Swimming The Nile in a Muu-Muu

In the sandy port town of Wadi Halfa we waited two days for our truck to catch up to us. It was supposed to leave before us in a separate vehicle ferry but the ferry had broken down and was towed to Sudan by a tug. While we waited we climbed every hill in the area (two), pet stray puppies, took tuk-tuk rides, drank cardamom-flavored coffee and ate chicken and rice with pita.

It was a time of killing time and casting about for random activities. Not only were all our clothes on the truck but also most of our books, our journals,and our money. One late afternoon English Alice and I waved down a tuk-tuk, showed him ten Sudanese Pounds, and asked him to “just drive us around, ten pounds worth.”

When he dropped us off back in town he made the crazy person sign to his friend by circling his index finger around his temple.

At dusk, we climbed up a small mount to watch the last of the setting sun and at night we slept on webbed beds in a dirt courtyard practicing patience while counting shooting stars.

In a small covered market I bought a muu-muu. For my British friends, in this context it’s a long Hawaiian dress, not a female body part. When I wore it around town local men gave me thumbs up and exclaimed “ Good! Good!” and women gave me a smile and a look that said, “Hello, sister.” Days later when we drove off the main road to Khartoum to find a waterhole where we could get some relief from the heat, I walked directly into the Nile, muu-muu and all. The heat drove me to it but in hindsight it was a stupid thing to do because over the doorway of a hut near the river was a crocodile head, and across from it lying on the ground was a complete 14-foot long croc carcass. Scott thought it’s gaping mouth, teeth intact, made for a good photo op – “Tris, put your head inside!” We asked the man leading us to the river, “Did you kill those crocodiles?”

“Yes, I shot them right here,” he said, gesturing to the area where we were supposed to swim. But that’s just how hot I was, and I walked right in. Sadly, the Nile was only wet, not refreshing. It too was reaching the boiling point.

Somewhere between Wadi Halfa and Khartoum - the hot days have all blended together in one hazy mirage - we visited the Nubian Pyramids of Meroe. Nubians were building pyramids long before the Egyptians even started. I prefer the slender lines of the Nubian variety to those at Giza, despite the fact there isn't a Pizza Hut restaurant within a thousand miles. The Nubian ones are still out in the middle of the desert where pyramids should be. Accompanied by two Bedouins who walked along next to me I rode a camel around the Pyramids holding my red umbrella over me for shade. Scott said I evoked an image of Lawrence of Arabia.



When we reached hot, dusty Khartoum we thought we would get some respite from the heat since we would be camped along the Nile at the Blue Nile Sailing Club, but it was still 110 degrees in the shade.

In teams of four we take turns cooking for our group of twenty overlanders and the first night in Khartoum my tean was on K-P. We decided on Sudanese style Spaghetti Bolognese. We were stunned by the price of tomatoes - $15 for 4 kilos - and we eyed with trepidation the beef hanging in the open-air, bloody floored meat shop. “Well, let's just cook it a really long time,” I said as the butcher lopped off a 2-kilo hunk of red meat of an unidentifiable animal and put it through a mincer. Thanks to the culinary skills of Phil (one-half of the delightful Tom and Phil twins on board) and Matt who reminds me of my nephew Colin and makes me long for home at times, it turned out great. I made garlic bread by spreading olive oil on pita bread and covering it with dried spices and small chunks of garlic. That came out pretty good too. It was a hot and dusty afternoon spent shopping for food then cooking over a charcoal fire. By the time the dishes were done and everything was put away I was dying for a shower. But there was no water! There are times when a wet one, even one the size of a bath towel just doesn't suffice and this one one of them. I went to bed that night sticky and miserable.

The best thing, the only thing, you can say for the Blue Nile Sailing Club is that The Melik, the gun boat that Lord Kitchener took up the Nile to conquer the Mahdi, sits as a monument in the middle of the hot and dusty campground. thinking it might somehow be a little cooler inside the old boat I climbed some rickety stairs to take a self guided tour and found a couple of men using it as their bachelor pad. there was no relief from the heat at all. Fortunately later that day Kamal Omar, a longtime member of the Blue Nile Sailing Club, took a few of us out for a sunset cruise on the Nile in his motorboat. Finally respite from the heat! Hot dogging water skiers from Dubai deliberately doused our boat as they jetted by. The waters of the Nile cooled me, and my muu-muu - you Brits can infer your meaning of muu-muu now - enough to be able to sleep that night.



