There is one bit of waiting and patience I was always decent at, it is killing time at airports. To save 10 euros Id committed to a 11 hour stopover in Istanbul. Before long I had landed in Tel Aviv and was queued in the insane arrivals area. I don’t know whether the designers didn’t fathom the volume of arrivals but the arrivals hall isn’t the largest the world has ever seen. Entry to which is by three narrow openings from a long downwards ramp. Queued in this ramp you cant see much of what’s going on inside the hall. All signage is in Hebrew. Suddenly an exceptionally disgruntled airport worker appears from the right hand side, in front of the hallway to the right hand of the three openings. “Foreign passport holders this way” he shouted, clearly frustrated that none of us realised we were supposed to go that way. Yet how were we to know? Those of us who thought we were included extricated ourselves from the mob growing on the ramp and ducked down the hallway. The foreign passport queues were a little shorter but I laughed as I passed the frustrated worker. What a welcome to Israel.


Street art for days


Umm that sounds exciting.


Silence during the day is replaced by bedlam at night. Jerusalems night market is a must.


More street art...

For whatever reason, perhaps that this was my second visit, I was allowed into one of the most secure countries on earth without a single question. Having collected my bags, I deposited myself at a table and continued with my attempts to gain internet access. Suddenly I was online, the phone sprung into life, ablaze with messages. One immediately caught my eye and my stomach sank. A message from the shipping agents in turkey simply saying "Sorry Jordan – ship sails next week, have fun in Israel". I put my head in my hands and sobbed. If only I’d have known I could then have stayed in one of the worlds cheapest countries for another week. But now I was in one of the most expensive with barely any of my stuff and my bike in the hands of people in another country.

For a week I became a backpacker and I met people that made me smile and reminded me that there were worse things than being relegated to the usual manners of travel. I wandered the markets of Jerusalem, amused myself at the concept of a Museum of Taxes and ate myself silly.


Chilling out in Aqaba before the craziness of heading to Egypt.
Yet after my week had expired I was itching to get back on the bike. I headed up to Haifa, the port city where my bike was set to*arrive at some point in the first half of the week. Aware, that this would take some time I guarded myself. The first shock came in the form of yet more unexpected costs in Israel. Had I known from the beginning I would have proceeded with the shipping route from Greece. I resolved to get the bike and get out. I enjoy Israel in small dosages, but the bureaucracy had me scared. Get to Egypt I resolved, where costs would be lower, and I could begin the journey in earnest.

Down the dead sea I rode, making good time.*Through the west bank and some of Israel’s best roads into a part of the country that I’d been before.**I headed straight across into Jordan using the free Independent traveller’s manifest system that they’ve developed for the Aqaba region. I spent just half an hour bouncing between the different numbered offices and could have won a lottery if one existed as I went in the correct order the whole way. I headed directly into town, waylaid only for a bizarre photo shoot with some Jordanian soldiers and heading straight to the ferry company to book passage to Egypt. 24 hours later I was at the port having camped on the beach within eyesight and began the next arduous effort of exiting a country and preparing for the trails of entering Egypt.

The ferry journey went smoothly. I was directed through a huge Xray machine, told to park up and head upstairs. We landed at about midnight. 5 foreigners, myself and my bike fully prepared for the numerous issues that would undoubtedly arise. First, we dealt with the matter of my visa. The bike would come after the others were let loose.


Haifa was a port city that has been in the hands of several countries over the years. The shirne and gardens above the German colony are very impressive. Albeit inaccessible during the rain as theyre worried you'll 'slip'.

Graffiti snapped near the Jordanian border.

I stood in this spot a little over 6 months before, but I rather it with the bike.

Egypt was one of the main reasons for which I had acquired a Carnet de Passage en Douane or a triptik as its known in this part of the world. It is effectively a temporary import permit recognised by several dozen countries including Egypt and Australia which seem to detest outside vehicles being brought into the country. Things as I would learn in Egypt move slowly. However, when I was told at 3am that my incredible expensive document wasn’t valid in Egypt I spat the proverbial dummy.

