A Duffer's Negligence

Riding a motorbike is a lot like playing a game of golf. You're outdoors, taking in the scenery, the sun's on your face and you're having fun. But like golf, sometimes you have your good days and sometimes you have your bad ones. It was on the road from Kasulu to Mpanda in Tanzania that Jerry was having a bad day. We'd already covered 250 miles on Tanzania's dusty dirt tracks without too much bother. But this road was different. Fesh-fesh, rocky terraces and deep sandy rutts.


It was the rutts that had Jerry's number. Like a particularly deep bunker, Jerry often found himself in the rutts, and when he did he found it difficult to get out. In the 150 mile stretch to Mpanda he dropped his bike 14 times – seven of which were in a sandy section not more than two miles apart. Par for the course was about three or four drops - at least that's how many times Tyson and I came off anyway.



When you get stuck in a mental funk, either playing golf or riding a bike, it's very difficult to pull yourself out. But Jerry shook off the yips and emerged from the road to Mpanda triumphantly - riding the last fifty miles at break neck pace. Despite falling multiple times, both he and Buffy (his bike) seemed unscathed. The same couldn’t be said for Tyson and I though. Tyson, who had gone on ahead to find water, had been forced off the road by an oncoming truck. That spill, or one of his others, resulted in a worryingly large hole in his fuel tank. So with gas pouring onto the ground at an alarming rate, he tore in to Mpanda to get a hasty weld.

As for me, I was riding in the rear gunner position. Riding at the back of the group is a nice place to be. You don’t have to wait around. You’ve always got a bike in front of you as entertainment (just in case the scenery gets dull), and you can muck about without putting the other guys off. But you’re also responsible for picking up anyone who falls over and for looking after yourself.

On a bumpy bit of fesh-fesh I stole a rearward glance at my left hand pannier – the metal rack which holds my case onto the bike had developed another crack and I thought it might have sheared. But taking my eye off the road was a bad move – like looking up in the middle of a golf swing. With my eye off the ball, my front wheel dug into the ground, twisting awkwardly and sending me crashing to the ground. On the way down my foot got caught under the pannier trapping my ankle underneath. I yelled out in pain but no-one was around to hear. I was riding at the back after all.

Fortunately it was only a sprain and I could still ride without too much discomfort. My bike suffered minor injuries too – a bent front fairing, wonky handlebars and a few more scratches to add to the growing collection. Together we limped in to Mpanda just as the sun was setting.

The following day, we did our best to service the bikes and get them back to roadworthy condition. It was late in the afternoon by the time we eventually got going. Despite our late start we had the ambitious goal of making it another 150 miles to Sumbawanga (whoever named the towns in western Tanzania had a sense of humour).

The ride out of town was a pleasant one. Smooth tracks lead us through Katavi National Park and for once I was leading. As I rounded a corner I saw a majestic sight – a lone giraffe standing by the side of the road. She looked at me curiously as I slowed down. Then as I edged closer she dashed into the trees camouflaging herself expertly. Seeing a giraffe run is quite a sight to behold – they gallop in slow motion as if their hooves barely touch the ground. Graceful.


We saw more giraffes as the warm red sun dipped slowly below the horizon. At dusk, we had the option to camp or push on a bit further and make up some miles. The lights on the KLR aren’t the best in the world and you’re always advised against riding at night in Africa. But we pushed on anyway as it was still a long way to Sumbawanga. We got a few miles before it got so dark that I needed to turn on my high beams. But as I flicked the switch all of my lights went out – a classic sign of a blown fuse. Fortunately Tyson was looking in his mirrors and circled back to help out. As we were replacing the fuse, a ranger pulled up to warn us that there were lions around. Our repairs gained a sense of urgency after that. Good thing we didn’t camp.

We pushed on for another 30 miles or so, Tyson and I riding side-by-side, his high-beams lighting the way. As we passed a wildfire we pulled over to wait for Jerry. Half an hour went by before we saw his headlight wobbling slowly towards us. Something was very wrong with his steering. Like an extreme version of the problem I had in Europe (a loose steering bearing). We decided to camp again that night (now safely out of lion territory) and diagnose the problem in the morning.

It was Jerry’s birthday when we woke up, but Buffy hadn’t got a present for him. Far from it. An initial inspection of her steering revealed nothing wrong until Tyson spotted an ominous crack in her frame. I’ve done a lot of research for this trip and read a lot about KLRs, but I’ve never heard of anyone cracking their frame before. This could be a trip ending incident. It’s still a bit of a mystery as to what caused the crack. Jerry hadn’t fallen that day, so the road to Mpanda must have been the culprit. One of his 14 spills must have weakened the frame causing it to slowly crack over the course of the day.


We rode slowly in to Sumbawanga to look for a mechanic. It was Sunday and we figured everything would be closed. But good fortune shone on us again. Not only did we find a mechanic, but we found a competent one. Within three hours he had completely stripped Jerry’s bike, welded the frame (which had cracked in two places – effectively splitting the bike in half) and put the whole thing back together. We decided to celebrate Jerry’s good fortune with a night on the town. But Jerry’s luck didn’t last for long.

The following day on the ride to Tunduma there was another mishap. The roads had gotten a little bumpy again and Jerry was concerned about his frame. So concerned in fact that he didn’t notice one of his panniers fall off. Tyson’s pannier had slipped off his bike three times on the same road but each time he had noticed quickly enough to circle round and pick it up. Everytime a local had already got the case in their hand. On one occasion a car even picked up the case and Tyson had to follow it for two miles before it would relinquish his luggage.

Jerry wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t notice his case was missing for 100km. And, since our cases look exactly like those that drug dealers might use to haul vast quantities of cash around, it’s almost certain that it has been prized open in some Tanzanian village.

There was a bit of cash in the case, but the real expense, and the reason that Jerry is now in Dar es Salaam rather than here with Tyson and I in Malawi, is because all his ID documents were in that case. There have been four occasions when Jerry thought he might have to end his trip early. None of us thought it would be paperwork that would be the final nail in the coffin.

But if you’re thinking that Jerry is the negligent duffer in this story then you’re mistaken. That unfortunate title falls to me. Jerry is well on his way to replacing all his documents and should be continuing south to the Cape before long. The journey on my bike has come to a more abrupt end however.

Since entering Malawi, Tyson and I have been soaring on the smooth blacktop travelling at highway speeds for the first time in a long time. The roads are in excellent condition and a nice reward after the trials of Tanzania.


It’s a harsh irony that in such idyllic riding conditions, my bike (The Odyssey) has finally stopped working. And it’s not her fault either, it’s entirely mine.

Bike maintenance is a crucial part of a trip like this. Everyday you check your tyre pressure and your engine oil. But over the past few days I’ve got sloppy with my maintenance. Too preoccupied with my front fork seal, which has been leaking oil since Sumbawanga, and my tyres (which got a puncture shortly after Tunduma) I forgot to check my engine oil. That’s a cardinal sin in the motorcycling world and one that I’ll pay for dearly. Oil is the lifeblood of the engine, and without it things can seize up pretty fast. In normal conditions a bike won’t use much oil and the only way it can get dangerously low is a leak, which is obvious by a thick tarry covering over the engine. But occasionally the engine can use up large quantities of oil unexpectedly. It was one of those unexpected occurrences that happened in Malawi.

Maybe it was because we were riding at over 80mph for the first time in ages. Maybe it was because we covered over 400 miles that day. Whatever the reason, the ride was taxing the engine and burning oil. 50 miles north of Lilongwe it finally conked out. First I thought it was a simple problem – like a worn out spark plug. But when Tyson circled back and asked me how the oil was doing I realised I hadn’t checked it. Glancing down at the oil gauge window, I saw nothing there. Even when the bike was fully tilted over there was no sign of the black stuff anywhere.

With my bike going nowhere, and Tyson’s electrical problems back, we both had to load our bikes onto a truck to take us the final 50 miles to Lilongwe. And that’s where we’ve been for the past few days. Tyson’s electrics are fixed, but unfortunately the problems with my bike are terminal. The lack of oil in the engine has damaged the camshaft and the cam-seat has worn out. That makes riding impossible, and with spare parts and tools thin on the ground out here, that means my bike will have to be trucked to the nearest Kawasaki dealer which is in Johannesburg. A sorry way for The Odyssey to finally come to an end – 17365km from London.



So what now for this silly duffer? Well. Tyson has kindly agreed to give me a lift to Johannesburg on his beloved bike - Rosa. Two-up is not the most fun way to travel, so we’ll be keeping a close look out for cheap local bikes. Maybe I’ll be able to snag myself a red devil, just like Claudio, the cameraman who wrote-off his bike on the Long Way Round. Either way, it certainly beats a bus.

Perhaps it’s a fitting way for Rosa to finish the journey as well. Tyson named her after La Poderosa (‘The Mighty One’) – the bike that Che Guevara and Alberto Granado rode two-up on their adventure in the Motorcycle Diaries. If she carries us all the way to Johannesburg she certainly will have earned her name.

