...time would suddenly no longer be measured in hours, minutes and seconds, but in the distance you move, in the way one goes every day? Some would immediately jump on the next train and travel to the next weekend. Then, they would probably move the less possible so that it never became Monday. And some would terminate their job because truck drivers, stewardesses and couriers would hardly like to age for others. We would continue to ride our bicycles around the world and barely notice the change. For a long time we've been in our own time zone, don't count the days and nights anymore, hardly know what day or what date is pending. Rather, it's steady progress, the change of scenery and encounters, the rhythm of cycle stages and rest days on which we now read our time.
From Cairo we go out into the Western Deserts of Egypt, the Black and the White desert, which finally this year are, after a long time, no longer listed under the travel warnings from the EDA. The Swiss Embassy in Cairo has confirmed as well that there are currently no safety concerns on the main road through the oasis of Farafra, Dakhla and Khargas. If ever the military will let us pass by. However, unlike in the Nile valley, where a permanent police escort for tourists is still mandatory, we're given a friendly wave through the checkpoints.
The first nights we stay at ambulance stations, which we find on this route every fifty to sixty kilometers, but soon we feel so safe that we camp in the desert again. Once again we see moonlit nights, note with astonishment that since Oman another month has passed. The desert here is fascinating, sandy fields are crisscrossed from fossilized shellfish beds, limestone cliffs rise like coral reefs from the Dune Sea. Several times motorists stop, give us bread and water, welcome us and show their joy at seeing us as tourists in their country.
What if the Arab Spring would never have taken place in Egypt? President Mubarak would probably still hold power in his hands. Maybe some would join together right now for demonstrations in Tahrir Square, a seething crowd, fighting for a better future. And some would hope that everything would remain the same, because they know that the revolution will destroy tourism. We would travel across the country, would see happy and unhappy faces, but certainly not this hopelessness, which now runs through Egypt.
In Luxor we stay in the Nile Valley Hotel. The owner is Hamada, an Egyptian who has worked for a long time in Switzerland and who offers us a great price in the low tourist season. Together with his Dutch wife, he has built a small paradise here on the west bank of the Nile. For three years, his hotel was fully booked during the peak season, now it's empty. He's the victim of political unrest and media reporting like everybody else. "I don't understand", Hamada says at a dinner on the rooftop terrace from which we can see for miles across the Nile, "there are direct flights from Switzerland to Luxor, nobody needs to set a single foot step in Cairo. In Luxor, it was always quiet. The last travel warning was seventeen years ago, when there was the attack at the temple." But the images of the revolution sit fireproof in the minds of the Western world. Fifty hotel ships rot slowly on the Nile, drivers, guides and boat owners are unemployed. Hamada looks at us: "I still have some money, I eat together with my brothers and sisters and their families at a big table. But for many it's really hard now."
In the evening we walk down to the ferry terminal. We want to go to the east bank and then by train to Cairo to pick up our new passports. Slowly the boat filled with passengers. A few meters away a heron on the railing of a motor trawler is waiting for a fish. It's obvious that it will be unsuccessful. It would have to pounce on its prey like a kingfisher as soon as it appears. But this will never succeed, because herons are fishing usually standing in shallow water, without doing swoops.
While we eagerly wait for the mishap and mock the bird in silence for his stupidity, an Egyptian sits beside us on the bench. He wants to know where we come from, whether we like his country. We chat for a while, learn that he lives on the west bank of the Nile and has a family of six. Now he wants to go over to the east bank for shopping, and yes, he would be there waiting for tourists who may arrive with the evening train. He's a taxi driver, and he's waiting every night at the station, although often no tourists would get off the train. We want to know how much he asks for a ride to the Valley of the Kings. He tells us his price, too much for our budget. The conversation runs dry. The ferry is full and the ropes are loosed. We look around for the heron. Excited, he suddenly runs on the edge of the boat back and forth and then plunges headlong into the Nile. His wings touch the water before the beak, the perfect crash landing. The fish is gone. But rather than flying away, we now see with amazement how the bird lands again on its place, ready for another, desperate attempt to catch. It's dry season, no shallow water for fishing far and wide. Chugging, the ferry crosses the Nile. Together with the taxi driver we walk to the train station. There, his taxi is parked. And while we go to the platform, he sits in his car and starts to wait. As every night.
