A Hitch-Biker's Guide Through Africa: Cairo to Cape Town on a Folding Bike

By Jo Charnock

After a sailing trip from South Africa to Belgium in 2007, Jo Charnock, and her partner Jan Wouters found themselves stranded in Europe with winter approaching fast. Instead of taking the easy option of flying straight home, they decided to travel overland from Cairo to Cape Town. With their mode of transport undecided Jan came up with the idea to travel with folding bicycles; almost certainly a first in Africa.
In November of that year, confident of the fact they would not cycle the whole distance, they set off to traverse the length of Africa by whatever means available. Their experiences saw them travelling with missionaries in the desert, Sudanese and Ethiopian truck drivers, on trains, a plane, buses and of course hitch-biking.
A Hitch-Biker's Guide Through Africa is the story of their extraordinary adventures, and of the incredible people they met while travelling within the most beautiful and diverse continent of Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781620955659

Book preview

begin.

Egypt

Chaos & Disorder

I am not sure we were quite ready for the chaos that calls itself Cairo. Heading across town in a taxi what struck most was the astonishing amount of traffic. Cars, battered buses, taxis, motorbikes, dilapidated scooters and giant trucks jostled in from all sides. The sounds of hooting horns were non-stop as the drivers’ gestured wildly, and the vehicles continued to push in from all directions. It seemed unbelievable that a city could function on a daily basis with this level of traffic. It made rush hour in Cape Town look like a Sunday afternoon drive in the park.

From the window of our taxi we watched in disbelief as a car came hurtling past us on the hard shoulder. It skidded sideways on a patch of gravel and collided with a huge bang into the side of another vehicle. Both cars carried on their way without stopping. Nor did anyone pay particular attention to what would be considered a dramatic scene in most other cities.

Iz nomal our taxi driver shrugged nonchalantly.

Clearly car insurance is of no concern here as every passing vehicle carried some kind of dent or scratch.

Cairo didn’t seem like a great place to start cycling.

***

Even before we got in the taxi, the customary price haggling that persists throughout Egypt began. No matter if it is the taxi driver, a street vendor or the same shop owner you visit every day for a single bottle of water, the price is never the same, and it soon becomes clear that there is a definite art to agreeing what you pay. The showing of money and gesturing of fingers indicates the price you want to pay. The shaking of heads, shrugging of shoulders and more hand signaling are the different methods used to do the bargaining. The object, I think, is that both parties should be happy with the deal. Why then did we always end up feeling well and truly ripped off?

Our taxi driver pointed out the sights as he drove across town and we strained to look at our first glimpses of the city. The notorious ‘City of the Dead’ where the poor sleep and make homes between the graves flashed past. Catching our first sighting of the famous Nile River we crossed an ornate bridge over brown coloured water and had a glimpse of the upmarket hotels in the evening smog. Soon we were entering the run down suburb of Giza with its towering blocks of shabby unfinished apartments obviously inhabited as the stories of hanging washing and the many satellite dishes told. The steel inner skeletons of the buildings reached up to the skies, crying out for the concrete to finish the job.

After hurtling down a dark alleyway, crossing over a canal via a narrow bridge and entering into another shadowy back street, the taxi drew to a halt and the driver indicated that we had arrived. Where, we weren’t sure as the place was pitch-black, and there were no signs of any life. Our driver nodded again and as if making a point he hooted his car horn, two sharp blasts into the night. Salma Camping, if that’s where we were, appeared dark, empty and uninviting. Our hearts sank at the thought that maybe the place was not even open. We hadn’t thought of making a phone call first and who knows how up-to-date the info was in our guidebook? The taxi driver hooted his horn again. After a few moments a young man materialized from the darkness.

’Welcome to Egypt’ he answered a little uncertainly. We had indeed arrived.

Night comes early in this part of the world, but despite the darkness, the piles of rubble and signs of building work going on were obvious. An older lady appeared who the young man, Sam, introduced as his mother. When asked about the camping facilities, their response was none too enthusiastic. Instead we were shown to a shabby room and then left to our own devices.

After unloading our two boxed bicycles and our bags we went to investigate further. The grounds appeared to be huge, and even in the dark, the small chalets that were dotted around looked to be in dire need of renovation. There was a bar which was empty except for a lone barman who sat on a stool in a gloomy corner. Atmosphere was provided by a TV sitting on the bar counter, blasting out what looked and sounded like a terrible Egyptian soap opera. We were just thankful that the place was open.