Scott and Tris (in her muu muu),

Khartoum

Next: Ethiopia. “You! I love you!”

Pizza Hut and Pyramids, and The Ferry to Sudan

Even though it is THE thing to see in Egypt, we were reluctant to visit the Pyramids in Giza. We had been there in 1981 when they sat alone in the middle of a desert but now we heard there were apartment complexes practically in the shadow of the Pyramids. Sadly it’s true. We caved to pressure from the others and went to Giza. We were able to eat calzones while watching the sound and light show from the rooftop terrace of a Pizza Hut directly across from the Sphinx.

Cairo was hot and dusty. The air was so foul we could barely see the sun. We spent our days strolling through the narrow alleys of the souk, touring the fine museum, eating falafel balls, and blowing our noses.

In hot and dusty Luxor we approached Karnak Temple by horse drawn carriage and aimed for pins in a 2-lane bowling alley fronting the Nile.

In the first game I was paired with Natalie, an Australian nurse, who had a mean spinner technique and could take out most of the pins on each throw. I managed a few spares myself. When we scored the most points, I broke into my happy dance and re-injured the Achilles tendon that had given me so much trouble during the hike in Spain. When will I learn? Excessive celebration spanks me every time.

Aswan, in contrast to Luxor, was dusty and hot. But 2 nights on a felucca helped dull the heat some, at least while we were under sail. Yes, the Nubian Museum and The Valley of the Kings were incredible, but The Last McDonalds Until South Africa was voted best attraction. We even tried to get the felucca captain to pull over for one last McFlurry just after we set sail in Aswan.



It’s a necessary evil, but the ferry ride to Sudan, like a Commandment, shalt never be forgotten. Scott and I negotiated the bustling port by charging through the hoards of people and parcels, trying to look like we commuted to Sudan from Egypt weekly. “Keep forward momentum! Don’t stop. Don’t look back!” Scott prodded. We boarded at 10 am and finally set sail at 6pm that night. Humanity, boxes, sacks, or suitcases took up every square inch of deck space. Most of the large boxes contained brand new electric fans and that was my first clue that any moving air in Sudan would have to come from a man made source.

Our ticket required that we sleep on the deck but during the day we could pass the time in an air-conditioned bench seating area below deck along with 550 others. Scott stayed on deck while I joined in on a card game with locals below. One man hated losing and, thinking it was the inept card playing skills of the person before him that caused him to lose, rearranged our seating order several times. I don’t speak any Arabic and they didn’t speak English so whenever anyone wanted to change the suit we had to point to a spade, heart, club, or diamond on torn out page of a novel where we had drawn pictures of the suits. My new companions liked playing cards, but they loved to laugh. They offered me homemade honey with pita bread and I offered them Egyptian Pringles.



After losing three straight games in a row I went back on deck to find that the crew wanted to do a lifeboat drill and had moved our group from where they sat under the only shade on deck, which was of course, the lifeboat. The drill took forever and brains were starting to boil so Scott, our African Trails driver, and a few others just cranked the boat back up on their own initiative and everyone re-hunkered down in the shade. In the direct sun it was absolutely intolerable to be on deck. Scott and I consumed copious amounts of water during the day but rarely had to use the stanky, humid, flooded bathrooms on board. Who knew dehydration would have its advantages?

Around sunset there was a call to prayer at the very same time I was making my way across the deck. About 40 men suddenly stood shoulder-to-shoulder, faced east and prayed. Periodically they knelt and brought their heads to the deck in unison. There was barely space to move. I was just beginning to wonder where the women were praying when people behind me began pushing to get through. But I couldn’t move forward or back. I felt trapped. Finally, during a kneeling phase a man quickly stepped around me and made his way between those praying. After some hesitation I decided to follow him. Only I was too late. Suddenly the kneeling part was over and they were all standing again. I froze between two men. Horrified, I stood there with big eyes, not breathing and trying to look invisible. It would be as if I was in mid-genuflect (is genuflect still in the Catholic dictionary?) and someone came and stood right in front of me blocking my connection to the altar. I panicked and tried to pass but the man to my right, without making eye contact, calmly raised his hand ever so slightly as in “wait” so I did. I stood as still as a pillar and was suddenly part of an Islamic prayer cluster.

