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'Glimpses.' Extracts from Leah's journal.
Our journey across the Nubian Desert
Simon was fully recovered from his mysterious illness. Laden with fourteen litres of water, we began our next adventure, this time travelling deep into the heart of the Nubian desert.
The corrugated sand road took us in a huge loop around Lake Nasser although at times we lost sight of the water and thought ourselves lost. As we curled around yet another set of towering hills, we saw Wadi Halfa in the distance. The sun was at its highest and my skin burning. Disheartened, we followed the road, hoping that we had not 'backtracked' and gone in a circle. We were relieved when we realised that Wadi was in view, but across the water. We followed the narrowing road for a further five kilometres, then veered out into the desert, leaving civilisation behind.
The most striking feature of the Nubian desert is its serene beauty. Its everchanging landscape and amazing colours mean that each turn of the track leaves you gasping with awe. Despite the road being pitted with sharp stones and gaping holes, we were able to glance around and occasionally stop to admire our surroundings. The silence when we did stop, was overwhelming and we really did feel as if we had disappeared through the Stargate and leapt back in time.
As the heat grew more intense and the sweat dripping down our faces began to sting our eyes, we became desperate to find shade. We were surrounded by huge rocky dunes but none offering even temporary respite from the sun's seering rays. Leaving the bikes on the road with Simon, I set off towards a promising group of hills only to be astonished at how the closer I drew, the further away they seemed. When I finally reached them, they were much bigger than they had seemed from the road and as I turned to rejoin Simon, realised that he had shrunk to a mere spot in the distance. My mouth was dry and my head thumping. Reaching Simon was a struggle, my feet weighed down by the clogging sand. I had been privvy to my first desert illusion, the inability to assess distance. I didn't need to panic, I wasn't alone and there was still plenty of water left, but it was a warning for us to avoid venturing off road. We finally managed to find a slither of shade and rested, drinking tea from our thermos until the shadow was sucked back into the rock and we set off once more.
	Nearing four in the afternoon, we spotted an old thatched shelter a few metres off the road. Protected from the stinging wind and the heat of the sun, we collapsed, reluctant to leave despite having cycled only twenty five kilometres. The stove was soon unpacked and, as we boiled water for yet more tea, we had visitors. A passing bus stopped and its curious inhabitants spilled out to inquire if we were OK and then to pray or sit idly and gossip. After exchanging tales of the desert, they reluctantly rejoined their bus, some inside, some balanced precariously on top of the luggage on the roof. We settled down for the night, watched the sands change from yellow to pink then amber in the fading sunlight, and then witnessed our first 'moonrise'. A huge, white ball, slowly emerge on the horizon, illuminating the landscape, imbuing it with a surreal lunar glow. It reminded me of snowy winter evenings in England, only the reflected light bouncing off the sands and the temperature being in the plus' rather than the minus', an obvious bonus!

	A rude awakening
	We awoke to the sound of tinkling bells. Slightly chilled, we peered out of the tent, only to be dazzled by the sun, just appearing over the surrounding hills. We could just make out the shape of a man in the distance, driving his herd of sheep or goats straight for us. In a panic, desperate to avoid being hemmed in by his charges, we packed the tent in record time and moved our bikes to safety. As he approached, he steered his herd in an arc around us, stopped momentarily and motioned to us to take his photo, then continued on his journey, soon to disappear in the haze. Slightly bewildered and bemused, we made tea and enjoyed watching the sun finish rising before embarking on the next punishing stretch.

Egg rocks

The bone shaking corrugated A1. Nubian Desert.

We spend the night camped alongside giant egg shaped rock formations.

We enjoyed an hour of cycling in the cool morning before the heat was turned way up and we both began to blister. The stony road soon disintegrated into sand and we pushed our cycles more than we rode them. The scenery certainly made up for our suffering. Dramatic outcrops of rock punctuated the vast expanse of desert and the hills around us grew into mountains. Occasionally, a monstrous truck would lurch by, its occupants beaming at us and its passengers on the roof managing to wave with one hand while gripping onto the cargo with the other to avoid being catapulted to eternity.

