16 March 2008 - Ethiopian reflections

We cycled from Yebelo to Mega today – a relatively tough 105km.

It is a beautiful, but stark environment that we have encountered in the last few days. A straight tar road that disappears into the horizon, serves to cut through the red earth littered with acacias and ant hills. Birds are everywhere, and I find myself cursing my ignorance as I see each new vivid species. I understand that this is nomadic country and this is visible by the numerous herds of cattle, caravan camels and women wearing gorgeous arrays of coloured scarves and necklaces. The people and landscape is visibly changing as we inch closer to the Kenyan border. The people are also more rural and less civilised by western standards. The women are suddenly camera-shy, children clearly are not attending any forms of schooling, they appear more surprised by us than Ethiopians further north were, and our forms of communication have rapidly deteriorated with Amharic no longer being the language of use.

We are now staying in the town of Mega, 100 km short of the Kenyan border! There was a discussion last night over the team’s feelings going into Kenya. It seems unanimous that we are all very excited to leave Ethiopia. I am not sure whether it is because we have had some bad experiences with the people here and are looking for some relief from the endless begging, or whether we are excited simply for the change. We have had some incredible times in this country. Aesthetically it is exquisite and vast. The people have been less of an attraction simply because there seems to be a culture for begging so deeply entrenched in society, and because everywhere we go we are wary of petty theft and being ripped off with “farangi” (white man) prices. Quite simply, it is tiring, and has been a real test of patience for all of us.

I have witnessed pretty much everyone in the team, myself included (!), crack at some point. The shame is that generally we crack over relatively small things; so frustrated with being had for the fifth time that day, one guy gets the brunt of the frustration. In some respects, the environment has brought out worse versions of ourselves.

Today as I arrived in town, Grant was waiting with a gentleman that was providing advice over restaurant and hotels. We had a delicious meat and bread dish that was served in a hot cauldron brought to us over the coals. It was incredible. And made more so by the good prices and lovely big man that ran the restaurant. His surprise at receiving a tip for his efforts was refreshingly awesome.

On the other hand, our “friend” that was helping us out suddenly turned around asking for 10 birr for his efforts. No act of kindness in Ethiopia comes without a “Give me money” afterwards. Reading this may make me sound a little like a stingy cow, but it is so frustrating.

Daily we try to control our frustration. Daily I try and work out the reasons behind the ingrained begging culture. Daily I come up with little solutions and find myself despairing for a country that seems to have been torn at the seams and in my mind, negative as I may sound, doesn’t seem to have much hope. I am not sure who is to blame, and I know that the NGOS that try and support these people are doing incredible work. Talking from small experiences from the back of a bicycle, the social fabric appears broken and I don’t know what will restore it.

Perhaps it is unfair for us to comment as we are seeing a very specific aspect of Ethiopia as we pass through. However, the team came to the consensus that the best way to tackle the situations here would be to invest in infrastructure and education, and make absolutely sure that there are no hand-outs. Giving things to people is breeding a sense of entitlement.

We have met some wonderful, educated people that throw dirt in the face of this argument. Ethiopia needs more people like that, and I hope that they will prove me wrong.

12 March 2008 - Take it on the chin

It’s been another mad day in Ethiopia!

Today started badly as my phone played up and I slept through our proposed 7 o’clock meeting time. So feeling a little sorry for myself I wound my way through Addis’ traffic and the chaos that surrounded the construction site of Africa’s "first spaghetti junction." This irritated me a little, partly due to the complete mayhem that very seriously amounted to technical mountain biking in amongst the rubble, and partly because every time we drove between Pietermaritzburg and Durban as a little girl, I’d get very excited by the massive spaghetti junction!

However, I am fast learning that South Africa is not really Africa.I love being from Africa, but we know nothing! We live strangely hybrid lives with all the trappings of all things Western amongst the colourful chaos of Africa.

I digress…

At 45 km in I was cycling along waving at people and calling out to children as we cycled through a town… when an arm in a yellow jersey swung across my path landing squarely on my jaw!

I managed to stay on the bike, but that was little reflection of the force with which this man hit me. A combination of cycling at 20km per hour and a well-placed swing – Wow it hurt!

Three seconds later the bikes were on the floor, I was in hysterics and Grant was chasing after some crazy man… No really, it transpired that the man actually was crazy and that he didn’t necessarily mean to harm me. I think I was mainly in shock because I was hit at all.

I am now in bed in a little room listening to Twig repairing a spoke amidst cries of “I love you” from the local children. My right arm has a solid bruise and my neck and jaw are aching a tad, but I’m luckily fine… Just a little annoyed that I’m suffering because of some mad man and not some glamorous cycling story!

4 March 2008 - The Blue Nile Gorge

The Blue Nile Gorge! – Much talked about, much anticipated. 20 km down one side and 20 km up the other. Only photographs can do justice to the mountain we climbed. What is most surprising though is the relative ease with which the team faced the challenge. We have been cycling at altitude for some time now, and through steady cycling and a fair level of mental preparation, we ate that climb up… one revolution at a time!