African Wildlife II - Enchanting Uganda

After leaving the Brit-like sanctity of Kenya we crossed onto the manic roads of Uganda. Strewn with potholes big enough to tip lorries over, the Ugandan roads are some of the worst we’ve ridden on. Better not to have paved them at all than allow them to deteriorate in to such a patchy state.

Any normal driver treats a pothole in much the same way as a speedbump, slowing down carefully to gently roll over it. On a dirt bike it's a bit different. Ususally you gun the throttle and hope that gravity is feeling generous. If she is, then you'll soar over the top and land happily on the other side. If she's feeling mean, you'll receive a nutt-busting bump as penance for your bravado. But whether you're driving a car or riding a bike, the way to go over a pothole is straight. Or at least it should be. Not so in Uganda though. Most Ugandan drivers come from the homicidal school of motoring and prefer to brake harshly and swerve recklessly around potholes, sideswiping whoever might be in the other lane.

On one occasion I was following an articulated truck which suddenly slammed on its brakes and skidded to a halt. I just about crashed in to the back of it. Was there a child that had run out? A dog perhaps? Had a tree fallen over? No. There was a pothole and the driver was more concerned with his suspension than who might be following. If that were an isolated incident then it would hardly be worth mentioning here. But in Uganda, thanks to the insane minibus drivers, that sort of behaviour is the norm rather than the exception.

Fortunately the trials of the Ugandan roads were all worth it when we got to Mburo National Park. We arrived at night, as is usually the case, and there was a stretch of dirt road in front of us. But there was another more immediate challenge too. The headlight on Tyson’s bike was barely working - his electrical problems had returned yet again. But rather than camp near the road, our solution was to ride the 15 mile stretch to the lodge side-by-side with my headlight lighting the way for both of us. It was like a computer game - riding three feet off Tyson’s rear wheel - and like any computer game it had levels.

Level 1 – the ride to the lodge – was reasonably challenging on the rutted gravel, but Tyson and I managed to bump our way to the end without incident. Jerry on the other hand took a wrong turn, forcing us to go back to look for him and for Level 2. With the terrain now familiar we egged each other on to go faster, skidding round the corners and braking only for the occasional zebra crossing (that’s literally a zebra crossing the road). Having ridden all the way back to the park gates with no sign of Jerry, we turned back for Level 3. Even faster this time and standing up we nearly made it the entire way. Tyson did actually complete the game. But a slight twitch on my front wheel sent me sliding out on the final corner. I stopped the bike from skidding into the adjacent ditch, but because I was standing I failed to jump off in time to stop the bike from falling over. The bike toppled on to its side in a cartoonish slow motion fall. Gameover. Can I play again?

After the rangers had found Jerry, we pitched our tents on the shore of Lake Mburo, falling asleep to the sound of warthogs grunting outside our tents. The following morning we got up for a wildlife tour Team Canuk style. With our cameras dangling round our necks we rode through the park one-handed using the other hand to snap blurry pictures of zebra, impala and buffalo that would occasionally cross the road. We’d seen these animals just a few days before, but the experience was much more memorable on a bike. A motorcycle safari – how many people can say they’ve done that?



But the best was yet to come. Making our way further south in to the heart of Uganda the scenery turned from the mundane to the spectacular. Volcanic mountains jutted sharply in to the sky creating winding mountain roads around crisp blue lakes. Our destination was Kisoro and the Parc de Volcan – home of the gorillas in the mist.



It costs five hundred dollars to go gorilla tracking and only eight people are allowed to do it per day. You have to book months in advance to secure a place and even then double bookings can mean you don’t get to see the beautiful creatures at all. We had written off any hope of seeing the gorillas. We hadn't booked. Our calls earlier in the week had proved fruitless. But Tyson’s desire to see them – a childhood dream of his – was enough for us to go through the motions anyway. And what a good thing we did. Fortune shone on us and we managed to secure three places for the very next day. Unbelievable luck.

The mountain gorillas are found in the Impenetrable Forest – an area named for the endless shoots of bamboo that block your path. It’s a bit of a misnomer. Armed with a machete you can hack your way through it. But it’s an exhausting experience and one that makes finding the gorillas all the more rewarding.


The gorillas are visited everyday by the same guides and a different group of tourists. Usually there are eight tourists in each group, but in our group there were just four. Us three and an Australian pilot named Matt. More good luck.


If I were a gorilla that was visited by tourists everyday, I would occassionally want a day off. The gorillas seemed to be thinking the same thing, so they sent one of their number in one direction up the volcano while the rest of the group scarpered in the other. Our guides mistakenly followed the lone gorilla's track leading us on a six hour hike up Mount Gahinga.

By early afternoon, with only piles of gorilla dung and shoots of half eaten bamboo as encouragement, we were all starting to get a bit tired. But then, Matt turned around and passed on a message from the guide - 'they're up ahead' he said, 'we can smell them'. The thick ozzy accent could only be reminiscent of the late great Steve Irwin - a fitting character to be with us at such a time.

And sure enough, up ahead I caught my first glimpse of a black ball of fur rolling playfully down the hill. The guides were muttering their greeting call - a low nnnnnnnnn sound, which the gorillas interpreted as hello. Their response was a much deeper and slighty bored nnnnnnnnmm sound, as if to say 'not you again'.

There were eight gorillas in all. A couple of silverbacks, a few females and a baby. The mother with her baby only gave us a quick glance before heading off in to the thick brush, but the head Silverback - Big Mac - was more than happy to put on a show. Initially he was completely unbothered by our prescence, lying sleepily on his back, sunning his giant belly.


After a short while he got up. Obviously hungry, he wandered over to a shoot of bamboo and proceeded to pull down half the forest. Then he munched happily away, stripping vines with his teeth, occassionally giving us a glance to say, 'well, what are you looking at?'.


But Big Mac warmed to us and before long he was happily sitting just a few feet away. In fact, I think he liked the attention. All four of us were snapping pictures left, right and centre. Ever the showman, Big Mac got up from his spot about 8 metres away and wandered over to sit right in front of us. You're not supposed to get closer than 7 metres to the gorillas, but here was the biggest one of them all sitting just six feet away. Those intelligent orange eyes gleaming at us.


The hour we were allowed to spend with the beautiful beasts seemed to fly by in seconds. The experience was completely different from the safari in the Masai Mara. Much more engaging. The animals not only knew we were there, but they accepted us, and even looked upon us with interest. To answer my question from the previous blog - seeing the gorillas in the flesh was completely different from any image you see on TV. It's the proximity of the encounter. The connection you feel with the animals. Such a priveledge - I'd recommend it to anyone.

African Wildlife I - The Masai Mara

When you think of a trip across Africa, one of the first things that springs to mind is the animals. National Geographic, the Discovery Channel and the BBC have spoiled us with stunning images of some of the planet's most captivating creatures. But the question is - are those same beasts even better when you see them in the flesh?

Over the past couple of weeks I've had ample chance to answer that question. Since leaving Nairobi we've been on something of a wildlife tour, visiting four national parks and seeing too many animals for me to recount. Our first stop was the infamous Masai Mara National Park in southern Kenya.

Predictably we left Nairobi late and were still fifty miles away from the park by the time the sun set. Dusk coincided with the end of the tarmac, and so it was on a dark, dusty track that we rode through the Rift Valley to the gates of the Masai Mara. What a spectacular ride. Standing up on the pegs, kicking up huge clouds of dust behind us, watching our headlights reflect in the retinas of fleeing animals. Unforgettable.

It was well and truly dark by the time we got to the outskirts of the park and finding a campsite proved tricky. After riding around for half an hour we stumbled across one fenced off enclosure which looked promising. Three red cloaked owners soon appeared from the shadows to tell us that their campsite wasn't yet finished but we could still stay there if we wanted. Hungry, thirsty and keen to find some working facilities we decided to push on. But as we left, the owners warned us of the dangers of riding at night - 'there are elephants around' one of them said in a hushed whisper, so as not to be overheard. Elephants do have big ears after all.

We didn't encounter any elephants that night, but judging by the huge piles of dung in the middle of the path, they weren't far away. The following day proved more fruitful though.


Up with the dawn, we piled in to our rented land cruiser and made our way to the park (you're not allowed to ride motorbikes in the park - something about it being too dangerous). Our visit was well timed, coinciding with the wildebeast migration. In such a time of plenty the wildlife was abundant. We saw dozens of different animals in just a few short hours. I wont list them all, I cant remember most of them, so I'll just write about my favourites instead - the elephants, the lions and the cheetah.

We saw the elephants first or rather our guides did. I took rather longer to distinguish the elephants from the elephant shaped bushes that dotted the savannah. But by the time we were twenty feet away the distinction was obvious even to me. Such gentle giants roaming the savannah, guarding their young and eating pound after pound of grass. They looked curiously at us while munching away. Their wrinkled skin giving them a hundred different expressions. Captivating.


Next was the cheetah. He was on his own, slowly meandering his way after some zebra. He looked full and in no hurry to catch them up. Instead he just sat among the golden grass, in a house-cat pose, surveying the meals in front of him. A proud animal.


Then came the lions. We found a pack of them near a recent kill, sleeping in the shade. Theirs was the easiest life of all. Sleeping for most of the day, occasionally wandering over to a watering hole for a drink, then back to the bushes for another cat nap.



