The Trials of Jerry (Day 35 - Beni Suef, Egypt)
Jerry continues on foot after killing his mule in the desert near the Saqqara pyramids, Egypt.
Jerry's crash on Saturday is the culmination of a series of events that could be described as "the trials of Jerry". It's been a tough week for him.
Lost Gloves
It all started in Jordan when he lost his gloves near the Dead Sea. We had stopped for drinks after swimming in the Dead Sea. Jerry thought that there was something wrong with his gearbox - a rattle between 3000 and 4000 rpms when he shifted into a higher gear. He asked Tom to take his bike for a ride to see what he thought. The good news is that Tom was pretty sure it was just the dashboard rattling.
The bad news was that Jerry left his gloves on the back of his bike before Tom took off. By the time Jerry realized they were gone and we retraced Tom's route, about 30 minutes later, they were nowhere to be found. They must have fallen off at some point, and provided a lucky find for whoever picked them up. We didn't think our chances of getting them back were particularly good in this town. Earlier, while we were taking our drink break, a kid stole my pocket knife (which I had used to pop the caps off our pop bottles) right from under my nose while pretending to want to talk to us. It was only when I hinted that a reward might be in order if I found my knife did it come out of the kid's pocket. No reward was paid.
The next trials were in Wadi Rum. We hit our first bit of deep sand (which had drifted aross the hardtop from the desert). Jerry, who had become a skilled sand rider in the Mojave desert during our training in California, quickly learned that a fully loaded KLR650 was a much different beast than the light and nimble Honda CRF230 he had been riding during the training. His heavy KLR was sliding around wildly and went over several times in a small stretch. It reminded me of my first taste of sand in Bolivia. Thoughts of riding into the desert and camping under the stars quickly faded. We had also been told that motorcycles weren't allowed into the desert in the nature preserve.
We started our search for a more accessible campsite beyond the boundaries of the protected area. We hadn't gone far before Jerry lost two bags off the back his bike when the tie down straps came loose. One was a MEC waterproof bag and the other contained his swimming trunks and sandals. We didn't realize they were missing until a guy driving a truck pulled up behind us when were stopped on the side of the road (considering our camping options) and gave us the MEC bag. It looked like it had been run over and dragged down the road. It certainly was no longer waterproof. Finding a waterproof bag in Jordan or Egypt would prove impossible. We never did find his sandals or swimming trunks. The sandals were a tough loss for Jerry because they had sentimental value - they were the very same sandals he had been wearing in India when he fell and broke his ankle.
The time that Jerry spent riding back and forth looking for his sandals gave Tom and I a chance to practice our wheelies against the otherwordly backdrop of Wadi Rum, a landscape that TE Lawrence described as "vast and echoeing". I could not describe it any better.
A Reprieve
It was getting dark by the time we finished our wheelie fun, and Tom brilliantly suggested we push on to Aqaba, which was only 40 km further, instead of camping in the desert. There would be plenty of opportunities to camp in the desert later on, and this way we could eat a decent meal and swim in the Gulf of Aqaba. In other words, head back to the comfort zone. Plus we wouldn't have far to go to catch the ferry from Aqaba, Jordan to Nuweiba, Egypt the next morning.
We camped on the coast south of Aqaba that night, and Jerry would have a reprieve in his trials. We had a great dinner overlooking the Gulf of Aqaba and we invited a fellow Canadian (Ryan), traveling alone, to join us for dinner. He was on leave from his contract with the Canadian military in Afghanistan, where he works as a heavy-duty mechanic. He was in Aqaba taking diving classes. If we had more time, I would have loved to have done the same. You could get your open water certification for about $270, and the diving was supposed to be fantastic. There was even a shipwreck just offshore beyond the coral reef, as well as an armoured tank.
We took advantage of the coral reef the next morning when we went snorkeling. The hour or so we spent in the water was the best snorkeling I have ever experienced. Every few metres I would see a new species of fish. Best of all there was no one else out there. It was much better than the world famous, but extremely crowded, Hanauma Bay in Hawaii. And there were no breakers slamming you chest first into the sea urchins and sharp coral as was the case in Hanauma.
