Egypt is Full of Surprises

If there was one country I was nervous of travelling through, it was Egypt. I’d been carrying a niggling worry with me all the way. I expected the border crossing to be a lot worse but it simply turned out to be impossible to do on your own – but there was a policeman whose job was to sort out tourists like ourselves. I expected the police controls to be mean, hard work but they too have turned out to be bothersome but fine. At the end of the day, the police are there to protect tourist areas and I think that often their concern is that we have a safe journey. Okay, so the driving is mad and we are yet to discover the convoys… The roads vary from smooth tarmac to fairly rugged rocky sand paths. However, not any worse than we have experienced already.

I thought that this was going to be a stressful experience from beginning to end but we have been having a ball! And the real great surprise about Egypt is the super guys we have been meeting and in particular, Omar. I’ve mentioned the www.horizonsunlimited.com website before in early posts. In Turkey we submitted a post looking for fellow bikers doing the same route. I had expected there to be at least some bikers going in the same direction and we only have a small window of good weather to cross North Africa – where was every one? Well, Omar got in touch with us and offered to help us in Egypt doing all the tricky bits like ferry bookings and a place to stay so we could day trip into Cairo. He is a biker too (as always, the cool guys are) and a very adventurous, friendly chap. He reminds me of the action character in the film Triple X that Van Diesel plays. He is wired and unpredictable but still the hero of the story.

22 September: Egypt – Nuweiba, Dahab and Alexandria (skimming past Cairo on the ring road)

We landed in Egypt late in the evening, thanks to the ferry being delayed for four hours. We arrived to what appeared to be total chaos and devastation. It was hard to figure out the road for the rubbish. We were shouted at and followed men in official uniforms pointing. Eventually we parked in a specific spot amongst piles of baggage and rubbish where cars appeared to be searched (with the kind of rigor CSI Miami investigators demonstrated, only the ones on telly made less mess). I stood and stared at a man busy ripping the lining of the doors of the car and taking the windows out. “Fucking hell.” I thought. I couldn’t bear to think what was going to happen to my precious motorbike.

A really scruffy man walked up to me and pointed to my bike’s frame number and by his gesticulations we needed to get a paper from one of the offices he pointed towards. No body in the office seemed to understand what we wanted. We walked over to a fellow vehicle owner who explained that actually we had to go to a different window to open our files first. I thought he was joking but numerous photocopies of various papers and we exchanged money for two folders each. I’d heard there were supposed to be people about who could help us, or at least speak English, but it appeared that they had gone home - it was so late on a Friday (equivalent of Sunday). I tried to not feel stressed but this seemed like mission impossible. I knew that we would just have to take as much time as needed… and it looked like a long time indeed.

Someone else pointed out that we didn’t have the blue paper from the ferry. This paper was essential and we couldn’t enter without it. Shit! Paul and I decided to quickly drive back to the ferry before it left and ask for it. We hopped back on the bikes but as we started the engine an official looking man stormed towards us and shouted “Stop!” in a very commanding way. We stopped.
I shouted back across the hordes of people dragging luggage past between us, “We need the blue form from the ferry.”
He shouted, “STOP!” again.
“OK!” I shouted back and got off the bike to prove it.
He shouted “Wait!”
I looked at Paul.
“I guess we have to wait then.” And we stood there feeling like lemons for a while.

The scruffy chap was still hassling us for a piece of paper. Eventually he went to the office himself and got the paper and we paid for it. Some other chap came along and took down our names again. We waited as told, with our files and no idea what was going on. The scruffy chap came back having made rubbings of our engine frame numbers and pasted them onto the paper. He was happy and walked off.

We continued to wait. It felt like ages so I went off to find the insurance office. The problem was that each time I asked someone I was directed to a different office. Eventually in my wandering about I found the same guy who had shouted at us and he turned out to be the Tourist Police too. He was pretty grumpy but he seemed to have time to help us now. I tried to be charming and he gradually became Mr Friendly and took us about from counter to counter. I did have another moment of real anxiety when he asked if our luggage had been search for “firecrackers”. I assumed this really meant explosive devices of sorts and looked at the nice new car in front of us that now had someone ripping the engine to shreds. Apparently our luggage had been checked while we were away – and as far as I could tell nothing had been touched. I sighed with relief! Eventually we had two big files full of freshly stamped, signed, folded and paid for papers. We were issued with scrappy old Egyptian number plates and free to leave, not too long after 9pm.

There was no way we would get to Dahab so we found a camping spot at a tourist resort that seemed to be completely deserted. Paul was keen to drive at night but we have a rule that we don’t drive at night and I stick to it. I was kind of smug when he hit a speed hump far too fast and I could hear his bash plate scraping. That is exactly why we don’t drive at night in foreign countries on unlit roads.

Early the next morning we did the 70 km trip to Dahab. We’d been advised to go to there as it is one of Egypt’s highlights. I’d been so focused on the bad things about Egypt; I’d forgotten to focus on the good things at the same time.

As luck would have it, at one of the many police stops in Sinai, we met another biker who is intending to do the same route as us. We made a precarious arrangement to meet in Aswan and take the ferry together. The ferry only leaves on a Monday and our intended route is via the desert so will take longer than what he is planning. I’m sure he is hoping as much as we are that things work and we can ride together!

After some riding about we found the Auski camp that Omar had recommended. He had called ahead so the guys were expecting us and welcomed us warmly. The bikes were ridden right inside the courtyard so that they were safe.

We decided to stay in one of the cheap rooms at 15Lei (£1.50) and spend the rest of our daily budget on some of the various things you could do in Dahab. This is mostly diving but there are camel rides and other tours too. It’s a tourist paradise bubble. It is really cheap (by comparison with European prices not Egyptian) and is basically a purpose built town – just for tourists to enjoy. If you drive down the back road you end up in a dusty Bedouin village with goats munching on garbage and what was described as “Africa”. If you take a stroll down the waterfront road, it is lined with restaurants, tat shops, diving centres and markets selling overpriced goods. It’s amazingly chilled out with many restaurants having low tables with big cushions and shesha pipes where the clientele can chill out for hours on end.

