The Epic Delivery - Johannesburg to London in 39 days. 4 GS's. 4 Pizzas.

If you ever wanted to see what a blown, red shot shock look like here's your chance. This is waht 40 kilometres of corrugations, one 83kg person and 80kg of luggage will do to as GS adventure rear shock absorber. It was positively sobbing!!!

http://www.theepicscooterspizzadelivery.co.za/pod/pod12.htm

If you ever wanted to see what a blown, red shot shock look like here's your chance. This is waht 40 kilometres of corrugations, one 83kg person and 80kg of luggage will do to as GS adventure rear shock absorber. It was positively sobbing!!!


http://www.theepicscooterspizzadelivery.co.za/pod/pod12.htm

Merielle to Moyale.
9 September.
The Goat Truck ride from hell.


‘Be careful what you wish for, you might actually get it …’ One thing that we can all agree on is that this will be the last time that we load up 4 large motor bikes on the back of a Kenyan goat truck and make a 460 km hell run for the border at one am in the morning. I suspect that if we stay out of Kenya, this is a commitment that we may be able to keep.
A truck to load our damaged bikes on was something that all of us were praying for fervently in the village of Merille. Certainly, relative to the alternative of taking up Samburu wives and goat herding, the truck was our best route out of the northern Kenyan wastelands.
Having a truck actually appear out of the inky night and load up our bikes was surprising enough but when we pointed north and our driver slammed through the gears in search of his 100 km per hour cruising speed, we realized that this was not going to be any ordinary goat truck ride. Apparently (and we later worked this out to be true) you cannot travel on this road at slow speeds, because the corrugations will not be bearable so all the vehicles that we encountered on the track from Isiola to Marsabit were travelling at warp speed, in tornados of dust, barely under the control of their cheerful but slightly deranged drivers. It certainly felt that at this speed, the truck was only touching every second or third corrugation which improved things slightly. In the pitch black in the back of a truck, fresh back from a consignment of goats, loaded with sand to increase its weight and keep it on the ground plus ourselves and four motor bikes we hurtled towards Marsabit. Sand gritted our teeth and stung our eyes, the noise of clattering mettle was deafening and the truck bucked and yawed in every direction as we negotiated the shattered road at suicidal speed. Our every nerve was strained towards keeping the bikes firmly tied down and checking, rechecking and tightening the ratchet tie downs that we had not expected to use until the ferry crossing in to Egypt. Time and again the bikes broke free of their mooring as the nylon tie downs were eaten through by reverberating truck metal. In the light of our head torches we could clearly see subdued terror etched on each of our faces, only dulled by the extreme fatigue that was weighing in on the evening and of course the option of having to take up Samburu wives spurred us on to new levels of energy.
Marsabit came not a second too soon, we were nearing the end of our tethers both physically and mentally. Enduring this hell ride for three hours had left us in a bad way so we opted to call a brief halt in Marsabit and collapse in the back of the truck next to our bikes for 2 hours of sleep before we continued the run up to the border from Marsabit to Moyale. To add to the excitement, we knew that the next stretch of road was notorious for bandit activity so stopping was not going to be welcomed by our driver. If we could just get past the impassable Kenyan road to the Ethiopian side of the Moyale border, we could put our bikes on tar and stand a chance of making it to Addis Abeba and fresh shock absorbers courtesy of DHL and a host of willing hands back in SA. It certainly seemed that Tamryn had worked some magic and conjured up some shock absorbers for us which were on their way to Ethiopia as were we, although I suspect, not in a goat truck. The challenge of course was that we needed to get to Addis, over one thousand km North and repair the bikes before the close of the week else we were going to miss our date with the Sudan crossing in to Egypt which could ruin the trip completely.
Added to this was the recently learned fact that we were to arrive in Ethiopia on the day before the Ethiopian Millenium New Year and a five day celebration. You will be surprised to learn that Ethiopia runs on its own clock and its own calendar (and drives on the wrong side of the road) and accordingly is seven years behind the western calendar in terms of when the clock was started from the death of Jesus Christ, Given that Abyssinia (Ethiopia) was the first Christian empire in the hood, one wonders whose stopwatch might be right.
Anyhow, as historically fascinating as this is, it was not going to help us to procure new shock absorbers for our bikes and would probably mean that all of Ethiopia was going to have a hangover for the week. Not, I suspect, ideal for the smooth working of the Addis customs office.
Dawn in Marsabit, and Moyale was not going to come looking for us. Two replacement shocks – about ten grand each, another 10 hours in the goat truck from hell – priceless ! If somebody had described it to me, I would not have believed them, but the road north of Marsabit actually got worse. Things had improved from the evening before in that we could at least see what grisly fate was barreling down the road to meet us, but the blazing sun more than compensated for this slight reprieve.
There was also of course, no mistaking the bullet holes in a few trucks that passed us in the opposite direction – not helped by the military officer at Turbi who cheerfully informed us that they had lost a truckload of travelers three days earlier to some unexpected automatic rifle fire from a few inconvenient bandits. We were not sure whether he was trying to heard us in the direction of paying for an armed escort or was just genuinely making small talk but this news certainly invigorated our heart rates. Strange, though given that this would be just your average day on William Nicol in JHB and we had all survived that many times.
The northern Kenyan landscape is worth a mention as an important character in this story. It is starkly desolate, never ending and dry as a parched skull. It ranges from twiggy thornveld to rock strewn lava fields, all dramatically impaled by sharp mountains that protrude rudely from the flat and endless horizons. And it is big, very big. Many Kenyans say that Kenya ends at Isiola in the northern shadow of Mount Kenya and that beyond that is the Wild West. I could certainly see their point as our truck rumbled through the echoing kilometers, I ached at the splendid emptiness around us and wondered at how tough the people inhabiting this part of Kenya must be. There is a strangely exciting frontier air about this place, a confluence of peoples and cultures with Nilotic, Nguni and Kushite peoples flowing together with different styles of dress, strikingly different features and the strong undercurrent of Islam and Christianity vying for prime spot in the dusty villages we passed on the way. Of course none of this would be complete without throwing in a few Italian catholic missionaries and the odd heard of camels to complete the slightly manic feel of a Star Wars frontier town scene, none of us would have been surprised to find ‘Jaba the Hutt’ in any of the roadside huts that we stopped at for a Coca Cola to keep the East African heat at bay.
We can only wish this goat ride to an end, although preferably not via the business end of an AK47, all of us are having indecently pleasant thoughts of spending some quality time in border queue’s at Moyale. Anything but a goat truck. Hopefully tomorrow will bring Ethiopia and tar. Bring it on !
__________________

