Life on the Nile

Day 283

Mileage 25,141 (40,225 km)

Sunset over Lake Nasser

The Nile River, the world’s longest watercourse, has been my traveling companion since leaving Cairo. I have never strayed far from it lush, verdant valley as it cuts a winding, green path through the heart of the Sahara Desert. Its waters have supported life in the region for thousands of years and it is lined with settlements old and new as countless civilizations have risen and fallen upon its banks. The contrast in terrain just a few kilometers from the river is remarkable, from fertile farmland to barren desert. It wasn’t always this way, the Sahara is one of the youngest deserts on Earth. As recently as 8000 years ago there were rolling savannah grasslands and dense forests where now there is but a vast sea of sand and arid rocky plains. I have reached the Sudanese capital of Khartoum, built upon the confluence of the White Nile and the Blue Nile and for the next few weeks I intend to follow the latter to its source in Lake Tana, Ethiopia.

Abu Simbel, Lake Nasser

Although I have tried not to use ‘fixers’ for border crossings on this trip, the logistics of getting through the Egyptian/Sudanese frontier, over a 400 kilometer portion of  Lake Nasser, were beginning to become rather complex. A friend in Cairo had recommended I get in touch with a local acquaintance should I have any difficulties and within hours of my arrival in Aswan I was beginning to encounter a number of significant problems. According to the ferry company, all seats were fully booked on the boat I had intended to take and the next alternative would not be leaving for another 4 days and even then it was unsure if that sailing would coincide with a suitable barge departure that could carry my motorcycle. Ideally I’d rather travel with my bike at all times but in this case it was simply not possible, so, I gave ‘Kamal the Fixer’ a call and in less than twenty minutes he had made arrangements to get me the sailings I wanted. I arranged a meeting with him the following day to discuss the details and he struck me as a very relaxed, but competent person that I could work with, we agreed on his fee and for the next two days we worked together to, firstly clear the bike through the exit procedures and then to get my paperwork in order. Acquiring the Sudanese visa was relatively straight forward, with an office in Aswan that charges half the price of the Cairo branch and takes a fraction of the time I was soon stamped up and ready to go, the visa being a prerequisite for purchasing the ferry ticket. They recommend allowing up to 6 weeks if applying for the same visa through the Sudanese embassy in London, I had mine in under an hour. With Kamal, I took the motorcycle to the port after I had stripped a few essentials off to keep me going while the bike was in transit. It is often a slow process of obtaining the right authorizations in the correct order but Kamal knew the procedures intimately so with his help it took only a couple of hours, oh how the Egyptians love their paperwork. It seemed as though he was on first name terms with every official at the port and at one point he was even pushing a few of the soldiers around in a jovial manner. After removing the Egyptian license plates and clearing the Carnet de Passage, we were soon lashing the motorcycle to the deck of a rusty old barge bound for Wadi Halfa, set to leave the following day. 

On the day we loaded the bike the port was virtually deserted but when we returned the following afternoon to secure my passage on the ferry the place was a hive of activity, porters struggling with oversize loads, ticket agents yelling at each other, a handful of sweating westerners in the chaotic line hoping for a few last minute cancellations, and the police and army strutting around trying to look officious. Amongst all of the hustle and bustle, here and there an individual would slowly spread out a prayer mat and quietly go about their devotions, oblivious to all the noise and mayhem. We had arrived at the port shortly after 1pm and on my behalf Kamal spoke to the notorious Mr Salah, the general manager of the last company to service this route. He appears to relish his power as he wanders nonchalantly through the heaving crowds, smartly dressed, eyes hidden behind dark aviator shades. He recently refused passage to a European cyclist who was impertinent enough to enquire as to why his fare differed from the amount paid by locals. With my motorcycle already loaded on another boat and the ferry reportedly full I was a little anxious at the prospect of my bike sitting in Sudan unattended for several days if I could not catch this sailing. With Kamal’s connections I secured one of the last three seats and I felt somewhat guilty knowing the people still queueing outside the ticket office were probably out of luck. By 3pm I was onboard but with the departure scheduled for 6pm I still had plenty of time to settle in. I watched in wonder as the boat was slowly packed to full capacity and then well beyond. Every possible space was occupied with passengers or packages, even the lifeboats were filled with people trying to find a spot to stretch out and get comfortable for the 18 hour voyage. Kamal had spoken to the captain as we boarded and I was allowed to sit up on the foredeck in front of the wheel house where I had almost the entire area to myself, I’m not sure what Kamal had said but nobody else came near this prime spot. He probably hinted that I had some kind of rare contagious disease. 6pm rolled by and the boat was still being loaded, night fell and the preparations to depart were still underway but, miraculously, by 7 o’clock the horn sounded, the gangplanks were lifted, the tethers released and we were on our way. 

