Wadi Halfa to Aswan: The Boat From Hell

A seat, a seat... my kingdom for a seat...

Until the authorities open the new road south from Aswan to Wadi Halfa, everyone takes the once-a-week ferry.  There's a popular story that the Egyptian owner of the ferry company is the brother of a high ranking government official in the Ministry of Transport.  So, it was no surprise when the opening was delayed from February, to May, to September... and the latest opening estimate is January 2013.

The circus begins in Wadi Halfa if you are travelling north.  A fixer finds you as soon as you check in: he doesn't have to hunt hard, it's the only hotel in town with air-conditioning. Mr Magdi comes with a reputation for honesty and efficiency, a reputation as firm as his fee.  We talk through the limited options for my onward passage, and this time I'm unlucky: the vehicle barge that used to follow the passenger ferry is running three days late.  If I travel this week I must accept that my bike will be left in Sudan customs, and sent on to me in due course...

The scope for shenanigans is great, but with assurances from third parties concerning Mr Magdi's honesty and efficiency I decide I'd rather spend time in Aswan, Egypt than here in Wadi Halfa, Sudan.  This is a port town whose highlights are quickly experienced and soon forgotten.  Aswan can't be any less charming, surely?

Like Mr Ben's shopkeeper, the honest and efficient Mr Magdi just disappears for a few days.  I'm relieved that the hotel manager - Mr Sammy - steps up to help me out.  He becomes my fixer and sources a ferry ticket for me, and a customs guide for my bike.  I have no success in bribing a berth for my bike on the ferry, so I simply have to trust that my steed will be safe left unattended for a week. Hmmm.

It's Wednesday afternoon and I'm ready to board the ferry.  I've been at the docks for a few hours already, along with a swelling crowd of fellow passengers, all of whom look like they've just been on a long-awaited shopping trip to Ikea.  Generous quantities of cargo are dragged, rolled, shouldered or ported from creaking old Land Rover taxis to the equally creaking equally old ferry boat.  If ever there was a vessel likely to make the BBC world news bulletins, this would be it: I have a sinking feeling about this.

The honest and efficient Mr Magdi appears at the last moment to collect his fee - which, given he has charge of my motorcycle for a week, I gamely pay.  He ushers me (and a dozen bemused Spanish tourists) through immigration, before stamping and signing my carnet himself.  That's not good.  But with nobody else stepping up I turn a blind eye.  Shopkeeper-like, he's gone again.

The ferry bakes in the sun for another few hours, the silver-toothed captain showing no inclination to sail.  Nobody knows why, although the crowd is entertained by the cow-herding antics going on alongside:  cows mostly spill into the belly of a shallow barge, but several over-shoot and find themselves swimming around the harbour.  I assumed cows could swim, especially if the alternative is drowning, but I join in the surprised cheer as one reaches a faraway jetty and drags itself out, exhausted.  That's the kind of performance Caesar would reward with freedom...  though the cattle get no such concession, and are stick-beaten back to the boat.

Aboard our own cattle-truck accommodation, I walk around to find the least worst spot to stow my bag and my backside. 

Even the roof deck start to fill up to (over) capacity

The floor is wet and grimy, with rubbish piled up high; the air is clammy with sweat and second-hand nicotine.  And this is just the restaurant area.  People push and bicker a bit over space, coveting their neighbour's wooden bench if it's closer to a port hole. 

In the bowels of the ship conditions are worse, so many have already set up on the roof: covering the hot metal with rugs and prayer mats, favouring any shade - under the life boats or blocking the exits.  Women and children are mostly out of sight, in a forward section of the hold.

Three and a half hours late, we sail.  An hour later, and things are more relaxed - a cooling breeze is blowing through the ship.  Everyone seems happy enough - or at least, not so unhappy as to chance their luck trying to 'trade up'.  I'm impressed at how good-humoured everyone is - with only two factions, a football crowd is volatile; yet here we have a cross-section of ethnicities and no cross words.  Ah, but then I remember: Sudan prohibits alcohol, and this (as much as their inherent friendliness or religious mores) keeps people considerate.

It's fascinating to compare and contrast all the different facial features of my fellow passengers - and they, in turn, eye me with curiosity.  We make friends, and watch one another's bags, or swap information about the ship: where the coldest drinks are, who has our passports, and which toilet block has yet to flood.

Over the ship's speaker system, a junior officer launches into the call for prayer, the last one of the day.  On the open top deck men form into neat lines and drop and rock according to habit, eyes closed.  The Spaniards and I watch the rhythmic incantations rippling through the rows: there are only a few non-Muslims aboard.  I hope the captain is one of them. 

The first of many prayer sessions.

Unfortunately, there are even fewer non-smokers.  I join the Spanish group for a snack in the restaurant, but the air catches in my throat.  For a while I labour my rusty phrases to answer the usual questions about the trip.  They are a cheerful bunch, and their tour guide is useful in giving me some tips about Egypt.  But after an hour, I'm feeling rotten and seek less polluted air.

Most of the Spaniards have pre-booked cabins for tonight.  A member of the crew later sidles up to offer me a cabin too, but at $124 the luxury is one I can do without.  My friends Daan & Miriam tipped me off about the over-night conditions on deck, and I'm well prepared with my air-mat and sleeping bag.  I get a very good night's sleep: it's up there with the best $124 I've never spent.

5.30am.   Yes, call to prayer makes the alarm clock redundant.  I find the sound atmospheric, and in the early morning light everything and everyone is peaceful.



The bustle on the boat grows as the hulk heats up. We've another half day to endure and most folks are restless - they've had an uncomfortable night on the wooden benches or steel deck, after all. Kids are now more confident of their surroundings and zigzag between the adults, tripping and falling down steep stairways. Youngsters, hanging on their mother's robes, tug for freedom like dinghies straining against their moorings.

Sinbad?

I relocate from the sun-streaked deck and shelter in a shady area on level 2.  There's opportunity to type this blog entry, as the arrival time is a mystery. 

This morning is another mini-episode of endurance - of aches and pains, pins and needles.  The smokers bother me more than the lack of a shower or constant background hubbub - it's too hot to smoke on deck, so they smoke in the enclosed lower levels; next to the 'No Smoking' signs, naturally.

This type of travelling is best avoided after 18 months on the road - to find fascination in the experience, you need greater reserves of enthusiasm than I can muster today.  I'm cheerful enough, but feel weary.  I travel to enjoy, not endure, and whilst a certain ennui is inevitable at this late stage of a long journey, I need to fight back the fatigue: to remember what I'm doing and where I am, and be thankful I don't have to spend this weekend in an office.

As I ponder my position, the prospect of imminent local bureaucracy weighs on my mind.  Getting into Egypt is reputedly almost as difficult as getting out...  and with my bike following along behind, I'm a hostage to whatever difficulties lie in my path.

On my adventure so far, each obstacle has been surmounted - one way or another.  I'm sure I can jump the last few hurdles too.  With the boat drawing into the port of Aswan I motivate myself to make the most of this next chapter, too.  First up: how to squeeze through the melee of passengers and cargo about to spew onto the quayside.

Hmm, that open window looks a good bet...