I’d been snorkel diving in Eilat some 10 years before and I didn’t think it was all that remarkable. I remember hyperventilating every time I saw a big fish and was too scared to swim out too far. I probably missed it all and so I wasn’t quite expecting what I saw in the Red Sea!

We were given some flippers and a snorkel and were driven went to a spot called “Three Pools”. It was boiling so I hurried into the water and dipped my face under the water. We were still at the entry point and barely two feet underwater and there were brightly coloured fish swimming about. This was Paul’s first bash at snorkelling and so I was keeping an eye on him as I floated over the coral reef. So long as his spluttering didn’t lead to anything more serious I was happy.

Under the water was just, well, exactly like the film Nemo. There were literally thousands of fish of all colours and shapes. There were huge corals, anenomies and other interesting things I didn’t recognise. It was like looking at an enormous rock pool. The water was a beautiful clear turquoise blue and the waves were very gentle making it very easy to simply float and see down for meters. It was a whole new world and I was completely blown away.

So when Shawkey (one of the brothers who run Auski) suggested we do an intro scuba dive, I was up for it. I’d never considered scuba diving before because there seems to be so much equipment and far too much could go wrong. Paul was less keen but agreed to do the swimming pool try all the same and take it from there. I still had the tail end of the cold I’d been trying to shake for ages and was very congested. While I’ve always been able to swim quite well, Paul has only started getting to grips with swimming in the last couple of years.

Day two in Dahab and we found ourselves at a spot called “Lighthouse”. Paul was extremely nervous and I didn’t blame him at all. Breathing underwater is not at all natural and feels completely wrong. The other consideration is that if you panic – you have to sort it out there underwater – popping up for air is not an option. I was too desperate to get down to seeing more fish to worry too much about what could go wrong. We each had a qualified experienced diver with us who would be working all the equipment for us. All we had to do was breathe. My instructor took me down deeper than I think he was supposed to but I had one of the best experiences of my life. I saw all kinds of fish and things that I’d only ever seen in nature programmes on television. It was just brilliant! I came out of the water with a big smile, wobbly legs and snot dribbling down my face. That was awesome!

Paul did it too! He had a slightly shell shocked look. When I asked what he thought he said he was too stressed out to enjoy it and wouldn’t do it again. All the same, I was amazed that he did the dive and every thing was okay.

When I first met Paul we went to Tunisia for an October break. Paul jumped in the pool and I watched him thrashed about violently. “Damn.” I thought, “Is he drowning?” I jumped in the pool and realised that the water was just barely above my wait. Since then he has been learning how to swim and now he can swim and snorkel – on top of the water – very well!

My cold came back just to teach me a lesson about having too much fun and so we stayed in Dahab for another two days… lovely days of relaxing and snorkelling. Egypt had so not lived up to expectations – and that is a very good thing. So far the Red Sea was the highlight of the trip for me.

But back to travel and we had to get back on the bikes. I wondered if we were going to find the rest of Egypt hard work? Was Sinai going to be the good bit and the worst to come?

As we drove along it seemed that every few minutes the scenery changed: mountains changed colour, there were masses of rocks or stretches of sand followed by a patch of dense palm trees. It was very peaceful early in the morning. Maybe as it is Ramadan people go out until late at night and wake up late in the morning. Maybe it is just a fact that most of life goes on after dark here. Makes sense, as it’s so hot all day. In any case, this means we easily have until about 9am before we have to contend with traffic on the roads.

To break the trip to Alexandria where we’d meet Omar, we stopped at Ras Sudr. This appears to be yet another purpose built tourist town. There is a proliferation of resorts along the beach that are standing empty. It is hard to believe that these places make enough money during the short summer season to afford standing empty the rest of the year and only open again the following year. I’m not sure I quite understand this business model.

In the morning we crossed the Suez Canal and then took the ring road around Cairo, just in time to catch the morning traffic. Fortunately the ring road is quite clearly sign posted. I had hoped so or we could find ourselves down town in the dreaded traffic and in a predicament. The traffic, as expected, was mental. There were four-ish lanes in each direction and traffic going all directions. It was a case of keeping our eyes peeled, finger on the hooter and as they say in SA being bakgat. I almost missed the turning for Alex as Paul swerved off with no warning – but fortunately its normal to stop unexpectedly anywhere on the road and there were some police officers who then helped me reverse and get down the off ramp to join Paul.

By early afternoon we reached our rendezvous point and I immediately recognised that the fellow in a red shirt waving madly must be Omar! We followed his Landcruiser through city traffic and into small dusty little roads. We finally reached our destination and I very much doubted I could find my way out or back to the motorway again. Omar had arranged for us to be able to stay in one of his father’s apartments. It’s not plush and is coated with a wholesome layer of dust and sea sand – but we have loads of space, a bed and a working bathroom, all to ourselves.

Omar has been incredibly helpful. He has done some big bike trips himself and so really understands what it is like on the road and how tricky it can be if you simply need to replenish stocks or have some laundry done. He has helped us sort out a whole list of bothersome things, and more. A lot of the shops here are tucked away little stores that Paul and I wouldn’t have thought of trying. They have been brilliant (interesting and entertaining too). We’ve had a piece of water-resistant material whipped up into a tarpaulin. It might be over-kill but still useful: small spotlights fitted to our crash bars. And we found insulated water bottles with casings to hang over the bike to increase our water capacity to 6 litres each. We’ve replaced our spares that have been used too.

Just as soon as we have our Sudanese visas, we will be so ready to do the tough bit of the trip.

Tomorrow the weekend is over and we will venture into Cairo. I think I’m sufficiently braced for the city. The population is something like 20 million! It is bound to me quite an experience. Hopefully by the next post we will have visas in our passports. Fingers crossed.

Egypt! and Carnet success

We are in Egypt by the Red Sea and having a ball. It's all sand and camels.

Here is some help for anybody taking a bike into Egypt(as we really didn't know where to start):

THE CARNET IS ESSENTIAL. We saw people turned back to Jordan because they were not correctly informed about the carnet. Make sure it is right.

If you ferry over, ask the ferry for a blue piece of paper for customs. Luckily ours found it's way to us but caused us anxiety.