Like most of the animals, the lions were unfazed by our presence. Many of them barely gave us a second glance. Perhaps because of that - the lack of interaction - the experience didn't feel all that different from going to the zoo. There was still a cage after all (the land cruiser) only this time we were in it. My doctor friends will disagree with me of course. Biologists for the last two decades they were thrilled by the whole experience and will fall over themselves to tell you about it. As for me, I certainly enjoyed the safari. Seeing the animals in the flesh did add something - the smell of rotting carcasses, the sound of trumpeting elephants and growling lions. But the sights I had seen before, better even, thanks to the film crews that come every year to capture them.

I’m glad I went on safari, it gives you a renewed respect for the stunning images that the film crews capture. Although I don’t have the patience to be a wildlife photographer myself, I’ll always enjoy watching the work of those who do.

Ethiopia/Kenya - Food, Dubious Food

Sampling the local cuisine is an integral part of travelling. It's also a necessity when travelling by bike as it's hard to carry enough supplies for a single day let alone three months. But with the local 'delicacies' come side effects. We've all had GI issues on this trip (that's Gastro-Intestinal issues to anyone who hasn't spent the last couple of months with doctors, or tummy trouble to everyone else). Since leaving Turkey our bowels have developed a bipolar disorder flipping between a dammed state and one of uncontrollable flooding. Anyone who has ever accidentally taken four immodium will know that the dammed state is uncomfortable, but manageable. It's when the dam bursts that you run in to trouble. In that situation it's not uncommon for one of us to yell 'campo' at the others - our code word for telling the other two to carry on ahead while business is taken care of in the nearest bush.

Of the three of us, I've probably got the weakest stomach. No doubt caused by my unadventurous diet back home. I'm a typical Englishman and I like my food bland. Those who know me well know that it's quite normal for me to have the same meal day-in day-out for a week or more. But tuna sandwiches, cornflakes and my mum's roast dinner are thin on the ground out here, so I've had to make do. Thankfully the dambusting days have been relatively few and have usually come when we're held up in hotels. But that's not always been the case. Sometimes they occur at the worst possible time.

On the ride out of Addis Ababa, I was feeling a bit peaky. That condition wasn't helped by the choking traffic. In Ethiopia, petrol is scarce so diesel is the fuel of choice. Not normal diesel though. Ethiopian diesel is laced with a special mixture of toxins which cause even the newest cars to spew out thick black smoke. Sitting behind slow moving trucks is particularly noxious and encourages you to overtake. But overtaking in Ethiopia can be very dangerous - as Tyson found out.

Tyson was pulling past a particularly slow moving diesel tanker on the outskirts of Addis when a dog rushed out. With his view obscured by the tanker, Tyson only saw the dog at the last minute. He had no time to react and hit it head on. The impact sent Rosa's front wheel high up in the air and the dog twisting awkwardly underneath. Rosa came down hard on her right hand side, pinning Tyson's leg against the ground. Looking back towards us with his face grimaced in pain, Tyson and his bike ground to a halt just a few feet from some railway tracks. By the time I'd pulled over and got to Tyson, the dog was gone. Presumably crawled off to die in a ditch.

Seeing Tyson sitting up and Rosa on her side with the engine still roaring, I rushed over, hit the kill switch and dragged the bike to the side of the road. Jerry was checking Tyson over. He was standing, clutching his arm and hip. He had some nasty road rash but he'd live. That was all the information I needed. With precious seconds before the dambusters rolled in, I dashed off into the scrubland, yelling 'campo' over my shoulder.


With business taken care of, I returned to find Tyson in a distant state. This wasn't our first crash in Ethiopia. Far from it. I'd come off my bike barely half an hour earlier by crashing in to a sewage pipe laying in the middle of the road. But this one was different. This one was unavoidable. You could argue that we shouldn't have been overtaking. But on any other road in any other country that manoeuvre would have been completely standard. It's only in Ethiopia that such standard moves result in accidents.

Of all the countries I've ridden my bike through, Ethiopia has the most dangerous roads by far. And that's not because the road quality is particularly poor either. For the most part, the roads are actually quite good - smooth tarmac, recently paved and paid for by the Japanese finance ministry. (That explains the prevalence of Japanese cars anyway - in Ethiopia the car in front is always a Toyota). The real danger comes from the traffic, be it: human, donkey, goat, dog, horse, cow, cart, truck, or badly ridden bicycle. Regardless of who or what is on the road, none are traffic savvy and all can jump out in front of you.

We were only in Ethiopia for ten days, yet in that brief time I saw a child and a dog run over. And that was just the accidents I witnessed firsthand. There were signs of countless other incidents on the road. Donkeys, dogs, cows, even horses lying dead with their legs in the air struck stiff by rigor mortis. The animal traffic is heavy in Ethiopia but it's not unique. You encounter similar conditions in other countries - Mexico, Romania, Syria to name a few. What makes the roads particularly hazardous is the people. I cant tell you the number of times I had to slam on my brakes to avoid someone who didn't look before crossing the road. Looking both ways seems so natural to us. The highway code is drilled in to us when we're children. But that education - like so many things in Ethiopia - is lacking. I shudder to think of the number of traffic fatalities in the country every year.

With resources spread so thinly there is precious little for people to do. The kids are particularly bored. Many of them amuse themselves by waving at passers by. Those are the sweethearts. Others - the beggars - rush to the side of the road to yell 'money, money, money, money, money' in the vain hope that people will slam on their brakes and heap riches on them. Then there are the buggers. They entertain themselves by pelting passers-by with rocks. We managed to avoid being stoned in Ethiopia by waving at all the kids. A simple wave was enough to confuse the rock throwers just long enough for us to escape. But other travellers weren't so lucky. One German cyclist - Adrian - was heavily pelted as he rode his bicycle up the steep mountain roads. Rather than get angry he got even. His response was to calmly pick up a goat and cycle with it for 10km. A goat is worth a lot of money in Ethiopia. So after 10km of running after a bicycle you can bet that kid wont be throwing stones any time soon. You might think such a response is uncalled for. After all the kids don't know any better so why punish them? Maybe so. But you've clearly never had a rock thrown at you for no reason. Never experienced the blood curdling rage that overcomes you. Adrian's response was witty and measured. I cant say I would have been so level headed.

With one eye always on the road and the other watching the erratic children, we had precious little time to take in the scenery. When we did steal a glance, we saw the true beauty of Ethiopia. The undulating mountains covered in lush vegetation. Peaks shrouded in cloud. It reminded me of the Scottish highlands.



Could this rich fertile land really be the same country that experiences mass famine? So much potential for agriculture yet no sign of industry. Only subsistence farming. Maybe it was because we visited during the wet season when the country was at its most verdant. But maybe not. When we asked the locals for an explanation of the backward state of the country, they pinned the blame on two things - 'bad government' and 'lazy people'. No-one mentioned the weather.

I cant say whether the people are lazy or not. The back breaking hours spent farming the fields and herding animals certainly didn't strike of laziness. But I cant say I was particularly endeared by the Ethiopian people either. There were exceptions of course. Friendly people, like David who welcomed us in at the Ethiopian border in Metema. He gave us an excellent meal and handed us our first beers since Egypt. But more often than not the locals were an irritation. Interfering with our bikes when we tried to repair them, or trying to scam us whenever we bought something. It got quite tiresome after a while, so by the time we reached the border we were all looking forward to a new country.

Kenya has been the change we were looking for. The locals are still curious about our journey, and some still try to charge us farangi (foreign) prices. But it's a different world. The British colonial influence is strong. Cars drive on the left, tea is universally available, football dominates conversation and the logos of Man United and Arsenal are emblazened everywhere - even on the walls of corrugated shacks in remote tribal villages. British road signs, road names, land rovers, pubs, electrical sockets, supermarkets, post offices, Cadbury's chocolate, cornflakes and Ribena. Kenya is like a home from home right in the wild heart of Africa.

This spectacular country has some of the most thrilling roads I've ridden. Not because they're beautifully paved. Quite the opposite in fact. The stretch from Moyale (at the Ethiopian border) to Isiolo is 350 miles of rocky, sandy, dusty terrain that tests your metal and your bike. On this road the Long Way Down boys busted two shock absorbers. Our shocks remained intact, but by the time we rattled and bounced our way to Nairobi, Tyson's bike would only start if we pushed it, my fork oil had leaked, all our bikes had electrical problems and we were in desperate need of a welder. But bush camping in the middle of the rocky desert, amongst the scorpions, spiders and stars was truly blissful. The taste of adventure we all love. The trip we'd all hoped for.



Now in Nairobi, the milestones are passing by fast. We're over two months in to our trip, we've crossed the equator, and we've covered 15,000 kilometres. Also, thanks to the availability of western food, some semblance of normaly has returned to our bowels. Thank you Kenya.

Ethiopia - A tragic accident

Three days ago I witnessed one of the most horrifying sights of my life. It was in Gonder, Ethiopia after meeting up with two other overlanders – Sam Millar and Peter Loewen – where the shocking event occurred. We were riding in convoy out of town. Tyson was leading followed by Jerry, Peter, Sam and me. It was great to be riding with the others. Seeing the line of bikes glistening in the morning sun brought a smile to my face. But that was quickly wiped away and replaced with a grimace of concentration as the streets began to get crowded.