In fairness though, the incredibly beauty and expansive views across the gorge served to fuel our legs – who could not complete that climb when they had those views to nurse them up it!

I am now showered and rested, and having just finished my fourth macchiato for the day, I am like the cat that got the cream. Only I am not a cat, and am in Ethiopia where they have just started a 55 day fast meaning no dairy products or meat for a fairly long time… Respect. But mad.

On that note, I am a little sick of enjera (bitter pancakes) with shiru (pot of dunking sauce) and spaghetti with tomato sauce. Lunch and dinner and breakfast is either bread, enjera or pasta. Carboloading has reached new levels. What I would give for a big mixed salad, plate of vegetables and fruit for dessert. Not so much! In fact, I think I might just go for a stroll now and see what I can pick up…

Stroll successful! Picked up Ollie and Denis and a few toots with the locals! Ethiopian towns are one street wonders and entail everything from makeshift bars and restaurants (identified by competing Pepsi and Cocacola signs) to very general stores, DVD stands and trucker’s motels… And everywhere you look there are people of different colours and ages.

We had a long debate at dinner tonight over the Ethiopians. On separate occasions we met a German and Swiss group of cyclists that lamented the Ethiopian people and in particular, the children. I remember the hackles on my neck rising as our German friend talked of the children and their stone-throwing, demanding behaviour. My response to him – Go home! Although, I wasn’t quite as vocal.

But the children really can be ridiculously trying. Niall and Gareth were witness to me absolutely losing my temper with a twelve year old. Wherever we go we are thronged with children who shout “You! You!” and “Give me money!” My initial response was one of pity, but often these shouts are accompanied by flying stones and a tough climb. And one child can walk with you for no less than 300 meters as you pant up a hill whilst he shouts “You! Give me money!” with a sense of entitlement that quite frankly would tire some very patient people.

There are some endearing, big eyed, waving children. But the rubbishes who grab at your tent as you cycle by, undermine their presence. I have tried to work out the best response – silence, no, shouting… I have caught a child who hit me with a stone and tried to explain to the adults that this wasn’t ideal behaviour. But it is not my place to discipline them.

The most important question is why they do it. I don’t believe it is necessarily cultural – it is specifically targeted at us Farangis (white people). Ethiopia is not big on tourism and there are very few westerners around. Their interactions and understanding of western life is limited to the media/TV and NGO support. It is a tenuous link, but I wonder whether westerners serve to aggravate the problem by giving things to random children as they pass through. I have to believe that at some stages “Give me money” results in them getting money. I am not sure if this is the case, but I am resolved to be firmer on not giving handouts. I don’t wish to be callous and hard hearted with people who have comparatively nothing, but it seems to be breeding a sense of entitlement in this Ethiopian generation. I hope they grow out of it.

5 March – Millennium Promise

I have left the charity angle out of these entries because I was determined to keep work and play separate. However, this trip is so tied to Millennium Promise that I fail to accurately portray what life is like on the ground. Whenever we enter a larger town and can access internet, a good section of that day is spent writing mails and pitching for corporate donations. Team admin often comes before tourist entertainment or even a good relaxing evening. We are checking for mails from friends and family, but emailing sponsors and media contacts and updating the website… and given African internet connections, it is a painfully laborious process!

We do this because we, as a team, believe in Millennium Promise and their commitment to the 400 000 people currently within their program. I was sold when I read Jeffrey Sachs’ book titled The End of Poverty – read it! It is the first empirically based, practical and positive angle I have read on Africa’s problems and the solutions going forward. He is possibly the world’s most influential economist, has worked for the likes of Kofi Anan, and led the team who constructed the Millennium Development Goals… But most importantly for me, he is not cynical but pragmatic, optimistic but not naïve, and he does a brilliant job at making you feel likewise! He genuinely believes that we can end extreme poverty by 2025, and maybe I am young and idealistic, but I want to believe him.

Millennium Promise is one of the vehicles that he believes will enact change. The organisation is structured on clusters of villages of approximately 5000 people each. Countries are chosen based on political stability and in areas where there are good relations with local public officials. Villages are then supported on a five-year funding plan with a forty percent buy-in from government. It is an integrated plan that supports the eight areas of the Millennium Development goals concurrently such that the different areas support each other. Examples of support include road infrastructure, access to water, agricultural support, small business development, education, women’s empowerment, malaria and HIV prevention and general health…

The differentiating factor of this organisation is that after five years it withdraws funding on the basis that at this point the village is self-sustaining. In my opinion this is not a hand-out but an investment that leads to a grouping of people that are in a position to support themselves and their families.