Have sweaty wads of Egyptian spondoolies. We paid 515 per bike + 50 road tax + 50 insurance + 20 photocopies per bike. Plus another approximately UK fiver for a "tip" for the kind soul who helps you. And a few other minor papers to be bought.

To find the kind soul, go to the tourist police office. You really can't do this on your own.

You need a folder to be made up and copies made of carnet etc, your chassis number rubbed and stuck on a paper, your luggage checked for firecrackers, insurance bought, pay the fees, get numerous slips of paper all of which require special stamps by different people. By the end of it you will have Egyptian number plates and a cardboard licence paper and your carnet stamped. Take some cable ties along in case.

If you can get your visa before you arrive you will cut out a little hassle.

Try to not stress out. You will probably be guided around like a stupid child. So see the madness in it. It takes many hours, enjoy!!!

Writing from Aqaba: About to leave the Middle East for Egypt

13 September: Syria – Aleppo and Damascus

So as already mentioned, I was on what felt like my death bed in Aleppo. What I didn’t mention was that the kind woman who showed me the Baron Hotel had also asked Paul and I out for lunch and I also didn’t mention that she is a doctor. Over lunch she admitted that she didn’t know how it quite happened but when she met me she decided to ask us if we wanted to meet again? I accepted her offer gratefully as it was clear that Aleppo was going to be a tough city to get to grips with. During lunch her son, who is working in Edinburgh, called and was shocked to hear his mother was inviting people off the street out to lunch! I have seldom been more delighted and grateful for having met such a charming person. We had a very long lunch at the best restaurant in Syria; dinned on some of the best food I’ve ever eaten and indulged the most enjoyable conversation. Afterwards she sorted me out with all the relevant medication I required to get better. It just seemed too uncanny that, once again, my needs were being met in some special way.

I’m not a big one for believing, and even less so for religion but I couldn’t help feeling that something was looking after me. I know there are people of all backgrounds and all religions all around the world praying for our safety, and so thank you!

Early the next morning, before the rest of Aleppo got out of bed, we set off for the drive to Damascus. I don’t know why I hadn’t realised that being Friday (being the equivalent of Sunday) would mean a lot less traffic and a relatively hassle free journey. The only real hassle was that I wasn’t yet better and so wasn’t able to appreciate grand places like Krac de Chevalier. I did drag my body to the castle, but the parking lot would have been just as interesting.

We went to a campsite only 4km outside of Damascus that is supposed to be a stop over point for overlanders. With the exception of a “travelling hotel bus”, we were the only people there. We’d been hoping we would meet up with other people doing the same trip and thought that given October is the best time to cross North Africa…where was everybody? At a guess it’s a combination of things: the Egyptian carnet going up to 800% making the West coast more affordable, increased tension between Islamic and non-Islamic peoples, the media contributing to the hype, Israel causing hassles again, and then individuals like myself with worries of anti-Western feelings in the Middle East. Quite honestly, I doubted there had ever been a booming tourist trade in Syria.

Damascus turned out to be a much more accepting city. People from around the Mediterranean have congregated here and so are much more tolerant towards strangers. I’d read about the souk (market) a number of times in travel magazines and Dan Cruikshank’s Eighty Treasures. I like the way Cruikshank describes the little holes in the arched roof of the souk as twinkling stars in the heavens above. He gets really lofty and romantic about what is a market but it did give me a smile as I looked up at the scrappy roof and thought: one man’s rags can certainly be another man’s robes. The souk’s main street is the oldest known road and Damascus is also the oldest city that has been continually inhabited. It is a charming city and although extremely jam-packed with people, cars and beasts, it’s still a pleasant one to walk around.

Having been a bit blasé about the souk, the prices did get me very excited and frustrated too as we can’t shop! There are hundreds of stalls chock-a-block, side by side selling a fantastic assortment of goods. From shops with scarves in every fabric and colour, to ice cream parlours, to kitsch shops with every sort of plastic flower in lurid colours to wedding dress shops strategically placed next door to the kinky underwear shops. Perfume shops that mix your scent while you wait and tombstone shops with fellows chipping out the deceased’s name and shops selling nothing but decorative hubbly-bubbly pipes. It is a huge market with all of these wonderfully exotic things to buy and at such unbelievably low prices. I bought a scarf and the guy asked for the equivalent of £1.50. The woman before me had haggled this fellow so much I thought they would come to blows. I just didn’t have the heart to haggle over what would amount to 50p especially since I would have paid at least £10 for it in London. In this instance, it was a win-win with two happy people doing easy business.

I felt like I was practically skipping about for feeling better and no longer being stressed out because I’m a Western woman. In Damascus nobody cared who I was and that I was wearing trousers and a t-shirt.

I was having such a carefree time that when I realised that Paul hadn’t been to a mosque before I immediately insisted that we visit the Umayyad Mosque, even though this meant me having to wear a big baggy robe covering my clothes, head and any shape at all, while Paul only had to remove his shoes. The mosque is spectacular and has some wonderful mosaics but what really struck me was the calm atmosphere and people going there to chill out and sit in the shade on the cool marble floor. I also really enjoyed seeing other tourists looking all baggy, misshapen and slightly peeved. I know I looked equally silly but we looked more like slovenly Jedi out of Star Wars than meek Muslim women. The men with shorts had to wear long green skirts and were clearly out of their comfort zone.

So I couldn’t help myself when a blond chap walked past with his green skirt on and I piped up with, “I like your look. Going for something out of Star Wars?”
Ice broken we introduced ourselves. His woman friend was starting to bake in her sack dress and so we decided to go to a more touristy part of the city where we could escape the heat and crowds and relax over a drink. She was going to spend a year in Damascus studying Arabic. I still don’t exactly understand why she is so determined to study Arabic but as she said, “It is a challenge.”
I’m could not agree more, and I suspect the whole experience will be challenging for sure (and I’m relieved it’s her doing it, not me).

Even though Damascus did offer a different and likeable perspective on Syria, it was still time to go to Jordan. What we have realised is that we are not quite up for the slumming it in brothels and fleapits or the camping wild thing – and so it costs more. If we can’t cut back on the cost of travel, we have to cut back on the time we travel instead.