This vid sort of gives you an idea of what this damned truck was like. Too many hours... too many bumbs.. too much sand.

http://theepicscooterspizzadelivery.co.za/flash/video/11sep.htm

The fact that we had to get into the truck from over the side should have been an indication that this would be a prison cell.



You can imagine if these bikes break free what chaos ensues. Add hellish corrugations to a good dose of 80kph speed and you have the start of hell.


We had to stop every so often to re-tie the ratchet straps when they snapped or when the bikes bounced out under themselves.


We filled the truck with sand to stop the bouncing. Apparently it would have been worse without this. How we dont exactly know. We had one hour sleep in the 48 hour stint. In the truck. As we were.


This is exactly how we felt in the morning.


Although daylight brought some reprieve the feeling of a mobile prison cell did not go away.


Taking the cue from the locals we realised the best place to be was the roof. By this stage we stopped really caring if the bikes broke free from the their moorings.


By the time the afternoon rolled in we were seeking rest anywhere at anytime.


When we finally got to the Ethiopia border they charged us to use this clay bank to offload the bikes. We paid.

Moyale to Yirga Cheffe, Ethiopia

Wednesday, 12th September 2007


Moyale at last! We could have fallen to the dusty street and kissed it like it was home. First, to unload our bikes from their goat prison. Fighting through a gathering and unruly crowd of onlookers we managed to back up to an eroded clay bank and offload our steeds to be greeted by a disheveled looking individual demanding that we pay him a council tax of 600 Kenyan shillings for the use of his state of the art clay bank. With the crowd looking slightly ugly and one look at the worried expression from our driver, we shelled out the cash in return for a receipt in the form of a bus ticket for 600 shillings. Africa scores again! I could just imagine the scoreboard keeping tally of our trip; the mother continent: 10, idiots on motorbikes: 0. So once again, we pay and get on with it to avoid anything unpleasant, I can’t help but reflect that these people must think that Europeans are terminally stupid and I would be inclined to see their point.We finished unloading and repacking the bikes without incident, one bike jump started and Luigi feeling under the weather, we moved onto the Kenyan side of the border. Through Kenya and onto Ethiopia, endless paper work but charming people. Two and half hours later and we emerged relatively unscathed with Luigi feeling a little stronger and free to press on into Ethiopia.
Our spirits had been lifted by the appearance of 7 Kiwis also on Motorbikes, GS 650’s, who had over-nighted on the Kenyan side of Moyale to recover from their own dual with the Isiola to Marsibit hell run. Crazily, as one would expect from the Kiwi’s, this group had been trying to get across the entire planet in chunks over some years and had been on the road in Africa for 3 months (www.worldbybike.co.nz (com?). They had busted several shocks and ended up with their luggage and wounded bikes on a truck as well. For some reason this made us feel less like sissies with the wrong bike’s and we spent a pleasant, although very tired, evening in the company of the group, trading good natured rugby jibes and national insults.

Surprisingly to us, the only hotel in Moyale with room for was the Ghion, one of the few establishments loaded on our GPS as to be avoided at all costs – ‘site of Africa’s smelliest toilet’. We were not disappointed, no running water, generator providing only a few hours of electricity in the night and a squat latrine that made your stomach churn at the thought of having to relieve your self. All part of the adventure, we had all given up thoughts of sleeping in the linen provided by any of our hosts from Northern Tanzania and were now collapsing on our bedrolls, in sleeping bags on the beds provided.

Beer and goats meat shared around a dark table in the dusty courtyard of the Ghion sent us to our bed rolls knowing that we had to swap out one of the busted bike shocks with our last remaining spare in the morning before setting our sites on Addis Abeba and hopefully a date with DHL and the Ethiopian Customs office. So it was that we found ourselves riding through more wildernesses. Southern Ethiopia is as wild as Northern Kenya but less arid. People in traditional dress beamed and waved at us form the roadside, Ethiopia had definitely taken its happy pills today. One thing jumped out at us, all the friendly men over a certain age, waving at us, had AK 47’s strapped across their backs, bar none. No wonder Northern Kenya had a bandit problem. With any luck though, Ethiopian bandits restricted their efforts to non-Ethiopian soil. This only redoubled our commitment to reciprocate the waves enthusiastically until I felt that I was going to wear my waving arm out and started alternating waves with my left arm. We all felt it prudent to honor one of the golden rules of African Travel – ‘always wave and smile at the men with guns’.

Long kilometers passed as we made our way through bush landscape after bush landscape, the ever present peril of goats, cows and donkeys had now been supplemented by large herds of camels with scant regard for road etiquette. The camels were always tended by young men, but the cows and others were now being herded by the tiniest little children of as young as three or four years old. These little things were beaming at us and waving their sticks as if Father Christmas himself had just appeared over the horizon. My heart strings felt tugged at when I saw a little guy that reminded me of a blacker version of my own little boy safe with his Mom at home. He probably has not even seen a goat yet.