A fellow biker had had similar troubles, and the carnet man recognised his name but following the steps that he had used to resolve the situation proved futile for me. The AAA in Australia were of limited assistance. My only option then was to get a bus for a ‘short’ 12-hour ride into Cairo to get a stamp and return in the hope of getting my bike. Resigned to the expense and the drama I set off. Dozens of checkpoints later we crossed the Suez canal and merged into the perpetual traffic jam present in Cairo. We arrived at the city’s outskirts around 5:30 but it wasn’t until 8 that the bus pulled over and inquired where another passenger and I wanted to get off that we discovered we were at the end of the route. Not willing to deal with a taxi we set of for the closest metro and within the hour were comfortably lodged while I waited for morning to enable me to get my documents stamped.



I was up at the crack of dawn and wandering downtown to the Egyptian Auto Club. The process did not take particularly long, nor was it particularly expensive but these things add up and the prospect of another 12 hour return journey had me antsy. Stamped and certified I aimed for the bus station only to discover that there were no buses to Nuweiba until the following day. I enquired about several other towns in a vague vicinity to discover one to Dahab at 1:30 pm. Just an hour away. How perfect. Messaging my fixer in Nuweiba I planned to arrive and have the bike out in the wee hours of the following morning. No problems I was told – I will wait for you. Having bussed nearly 14 hours we arrived after 3am in a town I would come to love. Following the ordeal, I just wanted to get to Nuweiba and the taxi drivers knew they had me. Getting stiffed for the hour-long cab ride was the last thing I desired to do but I wanted my bike and all my belonging out of the damn port.



Needless to say, this expense went down like a proverbial brick when I arrived only to be directed to a hotel and told to wait until the morning. Accepting my fate, I woke early and sat outside the port until Mahmoud found me and we began the ‘quick’ process of finish up my paperwork. At midday, after more than my fair share of tips and chai we rolled out of the port in what would be the first of many convoys. I attempted to communicate that I would be fine but quickly gave up and resigned myself – again – to the way this part of the world works.

To say I was elated would be an understatement. I made it to the St Catherine turn off and was set free. Set free to run alone to Dahab and make mischief and be joyous. I am not lying when I say I let loose tears of joy in my helmet as I gunned the bike south. After about 30 minutes I jumped off in the hope of snapping a cheeky arrival photo only to have an unmarked car, full of some combin pull up behind me and usher me onwards.

Chastened I continued to Dahab.* Attempting to navigate the cities one-way street system I got lost in my latest middle eastern town. I was rapidly acclimatising to the Egyptian way of life. I pull up to ask for directions and the first comments I hear are that I cannot stop where I have. Asking for directions however confuses them enough that they instead opt to simply force me to get a move on. Arriving at the hostel, depositing my bike I set out on foot to explore this little city which by many accounts was to be one of the highlights of Egypt. Liberal to a level that would not be seen again in northern Africa, Dahab is a glorious little beach town offering some of the world’s best and cheapest diving and a relaxed and sedate way of life. After the drama of my last few days this sounded perfect in a way I cannot describe.

Uncomfortable with the idea of diving after issues I’ve had in the past with my ears I instead opted for a snorkel and fins set hired for 50 cents for the next few days. I took to the water with an enthusiasm I can hardly describe. The first time this trip that the weather was warm enough to offer an opportunity to swim. The Red Sea was something ive been aware of for a long time as a premier diving location due to some family friends who were avid divers themselves. Diving would have offered a unique experience I’m sure however the fun I had snorkelling was just what I wanted.


That cheeky photo before I got tackled by the police and told to move on.

The infamous blue-hole. Bane to many divers, I chose snorkeling instead.

The bizarre entrance to the Ras Mohammed Park.


Trails left by the planes as they passed over Mt Sinai

The small church atop the mountain after the sun rose up.

