Jupiters Travels: Four Years Around the World on a Triumph (14 page)

So here I am, still looking for an explanation, acting out those childhood stories which, perhaps, were always the most satisfying after all; making myself the hero of my own myth?

These are not so much sequential thoughts as feelings interspersed with memories, dancing in my brain as the bike rolls comfortably over an easier stretch. The symbols group themselves in my mind. The Yom Kippur War, the Turk and the Bird loom large as omens. What do they portend?

My thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a lorry ahead of me. It is stationary. There are people grouped round it. Tracks start to sweep in across my path from the open desert, and following them round I see they converge near the river, by a group of trees and a hut. Khor el Fil, the halfway mark.

Nothing ever tasted more delicious than the tea I hold in my hand.

'Take the lorry,' they are saying. 'You cannot go through. There are big dunes. Take the lorry to Goz Regeb. It is not far.'

I resist, but their concern for me is so genuine that I feel excused by it. Fifty miles in the truck, that's not too much.

There are four Bescharyin here at the tea house with me, exotic figures, splendidly robed and armed, their hair teased out and glued into strands. I realize with a start that these must be the 'Fuzzie-wuzzies' who fought so fanatically against Gordon at Khartoum. The contact between us is instantaneous and overwhelming. There is a spirit in this tea, a magic solvent to wash away our differences. This is another reason why I am here; to experience (nothing less) the brotherhood of man. Imagine meeting these men in a London pub or an American diner. Impossible. They could never be there what they are here. They would be made small by the complexities, the paraphernalia that we have added to our lives, just as we are, though we have learned to pretend otherwise. I had to come here to realize the full stature of man; here outside a grass hut, on a rough wooden bench, with no noise, no crowds, no appointments, no axe to grind, no secret to conceal, all the space and time in the world, and my heart as translucent as the glass of tea in my hand. The sense of affinity with these men is so strong that I would tear down every building in the West if I thought it would bring us together like this. I understand why the Arab idea seems so perverse, so fanatical, untrustworthy and self-destructive to the Western mind. It must be because the Arab puts an ultimate value on something we no longer even know exists.

Integrity, in its real sense of being at one with oneself and one's God, whoever and wherever that God may be. Without it he feels crippled.

We Europeans sold our integrity many years ago for progress, and we have debased the word to mean merely someone who obeys the rules. A chasm of misunderstanding yawns between us. At this moment I know on which side I want to stand.

The lorry is being loaded by members of another tribe, the Raschaid. I gather they originate in Iraq, are known as nomadic camel herders, and are supposed to be rich. This is a large family moving house by truck rather than camel. They have their tent wrapped up in great bundles of hide; the poles tied together; enormous heavy glass bottles slung in rope nets; the rest wrapped in carpets. Their women are with them, the first women I have been close to since Egypt. They wear finely woven silver veils over their faces, just below eye level. For them it is the mouth which must not, in any circumstances, be seen by a strange man. Their robes hang loose, their breasts are visible from time to time, it does not bother them. It does bother me, however, and I have to guard my expression carefully. I am helped in this by the playful way in which the head of the family toys with his rifle, as he sits on top of the truck and supervises the loading.

Four men load the bike without difficulty. I pay a small sum, and we're off. I sit jammed up against the members of the family, trying to ignore the sumptuous femininity jiggling so close to me.

There really are dunes. The lorry has to put down metal tracks to cross them. I would not have had a chance here, but I might have made it through the trees.

All I can see of Goz Regeb, at night, is the big tea house with many rooms. There is food too, meat and beans
and kissera.
There are wooden bed-frames strung with jute to sleep on. All around me men fall to their knees in prayer, arms rising and falling, voices chanting:

'Allah Harkborough, Allah Harkborough', at least that's what it sounds like. Then again the silence, the stars, and the early morning chill, but this time I am prepared.

