Watching sand grains in Sudan

Tea and chat in the early morning shade...  before the blazing heat kicks in.

Sometimes this travel blog pours out in a torrent as I struggle to keep up with my rapid transit up the continent.  The result maybe humdrum to you, dear reader, but for me each paragraph opens a page of further detail in my head.  There are different people to remember, beautiful vistas to record, incidents and accidents, borders and disorder.  After the cameras finish whirring and clicking I struggle to turn all the raw footage into a coherent little movie that I'm happy with.  Because if I don't write and record it, I know that I'll barely remember a thing about the daily minutiae five years from now.  Yet, it's the little stuff that matters too.

The contrast with my 'quiet' time here in Khartoum is great. 

A beautiful city, it is not.

I try to take a speed-walk around my hotel first thing each morning.  Time was when I'd lace on the running shoes, but my fitness has tapered down too much now.  A dozen blocks is the sole goal, but I find little of interest before returning to the buffet breakfast to get my money's worth.  And I well know how to do that, believe me.  I'll skip lunch to keep the total intake of calories respectable.

By 9am the temperature in the sun is bad, and by 10am it's really oppressive - about 40C degrees.  Locals move slowly through the thick heat, or endure it as best they can in small, dusty patches of shade.  The shade shrinks as the sun climbs higher.  It's now 45C.

I can't really catch the shimmering, oven-like heat... You'll have to take my word for it.

When I pop to the bike for something the BMW is burning hot to touch, even under the cover.  I retreat again to my air-conditioned hotel room.  Maybe tomorrow will be the day to tour the local attractions, I kid myself.

Monday to Thursday slide by quite quickly.  Sadly, I spend most of the time at the computer - filling hours on hold, writing emails; waiting for encouragement from my bank.  None comes, and another afternoon ticks by.  It's difficult to keep busy. 

I know my personal situation hardly registers on the Richter Scale of retail banking emergencies.  Folks trying to get a mortgage decision for their dream home would doubtlessly have more claim; anyone held in limbo for months would mock my hopeful requests for updates; and people who don't have time to wait obediently on the call centre's enquiry 'phone line might consider my impatience self-inflicted.

Stuck in Sudan, I'm trying hard not to lose it.  This is the third week I've waited out.  The action I've requested of my bank seems very straight forward: signing a single-page form and sending it on to the RAC.  The decision to sign should be a 'no-brainer':  I'm proposing to pay the bank, and give them money in an account they are welcome to freeze.  A fee for doing nothing, a slug of capital, and at zero risk - what's not to like?

Well, the guys at my bank don't check (or else ignore) their faxes or emails.  No one has direct lines; few have external emails; everyone requires my security data, time after time, even when they call me.  Answering those questions - whilst my roaming charges rack up like a petrol gauge - almost makes steam come out of my ears.  Yet, I need to be calm, friendly and charming.

The branch manager who has returned from holiday blanks phone messages from her colleagues, and doesn't even acknowledge emails:  she's busy shutting the branch down, it turns out.  The branch staff are too busy to tell me this, until finally communicating that my situation falls outside the normal parameters of their business and therefore... Computer Says No.

It's taken 14 days, an international courier drop and a couple of hundred quid in roaming charges and internet fees to tell me this.  I kid you not.  

Without throwing even one toy out of the pram, I politely ask the branch manager to see what she can do - see if there is someone who can help us see the wood for the trees, see the bigger picture, see the oddity of refusing this money-for-nothing-risk-free application.  She agrees to try, which seems fair.

I stop gazing at my navel when a message pops up on Facebook.  A Swiss friend who rode the Silk Road with me has been reading my blog, and realised what a tight spot I'm in.  No guarantee = no carnet = no transit through Egypt.  But, being a wise and generous fellow, he suggests trying his local automobile club.  The Swiss, it seems, will issue non-residents a proper carnet.  And, it will be far quicker and less costly than going through the UK! 

I research this quickly - it's the solution I needed a month ago, but right now it's the best news I've had in weeks.  It seems legitimate, and my friend is offering to help me fix it all up, for which I'm hugely grateful.  I remember checking the French, Belgium, Dutch and German automobile associations (which require applicants to be resident, basically), but never thought of checking the Swiss.

Before I can advise my bank where they might like to now lodge my application, the branch manager comes back with a ray of hope.  The Computer Says Yes, Maybe, she writes... and as they've already moved my money into a locked account, it seems very positive news. 

With agonising delay - the bank draws this thing out even longer than I do in this blog - a letter is issued to the RAC.  By Friday morning I have confirmation that the printed document is in transit - I watch the Waybill Tracking Number get closer and closer.

Hair pieces are popular out here.

Eeeeesh.  I'm so tired of all this that it takes a very tasty curry to cheer me up.  A couple of overlanders join me - they're going home via Saudi Arabia and Israel, which is starting to seem a good route.  But now that I've got the carnet coming, I guess I'm committed north - where more frustration awaits, reportedly.

On Friday I switch accommodation and unpack in that much more affordable hostel I found the other day.  I'm not planning on being here long.

The relocation gives me the motivation to ride out to a couple of the tourist attractions listed in my guidebook - it's even the best day to see them, it says.  So, I follow dusty asphalt roads through the heat, hunting for the huge camel market.  Nope, I can't find it and give up - it's not on the map or the GPS, and I'm struggling to convey the word 'camel' in Arabic or mime.  I wonder how my host friend in Buenos Aires, Jorge, would have mimed a camel...?

I head instead to the quarter of the city called Omdurman:  it's hot and dusty and looks much like the area I was just staying in.  A huge souk soaks into the centre, down a tightly packed drain of convenience stores.  It looks even hotter and less enticing than the bus station.  To my surprise, the Khalifa's House and the facing mosque are visually disappointing, too.  I swear it's not just my attitude - I'm genuinely hopeful of getting off and having a look... but I need something more that this.

I move on, and cross the bridge that spans the stretch "where the waters of the Blue and White Niles meet before continuing their slow progress to Egypt".  Remember that from the guidebook?   Well, there's really nothing much to see - the Dartford Crossing is far more dramatic, not to mention those bridges they have in er, London, Sydney, Panama or Turkey.   You want to mix muddy waters?   Get a couple of vinyl records from the blues legend and be done with it.  The Nile(s) don't look like much, to be honest.  (Not that we're permitted to take photos from the bridge - sorry.) 

Early morning, or early evening... make the most of the cooler temperatures

Saturday becomes Sunday, and DHL indicate my Carnet is in the van on the way to the hotel. To save time, I load up and head over there to meet it - delivery will be not a moment too soon, because the boat to Aswan, Egypt leaves on Wednesday.  If I get a move on, I can possibly cover the 1000km to Wadi Halfa in time.  Here's hoping the bike runs smoothly and the desert heat is bearable.

My likely reward if I get there in time?  The boat from hell and a rude introduction to Egyptian corruption.

With plenty to ponder on the long ride, I fill up at the nearby fuel station and purr down the road towards the hotel.  Things seem good.  Then less so.  Now they don't seem good at all: my bike is spluttering and choking, then conks out altogether.  Surely not?!   Yep, the bloody gas attendant has put the wrong fuel in my tank.

I'll cut the blog here to save you from the foul language that now issued forth.