We are raising money for the village of Mbola, Tanzania. It costs them $300 000 to support the village of 5000 for the year, and so this is our target. We have currently raised $140 000, which is awesome work, but has room for improvement! In effect, we will be part of a team that enables 5000 Tanzanians to end poverty. That is pretty mind-blowing for me. I am honoured to be a part of this team; and when I say “team” I refer to the many, many people that have contributed time and effort in getting behind this trip. This is not about 6 people cycling the length of Africa.

One of my favourite books is Tipping Point – Gladwell describes the how social epidemics are created. This might sound less concrete than the $300 000 we hope to raise, but for me personally, a large part of the value within this project is discovered in its knock-on effects - by the people who are inspired to join the campaign to end extreme poverty, by students who may feel a little more empowered to do something proactive, and by an older generation who may feel just a little less cynical about Africa’s future. I sound a little idealistic, but this project is given power by the people that it touches, and who might be inspired to do something or simply remember the name Millennium Promise for that day when he/she is given the opportunity to join the team.

I don’t mean this as a donations drive – this is simply to explain why I believe in this cause and why it is such an integral part of this trip.

4 March 2008 - Back in the game!

I am back in the game! Yee haa!

It has been a tough couple of weeks for me, and I have lived in between bouts of sickness brought on no doubt by general fatigue. Since Khartoum, I have been worried that I was simply not strong enough. I had started to put it down to the fact that I was a girl, and that naturally I was weaker than the guys and so naturally I would struggle along behind them…

But not so! I am feeling good again, and have pretty much kicked the general weakness. It has been a tough couple of days cycling at altitude. Yesterday we finished just short of 90 km at 2400 meters. And they weren’t too conservative in dishing out the hills.

Ethiopia comes in folds, with seemingly innocent rises hiding the endless climbs behind them. The beauty of the climb is the exhilarating free-fall down the other side, whose enjoyment is marred only by the fact that in Ethiopia what goes down must come up… and up we go! We have been cycling at 2400 meters for the last week or so… this makes for tougher cycling.

We stayed in Debra Markos last night. It is not a particularly interesting spot, but a larger town which boasts mixed juices (avocado and mango juice – ah wow), macchiato (Ethiopia is renowned for its coffee and, when it doesn’t come with pork milk, this is the best caffeine kick they offer) and a few decent hotels – all we need for a solid night’s rest.

26 February – Lalibela

Lalibela – a town created in the 12^th century by King Lalibela. He was a Christian ruler disenchanted by the dangerous pilgrimage to Jerusalem. So he decided to build a New Jerusalem for Africa. Lalibela comprises beautiful monolithic, rock-hewn churches that are wonderfully preserved and, most incredibly, still in use.

It was a sixteen hour journey in the back of a minibus with nonexistent shocks on a crazy road. It took us sixteen hours to drive only 600 km. What aggravated the situation was that it was a purported eight hour journey, we weren’t feeling superb, and one of my dear team mates had a bizarre stomach situation that left the rest of us in some levels of discomfort. This did however generate a degree of amusement as our two Amharic drivers erupted into girlish screams and resorted to sticking tissues up their nostrils... not so funny now, but pretty situational. Wow. We were bored.

But it was all considered well worth it in the end. It truly was a pretty mind-blowing experience. At Lalibela we joined Denis’ father, Dermot, and his mate Stanley, both of whom work in the tourism industry – they said it was like nothing they had ever seen. It is Ethiopia’s secret.

I am pushed to explain myself, but find its wonder difficult to describe. The churches are an archaeological feat – large churches carved down into the volcanic rock, with beautifully sculpted interiors hollowed out. Well-preserved decorations, frescos and sculptures, line the interiors. Most impressive for me is the fact that for the last 900 years these churches have been used, and are still used, as a place of worship. What stories those walls could tell.

Dermot and Stanley looked after us very well. Given that I didn’t know Denis before meeting him in Heathrow airport, it was great to meet Dermot and give Denis some context. It was also so enjoyable to simply relax and chat with people who are so involved in this project and yet removed enough from it. They were good fun and had many an amusing reflection on our team dynamics and uber-chilled traveller’s mentality. They did also make some constructive criticisms that have been invaluable in boosting some energy into the ranks.

There are so many people that have bought into this trip and who follow our progress. There are countless more that we consult in terms of logistics, bicycles, routes… and then there are the corporates who sponsor us. Having Dermot join us reminded me of that. It is very easy when on the road in the middle of Ethiopia to think of little else but being on the road in the middle of Ethiopia… and I become a little self-absorbed!

So I wanted to say a massive thank you for all the support… It really is an essential part of the success of this venture and I am so appreciative of your following our progress – It is so great to know that there are so many behind this trip and who support our cause. It is also news of people with continued interest in this that keeps me writing and recording what is turning out to be a truly fascinating experience.

22 February 2008 - Braids

I have had the most wonderful day! Gonder is a city which buzzes with Ethiopian rhythm. I am greeted with vibrant chaos and unceasing music; helpful kids eager to earn a quick tip; and ancient buildings with vague histories.