I tried to find him later to apologize. I thought I might be able to spot him since he would surely be the man giving me dagger eyes. But none of the men cared. They were as nice as could be to me. I’m sure they would have preferred that they could pray without distraction - who wouldn’t? But their attitude was more, “We’re all on this crowed boat together doing the best we can. Now let’s get back to playing some cards!” Religious obligation over, it was time to get back to the fun stuff. Like when I was a kid. After mass we would get to go home and watch some football.

Still, standing amidst a small sea of Islamic worshipers while they pray is just not kosher so I decided I would be less culturally annoying to everyone if I just stayed below decks. I went back down to the A/C to try my hand again at a card game called something that sounded like, “Whoa”.

At 9 pm the temperature outside was still above 40 degrees Celsius. I was in no hurry to brush my teeth and go to bed so I continued playing cards with a Nigerian woman and two Sudanese men. Eventually blankets came out, the cards were put away, and people began to stretch out on the seats so I had no choice but to move up to the deck. I looked at the space Scott and I had reserved under the lifeboat but there were too many bodies and only room for half a Scott to sleep comfortably. Hot and sticky, we surveyed the deck looking for any available space to get horizontal. Eureka! We gathered our therma-rests, tiptoed over slumbering Egyptians and Sudanese, and climbed up to the small near-empty roof of the pilothouse.
A few others joined us on the roof including an Arab man who periodically sat up to pour water over his head before lying down on the backpack that he was using as a pillow – mine- but mostly it felt like it was just the stars in the sky, Scott, and me. It was a beautiful and surreal night. At 4 am, over scratchy speakers, a call to prayer so loud that I’m sure could be heard back in Aswan prompted most of the men on deck to again rise, clear a space, face Mecca, and pray. Sunset prayer was one thing but, 4 am?? Once again I was struck by the power of faith and how devoted people can be to their religion. I had seen it on the Camino in Spain, on top Mt. Sinai, and now on the ferry. I’m just in awe faith.

Just after sunrise we squeezed in underneath the lifeboat, hung our legs over the side of the deck, and took photos of the shore and Abu Simbel, the gigantic temple complex that was relocated a slight distance up the bank when the Nile was dammed to form Lake Nasser.



Several times during the voyage we were summoned to fill out paperwork. We had just returned to the shade of the lifeboat after completing a form that certified us as aliens (“I always knew you were from another planet” never gets old, does it?) when we were told to report to the clinic on board for an H1-N1 clearance. We traipsed upstairs to a small, untidy cabin with a bunk bed and a desk covered with yesterday’s or last week's plates of food and cups of tea. It didn’t smell very nice. One man sat on the disheveled bottom bunk smoking a hookah pipe while another took our temperature. He inserted a thermometer into the ear nearest him, took a reading, recorded it on yet another form, wiped the end of the thermometer on a manky-looking cloth, said, “Next,” and probed another ear. The thermometer must have been broken because all of our temperatures were far below normal - but since we were starting to feel that way, it somehow made sense.

The last 3 hours of the journey we were stuck in the mud. This coincided with an Biblical plague of small green bugs that swarmed in from the shore. After 31 hours we finally arrived in Sudan, a country like no other. Okay, it’s hot and dusty like Luxor, and dusty and hot like Asswan, but the people are, honest to God, the friendliest we have ever known. Sincerely nice. The lady who seemed to be trying to insert her brand new boxed fan up my backside as she pushed and shoved to get off the ferry couldn’t have been from Sudan.

Once we were on Sudanese soil we were no longer hassled like we were in Egypt: “Hello my friend, ride camel? Come to my shop? Try my perfume? See my papyrus? Why don’t you want to be my friend…?” Instead, people just smiled and said, “Welcome! How do you find Sudan?”



