Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
bian villages with their unique walled vaults, dome roofs and brightly painted gates: pink,
green and blue formed a stark contrast to the yellow desert around.
Our task was simple but punishing: six kilometres an hour, eight hours a day, missing
out only the sun's most vicious hours. The further north we came, the fewer habitations
we passed. The land grew wilder, the cliffs increasingly jagged - every day, the same as
the last. By the time we came within a hundred miles of Wadi Halfa, Moez began to know
people in the few settlements on whose outskirts we camped. In Wadi Halfa itself, his
brother Mazar waited for us, eagerly working on the papers that would get us over the bor-
der.
'Wait until you see it!' he kept exclaiming. 'Halfa is green and beautiful, and full of
wonderful Nubians . . .'
Three days away from our destination, we left the river's immediate bank and joined the
main highway, ten kilometres inland. In our dash to the border, we gazed on the great Nile
from afar, its glistening waters obscured by a fringe of verdant palms.
On 24 June, we stopped to rest by the roadside. As the camel boys brewed
chai
, a lorry
ground to a halt and a friendly face bawled out: 'What are you doing walking? Has your
car broken down?' We had heard as much all day, everyone eager to stop and ferry us to
the border - and everyone unable to comprehend that walking was what we'd set out to
do. I was finding it hard to believe myself. My feet were swollen so badly that my boots
barely fit, blisters were forming beneath my calloused skin, Moez was limping - and even
Ahmad and Awad had begun to complain about saddle sores.
'There are still fifty kilometres to go,' I said, kneading my feet. 'What do you think?'
'They're going home tomorrow,' Moez replied, shrugging.
We forced ourselves on: ten kilometres, twenty, then thirty and more. By the time even-
ing loomed, a great expanse of blue glimmered on the horizon. 'Lake Nasser,' I whispered
- before quickly correcting myself: 'Lake
Nubia
. . .'
Just two miles distant lay Wadi Halfa. There has been a settlement at Wadi Halfa for
millennia. Once an Egyptian outpost, and an important stop-off for armies heading into
the Sudan, it is now the end of the railway from Khartoum, the gateway to Egypt. Before
we had reached the outskirts of town, a crowd had gathered underneath the sign that wel-
comed visitors. A throng of men in military and police uniforms were waiting and, in the
middle of them, the town governor, mayor and several journalists stood with none other
than Moez's brother, Mazar, and their mother. It had been years since I had last seen Maz-
ar. Between them, they held a hand-painted banner aloft. In block capitals, the banner pro-
claimed: 'WALKING THE NILE'.
Bewildered - and not a little numb from the pain still searing through my feet - we
entered the crowd. In a second, Moez's mother had thrown her arms around him. Mazar
reached out and pumped my hand, before embracing me himself.