As we arrived in Gonder two young schoolboys tracked us down and basically became our self-appointed guides. Ababa and David distinguished themselves as better lads than the rest by refusing the first tip that came their way. A clever tactic – it seems that they must have been holding out for the big handout at the end. However, in fairness to David and Ababa, they were very sharp guys who had learnt every subtle trick in the books. They took it upon themselves to look after us entirely, from discussing tourist sites to arranging our laundry. They even “got attacked at knife-point” in protecting my laundry from a thief – I apologise for my cynicism if this did in fact happen.

One afternoon as we were walking down the street with our little entourage in tow I decided that now would be a good time to braid my hair. Ababa wasted no time in convincing me that this would indeed be a superb idea and that I would look like “Miss Ethiopia” when finished. How could I refuse that?!

Following Ababa, I landed in some small backstreet of Gonder, further removed from the chaos of motor traffic, but right in the thick of donkeyville. Corrugated houses lined the streets selling anything from cloth to cosmetics. Shimmying around a slight curtain, I entered such a shack that was to become my salon. It was a great little hairdresser – three young women divvied up to the nines; a large mirror in front of a chair; and another large mirror on the back wall of a room which was not much more than 3 meters long.

I was seated in the throne, whilst all four of us collapsed in hysterics to a very confused Ababa – it seems that girlish fun, much missed on my part, is pretty universally understood by females and universally exclusive to males! No really, this was pretty classic! Through a combination of gestures at one of the hairdresser’s braids, and some lousy charades on my part, I gave up and decided to leave them to their own devices.

After continued amusement and endless photographs from budding cameraman Ababa, I emerged with neatly woven corn rows across my head. I think my hairdressers got more amusement out of the whole process than I did. And I was pretty amused. The equivalent of R20 and 20 minutes later, and my whole head of hair was stuck to my head in a way that left me feeling bizarrely self-conscious.

I can feel the wind blowing on my scalp.

20 February 2008 - Chilga

Chilga is a word that will forever be etched in my mind.

It all started fairly innocuously. We had a pretty difficult day of cycling yesterday. It was our first real introduction to Ethiopia – and our first real introduction to her hills. The morning comprised of gentle rises in amongst construction work on mediocre roads. The heat rose with the sun and we collapsed in some little town for an extended lunch break.

This lunch marked our first introduction to Ethiopian people. In Egypt we were always followed by a dozen eyes, in Sudan we were largely left to our own devices, and now, in Ethiopia, it appears that we will be swarmed by hundreds of children… always.

We stopped at a little restaurant on the side of the road for a lunch of enjera and chiru (Ethiopian local dish of pancake and sauce, which sounds a little more exciting than it tastes). Immediately we had an audience that comprised of 30-odd children edging closer and closer towards us. Two hours later saw me well-fed, a little more relaxed with the circumstances and with a hand on my shoulder and another playing with my hair.

After lunch the climbing started. We went up, then down, then up, up, up. No really, it was pretty demanding cycling aggravated by the dusty dirt road and trucks that suffered no qualms in pushing you off the road.

It was at this stage that Grant started feeling a little worse for wear and commenting that he needed us to stop fairly soon. He wasn’t that vocal though and so no-one took it too seriously until his lunch was revisited a few hours later. He was being a soldier, but we needed to stop. Fast. Food poisoning is something that never seems to leave us.

Camping isn’t an option in Ethiopia. There are always masses of people and we have been warned about wandering hands. We stopped at the next village which was a tiny place nestled into the foothills of a mountain. With only one “hotel” to choose from, we moved into the spot that beats all previous accommodation records.

This place was really pretty awful!

Words don’t do justice to the dirt. There was an amateur drainage system that ran right through the alleyway that was the entrance to the accommodation. This drain was overflowing, contained everything imaginable and posed a fair challenge to a cyclist and a bicycle who attempted to leapfrog his/her way over the stepping stones to our rooms.

We each had a little room that was big enough to fit a bed and a bicycle, at a push. It had no ventilation to speak of, and to make matters worse, the rooms were directly in front of a generator which was pumping diesel fumes into the room. This amounted to Gareth and me waiting for the generator to go off before we went to sleep – no easy feat when you are shattered from a long day of cycling and the damn thing is still going past eleven…! Every five minutes I would hear a “Didi, are you awake” from Gareth in the neighbouring room… the kind lad was making sure that I didn’t pass out from carbon monoxide poisoning…

The toilet – consisted of a room constructed from wooden logs with not much effort in making the walls solid. The result was a relatively public experience made worse by the stench, scattered toilet paper everywhere, and goatskins hanging from wooden beams…

The shower – consisted of a kind woman with a jug who poured water on us as we rinsed our arms, legs and faces.

Dinner – dinner was good being pasta with some form of sauce, a few cokes, and endless water.