Carlo’s bike was bucking and pronking on its shock less coil spring and the going was slow with several stops to give him a chance to gather his wits. The roads were tar but far from great with pot holes and corrugations, not that we were complaining after our recent Kenyan commute. Clearly we were not going to make the seven hundred kilometers to Addis in one day at this speed and our minds turned to finding some shelter for the evening.The ubiquitous AK 47’s stated noticeably thinning and were replaced by long menacing looking spears, we assumed that we must be passing from one ethnic area to another and our GPS’ indicated that we were climbing rapidly in altitude up to two thousand meters and more. The landscape had a sudden change of heart and an unmistakable green tinge burst into full mountain forest. This was as unexpected as it was welcome, the road convulsed into twists and turns and the horizon burst into a hilly vista that skipped into the distance drenched in green, green and more green. None of us were prepared for this after six thousand kilometers of dust and thorns. We soon realized that the popular World Vision, famine plagued desert that all of us thought of us as Ethiopia was actually a myth. We had stumbled in to the vast central Ethiopian highlands where rain is plentiful and the land obscenely fertile. Village after village lined the main road and every village burst at the seams with healthy toothy children running after the bikes shouting ‘Yo, yo, yo …’. We never managed to figure out what this actually meant but figured that it must be something pleasant in Amharic the official but unfathomable Ethiopian language. Ethiopia is proud to be the only African country that has been spared the tender ravages of European colonialism apart from a brief brush with the Italians during the Second World War. Hence, a decided lack of fluency in any European language in the country and the inescapable fact that these people genuinely do run on their own calendar and clock. Maybe everybody was so happy and friendly because today was the millennium celebration and New Year’s Eve. We could see the signs of big preparations on the go in every village that we passed, reeds being cut and scattered on the floor in the villages and brightly colored traditional garments being sported wherever we looked. I felt myself being caught up in the mounting excitement and soon even forgave the fact that this celebration may mean a week’s lay over in Addis for us.

Lady luck was in our corner that evening. As we strained our eyes to pick up any sign of a hotel that might rescue us from the mounting darkness, the Lewison hotel sprang out at us form the side of the road in Yirga Cheffe, the biggest village we had seen for an hour. A rapid halt and a hurried enquiry in mimed and broken English and we established that they had room for us and were about to mount the millennium celebrations in their reed strewn courtyard and we were welcome to join.Needing no further invitation we got stuck into one of our most pleasant evenings so far on the Epic Delivery. Yirga Cheffe, we were proudly informed, is the birth place of coffee in Ethiopia as Ethiopia is the birth place of coffee for the world. We were treated to an elaborate coffee ceremony in which a traditionally robed maiden roasted us raw coffee beans over incense laden coals. The whole scene lit by colourful candles, the now roasted beans were ground and served to us in the establishment’s best espresso china. Wow, so this is what coffee actually tastes like! This was like being let into business class after years of economy. What a treat. Then fire works, drinking and what must pass for Amarhic rave music at which point we exited for an urgent engagement with our sleeping bags.

Tomorrow Addis Abeba and the moment of truth with customs.

The meal at the lewison was traditional Ethiopean... Not many get to have two mellenium celebrations


These guys have got the smoking thing well sorted - this is not steaming - it is a hot box of gargantuam proportions!
[IMG]http://www.carlotti.smugmug.com/photos/198698935-L.jpg

Taking a break on the side of the road. Finally some good coffee!

Yirga Cheffe to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Wednesday, 12th September 2007


Our plans to start the day at first light in a push for Addis had been inspired by an apparent deal with DHL to interrupt the public holiday and open their office for us at 08H00 for us to collect our shock absorbers. This meant a four hundred kilometer early morning dash to make the cut off. As insurance, we had struck a deal with the Lewison hotel owner in Yirga Cheffe, who it turned out, had relations in Addis. After some negotiation, he agreed to have one of his people at the office at 08H00 the next morning in case we did not make it on time. For a small compensation in US dollars of course.

Africa had other plans. The rainy season in the Ethiopian highlands is from March to October and it just so happened that we had caught the highlands smack in the middle of an unusually heavy season. A curtain of water greeted Luigi, our official alarm clock, at 04H00 the next morning and our early departure met an early demise. Only after 07H00 did the weather ease enough for us to wave a goodbye to Yirga Cheffe and pick our way north through muddy villages and hung-over revelers from the previous evenings going’s on. Any thought of making swift progress was dashed by the density of the villages and the wet and muddy conditions. Ethiopia has seventy five million inhabitants in a country a third smaller than South Africa and this was noticeable as we rode through village after village bursting with small children all thronging the roadside to cheer the passing circus on.

Having resigned our fate to the gods and accepted that we would not make it to Addis before late afternoon, we settled into the ride and the amazing scenery unfolding around us. This part of Ethiopia brings new shades to the colour green that I am sure I have not seen before. Soon, massive lakes started rolling past us to add to the thrill of so much fertility. Iridescent green wheat fields punctuated with tall fig trees crowded the road which became progressively better. Mt Guraghe sulked off to our left. This little known mountain is just a few hundred meters shy of Mt Kenya and guards the road into Addis. Fifty kilometers outside of Addis and the heavens opened up in a tropical East African welcome. Stinging rain drops and near zero visibility guided us into the city which like most African cities can only be described as a soggy mess that does little justice to the landscape and peoples of the country.

