OUT OF AFRICA

Al Aqaba, 21 April 2002

Middle Eastern food and hospitality - although there has been a trace of bitter aftertaste associated with both - are equally welcome, especially after so long on the bland rations we supped through most of Africa.
Lazing by the Red Sea in Al Aqaba, Jordan, we quickly washed the dust of deserts, ships and Port Sudan's hotel from our bodies but it has taken longer to become accustomed to the hospitality of Jordan's people, even after the astoundingly friendly welcome and assistance we received in Saudi Arabia.
Crossing the Red Sea to leave Africa had always been the point where we expected the most problems, either because of political or military strife in the area or due to Tigger's presence. In the event, reaching this crux move (to steal some rock climbing terminology) proved to be one of the easier sections of our trip. While getting out of Africa involved more than a little stress, travelling as we are with Tigger and not being sure how Saudi Arabian officials would react to her presence, most of this was due to us worrying about what might happen but didn't. We had naturally not chosen the easy route and were travelling with our motorcycling friend - a woman. Saudi law prohibits women from driving a motor vehicle and this added significantly to the stress levels. Saudis aren't stupid: two motor vehicles, only one man and no space in the truck to put a motorbike.
It still hasn't quite sunk in that we've travelled all the way up Africa, sailed across the Red Sea and are now in the Middle East - well "out of Africa". In three days we've crossed the Red Sea, driven 1 200 km through Saudi Arabia and fought with Jordanian insurance scum.
Tigger performed with aplomb throughout the trip, behaving herself so well that I think she contributed to the ease with which we breezed through all the problems. In fact, nobody ever questioned her presence or even looked sideways at her.
Benka, our travelling friend who has spent the last five years riding around the world, was a different matter - the Saudi officials did their best to not see her too closely.

Former Glory
Buying tickets for the Red Sea crossing involved an afternoon of verbal grappling with shipping officials - complicated by their poor grasp of English and our complete stupidity regarding Arabic - about the price of tickets and the procedure to be followed. Tigger, only three days after her last set of bandages came off following 2 months of injury, sliced another foot open while swimming near sunset.
We left our seedy hotel early, escaping the remonstrations of the owner for photocopies of our passports because "the Aliens Registration police need them". Initially insisting we register (again) with the police (and naturally pay for the privilege!), he downgraded his demands to photocopies when we told him registration was no longer necessary.
It is about 60 km and several eras from Port Sudan to Suakin, the historic Sudanese port which went into terminal decline when the British established Port Sudan in 1905 and hasn't ceased crumbling since. The ferry is seemingly the only ship still calling regularly at the port. Driving through Suakin is otherworldly: like journeying through a recently devastated town the residents of which residents are just beginning to emerge from the rubble.
Homes and businesses are cheek by jowl with roofless half-walls while fishing boats, the only rake of colour against the washed out sepia tone, are built or moored against a backdrop of the talus that is the town's former glory.

All Abored
The Al Rasheed II sailed at 4 pm, the shipping agency had told us, but we needed to be at the port by 1 pm, "at the very latest" to clear customs and the shipload of port paperwork. Perhaps someone forgot to inform the agents that the ship routinely sails well after the 7 pm sunset.
Clearing customs and immigration was slow but friendly and the only time anyone cared about Tigger was when the customs official stretched his hand out to open a curtain and see what was in the back of the vehicle. His fright was monumental when Tigger nosed aside the curtain and stuck her head out. That was the end of the search and our paperwork was processed forthwith.
We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the laborious unloading of a varied selection of fresh vegetables, bales of apparently very old clothing and other anonymous bundles.
We amused ourselves by pissing off the port officials, taking pictures of a spectacular sunset and then having to destroy the film because Sudanese officials are too stupid to comprehend that a sunset taken from the port does not contravene a law of no pictures of the port.
"It's the law", they say, believing, it would appear, that European spies would wander around taking pictures of their port with a zoom lens and then use these for strategic purposes (Although anyone dumb enough to be spying in this manner would definitely be dumb enough to want to harm Sudan!) This paranoia is fairly well-developed and widespread in Sudan and other countries in this north-eastern corner of Africa.
Developing tourism doesn't appear to be high on the country's agenda - unfortunately for Sudan. The diving on the coral reefs off Port Sudan is reputedly the best in the Red Sea and it would give the town's people a much-needed boost if tourism was encouraged.

