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We had come as close to the border as local security agents would allow, into a land
of arid plain and desert scrub. As Salaah disappeared into the north, it seemed unbeliev-
able that this landscape could border the mightiest swampland on Earth. The only things
to break the endless flatness were outcrops of evil, thorn-ridden acacia bushes - and, of
course, the river itself. Here, the Nile surged due north, for a short time forming the border
with South Sudan itself, before piercing the heart of Sudan. Along its length ran a bullet-
straight tarmac road, gleaming black against the parched wilderness.
All of a sudden, the vastness of the journey ahead seemed impossible. Even the two hun-
dred miles back to Khartoum felt inconceivable. Whether it was the defeat in South Sudan,
or just the simplicity, the starkness of staring out at hundreds of miles of open scrubland, I
wasn't sure - but a strange sense of doubt was starting to bubble up within me.
'You should ride,' I said, as Moez balanced his packs on one of the bicycles.
'Ride?' he said, aghast. 'Why should I ride? If you're walking, then I'm walking. This
is walking the Nile, not riding the Nile.' He finished wrapping the straps around his bag
and, without another word, began to push up the road. I looked at him, in his black jeans,
polo T-shirt and baseball cap, discreetly covering a balding head. On his feet was a pair of
fake-leather shoes, with one sole already hanging off. Moez might have claimed to have
escorted archaeologists and scientists around the vast emptiness of the Sahara - but I sus-
pected it was probably from the comfort of a Toyota Land Cruiser. Under my breath, I
muttered to myself, 'He won't last the week.'
The truth was: I didn't know if I would either.
The next days seemed to last for ever. Sudan was a new beginning, but for the first time,
the walking seemed a pointless exercise. I found no comfort in putting one foot in front of
the other. Flanked on one side by huge electricity pylons and featureless scrub, every day
was the same. The road was so straight it began to feel interminable.
We reached the town of Kosti on the second day, crossing to the river's eastern bank
to continue the endless trek north. Behind me, Moez struggled on without words. It was
difficult to push the bike, especially along the riverbank where the sand was deep, but I
kept my head down, ignored his travails, and barrelled on. Soon, Moez and I were walking
some distance apart, saying nothing to each other for long hours. He was struggling in stoic
silence, but I had no words of encouragement for him, and he in turn had nothing to say to
me. I began to hanker for Boston's wild conspiracy theories, his diatribes against the state
of Africa, anything that might have distracted me from this vicious silence. Sights, sounds
and smells - all of these were extravagant luxuries now, devils that slowed me down: all I
wanted was this inane trek to be over. Even the river seemed a phantom. Pain had become
irrelevant. The blisters, sores and cramps no longer mattered. Every day, I got up, walked
another marathon - and either the pain would go away, or it wouldn't. Whatever the case,
the next morning, I got up and did it all again.
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