Early morning on the ferry

As with the Egyptian traffic this boat also ran without any lights other than the ghostly glow from the instrument panel inside the wheelhouse. As soon as we cleared the port and all background light faded in the distance the night sky came to life with a display of stars I haven’t seen since my time in the desert. When the partial moon dropped below the horizon even more stars appeared and the Milky Way stretched high and wide overhead. I spent most of the night lying on the hard steel deck gazing at the free light show picking up the hint of new constellations on the southern horizon as we neared the Tropic of Cancer. It was pleasant enough to sleep with only a motorcycle jacket for warmth and a light breeze helped to keep the bugs at bay. Occasionally I would get up and wander below deck to stretch my legs or visit the overflowing toilets amidst the stale, dank air of the overloaded vessel. It was uncomfortably warm inside and I was thankful of the space I had out in the open air. I was able to sneak in a few hours of sleep but at one point I was awoken by something scampering across my chest on top of my jacket. I didn’t get a chance to see what was and I hope it was only a cat even though it did seem a little too light. 

Shortly before dawn I gave up on getting any more sleep so I readied myself to catch the sunrise on the port side of the boat. In the early morning light eager fishermen hauled their nets onboard small wooded boats as hungry pelicans patiently watched nearby. And still we moved south, past the ancient pharaonic ruins of Abu Simbel and into Sudanese waters. At noon the distant port of Wadi Halfa came into view and the restless passengers readied themselves for the chaos to come. By 1pm the ship had berthed, a tiny door was opened and the exodus began through the tight bottleneck. Traveling light, I was able to get off the boat with ease and I was soon walking along the jetty towards customs with a smile upon my face and a new country under my feet. A cursory glance at my passport followed by a few simple questions and I was through the gates and on my way to the small village of Wadi Halfa, Kamal had called ahead and had a friend waiting outside the port gates to give me a ride to a cheap hotel nearby where he had thoughtfully reserved a room. I had been told it would be quite difficult to find accommodation on the day the ferry arrives as the sudden influx of people often overwhelms what few guesthouses there are. Kamal’s friend turned out to be another fixer who arranges transport for over-landers traveling north and he filled me in on the procedures required for entering Sudan. He already had several other motorcycles and a few trucks ready to load for the crossing to Aswan. He also gave me the news that the barge carrying my bike was delayed because of engine problems so I could expect to stay in Wadi Halfa for a couple of extra days. 

Discussing routes with the logistics guru Mazar and fellow over-landers
from Switzerland and France in Wadi Halfa

Throughout this journey I’ve noticed subtle changes in the people and landscapes I’ve travelled through but the differences between Egypt and Sudan have been most profound. I had never imagined the 400 kilometers separating Aswan and Wadi Halfa would bring with it such a noticeable change. Crossing the Red Sea was a major milestone on this voyage but sailing to the southern side of Lake Nasser felt like going beyond a point of no return. Only in the north of Sudan has it felt as though I have truly entered Africa, although still predominantly Arabic in their customs and beliefs there is a significant contrast to what I have experienced up to now, a raw power to the landscape that is inescapable and which is reflected in the resilience and vigor of its inhabitants. I’ve experienced a generosity that belies the obvious poverty, on many occasions total strangers have insisted on paying for a cup of tea or a bag of bread, I know it is only pennies but in this case it really is the thought that counts. The locals take a noticeable pride in how they present themselves and how they are perceived by outsiders. Before leaving Israel I was advised not to trust ‘the Arabs’, ironically, by a deceitful bastard who turned out to be one of the least trustworthy men I have ever met, but there is an honor amongst these people that leaves me feeling confident about leaving my bike and belongings. A technique I picked up from Damo in Jordan has served me well since, when leaving the bike unattended I choose someone sitting nearby and ask if they think my stuff will be safe while I am away. If they answer yes, they tacitly assume some responsibility and when I return I thank them graciously and move on. There are many times when I have no choice but to leave the bike to purchase food or find a place to stay and it can be stressful knowing that if a person wanted to they could easily make off with some or all of my gear. Obviously, I use some common sense when choosing where to leave it and most of the equipment is locked to the frame but that would only discourage the opportunist and if someone was determined they could easily get past my basic locks.