When we reluctantly headed for shore so we could get back in time to catch the Ferry to Nuweiba, Egypt, we swam amongst a group of local women lounging in the shallows. We had read that it was customary for people to wear swimming costumes in the Middle East, both men and women, but we didn't realize that it meant that the men covered their chests and the women completely covered themselves, including their hair, while in the water. In fear of a sunburn, I had gone into the water wearing a T-shirt. However, Tom was wearing nothing but tight fitting underwear that would have been considered risque even on a beach in California. Most averted their eyes as we swam past, but there were a few furtive looks and some giggles. My guess is that Tom must have looked as out of place to them as a streaker would to us on a busy street in London or Toronto. Still, the ones who dared look seemed to quite enjoy the spectacle, judging by the smiles and blushes.
A Trial for All of Us
Our relaxing morning snorkeling session would be a sharp contrast to the frustration and chaos of the rest of the day. The whole experiene of catching the ferry from Aqaba to Nuweiba was a complete gong show. I stayed with the bikes in the hot dusty terminal, while Tom and Jerry dealt with the bureaucracy. It did not appear to be a streamlined system. I kept seeing Tom walking back and forth from the Jordanian customs office and the Ticket area on the second floor. The process took hours. I'm not sure what was involved, and I don't really want to know. All I know is that my wallet was $130 lighter by the time it was all over.
The process of boarding the Ferry was surreal to me. The Ferry was supposed to leave at 1 PM. By 5 o'clock there was still no sign that anyone would get on board, despite the fact that the Ferry had been at the terminal for hours. The terminal was jammed with masses of pedestrians and cars, which were loaded with what looked like the whole of people's personal possessions strapped to the roofs. I found out that some people had been waiting for days. It was as if people were trying to flee a war zone. Later, we would find out that the ferry hadn't even sailed the previous day.
At around 5 PM, the crowd got restless and formed into a mass of humanity pressing against the chain link fence seperating the terminal from the pier where the ferry was docked. Every time the police had to open the gate for an official vehicle, they had to push people back as they tried to pile through. Every so often a few made it and made a run for it. The police wouldn't chase them, but they shouted after them. Over time the crowd milling around outside the gate got smaller and smaller as people slipped through. Was that how you got on? Was there not enough room for everyone waiting outside the gate? I didn't like the thought of waiting another day to get aboard.
We thought that we maybe we could try to slip through with one of the official vehicles on our motorcycles. We had moved them out of the "queue" (more of a traffic jam) and up to the duty free shop which was beyond the mass of cars right next to the gate to freedom. The next time they opened the gate, we got on our bikes and tried to follow a truck through. The police officers angrily blocked our path and motioned for us to go back to the traffic jam. We turned around and parked our bikes right at the front of all the cars. Just then a guy with a walkie talkie motioned for us to go ahead. We went right for the gate, and everyone started their engines and followed us. The police put their hands up in exasperation when we got to the gate. They didn't open it. Maybe the guy with the walkie talkie didn't even work there. But then he reappeared, was let through the gate, and conversed with the police. They then opened the gate and let us (and only us) through. We rode along the pier and ramp to the Ferry alone. We had been given the honour of boarding first before the masses. We parked our bikes on deck and went up to the passenger deck in solitude. Before anyone else was even on the ferry, they were taking our food order in the restaurant. They raised the ramp again after we were on probably to prevent the cars from boarding the Ferry in a frantic mass when they were finally let through.
After we finished eating, and the area started to get crowded, the captain came down and invited us upstairs to the blessedly cool air conditioned first class cabin. We lounged in reclining chairs for the remainder of the trip. And what a trip it was. We didn't end up leaving until after 6 PM. The ferry ride, which was supposed to take an hour, stretched into a 5 hour trip and we didn't arrive in Nuweiba until 11 PM, at which point we had to sit on the ferry for a half an hour before they let anyone off. By the time we cleared Egyptian customs and immigration in Nuweiba, it was after 2 AM. I had every bag searched before we could even start the process. Again I watched the bikes while Tom and Jerry went to work with the help of a friendly customs officer. Hours elapsed, and I paid out another $250 from my dwindling supply of Amerian currency. But at least I had an Egyptian license plate with Arabic numbers to show for it (plus reams of paperwork) by the time it was all over.