On our way out of town a donkey trotted nonchalantly in front of Sam’s bike causing him and me to brake hard. We avoided a collision with the donkey - just. But a gap had built up between Sam, me and the rest of the group. That gap was probably what tricked the local boy into thinking the coast was clear. And so, without looking, he darted straight across the road and collided head on with Sam’s bike. A cloud of dust and debris flew up as the terrible spectacle unfolded right in front of my eyes. The boy was thrown like a rag doll to the left side of the road as Sam came to an abrupt halt on the right.

Sam did all he could. He broke hard without skidding and did his best to swerve to avoid the young boy. But the boy just wasn’t looking and there was nothing Sam could do. Even though we were traveling at less than 30mph the collision was severe. By the time Sam and I had pulled over, a crowd had formed around the boy. I could hear gasps of disbelief as I walked slowly over to the motionless body lying on the ground. It was a shocking sight. The boy’s right leg was clearly broken at the shin and his head was misshapen by a rapidly growing bruise. Before I could blink, a local man had whisked the young boy up in his arms causing the boy to stir in pain. It was exactly what you shouldn’t do in this sort of situation, particularly if you think there might be spinal damage. But before I could protest, he had carried the boy limply into a minibus and sped off to the local hospital.

I went over to see Sam. He was clearly in shock, but was handling himself well, all things considered. He asked me whether the boy was dead and I explained that he was alive but badly injured.

As we readied ourselves to go to the hospital a local man told us to wait for the police. Sam followed orders while I hopped on my bike to go and fetch the others. Everyone was shaken by the news - the same thing could have happened to anyone of us – indeed both Jerry and Peter had swerved to avoid the same boy just moments before.

Downtown at the police station, news of the boy’s condition and the repercussions of the crash came to us in piecemeal fashion. Sam and Peter contacted the Canadian embassy and learned that a traffic accident is always the fault of the driver in Ethiopia - a very harsh verdict given that Sam had done nothing wrong. We also learn that a traffic fatality automatically carries a 17-year prison sentence in Ethiopia – an unfathomable amount of time and sobering news indeed. At one point things seem so desperate that we consider smuggling Sam out of the country.

Through hearsay we learn that the boy’s condition is stable. That level of detail just wasn’t sufficient given the severity of the situation. So Tyson and Jerry went to the hospital and performed their own exam. When they returned the news was gloomy. Five hours had elapsed since the crash but nothing material had been done for the boy. He was still in his blood stained clothes, lying dazed and in pain. Only an IV had been put in his arm. No painkillers had been given.

The conditions in the hospital sounded squalid. Hoards of sick and injured people littered the blood stained corridors of the ill-equipped facility. The only positive news from the report was that the boy was responsive to a neurological exam. Tyson and Jerry’s main concern was that the trauma to his head would result in a slow internal bleed. The injury to his leg, though gruesome, would heal.

I hoped they were right about the boy’s leg. But glancing around town I saw too many deformed bodies limping uncomfortably to be certain of that fact. Despite the awful news, Tyson and Jerry delivered their report to Sam in a professional and compassionate manner. I’ve no doubt they’ll make great doctors.

While the Docs had been performing their exam, Peter had gotten in contact with a village elder and lawyer through an ex-pat living in town - a very clever idea. With the lawyer in tow, Sam and I went to the police station to give our statements. Somewhat surprisingly we were turned away, and told to come back at 8:30 the following morning to discuss ‘compensation’. It seems that most traffic incidents in Ethiopia are settled outside the legal system and so formal statements are avoided. Instead the matter is settled by a bargaining process between the injured party and the culprit. It strikes me as extremely barbaric to bargain over the cost of injuries. But thinking about it, that’s exactly what western insurance companies do. The difference is that the insurers agree how much an injury is worth before the accident happens. In Ethiopia, the two main parties have to argue it out in a room.

The following morning the bargaining process began. Being westerners, the Ethiopian family saw the accident as a meal-ticket and demanded 100,000 Ethiopian Birr (approximately 10,000 US Dollars). That’s a very large sum of money in a country with an average income of less than 5000 dollars. Moreover, the Docs had visited the boy that morning and confirmed that his head injury was not as severe as they feared. He was recovering well.

Sam’s opening bid was 2,000 birr – an offer that was turned down in disgust by the boy’s grandfather. The 100,000 figure being demanded by the family seemed to be based on the fact that Sam was accompanied by four western friends who presumably would help out with the bill. So, to speed up negotiations, Tyson, Jerry and I made a big show of leaving. When we left, the bids stood at 50,000 birr from the family and 7,000 for Sam.

On the ride out of town my thoughts were with Sam and particularly with the boy. Sam had done nothing wrong yet was now facing a severe fine. I could only imagine what kind of pain the boy was in, lying in the ill-equipped hospital with his broken leg. The awful experience left me feeling exhausted, as if I’d aged 10 years in a day. I’ve been riding on edge ever since.

Wonderous Sudan

Of the twenty odd countries that we will pass through on this trip, Sudan is probably the least visited of all. It's a difficult country to get in to. The visa process is fairly involved and if you're overlanding from North to South, there really is only one entry point - the 17 hour ferry from Aswan to Wadi Halfa. But despite that, or perhaps because of it, Sudan is one of the countries I've most been looking forward to. This is where the African adventure really begins.

We awoke early on Monday morning to head down to the Aswan ferry port. Our fixer (Mr Saleh) had told us to be there at 9:30 sharp to clear customs by noon. Despite our best efforts we rolled up an hour late and frantically hurried through the border procedure. We needn't have rushed though. It took another 12 hours - till 9pm that night - before the ferry eventually set sail.

During the first few hours, we busied ourselves with paperwork and loading the bikes onto the barge. Getting the bikes on board was quite an event. With precious little room on the narrow deck we needed to navigate our way up a gangplank, manhandle the bikes over a steel girder and spin them in to a single parking space on board. Tyson went first, preferring to walk his bike up and then lift it over the girder. That seemed like the sensible strategy, but it also looked possible to ride all the way up with just a minor repositioning of the gangplank and the addition of some cushioning rags over the girder. And that's more or less the approach I took, though the cushioning rags didn't quite serve their purpose. Instead they collapsed under the weight of the bike, sending the bottom of my bike clanging in to the steel girder. No damage fortunately but Jerry sensibly opted to walk his bike up.


With our bikes on board, we whittled away the remaining hours chatting to some of the other Westerners that were making the journey with us. There were four groups in all: four Italians; a South African couple; a German; and two Canadians. By far the most organised were the Italians. They had two heavily modified KTM motorbikes (the bike of choice for most serious off-roaders) and a fully stocked support truck. We looked on enviously at the light bikes and imagined some of the luxury items that were being carried inside the truck (laptops, hammocks, cookers and most importantly of all a fully flushing WC - or so we speculated anyway). Unlike the rest of us, the Italians were so well organised they'd managed to secure a first class cabin with air conditioning.

The other groups stayed with us and slept on the packed deck with the locals. The South Africans - Debbie and Andy Descroizilles - were returning home after several years spent working in London. They were taking six months to make the journey and were driving a nice old English Land Rover kitted out with expedition gear. Stefan the German and the Canadians (Sam Millar and Peter Loewen) were doing it for fun. The Canadians were riding clapped out old KLRs while Stefan was on a twenty year old Yamaha Tenere. They were all good bikes back in their day, but you could tell this was going to be their last trip. Sitting on deck, it was interesting to hear their tales of the road. They'd all had their own adventures and challenges to overcome. But it was nice to hear that even though we were all making the same journey, each one was quite unique.

As night fell on the deck of the good ship Sinai, the searing heat of the day began to subside. By 9pm after several hours of deafening foghorn tests, the ferry finally left dock and a cooling breeze from Lake Nasser began to drift over us. Lying on the deck, gazing up at the stars, we fell asleep as the ferry passed quietly through the Tropic of Cancer.

The tranquility of night soon gave way to the scorching heat of day. Shade became a precious commodity on the crowded deck, and many hours were spent rigging makeshift awnings and moving around with the sun. It took us till 4pm Sudanese time to reach the desolate port of Wadi Halfa and another couple of hours to get off the boat. In the distance we could see the town itself - nothing more than a collection of mud huts. This is where we'd be staying until our bikes turned up? Our hotel, if it could be called that, was the Deffin Toad - the best one in town. Conditions resembled an upscale prison. Each cell-like rooms had metal shutters and metal doors which slammed loudly throughout the night. A ceiling fan was spinning frantically overhead but a powercut during the night soon saw the end to that, resulting in a suffocating heat. The South Africans smartly decided to drag their beds out in to the relatively cool courtyard. We weren't so smart, and woke up exhausted and with mouths as dry as the desert we'd soon be riding through.

The barge carrying our bikes turned up late the following day. It cant sail at night because it doesn't have radar, and so takes a day longer than the passenger ferry to make the 380km journey. With our bikes unloaded and all our gear repacked, we stocked up on water and supplies, and waited for the sun to dip. By 6pm we were back on the road and within a few miles had left the tarmac and were snaking our way along the course of the Nile. The scenery was spectacular. Sandy dunes, interspersed with jagged rocks, burnt black by the scorching sun. I've always wanted to go to the moon, but I never thought I'd get to ride my bike on it.