All this time, Grant was confined to his quarters. We drew lots for who would truck it with him and Ollie drew the odd bottle cap.

But back to Chilga - All this is merely important in describing the state of our minds and bodies this morning. We weren’t exactly chipper; we had suffered a fairly dodgy night and were reeling from the effects of yesterday.

Chilga is a mountain that saw us climb from 600 meters to 2400 meters in the space of only 20 kilometers. Chilga is actually the ever-receding town on the top of this afore-mentioned mountain, and is a town accessed via a badly deteriorated rocky road. We started climbing at 8am and finished 28km later at 3pm. We had an average of 5.5km per hour. It was madness. It was like climbing Natal’s infamous Sani Pass into Lesotho… only it went on for longer.

It was also very hot. I was soaked through, and gratefully accepted a push from an enterprising young boy who earned a marginally faulty compass and a few pencils for his efforts! My legs were burning, and today was one of the few days where I did some solid stretches pushing my bike because I simply couldn’t cope with the sheer effort needed to get me, my bicycle and my kit up that awful hill.

Finally in Chilga I am now resting in a relatively decent hotel. But to be completely honest, I am nowhere. Today I broke through a new level in my physical capacity!

19 February - Ethiopian introduction

Crossing the border into Ethiopia was a pretty miserable experience for me. I was suffering the repercussions of the Sudanese wedding in a severe way, it was miserably hot, and I was pushing a bicycle through the dust across a bridge, trying to keep up with Gareth and his endless good temper while fighting our way through customs and the like. Not a happy camper!

We had been recommended the Millennium Hotel by a random customs official and so after some negotiation, I collapsed on the bed to try and recover some sanity. At this juncture I should perhaps redefine “hotel” – which by this point has deteriorated to a place where we can sleep. This is basic, basic accommodation comprising a bed in a mud room with a metal door, a mud hut with a hole in the ground for a toilet, and a shower that usually entails a tap/hosepipe/bowl of water and never really a shower… But this – this was the Ritz! It had showers that spewed water. I was averaging three ice cold showers a day!

I should also go one step further… Ethiopian hotels are a different breed altogether. There are plenty of women around, dressed in fairly western clothes, albeit without showing anything above the knee or the shoulders. This was a fair shock to the eye given the traditional clothes on the part of both men and women over the past month. I was fairly relieved, thinking that I could eventually don a pair of shorts that I have stubbornly carried for the last two months! However, it soon became apparent that “hotel” is another word for “brothel” and that every woman who worked in that hotel, and apparently any other, was a prostitute.

Prostitution is apparently a massive problem in Ethiopia. Alcohol is a second major problem – and the two are invariably linked. We met a sociology student and a restaurant owner, John and Sammy, and proceeded to discuss everything from travels to Ethiopian troubles over a cup or five of beautiful Ethiopian coffee. In particular, they kept returning to the destructive influence that alcohol was having within their community. Coming from “dry” Sudan, it is a strong contrast of cultures that although welcomed by the team who were looking for a cold beer, has some very serious undertones.

Sammy’s restaurant deserves special mention as it was a roadside tarpaulin shack lined with low wooden benches and small wooden tables. The coffee beans were roasted in front of us, then ground and served in a miniature metal tea pot. Alongside the coffee came two or three tiny burning coals in an egg-cup sized container with a piece of bark that gave off a ginger scent. We watched the world go by down the main street of Metema; a world awash with vibrant colour and matching chaos. Donkeys pulled red carts that carried beautifully clothed women and a whip-lashing driver, overloaded buses that would make any health and safety agent balk, and elegant women with rainbow umbrellas… Every frame was another painting. This is Africa.

17 February - Sudanese weddings

We arrived in Gedaref after nightfall and got directed to a hotel which clearly wasn’t going to make our budget. However, after a call to Sohaib, we gathered that we could stay with Sohaib’s friend Asaad and that he would be with us shortly. Soon enough we were settled in Asaad’s home eating dinner with his family. “Hospitality” has become a cliché in Sudan.

Asaad is a business man in Gedaref and is a man of stature. He commands respect with a simple air, large family and open house. Throughout our stay, men and women and children would visit to greet us and shake our hands.

It appears that as we travel south, communication will become less and less of a problem. Asaad’s eleven year old daughter Summa is a forthright girl and very eager to learn English. She took it as her duty and delight to wait on me, act as translator, take me on tours to visit her neighbours, and even take me to a Sudanese wedding. Her English was basic but her eagerness to learn and be my friend was engaging - if a tad tiresome at times!

We would walk together to her aunt’s house. I would greet her aunt with a Ma Salaam and a hand shake and be offered to take a seat on the bed. The houses were large circular rondawel huts, but completely different to the Southern African mud huts. These were large in diameter with a central overhead fan, three beds lining the walls, and perhaps a cupboard or two. Seated, I would get offered a sweet and a glass of water, and make some gestures and a few smiles while there was general amusement on the part of my host. After five or so minutes, Sumna would stand, and I would follow, and we would visit the next relative.