We eventually found a pleasant resort on the beach. We were served a tasty and long-awaited meal at 3:00 AM and slept in a Cabana for a total of about $12 for the night. The next day we went for a swim had a breakfast in a gazeebo overlooking the beach before setting out for Cairo across the Sinai peninsula. The Sinai was stunning. Stark colourful rocky slopes met with the aquamarine blue of the Gulf of Aqaba. It was one of my favourite rides of the trip so far.
Scenic highway along the coast of the Gulf of Aqaba, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt. You can see Saudi Arabia across the water, which is only about 15 kilometres away.
40,000 km Milestone
It was during the stark and beautiful ride across the Sinai that Rosa's odometre rolled over the 40,000 kilometre mark. Rosa has certainly been tough and reliable. I find it hard to believe that in less than two years I have travelled around the world once (it is 10,000 km from the pole to the equator). I hit 10,000 kms in Mexico; 20,000 kms in Peru; 30,000 kms back in Canada; and now 40,000 kms in Egypt's Sinai. The area surrounding the stretch of road where I reached 40,000 was a fitting backdrop for such a satisfying occasion. The empty road stretched off into the desert in both directions, with nothing but open desert and colourful mountain ranges in the background. It is also fitting that I wasn't on the road that I had intended, having missed the turn off to Cairo about 4 kilometres earlier. Some of the most memorable moments from my travels have come when Serendipity intervened. Taking in my surroundings where I had stopped for my milestone moment, I felt incredibly lucky to have had the opportunity to travel around the world by motorbike.
I hit the 40,000 kilometre milestone in the Sinai desert
Lost Wallet
Jerry's trials would continue when we got to Cairo. He forgot that he had his wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket when he sent it for laundry service. When the laundry came back his wallet was of course gone. He lost about $60, but more importantly, his bank card. Without a bank card, getting money in foreign countries becomes a huge hassle. I am not even sure how to do it without someone wiring money to Western Union from Canada. There have not been many (any?) Western Unions outside of the big cities since leaving Europe. He may have had an alternative had he known his password for his VISA, which would have allowed cash advances. But that is not something they were willing to give him over the phone.
I have always thought it prudent to travel with two bank cards, even if it means having an account at two separate banks. Of course I have a record of losing things, so I have developed compensatory strategies. Nonetheless, before we left I suggested that Jerry get two bank cards as well. He thought it was a nutty idea. "I'm not going to lose my bank card" was his exact quote. The hassle of getting a replacement card sent by courrier to Khartoum may give him reason to reconsider his one bank card policy for future adventures.
Burnt Clutch
After spending a day doing motorcycle maintenance/acquiring a Sudan visa for Tom/dealing with Jerry's lost wallet in Cairo, we were ready to continue our journey south towards Aswan. We coudn't ride by the great pyramids at Giza without stopping for at least one photo-op though. Before we had even taken out our cameras, we were greeted by Emad, who, because of one coincidence after another, would be our "guide" for the next two days. Emad spoke excellent English, which he had learned (along with French, German, Russian, and some Japanese) from working as a tour guide at the Great Pyramids from the age of 11 (He was 28 years old). By the time we left his care on the morning of Jerry's crash (we were guests in his house for two nights), each of us had shelled out 1250 Egyptian pounds like the suckers that we were. We each paid 180 pounds for a 20 pound camel ride across the Giza plateau, 250 pounds for a tour of the Saqqara pyramids, 400 pounds for a nighttime camel/horse ride to the pyramids, plus we freely gave him a 1000 pound "tip" and the end of our stay for all his "help" (which we relied on perhaps too much). It's only in hindsight that we see all the times over the course of the two days where we had overpaid.
After touring the Giza pyramids on camels, Emad overheard us talk about wanting to ride our motorcycles amongst the pyramids, and suggested that he guide us on a tour of the Saqqara pyramids, which were about 25 kms away. He said the main entrance would be closed by the time we got there, but that he knew of a way in from the desert, and we wouldn't have to pay the fee to enter. We were intrigued by the possibility of riding our motorcycles across the desert to the Saqqara pyramids, so in the end we agreed. Emad seemed to take a liking to Tom right from the start, having already chosen him as his riding partner on the camel ride. It was no surprise to me when he jumped on the back of Tom's bike to guide us to Saqqara. I could see the look of disgust on Tom's face right through his helmet.