The 'French Mobile'

Sudan has been full of surprises, the main roads are in excellent condition, some of the revenue from their lucrative oil industry is being put to good use on improving the infrastructure and there are many Chinese civil engineering companies involved with the expertise and manpower to get major projects completed on time and within budget. Moving south from Wadi Halfa, I was initially riding through harsh, unforgiving desert but by the time I reached Khartoum there was significantly more foliage and it feels as though I am beginning to finally exit the Sahara Desert. I am already two months behind schedule and had hoped to avoid some of the strong winds that ravage this region at this time of year but the sandstorms have added to the overall experience even though I have yet to be caught in one that ‘turns day into night’. The day time temperatures are pleasant so the motorcycle gear doesn’t feel too oppressive. In many of the towns and villages I have stopped in I have been the only foreigner and within minutes a crowd often gathers around my bike keeping a respectful distance but always asking the same initial two questions of “How much?” and “How fast?” 

Ancient temples abound, often close to the river and easily accessible from the road, pyramids from the period of the Meroitic Pharaohs with a more elegant, slender appearance than their northern counterparts.  Every site I stopped at I had all to myself, there are very few tourists here, at one point I would have been glad to have had some company as I buried the bike up to its axles in the deep, soft sand. On the evening of my first night in the sleepy village of Dongola, I was invited to attend a festival being held nearby and on arrival I was greeted by the loudest music I’ve heard in a long time and hundreds of men in traditional long, white robes brandishing swords and sticks dancing in a style reminiscent of the whirling dervishes of Turkey. Sudan operates under Shari’a law so alcohol is prohibited but the atmosphere was intoxicating as they spun feverishly in the warm evening air. The only women to be found were gathered in quiet groups around the edges of the party. 

Pyramid complex outside Karima, Sudan

One element of the local culture that is hardest to accept is the treatment of women. Openly regarded as second class citizens and heavily swathed in their hijab and burqa they often appear solemn yet sorrowful. Female genital mutilation (FGM) is widely practiced in Sudan with an estimated 95% of women having undergone the barbaric procedure. I spoke with an OB/GYN Doctor from the local hospital in Dongola who had countless stories of how this practice had ruined the lives of many. Any culture or creed that deems it necessary to interfere with the bodies of their children in this way needs to be questioned. I have heard many arguments for and against such procedures but why not let the individual involved hear those same arguments so they can make their own informed decision. FGM is often, mistakenly, associated with Islam but there are no religious texts that support or require the practice. It is rooted in the cultural traditions of this society and supported by a lack of education and awareness, mostly in rural areas. It was only upon my arrival in Khartoum that I first noticed women openly smiling. 

Meroitic Pyramids

Khartoum is not one city, but three, clustered around the confluence of the Blue and White Nile Rivers. It struck me as surprisingly modern with glass tower blocks stretching into the skyline and a busy airport close the centre. I had decided to stay at the one and only youth hostel, other travelers I had met described it as cheap and convenient with plentiful parking within its open compound, there were even rumors of the possibility of getting a hot shower. With my crude maps and trusty compass I eventually stumbled across the hostel, street signs are rare here and, as with much of the Middle East, directions are given in relation to things that are nearby. With secure parking and comfortable dorms it had everything I needed so I decided to make it home for a few days even though the showers were cold. With the only crossing into Egypt so close I have encountered more over-land travelers as they converge upon Wadi Halfa and the ferry to Aswan. Most are moving north so it is good to pick up tips and advice for the regions I will be traveling towards, road conditions, places to stay, areas to avoid, etc. All have been couples which often makes me wonder how different this part of the journey could have been but I try not to dwell on those thoughts for long. Each is filled with stories of adventure and adversity as they come to the end of their own journeys and it fills me with excitement to listen and wonder about what lies ahead for me. With over 40,000 kilometers, roughly the circumference of Earth, behind me an untold number ahead, this journey feels as though it has entered a new phase. Africa feels wilder and less predictable than what has come before, conditions are considerably more challenging and the senses are constantly being assaulted but it all feels exactly like what I need right now. I feel as though I belong in this moment more than ever.