17 September: Jordan – Jaresh, Madaba, Petra (via Dead Sea & Kings Highway) to Aquaba

When crossing country borders in Europe it is uneventful and often hard to tell the difference from one country to the next. Since we have crossed borders with controls, visas and officials I have also found that one culture ends and another begins.

We passed through border controls; stamped the carnet out and us out, then about half a kilometre later we went through the process of stamping the carnet in, buying insurance and getting ourselves stamped in too. I have heard real horror stories about border crossings but thankfully we have had at worst a stony faced official and at best a smiley jovial chap. And then, 3 hours later, we were free to make our way through the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.

Before I left the UK I had done some research on visa requirements. Paul and I had heard that it was not possible to ride a motorbike in Jordan. The rumour goes: that the King went to Europe and thought motorbikes were far too dangerous and so banned them, with the exception of his guards who were allowed to ride motorbikes. As a result the only time a visa would be issued is if you got special permission from the King of Jordan himself. This information had me vexed for quite some time. I even went all the way to the Jordanian Embassy in London and asked if this was the case. I can now confidently say that there is no problem with motorcyclists being granted a visa to travel through Jordan. All you will need to do is all the relevant paperwork at the border.

So the motorcycle ban is just a rumour, but there were petty much no motorcycles in Jordan. I have only seen motorcycle cops and only one little scooter out on the road. This means that our two relatively big, flash bikes attract attention where ever they go. But it is good, friendly attention (or so it seems). Cars and trucks drive by carefully with a wave or “Welcome.” shouted from the window. Every now and then someone who speaks English will try to have a biker’s conversation with us but it is just so clear they have no idea about bikes at all. It is well intentioned and we try to be as obliging as we can be.

The traffic has been strangely law abiding. The roads are in excellent condition and the speed limits at time ridiculously slow. Yet, these big flash cars quietly drift by at 60 km per hour if that is what the limit is. It’s been frustrating at times! I get the feeling this is nation was not born to be wild.

Our first stop in Jordan was Jerash. Neither of us had heard about it before and so we were quite surprised as we rode thorough the town and Roman ruins appeared to be poking out every where. After all the Roman ruins we have seen on the trip, I was starting to glaze over and had to really think carefully if it was worth paying the entry fee to see more rocks. What makes Jerash well worth seeing is the live enactment of Roman chariot races, the informative demonstrations of an army of soldiers and the amusing burly gladiators. Finally ancient Rome entered my imagination and I was able to appreciate it so much more.

We then decided to drive past Mount Nebo and the Dead Sea to Petra. This is the very mountain that God led Moses up and showed him the Promised Land. I was much relieved to see the Promised Land included not just beautiful rocky mountains but also fertile valleys. As I drove up to Mount Nebo I felt a slightly tense anticipation because if I was Moses and had been living out in the extreme conditions of the desert for however long and had been shown the likes of dusty Syria, I would have been disappointed but the majestic mountains of Jordan were not a let down.

The police guard at the top of Mount Nebo asked if we wanted to go to the tourist office. I said, “No, its okay. We just came here to get the view Moses had.” He didn’t get the joke at all but it was a subtle one.
Then he asked where we were going. I showed him my map through the tank bag and described the intended route along the Dead Sea.
“The road is bad.” He said and shook his head.
I pointed to the tarmac and said, “Is the road like this or sand?”
“Oh no! The road is good but it is…” and he indicated twists and hairpins, “dangerous!”
Both Paul and I smile in relief and assure the police guard that the road is no problem at all. He waved us off with a, “Drive safely.”
We did ride carefully and stuck to the speed limit.

As we descended the windy road towards the Dead Sea it became eerily quiet. The air was completely still without as much as a leaf stirring. Sound seemed to be completely absorbed. It was the kind of quiet that made me feel uneasy. We stopped at a bathing resort that was very over priced but the only option around. Besides, it was midday and so the most sensible option was to get off the road for a few hours and go for a quick dip in the sea. It was a good laugh as we bobbed up like corks. It also made every cut and itchy bite burn like heck so we didn’t stay in the water very long. I don’t know where the water comes from that fills the Dead Sea or why the salt content remains so high or why the water is more like oil? I have many unanswered questions to research when I get back home. We passed through numerous police checks along the sides of the sea. With the strange silence, utterly still waters and military presence every where, it all felt a bit uneasy.

We found that away from the big tourist traps like Petra, people were generally quite decent. I get the feeling Jordan is specifically interested in older, wealthier tourists and possibly gullible American too. As a result, there is very little in the budget side of things, entry fees are outrageous and constant plaguing for tips is a real nuisance.

In spite of the smarting entry fee we decided to go to Petra all the same. Petra has been hyped up as the one and only place to go in Jordan. Well. It wasn’t that impressive. I think that after seeing Rome, Pompeii, Epheses and numerous other castles and historic sites, Petra has its unique beauty and intrigue but possibly not in direct proportion to the entry fee. The problem with entry fees is that they build my expectations and so far Petra is by a long measure the most expensive site we have visited… but not the most spectacular – and certainly not in proportion to the cost.

So what struck me as the whacky thing about Petra was that all that really remains is a whole lot of out-sized tombs that have been cut into the rock. I remembered Dan Cruikshank describing it as the city of the dead. I find it hard to imagine what city existed there in the past and what kind of people the Nabetaeans who lived there were. It must be a real feat of engineering to chisel out the tombs, some of which are absolutely massive and on the faces of sheer cliffs. These massive canyons were formed by the rock cracking and splitting. It’s a soft rock and coloured red, back, pink, green, yellow and blue. The landscape around is mountainous and rocky and I’m sure very difficult to pass through. The Nabetaeans took full advantage of their location and robbed any body who tried to pass through. Later they realised that by making people pay for safe passage, they could generate a lucrative income. The city flourished but there isn’t much to see of the actual city – just a road that the Romans built after taking over the city and a few temple remains.