Emad also wanted one of his child helpers, Salouma, to accompany us by riding on the back of Jerry's bike. I didn't think it was a good idea because I didn't want the kid getting hurt when we inevitably dropped the bikes in the desert sand. But Emad insisted that him and the kid would both get off and walk when the bikes were going through deep sand. They did not keep their end of the bargain, and both Emad and young Salouma would soon learn what it's like to be a passenger on a falling motorcycle.
Emad led us through a series of alleyways until we emerged into the desert. Actually it was a big garbage dump. The knobblies were working wonders in the sand though. It was so much easier than our first sand experiene in Wadi Rum, when we still had our street-oriented tires (Pirellis for Jeremy and I, Continentals for Tom). I followed Tom (carrying Emad) in a serpentine route around piles of rubbish, which looked like mini pyramids themselves. I guess we got our wish of riding our bikes through the desert amongst the pyramids.
Jerry was trailing, and by the time we emerged from the piles of refuse onto a roadway, with garbage trucks crawling back and forth, I had lost sight of him. I had also lost sight of Tom and Emad, who had disappeared around a corner on the truck road ahead of me. I stopped and waited for Jerry. He finally emerged onto the roadway. Looking over my shoulder to wait for him to catch up, I saw the back end of his bike slide out. Both Jerry and young Salouma went sprawling in the sand as the bike toppled over in a cloud of dust. The kid helped Jerry pick it up, and the journey continued.
I rounded a corner and saw Tom's bike on the top of Sandy hill that rose steeply from the left side of the road. How did he get up there? To me, it looked like I would need at least a 15 metre run straight at the hill to make it up without getting bogged down. This was not possible because of how narrow the garbage truck road was. But I figured that if Tom got his bike up there, then I guess I would give it a shot. I would later learn that Emad had had to push him the last bit when he got stuck. I would soon learn that Tom's spinning rear tire had made a nice soft pit in the sand near the top of the hill, where the path narrowed in a chute.
I made it about three quarters of the way up before I lost traction in the deep sand on the steep slope. It was here, in the middle of a garbage dump in the Egyptian desert, that I had my first real drop of the trip. (A "real" drop is one where you are actually riding the bike when it goes over, and not one where the bike falls over because the kick-stand sinks into the ground, as happened on the mud flats of the Dead Sea.) I picked up the bike, and with Emad pushing from behind, I walked it up while working the throttle. It was incredibly hot and I was drenched with sweat and feeling a little light headed by the time I made it to the top with the bike. I was catching my breath when I saw Tom ride up another much larger hill just ahead of me. Now the damned Kid was just showing off.
I thought I'd show the Kid that an old man like me can get his bike up there just as quickly if not faster. I got back on my bike and made a run for it. Unfortunately, the approach I choose to take towards the base of the hill had an extra dip full of deep sand that I hit before gaining any momentum at all. There would be no teaching the Kid a lesson this time. My rear tire started digging a hole in the sand before I even got to the bottom of the hill that Tom had flown up effortlessly moments before. Salouma appeared and tried to push me, but to no avail. I got off the bike and pushed it over onto its side to get the rear wheel out of the hole. We kicked sand in the pit, righted the bike, and I tried again - working the throttle as we pushed. I finally cleared the pit and charged up the hill. But not before Tom, waiting at the top of the hill, snapped a series of pictures of me struggling with my bike in the midst of the garbage piles.
With our bikes at the top of the hill, we went back to help Jerry. His bike was stuck in the first sandy chute leading up from the garbage truck road. We rolled his bike back down, and Tom got on it to find an alternate route. When all three bikes were on top of the ridge, we were ready to go once again. It was about then that I started wondering if this was such a good idea after all. We didn't have any water beyond what was in our (rapidly depleting) camelbaks. It was probably 40 degrees Celsius. The sun was beating down on us relentlessly. Our bikes were close to overheating. My clutch cable was starting to stretch. There was yet another hill that we had to climb. Luckily there was a straight approach (abeit a sandy one), but I gunned it and got to the top no problem, as did Tom in front of me, carrying Emad as a passenger no less.