So here we sit, having spent the night in the Imperial Hotel, across the road from the DHL offices, trying frantically to raise some intelligent life out of the courier. To be fare, this is not an unwelcome break. Access to both running and hot water (sort of) has given us the chance to catch up on some much needed washing both of ourselves and our clothes and get up to date with ride reports and audio and video content for our unrelenting media coordinator. We still have no certainty as to whether we can free our spare parts today and every hour that passes brings us closer to missing the train out of Khartoum on Monday to Wadi Halfa and our Egyptian crossing. If we get the shocks today, then we have a chance although we will have to cover almost two thousand kilometers in two days to get to Khartoum by Sunday. If we don’t then we are faced with a crushing one week delay to the Epic Delivery and missing our London deadline.

We shall see what we shall see.

The sign at the foot of the Goha Tsion mountain pass in Ethiopia


The GPS reading at the top of the mounatin pass - it drops down to the Nile and then back up again.


A view from the top...

Drivers kiss this cross before they start the descent towards the nile...


and what this guy does we're not really sure. maybe he shoots drivers that dont kiss the cross!


With all the tankers stuck in the mess at the top of the pass there was no petrol after that. We actually got far more milage (4.9L/100kms) on leaded petrol (vs 6.2L/100kms on unleaded)


Our only fall on tar so far on the trip - we all just made it through this cheeky little clay wash on the road but Luigi was not that lucky. While the bike wad down on the ground a bus nearly crashed into it as it skidded with wheels fully locked just inches from the bike.


Not only were we in Theiopia in the rainy season, but also in the one of the worst flood periods in the last decade.


I think the GS's were more effective...

The video of us getting the bikes through the mess of mud at the top of the pass.

http://theepicscooterspizzadelivery.co.za/pod/pod19.htm

Addis Ababa to Ghoa Tsion, Ethiopia

Thursday, 13th September 2007


The 13th of September was a red letter day for us. How we achieved what we achieved in Addis Ababa on that day can only have been through divine assistance. From which corner of the divine ring, we shall never know given the confused pantheon of Orthodox Christian, Catholic, Muslim and animist deities that populate the Ethiopian mindset. I am sure that we made requests to all of the above before mounting our quest to spring the shock absorbers and freedom from DHL and the Ethiopian customs office, smack in the middle of the Ethiopian Millennium celebrations.

Carlo and Luigi assumed responsibility for this important mission while Curt and I got buried into ride reports and preparing content for the next web upload.I am reliably informed by our Italian contingent that what ensued needed to be experienced to be believed.

At the DHL offices, it turned out that the documents for our shipment had been collected the previous day by the contact arranged from the Lewison Hotel, back in Yirga Cheffe. How this had transpired is a miracle in itself, given that we had not been able to raise this contact on any of the four contact numbers provided. Some more hurried use of a now working cell network and some success, a cheerful voice on the other side of the line agreed to meet at the hotel in half an hour. The voice turned out to be Yelebe, Teddy from the Lewison’s, brother. Yelebe runs a solar power business in Addis and true to most Ethiopians that we met had a warm and generous character. In fact given the events following, we believe that Luigi has put him forward for the next round of sainthoods at the Vatican.

To the airport customs offices, now with the correct paperwork.Obstacle number one, the customs office was cunningly hidden in the arrivals baggage claim area behind several nasty looking security personnel, possibly all nursing hangovers form the millennium celebrations. Some smooth talking from Yelebe, one or two fire cracker exchanges between Luigi and the Xray machine operator that had discovered his fold away machete that passes for an Italian pocket knife and we were through.

Obstacle number two, the duty on our shocks. In our haste and general stupidity we had not mentioned to the South African Home Office that the invoice for the spares should not reflect the actual amount paid but should perhaps have been a tad lower. 45% duty, 17% Vat and a 3rd percentage that none of us could understand, all compounded, we ended up at a duty amount of $1800, about 65% of the value of the spares in South Africa. This was a little unexpected.

Where to come up with this amount of cash in such a short time? Luckily, we had traveler’s checks to the rescue.Next challenge, getting these cashed by a bank in Addis. 3 banks later and our tireless angel of mercy, Yelebe, still smiling, had not found a bank that cashed traveler's checks. Fourth bank lucky. Right, cash in hand, back to customs and hopefully a quick exit as the clock was ticking and Khartoum was not getting any closer.

Obstacle number Four, it turns out that despite the duty being $1800 dollars, the customs office is not authorized to accept more than 10,000 Birr (about $ 1000 in the local currency) from any one person in any one day. OK, Yelebe to the rescue again, a tense exchange in Amarhic with the head of customs and we seem to have agreement to waive this rule for the day. Right, success is in sight and we are on the home straight, one exchange of money and we could have Khartoum in our sights again!

Disaster, Obstacle Number Five and the customs system is down, a small detail that the obliging customs officers had failed to mention to us in the preceding exchanges. True to form of course, the office was not authorized to accept manual payments and we would have to come back in 2015 to collect our shocks when it would be more convenient for all concerned. What? No, not going to happen, death before defeat! Luigi swings in to full battle cry, ably covered by Yelebe with short bursts of fire in Amharic. Overwhelmed, our aforesaid head of customs concedes defeat, accepts the cash and gives us a manual invoice.

The heady taste of victory! From a frantic phone call in dusty Merille village five days earlier and over 1400 km to the south in the Kenyan wastelands, to the reassuring weight of 3 shock absorbers firmly in our grubby hands in Addis Ababa. A red letter day indeed.Back to the hotel; strip the injured bike down to its underclothes and a hurried change of the shock absorber in the pouring Ethiopian rain.

With little light separating us from the livestock perils of darkness, we set off into the rain. Waiving a relieved goodbye to a soggy Addis Ababa, more green fields, more hills, and more rain. The going was slow but at least we were going, every northern kilometer meant one less kilometer between us and our train in Khartoum.

We knew that we had more dirt road between us and the Sudan but were a little vague on the details, how long, what condition and exactly where? Also lying in store for us was the Goha Tsiyon pass over the Blue Nile River which we knew had been a challenging character in previous ride reports that we had read and was definitely not a tar road.