Meeting the locals

Don't pass gas

Day 271

Milage 24,480 (39,168 km)

Giza, Egypt

Cairo, Egypt’s dusty, bustling capital, Africa’s largest and fastest growing city somehow functions under the strain of warring political factions, limited recourses and a faltering economy. The resilience and resolve of its enormous population is infectious. The energy of this remarkable city is almost palpable, it is a thriving metropolis built upon a historical legacy stretching back over many millennia. The streets are impossibly crowded and the notorious traffic keeps moving as drivers squeeze through its clogged arteries from its thumping heart to its ever expanding periphery. I was apprehensive about plunging into the chaos but once you learn to accept its rhythm and go with the flow it can be sadistically pleasurable to ride through the narrow gaps that briefly appear between overloaded trucks and smoke belching buses. The screeching of brakes and the blaring of horns are ubiquitous throughout, adding to the atmosphere of urgency and excitement. How anyone could live amidst this urban extravaganza amazes me but they do, in their millions. I have heard many estimates as to what the true numbers are but most agree the population of Cairo and its suburbs is close to 30 million. Add to this the current state of heightened police and military activity, where many streets are blocked by tanks and barbed wire barricades, and it should be cause for complete gridlock but it somehow manages to keep going. 

The political situation here is very complex, the revolution that overthrew Mubarak three years ago seems set to come full circle and a return to the way it was before the uprising now seems inevitable. The optimism that gripped the country until recently has mostly evaporated and the brief experiment with democracy seems to have backfired. The corruption that fueled the protester’s anger is so deeply ingrained that the entire system would need to be overhauled if genuine change were ever to take place. The military was, and is, in control and many fear they always will be. Speaking to people who took part in the events in Tahrir Square it is clear that the ideals they fought so bravely for have come to nothing. There is a revolving door between the military and most branches of government with many retired officers going on to assume key roles within the country’s fragile infrastructure. When the Muslim Brotherhood took power the country was plagued by rolling power cuts, water and fuel shortages much of it engineered to weaken the newly elected leadership. A population can only tolerate disruption like that for so long and soon the strain began to manifest itself in further protests until the military staged a coup and resumed power, having never really conceded it. They now control the media with such an iron fist that any dissent is dealt with harshly. Arrests are common and newspapers and television stations have been shut down if they challenge the status quo. Bassem Youssef, the wildly popular satirical news reader, has been taken off the air for openly criticizing the government. Facebook and Twitter have both been targeted for censorship and the military retain the power to cut off all forms of external communication. Much has been learned from the methods employed by the original protesters and the new regime is taking all precautions to prevent a repeat of the events of three years ago.

My lovely horse la la la...

Sadly, the tourism industry has suffered greatly as international news outlets report only on the sporadic violence that occasionally rocks the country. While the revenue from the Suez Canal supports the government and the military, many working class people rely upon tourism as their primary source of income and visitor numbers have been dramatically impacted over the past three years because of how Egypt has been portrayed by the international press. At no point in my travels through Egypt have a felt threatened or uncomfortable, there has been plenty of staring but when I react with a smile it is often reciprocated. The felucca captains and the taxi drivers certainly hustle for business but two or three polite refusals and they retreat to look for business elsewhere.