That night, after kicking up dust clouds for 100km, we pulled off the road and camped under the stars in the desert. With a full moon overhead and a campfire at our feet, we had a serenely lit view of the empty Nubian desert.

The following morning we rose with the sun, and made the most of the cooler early hours to put in some miles. Riding along the gravel we past through a number of Nubian villages. They seem quiet and empty now, but a few miles away a new road is being built that will link Wadi Halfa with Dongola. Within a couple of years, it will be possible to ride all the way through Sudan on smooth tarmac. There wont be any need to bring a dirtbike - a big fat Honda Goldwing will be able to make the journey. That's probably a good thing for the locals. The new road should bring prosperity and a steady flow of tourists. But it's a shame for adventure motorcyclists. The off-road stretch from Wadi Halfa is easily the most exhilarating of the trip so far.

The terrain is generally solid ground just with a few loose rocks over the top. But in places the gravel gives way to deep sandy ruts. The single or double tracks of the normal road diverge into a delta of different paths that spread out in all directions as if searching for the most accessible route. In these places the sand is particularly deep and often covered by a fine layer of dust which masks the shape of the underlying terrain. In such places it is both easy to fall off your bike and to get separated. They call this terrain - fesh-fesh.

Late in the afternoon, after a kip under some palm trees, we came to the end of the gravel road and could see two paths of fesh-fesh - one straight ahead and one to the right. I took the right hand route, plowed my way through and carried on for a couple of miles before waiting for the others. Ten minutes went by with no sign. Then another ten. What to do?

Earlier in the day, I had waited for a similar amount of time only to find out that Jerry and Tyson had taken the other route and leapfrogged in front of me. Figuring the same had happened again, I pushed on through the fesh-fesh on my own.

The riding was challenging but thrilling at the same time. Riding in sand is a lot like snowboarding - you surf over the top and try to keep your speed up, putting light pressure on the steering to stop the front end from digging in. It's brilliant fun, but as with snowboarding, occasionally you take a tumble and end up with your face in the sand/snow. One such incident, involving a hidden bump and a deep sandy rut sent a huge cloud of dust in the air and left a nice motorbike shaped imprint in the soft ground. The virtue of fesh-fesh is that it's a relatively soft place to fall over.


Pushing on through the sand with no map, no GPS and just a compass to guide me, I made my way for the Nubian ruins of Karma, some 50km as the crow flies from where we stopped for a kip. Asking for directions I was pointed towards the desert and told that Karma was about an hour's ride away. So I set off on a sandy track straight out in to the Nubian desert. What a ride. Wide open desert, with just a few rocky hills in the distance, and no-one as far as my eyes could see. It was thrilling to be there on my own. At one point I just stopped to listen to the sound of the desert. A light wind whistled the sand gently through my bike, but other than that there was nothing.

Before starting off on the desert road I had been told by one of the locals that I needed to turn off to get to Karma. After an hour or so, I headed back towards the Nile to find a settlement and ask for directions. They told me that Karma was another hour up ahead, so I pushed on. As the desert road wound its way south, it edged back towards the Nile. The sandy ground turned back in to gravel and picked up the beginnings of the new highway. No tarmac had been laid yet, but the gravel had been compacted, making for a relatively smooth ride. As the settlements began to multiply I saw another local and asked for directions again. He told me that Karma was an hour back in the other direction and Dongola was only 15km further ahead. Rather than back-tracking I thought it better to push on and find a phone in town to let Tyson and Jerry know where I was.

I arrived on the bank of the Nile at dusk, and hopped on the ferry to the west bank, and the town of Dongola. Far more vibrant than Wadi Halfa, Dongola has all the makings of a fast growing tourist town. The people that live there seemed delighted to see me and like all the other Nubians we had encountered were friendly, honest and hospitable. When searching for a phone, one friendly chap offered me his mobile. I made the expensive international call to Tyson's mobile and tried to offer some cash as payment - but the local wouldn't accept a penny. Unbelievable generosity with no strings attached. Quite a contrast from the swindlers of Egypt.

On the phone I find out that Tyson and Jerry are back in Karma, so we agree to meet up in Khartoum, Sudan's capital - the following day. That night, I rode to the outskirts of Dongola and found a secluded field to setup camp. Bathed in light from the full moon, I drifted off for a satisfied night's sleep.

Friday morning, I was up even before the Imam's started chanting. Fully fuelled, with petrol, water and some local doughnuts I set off on the desert highway to Khartoum. In fuel economy mode (i.e. travelling at 55mph keeping the revs low) I can get about 480km out of my 21 litre fuel tank. It was just over 500km to the capital, and no petrol stations were marked on Tyson's map. Fortunate then that the desert highway has been a recent point of investment. The road was as smooth as silk, recently paved and painted as if especially for my ride. With the new road have come new businesses. and among them is a brand spanking new petrol station. A welcome sight after 300km of baron desert. There I filled up and rode the remaining few hundred kilometres in to town. Along the way my odometer ticked over the 10,000km milestone - marking two-fifths of the distance from London to Cape Town.

Khartoum is a bit of an oddity. Mud huts and dusty roads line the outskirts of the city, but as you approach the centre the presence of wealth becomes obvious. Steel and glass buildings are sprouting all over the city. Oil revenues and the presence of the UN have sparked the surge in investment, and that has bid up prices, meaning Khartoum is one of the most expensive cities we've stayed of the entire trip. Despite that, we've been enjoying the good life since we arrived. We're now staying in the luxurious Bougain Villa Guesthouse - firmly back in the comfort zone after a few days well outside it. Although westerners are relatively common around town, our prescence has generated a bit of interest. So today we spent a few hours getting photographed and interviewed by AFP correspondents. Here's the write-up on AFP's website.

Tomorrow we leave for the cooling highlands of Ethiopia. I'm looking forward to it - I haven't seen a proper cloud since leaving Istanbul - and this Brit has been missing his weather. So until next time.

Eventful Egypt continued

A week ago we left Cairo with the intention of travelling all the way to Aswan in a single day. That master plan was upset by Jerry's accident, but it turns out it was just a pipe dream anyway. It has taken us all of the last week to make the 1000km journey.

Admittedly, for the first few days after the crash we were held up in the same place - the small town of Bani Suef just a hundred kilometres south of Cairo. Our guidebook informed us that "there's nothing particularly interesting to do or see in Bani Suef", and with the exception of an excellent cake shop, they were right.

By Wednesday, after four days of R&R, we were all looking forward to getting back on our bikes. And with Jerry's leg in reasonable working order we set off on our southerly course following the Nile Valley. What an interesting landscape to ride our bikes through. Vast sandy desert bisected by a channel of verdant fields and palm trees that hug the edge of the glistening blue river. Sahara meets the tropics in just a few feet. Marvellous.


Despite the breathtaking scenery, I wasn't enjoying the ride as much as I'd hoped. My new tyres were taking a long time to bed in, limiting my speed and my cornering ability (two of the more enjoyable aspects of riding a motorcycle). When they did eventually smooth off, the freedom of the open road was interrupted by a series of police checkpoints. In Egypt, the authorities are so concerned about tourist safety (following the '97 Luxor bombings) that they insist on escorting tourists as they travel through. Normally, great convoys of tour buses are escorted from one sight to the next. But we weren't part of the normal tourist crowd and so warranted special attention.

Each checkpoint took it upon themselves to give us a personal escort. What a privilege you might think - being treated like royalty. Not so. The novelty of having a police car lead the way soon gave way to a sense of frustration (at the loss of freedom) and coughing (from the diesel fumes being spewed out of the back of the clapped out old trucks). After one afternoon and an evening of this, we arrived in Sohag - a dingy Nile town about halfway between Bani Suef and Luxor. That night, while staying in a flea infested hotel, we agreed that we'd had just about enough of the escorts and would do our utmost to get rid of them. The following morning we woke up to find three bored traffic cops waiting for us in a navy pickup truck. Unlike the previous day, our escorts were well organised. Damn.


As we moved from one district to the next, a new navy pickup truck would be waiting to lead us on. It was quite an efficient process for the first few cars, but our third escort was frustratingly slow. Driving at 30mph behind a smoke spewing truck was too much for me. So, with the Great Escape theme playing in my head, I pulled up beside the police driver, gave him an appreciative salute then gunned the throttle. We lost them after a couple of kilometres and for the first time in what seemed like days we had our freedom back. It lasted for a good 20km too before we arrived at the next checkpoint and picked up yet another escort.

Arriving in Luxor late that afternoon, we navigated our way through the dusty streets to find the Amon Hotel - a quiet air conditioned sanctuary on the west bank of the Nile. As is customary, we arranged to park out bikes in the safety of the hotel's courtyard. This involved riding them up two steps and around a narrow garden path. Tyson went first and I followed, nearly dropping my bike on the tight turn. Around the corner in the courtyard I could hear Buffy (Jerry's bike) ticking over quietly. Suddenly the engine went from a quiet thump to a loud roar. A few startled shouts and a crunching sound followed. Rushing around the corner, I expected to see Jerry's bike on its side in the garden - a standard low speed drop. But Jerry and Buffy were nowhere to be seen. Not in the garden, not in front of the hotel, nowhere. Nowhere outside anyway.