The auto routing function on our trusty Garmin GPS’ had ceased at the Ethiopian border. This made our navigating a little more challenging, although to be fair, we had up until now, been incredibly spoiled by the idiot proof point and shoot functionality that the mapset loaded on our Garmins had given us. Loading each step of our route from the routes that Carlo had painstakingly mapped out while still back in South Africa, we were vaguely surprised when we raced through the town of Goha Tsion to have the land fall away from us into a dirt road decline that would have given a mountain goat second thoughts. Discretion, we decided, was the better part of valor, some tense words exchanged and we decided to turn back to the town and find shelter from the descending darkness. The ‘Blue Nile’ hotel turned out to be only one year old but had already more or less collapsed into a state of general disrepair that, had it not been dangerously unhygienic, may have been charming.

We had not made good progress that day, we were 363 km short of where we would like to have ended for the day, in Bahir Dir and the Sudanese border was not feeling any closer. Nothing that could be done about this except sleep and recharge our batteries.We could only hope that the next day would bring conditions that allowed us to make up time.

Two days and 1300 km of unknown terrain left to cover to Khartoum, the "Epic Delivery" was living up to its name.
__________________

Truly "Epic"!

Ghoa Tsion to Bahir Dar, Western Ethiopia

Friday, 14th September 2007


'You mother f...!!!' The thick Italian accent crackled over the bike to bike radio giving Luigi's feelings away. The object of the 'Godfather's' affections was an Ethiopian boy still dancing and taunting in our rear view mirrors. We had just been introduced to the main form of entertainment for young people in the northern Ethiopian highlands. Throwing rocks at foreigners. Over the next 2 days we were all introduced to this sport as stones sticks and other nasties were tossed mischievously or just plan maliciously at us or into our paths. Why, we could not tell you. To be fair, less than 10 % of the millions of people thronging the roadside through the whole of the Ethiopian highlands looked like they might bear some malice towards us, the balance were the happy cheerful waving sort that we had become used to so far on our journey. But dodging missiles hurled form the roadside became a very real feature of our ride to the Sudanese border.

The green, green of Ethiopia was definitely starting to take its toll on us. As much as the verdant countryside lifted our spirits on first entering it, the constant rain and damp were weighing on our minds now. Mud and slippery pot holed tar, misted up helmet visors and the constant on and off of rain suits as we crossed form rain storm to sweltering humidity and back to rain again.

The fertility of the land was contrasted by the squirming poverty of the villages we passed. Every inch of the highlands is being tilled and worked to produce some form of crop but we did not see a single mechanical device in our entire journey through this countryside and not a single dwelling outside a village that had progressed beyond mud hut status.

We had all slept fitfully in the ‘Blue Nile Hotel’, partly due to the state of our accommodation and partly due to the anticipation of starting the morning off on the sheer Goha Tsiyon pass at first light the next morning.Our trepidation was not unfounded, we entered the pass with gusto the next morning to have our breath knocked from us by the shocking beauty of the escarpment plunging away from an altitude of 3000 meters, a sheer 2000 meters to the valley floor and the Blue Nile River far, far below. The track surface was rocky with gravel and patches of mud that required intense concentration to navigate the heavy bikes around and through without plunging off the side and into the abyss. With the rising sun throwing everything into a gentle orange relief, each of us made our way 20 km down to the bridge crossing the Blue Nile which was pregnant with flood waters. And now up again, back on to the plateau. This massive valley had been gouged out of the highlands by the Blue Nile over millions of years as it collected the constant rain of the Ethiopian highlands and sent this gushing down to joint the White Nile at Khartoum, in the Sudan.

The road wasted no time in gaining altitude again, straight up from the river, it made a push for the head of the escarpment that was wrapped in cloud above us. By 2000 meters we were seeing more and more mud until we rounded a twist in the track to find a queue of trucks stationary and stretching for a few hundred meters up the road. I suspect that there was a groan in each of us at this sight. “What now?” We navigated carefully past the stranded trucks up to the source of the problem to be greeted by muddy chaos. A bus, a truck and a four wheel drive all grounded up to their axles in a muddy porridge with vehicles queued up on either side trying to get through. This scene must have been like this for a day or so judging by the build up of traffic on either side.

After a brief reconnoiter, it was clear that we had two bad options to try getting through this mess onwards to our last Ethiopian destination, the town of Bahir Dir. We could try and squeeze our steeds between the stranded bus and truck in the middle of the road or we could try and navigate over the drainage ditch to the left of the carnage and over the piles of rocks that were being packed by willing truck drivers and bus passengers in an attempt to create an escape route.

One try at getting my bike through the first option ended in failure as the wide cylinder heads of the boxer engine would not fit through the gap provided. The last option did not look like a great one, thankfully another option was added as one truck broke through the mess and managed to free the stranded four wheel drive, opening a shallow stream of water that was exposing a rocky bottom along the side of the road. If we could get our bikes across the mud and into the stream we could make a run up the side of the chaos and break back into the road further up and beyond the jam. This had to be it, we wasted no time in tying a tow rope to the front fork of one of the bikes and plunging across the mud and into the stream with one person pulling, two pushing and Carlo paddling his feet like a Jesus lizard, we tortured the bike through a blue haze of clutch smoke up the stream over the rocks and back across the mud onto the road. Excellent, three more bikes to go and we were home free without any falls. At almost 3000 meters high and in the 100% humidity, this exertion had taken its toll on us and we mounted our bikes again with wobbly knees and wet to the outside of our riding jackets with sweat from the effort.