Arriving in Cairo I was promptly greeted by Sam, a Horizons Unlimited member and keen overland enthusiast. A mild mannered, good natured teacher by day and an intrepid explorer during his time off, he can often be found roaming the infamous Sand Sea in his trusty Landrover ‘Stella’. Our first night was spent exchanging stories over curry and lager before returning to his ground floor apartment in a grand old colonial house in the suburbs of Maadi. Sam’s last trip into the Western Desert, along some of the routes used by the Long Range Desert Group during the second world war, had involved getting shot at by the Egyptian army, stumbling across an active smuggler’s cache and rolling one of the Landrovers, exciting stuff. Using Maadi as a base I dropped in to the BMW motorcycle store to meet with Haytham and Gehad for a chat about suitable rides while in Egypt. They invited me to stop by the Egypt Motorcycle School (EMS) afterwards to meet some of the local riders and take care of a few routine maintenance procedures on my bike. When I dropped by the school later in the week I was very impressed by the operation they run with a small fleet of Chinese bikes for introducing beginners to basic skills and a couple of bigger Japanese road bikes for the more advanced students. All lessons came with helmets and body armor included, two things you rarely see on the roads in Egypt. Nothing else like this exists in the country and it was encouraging to see the level of professionalism with which they approached educating young riders. 

The great crew at Egypt Motorcycle School (EMS)

My bike was overdue for an oil change and a bit work on the chain and the guys at EMS insisted on supplying everything I needed and completing the work on the bike. Afterwards they put on a spread of food that could have fed a small army and before long we were making plans for some desert rides while I was in the area. 

EMS chain gang

During my stay in Cairo I couldn’t resist a visit to the Pyramids of Giza so I made my way out to the edge of the city where the desert plateau meets the suburbs and spent a day exploring these amazing structures. Nine pyramids occupy the Giza site along with numerous other lesser temples but it is the three pyramids of Khufu, Khafre and Menkaure along with the iconic Sphinx that make this site so well known. The last remaining structures of the seven ancient wonders of the world they served as mausoleums for the pharaohs on their path to the afterlife. Standing at the base of each structure it is hard to imagine the physical effort required to put each block in place, never mind the thousands that went into each pyramid all without modern machinery and each one still stands strong after over four millennia. They don’t make them like they used to. Imagining all that physical effort made me quite thirsty so I retired to the nearby Mena House Hotel for a cold beer, a rather fancy hotel and way out of my league but with a spectacular view of the pyramids nearby I couldn’t resist it.

The following day I ventured into the city centre via the Cairo Metro, one of only two fully fledged metro systems in Africa, it moves around a billion passengers annually for the minimal fee of  one Egyptian pound. Once in the city I sought out the Egyptian Museum for its extensive collection of pharaonic artifacts including the evocative death mask of Tutankhamen. Cameras are confiscated upon entry so the postcard vendor sees plenty of trade. After the museum I attempted to wander through Tahrir Square but the military had the entire area cordoned off with barbed wire and tanks, there were no signs of any protesters and much of the graffiti that adorned the surrounding buildings has been painted over. From Tahrir I wandered through the heart of the city towards the grand bazaar of Khan al-Khalili, a warren of alleyways selling a prodigious variety of locally made goods. The smells that waft through the dark narrow passages combine  the sweet fragrance of the bubbling sheeshas with the tangy scent of fresh spices. The market thrives with activity and there is a noticeable absence of the tourist tack that I’ve found in many other city bazaars, this one felt like the real thing. 

The pyramids of Giza

It was eventually time to leave the city and turn south, yet again. Four potential routes are possible from Cairo to my eventual destination of Aswan and after talking to local riders I opted for the Oasis Road which takes a long, lonely detour through the Western Desert. After almost a week in one of the world’s busiest cities the prospect of spending time in the peaceful desert looked very appealing. On my last morning in Cairo, Sam insisted that I join him, Natalie, Connie and Kiki on a leisurely breakfast cruise along the Nile in a traditional white sailed felucca so I could hardly refuse. It was a great way to finish a fantastic stay and by mid afternoon I was back on the bike and battling my way through the crazy Cairo traffic. It took a full hour to clear the city and I was soon rolling into the desert, past the pyramids, and away from the chaos. The Oasis Road is the least travelled of all the southerly routes in Egypt so I often had it all to myself and as the miles rolled by and I got deeper into the desert I could feel a sublime peacefulness settling over my mind and body. The desert has a peculiar energy to it, something that is entirely alien to an Irishman, there is a  sense of serenity underscored by a subtle sensation of danger. As beautiful as it is, it can also be deadly and the unique combination inspires a feeling of wonderment. 