Our water supply was running low. We had drastically underestimated the time it would take us to cross the desert to reach the Nile. There had been no traffic for almost two hours and we had only one bottle remaining. We sensibly decided to stop the next truck and beg water. We didn't have long to wait before we glimpsed the unmistakable dust cloud. Jubulant, we waved our empties and the truck bumped to a halt. They filled our bottles with dubious looking brown water and, despite our protests, filled carrier bags full of food for us. We were touched by their generosity, a trait we would see again and again in our time in Sudan.

It was the last vehicle we would see until late into the night and we suddenly realised just how lucky we had been. We found a tiny piece of shade, just big enough for us to lie down in, squashing ourselves against the rock. Once the heat of the day had subsided, we set off once more, thankful for the wind blowing behind. After several failed attempts to find a shelter for the night, we discovered a perfect spot. Straight out of a sci-fi movie, huge egg shaped rocks littered the ground, some big enough to pitch our tent alongside. Hidden from the road, we jealously guarded our privacy and savoured another moonlit evening in the still of the desert.

	Pink sands
	Early next morning, we set off, refreshed and happy in the knowledge that we had enough water to last us until the tea shop, conveniently placed at the halfway stop on our journey. Sailing down a long stretch of road, we bumped and jiggled round a corner and were faced with the most stunning sight on our route so far. Pink sands stretched out before us, set against a backdrop of massive flat topped pink mountains. It was difficult to believe that such a sight could be concealed in the heart of a desert. I busily collected a fistful of pink and stuffed my treasure into my bag. We reached the tea shop and were greeted by the owner. He quickly unrolled a mat for us under the welcome shelter of a thatched outbuilding. A young boy grinned welcome as he busily lay out pieces of fish to dry in the sun. An old man eyed us suspiciously from a dark corner until he could supress his curiousity no longer and came and sat with us. Drawing dubious pictures in the sand, we described our journey. Mint tea soon arrived and we sat relaxing, discussing the Bush/Blair situation in broken Arabic and smatterings of English. Sudanese hospitality surprised us yet again when our money was refused.

Sanctuary
Soon after we left, the landscape became bleaker and the wind whipped the sand into a frenzy around us. Tracks led off in all directions and we realised there was nowhere safe to camp. Neither of us wanted to be confronted by a truck in the middle of the night, offroading, generally without the use of headlights. At the worst possible time, my tyre hissed and flattened. Simon cycled off ahead to search for any signs of life. We had cycled less than ten kilometres since the tea shop but the thought of pushing my bike all the way back made me feel sick. I was already suffering from a sun induced headache and my hands were numb through gripping the handlebars so tightly over the bumps. He returned with news of a small settlement and what looked like yet another tea shop.
As we approached, a small group of bare-footed children ran up to greet us. An old white-robed man strolled over and insisted we rest by his shop and have tea. Again, no charge. A truck was parked nearby and its occupants, on seeing our plight, set about helping us to fix the puncture. Quite chaotic, as before long at least twenty people were involved. This, we were quick to learn, is the Sudanese way. Puncture patched and tyre apparently fixed, we were led by Mohamed, a small boy of about ten, to a donkey stable in the wasteland behind the houses. Settled and safe, we pitched our tent out of the wind and sat until late evening chattering with Mohamed.