Peering through the hotel's front door I couldn't quite believe my eyes. Buffy and Jerry were both lying on the floor on the other side of the lobby, below a big dent in the wall. The roar from the engine was apparently the sound of Jerry clearing not just the garden steps, but the garden path, the doorstep and the lobby as well.

Jerry was thankfully unhurt, though his legs were shaking in disbelief at what he had just done. Actually, everyone seemed stunned. I couldn't quite understand it until I was told just how Jerry had managed to plough all the way up the garden path and into the hotel. This picture - snapped by a startled Tyson just before he jumped out of the way - shows what happened.


Not only is Jerry doing a monster wheelie, but if you look closely you can see that his back tyre is clearly off the ground too. An amazing stunt, which is all the more remarkable when you consider that the bike is fully loaded and was completely stationary just a second before this shot was taken.

Though Jerry was unhurt, the same couldn't be said for poor Buffy. The lobby's stone wall had left its mark on her face (the front fairing and headlight assembly), giving the impression that she had been slapped around a bit. Initially we thought the fairing was so badly damaged that it would have to be discarded, but some reconstructive surgery at the local mechanic left Buffy looking much better, though still scarred.

With the bikes back in working order, we spent the following day taking in the sights of Luxor. The ancient city is covered in ruins, and it would take days to visit them all. For me, the unquestionable highlight was the tomb of King Tuthmosis IV in the Valley of the Kings. Unlike many of the tombs, an early death left King Tuthmosis' tomb unfinished. The walls are plain, with few paintings and even fewer hieroglyphics. But that stark beauty just adds to the sense of majesty of the sarcophagus, which sits illuminated and alone, deep in the pillared tomb. As pure a taste of ancient history as you're likely to get.

In the Valley of the Kings the touts were out again, but with no restriction on where you can walk (as was the case at the pyramids) their powers were diminished. Ours had grown though and in one amusing incident, a tout tried to sell Tyson an Egyptian figurine for an exorbitant amount of money. Tyson's response was to try and sell the tout back a tacky bit of Canadiana. No sales were made that day.


Now in Aswan, we've spent the last couple of days finalising the paperwork for the Wadi Halfa ferry, which we'll catch tomorrow. It's with mixed feelings that I leave Egypt. We've spent two full weeks here and seen some amazing sights. But the experience has been coloured somewhat by the suffocating bureaucracy and the profit-seeking attitude of the locals. Roll on Sudan.

Eventful Egypt

To say that the last few days have been eventful is probably an understatement. We've been on a tight schedule and had much to accomplish. In just under a week we had to get the bikes serviced, tyres changed, get me a Sudanese visa and replace some of the countless items that we've lost during the last month. We managed all of that during one manic day in Cairo. See Tyson's blog for an entertaining account. But we had another mission to accomplish too - that was riding the 1000km from Cairo to Aswan to catch the ferry to Sudan. The ferry only leaves on Mondays. Miss it and we faced a week-long delay.

Thursday - A lesson in bargaining
Setting off from downtown Cairo early on Thursday morning, the streets were surprisingly quiet and cool. A welcome change from their normal manic state (filled with tooting cars and suicidal pedestrians). In such mild conditions it didn't take us long to get to Giza and catch our first glimpse of the pyramids.


Unlike the photos would have you believe, the pyramids aren't actually in the middle of the desert. Cairo has expanded to such an extent that its suburbs reach right up to the edge of the pyramids and beyond. Only the south eastern quadrant of the site is kept as desert, and that's where the majority of photos are taken (the one above included).

Riding up to the historic monuments we were greeted by a local tour guide - a tall thin man dressed in traditional arabic clothing. He introduced himself as Emad, and explained that he could give us a tour of the pyramids. When we asked how much it would cost he simply said - "when I've made you happy, you can make me happy" - implying we should give him a decent tip at the end. Still unsure of what a decent tip actually amounts to in Egypt, we were a little uneasy, but decided to accept his vague offer anyway.

Emad explained how there were actually 9 pyramids of giza, the three larger pyramids and 6 smaller ones built for the Pharaohs' wives. In order to see all nine in their splendor we needed to ride out into the desert. That was fine with us - we'd been planning to get some photos of us riding our bikes in front of the pyramids anyway. But Emad explained that only two methods of transport were allowed in the desert: camels and horses. Walking wasn't even allowed, giving the tour guides a cosy monopoly over the entire site.

A camel seemed like a much less appealing option than our motorcycles, but with no choice we agreed to the tour - after all, how often do you get to see the pyramids? Foolishly though we didn't negotiate the price. Emad said it was 180 Egyptian pounds per person for an hour-long ride (about 18GBP) and so, like a bunch of schmucks, that's exactly what we paid. Only a few days later did we discover that the going rate for a camel ride is more like 20EP. Score one for Emad.


The novelty of riding a camel soon began to wear off - replaced by a distinct sense of chafing on the backside. So, after snapping the standard photograph of the pyramids I amused myself by finding out a bit more about my dromedary friend - Moses the Camel. He was a bit of a grumpy chap, grunting and groaning every time he had to get up and down. (Incidentally, the way to get a camel to sit is to make a hacking noise like you're clearing your throat. Saying "sit Moses" is less effective.)


According to Emad, the average camel costs about 30,000EP or 3000 GBP, which is the same price we paid for our bikes. I briefly consider trading in my KLR 650 for a camel, thinking that sand riding would be much easier. But when I discover that camels can only run at about 30mph, I decide that it would probably take too long to reach Cape Town. Camels smell too.

To round off our camel tour, Emad took us to a papyrus and perfume museum. 'Museum' is a euphemism if ever I've heard one. The building was actually just an ornate shop - one of hundreds that are dotted around Cairo. We were ushered in and immediately given a drink as part of the owner's 'Egyptian hospitality'. The owner dramatically threatened to slit his throat if we refused, so we knocked back the cool drinks while he led us around the store. We were shown how papyrus was made and were told several stories that were depicted in some of the craftwork. But we were less than interested, and with time ticking away Tyson started getting frustrated. Seeing that we were moving toward the exit, the owners pulled out all the stops to try and keep us in the store. They tried showing us books of endorsements from other tourists who had shopped there, then a list of international firms that they had supplied papyrus and perfume with, they even offered us discounts. But we were wise to the scam - I had fallen for it the previous day while shopping for a birthday present for my sister. So we made our excuses and walked defiantly out of the store. Score one for us.

Back on the camels, we bounced our way past the Sphinx (which was much smaller and distinctly less impressive than I'd expected) and made our way back to the bikes. I was relieved to get off Moses and was looking forward to getting back on my bike and out of Cairo. During the short while we had spent in the city I had felt like a very obvious tourist - out of place and a clear mark for all the street vendors. I got the distinct impression that every time I bought something (with the exception of an ice cream for 20p) I had overpaid. Not a pleasant feeling, but a learning experience. I'm used to fixed prices and only haggling on certain deals - like buying a motorbike. But in Egypt it seems that almost every price is up for negotiation. It's like a game and one that the locals are very skilled at. From what I have learned, the trick is to dispense with your English sense of politeness and freely offend the vendor by offering a ridiculously low price. Only then will you settle on something sensible. Also, as we found out at one restaurant in Cairo - negotiate the terms of your deal up front, otherwise you risk receiving an unpleasant shock when the bill turns up.

Almost free of the city, Emad made one last attempt to get us to stay a little longer by offering a tour of the Pyramids of Saqqara - a quieter site just 25km away. I was still keen to move on, but the promise of riding our bikes through the desert in front of some pyramids was enough to convince Tyson and Jerry to accept. Learning from our previous mistake, this time we negotiated the price. Starting at 300 Egyptian Pounds per person, Tyson haggled Emad down to 250, which given what we'd paid for the camel ride earlier on (our benchmark for a fair price) seemed reasonable. In hindsight though, we'd been taken to the cleaners once again. 2-1 to Emad.

As part of the deal it emerged that Emad and his young helper Salouma would have to ride on the back of our bikes. Carrying a passenger is not an enticing prospect when riding through deep sand. And I drew the short straw, having to take Emad on the back of mine. Jerry got Salouma and Tyson escaped unhindered (lucky bugger).


With Emad shouting directions, we passed through back alleys, sandy trunk roads, and a rubbish tip before finding the desert. The heavily loaded bikes snaked wildly in the deep sand, sending us tumbling off a number of times. Hot, bothered and with sand in places I daren't describe, we reached the shaded camp of Saqqara with an enormous sense of relief. Tyson and I arrived together, and pulled over to wait for Jerry. After a few minutes there was still no sign, so I traipsed back to find out what had happened.