15 km more, the climb ended and we were back on tar and making good progress towards Bahir Dir. A brief scare at our first petrol stop as I searched frantically for the collective purse to pay the petrol attendant. A few heart stopping moments later, it turned out that Curt had picked it up from where it had fallen from my pocket the previous evening and stuffed it in his tank bag before forgetting about it.

Onwards to Bahir Dar on Lake Tana with its island monasteries. We arrived at the run down but beautifully situated Ghion hotel on the shores of Lake Tana with some light to spare and made short work of booking in and ordering up two masseurs that were on offer at the reception counter. The ladies appeared shortly and after making sure that there was no expectation of this finishing in a happy ending, Curt and I treated ourselves to one of the best and most well deserved full body massages that we have ever experienced.

The massages worked their magic and for an hour we forgot about the 800 km that remained between us and Khartoum tomorrow.

The Sudanese border crossing awaited us and we had read many reports of the crushing paper work that lay ahead of us. Let’s hope that our luck continues. We are going to need it to make the kilometers tomorrow.

Watch the video of the Goha Tsion pass:
http://theepicscooterspizzadelivery.co.za/flash/video/14sep.htm

Bahir Dar, Ethiopia to Gedaref, Eastern Sudan
Saturday 15th September

Captains Log – Star date Uncertain, we have been drifting through this green star system for what seems like an eternity, we have still found no sign of intelligent life and it is requiring more and more effort to navigate around the bewildering number of life forms that we are finding in our path. Driving through Ethiopia, is like porting back a thousand years, except of course for the power lines following the passage of the road and the odd pair of Nikes on local feet and the smattering of AK47’s visible along the route; and the throwing of stones from the side of the road which I am sure would not have been tolerated in those times; and the maniac taxi buses that hurtle past us in both directions, and …. OK, so Ethiopia is nothing like being ported back 1000 years but I can guarantee that it is nothing like anything else that you have experienced or are likely to experience.
Ethiopia is a curious looking mix of tropical Asian, South American and African landscapes. It is a meeting point where the peoples of the North and the peoples of the South and the peoples of the West and East all mix together in a swirling and colourful whirlpool of racial types, ethnic dress and religious beliefs and mother tongues.
The ever present contrast of the obscene fertility of the fields we were passing, with the most basic living conditions of the thronging multitude of mostly bare foot Ethiopians no longer surprised us. The ever present damp was starting to eat into our squidgy bits and we were longing to feel the dry sandy heat of the desert again.
So towards the desert we would go and hopefully today. An early start from Bahir Dir, and we tiptoed our way out of the city in the dark. We knew that today the chips were down. We had 1 full day left before we needed to have our bikes loaded on the Khartoum train and Khartoum was over 800 km to the West and North of us but held the promise of escape from this suffocating damp and psychotically cheerful green landscape.

A couple of hours under our belts and a fantastic tarred mountain pass which took us plunging down and back up again through some exhilarating twists and turns. A tricky clay mud slide across the road claimed one victim as Luigi slipped on a slippery section and went into a slow motion slide across the road. A big fright for all concerned but little damage to the bike and only a bump to Luigi’s pride. This almost turned into tragedy as a mini-bus taxi rounded a corner and slid wildly across the road with its breaks in full lock. Four jangled bikers scattered out of the way, saying hasty Hail Marys, to thankfully see the vehicle slide past the downed bike by a few inches.
Back up and onwards, mercifully the land started to drop away and the rain clouds receded and it was time to turn West and off the tar towards the Matema border post and the Sudan.
180 km of good dirt road later, we had dropped 1000 m into wilderness again and had made great progress. It looked like we might actually pull this off. We made the Matema border post by lunch and got stuck into the border formalities. Luigi and I assumed responsibility for the foreign desk on this crossing and dived into our first challenge with gusto. We had passed the customs office earlier and been waived on. Like all good customs offices, this office was about 30 km before the border post. Imagine the genius that this set up required. The uniformed official manning the office had adamantly waived us on, miming that the customs officials at the immigration office up ahead would have stamps for our Carnet’s.
Trustingly, we had carried on towards the border only to have the ancient ‘customs official’ look at us blankly when we displayed our Carnet’s. After some back and forth and some masterful bonding from Luigi’s side, we managed to talk the old man down from sending us the 30 km back to go and argue with the previous guy. With some assistance from a young ‘facilitator’ that appeared with a welcome command of English we managed to progress towards rummaging in the old man’s desk for a stamp that might approximate a carnet stamp and we were away. Who knows what the Amahric stamp actually read but it was enough to complete the carnet process and we were free from Customs and onto Immigration in a sadly leaning hut on the other side of the dirt track. Here we sat squatting in the heat while a young man behind a desk took each passport and checked the passport number against an old hand written ledger of passport numbers that we assume had been blocked from crossing Ethiopian borders. This excruciating process was only slightly relieved by the polite interrogation that we received from his partner in crime who gently grilled us about our origins and activity on the trip so far. No malice intended, we moved on with success in our sights and finally broke free of wonderful Ethiopia into the tender embrace of the Sudan.