Prehistoric
The next morning, Mohamed greeted us with a few of the phrases we had taught him the night before. Our attempts at answering in Arabic were a little less successful and set the boy giggling. Our early start was delayed with the discovery of yet another puncture and it was Mohamed who found the hole which had eluded us. He grinned proudly as we praised him in front of the other villagers. Wishing every-one goodbye, we cycled off into our fourth day in the desert. The sun was already high in the sky.
	We were now cycling through what seemed to be a black desert. A layer of silt covering the sand beneath. The mountain ranges on each side glowered down at us and rocks balanced dangerously a-top others, cartoon style. We found ourselves stranded in a desolate place, the steep sided sided mountains turning orange, spewing boulders. The wind whistled eerily and we were forced to stop. Another puncture. We looked around to find somewhere shaded to sit. Only a stark, barren landscape. No wisps of grass or even the tough thorn trees which had lined other parts of the desert. No birds circling overhead. An ideal film set to show the beginning of time. We felt humbled and insignificant. Sitting on the top of a giant pile of rocks, I hurriedly prepared sandwiches. We were alternately roasted by the sun then blasted by the wind forging its way down the road which had been cut through the rock. I was happy to leave. Within an hour, another puncture. This time the patch had blown off and Simon made a last ditch attempt to bandage it with tape. He was soon pushing his cycle as I rode alongside. We were treated to more pink sands contrasting unusually with blackrock hills thrusting skywards. The Nile showed itself to us suddenly, glinting in the afternoon sun.

Big country - Big heart

We were head to toe covered in dirt and leaking sand everywhere. My hands, arms, neck and ears were grubby and dirt had even found its way through my leggings. Simon was wild haired and bearded. Both of us had bright red, peeling noses. Despite our frightening appearance, a Toyota van screeched to a halt alongside us and the driver offered us a ride to Abri,15 kilometres away. We were told that Abri not only had a bike repair shop but also the promise of a shower in the local hotel.

Simon leapt in the back with the bikes and I was bundled in the front, taking the seat of one of the passengers who had been banished to the open topped back. Sandwiched between the driver and a uniformed passenger, we set off.

The road was rocky and potholed. As we careered at high speed, I was bounced and shaken. I clung fiercely to the bar on the dashboard. Rocking left; rocking right; lurching forwards; being thrown back. The grunting, roaring engine was deafening; the thuds of the bikes, metal against metal, worrying. Glancing every few minutes in the side mirrors, I anticipated seeing the bikes, Simon, or both, being flung unceremoniously skywards. Skidding our way through tiny villages, I closed my eyes more than once, as we barely missed donkeys, herds of sheep or the odd flock of hens.

"Islam is a peaceful religion, you know," shouted the passenger to my right. I turned to look at him. So, no small talk, I told myself. I caught my reflection in his Hawai five 0 sunglasses. I looked astonished. The car suddenly veered right, off road and I was flung hard against him. His painfully thin body convulsed in a fit of coughing. " I know," I screeched back, regaining my composure. The track we were taking was smoother which inspired the driver to try supersonic speed. " Really?" the man looked at me in surprise, "but Christians think all Muslims are terrorists. Only bad Muslims are written about in the newspapers and talked of on television, " he coughed into his handkerchief, "excuse me, " he spluttered. We approached a small hump in the road and instead of slowing, the engine roared and we flew, stomach jumpingly high, and crashed with a bang on the other side, skidded, then sped off along another track. I checked the mirrors. " No, there are intelligent people in England, too, you know," I smiled. He returned it. " What of the war? Many innocents will die," he shook his head sorrowfully. I answered truthfully, faithfully, " the British people won't allow it to get that far. The politicians will talk." He cocked his head to one side and turned to scrutinise my face. He looked both delighted and bewildered. " I'll tell you a story," he boomed, before launching into another coughing fit.

He talked at length of the Nubian people. Their beliefs, their customs. Links to Islam and Christianity. Some words were difficult to catch but he was so animated, so enthusiastic, that I couldn't bare to stop him and ask him to repeat himself.

Simon's Sudanese Somethings.

Wadi Halfa.

