Across the Red Sea

Day 257

Mileage 23,117 (36,987km)

Dead Sea Sunset

It was with a mixture of sadness and relief that I packed my bike with all my worldly possessions and took the Dead Sea road for the final time to the port city Aqaba. Sadness at leaving behind some of the wonderful people I’ve met while in Jordan; Damo and Naomi who opened their home and their hearts to me, Maya and Bishr at Deserttrax, without whose help this journey may have come to a stuttering halt. Relief at finally putting behind me the recent past and continuing with the next leg of this journey to Cape Town. As the road wound its way down from the Amman plateau to the Dead Sea basin a subtle haze of sand and dust filled the air, the jagged profiles of the central mountains that flank the valley appeared as a succession of fading ridge lines softly vanishing off into the distance as far as the eye can see. 

Ancient Olive Groves of Jordan

The past couple of weeks have involved chasing paperwork down some frustrating dead ends. At one point it felt as though I would never be able to leave Jordan until, with Maya's help, I made a breakthrough and obtained a Carnet for Egypt. All this was interspersed with some incredible excursions with the local GS riders of Jordan. Numbering barely a dozen it is a close knit group of bikers who make the most of the wide and varied terrain the diverse landscape has to offer. From open desert to scenic twisting asphalt to challenging dirt tracks, they have it all and they aren’t afraid to stretch their bikes and bodies to the limits of their capabilities. It is truly a biker’s paradise. Bisecting the country’s mountainous central region are endless Wadis (valleys) where the Bedouin people still roam freely. Dotted with ancient ruins dating from 7000 years ago, every period of history is represented indicating how long this region has been inhabited. I put many more miles on my bike than I had expected to and my off road abilities improved dramatically thanks to some helpful tips from my fellow riders. Highlights included finishing a long day of on and off road riding with a relaxing soak in some 2000 year old Roman hot pools and breaking fresh trails through the eastern desert linking visits to 8th century fortifications that stand lonely and abandoned throughout the region. I will miss Jordan and the genuine hospitality of its people.

Equipped with the required paperwork for legal entry into Egypt I boarded the ferry from Aqaba to Nuweiba, lashed my bike to the cargo deck and settled in for a long sleepless night as the boat slowly chugged its way across the Red Sea. Why this overcrowded, stinking hulk of a vessel couldn’t make the crossing during daylight hours remains a mystery, but in the chilly predawn hours it dumps its tired cargo on Egyptian soil long before the border officials wake and prepare for the sudden influx of traffic. Knowing what to expect, after a previous failed attempt, certainly helped to ease the frustration and I quickly commandeered the services of a local police officer with the promise of a little backsheesh for his help. Piece by piece we put the jigsaw of paperwork together, acquiring an importation permit, obtaining vehicle insurance, getting Egyptian registration plates fitted to the bike, and applying for a driver’s license in Arabic, all while trying to satisfy the security detail on duty that I wouldn’t pose a threat to the country. Recent events in Cairo and the Sinai have, understandably, left the army and police on a state of hight alert.

Off road in Egypt

All of this may have been relatively straight forward had it not been for the fact the ongoing renovations to the port facilities had been abandoned since the recent changes within the country’s leadership. It is a vast and busy complex in a state of confusing turmoil. At one point I had to bang on the door of the vehicle inspection office who ascertain whether or not the bike contains any hazardous goods. After five minutes of knocking a tired groan emerged from within and another five minutes passed before a sleepy looking officer in a nightshirt cracked the door and peered at me, then the bike and then me again before reaching out his hand for the required fee. The door slammed shut and another ten minutes went by as he re-organized his furniture looking for the correct form. Finally the door rattled and through a thin crack my certificate emerged confirming that I posed no threat. Eventually, after several tedious hours, I was directed towards the exit which I assumed was my cue to leave. I paid a little backsheesh to the helpful police officer and rode between the heavily armed soldiers guarding the gate with a satisfied grin spreading across my face. I had to slam on the brakes as one more official stepped into my path and we went through the reams of paperwork that had been stuffed into the numerous pockets of my motorcycle jacket. After a long, slow inspection, much staring and shrugging of shoulders, he stepped aside and said “Welcome to Egypt”.

Although I won’t technically enter Africa until I cross the Suez Canal it feels as though another significant milestone has been passed. I no longer have to keep banging my head against the brick wall of Egyptian bureaucracy and although there are still another 15,000 kilometers between Cairo and Cape Town and many more borders to cross, I feel as though the most difficult one is behind me. One by one countries are slowly moving away from the Carnet system and soon this archaic piece of paper will be a thing of the past where it belongs.