What if the travel enthusiasts in the world would know that, at least for the time, Egypt has come to some rest after the bloody military coup last year? Some would pack their bags for the next holiday and fly to the Red Sea or to the pyramids. And some would still stay at home because they fear that it could lead to waves of violence at any time. We would have had to share the tombs of pharaohs with many other tourists, paid more for our hotel and had less silence. But still, we wish the people here that better times came for them again.
From Luxor to Aswan we now ride a short distance through the Nile Valley. We chose the secondary road on the west side. Probably a bad choice. It has less police presence and the settlements seem poorer. Hardly thirty kilometers we've ridden when two young Tuck Tuck drivers press Brigitte at the roadside. And then there's suddenly a knife and the demand for "money and mobile phone". We're lucky that both the guys and we don't know how such a thing is really done and before worse happens a villager with an iron stave comes to our help and puts the riot to flight. We feel the shock in the bones and until we can cross to the east side of the Nile, we ride under police protection. When we get there, our nerves have calmed down. Nothing happened to us and in retrospect we must admit that every day we could get into such a situation, even at the train station in Bern. Only that probably no passerby would helped us out there with an iron stave.
In Aswan we board a ship that brings us in eighteen hours over the Lake Nasser to Sudan. Although there's now a road connecting Egypt and Sudan, the boat ride is still the safest way for cyclists to cross the border here. We travel second class, settle on the deck with the stove and camping mat for the night, along with a group of Libyan refugees and Sudanese traders, who are bringing washing machines and other goods in to the sanctioned Sudan. The people are politely reserved, but are also interested in our story and ask about the origin and destiny. Big and red the sun is bathing in the vast waters of Nasser. Like a sea the boundless lake stretches now to the horizon and from the boat mast echoes the call of the muezzin across the deck. The men gather at the eastern rail to prayer. After a quiet "Allahhu akbar" they kneel down tightly side by side and together with dusk descends a touching silence over the ship. Slowly we chug into the night and in a new country.
What if we would open our doors more often for travelers? Some would feel threatened rapidly in their homes, had more fear of losing than to win something through the encounter with the stranger. And some would enjoy the visit, they would feel less lonely and listen to tales which they now would no longer be told on TV, but in their living room. We would be proud of such a world.
From Sudan, we cycle on threesome, along with Russell, a Briton whom we met on the ship. From north to south is blowing a constant tailwind and we move quickly forward. The route is well supplied with cafeterias and there we also find water that is drawn directly from the Nile and kept cool in large clay pots. Overnight we camp again out in the dunes. These are the last camping nights in solitude for a long time, because after the capital Khartoum our onward road leads us through the Nile Valley and there it's getting busy. It has people everywhere, and in the evenings we're looking for a safe place at police stations or in schools. Once in a village we're invited by a family to stay in their home: "This night you are our guests." So often this has already happened to us in the Islamic world. We're strangers, don't belong to the same religion, come from countries which often evaluate their beliefs, politics and culture negatively and with condemnation. Even so, we're treated as friends, a bed is offered to us unreservedly or we get help whenever we need it. Although notions and rules of the Koran determine the thoughts and actions here, the everyday life of most people is far away from the extremist views of which our news so much and so often report.
Two weeks after we entered Sudan, we've already crossed the country. The landscape has become more hilly, burned bushland has replaced the desert and the green valley of the Nile. People now appear out of nowhere and ask for water. The heat, which we had left in Egypt for a brief period, has now returned and every day gets more debilitating.
Shortly before the Sudanese- Ethiopian border, we're searching for shade at a truck stop at lunch time, tilt down cold soft drinks and eat our last Fuul, the typical Sudanese refried beans with bread. A man looks at us, he wants to know where we come from, and then: "How is Sudan?" We tell him how respectful the people have been who have met us, how still and clear the nights in the desert have been and how safe and welcomed we felt. He is all smiles. A publication from Michael Obert about the country come to our mind. He too, had a similar encounter and his counterpart left him with the words: "Please tell all your friends, that Sudanese people are not terrorists."
What if the radiant face of the man together with this quote would be shown at the beginning of the evening news? Some would break out in a panic, would immediately think of a terrorist attack on our communication system. They would overrun the helpline of the TV station with questions or they would plan a counterattack. And some would wonder what that is now, would wait for further explanations on the news that did not come. We would be happy about it, because we were doing it, if we could.
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