I didn't have to go far before I saw Jerry and Salouma staring at Jerry's bike on its side. The bike looked alright, but it couldn't engage gear. I figured that we might be able to get it going if we got it onto flat ground and bump-start it. That meant pushing the bike about 400m through deep sand. An exhausting prospect to say the least. But together we just about managed it. Sadly though, a bump start wasn't sufficient. The only alternative was that Jerry had burnt his clutch out. Something we didn't have the parts or technical know-how to fix.

At this point, we were already a few hours behind schedule and our chances of making the Aswan ferry on Monday were looking increasingly slim.


But, with business out of the way, Emad transformed in to a different person. It seemed like he felt partly responsible for the damage to Jerry's bike, and so, after a quick tour of the pyramids, he arranged for a truck to take Jerry's bike to a local mechanic. He spoke firmly to the mechanic, and relayed back to us that the mechanic could fix it for 700EP. The only difficulty was finding the parts. The price seemed quite expensive, but with few other options we agreed - and the mechanic sent out runners to scour the streets of Cairo looking for replacement clutch plates.

In the meantime, Emad graciously invited us to stay at his home "as his brothers". Keen to learn more about the culture and worried that we wouldn't be able to find the mechanic without Emad's help, we accepted his generous offer. He told us to treat his house as if it were our own, so within the hour we were showered and sitting down to a delicious meal of camel stew.

Over dinner, Emad played an excellent host, serving drinks and asking us what we would like to do in the evening. He suggested a night ride in to the desert to see the light show at the pyramids. Taken aback by his generousity we all nodded in agreement - it sounded like an excellent idea. And it was. We had an unforgettable time riding through the desert on horseback galloping past the illuminated pyramids.


Returning late to Emad's house, we were treated to another large meal of camel stew. This one was prepared by his brother, rather than his wife, and wasn't quite up to the same standard. There was plenty of gristle and the odd bit of cartilage. But we still enjoyed it. It was past 2am by the time we finished and our eyelids were heavy. Before turning in, Emad suddenly switched back to business mode again. He told us that he would only charge us 400EP for the night ride - the rate he reserves only for his friends. This surprised us. We'd thought the night ride was part of his generous hospitality. But sitting there in his home having been fed and watered, we were powerless to object, so we each nodded quietly in agreement. Then he adds the words 'per person' and we realise we've been completely shafted again. A real shame, and a bitter way to end an otherwise thrilling day.

Friday - Our education continues
We woke up early after a short night's sleep on Emad's floor. With business seemingly out of the way, Emad was all smiles again and was back to being the perfect host. He served us some sweet milky tea for breakfast and then arranged for a private car to drive us back to Cairo to visit the Egyptian Museum. We enjoyed a pleasant morning whittling away the hours researching clutches on the internet and exploring the countless artifacts, mummies, and sarcophaguses in the museum. It's a fascinating place and would take days to take it all in. The unquestionable highlight was the Tutankhamun exhibition - artifacts from which have been displayed all over the world. I'm particularly thrilled to see King Tut's mask, as it reminds me of a project I did back when I was in primary school. Happy memories.

Back at Emad's apartment we spend the afternoon chatting with our host learning about his business and his life. He's 28 and has been working at the pyramids for 19 years. In that time he's learned to speak half a dozen languages and is always learning more. He seems very proud to be an Arab and signs up to all that involves. Women have a secondary role in his culture and it shows. He is a loving father, but clearly dotes over his son more than his daughter.

We also learn of his business. We find out that the pyramid area is controlled by 13 bosses, one of whom Emad works for. Each kingpin owns a tourist license, camels and horses, and so commands a large proportion of every deal made at the site. Working for each of the bosses are half a dozen guides like Emad, and working for them are helpers - boys as young as eight who will grow up to become guides. With so many people to pay off, Emad only receives 5% of his deals and makes most of his money out of his tips.

This knowledge changes our view of Emad again. Before, we were planning to be stingy with his tip - as payback for being tricked so many times before. But seeing that most of those funds would end up with the kingpin, we felt like we still owed Emad for his hospitality.

Moreover, Emad continued to be extremely helpful throughout the day. Constantly calling the mechanic to check on progress. When it emerged that the mechanic was stalling for time, Emad took one of the burnt clutch plates to another mechanic to get him searching for them as well. But with the searches proving fruitless we decided we needed a contingency plan - to ship a new set of clutch plates directly from Canada. Arranging for the Canadian shipment turned out to be a smart move as it gave us some bargaining clout later on. Over dinner (not camel for a change) when the conversation switched back to business Emad told us that the second mechanic had found the parts but wanted 2400EP for them - a small fortune and four times their true value. We balked at that price and it quickly slipped to 1700EP. But even that seemed very steep. And with the original mechanic still coming up empty, we decided it would be more sensible, cheaper and safer to wait for the parts from Canada. Sure we would miss the ferry, but better that than rushing all the way to Aswan on potentially dodgy and overpriced parts.

When we'd made that decision things changed remarkably fast. We were quickly taken back to the original mechanic to pickup Jerry's bike. Emad was still hopeful that he might have found the parts. And sure enough when we arrived, the grubby mechanic was grinning with eight shiny new clutch plates in his hand. Apparently he had just been 'joking around' when he said he couldn't find any. He also said he would do all the repairs for 1000EP - just 300EP more than he originally quoted. In the car on the way over, we had discussed the absolute maximum we would be willing to pay if such a situation had occurred. 1000EP was the figure we had come up with. No coincidence there.

We agree to the deal, but are convinced that Emad has been doing some double dealing. Another good example of how Egyptians think on their feet to get the most out of every transaction.

With the mechanic installing the parts on Jerry's bike, Emad took us to his friends wedding up the road. This was one of the stranger experiences we've had on our trip. Sitting inside a blue and pink open top tent surrounded by Arab men, we sat and watched the spectacle unfold. On stage was what could be loosely described as a band, who were compensating for their lack of talent with volume and reverb effect. While trying to tune out the deafening din we were surprised to see that there were no women present. A stark contrast to a western wedding. One lady did turn up later in the evening, but she was dressed in provocative clothing (by Arabian standards) and presumably wasn't there for the fun of it. Just before heading off, we witnessed the most bizarre spectacle of all - a startled horse being lead through the tent with a chubby baby on its back dressed as a Sheikh. No explanation was offered, further adding to our sense of amusement.

When we returned to the mechanic we were greeted by a welcome sight - Jerry's bike in full working order. Seeing Jerry test it out made me realise how much I'd been missing riding and how much I was looking forward to getting out of Cairo and getting my freedom back.

We returned to Emad's apartment and Jerry parked his bike next to ours. It was nice to see the three mules back together, appropriately parked in the stable area under Emad's apartment. Before turning in, we finished our business with Emad. Despite all the problems and potential double dealings we decided to hand over a generous 1000EP tip. No doubt too much, but he had bee helpful, and we figure it was better to see his family with a bit more money than to be satisfied that we got a good deal.

Saturday - One setback too many
The burnt clutch fiasco had put us two days behind schedule. In order to make up the ground and catch the Aswan ferry we needed to ride 1000km from Cairo in just one day. A tall order but just about doable.

We got up at 5am after a couple of hours sleep - the third night in a row that we'd had less than 5 hours. I'm exhausted and my allergies are acting up.

On the highway we're all struggling with our new off-road tyres, which wobble at high speed. The effect on my bike is particularly bad, accentuated by the vibration in my frame which developed earlier on in the trip. To ride safely we have to keep our speed under 100kph - further adding to the time pressure.

In my sleep deprived state on wobbly tyres the experience closely resembles driving drunk and I beckon to the others that we should pull over. In Al-Fayuum, 100km south of Cairo, the guys wander off to grab an Arabian coffee and I try to find a quiet corner to catch forty winks. No such luck. The locals prove too curious and I end up having to answer questions about our trip instead.

Back on the road, Jerry is leading and we're struggling to find our way back to the highway. Heading south in an effort to intercept it, we pass through a number of small villages. As in Mexico and Guatemala these were marked by a series of speed bumps (or topes) which force you to slow down as you go through. Fail to spot them and you face a nut-busting incident at the very least. At one of these bumps Team Canuk suffered its most serious setback since we left London - Jerry came off his bike.

Trying to slow down to avoid the speed bump, Jerry slammed on his brakes, sending his bike into a sideways skid. He passed over the bump with his bike at an angle and his slippery back tyre spun out, sending him crashing to the floor. The crash seemed to happen in slow motion right in front of us. As the bike hit the floor it sent a cloud of dust in to the air, and started spinning slowly around. The bike - being much heavier than Jerry - slipped away from him and ground to a halt some 40m down the road, facing back the way it had come. Jerry skidded to a halt a few metres earlier.

As I pulled over, Jerry was already trying to stand up, but after taking two steps his left leg gave way and he collapsed to the floor in a shriek of pain. Tyson was quickly at his side and together they diagnosed what the injury was. A knock to the knee had weakened it and had certainly ended any chance we had of reaching Aswan that day. With Tyson tending to his patient I tended to mine - picking up Buffy (Jerry's bike) and wheeling her to the side of the road. Other than a severely scratched pannier, she was in good shape. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Jerry who was clearly in agony and irritated with himself at the crash.

I did my best to help out, getting medical supplies and offering the occasional bit of common-sense advice, but the moment was Tyson's. Acting like a fully trained doctor he gave Jerry a very thorough examination, cleaning up the wound and bandaging it. Good work Bone.