St Katherine's Monastery, Sinai

I spent the first few nights in the Sinai at the crumbling but quaint beach side resort of Dahab on the eastern side of the peninsula. Accommodation was very cheap so I opted for a deserted hotel overlooking the ocean. As the only guest I was treated like a VIP and even allowed to bring my bike inside the compound and park it outside my room. The Bedouin staff immediately befriended me and I was soon being taken around the town and introduced to more people than I could possibly remember. Everyone seemed to be suffering because of the lack of tourists and many businesses had closed since the revolution three years ago. As a result, I was made to feel very welcome for having made the effort to stop by. The shops and restaurants that had survived were mostly empty and desperate for trade but the instability in Cairo has scared off the majority of tourists and what will become of Dahab remains to be seen. Evenings were spent at the Tree Bar sipping the locally produced Stella beer and playing pool with the locals on a table with some challenging undulations. 

Less than fifty meters from my hotel room the ocean floor dropped off in a dramatic shelf, the edge of which is home to a spectacular coral reef teeming with life. I rented a set of snorkeling gear and a wetsuit and spent a long time swimming along the edge of the reef in awe at the variety of fish and coral so close to the shoreline. At one point a sea turtle swam next to me appearing to enjoy my company as we both examined the coral and vividly colored fish of all shapes and sizes seemed oblivious to my presence as they scoured the reef for tiny morsels of food. 

Chilling on 'The Island' a kite boarding paradise

Through my friends in Jordan I had made contact with an Egyptian biker, Nabil, who lives on the western side of the Sinai. He agreed to meet me in Dahab and, together, we rode to some of the hidden gems of the region. The Wadi Gnai provided an opportunity for some challenging off road riding in loose sand but the rewards were worth it, the serenity of the canyon was only disturbed by the quiet ticking of our cooling engines as we stopped to explore the dry creek beds than fan out from the valley floor. We rode north to the infamous Blue Hole, a diving mecca that attracts explorers from around the world because of the beauty of its location and the wealth of sea life that inhabits its pristine coral reef. Plaques adorn the walls on the walk in honoring the divers who allowed the reef to draw them down deeper than they should have gone. As we snorkeled along the surface I could understand the allure of wanting to see more as the crystal clear azure water supported an impossible variety of fish and coral. 

We left Dahab early the next morning and made our way to St Katherine’s Monastery, a Greek Orthodox site from the 8th Century, still in use today. We stopped briefly to explore the area before making our way towards the direct road to the western Sinai. The roads in this region are dotted with security check points, every forty or fifty kilometers barricades cross the road and heavily armed police and soldiers man the temporary installations. as we crossed the final check point before entering the heart of the Sinai I was told I could not proceed, being a foreigner I was considered a high value target for the Bedouin who occasionally kidnap tourists. When the police arrest one of theirs the Bedouin take a tourist before an exchange is made and both are released. A couple of tourists who experienced this recently admitted afterwards that it had been one of the highlights of their trip to Egypt. The Bedouin had treated them like honored guests and had been polite and gentle until an exchange had been arranged. Unfortunately the police were unwilling to risk a repeat of this and would not let me proceed so we took a long detour around the coastal road of the Sinai. It was a spectacular road but a strong headwind made for an exhausting ride. As we neared our destination of Ras Sudr night fell and I had my first experience of driving in the dark in Egypt. Many bikers had warned me of the unusual practice of the locals who drive at night without headlights. On my bike the light stays on all the time and oncoming cars would flash me to remind me that I had forgotten to turn it off. Cars would creep up behind unseen until a quick flash would indicate their intention to pass, it is not the safest practice but it served as a good reminder to be off the roads before nightfall. 

Playing in the sand with Nabil, Ras Sudr

I am now in Ras Sudr, a peaceful resort on the shores of the Red Sea just south of the entrance to the Suez Canal. Heavily laden cargo ships slip quietly by on the horizon, a steady procession of supplies going to and leaving the Mediterranean. The canal is the primary source of income for Egypt with tourism coming a close second. As the media reports on only the bad news from this beautiful country tourism numbers are well below normal and the economy is suffering as a result. From the majority of people I have spoken to most are tired of the situation and are willing to accept a stable but corrupt system over that proposed by the Muslim Brotherhood. Only time will tell how this situation will be resolved but an upsurge in violence in the last few days to mark the third anniversary of the revolution has left several people dead and the advice I am receiving from locals is to avoid the capital for a little longer until things settle down. 