At the top of the hill there was a dip full of deep loose sand. Tom's bike went in, but it didn't come out. He lost control in the soft stuff and both he and Emad went down with the bike. Finally we emerged onto a long flat section. I could see the pyramids of Saqqara in the distance on a plateau across the desert. With no passenger to slow me down, I decided to give the new tires a good test, and opening up the throttle, I raced past Tom. The bike felt stable in third gear going about 60 km/h. What a feeling it was to float across the desert sand with pyramids thousands of years old in my sight. Maybe this side trip was worthwhile after all.
However, it turned out that we wouldn't get to ride the bikes right up to the pyramids here either. Emad stopped Tom and I at a small hut, where the "guardian" of the unofficial access to the pyramids resided. Emad told us to relax in the shade of his tarp while the Guardian heated water over a wood fire to make us tea. He also offered us "Egyptian water" right from the Nile. We declined, saying that we had "bad stomachs". At least the tea would be made with boiling water. I was feeling a bit light headed from the struggles in the heat, and was enjoying the rest on the carpet in the shade. You might be wondering, as Tom and I were, where's Jerry? Tom, the hero, decided to go and check on him. I thought I might faint if I had to push any more bikes out of the sand in the immediate future. I laid back and closed my eyes.
After what seemed like a long interval of time, I came to and realized that Tom and Jerry were still gone. I tried contacting Jerry on the Garmin radio with no success. I was about to go check on them myself when I saw them (along with poor Salouma) walking towards the hut. Oh-oh. Surely Jerry's bike couldn't have gotten so badly stuck on the flat section that they couldn't push it out? The problem would turn out to be much worse than a stuck bike.
"It won't engage" Jerry said when he got to the hut. "The throttle works, and you can change gears, but the drive shaft won't turn". I knew immediately that he had burnt out his clutch. This is exactly what happened to Uwe, our teacher for our California desert training, when he got stuck in the coastal mud flats of Mauritania on his own pan-African adventure. Basically, if you are using the clutch and gunning the throttle at the same time that the rear tire gets stuck and quits spinning, the clutch is charcoal. Still, I hoped that maybe it was something less serious, and perhaps if we got the bike onto solid ground we could bump it into gear.
We decided to check out the pyramids since we were right there. After a quick tour, provided by the Guardian, we returned to the bikes. Luckily there was another way back to a paved road that was much shorter than the way we had come in. We had to cross a sandy, hilly, field and then go through a private farm to get to the road. The Guardian, Emad, Salouma, and Jerry had the unenviable task of pushing a fully loaded KLR through sand and through gullies and small hills in the stiffling heat, while Tom and I rode our bikes out.
With a burnt clutch, Jerry's bike needed a lift
When we got to the road, Emad stopped a pick-up truck. We hoisted Jerry's bike into the back of the truck and headed for a mechanic that Emad suggested in nearby Giza. We wanted to go to our mechanic friends back in Cairo because they had been so knowledgeable and honest. We felt we could trust them because they had worked on our bikes for most of a day replacing all our tires, cleaning our air filters, changing Tom's oil, and fixing the electrical circuitry of my dashboard. For all of this, plus 2 spare sets of rear brake pads, not to mention the food and drinks they had served us, they quoted us 1500 pounds (about $300). They had even offered us "hashish" while we waited. When Tom handed the money over, they took out 600 pounds and handed it back to him. So the whole deal only cost us about $60 per bike. It was one of the few times in Egypt that we hadn't been treated as "marks" to be shaken down. Perhaps the sense of kinship among motorcycle riders trumped. However, Emad had taken us under his wing, and Giza was closer than downtown Cairo, so we went to his chosen mechanic instead.
We returned after he had opened up Jerry's bike. Emad didn't have the vocabulary to translate exactly what was wrong. I dug out the Clymer manual, found a picture of the clutch friction plates, and showed it to the mechanic (who didn't speak a word of English). He nodded. Yup, Jerry had "made a fire" (Emad's translation) in the clutch case. Emad took on the role of bargaining for us (or so we thought). He informed us that the mechanic could do the job easily, but needed time to find the parts. It would cost 700 Egyptian pounds.