Approaching Kassala at last, I can scarcely believe the skyline that rises before me. A range of high mountains with smoothly rounded tops like mounds of ice-cream half licked. I feel as though I am approaching an enchanted land, and more and more often I feel that I am acting out some fairy tale or legend. All I lack is a clear idea of my purpose. Maybe the reader knows.

In Kassala I seek out the Forest Officer, hoping to spend more time with him. The driver of the Landrover is the first to see me coming. His broad face radiates happiness at seeing me.

‘You are a real man’ he says and I almost choke with the pleasure that gives me. It was worth it all just to hear that.

From Kassala there are two ways to go. The usual route, the one I planned to take, follows a big highway through Eritrea to Asmara. According to the Ethiopian Consul the road is untroubled by rebels at present. I find the prospect rather tame. A real man has his responsibilities. I decide on another route, continuing south through the Sudan for two hundred and forty miles and then crossing into Ethiopia at Metema.

On the map the road is graded one better than nothing as far as the border. After that it reverts to the same condition as the one I have just travelled, but I know now that this can only be the vaguest indication. All I am fairly sure of is that there is no more open desert.

The first stretch as far as Khashm el Girba runs alongside the railway line. In fact it is part of the bed of the track, and made of dried mud, baked and cracked in the sun. At times it is raised above the surrounding brush, at others not, and it varies a great deal in width. There are some shallow ruts which reduce speed drastically, but worse still, most of the way is '. mildly corrugated.

The riding is not only as difficult as it was in the desert, it is also more uncomfortable and frustrating, as the bike rattles furiously over the bumps. The fifty-three miles take me three hours of hard work. There are tea houses on the way. I have made it a rule always to stop. At Khashm el Girba I am rewarded by a tea house with wonderful fresh fish from the reservoir there. Again the atmosphere is one of all-embracing intimacy. I have only to sit down in these places now, to feel that I am among old friends.

The road to Gedaref?

'Queiss,'
they say, 'Much better.'

I reserve my judgement this time, but draw strength from their encouragement.

The road to Gedaref is worse. Much worse. Worse than anything I imagined. At times, in fact, I believe it is impossible, and consider giving up. The corrugations are monstrous. Six-inch ridges, two feet apart, all the way with monotonous, shattering regularity. Everything on the bike that can move does so. Every bone in every socket of my body rattles. Not even the most ingenious fairground proprietor could devise a more uncomfortable ride. I feel certain that it must break the bike. I try riding very slowly, and it is worse than ever. Only at fifty miles an hour does the bike begin to fly over the ridges, levelling out the vibration a little, but it is
;

terribly risky. Between the ridges is much loose sand. Here and there are sudden hazards. The chances of falling are great, and I am afraid of serious damage to the bike. Yet If eel I must fly, because I don't think the machine will survive eighty miles of this otherwise. It is hair-raising, and then it becomes impossible again. The road swings to the west and the sun burns out my vision. I realize I must stop and make a camp, because I shall never arrive at Gedaref today, anyhow.

Between some bushes I set up the mosquito net, cook some rice and tea, smoke a cigarette, and sleep. I have been going from dawn to sunset, a full day of total endeavour, and I have come just under a hundred miles.

Something wakes me from my sleep. Huge shapes loom around the net in the darkness, threatening to squash me. I am petrified. A herd of camels is being driven through the night across my camp site. The camels obviously sense my presence though, because they avoid me daintily. After a minute I lose my fear and simply gaze up at them in wonder. They are really like ships in the night. Even so, I think I was lucky.

In the morning, refreshed, I lose patience with the corrugations and fly over them regardless. I find that I can control the bike better than I had thought. I still fear for the effect on the bike, but I am hopeful that after Gedaref things may improve. These corrugations are the result of traffic. Beyond Gedaref, according to the map, the road is less important. I even hope, nostalgically, that it may be as pleasant as the desert track. At least, in the desert, I was able to think. Here every part of me is pinned to the road and survival.