They have massive families.

Sudanese weddings! I was decked out in a lime green Sudanese sari – beautiful fabric, but ridiculously difficult to wear, let alone to wear gracefully. The fabric slips off surreptitiously, and short of taping it to my head, a mass of blond hair was often revealed! I would then try and recover some fabric whilst Summa tried to tuck things in – all to my embarrassment and a general hysteria on the part of her mother and aunts.

The wedding was in walking distance and so together we went off in direction of the music. Through a door in a mud wall, I was in an enclosed courtyard that held every hue known to man. The women were exquisite! Decked out in saris in vivid colours, and with distinct poise, they would move through the crowd with a sequence of handshakes and melodic talk. There was a bustle and freedom that I had not yet experienced in Sudanese women. When I concentrated on the noises I couldn’t help but recall Natal’s Indian mynahs… With no intention of insult, it really did sound like a cacophony of birds. The women sat in circles around a large circular tray that held dishes of meat and beans.

I was encouraged to eat as though I was a starving child. Struggling to break bread, dunk and swoop into my mouth with my right hand only, I caused a fair level of merriment. Sudanese eat only with their right hands and use no utensils to speak of – it is quite literally a matter of dunking and grabbing at the food… messy business. So there I sat, with an eleven year old as my host, dressed in lime green that would make my sister proud, trying to eat with one hand and simultaneously keep the sari covering my hair, and everything together with some element of grace.

I got back to Asaad’s house and shed the sari in a matter of seconds! I didn’t know that in a few hours I would go back together with the boys for the celebratory side of the wedding. And so, re-adorned in lime green, but in fits of laughter as the boys were dressed in white Arabic cloth and matching hats, we returned to the celebrations. And there was dancing!

It was an awesome experience marred only by a bad bout of food poisoning a couple of hours later! The experience was all too much for a stomach that has held its own well enough ‘til then. I was up until 4 am and was pretty ill so decided to truck the last day to the Ethiopian border. This was very disappointing, but was a welcome one as I passed the team on the road in the heat from the comforts of a particularly dusty Sudanese bus. I was in no state to be cycling!

Sudan has been a surreal and beautiful experience. It has been an honour to embed myself into a different world and try to understand how they live and how they think. I would struggle to live in their world, but I am better for understanding how they do. Sudan is a world far removed from that which I had gained from international media – it is a massive expanse, with the most genuinely hospitable and faith-filled people that place enormous emphasis on family and community. I have learnt life lessons from the Sudanese.

Sohaib

I have failed to talk of Sohaib! – A completely unfair reflection of the impression this man made on me.

Whilst in Khartoum, we did a presentation for the local rotary club. It was an informal occasion and included good food and general chat about the trip. Grant got chatting to Sohaib who asked if there was anything that we needed. He eventually got it out of Grant that we had stayed with Joanna for some time now and perhaps it would be best for the team to start moving out of her space.

A couple of days later saw the team comfortably relocated to a friend of Sohaib’s in Omdurman (the northern city that adjoins Khartoum at the confluence of the Blue and White Niles). He then arranged for us to see the renowned dervish dance. I gathered shamefully little factually about the dervishes, but understand them to be Sufis – a branch of Islam. A big circular expanse is cleared in front of a famous tomb. This circle is lined with chanters dressed in red and green and building up the tempo as they repeat their mantra. They are calling on the one God, the God of Abraham and the God of Isaac, Allah. Inside the ring 40 men dance and whirl in trance-like states that give clarity to the expression “to dance like a dervish”! It occurred to me that this is not so foreign to some more charismatic churches at home.

As we left the dervishes, we walked through a graveyard on the way home. Sohaib identified the graves of his father and his son alongside each other. His son died in August. There was a moment of silence before we walked on.

It struck me that many graves were nothing more than nameless piles of earth. In the Muslim faith it is best to lay the body to rest as soon as possible. Two days later as we were standing with Sohaib waiting for a minibus, a procession of village men walked by bearing a sheet-covered body. The death had probably occurred within the previous two hours, and the silent party was on its way to lay him to rest. I respect their simplicity and acceptance of death - it is a testimony to their faith.

Over the course of a couple of days, Sohaib hosted us to two delicious Sudanese meals and we shared stories of travels, the rotary club’s work, business and politics in Sudan, and impending visits to Ireland and South Africa. He is an attentative and wonderful person who has taught me a lesson in genuine hospitality.

16 February - Counting telephone poles

It was 250 kilometres from Medani to Gedaref – the last big outpost before the Ethiopian border. 125 kilometres each day on smooth roads is not a tall ask, but becomes arduous when we include the wind, heat and boredom factors!