The lagoons of Ras Sudr

For me this leg of the journey has come with its own challenges but the rewards have been abundant. I miss being able to share experiences with a riding partner, a photograph can only capture so much. The inside of a crash helmet can be a lonely place at times and as much as I try to prevent it the tape of the last few months begins to play and I sometimes slip into a deep state of melancholy over what has been lost. Traveling solo, however, seems to have made me more approachable and the interactions with locals have been so much more enlightening and enjoyable. People seem to be much more willing to approach a solo rider and offer advice and hospitality. I am on my own now and seemingly less intimidating than before. It speaks volumes about human nature that when we are alone people feel the need to offer company. Some want to enquire about my journey, some simply want to practice their English but with all a smile is never far from the surface and as with all my travels it soon appears as though we all have more in common than not. Being single is a strange concept to adjust to after so long in a relationship but if I am to truly discover who I am then it can only be a solitary undertaking.  As I sit here writing this under the hot desert sun the ghostly white strip of skin where my wedding ring once sat is slowly beginning to disappear as will my feelings for the person I have lost. With that comes the realization that for the first time in many years I am truly free to follow my own path. The future seems  much brighter with each day that passes.

Meeting the Bedouin

The road to redemption.

Day 240

Mileage 21,310 (34,096km)

Back in Ireland with the siblings

They say it only rains twice a week in Ireland, from Monday to Friday and then from Saturday to Sunday, only twice. Coming home for Christmas and New Year’s was one of the best decisions I have ever made, not even the cold, wet weather could dampen the spirits of my family and friends as we gathered in Strabane to see out the old year and welcome in the new.

I arrived home, to Ireland, feeling discarded like an empty shell. Devoid of hope and lost in a sea of confusion, I was still in shock over the events that had led to this moment and stunned by the suddenness of losing the person I had expected to spend the rest of my life with, my ‘soul mate’, my best friend. I don’t buy into the idea of a ‘soul mate’ anymore. I no longer believe there is such a thing as the perfect partner and no two people are ideally suited for each other. It’s cynical, I know, but it would be a boring world if that were the case, thankfully we are all unique, with our quirks and faults, our gifts and abilities. It is through our actions that we define who we are. We all have a free will and a conscience, we can choose to do right or wrong, to be good or bad. It is rarely that black and white but if the outcome of our actions causes pain, emotional or otherwise, to another individual then it shows a lack of sensitivity to follow that path. Relationships are hard, they require effort, it is much easier to walk away at times than it is to continue.

The future I had expected is no more and the narrative of my past is now being cruelly rewritten. It was almost convincing enough for me to question my own memories. Utter fatigue plays foul tricks on the mind and had it not been for the support of my family and friends from around the world I would have begun to doubt my own sanity. Bathed in a deep, warm pool of love and understanding I finally began to find peace. I was home.

Ireland is a magical place, of course I am biased, but the generosity and hospitality of its people are second to none. Grounded in reality by the shared experience of a troubled past, we tried to live ordinary lives in extraordinary circumstances. The quick wit and the dry humor are merciless but beneath the tough appearances there lies a kindness and warmth that would melt the ice of the coldest hearts. I’ve always suspected the Irish climate has played a pivotal role in the formation of the national psyche. Where better to avoid the inclement weather than at the kitchen hearth drinking tea and telling stories or around the fireplace of the local pub sharing music and poetry. I could think of no better place I would rather be during these dark days than with my family, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of my youth. 

As the entire Anderson clan gathered under one roof the scene was set for several days of eating, drinking, chatting, singing, joke telling and general merriment followed by more of the same. I can’t remember how many cups of tea I drank during the days I was home but that may have something to do with the amount of whiskey I consumed in the evenings. I was reminded constantly of just how fortunate I am to have such a close, supportive family by my side when I needed them most. I am eternally grateful to each and every one of them. 

Petra, Jordan

Coming back to Jordan, home of some very painful memories, was challenging. I’d already pushed my flight back once so I could spend more time with family but I knew I would have to get back on the road eventually. The return journey was greatly eased by the overwhelming hospitality of Damo and Naomi, a couple of wonderful Australians living in Amman, who were taking care of my gear and motorcycle while I was in Ireland. As I entered the arrivals area of the airport a smartly dressed driver was holding a sign that read ‘Mr Irish Dave’ and by 2am I was back in Amman. As exhausting as the journey had been I spent another sleepless night toiling over what my next move should be. Throw in the towel or keep moving, since our breakup several attractive opportunities have presented themselves but deep down I knew it would be cathartic to finish what I’d started even though it has cost me so much. I made the decision to pursue several options, the first of which involved trying to transit through Saudi Arabia to Yemen where I could, hopefully, catch a boat to Djibouti. 