Two days would go by while the mechanic's apprentice scoured Cairo for the friction plates without success. There are no Kawasaki dealerships in Africa or the Middle East. The KLR650 is not even sold in Europe. How would they find the right clutch plates? We kept getting told a few more hours. During this time we stayed in Emad's house. We were fed meals (including camel meat) and slept in the flat he was in the process of building above his own for his 3 and a half year old son. His hospitality went beyond feeding us and letting us sleep in his place (or so we thought). He took us on a nighttime camel and horseback ride to watch a light show illuminate the pyramids. The Giza plateau looks way better at night I have to say. It was exhilirating to gallop across the desert at night on a horse with the pyramids lit up supernaturally in the distance. Too bad the experience was soured by the fact that it wasn't hospitality as we had assumed.
Emad took us on for a nighttime tour of the Giza plateau to watch the Pyramid light show
When we got back to Emad's place, after eating camel meat prepared over the fire, he sprung the cost of our little nighttime adventure on us. He said that we were guests in his house, and that we were friends not business. Therefore he wouldn't start high like he would with other tourists. He said he knew we were students. So the price for the camel ride would be 400 pounds, which was a friend rate, with no need to negotiate because it was already low. Was this okay? I was taken aback. I thought the night ride was all part of his hospitality. Yes we knew that he was going for a nice tip at the end, as he had said "I make you happy then you make me happy" a few times. What could we do though? Tom and I had our motorcycles parked in the entranceway of his house. Our things were spread throughout his place. We had just eaten food that he had prepared. We were at his mercy. It was such an alien concept for all of us that a price had been placed on hospitality that we all eventually nodded, shell-shocked. Where is Joel MacMull when you need him? "Good, 400 pounds each then for the camel ride," he said. In hindsight, we realized that he must have slipped the "each" in when we didn't make a big fuss about the first 400 pounds. The price had just trippled. We had been attacked with our stomachs full and our defenses down. He was truly a master at work.
We even came to our senses when we were finally on our own the next morning. Emad had arranged for a car to drive us into Cairo to go the Egyptian museum while we waited a second day for the mechanic to find the required parts. Over breakfast in downtown Cairo, we made a pact to get out of Emad's place and back to the sanctuary of Hotel Luna as soon as possible. We agreed that we would not spend another night at his place because we were hemorrhaging money when in his company.
Despite this precommitment strategy, we would fall prey yet again. We had what we thought was a good straight-up conversation with Emad about how the tour business worked at the Pyramids. He explained that he works for a boss, who owns the camels and horses. He only gets 5% of the price the tourists pay as a commission and the rest goes to his boss. Anything extra that the tourists give Emad as a tip at the end of the tour he can keep. The boss has to pay the police and military to be allowed to operate freely in the restricted access Giza plateau. Understandably, the bosses would also like to keep their club small and exclusive, so payments are also made to various government officials to ensure that no new tour licenses are issued. There are currently about 13 "bosses" and 40 tour guides like Emad on the site, divided up by pyramid. For example Cheops, where we had been met by Emad, had one boss and 6 guides, including Emad.
We learned that Salouma, the kid who had come with us to the pyramids at Saqqara, had not just been along for the ride. He was actually the boss' son, accompanying us to make sure that his father (the boss) would get paid his due if we did any deals with Emad. It began to look like maybe we were the beneficiaries of Emad's hospitality after all, and that it was actually his boss that had pressured him into collecting the 400 pounds from us. Indeed, he said that we had to pay the boss' man directly the next day when he came by. The boss' man would end up staying in our presence for most of the time we were with Emad. So we stayed another night chez Emad.
The next day, the whole charade of "the mechanic needs two more hours to find the parts" continued. Emad even took us to a second motorcycle shop so that they could begin their own search. Apparently the first mechanic had been all over Cairo without success. Time stretched on.
We decided to take matters into our own hands. We asked to be taken to an internet cafe, where we intended to look up the dealerships in the US or Canada who could send us the parts. Unfortunately, it was July 4th, and everything in the US was closed. Luckily, Canadian-based A Vicious Cycle, who have already sent spare throttle cables to the UK for us, had the KLR clutch kit in stock. Eric, from A Vicious Cycle, was extremely helpful and quickly arranged to have the parts shipped ASAP to Hotel Luna in Cairo. The estimated shipping time was 4 or 5 days.