The cross wind on the second morning was strong enough that I didn’t cycle with cleats in because the risk of being blown over was so great! With the heavily loaded bike and my backpack acting as a sail, gusts of wind would nearly topple me. However, Grant and Gareth were fast becoming two parallel leaning shapes in the early light, and so I learnt quickly to zigzag across the road using some of the wind and remain vertical!

The heat was oppressive. The thermometer regularly reported over 40 degrees. It dictated a disciplined cycling plan: Up early, cycle ‘til ten, break for 30 minutes, another two hours, and then make sure that you’re off the road for the next three hours... Seriously. We are off the road at the very least from 1pm to 3 pm, and this was often stretched at both ends. We rest at the truck stops that comprise a sheltered area with a Pepsi stall or basic cafeteria, dozens of meshed beds and countless flies.

Boredom. It was a long straight road heading east, an asphalt road that climbed very gradually, but relentlessly. Desert sand thankfully gave way to flat bush veld and thorn trees and the road is lined with shreds of truck tyres each telling a new story. We cycled in single file on the edge of the steep verge. The road was narrow and traffic flew along with no regard for the unscrupulous threesome. Regularly we were forced off the road. A large pink bus, passing at pace, clipped the side of my arm and left me in a state of near hyperventilation – caused by both sheer fright and my screaming obscenities at the driver. It is hairy cycling.

So with no-one to talk to and only flying buses to look out for, I started counting telephone poles. I calculated that there were 6 every kilometre and so, locking my eyes on the sixth pole on the horizon, I would let it pull me over the rises. When you start to count you know that you’re in trouble and Boredom is winning.

12 February ... aftershock reflections

Morning eventually came and I was reunited with the boys.

I asked myself why I was so moved by the experience, but struggled to distinguish the different emotions on the brew. I have found myself in a man’s world. I have chosen this. I have chosen to be here without feminine comforts and support. This is something I can deal with. But sometimes I am thrown a step further into a foreign world, more male dominated than the contrived one of this trip. It takes it out of me, leaving me emotionally drained. Women giggle at me, men stare at me, and I cannot share these observations with anyone who can identify with me. I want to learn from these experiences. I want to sap them up and take them for what they are – cultural insights and not personal affronts. These are experiences unlikely to be matched in my lifetime.

The world I saw was one that had all appearances of being culturally true. Bar the occasional cellular phone, I felt that I had stumbled into almost biblical times where men and women existed in separate worlds. The women didn’t appear lesser, but almost sacred - Individuals to be hidden and covered and rear children. I am fairly ignorant of women’s liberation, and have been raised in an environment where I have never really felt less competent than a man. I find it difficult to comprehend the lives that these women leave and it left me with endless questions over whether their ways are better or worse than ours, whether these women need “liberation” or this is choice, and most disturbingly, why I felt no anger for their position.

We reached the town of Wad Medani 110 km later. It is a beautiful little town on the banks of the Blue Nile. From here our route leaves the safety of the Nile and heads east to Ethiopia.

I am extremely excited for Ethiopia – I look forward to leaving the Arabic North African world behind and entering a world one step closer to my own. I also look forward to throwing long pants away and donning a pair of shorts. Legs! You will tan!

11 February 2008 - Culture Shock!

Now this is something worth writing home about. I am currently wearing what can only be described as a tablecloth!

I am not quite sure how to begin, finding myself uncharacteristically short of words. The Sudanese are inspirationally friendly and hospitable people.

We cycled out of Khartoum before half eight – a true record marred only by the necessary bike mechanics 7 kilometres later. Gareth’s back wheel was completely out of alignment and it saw us camped out at a petrol station for an hour and a half while he painstakingly adjusted his spokes to realign his wheel.

So with a fairly slow start we did an easy 43km to a lunch stop of bread and coke. It was at this stop that we met Abdelramin, a lecturer from Khartoum who did his PhD in Food Science and Nutrition in Kuala Lumpur. He welcomed us back to his home for some tea.

Abdel’s family all have dual US and Sudanese citizenship, and there are five little children running around his large, simple home. He has been back in Sudan for six months and was quick to highlight the lifestyle differences between the States and Sudan. We had “English” tea from white china as opposed to traditional Sudanese shai from double shot glasses. His wife sat on the bed changing the diaper of the six month old.

Despite our best efforts, the conversation was stilted. He speaks excellent English, but we were so tired. It was an absolute scorcher of a day and Gareth, Grant and I soaked up the cool air from the fans in the airy white room, whilst secretly dreading the impending return to the asphalt. 2 o’clock ticked by and we started to move again. 45 degrees.

It is difficult to cycle in this heat. We started off at pace, and with the boys not realising their strength, aerobic exercise was suddenly a good cardio workout! My heart rate hit 180 and I called for a quick rest! The heat is madness.

