Palmyre to Damacus
Added on Tuesday, May 6th, 2008 by Carole Nash Editor
Palmyre to Damacus
After hanging around the room all day, writing and doing some editing, I occasionally looked out of the window.It was pleasantly busy with a clutch of tourist buses up from Damascus. The sun was high and any colours in the light were completely bleached out. I didn’t feel much like going out.
Outside was that reality; inside was one I also liked. Information from reliable websites were warning of real sand across the Nubia and even if I did know where I was going, I honestly didn’t know if the bike was up for it. I’d have a better chance on a Honda 50cc. We would see. I texted Gail whose husband in Khartoum had got me the invitation to enter Sudan, and asked her if maybe there was a pick-up who could follow me. I was panicking a bit. It just wasn’t the right bike for this part of the journey. It just hit me, that even if I could get through deep sand with an R1, it’s probably going to have a burnt out clutch and a shagged gearbox. The clutch is already sticky. You know, whose stupid idea was it to ride on an R1!
Sometimes I’m happy to stay in my room, looking at the white walls, an environment so devoid of decoration, so without signs, just nothing. I understood why there were the shabby curtains and the hard tiled floors. The fact that a thousand people have slept in the same bed is part of travelling. All that body sweat, seeping through clean sheets, and the illnesses of travellers make you want to open the window to let some of it escape.
Later, Tark the Internet opened his shop. My files were so big for this poor café, it had stripped the bandwidth of all the other computers and no one knew what was the problem. Tark apologised for a problem for which he didn’t realise I was the cause, so I kept quiet. I’d be gone tomorrow, to soak up the energy from some other unsuspecting Middle Eastern Internet Café, where the lights would dim as soon as I got myself online.
I sat in my chair, by the bowl of dates next to his desk. He was a sullen looking man until eventually he smiled. Perhaps smiling is too much of a pre-requisite to being friendly when you are a minority of one, but it works. Meanwhile, I was keen to glean some information about crossing the Nubia on my R1. Caroline sent me a contact, a guy called Ron from County Durham in England who was presently in Goreme. He was the support to overland expeditions in these parts and had a hand with Charley and Euan’s trip across the Nubia. He told me his contact Masar in Wadi Halfa would help me and that he saw no reason why my bike shouldn’t do it, but that Masar would know. This was informed news without the drama. I like black and white, yes and no. Time is short. To press a discreet point of information solidly home, I had to be back in Wales 120 or so days from now and that was not moveable. In all expeditions, there has to be discipline, and this was mine. I have three small children and I didn’t want to stretch their patience a heartbeat more than that.
Later that evening I went to eat, three streets away and down a shabby alley. Casa Mia Restaurant was run in a private house. Roughly daubed directions indicated where it was. Immaculate and clean with precise building work that left no wires showing on peeling plaster. Completely not what it’s advertising campaign suggested. Ali brought me a stew with rice and a cucumber tomato salad, washed down with Arabic cola and after writing another blog, retired to my room after midnight to sleep.