With fuel in short supply I filled my auxiliary tanks for the first time with the intention of testing the true range of the bike while fully loaded. I had called ahead to my first stop at Bahariya Oasis, over 400 km from Cairo, and had been told they had not had any fuel delivered for several days and the small town was dry. The next possibility for picking up fuel would be another 200 km beyond that, at Farafra Oasis, and they were unsure whether there would be fuel there or not. Beyond Farafra it would be another 200 km and I knew this was well beyond my maximum range but I set off anyway knowing it would all work out and if I had to spend a few days waiting for a fuel delivery then I could enjoy the desert even more. My late departure from Cairo left me on the road with not enough time to beat the sunset and after my first experience in Egypt driving at night I had no desire to have another. With the gear I carry on the bike I can stop and camp anywhere so I told myself if it gets too sketchy I can just pull over. The lack of traffic and the reasonable road surface allowed me to make good progress and by the time it was completely dark I knew I was only within an hour of my intended stopping point so I pushed through. It may not sound like such a big deal but driving at night in Egypt can be a white knuckle, butt clenching experience. The habit of driving without lights still baffles me but the road surfaces can deteriorate rapidly and it is not uncommon to see the bloated corpse of a camel on the side of the road, and then there are the potholes. These nocturnal demons like to come out at night, especially the big ones, they are hard to spot until you are almost upon them and then you have the dilemma of whether or not to weave to avoid them on a questionable road surface or gun the throttle and try to lift the front wheel over them. 

The empty Oasis Road

Obviously I made it to the first oasis without any serious mishaps and I was soon settling in to the Desert Safari Home of a wise old Bedouin named Madry Khozam. Madry sees so many overland bikers that it is expected that you park your machine inside the lobby and he had a hot meal waiting for me after my long ride. After a great night’s rest and a delicious, traditional breakfast of egg, beans and bread, we sat talking in the sunny courtyard about the road ahead and the roads we have travelled. When he handed me a few of his cards to distribute to bikers traveling in the opposite direction I hesitated and then pulled out one of my own. He immediately commented on the photo of Beth and I and asked as to her whereabouts. Reluctantly, I shared my story about how the last few months have been and he sympathized with my situation but added that my journey will provide me with the answers I seek. 

With no fuel available in the Bahariya Oasis I topped up my main tank from my external auxiliary supplies which total and extra 9 liters, just over two gallons, hoping that my next stop in Farafra would have more. The road south took me through the Black Desert where the sand is coated with a dark, thin layer of volcanic dolerite from the surrounding mountains which gives impression of riding across the surface of a darkened, apocalyptic wasteland. Further south the road then cut through edge of the White Desert where wind sculpted, snow white rock formations create an even more surreal landscape. As I entered the region I found myself riding into the heart of a powerful sandstorm. With little hope of finding shelter I pushed on to my next destination, as visibility dropped, the sand penetrated everything, at one point I could see less than 20 meters ahead and I had to adjust my speed accordingly. Coated in a fine white powder I eventually emerged on the south side of the storm crunching sand between my teeth. 

After several days of involuntary exfoliation in the desert I emerged once more into the Nile Valley just outside Luxor. The road across the final desert plateau had taken much longer than I had anticipated with the surface deteriorating with every mile I travelled. Cracked and twisted by the intense summer heat, at one point it vanished altogether and I had to pick my way between large mounds of sand to find a way through. After that the road became a muddy, slippery mess for many miles as it was clearly still under construction. I was thankful for the semi-off road Heidenau K60 tires I’d had fitted to the bike several months before. The subsequent delay left me on the road after dark yet again and as I dropped down into the fertile Nile Valley it became apparent that my arrival had coincided with the annual harvest of sugar cane. Overloaded tractors and trailers were piled high with the sugary stalks forming long convoys of what looked like a moving snake of vegetation, children lined the roadside chewing on a sweet bounty of stray cane that fell from the precarious loads. 

