The Road Ahead

November 1, 2007 – Bahir Dar

If you look at a map of Ethiopia, you will gather that I have successfully obtained the Sudanese transit visa by the fact that I am in Bahir Dar, the city in the northwest whence we will be making our Sudan foray. I flew here yesterday to join the gang after having picked up my visa the day prior. As you might expect, there were shenanigans. They called us in and had us wait uselessly for half an hour. Then they started handing out passports--to everyone but us, the lone wzungu. Ours were among the remaindered items taken back into the office, and I had to run after jean jacket man to ask what the hell was going on. The officials seemed shocked by the notion that our passports might actually be among those in the pile they had not handed out, even more so by the idea that they might contain valid visas. It was high incompetence, and it was not exercised without a certain officious pride. I have since concluded that it was a matter of my passport having no discernible English text, and of my companion-in-waiting having a Chinese face that Africans are simply unable to reconcile with a western passport. But we got them in the end, and other than noting that we were briefly locked inside the embassy gates and unable to leave, I have no desire to pen an account of that hollow pageant of an overtime.

On my flight to Bahir Dar to catch up Ian and Patra the next day, I
could see the Nile gorge to starboard looking like a snaking aperture
into the pit itself. Landing I could see the stripped and rusted hulk
of an attack helicopter off to the side at the head of the runway,
grim relic of conflict. Ian and Patra were having breakfast out of the
back of the vehicle when I got to the hotel. The other overland
couple, Florent and Pippa, were also camped out alongside, and it was
nice to see them. Their plates read, "Victoria—on the move."
At this point we are looking at a drive to Gonder later today. From
Gonder there is a road running west to the Sudanese frontier, and
tomorrow we will drive over that gravel track to within 30 km or so of
the border post, and will stay in a town called Shaheedi in favor of
the border town itself, where rumor has it that overlanders have
fallen prey to brigandage. The next morning we will cross the border
bright and early and start up the road for Khartoum, limber elephant's
trunk on the Nile. We have two weeks in Sudan on our transit visas,
but our effective touring time will be shorter still, since the ferry
into Egypt (there is no road running alongside Lake Nasser) leaves
only once a week, on Wednesdays, and we've heard that travelers with
their own vehicles often regret not getting there three or four days
in advance. So it'll be a quick jab for Khartoum, a day or two long
breather there with an excursion to the Nubian pyramids in the city's
vicinity, and then a drive up to Wadi Halfa, cleaving mostly to the
west bank of the river, with historical sites of indeterminate
interest to be taken in along the way. I am imagining ad hoc river
campsites, reading a book as the sun tends toward the limit of the
desert Cairo-bound Nile at my back. Sudan has many people, but on such nights will we see them? And what will the traffic be like on the road? On the river? I hope to use my camera often.

After which there's old haunt Egypt. To which Patra and Ian have never
been, meaning they'll want to do the whole shebang, which I may not be
up for. I am considering removing to Cairo and waiting for them to
wrap up the pharaonic circuit. Cairo, in turn, represents a fork in
the road. The vehicle may continue up the road toward Anatolia and
then Europe via Israel, Lebanon and Syria; but it in the event of
complications with the carnet or the visas, they may instead elect to
break west and take the trans-Maghreb route and ship the vehicle to
Europe via Tunisia—which latter is a voyage I would almost certainly
want to be a part of. Though of course there are questions of purpose
and direction and finances: My lodestone pulls the needle south toward
Zambia, where I have friends and missions both.

Let us briefly discuss the vehicle. It is a 1983 4-door Land Rover,
completely rebuilt. The engine is a 4-cylinder turbocharged diesel. I
have no insight into its performance specifications, but in favor of
its reliability let me site that it has acquitted itself well over all
the roads from Durban to Bahir Dar, and that Ian is a Formula One
mechanic.

The truck has a roof rack rig that includes a folding tent where Ian
and Patra sleep. The folding tent occupies the front of the rack. It
folds forward over the hood, and its front section is supported by a
steel ladder that fastens to the cattleguard. I have often speculated
on what might happen is a malicious passerby were to lift the ladder
support off the bar with main strength and with sleepers inside. That
has never happened. The back of the roofrack has been configured to
accommodate our trunks, which we use to store the clothes and supplies
that we don't need to get at every day. This area is accessed via a
narrow ladder running up from the left end of the rear bumper. The
trunks are locked, strapped down, and covered by a tarp. Yet there is
nothing to prevent thieves from simply cutting through tarp and straps
and making off with whole trunks. This also has never happened, most
of Africa not being as dangerous as you might think. The vehicle is
painted green, with white trim for windowframes and rooftop. There is
a snorkel to allow the engine to breathe when the grille is submerged.
There are two full-size spare tires. Oddly enough, the four passenger
doors have three different keys to open them, owing to availability
constraints on spare parts to fit the old Land Rover while Ian was
rebuilding it. My key, for instance, opens the right rear door and the
front passenger door, which is on the left, British-style. The fuelcap
cannot be accessed without a key, and there are two switches hidden
into the front console that have to be flipped on before the vehicle
will start--one to activate the electrical systems, and the other to
allow diesel into the fuel pump. Another key on my ring is used to
open the rear, access to which is guarded by one of those shielded and
circular locks you sometimes see on the backs of plumbers' vans in New
York. The back houses our food, our stove, our somewhat ingeniously
concealed stacks of cash, and other chattel we deem too valuable to
consign to the roofrack. Not to mention the tools Ian needs to
maintain the vehicle, as well as a refrigerator that runs off the
battery when the engine is on. Inside, the vehicle seats 4 in
racing-style bucket seats of the kind you might see in a tricked-out
Civic or other ricer. No radio, no other frills. But there is a
handheld GPS unit. And that is my home for the next three or four
weeks. Basta. More from Gonder, parhaps. And then Khartoum.