With luck on our side, there was a good chance that we could slip through this side of the border and get through to the beckoning tar road on the other side and on towards to Khartoum with time to spare. Having fathomed what the process was here, Immigration, register as an alien, then Customs, then register with security. Immigration was swift, although, paying the $70 each to register as an Alien was scandalously painful and we moved onto customs. Only blank stares from the uniformed gentlemen behind their fraying desks in the ram shackle building passing for a customs office. After some urgent miming and some broken English, it became clear that the only person that knew how to deal with Carnets was the ‘General’ and he unfortunately was not available due to him needing to take some urgent rest elsewhere. Lucky for us, there was a good chance that he would reappear at about 16H30, 3 hours from now. And so any chance of us making further progress in the light was dashed – Africa has a funny way of letting you build up your hopes and then smacking you back down again just to show you who is in charge. So wait we did, squatting around the customs office like we were part of the furniture.
16H30 and no sign of the ‘General’, after some commotion on our part, a local gentleman was roused and dispatched on a motorbike to see if he could locate the ‘General’. Thankfully for us, the ‘General’ appeared shortly, if rather grumpily and huffed and puffed his way into his office, slamming doors and muttering under his breath. We introduced ourselves as cheerfully as we could, given the circumstances and were told to sit down as he was ‘not fine, not fine at all…’. We sat in glum silence watching him shuffle papers around his desk, apparently aimlessly. His mood lightened substantially as we managed finally to break the ice with what was becoming our standard trick. Getting him to guess Luigi’s age, everybody so far has been amazed that Luigi is 64 years old given that anybody local, even near that age looks like Methuselah, gnarled and withered by the elements. This speeded things up marginally and after 2 hours of mind numbing paper work, including the serial numbers of all of our electronic equipment, we were free to press on into the now swiftly impending darkness. Our now, old friend, the ‘General’ waived us a toothy good bye, we never figured out exactly what his authoity was, but he certainly seemed to carry some clout and we were not about to test it.

If we were to stand any chance of making Khartoum in time, we had no choice to but to break our golden rule of ‘never ride in darkness in Africa’. So ride we did, to make matters worse we were heading into more bandit country along the Sudanese side of the Ethiopian border and in the worsening light, we could see that the landscape was wilderness to the horizon on either side.

A few hours later, the town of Gedarif could not have come soner, we stumbled into the chaos amidst hooting tuk tuks and white robed Muslims all now seeking respite from the day’s Ramadan fast.
We found shelter at a reasonable quality (given our now very low standards) but crazily expensive hotel and we had achieved our first foothold in the Sudan.
Khartoum lay within our reach, we would need to start our ride in darkness tomorrow and ride like the wind to make the loading time on our train by 14H00. We were feeling confident that we could do it, the next day would tell.

We should have brought it the big guns for our Metema border crossing... if only we had known:evil


We actually got tired of the rolling green hills of Ethiopia... until we got into the Sudan. This is the last of the fantastic but unnamed mountain pass in north western Ethiopia. Like the previous Ghoa Tsion pass... just tarred


Arriving late at night in Gedaref after our wonderfull customs experiance in Sudan we simply dived into the first hotel we could find. Empty, expensive, and ok.

Gederef to Khartoum
Sunday 16th September

Gedaref to Khartoum
Sunday 16th September 2007

“Carlott, are you sure we’re in the right city” is the just of what crackled over the autocomm two-way radio unit as we entered Khartoum. We found ourselves in a city with 4 lane highways, branded eating outlets, new hotels and a skyline pockmarked by construction cranes – always a sign of something happening in a city. As we entered form the South, having done an early morning dash of 420kms from Gederaf, we witnessed brand new hotels, a shopping mall, a tarred ring road, and Curt’s biggest signpost of civilization; paved walkways!

Unsure of our actual destination we headed for one of the few hotels that are pre-loaded in the Garmin unit. Using the now tried and tested navigation method of ever-decreasing-concentric-circles we eventually navigated our way through the now-expected traffic of a central African capital city – constant hooting and attacking each lane change with a hail-mary that the other guy has moderately functional brakes.

The Le-Meridian hotel had been re-named since Garmin update their database but it turned out that the hotel we did check into was indeed the Le-Meridian. This little piece of luck was to prove to be one of our last for some time.

From Khartoum there are two routes (well probably three if you include teleporting yourself) to get to Wadi Halfa, the gateway from Sudan into Egypt. One route heads east from Khartoum and follows the Nile from Dongola all the way to Wadi Halfa. This is the most often traveled route. The second heads north from Khartoum on a tar road to Atbarra and then hits the sand of the Nubian desert for about 600kms. This road is really just the sand next to the train track that departs weekly from Khartoum to Wadi Halfa.

We had heard reports that the road along the Nile had been flooded but this was not something we had verified for certain. Of more importance to us howevere was that we had lost a day with our shock absorber problems and doing either route would take 3 days, whereas the train is scheduled to take two days. We had heard reports of the this train and none were complimentary, but since the ferry from Wadi Halfa only leaves once a week – a delay would result in us having to wait in Wadi Halfa for a week and thereby a failed trip in terms of the 39 days arrival date in London. So the train it was…

This decision set in motion a chain of events that will stay with us for all time I believe.
__________________

"I'd rather ride than try and tie the bikes down in this" was Curts general feeling. As it turns out he was right - for the wrong reason however.


We eventually convinced Curt that riding alone was not really an option...


They have this idea that the bikes need be drained of petrol before being loaded on the train. So these guys end up drinking more petrol than they siffon, petrol puddles on the floor and, in the end leave enough petrol in for us to ride at least 100kms.... AWA - Africa Wins Again. With temparatures exceeding 60 degrees celcius in this window-and -airless carriage and the train track littered with burnt our carriages we accede to local knowlegde however.


With no actual tie down points, strapping the bike was an excercise in creativity. It was also hot... very hot. We paid 60USD for the boxes and tyres that you see the bikes jammed against.

Next... the actual train ride.

This is a video clip that Curt edited together. The ride report from my perspective follows.

http://theepicscooterspizzadelivery.co.za/flash/video/20sep.htm

Wadi Halfa, Sudan (Update)

Thursday, 20th September 2007

Khartoum to Wadi Halfa. By train and hope. 920kms

There's a Spanish train that runs between
Guadalquivir and old Saville,
And at dead of night the whistle blows,
and people hear she's running still...