By comparison with Syria, Jordan is unbelievably peaceful. It also has a very small population of only five million which I guess also means that the average person is better educated and more well off. However, in contradiction, Jordan seems to have a lot more street kids than I’ve seen any where else on the trip so far. In general they seem to be accepted as just one of those things. People don’t chase them away and they walk about begging or collecting cans without fear. I never know how exactly to react to these situations. Being tourists and comparatively well off means we have the scruffy little things pester us. I find myself very irritated by them and then later feeling very bad about being so irritated. The “What are we supposed to do about it?” mantra goes through my mind.

I watched a podgy, middle aged American woman with sweaty curls sticking out from under her hat call a little boy over and say, “DO. YOU. WANT. A. PEN?” in slow patronising American drawl.
She held up two rather expensive gel pens towards the little boy as if they were lolly-pops. The little boy grabbed the pens and scampered off. He ran straight past us and to a very big muscled man who sat on a camel in the shade and handed him the pens. The man took a look at the pens and added them to a small pile of pens he’d collected from tourists via the kids. I don’t know what the situation is. It could be “protection payment” or it could be his big brother. In another incident a tourist had clearly handed a lanky adolescent girl a note of money. The girl tried to give it back but the woman insisted and walked away. Not long afterwards, the biggest of the kids beat the girl and took the money. In any case, handing out pens or giving away small change isn’t the answer to the problem.

Another discovery in Petra that really impressed me was the humble little donkey. I had no idea this little beast of burden was such an off road whiz and was capable of carrying an outsized American man up all 855 mountainous tricky steps. It was also able to gallop down again. Their sligtly daft but cute looking faces give no hint of this exraordinary ability and strength.

We have arrived in Aqaba where we will take the ferry to Egypt tomorrow. We will finally be in Africa! Egypt is both in the Middle East and Africa travel guides so I’m not exactly sure which classification it falls into but I think I’m safe in saying it straddles both. I’m excited in anticipation of the deserts and pyramids but I have not heard anything positive about travel in Egypt and so I’m hoping for the best.

The tough bit begins

6 September: Turkey – Cappadocia and Sanliurfa

From Antalya we went to Cappadocia via Konya. Konya is supposed to be a very pretty city and on a pilgrimage route – what that really means is that the otels are over priced. All of a sudden we are out of secular Turkey and into conservative Muslim mode. Women scuttled along in their very large, hot looking clothing but worse, teenage boys didn’t seem to know how to behave around a foreigner. While I waited for Paul the porter did a very good job of shooing off crowds of boys. This annoyed me a lot more than I thought it would. I knew I’d have to face this on the trip but it really angered me. I’m not used to having to tolerate disrespect from anyone.

On to Goreme, the touristy bit of the very famous rock cities. We had climbed up through the mountains near the coast and crossed a vast plane that is flat from horizon to horizon, and then it seemed to be rather sudden that we turned a corner and the “fairy towers” were every where. The rocks are often conical in shape and at times coloured in stripes of white, pink and yellow – due to the layers of volcanic eruption. The rocks are made of soft volcanic tufta and over the years have been eroded by weather and humans. During the Byzantine period people lived in these odd rock formations and you can see hundreds of little windows, engravings and paintings of this time. Many of the buildings, or rather holes, are churches as they were used by Christians to escape Roman persecution. Later the rock dwellings were used as pigeon houses and the pigeons were used for food and shit (according to the local chap who has a teashop called “Flintstones” in the middle of no where). During the Ottoman period the cities were not needed and started to fall down because of earthquakes and floods. They were only discovered again in the 1900s.

South of Goreme there are underground cities. These housed thousands of people for a few months at time. They were used mainly to escape from attack. These are really strange places and must have been really unpleasant to live in – as there were animals there too. I have no idea where the word troglodyte comes from and as a child I thought it described something like a green monster rather than someone who lives in the earth. In any case, it is a good word to describe the troglodyte city – it is peculiar, warren-like and you have to hunch over and squeeze through in most of the passages. The passages deliberately force one to crouch so that the enemy would enter in one at a time, exposing their necks, making killing them easy. It is interesting though that they managed to ventilate and light the place sufficiently to live there at all.

Turkey is such a big country that we’d ended up spending an extra week there already. We were supposed to take it easy and enjoy it as it’s the last of the holiday type countries until we reach Kenya. Getting all the way to the East of Turkey took quite a bit of mountain driving. The roads had also deteriorated and there were large stretches of road works too that meant driving through thick, loose gravel. I did worry that we’d changed tyres to knobblies too soon, but definitely not! I would have been struggling like mad with road tyres on some of the stretches.

So we finally got to the touristy spot of Mount Nemrut. The mountains are huge and barren with surprisingly blue lakes every now and then.

Paul and I had spoken to a chap who is undoubtedly the most hardened traveller I’ve ever met. He always slept rough and hardly spent money on anything except his motorbike. He seemed to be doing okay for himself. So Paul and I thought we should try to be more adventurous about the whole thing. We tend to go from one Lonely Planet recommendation to the next. In this instance, we thought we would be wild. We reached the tiny village of Kahdrad and a young man suggested we camp in a field on the side of the road. Lack of language skills and all… we ended up camping in what is actually the parking lot for restaurant that is actually a very shabby dirty place. To cut a long story short, these guys tried to charge us for food and accommodation that cost about three times what we would pay for clean, air conditioned hotel and proper, hygienically prepared food. Fortunately, we’d discussed the possibility of this being a big load of bull already and so the bikes were packed. When the argument and stymied faces of “I don’t understand why you think I’m screwing you over” started we just gave him the maximum amount we were prepared to pay, got on the bikes and left. I don’t like this approach to dealing with arguments as I like to reach agreements. I just think in this instance, there would be no way of getting this fool to understand that for all the “welcome” in the world – we were just not idiots.

Rip off aside: pretty much all the women about are dressed in either peasant floral baggy pants or skirts with a scarf or a variation of Muslim-style outfits. When I arrived on my bike there was quite a commotion and little girls appearing out of no where to have a look at me. The curiosity continued and I was under scrutiny all of the time I was camped up in the parking lot. A woman, who I would guess is in her late twenties, called me over to go to the fields with her. The first thing we did was climb up a fig tree. I haven’t done this kind of thing for years and quickly found myself at my limit. At which point she, long skirt and all, climbed past me to the very tiny branches and plucked off figs and handed them to me. We walked through fields as she explained about the fields and I smiled at her, not understanding a thing. She then sat down to have a sneaky fag. We did manage to communicate that I was married with no kids and she is divorced. I could see that there was some heartbreak that had made her rebellious and as a result, curious about me, or rather, the life a “non-Muslim” woman has. We walked back slowly and I fell deep into thought.