Obtaining a visa for Saudi Arabia is notoriously difficult if you are not an arms dealer and my first visit to their embassy proved to be a fruitless waste of time. Reluctant to deal with a westerner I was refused entry to the building and directed towards a visa agency ‘on airport way, near bridge two’. Directions can be challenging in Jordan and addresses are rarely used, it felt as though they did not want to disappoint me with a flat no but they would prefer if I went elsewhere. Bureaucracy and fatigue do not go well together so I meekly agreed to move along and attempt what I thought would be the simpler task of extending my permission to keep the motorcycle in the country for a few more days. On entering Jordan a temporary importation license is granted for foreign vehicles allowing you to stay for up to 30 days. Mine was about to expire so I took a drive to the border in order to renew or extend my time limit. 

Approaching the border I pulled over at the first of three checkpoints on the Jordanian side and began to explain my predicament. The police officers were friendly enough but they shook their heads together after inspecting my paperwork and repeated a phrase I’ve heard many times before on this trip, “You have problem”. Phone calls began back and forth between the various border agencies and as the sun began to set I wondered if I had made a mistake by trying to play by their rules. Finally, I was allowed to proceed to the next checkpoint where the entire procedure repeated itself in a surreal episode of deja vu. It was dark by the time a very senior looking police officer approached and informed me that I would have to leave the country and return tomorrow in order to extend my stay. I’d left most of my gear in Amman expecting this to be a simple case of paying a small fee but the customs officials were determined to do it all by the book. When I refused to leave the senior police officer suggested I overstay my welcome, break the law and pay a small fine upon leaving, considerably less than the cost of the extended import license. 

Jordanian 'Rorschach' Sandstone

The following day I tried to track down the mysterious Saudi visa agency with my vague directions. Making the assumption that ‘airport way’ may be in some way connected to the airport I traced a route along all the possible roads that led out of the city in that direction but to no avail, so, I returned to the Saudi embassy and asked for a more accurate location. I spoke to a different set of officials who gave me a completely different set of directions but by now the day was wearing on so I decided to give it another go the next morning. Returning to the Amman apartment of Damo and Naomi, with its armed guard stationed outside, I spent the afternoon working with Damo on his bike repairing some damage  to the front end after a mishap in the desert.

For the third day in a row, after yet another restless night, I tried to pursue the Saudi visa option, finally tracking down the agency that processes applications for foreign visitors. In Jordan there is a term used to describe how well connected you are, often referred to as simply ‘wasta’. The king of Jordan would, presumably, have the most wasta and I, as a foreigner have no wasta. It’s all about who you know in positions of power and achieving  the simplest of tasks without adequate wasta can be next to impossible. The staff at the visa office were most helpful and, initially, quite positive about my chances of obtaining the 72 hour transit visa required to race across the country and into Yemen. That was until they asked what type of vehicle I was driving. I had assumed that would be obvious, I was wearing a full motorcycle outfit and carrying a crash helmet after all, but as soon as I mentioned the bike attitudes changed and my lack of wasta sealed the deal. Saudi Arabia shares an odd paranoia with much of the Middle East when it comes to motorcycles and a transit visa would not be issued for all motor vehicles of the two wheeled variety. And so it goes, I am now dealing with yet another rejection and my options for moving forward are gradually falling by the wayside. A solution is out there and it will present itself in time if I am patient. With rejection comes time for reflection.

It feels as though I’ve just woken up to find myself middle aged and single, Beth helped me feel young. For the last 10 years I’ve had it pretty good, plenty of adventures with the person I loved and I am thankful for all of it. I felt lucky to have found a kindred spirit, someone to share my hopes and dreams with. I would often wake early in the morning and quietly watch her peacefully sleeping, thinking to myself how fortunate I was to have her in my life. I swear it wasn't as creepy as it sounds. I don’t know at what point she turned off her love for me but I realize what has gone can never be recovered. I’d rather she be happy with someone else than unhappy with me. I still choose to look back and cherish the good times we had and try to learn from the mistakes we made. I’m not sure if I will ever love or trust again, it’s still too soon to say and to consider it, even now, feels like betrayal. I’m sure that will change with time, I hope it will. For now I’m taking it one day at a time while dreading the nights when a chaotic state of mind takes over and my thoughts run amok. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept well over the past month and even those were with the help of either alcohol or medication, sometimes both. I miss dreaming. Days pass by in a haze of hyper-reality and I struggle to focus on the simplest of tasks, like this blog for example. I feel as though I need to recalibrate who I am and reconsider what direction I want to take my life. I want to learn to put myself first again, it’s time to begin the process of moving on. 

Riding with Damo in Wadi Walla, Jordan