Our guide reliably informed us that Just to put the speed at which we crossed Libya into context, our travel advisor who biked this route last year took 5 days to cross Libya. We did it in just under 2. And that in a country which by reputation would lock you and throw away the key as soon as look at you for breaking any rules or law. However, everything we have seen is the opposite to the stereotype. Here’s a great example: we tipped up at a gas station for a bit of go juice and the filler guy topped up both the bikes. I saw just over 5 Dinar on the pump and offered him the note. He started getting a bit agitated and guide was over to us like a track dog to sort it out.

The Arabic was flowing fast and furious with hands getting raised along with the voices. This would have been funny (actually it was quite funny) apart from the fact that the gas attendant was six feet tall and built like wrestler whilst our guide was 5 foot 5 tops. Someone must have obviously suggested seeing the boss because a sleepy faced bloke appeared out of one of the rooms with manky looking mattresses on the floor to mediate. In the end he just waved us off but a few hundred yards down the road was a police check point. Always with these check points, it’s the plain clothed guy with obligatory Rayban Aviators who is the Boss. He jumps in the motor with the guide after a quick tete a tete and zooms back to the gas station leaving us with the geeky looking uniform at the side of the road. Uniform starts trying to explain by means of his wrists crossed each other that Boss was off to arrest the gas attendant!

He got off with a warning but the moral of the story was the embarrassment on our guide’s face about what had transpired. He was genuinely mortified that guests to his country would be treated this way. The majority of the morning’s ride was taken up with a 373 km ride along a dead straight road which cuts across the north east corner of Libya, saving us a few kms of coastal road. This straight highway takes you through the desert towards Tobruck (means top rock) and was apparently built original by Rommel’s German forces in the second world war to allow him access to the coast.

We saw what we thought was the original track running alongside our tarmac but it’s my historical notions and images were shattered when i found out it was only where the government had laid a huge water pipe! It was with some sadness that we said goodbye to Salem at the border with Egypt and we were on our again. His parting gift was to walk us through the exit procedures - the usual range of bored looking officials in the most minging, dimly lit and foul smelling rooms. We were meant to receive 115 Dinar back for each of the returned number plates but 14 Dinar found its way into the pockets of the police. More embarrassed looks from our guide. It was then onto the Egyptian border where we were assigned a Tourist Policeman who walked us through the whole process – about 3 hours. He didn’t speak English but there were plenty there who did. It was at the border itself that we had our first of the incredible Egyptian hospitality that was to come. Getting a little peckish, we were guided to a squre serving hatch in one of the building walls where snack bars and drinks were being served.

Danny was sniffing as he thought he could smell his favourite snack, soup. Once they realised we were after real food, the family running the snack shack shared their own food with us and refused any form of payment. I have read other overland adventure books where they talk about the biggest generosity seems to come from those who have the least and we were really starting to see it. It continued when we were invited to drink with one of the gas station attendants and his pal. Danny even managed to blag a cup of tea from one of the traffic police who stopped us at a road block. We were determined to spend at least one night under canvass so we pushed on from the border into the night, finally stopping about 30km east of Marsa Matrough in Egypt.

The tents were duly set up in the headlights of the bikes, about 30 yards from the edge of the road. We saw a torch wobbling towards us. My immediate reaction was to think we’d be thrown off the little makeshift campsite but that just about as far away from the truth as you could. With no English whatsoever, we were invited back to the Bedouin’s house for sleep and food as he thought we’d be too cold in the tents. Caught between not wanting to offend him and our desire to camp we stood and negotiated for 30 minutes with him. His mate arrived and joined in the silent hand gesture conversation. Finally, an older guy arrived (these people were all arriving in trucks and pickups straight off the dual carriageway) who we discovered was the Boss and owned all the land around us. Now, if we had been almost anywhere in the UK and you pitched up on the edge of a farmer’s land, you’d be greeted with a shotgun and hoofed of a toute vitesse. We spent 2 ½ hours in the company of these generous people without exchanging any more than word of English.