I get to Gedaref in two heart-stopping hours, and find another place to eat fish, but this is a different kind of town from Atbara or Kassala, busier and more crowded, and the crowd is curious and pressing. They are all round me, peering at me, and I am glad to get away on the road to Doka. Until I see what the road is like. My alarm takes me to the verge of despair, and then turns to laughter. It is too ridiculous.

The washboard corrugations continue, as before, but not consistently. The ground here is obviously softer and heavy vehicles have been going through in the rain. The road is saucer-shaped, that is, it has a steep reverse camber. At the bottom of the saucer are deep slots, usually two side by side. They are only a couple of feet apart, and must have been made by lorries travelling with one wheel in the road and another on the bank. The space between the slots is not flat, but rises to a crown, and also narrows from time to time or disappears altogether as the two slots merge into one. It is not possible to ride between the slots without, soon, falling into one. The slots are fifteen inches deep and the same width. They might have been tailored to fit the bike. The pipes just fit inside them, the side panniers just clear the tops of them. I am forced to ride in the slots, but I see a great danger of breaking my legs against the side if the bike should lurch one way or another, and for much of the way I have to keep my legs raised in the air.

Where the slots are shallower or broader the ground is corrugated or covered with loose sand. For several hours I am unable to average more than ten miles an hour. My feelings have changed now, though. I see this as a part of what I must do, and I am resigned to the fact that each day the hazards will multiply until I meet the dog with eyes like cartwheels. My worries are now all for the motorcycle. With one suspect piston I am worried about overheating. Three times I fall; once when riding between the slots the bike falls into a groove and is almost upside down. Each time I stop and relax, and let the bike cool off. I'm trying not to let the riding overwhelm me so that I forget where I am and what I'm doing.

The soil here is pitch black, and flat, but far ahead I see it rising steadily towards the Ethiopian plateau. On either side of me are fields of cotton and millet, and the cotton is just bursting out of its pods in little puffs of white. Not a soul anywhere, not a vehicle or an animal or a person. What does it matter? I have water, rice, tea and sugar, and salt. I can take as long as I like, stop where and when I like.

So, plodding along, horse-back fashion, I arrive in Doka just past four. The police have a large open space with a fence round it. I don't need their fence, but their hospitality is welcome and they share their food with me. New day, new problems. The road is rising now, in short steep swoops. Where it does the road is stony, big loose stones ripped out of the rock and flung loose. Something enormous has been travelling this road. It has also ground the rock into a fine powder, a pink talc like face powder which reflects the sun and kills all contours. I cannot see the rocks before I hit them, and since climbing necessitates some speed and momentum, I find myself bouncing from one side of the track to the other, hoping to find a safe line through. Twice more I fall, spread-eagled across the track, and here it is worse because the rocks catch on the panniers, ripping them off, and denting the pipes. Once I am trapped with my foot under the rear wheel. The strap on the boot is caught on the axle, and I can't move. As I lie there, mustering strength, I remember the boy in the store selling me that boot and telling me that the strap was 'for when you come off.

Why don't the tyres tear to shreds under all this punishment. Why no punctures? I think a puncture might finish me, I'm so beat. I say prayers of gratitude to Avon who made them. Why doesn't the Triumph just die? It has no need to go on, unlike me. It protests and chatters. On one steep climb it even fainted, but after a rest it went to work again. I hate to think what havoc is being wrought inside those cylinders. We have such a long way to go.

The morning passes in effort and short stops. The countryside is more pleasing as it rises among trees. The mountain kingdom of Ethiopia must

be near now. The Sudanese side of the border is called Galabat. I see some men in uniform outside a building and ride up to them. They are soldiers and ask me to eat with them. We squat on the ground outside their garrison in front of a large bowl, scooping up the food with handfuls of
kissera.
All the usual politenesses and courtesies are offered, the symbols of mutual respect. Soon I shall leave Arabia behind, and I suspect already how much I shall yearn for it, and the Sudan in particular.