One of the most spectacular sunrises of my life. Below 0, windy as all hell but spectacular.

Other highlights of Dahab would include the park up at Ras Abu Galum, the coloured canyon further north near Nuweiba and the easy access afforded to head to St Catherine. For me however, my desire to proceed on the bike was repeatedly thwarted by the police and army checkpoints scattered around the Sinai.

A few days passed in this perfect setting. I ran into Josh, another young Aussie who Id met in Istanbul over New Years and then committed to continue towards Cairo in the coming days. Down the coast road I went, aspiring to take a dirt road across to the coast and check out a wrecked ship and mangrove forest before reaching Sharm el Sheik the most popular and touristy of the Red Sea Sinai haunts. For me however it was the definition of the sort of thing I did not want to ever have to experience. Regardless I was yet again I was stopped in my track. This road was open if I was heading north, however for some reason going south was forbidden. I fought the urge to simply skirt around the vicinity of the checkpoint along the myriad of tracks that carved their way across the desert and instead was a good boy and headed back to the main road.

Ras Mohammed is the first and only national park in Egypt. Established to protect this unique coastal landscape I opted for camping as was shocked when I was told that it was 200 pounds to camp in this national park. To this date it is my most expensive ‘accommodation’ in Egypt. The campsites offered up were 3 designated areas on the edge of the inland bay. As a result, the most beautiful parts of the park were hidden from my tent.

The next day I headed north towards El Fayran. This marked the other end of the route across the Sinai which headed to St Catherine. Every bit of advice id had was that heading to St Catherine would be impossible. If the route was restricted near Dahab, this side would be impossible. Again, the men in a mix of uniforms told me that I needed to proceed in a convoy. The next to Cairo would not leave for more than 6 hours, alternatively one to St Catherine would be leaving in less than 1. I was sold, this would give me the opportunity for a night time hike and the chance to experience the beautiful sunrise atop Mt Sinai.

Convoy procedure around Egypt is as mixed and varied as the treatment you get at each checkpoint. Some demand you follow them, these either proceed at 130 or 40 kph while others wave you ahead and you ride off feeling free and alone but hardly so. The convoy to St Catherine was the latter. I was among company this time with two large buses and two mini buses. One of the minibuses and I left the others far behind. Over the course of the 90km to St Catherine I was stopped nearly two dozen times. Several within eye sight of each other. My progress was halting and all the more frustrating because the police at the back of the convoy had my passport and license in their possession. Luckily a friendly minibus driver slotted me in front and would shout Arabic out the window as we proceeded through the checkpoints to address the assorted issues that each gaggle of police officers had.

*** That’s a question I have, what is the name for a group of police officers. Something reminds me of geese when I deal with them, so a gaggle feels appropriate.* ***

By the time we reached St Catherine I imagined I’d be in for a long wait for my documents. True to form the police had rolled along at 50kph, so an hour later they rocked up and handed over my passport and license to the checkpoint who then began their processes. I believe I have been registered and recorded at every point along my journey. A sign of the military dictatorship in which Id found myself.

I’ve never experienced a government authority dictating my movements and demanding a right to go through all my personal effects whenever they will. There were times where I would be searched within eyesight of a previous checkpoint. One such officer became the proud new owner of a yet unreplaced pair of shoes that the dog had reacted too ‘oddly’. These assorted misadventures come with a contrasting freedom as to day to day activities. In the west, the freedom I’m used to is a freedom to do what I wish, when I wish curtailed by the constant pressure as to whether the way you’re behaving is entirely lawful. You have the freedom to decide where you’re going and when but you’re not free to speed, to park where you will, to drink on the streets, to smoke in places, to swear in public or to drive the car you want or the motorbike you like until you meet some vague and ambiguous bureaucratic standard. These things are the price of that freedom. Egypt is the antithesis to that life experience. While there is no freedom to act as I’d like here I never ask myself whether what I’m doing is legal.