Decked Out
By the time we boarded, lashed down Benka's BMW, sorted Tigger out with water and reached the deck there was precious little space left for us. For $70 a person - Sudanese travellers must struggle to pay this steep a fare - accommodation consists of finding somewhere on the deck (floor) to wedge your butt, hopefully out of the wind.
We eventually found a small space - in the wind - and sagged to the deck. A Filipino deckhand - two thirds of Saudi Arabia's population and workforce are apparently foreign workers - offered us his mattress to sleep on. Exhausted by full day of doing little but worry, we were asleep within an hour, despite the windy, cramped conditions and the uncertainty of the strange shores we were approaching.
We lumbered out of slumber with just enough time to do some more worrying and crap our selves.
Docking in Jiddah, we began to realise how lucky we were. One of the ship's officers spoke Benka's home language - his wife was Croatian. Before we had boarded, the crew knew we had a dog and were aware of what Benka was trying to do. The officer had, overnight and without our knowledge, prepared the necessary papers for both vehicles under my name to help circumvent problems in Saudi Arabia.
Immigration stamped us into the country after an hour's delay - we've thought of many reasons for the delay but none of them have the slightest sinister connotation. The customs officials were very aware of the situation, but exceedingly helpful.
After asking and ensuring that Benka has a licence to ride her motorbike, they dealt only with me and pretended they knew nothing about two vehicles and a single male - after all, customs isn't immigration!
By 4 pm the vehicles were cleared, we'd taxied into town to change money and buy food, and we headed for the highway, guided by an immigration official to the right road.
We drove until midnight before pulling off the road into the desert, passing out until 6 am. Continuing north along the Red Sea Coast. we passed through numerous police checkpoints, all of which could have arrested Benka for breaking the law - and, no doubt, ourselves for assisting her. Some, because of the language barrier, waved us through after a brief attempt to question us while others called headquarters in Jiddah before waving us on - someone was covering our butts on that road.
It was only when we reached the border post at Haql that anyone mentioned the illegality of Benka's position astride her bike. She needed to produce a letter from the Slovenian Foreign Ministry to satisfy them there was strong reason for allowing her to pass up a visit to a Saudi jail.

See Red
After the welcome we had received in Saudi Arabia, arriving in Jordan was a bit of a shock - insurance officials tried to rip us off. Quoting us insurance prices for one week and one month - both of which were more than I'd pay for a year's insurance in Seffrica, the official wrote out, in Arabic, insurance for a week but charged us the price for a month.
Fortunately, a customs official asked why we were only staying for a week - the man who'd cheated us - not, it transpired much later, the usual insurance agent - wasn't quite sure what hit him and his "it was a mistake" was followed by a lie. His eyes almost popped out when I told he was not only a thief but a liar as well. I learned later "liar" is a serious insult but fortunately I'd backed up my accusations by asking the now returned regular insurance agent to call the police. Our money was refunded, we bought the minimum insurance and later bought more at another agent.
By the time we'd cleared the border post and found the campsite, it was midnight and we flopped into bed.

The Rest of Al Aqaba
We've been in Al Aqaba, only 10 km from the border, for 3 days now and are slowly realising that the insurance incident was largely an aberration. Although we've been overcharged at a restaurant (business is, after all, still business!), the hospitality has been unbelievable.
We are beginning to feel guilty at how much we have been freely offered by the campsite management - regular tea (sweet, black and tinged with cinnamon), constant offers to join them for meals and an open invitation to talk any time. Doubling the sense of welcome is that they are as eager to find out about our world and thoughts as we are to share in the theirs.
While prices in Jordan are higher than we're used to - the country is known to be expensive - they are equally dear for locals and travellers alike.