After ordering a couple of local beers, we sat there contemplating our arrival and the start of our adventure. As our eyesight adjusted to the darkness we began to survey our surroundings. Several Egyptian couples were sitting in the shadows of the surrounding garden. First impressions had indeed been deceiving, as in fact the place was quite busy. We wondered why people were sitting so quietly in the shadows. Were they Muslims drinking ‘forbidden’ beer or un-chaperoned couples on illicit dates?

Another western couple arrived in the bar, coincidentally a young South African couple and the only other guests. Rensche & Charlie were heading back to SA on motorbikes after spending time living and working in the UK. They had already been on the road for a month; in comparison we felt like complete novices. While chatting over our beer it emerged that we were planning to travel pretty much the same route all the way down to Cape Town. They had problems with one of their motorbikes but were hoping that this would be fixed in Cairo, and they were planning to take the ferry to Sudan in a couple of weeks. Their timetable seemed to coincide with ours and so we made vague plans to meet on the ferry before we headed off to bed for an early night. There had been enough excitement for us for one day.

***

Cairo is one of the biggest cities in both Africa and the Arab world with a population of roughly 18 million and is still growing at an alarming rate. It has quite a reputation. Despite the strong influences of Islam, Cairo still boasts a healthy Christian and multicultural population. People are still drawn to the magic and mystery of the city which hosts the great pyramids of Giza and is also known as The City of a Thousand Minarets.

Despite all the attractions of the museums, mosques, Coptic churches and the markets or souks, neither of us particularly likes big cities. The plan wasn’t to spend much time here. Our main reason to hang around was that we did need to brave the city centre to find the Sudanese embassy to organize the much coveted visa for Sudan.

As there didn’t seem to be much respect for any road user, never mind cyclists, cycling into the city centre didn’t seem like a particularly good option. What had already been witnessed gave me the impression that we would probably end up getting killed or maimed on the road before our adventure had even properly begun. Sam offered to organize a taxi, but travelling on our budget meant taxis would be an unaffordable luxury unless it was an emergency. Besides, we were eager to sample real life in a strange, faraway place and so didn’t want to be cocooned in a taxi. Instead we asked about public transport, and Sam wrote down the Arabic number of the bus on a scrap of paper, before directing us to where we could catch one into the city centre.

Leaving the relative safety of Salma Camping, the strong smell of rotting rubbish hit us almost immediately. Cairo does not have a reputation of being a particularly clean city, but nothing had prepared us for the reality. In the streets outside refuse was piled high everywhere and even dumped into the adjoining canals and water-ways. As water is such a precious commodity here, I would have thought the canals would be considered the lifelines of the city. I was shocked at the pollution and general lack of care. Numerous mangy looking cats scrounged a meal amongst the waste, and the carcass of a dead cow lay half submerged in the water. No-one seemed to notice, let alone be concerned as they carried on with their daily business.

Again there was the relentless traffic. Fumes and dust engulfed us as we stood waiting for a bus. But it wasn’t long before a bus squeezed itself alongside the uneven pavement and people crowded inside. We jostled for position and grabbed the overhead bars to keep stable in our place. Edging its way into the city the bus stopped again and again, and just when you thought ‘surely it’s impossible to get anyone else on’, the bus stopped again and another crowd of people pushed their way inside. The hot smell of sweat and the fumes of pollution were impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t long before I became aware of a foreign body part being pressed against me. Looking around I was quite shocked to find a short fat Arab man grinning lewdly as he pushed himself closer. I wasn’t sure if this was on purpose or if it was caused by the sheer numbers on the bus. But it did feel as though he was taking advantage of the situation as he furtively rubbed himself against my thigh. Half turning I didn’t waste an opportunity to give him a short, hard jab of my elbow into his protruding belly. Instantly he created a little more space.

Closer to what we imagined was the city centre, the bus ground to a halt amidst the lanes of traffic mayhem. Nothing moved for a long time in what appeared to be a gridlocked city. After patiently waiting and still not moving an inch, we followed what most of the other people were doing. Jumping off the bus it was a shock to be confronted by an almost solid wall of heat. We wandered around, not knowing where we were, in the scorching busy streets. Our street map didn’t seem to be of much use as we couldn’t locate where we were. Most people hurried by and were too busy to help when we tried to ask for directions. It was a case of luck more than judgment that we came across the small, shabby looking building that called itself the Sudanese embassy. There was no indication of where to enter, but a person outside took pity on us and directed us to a small dark looking entrance.