Jerry was adamant that he wanted to keep riding, but Tyson prescribed a few days of rest. I concurred with Dr Brust. Riding in these conditions was hard enough with all four limbs - trying to ride with no left leg would only result in more spills and potentially more injuries.

With Jerry reluctantly convinced, we put his bike on the back of a pickup truck (for the second time in three days), and arranged for a local to drive us to the nearby town of Bani Suef. Along the way we were stopped at a police checkpoint and assigned an escort. Driving off behind the cops, I noticed that Tyson wasn't following. I looped back to find that he had an electrical problem, which had disabled Rosa (Tyson's bike). Tyson quickly found the problem (dusty fuses) and was soon back up and running - but for a brief period my bike was the only one still working.

Our police escort was overly cautious - not wanting Jerry's bike to fall off the bumpy truck - so it took us over an hour to drive the 40km to Bani Suef. But it was with a great sense of relief that we arrived outside the Semeramis Hotel. And, after we'd carried Jerry up to our room on the third floor, I took a minute to catch those forty winks. Seven hours later, I woke up to find Tyson had taken Jerry to hospital, got an x-ray and heroically carried him up two flights of stairs by himself. Again, good work Bone.

Before dropping off for another 8 hours of sleep I took a moment to think about the trip. Assuming we catch the next ferry on Monday the 14th we'll have about 51 days to get to Cape Town. That's three days less than the Long Way Down boys and they had two trucks full of spare parts and a mechanic. But hey - if everything went smoothly this wouldn't be an adventure now would it.

Until next time.

Jordanian Delight

I had high hopes for Jordan when I started this trip. With its spectacular desert scenery that once captivated T.E.Lawrence; ancient ruins worthy of cinematic depiction; and glorious smooth roads stretching from one end of the country to the other - it is a country with much to offer.

Petra - a 2300 year old Nabataean city carved in to a sandstone canyon - is Jordan's most famous historical site. The main reason I'm aware of it is not because of its historical significance, or because it was recently named one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. The reason I know it, is because it featured in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade - a film I first saw in the cinema when I was six. So it was with a sense of childish excitement that I crossed in to Jordan, hoping to follow in the footsteps of one of my boyhood heros.


It was early on Friday evening when we got across the border. The sun was glowing a bright red as it slipped behind the desert mountains and I felt a tinge of excitement as we turned off the main highway and got our first taste of sand riding. After our off-road training trip to the Mojave desert back in March I was keen to find out how difficult riding a heavily loaded bike through soft sand would be. Quite difficult it turns out. But still fun. Unlike the light dirt bikes that we trained on, our heavy mules tend to wallow and sink in the sand. The secret is probably just to gun the engine and try to skim over the surface. But there will be plenty of time to practice that in Sudan. For now, I'm content just skidding to a halt in a big cloud of dust and trying not to fall over.

Winding our way south through the canyonlands, we descended to the salty shores of the Dead Sea - the lowest place on Earth. The baron coastline was a bit of a surprise. I had expected tourist resorts to stretch all along the shore, but as it turns out there are just a few resorts and they're all concentrated in the north. Most of the coast is occupied by army watchtowers which gaze out over the turquoise water toward the rocky cliffs of Israel. But there are a few sections where it's possible to ride your bike down some gravel roads and through the sand to get close to the water. It was in one of these spots that we decided to go for a paddle.

Ditching our bikes a couple of hundred metres from the water, we made the remainder of the journey on foot. Walking over the dried mudbanks, we met up with some locals who were also heading for a dip, and one of them told us he'd show us how best to enter the water. He kicked off his shoes and then dashed madly in to the sea, hopping from one foot to the other in a funny looking dance. We thought he was just playing the fool, but as we kicked off our shoes we too were soon hopping about. The muddy shore was boiling hot, sticky and covered in salt crystals so that when your foot sank in to it, you were cut and scolded at the same time. The only way to avoid the searing pain was to dance like a hopping mad fool. So that's exactly what we did. First on the way in, then after a quick float around, again on the way out.

Jordan was proving fun, and with an Indiana Jones site just a few hundred kilometres away, there was still much more to see.

Biblical scenery flashed by as we followed the King's Highway as it cut its majestic course through the sandstone mountains. As we approached Petra the sun was beginning to set, creating ideal conditions to recreate the famous cinematic shot. But my dreams of riding my bike through the Canyon of the Crescent Moon were soon quoshed when it became apparent that Petra has become something of a tourist trap. Heavily coloured by the film, I had expected the site to be in a secluded canyon, far away from the hustle and bustle of modern life. But the realty was much less appealing. A tourist town - Wadi Musa - has grown up around the area and with it have come bus loads of sightseers, tacky souvenir stores, donkey rides and litter. It was all a far cry from the Holy Grail image I'd had in my head.

I still enjoyed Petra. The historic ruins are truly a wonder to behold and the canyons are an inspiring place to spend a few hours hiking around and jumping from rock to rock. But let's just say Spielberg and Lucas added a bit of sparkle to the place, which I felt was missing.

With one childhood dream quoshed, you might think I'd leave Jordan on a sour note, but the opposite is actually true. In the far south of the country, riding in the Arabian desert, I was taken aback by where we were and what we were doing. The vast baron scenery was truly spectacular and I felt priviledged to be riding my motorcycle in such an awe inspiring place. With a broad grin on my face, there was only one thing left to do - pop a wheelie and ride in to the sunset.

Cue Indiana Jones theme.

A Middle Eastern tour

We are currently in Damascus and are about a quarter of the way to Cape Town. Since reuniting in Antalya on Sunday - Jerry, Tyson and I have taken a scenic tour though Southern Turkey and have since crossed in to the scorching heat of Syria.

Turkey is a motorcyclist's dream. Excellent climate, few cars on the roads, and glorious coastal roads that wind their way along the mountains. Often the road is just a few feet from the Mediterranean providing ample opportunity to cool off in the middle of the day.


The Turkish people have made our stay particularly enjoyable with their gracious welcoming attitude. Never is there too insignificant an occasion to invite us in for a cup of chai (tea). Even when filling up with petrol we've ended up sitting with the attendant on the forecourt sipping a glass of piping hot tea. In short, Turkey has been as close to the comfort zone as we're likely to get.

On Tuesday we crossed in to Syria and were hit with a sharp contrast. At the border, things moved slowly, and we had to give a few backhanders to several officials to speed up the process. When we did eventually get across we were greeted by a 38 degree wave of heat, which for a pasty Englishman like myself is really quite warm.

Keen to get out of the sun we made our way to Aleppo in northern Syria. We parked our bikes in the centre of town and within a minute were surrounded by locals. They were all keen to shake our hand, find out where we were going, and help us on our way. This was to be a feature of all our time in Syria and a very effective way of getting directions. The locals pointed us down a small side street, which wouldn't have looked out of place in an Indiana Jones movie, and in the centre of the labyrinth of alleyways we found ourselves outside a very swanky hotel. Stone columns, a marble floored lobby and an ornate bedroom were just too much. And, without Ted around to keep us honest, we plumped for the ritzy venue, rode our bikes in to the lobby and found ourselves right back in the comfort zone.



That evening we wandered around the ancient city visiting the bazaars and souqs. In one we were invited in to a secluded alcove to listen to some locals play an Oud (a pear shaped guitar with a bent neck), share a drink, and watch them puff away on their hooka pipe.

The following day we made the most of our hotel and ended up leaving in the afternoon. It was warm again but more like 35 degrees and we seemed to be acclimatising. Making the most of it, we spent the day visiting ancient ruins. Our first stop was a 4000 year old archaeological dig, which required quite a bit of imagination to work out where the buildings were and what they would have looked like. Our second stop was the Byzantine ruins of Serjilla. These were much more intact, and provided ample opportunity for exploring and to ride the bikes around.


But the jewel in the crown was the ruins at Apamea. Situated majestically on top of a hill, we arrived just as the sun was setting. Riding my bike along the 2000 year old street surrounded by crumbling pillars was an experience I'll never forget. A fantastic day.


Yesterday we took in another famous historical site - the Crusader's Castle in Crac des Chevaliers. Not as impressive as Apamea but it was still fun, partly because there was an amusing camel sitting outside.


Last night we descended in to the scorching heat of Damascus. Using our trick of pulling over and waiting to be surrounded by locals, we soon had a couple of them on the back of our bikes directing us to a hotel. It being Thursday, things were winding down ahead of the weekend (which starts on Friday here), but we did our best to explore our surroundings and wandered around the old town until the early hours.

Syria has been one of the most interesting countries of the trip so far. As in Turkey, we've been warmly welcomed by the Syrian people - who are a little more boystrous than their Turkish counterparts. The scorching heat of the Syrian countryside has also given us a taste of what life outside the comfort zone will be like. I'm enjoying the transition.

This afternoon we'll cross in to Jordan - the fourteenth country on our trip and the final one on our Middle Eastern tour. After that's it's Africa and non-stop adventure.

A few pictures from the Middle Eastern leg are available here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/tdsmith/sets/72157605843004857/