Karnak Temple, Luxor

Luxor proved to be a fascinating city on a beautiful stretch of the Nile River with an extraordinary concentration of ancient ruins. I couldn’t resist exploring a few of the local sites and spent a day longer than I had planned to in the area. With Aswan so close and the ferry to Sudan departing once a week on a Sunday, I decided to eventually push south to give myself enough time to organize the paperwork and finalize booking arrangements. The road from Luxor to Aswan, though relatively short, is incredibly busy and every town along the way has installed some of the most brutal speed bumps I have ever experienced. For almost 200 kilometers I rarely made it out of third gear and the entire journey took close to four hours. 

And so I find myself in Aswan, Egypt’s southernmost city and more African in character than anything I have experienced on this journey so far. The Nubian culture is more dominant here and the pace of life is much more relaxed than in the north. Today I loaded my bike onto a slow barge to Wadi Halfa, in Sudan, and tomorrow I take the 18 hour journey by passenger ferry upstream along the Nile River. The road that will eventually replace the need for the ferry is not yet fully open to the public and a permit to use it is extortionately expensive but I can think of worse ways to spend a day than taking a slow boat along the Nile.

Egypt has been the first country on this journey where I have had to travel alone but I have yet to feel truly lonely, the people I have met along the way have exceeded all of my expectations and I feel a little guilty for some of the stereotypes I brought with me to this part of the world. I doubt I would have been exposed to as much warmth and generosity had I not been traveling solo and as I prepare to move on I can only look back at how this trip has evolved and focus on the positive experiences that may not have occurred had things turned out differently. The truly amazing gift of spending time at home over the Christmas holidays would probably not have happened and the overwhelming support and encouragement of family and friends through these difficult times has made me feel more loved and cared for than I ever could have imagined. On top of all of this I have the opportunity to practice forgiveness, to liberate myself from the anger and bitterness that darken my thoughts, those ugly, primal emotions that feed into negativity and depression. There are still ups and downs but I take each day as it comes and realize that it is my attitude that will define how the world perceives me and how I perceive the world. I feel a strength growing inside me with each day that passes and as daunting as the road ahead can appear at times, I know, that whatever challenges I may encounter I have the resourcefulness and ability within me to prevail. I saw a t-shirt on my walk back from the Sudanese embassy after securing my visa, it said "You don't know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have". 

Sunset on the Nile

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

A new beginning.

Day 225

Mileage 20,833 (33,334km)

                                         “It’s not a delay to stop and sharpen the scythe.”

Irish Proverb

It took a little over seven hours to retrace a journey that has taken more than 7 months and covered a staggering 20,833 miles. The flight from Amman, Jordan, back to Belfast was, by comparison, uneventful but as the plane soared high into the night above a darkened Middle East and then Europe, I couldn’t help but wonder about all that has changed since I began this motorcycle odyssey back in May. 

Riding solo

After Beth’s departure from Aqaba I felt banished into a dark exile of solitude, alone with my emotions, paralyzed by feelings of loss. For three days I waited, watching and listening. I wandered aimlessly through the city streets hoping to see her face among the bustling crowds of strangers, desperate for one more glimpse of her radiant smile. Every time I would hear the sound of a motorcycle my heart would race and my spirits would soar but time after time my hopes were crushed. In a seedy hotel room, neglecting my hunger and fatigue, I would stare endlessly at my laptop waiting for her to reach out until I could take it no longer. Without the support of my family and friends I would still be lost in those dark woods. As time passed and words of love, wisdom and encouragement reached me from around the world I slowly came to accept that our bond, our marriage, our connection had ended. The flame I carried within me that once blazed with passion now smoldered and quietly faded. On the morning of the fourth day, lost in my thoughts, I dropped a slice of toast on the floor and it landed face up. I smiled for the first time since this nightmare began and I knew the moment had arrived to let go, to transform my anguish into something positive.

Traveling alone brings with it a whole new set of considerations. Above all it forces you to push yourself out of your comfort zone, to open your eyes to what is around you and to actively seek out opportunities for social interaction. You are forced out of the habit of turning to your partner for solutions or advice. At times, you have to be more aware of the situation you are in and the consequences of your decisions. Ironically, it makes you more independent and less independent all at the same time. 

