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"Never forget where you've come here from" </br> Take That

Aswan, Egypt to Khartoum, Sudan (1 March 2002)

Roundtheworldbybike
2005-11-18 10:53:49

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working through billowing robes of green and gold. Deftly she fills delicate thimble shaped glasses, the chestnut coloured tea misting the tops of the glasses as tiny jewels of condensation run back down into the dark sweet tea. On every corner in every village pose characters from National Geographic photo-shoots. Beauty, grace, wisdom, dignity: all the characters are here, laconically leaning in the jaunty painted doorways of Northern Sudan.

A squad of six trainee soldiers marches in the desert, perfectly out of step and uniformed in a hotchpotch of shorts, tattered T-shirts and flip-flops. They are a shambles. Sergeant Major style I bellow “Eyyyes Right!” and throw them my crispest salute much to their amusement.

The bicycles of Sudan put mine to shame with their spectacular tacky decorations: frames striped with coloured tape and a cornucopia of aerials, bells, laser beam noise machines, wing mirrors (at least 4), large mud flaps (mud? Sudan?) with flourishes of dangly stuff and jangling Pepsi caps, frilly things in the wheels, tassles on the seats and often a huge chrome headlamp too (Broken). They are normally ridden by small boys who can barely even straddle the crossbar let alone sit on the saddle.

Edward Gibbon wrote that he was “never less alone than when completely alone”. He had clearly never hauled a bike through miles of shimmering virgin sand, alone as far as the horizon in every direction, in search of an elusive road. The blood roared through my head and stars danced in my eyeballs. Even my singing could not disguise the brutal silence. I felt very alone. It was a Long Drag.

As ever the final stretch of the stage degenerated into silliness- riding all day and then right through the night as well, desperate to reach Khartoum and civilisation and to avoid another midday in the desert glare. Beneath shooting stars the night air was cool and fresh. I arrived in Khartoum early, as the yolk-like sun began sliding up once more into the frying pan sky of Sudan. I’ve made it!

Three weeks without showering or changing my clothes has left my clothes festering and torn to shreds. I am thoroughly sick of mouldy bread and jam. I am desperate to hear music once more. My bike has snapped. But even as my kind host tactfully pointed me towards the shower I could look past all the struggles to see and feel the relief of success, the warmth and grace of a charming people, the privilege of silent sunrises over the Nile and the satisfaction of lying on my back in the hot sand, sun baked and filthy, a cracked smile on my grubby face in the hot, gritty desert wind. I have made it to Khartoum.