The story goes that the train runs forever and that its passengers are the souls of the dead; with the devil and the Lord playing poker to decide who gets all the souls. Although the story comes from a Chris De Burgh song titled Spanish Train, the train trip from Khartoum to Wadi Halfa felt as if the lyrics had been written while on this train.

The train itself must have been an object of desire 45 years ago; when the fold out tables in each first class cabin supported bone china tea cups filled with Ceylon’s finest; while passengers watched the Nubian desert flash by, their faces gently washed by in-cabin fans and the regular offer of ice-cold face cloths laced with lime. And, of course, there would have been the food, prepared no doubt in accordance with the most stringent of British customs and practices. The cabins would be cleaned at each stop and the seats replaced at the first sign of non-optimum lumbar support. The latrines too would have been the focus of regular, mandatory maintenance and cleaning.

That was 45 years ago.

As our watch nudged past 2:30am, 17 hours after departure, the sandman fought a desperately losing battle with the train that was using all its tricks of the trade, learned after many years to keep us from mush needed rest. It was during this time that I could not stop my mind from reciting the opening refrain from Spanish Train. As my mind edged in and out of sleep, my thoughts were filled with being a passenger on a train of damned souls, heading into the forever with no chance of escape.

The giant grey beast bucked and rolled on suspension last replaced after the last world war. The heat seemed to intensify and close in at night, seemingly insulated by the blackness around us. Our fridge thermometer confirmed thirty six degrees Celsius. At 2am. The monotone chugging of the wheels and cogs and pistons of the ancient train did nothing to alleviate the feeling of desperation that seemed to engulf us as we lay in contorted positions in a futile attempt to get much needed rest. Like a bad dream we were hoping that if we slept we would wake up to find that it was in fact just a dream and that reality was somehow different. An attempt to get up and seek refuge in the great grey hulk was greeted by the sight of bodies clad in white robes, lit by the intermittent flicking of faulty neon tubes, scattered anywhere that would support the weight of a human body. One distinctly got the feeling that it did not matter if they were alive or not. The souls of the dead came to mind once again.

An attempt to navigate past the hordes of motionless white robed objects turned into a game of seemingly live and death hopscotch as the train used every trick to dislodge your footing and send you into the darkness. Over the bodies. In the dark.Sweat running down your face and dripping onto those under your feet. You arrive at your destination. Your body can longer harbour the vast quantities you have consumed during the forty degree sunlight hours and you arrive at a door with a small, intact, sign marked “WC”. The door is slightly ajar and bangs closed in tune with the train. Every second beat of the train is one beat of the door against its old metallic frame. It is as if the train and the room behind that door are in collusion. Despite the room not being lit, one can faintly make out the train tracks rushing by through the hole in the floor that is the toilet. The smell would indicate that despite this free flow system straight onto the train tracks that the motion of the train once again wins and that the floor is tainted with human waste. The same waste that is carried through the train by the bare feet that walk the corridors between cabins and toilet. The same corridors that are now occupied by those motionless figures.

Well that Spanish train still runs between,
Guadalquivir and old Saville,
And at dead of night the whistle blows,
And people fear she's running still...
And far away in some recess
The Lord and the Devil are now playing chess…

Sunrise brought much needed hope. And victory. It felt as if we had defied the chess game where the stakes were the souls of the dead. Our first class cabin started to look better. The fold out table was long since retired, the only remaining evidence of its existence being the steel supporting arm. The seats backs are held in place by nails that allow for easy removal at night so as to provide some reprise from the hard, waste strewn floors where people feign sleep. We use our blow up mattresses to cushion the aged suspension. The over-door fan, exquisitely made and still in good nick, has not turned in many years, yet has a switch – only for hope one can assume. The window does indeed close, but like all things on this train, it is a trade-off. Live with the dust the locomotive kicks up as it relentlessly pushes its way through the Nubian Desert, or live with the ever-increasing temperature that mounts when you close the window for even ten minutes. Having the window closed would be like boiling a frog slowly. You would surely die. Then there is the smell of people. All aspects of people. Spit, urine, waste, sweat. One gets the feeling that every action and movement is carefully planed and in some way contributes to surviving this journey. That is all that matters and those that do this journey often know this. We do not. As the sun breaks the flat horizon I start to understand that this is only about survival. Not about manners, or formalities, or courtesy. Just about survival.

As the shadows of the telephone poles that have followed our journey get shorter so too does the time to our destination. We follow on our GPS and with just 100kms to go to Wadi Halfa the conductor seems to sense defeat. There will be no souls for him on this journey – and he speeds up to the fastest we have been thus far – fifty kilometers per hour. Some ten kilometers out we are greeted by old Bedford trucks that have musical horns that follow at what seems to be breakneck speed alongside the train.

The only feeling I can muster after this journey is one of survival. The juxtaposition of seeing the Nile flood plains covered in water up to the train tracks, and the relentless desert on the other side is somehow watered down. The awe inspiring beauty of the Nubian Desert is not forgotten, but is not foremost in my mind. We have survived. Our precious cargo has survived. Our bikes have survived.

The Nile Hotel seemed like an Oasis, as it surely is after such a journey. At night the beds are moved out into the open, and during the day they are moved inside to escape the heat. Despite its relative size Wadi Halfa seems to live and die each week, on the arrival of the train, and the departure of the ferry to Aswan. 36cm television sets are placed outdoors for free viewing, three wheeled taxis scoot around dodging pedestrians and other movables, and immovable. Big old Bedford truck transport people and their belongings for free between the Lakondas (Hotels) and the ferry. There is lots of luggage everywhere as this trip seems to be a trip of hope for many. Escape to greener pastures, wither in northern Africa or even beyond. We met a guy who was going to stay with his brother in Australia. Another family were going to Libya, and yet another to Tunisia. I am sure they also feel like they have survived.