Approaching a counter inside an exceptionally tall dark turbaned man stopped us. He took a moment to study our passports.

You will need a letter from your embassy he announced, indicating that he meant Jan. There was no explanation, just a polite ‘Inshallah’, meaning if it is God’s wish. For some reason he didn’t say that I needed a letter from the British embassy. This was a good thing as I had read they refused to provide this anyway. To complicate things further, when we asked for directions to the Belgian Embassy he told us that we would have to take a taxi. This was somewhat daunting. We had no idea where the Belgium Embassy was, and time was running out – our application had to be handed in before 12 noon if we were to receive the visa the same day. It was now past 11am.

The thought of having to run the gauntlet of travelling to the centre of Cairo again the very next day was not appealing. Stopping to pause for breath and to take a moment to consult our map, we were relieved to see that in fact, the Belgian embassy was next to the Canadian embassy and just around the corner (I was starting to get the feeling that if you were a tourist or foreigner you were just told to take a taxi everywhere). We hurried to the embassy and with the efficiency of the Belgian consulate did not have to wait long for the letter. After rushing back to the Sudanese embassy, we managed to submit our application just before that day’s cut-off time, and were told to come back to collect our visa after lunch. It was a relief to have the first step done; now we had some time to relax and explore the city.

***

The culture shock of being in Cairo was quite intense. Arabic street signs and numbers all continued to confuse our western mind. People dressed in traditional and modern Arab styles bustled about their business. The busy city gave that definite feeling of having arrived in a foreign place.

Looking around I noticed the older architecture was an interesting mix of Arabic and European influences. But the ugly concrete of the later international styles of modern architecture were also quite predominant. Unfortunately the buildings are mostly neglected and all looked extremely shabby. I couldn’t help thinking that a coat of paint and a good scrub certainly wouldn’t go amiss. Then there is the mass of wiring which hangs like spaghetti on the outside of most buildings. These wires drape loosely between the hundreds of much needed air-conditioning units positioned precariously on the outside of the many office and tenement buildings. It all looked like an extremely dangerous breach of any kind of electrical safety regulations, and like an accident waiting to happen.

Of course cars were again a dominant feature. Just crossing the road should be considered an adrenalin sport. We stood and watched people cross, amazed at how they reached the other side in one piece. There didn’t look to be a method to their tactics. It seemed more a matter of faith than any reasonable or logical plan. In addition to the merciless traffic, parked cars lined each and every street. They were parked so tightly together it looked impossible to even consider opening a car door. I certainly couldn’t figure out how people got in and out of their car, never mind the actual parking space. What would happen if or when someone needed to leave in an emergency? We never saw anyone trying to execute this maneuver, and we weren’t hanging around to find out.

Wandering without direction and soaking up the sights we found ourselves walking through the crowded main shopping area. Amongst the numerous fancy shoe and smart clothing stores it was a surprise to see quite racy women’s outfits boldly on display. Some of these skimpy outfits wouldn’t have looked out of place in an adult shop in the west. This gave quite contrary evidence that what goes on behind closed doors must be somewhat different from the shrouded women seen out in public.

Our grumbling stomachs notified us that it was lunchtime, and to the fact that we hadn’t had a proper meal since leaving Belgium which already felt like a lifetime ago. I had read about a local traditional dish and thought it was time to try kushari. This turned out to be our first truly impressive discovery in Egypt. A delicious mixture of rice, pasta, noodles and lentils topped with a spicy tomato sauce and crispy fried onions. Cheap and cheerful food, kushari was a brilliant find which suited my vegetarian diet. It was also excellent cycling food and provided us with sustenance for much of our time throughout Egypt. Recognizable from the display of different size silver dishes and the huge pot of rice and noodle mixture in the window, it was easy to find Kushari houses in every town. The traditional recipe is pretty standard wherever you are and contrary to outside beliefs about Egyptian food, the food was always very good. Neither of us experienced any kind of digestive problems during our stay.

Here, in a kushari house in Cairo, the clientele were all men who all ate extremely fast. They appeared to eat more out of necessity than enjoyment. There was a steady stream of lunchtime customers entering, quickly eating and leaving. They watched with interest as we took our time and enjoyed a leisurely meal.