I was then told to wait while I was given a convoy into the town, some few kilometres away. As with all of these experiences, I have long since given up attempting to find the logic of the situation. Instead of driving at 50kph I was lead at full steam along the 3km piece of road leading to St Catherine monastery, at 5pm in the afternoon. I was told to head up and then Id be escorted to camp. Wondering up I arrive at the entrance to be told that it shuts at 3pm so I wander back even more bemused only to find my escort has gone AWOL. Without talking to anyone, I jump onto the bike and head to my accommodations for the evening.

Desert Fox camp is a lovely little place offering affordable rooms or an even more affordable secure place for your tent and motorbike. I set up camp and then arranged for a morning hike up Mt Sinai with a young local guy named Mohammed.

Roused at 1am we set up for the long and even more beautiful route up the hill. Prepared for the fitness level of the average tourist in Egypt we expected to get to the top around 5. We strode on up the mountain and I let Mohammed set the pace, stopping when he needed a rest but otherwise harrying him along just a few paces behind. At one point he misjudged the location of a fence line and went sprawling head over heels into the dust. Our night vision had gotten good with the moon up but evidently wasn’t good enough. I struggled to contain giggles as he dusted himself off and picked up the pace to redeem himself. When we arrived at just 700 steps from the peak at 4am he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. We tucked our self into a little coffee shop where over the course of the next hour a half dozen people divulged themselves from out under the piles of blankets. I was glad Id chosen a seat by the door instead of giving someone a rude wake up.

From this point we waited until a little before sunrise before racing up the hill in and amongst the crowds from what seemed like a dozen tour buses. I tried to contain my disgust as some tour operator attempted to illicit woofing noises out of his little gathering. I couldn’t think of much worse.

Sunrise from the top was a refreshing experience. Several steps were sneakily hiding some of the worlds slipperiest ice, but I had made it without any severely broken bones. Watching the sun crest the mountains of the southern Sinai was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I attempted to take photos, but it was just too serene a moment to waste peering through the lens of a camera.

Determined not to be caught in the gaggle of other tourists we descended via the straight path to the rear of the monastery. I hadn’t quite comprehended just how far 3000 steps in a row is. At times almost jogging down, other times having to stop and try to ascertain which of the jumble of stones was the step, our 3-hour ascent was undone in 36 minutes.

Again, my access to St Catherine’s was forbidden and I was told to come back at 11. Napping until 10:30 I woke and just about ran to the monastery determined not to miss my chance, though I was again disappointed as I was told that for whatever reason it was closed. Grumbling I returned, packed and departed St Catherine, bizarrely without any sort of convoy being necessary.

The run to Cairo was long but only interrupted by a few brief passport checks and the dreaded crossing of the Suez Canal. A friend had been allowed to ride through, with a half dozen machine guns pointed at him, but I was promptly informed that orders had come down to put me on the back of a truck. Eight of us lifted the bike up onto the back of a kind trucker who otherwise had no load. I clambered on and sat straddling the bike. Turning it on and revving it as we went through the tunnel in some sort of stubborn, why is the necessary attempt at defiance.

Reaching the other side was even more bizarre as no one had been informed that a foreign motorbike was passing through. As such two of us ended up taking the bike off the truck ourselves with the additional help of a one-armed passer-by. Before I’d even had a moment to thank my trucker he jumped in and vanished.

But here I was, I had finally made it to Africa.

LESSONS ABOUT EGYPT:

First words you’ll hear out of the mouth of an Egyptian male in a position of authority is the word NO.

To quote a seasoned expat id meet before the week was out in Cairo. Everything is forbidden yet anything is possible. In my experience, the anything was never what I wanted though.

Unless you’ve found yourself hanging with the brilliant crowds of motorbike riders (proper bikes not the dinky Chinese bikes) almost anyone that approaches you has an angle. A shop they want you to visit after you learn about all the various relatives they have which live miraculously in each country you care to list. A country that survived off tourism which has all but died off and a lot of people who fight as hard as they can for every penny.

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