
visit back in time”, seemed accurate in more ways than one. |