Arriving back at the Sudanese embassy, we were expecting to simply pick up our visas and be on our merry way. Instead there was an unforeseen complication. At the counter we were handed our passports back and directed upstairs for an ‘interview’. We found ourselves in the office of an intimidating embassy official who must have been important as he had a large desk and a TV in the corner of his office. Fortunately, Sudan was the one country I had read a little about before we left. When asked about our intended travels by the severe official, I ‘forgot’ to mention anything about our bicycles and politely told him what I thought he wanted to hear. Sir, on arrival our intention is to take the desert train from Wadi Halfa to Khartoum. Once we have arrived in Khartoum we will organize the relevant permits and tour guide to visit any of the sites we would like to see before carrying on our journey to Ethiopia.

It sounded well practiced even to me, and I hoped the official would be convinced of our good intentions. In our rushed preparations, we hadn’t given much thought to the situation and not getting a visa for Sudan had never crossed our minds. Travelling through Sudan was an integral part of our journey. I wasn’t even aware of any other options to travel south and hoped we wouldn’t have to come up with a different solution.

The politics and ongoing wars of Sudan mean that travel is very restricted, and it was only recently that visitors to the country could ‘freely’ move around in the North and parts of the East. There was a current ceasefire in the south, but it was still a restricted area and of course no-one in their right mind would want to visit Darfur at this time. Stories of human atrocities were rife. That’s not to say we didn’t meet travellers who wanted to travel there. One young Englishman we later met in Khartoum in particular stands out. He had strange ambitions to visit war torn areas; luckily, for his own safety, we did hear that he was denied a visa to travel south or west.

The embassy official pondered and looked very serious before signing off our application. But not before pointing his finger at me and expressing in his thick, heavy accent that YOU, as a woman, will find it VERY DIFFICULT to travel in Sudan.

A bit alarmed I wondered what he meant by this comment, but not for long as we hurried back downstairs happy to have his signature and to be able to collect our visas.

Sitting for a while on the main, central square, the Midan Tahrir, we contemplated our visa success while watching the continual bustling activity of the traffic and people all around. Street vendors and veiled shoppers haggled for a bargain. Smartly dressed office workers rushed by, and there was a general mix of Muslim and Western cultures. Enormous billboards overlooked the square, telling you to ‘drink Coca Cola’, and to use the familiar services of ‘Western Transfer’ and ‘Vodafone’, amidst the many TV aerials and satellite dishes that dominate the city skyline. Everyone was carrying a cell phone, and the air was filled with the constant sound of Egyptian music; the ring tones of the phones.

Heading away from the main shopping area we went in search of hardware stores to shop for a camping gas canister. Jan had accidentally left our original in his hand luggage and of course with the strict regulations introduced since 9/11, it had been confiscated.

Away from the centre, the city appeared to be laid out in streets of stores all selling the same merchandise. On one street all the shops sold plumbing gear, around the corner tools. The next street was the air-con district, but none of the shops sold small gas canisters. The men behind the counters, and even the customers, were all very willing to help, but no-one could tell us where to go. After a couple of hours we resigned ourselves to the fact that camping was not catered for here in Cairo, or perhaps not in Egypt at all.

It had been a long day and our senses were a bit numb by this time, so we started to make our way to the bus station. Spotting a hotel sign advertising Stella it seemed like as good a time as any for a beer. Considering Egypt is mainly a Muslim country a sign advertising beer in the city centre did take us a bit by surprise; it was an opportunity not to be wasted. The temperature had been extremely hot the whole day and our feet were pretty sore from all the walking. A sign advertising cold beer was too tempting.

After entering a narrow doorway, we found a deserted hallway and there was no-one around. Another sign saying ‘beer’ directed us to a lift and to go up to the top floor. Here we found a seemingly deserted, sparsely decorated room. The décor was reminiscent of something from the 70’s with vinyl seating and faded plastic flowers. A shaft of sunlight coming through a dirty window illuminated the dust in the air. It all felt a bit weird, but before we could make a quick getaway a barman appeared who was only too eager to please. He rushed off to fetch us drinks.

Noticing another sign saying ‘balcony’ we opened the door thinking it would be nice to have a view over the city. Sure enough there was a ‘balcony’, but it was no bigger than a postage stamp. Ok, it was large enough for one table and two dirty plastic chairs. But even the view was a bit of a disappointment. We sat down overlooking the rubble and rubbish filled rooftops which had not escaped being used as a dump. The view was completed by a backdrop of the prerequisite TV aerials and satellite dishes squeezed amongst the many towers of the minarets. It didn’t take us long to finish our beer, politely give thanks and to go off in search of the bus station.