I wished she could tell me about her life and I could tell her about mine. I wanted to know what it is like to be hidden from public view and if she is able to make choices about her life. I have enjoyed so much freedom and done what I want to do with my life – often to my parent’s horror. It hasn’t always been easy and my choices have at times resulted in me struggling and at times being extremely unhappy. I have also been lonely and had to face many tough battles on my own but I have had dreams and the freedom to at least try to live them. I would not swap this freedom for all the cloistering and security in the world.

East Turkey was proving to be very different from the West.

When we reached Sanliurfa, close to the Syrian border, the differences continued to become more apparent. There were very few women dressed in Western clothing and the friendly attitude of Western Turkey was all gone. We met a young Kurdish guy who I’m sure was trying to convince us of their plight but all he did with his pushy bad attitude was make me really not give a monkey’s about their cause. I normally do care about minorities but I come from a country that has a lot to be proud of and being tolerant of diversity IS possible and in the modern world essential. Finding solutions it so much more important that setting off bombs in tourist destinations. We had by a day here or there, managed to miss all three bombs that had gone off in Turkey during the three weeks we were there.

I’d also by now picked up the good old tummy bug, having just barely recovered from the cold, and was feeling very weak and feeble. Paul’s tummy was slowly getting better but had suffered from really bad headaches for a few days. We were both loosing weight and energy. I looked at Paul weakly and said, “So this is it. We are heading off into the toughest part of the trip and we are as sick as dogs. Not good babe, not good.”

12 September: Syria – Ar-Raqqa to Aleppo

We crossed the border at Akcakale and the plan was to head straight to Palmyra. The only problem was that Paul and I had not anticipated the kind of response we would have travelling on motorbikes and even more so – having a woman drive her own bike. Ironically, the border guys were brilliant, helpful and friendly but that has been the last of it. We had heard a lot of very positive feedback from people travelling through Syria but on reflection, they were all men. On the road it is unlikely that any body would realise I’m a woman and so that is fine but the moment my visor comes up, in a few minutes there is a crowd. Mostly I’ve had curiosity which is not welcome when Paul and I are merely trying to talk. However, when we arrived in Raqqa I couldn’t stop without attracting a horde of teenage boys. They blatantly harassed me and tried to grab at things on the bike, including the keys. I even had them hanging off the bike as I rode off but fortunately the 650 is a whole lot more feisty than the pestering boys. We didn’t think it was worth trying to find a hotel in these circumstances and so changed plans and went to Aleppo.

The landscape had changed to flat, dry and dusty. There were small whirlwinds flying across the horizons. I’d like to be romantic about how beautiful it is, but its just litter everywhere. The fields of black and white plastic fluttering in the wind are a pretty interesting illusion all the same. The roads were bad, as expected. The traffic was insane. We are in the world of biggest has right of way. At one point I had a massive truck about one meter off my rear wheel and I was doing the speed limit of 80km per hour. Its times like those that I have to just avoid looking back and hope the arse realises I’m not about to swerve onto gravel at that speed so that they can overtake without turning their steering wheel. Goddamit, my nerves were shot.


Aleppo is a massive city and as always, driving in a city is hell. This was the worst we’d experienced by a long measure. Manic. People drive here like complete lunatics and all in such a huge hurry that there is almost no regard for traffic lights, lanes or road signs. People hoot. They hoot because you are in the way, because they are cutting you up, they are jumping a light, they are illegally overtaking and sometimes just to wave at you. At times they are just hooting because they have a hooter. It is noisy and unbelievably stressful.

We arrived at Aleppo and whipped the good old faithful LP out. I had my helmet on with visor down, sunglasses on and daren’t remove even my gloves for fear of being discovered as a woman. Paul went off in search of a hotel. It took what felt like ages and I managed to completely ignore most gawpers until a little boy kept pulling his father back again and again to look at the bike. The father eventually came back and asked how much the bike cost? My cover was blown. I replied, “About 5000 pounds.” and offered no further conversation. So the guys in the barber shop saw I was a girl and Paul was gone so I had a mild panic. A guy came out with a chair for me. They were clearly concerned about me (I did look pretty sick). I sat very quietly and tried to avoid conversations, melting under my bike gear.

Finally Paul returned with the not so good news that he had found a dodgy place but that was the only place with rooms available and we could park in the lobby. I wanted to cry out of feeling sick, miserable and the prospect of a night of running to a shared squat loo was more that I felt capable of coping with. Fortunately I know that in these situations the correct thing to do is: chin up. We managed to get through the horrendous traffic to the flea pit and with much hassle got the bikes into the lobby we were instructed to park in. At which point some older men stuck their noses in, asked if we had papers to prove that we were married and said we shouldn’t stay there. I didn’t understand all of what was going on but it was a really bad vibe and, “You are not welcome.” doesn’t need much more explanation. So there was the huge hassle of getting the bikes out again and lots of people hanging about with big bulging eyes. I don’t intimidate easily but given my feeble state – I felt pretty intimidated.

Paul spotted a woman in Western clothing and shoved me, “Go and talk to her.” I approached her tentatively. She smiled. Yes, she spoke English and would help me find a hotel. I said we were having a pretty bad time so far at which point she pointed out that the area we were in was a prostitute zone with many Russian prostitutes working the streets. That explained the hostility (to an extent). Thanks Lonely Planet! One very important little bit of information that makes a big difference for Western women travelling. A guy wrote the guide so I guess didn’t consider what it would be like for a woman to arrive in this red light zone given these muppets can’t tell the difference between biker chick and prostitute.

I knew Paul wouldn’t argue about cost of hotels by this stage so, with help, I managed to get a room at the Baron’s Hotel for 55 US Dollars and we’d stay for a few days to get better again. This would blow our whole budget and meant cutting our time here down by half. I was delighted by that fact as I had already decided we were riding through as quickly as possible.