We wake up with stinking headaches and abandon the cabin to sit drinking tea on deck. Our map produces a ring of towering spectators and various opinions as to the state of the roads out of Halfa. We are sailing the last few miles into Sudan now, and pass Abu Simbel in the distance. I have never seen it before and spend a few moments taking photos that consist more of sky and water than the massive statues. Next we sail past a line of buoys and the border into Sudan has been crossed. I remember the bottle of beer I still have in my bag. After 'breakfast', the port is approaching and Leah and I prepare to vacate. We pack. We struggle past people and boxes of 'stuff'. We manage to get our cycles down the stairs, load them up and negotiate the boxes and bags that have accumulated overnight. We are in prime position for disembarkation. All we have to do is wait for the doors to open, nip off, negotiate border formalities and get to Halfa. Nothing goes as smoothly as planned. People crush us. I cannot move in any direction. People stack their luggage all around us. Our path to freedom is narrowing. There is exit fever in the air. We dock. We are boarded by a mass of uniforms. We think we can leave the ship. We cannot. In order to facilitate the soldiers entry, Leah gets her bike lifted off the ship and onto the dock. She cannot follow it though. The doors are relocked and everyone is told to go upstairs for form filling. I stay with my bike as Leah goes upstairs to jump through whatever hoops are necessary. I am told many times to leave. My response is always the same, that I have a good wife upstairs. Leah returns with a piece of white paper. Eventually the doors open a crack and a man jumps and exits. We follow swiftly, handing our piece of white paper to someone as we clamber off the ship and onto the dock. A couple of people behind us also manage to escape and then the doors are re-locked. We are finally on Sudanese concrete. A cursory check that our bikes are intact, a cigarette and we sail down the quay to passport and customs. We are the first there. The whole place looks like a deserted aircraft hanger, and we get the feeling that our arrival has caused a few interrupted slumbers. We pay a small fee to have our passports looked at. For this service we are given a receipt. Apparently that was passport control. Next is Customs. One man asks us about the contents of our luggage. I tell him that we have plenty of cigarettes but no wine. We agree that it would be very bad to bring wine into Sudan. He sticks yellow stickers all over our luggage and bikes. We are dismissed and just before the exit a different man ticks the yellow stickers. We are free and cycle past the last policeman and over the sandy corrugated road towards where we think Halfa is.

The El Nil is basic and we book a mud hut with string beds. There is desert in all directions and the setting sun turns the blindingly white sand of the day into beautiful ochre. Night falls and fluorescent tubes ignite. Competing music blares from the shops and stalls that sell everything we are going to need for a few days in the desert. Women elaborately make tea in the street. Dogs run around. Crowds of men sit outside huts chatting and drinking. Trucks are parked waiting to vomit their loads back onto the Egypt bound ferry. Busses announce their arrival with multi toned and happy sounding air horns. We love it all and feel is if we have finally left Arabic Africa and landed in the Africa of imagination.

Police registration day.

Our first taste of Sudanese bureaucracy. We find the unmarked Police Station. The occupants are busy moving sand around. Firstly we get a form from a lady in an office. After inspecting the completed forms and freshly copied passport details, she tells us to buy stamps from a man sitting outside. We are informed that this stamp would be cheaper elsewhere, but we cannot locate 'elsewhere'. Next we have to go and purchase a manila folder and more stamps for our forms. This bundle of forms, stamps and photocopies is carried to the Captain. After his cursory inspection and signature, we find our way back to the first lady. She writes on the front of the manila folder, and we are directed back to the Captain. Leah pays the lady sitting next to him. During a discussion over the cost Leah has to pay, a stupid 4WDriver kindly interferes by loudly telling anyone who would listen that everyone has to pay the same price as him. Leah tells the oaf to shut up. During all of this activity I sit in the shade with a bottle of water, a splitting headache, chilled bones and muscles that ache every time I use them. One policeman gets me a chair and another asks me if I am Osama Bin Laden. I reply that no, I am Ali Baba and he laughs. After two hours we leave. Everything has gone smoothly because we asked no questions and paid whatever was asked.

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Before here we were in Egypt. After here we were in Ethiopia.

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