Scott and Tris

Wadi Halfa, Sudan



Next: Swimming The Nile in a Muu-Muu

A Boat, Boots, Bedouins, and A Bridge - On the Camino de Santiago

A Boat:

On March 16th, 2010, I was busy loading my backpack (one pair boots, 2 pair socks, 2 pair hiking pants, 2 t-shirts, rain gear and, last but not least, ear plugs) for a 6-week trek in Spain when Scott said, “What if we travel to Spain by sea instead of by air?” By the 17th I was trying to fit cruise attire into my backpack. By the 20th, Brazilians (we boarded in Sao Paolo) were handing Scott their cameras and asking him to take their photo.
We didn’t manage to fit much cruise wear into our packs after all, so I think they mistook him for crew. (This has happened to us before). Scott played along, cheerfully arranging everyone and putting them in the best light. “Smile! Say queso!” he said, which wasn’t even right since the Portuguese don’t say, “cheese” before taking a photo. If they did it would sound more like “kejzo” anyway. But queso or kejzo, it didn’t matter. Both end in an “O", so a few Brazilians who mistook Scott for crew have photos of themselves looking like they've just been goosed.

We occupied our days at sea by finding creative ways to make hiking gear passable on “formal” nights (impossible), and by reading, playing trivia, and talking to nice people, especially those from Holland and America. Most afternoons found Scott in the library, where he learned to play Bridge from a patient teacher who just happened to be the doppelganger for my wonderful brother Mike. That was nice...

Boots:

My hiking boots disintegrated on the flight over from San Jose. I don’t know how or why. At first I took it as a sign from God. After all, what idiot would commence a 500-mile trek without training for it? Yours truly and her one true love, that’s who! Our training consisted of walking around the ship - four times around the deck was a whole mile.
After one such rotation I noticed that my boot was baring its sole all over the promenade deck - insulation was flying everywhere. Soon, the entire boot bottom was flopping around after me like a spatula stuck to my foot. I needed appropriate shoes for the hike in Spain, but our favorite outdoor store, REI, was an ocean away. But I was in luck! The island of Tenerife, off the coast of Africa, is a duty-free shoppers paradise  that specializes in electronics. They also sell footwear such as Nike, Puma and Solomon.

At the first shoe store, the saleswoman said with disbelief, “Size 9 and a half! Are you kidding me?” Then, she announced it over the P.A. system. The other customers in the store pointed at me and stared, waiting to see what would happen next. I know they were thinking, ‘Big foot! It’s not a myth!’

The shop clerk gave me a look of pity as I left, shoeless: How ever did you get this nice man to marry you with feet the size of tennis rackets? her eyes said.

After several more false starts and sniggers by wide-eyed shoppers and clerks, I was able to find a pair of Solomon hiking boots that fit perfectly. So what if I had to buy them in the men’s department? They have served me perfectly well so far.

We began the hike in Pamplona, home of the running of the bulls and occasional hangout for the late Ernest Hemingway. In Pamplona you can find signs such as, ‘Hemingway slept here’, ‘Hemingway wrote here’, ‘Hemingway drank here’, and random shops simply called 'The Hemingway'. We didn’t stay at the Hotel Hemingway near the bullring because it was 200 euros per night, but as we stood in the lobby soaking up the aura of the notorious adventurer, a hotel guest noted our hiking apparel and said, “You must be Peregrinos. You should stay at the Refugio!” He walked us there, pointing out the places where Hemingway had a cigar and took a lover.

For more than 900 years Peregrino has been the term for anyone hiking The Camino de Santiago.  Refugios, or Albergues, were where they slept.
In Pamplona, for 6 euros each, we were assigned a bunk in a 100-bed dormitory that was housed in an ancient monastery. We were numbers 92 and 93 to sign in.
Most refugios on the Camino have at least 30 beds in one room. “Sounds smelly!” you might be thinking, and you would be right. Hundreds of years ago, a monk or priest would walk through the Refugio swinging a smoking incense ball to dull the odiferous funk of the pilgrims as they slept. Modern day Refugios have hot showers, laundry machines, Internet, and kitchens. Still, that first night in Pamplona, I thought a few passes with an incense ball wouldn’t hurt. Two hundred sweaty boots smell like a wet cow. No worse than that - like a wet cow with bad breath that snores with its mouth open.