Still clutching our piece of paper that Sam had given us, with the bus number written in Arabic, we waited for a bus back to the village of Harraniyya and Salma Camping. The sun was beginning to set by this time and all of a sudden the calls to prayer from the muezzins began. Right on cue the air was filled with the melodic cries of Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.

Crowds of men came rushing into the bus station from all directions. We watched in amazement as they grabbed communal prayer mats from a hidden pile, and placed them in the middle of the bus lanes. The men then proceeded to remove their shoes, amongst all the oil spills and exhaust fumes. Arriving and departing buses all came to an abrupt standstill as the shoeless men all knelt facing the same way, bending their heads to the floor as they offered their prayers to Mecca.

Pyramids

The tops of the famous Pyramids of Giza were just visible from an obscure corner at the bottom of the camp-site. No-one comes to Cairo without visiting the famous pyramids and we were pretty excited to visit this great landmark which would also signify that our journey had truly begun. Everyone, including us, presumes that the pyramids are in the middle of the vast desert. It is quite a surprise to discover that they are, in fact, right next door to the suburb of Giza. The contrasting view of dilapidated apartment blocks in front of the pyramids is quite bizarre. On the approach the hassle begins. Cries of I give you good price fill the air. Crowds of unofficial touts pressurize you to take the obligatory donkey, camel or horse ride to the pyramids, where if you pay enough ‘baksheesh’ a custodian will let you inside. As we got closer, the surreal sight of the pyramids and sphinx in the distance, were brought down to earth by the spectacle of the vast crowds and busloads of tourists, as well as the accompanying piles of rubbish in the streets all around. The pyramids are classified as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, and I would have expected the local people and the government, to take better care of their national treasure and huge source of revenue.

Although the pyramids themselves looked impressive, the level of harassment was too intense. After firmly and repeatedly saying no to too many offers we agreed to leave. It seemed like a better idea to cycle to the Saqqara pyramid complex instead, hoping that there it would be much quieter. It was a relief to escape the crowds and dirt and grime of the city.

Cycling alongside the canals of the Nile on the outskirts of Cairo, we were confronted by the poverty of the people and the ancient style of living and farming practices still in use. Women swept the encroaching desert from the steps of their traditional mud-brick houses; men worked with old fashioned scythes in the fields. The only modern additions were the sounds of the odd generator and pump used to pump water from the garbage choked canals to irrigate the land. Beautiful palms offered shade, donkeys carrying large loads passed by with small barefoot children riding high. Herds of goats and chickens cluttered the road. By our western standards the people are poor, but the rich business of living carries on. After the madness of the city it was like taking a welcome step back in time.

Passing the dilapidated ruins of the pyramids of Abu Sir, supposedly closed to the public, a ‘custodian’ at the gate shouts to us ‘special price’ and invites us inside. You got the impression that everyone is fixated with making money and the rules are only there to be broken.

Saqqara, and the crumbling geometry of the step pyramid came into view. We cycled around the site on the stony desert tracks stopping often to take in the incredible views of these awe-inspiring pyramids. The usual question that these giant monuments invoke sprang to mind – just how did the ancient Egyptians manage to build these immense structures?

This is the oldest known pyramid complex ever found. It is spread over hundreds of square metres of the desert with more and more ancient sites still being discovered and excavated today - usually sponsored by a foreign government or NGO. Signs displaying the name of various foreign sponsors in charge of different restoration or excavation projects are evident throughout Egypt. Each time we saw one we wondered what happens to all the money generated by the literally millions of foreign tourists who pay to visit the pyramids, temples and museums each year.

Back in the present Jan managed to get his first puncture. As if by magic and in the heat of the day, an oasis appeared. Just outside the entrance to the pyramids there was a cluster of palm trees with a tented structure in the shade below. A closer inspection revealed this to be an elaborate garden restaurant. The heat was almost unbearable. It was with some relief that we pulled in so that Jan could fix his puncture in the cool of the shade. Ordering a beer the waiter first told us the price, which was more than double of that we had been paying in Cairo. Clearly the place catered for the busloads of western tourists who stay in the five star hotels, and not thirsty independent cyclists travelling on a budget. We declined the beer, Jan fixed his puncture much to the amusement of the waiters, and we set off back to Cairo.

***

Leaving the relative comfort and safety of Salma Camping and starting our journey proper, the next morning