Late in the afternoon we got a call on Emad's phone saying that the parts had been found. When we drove to the mechanic's shop our hopes were dashed when we saw that the clutch plate looked used. Plus we still needed 7 more. And it didn't quite fit.
Emad convinced us to allow "two more hours" yet again for the two teams scouring Cairo to come up with the parts before giving up. In the meantime he would take us out for supper. Over dinner, he was constantly on his cell phone speaking Arabic. He told us that the second mechanic had found the parts, but that now he wanted 2400 pounds. He explained that the parts were rare -"like finding an oasis in the desert". We explained that it would be cheaper for us to have the parts shipped all the way from Canada. Emad made more calls. He said the lowest price he could get was 1700 pounds, but that we had to wait "two more hours" before going to check on the bike and parts.
We decided during dinner to retrieve Jerry's bike from the mechanic's shop, put it on a truck, and return to Hotel Luna to await the replacement clutch kit. We didn't trust the used parts, and the whole thing was starting to make us feel like we were getting screwed yet again. We would be much better to have the trustworthy mechanics, who had already worked on our bikes, do the work. On our way back to the mechanic's shop where Jerry's bike was lying disembowelled (it was now after midnight, but shops usually stay open very late in Egypt), we discussed how unless they had new parts and could do the job for 1000 pounds, we would wait for the parts to arrive from Canada. Emad, having overheard our conversation, immediately went to "bargain" with the mechanic. Miraculously, 8 brand new shining clutch plates, made in Japan, and fitting perfectly, suddenly materialized. The mechanic also conincidentally "agreed" to do everything for 1000 pounds as well. How long had the clutch plates been withheld from us to see how much we would be willing to pay? Our suspicions were raised again when Emad paid the mechanic privately, and we had to pay Emad the 1000 pounds he claimed to have paid the mechanic when we got back to his place. How much had the mechanic actually been paid? How big of a commission did Emad take?
We agreed to the job, and once again we were told to "wait two more hours" for the mechanic to finish the job (plus make a new head gasket which had been torn at some point). With the clutch plates in hand, we actually believed that maybe it would actually be all over in two hours this time. Emad suggested that join him at a wedding while we waited. It was the oddest wedding I have ever seen. First, there were no women. They had their own party somewhere else. Apparently they come join the men at some stage during the evening. There was a band on stage. A baby, being held in the saddle of a horse, was paraded through the crowd. Both baby and horse looked like they were experiencing sensory overload. A "belly dancer" appeared. She was the only woman there. She just sat on the stage and smoked cigarettes. Finally it was time to go and collect Jerry's bike.
By the time we got back to Emad's place, it was after 2 AM on Friday night. For some reason we gave Emad a 1000 pound tip for all of his help and hospitality for the past couple of days. I guess we believed that he had been wheeling and dealing on our behalf, acting as a translator, feeding us, and getting us driven around. He had even phoned Mr. Saleh (the Aswan ferry operator) on our behalf. Now I wonder if we had been way too generous. The locals pay 2 pounds (40 cents) for a taxi ride across Beni Suef. We gave him 500 taxi fares.
Despite our late night, we thought that we could still make it to Aswan by Sunday morning in time to catch the next ferry to Wadi Halfa. We came up with the brilliant plan of getting up at 5 AM and riding nearly 1000 kilometres in one day after barely any sleep. The ride started on a good note as we watched the sun rise over the Great Pyramids in the earlymorning coolness. However, soon Tom (smartly) stopped us because he was nodding off on his bike. We left the highway to find Tom a place to have a power nap and for Jerry and I to get some Arabian coffee to get us going. However, we would not make it back to the highway that day, and we wouldn't end up going through with our 1000 kilometre sleep deprived ride through the Egyptian heat. Jerry's crash shortly afterwards would intervene. Maybe it was for the best.
PS - I have uploaded some more pictures of Egypt and the rest of the Middle East.
Here I am! Dude, that's some funny stuff. I can just imagine your temperament throughout all of this. No doubt you were taken advantage of, but as you know, Egyptians live in dire poverty. I'm not condoning the practice, I'm just saying understanding may make you a little less angry. Aw, who am I kiddin', you're angry. Say hi to "English" for me as he doesn't seem to want to return my email. Continue to play safe, and I look forward to seeing you in Sept.
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