It’s not that bad. I brought lots of earplugs with me, the refugios are spotless, and a slight smear of Vicks under the nose works wonders. If it weren’t for all the Germans who get up at 5 a.m. to use up all the hot water and race to the next Refugio for the best bunk (the German half of me really wants to do that too), the refugio experience would be great.
So far, all the refugios are co-ed. Even the dorms and the bathrooms aren’t divided by sex. It’s like living in a house with a hundred brothers and sisters from all over the world. We’ve met Estonisan, Dutch, German, Irish, English, Canadian, and lots of Spanish peregrinos. On rare occasions we get a double room to ourselves, and that is muy bien. So far, we haven’t met any other Americans but we probably will meet one or two over the next 40+ days of the hike.

One is supposed to be on a spiritual or cultural quest to hike The Camino. If we see it as a spiritual quest, and make it to Santiago, where the bones of St. James rest in peace, we will be awarded an indulgence. An actual indulgence! That means if I complete the Way of St. James, as the Camino is called, I will earn an indulgence and all my sins will be instantaneously wiped clean. Poof! Permanent record erased. Then, if I were to get hit by a car or something before I have a chance to sin again, I would go straight to Heaven. The chances that I wouldn't sin again shortly after leaving the compostela office by, say, taking the Lord's name in vain,"Gosh darn! That is one beautiful Cathedral!" (only it wouldn't be "gosh"), or coveting chocolate or beer or woman's boots is pretty remote. The "express to Heaven" reward was more significant before the Pope did away with purgatory anyway. But still, I will be walking a little lighter after I gain the indulgence, at least for a few moments.
Strange to say if you know me, but I do feel spiritual while walking the Camino. At least that's how I interpret the vibe. I feel just so darn happy all the time. I have long thought nature is my religion and I feel closest to my Maker when I am out in it.
Scott says his intention is a cultural quest, which I don’t mind one bit, because he has been giving me history lessons everyday. Whether it be details about an old Roman road we are walking on, or tidbits regarding Spanish or Portuguese explorers, it is always interesting and takes my mind off my aches and pains.

“Keep an open mind,” I suggested. “After 6 weeks on the trail, you might find it has somehow become a spiritual quest.” To which he replied wincing, “Very likely since my feet might die and go to heaven before I get there.”

I hope that doesn’t happen. But this is only day 4 of our hike, and he is already walking like Amos McCoy. I resemble Grandma Moses - in mens boots. I don't think I needed to clarify that. I think Grandma Moses always wore mens boots, didn't she?

Every day, we trod up and down hills, through vineyards, olive groves, and newly planted wheat fields so green the wheat looks like a jade river swirling down hills and around the vineyards. We walk from village to village, over narrow, or muddy, or rocky footpaths just the way pilgrims did 900 years ago - except we are powered more by café con leche and chocolate croissants, than by gruel. The villages are so charming, and the churches along the way so magnificent, that they distract us from thinking about our sore feet or backs, or calves, or thighs, or knees, or shoulders-- at least for a little while. We walk about 12-15 miles per day, which takes us 6 to 8 hours depending on the terrain. But our packs are way too heavy because we have stuff in them that we don’t need in Spain, but which we do need for Africa, which leads me to Bedouins.

Bedouins:

Mid-May will find us in Cairo, where we will join an overland truck for a ten week journey up the Nile that will take us through Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia and Kenya.

In August, we will transit to Zambia to help build a bridge.

Bridge: A footbridge, that is, in Zambia. We will work with a non-profit called Bridges to Prosperity. Learn more about how we became connected with this organization at: www.firstgiving.com/teresaokane

We’ll be gone Five months, Bridge (San Francisco) to bridge.

We love hearing from you!
Hasta Luego! Scott and Tris

Torres del Rio, where Hemingway, as far as I know, didn’t sleep.

The Way of St James,

Spain

Haiku (sort of) for the day:

Behind the hay

I peed

The hills were green