And so, after a long and tiring 98km on the clock, Grant got a flat tyre and we needed to start looking for a spot to settle down for the night. Unfortunately, camping didn’t look like an option in the more populated area beside the Blue Nile. Rural farm buildings, countless goats, women collecting wood and boys riding donkeys – We have had no threat of theft, but for peace of mind we choose to camp in more secluded areas.

I suggested we go to the largest blue door on the largest house and ask where we can set up our tents. A young woman and her father greeted us and after a few gestures and some reasonable English, they understand we are looking for a place to sleep and offer “Welcome.” Gareth and Grant are to follow Mustafa and I am to follow the woman. “Men and women separate” I am told. She wasn’t kidding.

I was ushered inside into a courtyard enclosing a block of Sudanese-blue buildings. Inside the courtyard there were numerous women sitting by the far left wall. They didn’t really acknowledge me and I was directed to a back right room with three beds and matching side tables lining the walls. I was told to bring my luggage inside and rest. 10 minutes later, as I sat on the bed, questioning my next move, Julula returned with traditional Sudanese clothes and asked me if I would like to wash. I followed her to a detached mud cubicle that was the shower. Inside was a bucket and a chair and she handed me the end of the hosepipe, wedging the wooden door behind me with a rock.

It was at this point that I badly needed to workout how these clothes worked! In a couple of minutes, I needed to walk out past the twenty-odd women in the courtyard, dressed in Sudanese garb! Three items: a pink towelled skirt that could only be a petticoat; a floral cotton dress to the floor with neat buttons down the front; and a third piece of fabric – the head scarf. I have worn a fair few scarves in my time and have met many a disapproving look from an embarrassed brother as a silken lime green becomes my latest fashion accessory – but this! It was in a league of its own. In fact, there was nothing really remarkable about the scarf; it was the nature of wearing it such that it covered both hair and neck that left me flawed.

Dressed eventually (looking simply stunning dahl!) I realised how inappropriate my clothing has been to date. Immediately I was married again, but despite their insurmountable kindness, I still felt that they believed me to be morally reprehensible and in need of some help. To go one further, I am told that riding a bicycle is seen by some in some form of sexual light… and here I was, dressed in “toit pant” and leg warmers, riding a bicycle across Africa with 5 men… My view of them could hardly be more bizarre than theirs of me.

Julula returned asking if I would like some dinner. Within minutes dinner arrived: Baked brinjal, ful (bean dish), bread and some form of paste that I couldn’t recognise but tasted great. Cleaned, fed and clothed, I was now ready for guests. And guests there were. I am not sure exactly how many women lived in the female house, but during the course of the evening thirty odd women visited me.

Conversation was largely limited to “What is your name?” and “She is jameel” (Beautiful) as I met the children. A young girl of fifteen named Muna spoke better English than her English teacher sister Julula, and was deemed translator for the evening. This resulted in the women erupting into school girl hysteria every couple of minutes. I have no idea what they were laughing about, but don’t feel too self-absorbed in saying that I’m pretty sure it involved me!

We had a few moments of mutual amusement as I brought out the universal entertainer – my camera. Photographs of women and children, often asking for an individual photograph, and then lunging for the camera to see the result! I taught Muna how to take a photo and so managed to catch a snap of myself decked out in Sudanese garb!

A fan was ceremoniously carried into the room – it scared me that this was perhaps stolen from the grandmother’s bedside, but thought it impolite to decline given the maddening heat. I then realised that the bed I was sitting on was probably someone else’s and that the other two beds would no doubt be occupied too. I was even disturbed to wake at 2am to find Julula sitting on the bed opposite me, and for all appearances, watching over me as I slept.

I must sound so incredibly ungrateful for the incredible hospitality, but I find it the most draining experience trying to communicate with people when one has no common language, culture or beliefs. I could not return to the guy’s universal topic of football, and smiling becomes insincere too quickly.

8 February 2008 - Khartoum musings

I am sitting in Joanna’s home having a cup of coffee and writing. I could be in a home anywhere and once again I have the bizarre feeling that I am back in the world as I know it. I feel as though I have woken at home, and that a housemate or family member will stroll in any second now. Then I hear the mosque prayers, the whistling from the football pitch and the sound of the water pump, and I remember that I am far away.

Gareth and I went to the fanciest restaurant in Khartoum last night – I had a fillet which cost the equivalent of R60 – not all that expensive really! We went in order to get the wireless connection, but in reality were in search of some small comforts. Walking down the dimly lit main road, with concrete construction slabs blocking pavements, and the Khartoum equivalent of Black kombis pulling up to offer us lifts, I saw a familiar sign. Steers. Debonairs. I have never before felt the urge to take a photograph of a fast food franchise.

I have just been told by the owner of this house that the whistling I referred to was not from the football pitch. It seems that Khartoum now has a rubbish lorry. Even more impressive is the young man that walks around 10 minutes before the lorry arrives, whistling a reminder that it is coming. That is organisation! I’m told that there is also a rattle for the shoe shiner! This is 3^rd world business at its most enterprising.