With Christmas approaching and the rare opportunity to see my entire family together in Ireland I made the selfish decision to squander a sizable chunk of my budget on a flight home. I haven’t been in Ireland for Christmas since the turn of the millennium and the thought of being surrounded by people I love was too much to resist. Through the Horizons Unlimited network of adventure riders I was able to make contact with a new HUBB community in Amman and after a few emails I had secured a place to store my bike while visiting Ireland. Methodically, I gathered my belongings and began to secure everything back on to the motorcycle, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle every item has its own place and focusing on a practical task helped to distract my thoughts after so many days in limbo. With the bike packed I turned north, taking one last detour past the last place I saw Beth. As I wound back the throttle and sped off into the desert I remembered an old saying I’d heard once, ‘Anyone can love you when the sun is shining,  it’s in the storms where you learn who truly cares for you’. I did not look back.

It was an effort to keep my mind on the road and I was thankful for the lack of traffic on my chosen route. As the miles rolled by strong crosswinds pummeled the bike and pushed fine sand across the road. Gradually, the road dropped down towards the Dead Sea, the lowest place on earth, and as the sun sank lower in the sky the temperature began to plummet. As night fell a lonely police outpost appeared on the road ahead, I checked my speed and realized I’d been pushing my bike too hard, I eased back on the throttle but they’d already spotted me and as I approached they flagged me over towards the side of the road. I greeted them in pidgin Arabic and my sorry effort was acknowledged with smiles and laughter, for the next thirty minutes the three officers on duty gathered around my bike and I tried to describe my journey, when I explained I was trying to get to Africa they pointed over my shoulder and informed me I was going in the wrong direction. They were friendly and helpful and very curious about my thoughts on their country. Thankfully, they showed no interest in issuing a ticket for my obvious speeding infraction and I was soon on my way again. 

The next morning my route took me inland and up, climbing 4000 feet as it entered the capital, Amman. A recent storm had left the city with a heavy blanket of snow and the locals were struggling to get all the roads open without any significant snow removal equipment. Most government buildings had closed their doors for the week and those that were open were providing limited services. My contact in Amman turned out to be a wonderfully kind Australian diplomat, named Damo, who met me as I entered the city and guided me back in to his part of town, founded in 7000BC the city’s streets seem to follow no logical pattern and I was glad of the help in finding my way around. I spent the evening enjoying the warm hospitality of Damo and his partner, Naomi, who kindly opened their home to me, a complete stranger, and made me feel welcome and cared for. After so many days alone it was just what I needed. That night we dined at the local ‘English pub’ and met up with some fascinating, local adventure riders who were keen to share stories and advice from their travels at home and abroad.

The following day I locked up my bike and made my way to the airport after a brief stop at the Royal Automobile Museum. An armed soldier at the entrance informed me that the museum was closed because of snow but, after I stubbornly refused to leave, the curator emerged and we talked. When I told him of my journey he opened the doors and I had the entire building to myself. Inside was a collection of vehicles gifted to the King of Jordan throughout the country’s short history including over 50 motorcycles. As the expansive roof overhead groaned and creaked under the weight of the snow above, steady drips of water splashed onto the exhibits and the surrounding floor. Parked at the entrance was a working replica of the world’s first ever motorcycle and I wished I had brought my own to compare the two. How things have changed in such a short time.

A day later, as I stepped off the plane in Belfast an icy wind quickly found its way into every gap in my clothing but the warm smile and strong embrace of my father brought a comfort I had longed for. To be home with family and friends after such a difficult period is just what I need right now. I still feel broken and raw but, with time, I will heal, the wounds will close and the memories will fade. Turning my back on a decade of devotion to one person is the hardest thing I can imagine but I will do it. As 2013 slips away so must my hopes and dreams of a future with Beth. With the new year comes a new beginning. I will return to Jordan on December 30th, collect my bike and continue my voyage to Cape Town. What lies ahead is unknown but one thing is certain, it can only get better.

Wadi Rum, Jordan, The Valley of the Moon.