The Baron’s Hotel is a rather famous one and I think, so far, the only thing I like about Syria. We are in the very room that Laurence of Arabia used. I like the thought that I’m lying on the very bed he lay on, probably under the same sheets too.

And it is at the Baron’s Hotel that my girlie locks found a resting place. I took my pocket knife out and chopped my hair short enough that it barely sticks out under my helmet now. With a bit of luck and covering my nose and mouth with a mask, I should be able to at least travel safely on the bike – so long as I don’t talk!

There is a massive gulf between European and Arab here. Every now and then it is possible to find a tiny spot, probably dating back to the early colonial days in which we can escape the hustle, bustle and hooting. I don’t know if I could do this country on the cheap. Instead we will do it really fast.

Syria has now won the place of worst place we visited and Italy moves up a large notch. Actually, South Italy is now appearing to be quite civil by comparison.

It is at these times that I do my little reality check: Would I rather be here, facing mad traffic, gravel roads and the possibility of shitting myself at any moment, or would I rather be back at the desk job in London? And the answer so far is: I would still rather be here soiling my only pair of trousers than playing it safe doing a day job.

Contact information - Motorcycle Mechanic in Antalya

If anyone is doing a trip around Southern Turkey and needs mechanical assistance, here is the bike shop address:

Olympiyat Motorbike Shop in Antalya
Ahmet Ozugurlu is the boss and Guru to get in touch with. He can organise tyres from the dealers across the road.
Telephone: 00 90 3446831
GPS coordinates: N 36 54.164’ E 030 41.678’
Websıte: http://www.olimpiyatmotor.com/

For the motorcycle club take a look at their website: www.motorand.com. Tolga is your contact.

Sad to say goodbye to Antalya

What can I say? I’m in love with Turkey. Seriously, I really love the place and the people. We met a great guy, Muzaffer, it a petrol station. In his youth had been a biker and travelled across Europe and Nepal, and he gave me a little nugget of insight into Turkish culture. Turks think of visitors as “gifts from God”. Having lived in London for eight years and being little more than educated, cheap labour, this attitude to strangers is deeply touching. This is a country that has time in abundance: time to meet people, time to talk, time to drink obligatory cups of tea and time to be involved in other people’s lives. I have been treated with respect and care that I’m sad to say, I’m not used to, and will miss terribly when I leave. Who knows? This is a vast country, interesting and varied – I have loads of reasons why I’d come back again.

27 August: Turkey – Koycegiz, Olympos and Antalya

We arrived in Koycegiz in the evening and managed to find Tango Pension with relatively little hassle. It is a very small town so no surprise we only needed to be pointed in the right direction once (nice to not feel lost for a change). Koycegiz is a small town on a fresh water lake that is connected to the sea and that is actually quite a rare phenomenon. It is one of two in the world, the other is in South America.

The owner of the pension recognised that we were the South African friends due to arrive on motorbikes and ushered us to our rooms, pointing out our friend’s room nearby. Dee and Mario were due back from their boat trip shortly and in the meantime we could go for a short swim in the lake. The last hour seemed to be a long one, as it is when you are waiting – but the happy moment did finally arrive when we were able to embrace our friends. Both of them looked extremely tanned and were cool ‘n groovy as always.

It is only two months since we saw them last but there seemed to be so much to catch up on and talk about. Plans for the future were high on the agenda. I get the feeling we all have some exciting times ahead of us. I don’t know why but old friends give me such a comfy feeling – especially if I know they are kind of friends that are really up front, honest and like me just the way I am – with all my imperfections.

Dee pointed out that Paul and I have both adopted a strange walk. It is as if we lift our knees too high. I hadn’t realised this but I guess it’s because our biking boots are so heavy that when we take them off we start walking like string puppets with bobbing knees. Now that I know I’m doing it, I try not to, but can’t help it! Besides, in the boots I’m constantly tripping up if I don’t make an effort to lift my feet.

The next day we hung out together at the weekly market where Dee had the opportunity of perfect her bargaining style. Usually you can get about one third off the asking price. If you are Dee you can go for half and then resort to, “Come on!” which makes the guy laugh so much he can’t resist giving her a good deal. Bargaining isn’t easy when you are used to fixed prices on the label, but it should be fun. I think the key is to be prepared to haggle and have a laugh – I would try to also make sure that I genuinely want the item. I could be wrong but it appears that generally speaking Turks have a great sense of humour. This is not what I experienced in Tunisia where the price was 300 and on learning that I was South African, the price dropped to 30. I think things are a bit less extreme here!

By the afternoon we said good bye. There are some people that will be part of your life forever so I didn’t feel too sad to say bye for now… Besides, if things work out well then we will all be back in Cape Town before we know it.

I was still feeling really feeble and didn’t think that I could ride my bike confidently, so the next day we did a boat trip and just relaxed. Doing touristy stuff felt very strange, but as strange as it all felt, I was pleased to be lazing about and passively taking things in and simply doing what my tour guides told me to do. This included wallowing in a mud bath; then getting washed down by a blasting shower followed by bathing in hot springs that smelt of rotten eggs. I was supposed to be 10 years younger for the experience. Perhaps in the morning I’d have transformed into a twenty-something nymph – but I doubted it.


Just as I was beginning to feel better and younger, Paul started to get really ill with a tummy bug. In spite of this, we decided to move on to our next destination which ended up being Olympus. We had passed the most exquisite turquoise sea with white beaches and occasional bathers. Kas looked amazing and I was absolutely desperate to jump into the calm blue water. But we stupidly passed without even stopping.

When we arrived at Olympos I immediately could tell this wasn’t really my scene. Olympos is down a windy mountain road into a rocky river bed. The unique and trendy thing to do there is stay in a tree house. Only these aren’t really tree houses, they are precarious, badly built huts on stilts about a meter off the ground. You can choose between this mosquito fest option and an air conditioned bungalow with an en-suite bathroom. Being thirty something, we went with the bungalow option. Besides, Paul needed to get better and a bit of luxury would go a long way towards at least providing him with some comfort in his time of distress – and I hoped this would reduce his groans. It’s definitely an age thing but this hippie life is no longer cool in my books. I knew we would be there for two nights and the best thing to do in these situations is not focus on what we had missed: turquoise sea in Kas but I should get on with enjoying where I was. It was one of the most touristy and unrealistic experiences of the whole trip. The place existed solely so that back packers to be cool – and that just ain’t me (any more)! It’s supposed to be a place that you can really relax and unwind. I could do nothing of the sort.

My steering was feeling progressively wobbly and we needed to get our off road tyres sorted out and all of a sudden I felt a real gnawing neurosis about not knowing where my engine number was on the bike. I don’t know why but I had visions of the Egyptian border crossing getting very ugly and us being turned back. The problem would be worsened as we need to get a Sudanese visa in Cairo – the motorcycle nemesis of all places. Without a Sudanese visa we could not try to do the only other option which is to ferry from Saudi Arabia (and that is another visa that would be very difficult to obtain). We did manage to get to the beach for a couple of hours and the Mediterranean Sea is absolutely lovely. However, I read the Lonely Planet and fretted.

We had been lead to believe from the various people we had spoken to, that Antalya had a thriving motorbike industry and we could sort out tyres there. En route the heavens opened up and we faced one of the heaviest down pours yet. We faced the sheet water on mountain roads and the local traffic didn’t seem to be bothered at all, nor cared to slow down. There was poor little me with white knuckles and big eyes. I couldn’t get more wet if I plunged myself into a bathtub.

By the time we arrived in Antalya I was an anxious ball of nerves. I don’t know why I let things get to me because I like to think that mostly a cool cat and don’t stress too badly. Hey, things always work out as they ought to – even if it’s not exactly according to plan. I tried to drive slowly down the main road in search of a bike mechanic shop: a needle in a haystack in a rather huge city with extremely fast traffic driving around us in a frenzied manner on wet roads. I had one of those moments when I felt the need to ask for help. I said aloud in to my helmet, “Come on! You have to help us find a mechanic shop.”
About 5 long minutes later, we spotted a Continental tyres dealership and pulled over. Paul went inside to find out if it was possible to order bike tyres when a fellow on an XT pulled over to look at our bikes. I called out, “Mechanic?!” to which he smiled and nodded. Unbelievable! The Continental dealership had dug out an English speaking chap so I called the fellow over and said, “This guy says he is a mechanic. Is that true?”
His story was validated. What is more, he claimed that he could take us to a bike shop where all our problems would be sorted out. I don’t know why but I figured I should trust someone who looked at a motorbike as if he knew what he was looking at, rather than gawp, and was wearing a helmet.

Our XT hero then showed us the way to the bike shop. I was delighted to see lots of big bikes standing outside and the workshop was clearly well kitted out. No doubt at all we were at a proper bike shop with recognisable mechanics gear and mechanics. Eureka!

Language barriers are not barriers, just little hurdles, especially when English is widely spoken and someone is available and willing to help. In half an hour we had consumed numerous cups of tea, listed our problems and discussed solutions. It all became clear just how soundly we had landed on our feet. We’d run into not only a bike shop but a motorcycle club and the president of the club himself, Tolga, our translator. The guy who I guess you’d call the boss of the bike shop, Ahmet, is a complete wonder too. Not only does he clearly know motorcycles back to front and inside out but I noticed that he is incredibly attentive to detail.

The motorcycle club is small and strong – this is why they have the bonsai as their symbol. On Sunday we joined them for their Sunday ride out that turned out to be 250 km on mountain roads. Some of the roads were only wide enough for a single car, cut into cliffs with cliffs to the side and the other side cliffs going downwards forever… And slippery pine needles too. This was after Tolga told me how some friends of his had had an accident that catapulted his friend off the edge of one off these cliffs. The guy survived but sustained pretty horrendous injuries. On this same ride out, some of the guys arrived at the scene of an accident where a car had gone straight off the edge of the mountain and was perched nose first on a gradient of over 45 degrees steep. They found the driver and kept her alive until the ambulance arrived. Thanks to these guys going out of their way to assist at the accident, the woman is now fine. I’m not sure why but the night before I’d been reading about motorcycle accidents on the internet. The fact is that we are vulnerable. A motorbike accident is 10 times more likely to be fatal. All this reminded me how important it is to be careful, keep the bike in good shape and respect my own limitations. In any case, it helped not having luggage as I managed to handle the bike just fine. I don’t think I could have coped with the humiliation of having had to ask someone to help me and lord forbid, have someone ride my bike for me. The only time I felt I could be a girl is when I asked Ahmet to help move my bike when close to the cliff edge in gravel, I think that is fair, being a girl and all.

We have been here for four days now and have managed to sort out our tyres, my fuel problem, replacing Paul’s break pads, hopefully the GPS connection and found the engine number. There has been a lot of hanging about at the bike shop but it’s been tremendously enjoyable. There seems to be a constant stream of people dropping in to look at bikes, have a chat and cup of tea and get various jobs sorted out. Waiting has never been so much fun.

It is tough having to leave because I’d love to stay but reluctantly I remind myself of Lueder’s very sound counsel: that guests are like fish, after three days they begin to smell. So it’s back on the road for little gippo me.

Where to find the engine number on the F650GS

This posting is dedicated to the guys at BMW UK, Guildford in particular, who weren’t able to help us locate the engine number. I believe they did try to find it but had no luck. We even tried to get the answer out of Rotax, the engine manufacturer who were also unable to help.

I admit that Paul and I had failed to find the engine number ourselves, even after being given advice of where it ought to be by numerous people. All we found was a barcode sticker that was badly faded.

I'd had sleepless nights worry about this number and so we asked Ahmet, the Motorcycle Guru, here in Turkey if he had any idea where the number was located. It took him about 30 seconds to walk around my bike, rubbed the dirt off and pointed to it. When I explained that BMW UK couldn't help with this vital but small piece of information they cracked up laughing.


For those of you who don’t understand the significance of this… Try getting into Egypt and not being able to match the engine number of your bike with that on your carnet.