The Road to Khartoum

A year after the International Criminal Court in the Hague issued an arrest warrant for Sudan’s president, Omar Bashir, I crossed the border into his country. He has ruled for the past 21 years since a coup in 1989, and my arrival coincided with the immediate run-up to the first multi-party elections in Sudan since 1986. Popular opinion was that he would walk away with the elections, having a firm grip on the country, and that such a win would “legitimise” his rule and counteract the indictment by the ICC.

I was unsure what to expect in Sudan. Most reactions regarding passage through the country were one of surprise, closely followed by questions of sanity. The coverage that the country receives in the international media is virtually wholly negative, between the situation in Darfur and the civil war between the north and south. The UK foreign office website is pretty damning in its advice on travel in the country.

There is a general threat from terrorism. Attacks could be indiscriminate, including in places frequented by expatriates and foreign travellers.

On the other hand, the rare stories of people who have traveled in (northern) Sudan are glowing. People have said that Khartoum is one of the “safest places on Earth”, and the generosity and friendliness that the Sudanese people extend is astounding. I found this easy to believe, having previously visited countries with similarly “dangerous” reputations; my travels in Syria and Iran have been heavily marked by the welcome I received there.

I arrived by boat in Wadi Halfa, the border town 40km south of the Egyptian frontier that cuts across Lake Nasser. South of here, the whole of Sudan stretches out. The FCO websites charts the country by its dangers, ranging from the conflict in Darfur to the West, to the risks of banditry linked to smuggling in the Red Sea state (bordering Eritrea) to the East. The south is the land of the 22-year long north-south civil war that was ended five years ago by the Comprehensive Peace Agreement, but where travel is to be strongly avoided. Khartoum is the stage for political rallies and anti-government demonstrations, “some have turned violent”. To complete the negative image that surrounds Sudan, in the early 1990s it was the base for Osama Bin Laden, “from where he directed some of his first terrorist attacks”.

These are the cons. But my attitude is rather that I refuse to believe that whole populations of such countries can live in such hate and violence, and that whilst certain precautions should to be taken, much of this can be avoided. Tales of the friendliness of people throughout the country, of little explored villages, the archeological legacy of the northern pyramids, the lush banks of the Nile, and the fascinating political landscape meant that the merits of spending some time here outweighed these issues.

I was eager to see where this road would take me.

The Adventure Starts Here

With land borders closed between Egypt and Sudan, the only way to travel south, overland, is to take the weekly ferry from Aswan to Wadi Halfa. That suited me just fine. In the offices of the Nile River Valley Transport Corporation, the elusive Mr. Azizz sold me a ticket in “deck class” (cattle class) and advised me to be at the port for 08:45 the following morning.

I couldn’t sleep that night; the next day, I would be traveling to Sudan. Despite having been away for nearly six months, I had the feeling that the traveling started here, as I crossed into “Africa proper”. The rules of the game were about to change.

The port lies 13km south of Aswan next to the High Dam, which forms the northern edge of the world’s largest artificial lake, Lake Nasser. Getting off the train to the port, Mr. Azziz’s advice regarding an early arrival seemed rather optimistic; a crowd of people were stood before the locked gates. Goods & suitcases were strewn everywhere. Identical boxes of televisions and food-processors lay on the asphalt. It seems this ferry is the source of quite a few of Sudan’s imports, which suffer from the sanctions imposed on the country by the West.

When the gates finally open, having fought through the bustle, there are ticket inspections, passport inspections, fees to be paid for my backpack, Egyptian exit stamps to be purchased and more passport checks. Bureaucracy is going nowhere fast as I head south.

It is around eleven by the time I set foot on the boat, naïvely bagging a spot on a wooden bench below deck, which would be shared between four people. Sleeping could be interesting. The smell of rice and chicken emanates through as crew are busy chopping vegetables in the dining area next door.

We wait. We wait. And we wait.

The boat fills up, then fills some more. People are on the verge of being squeezed overboard as one ascends the steep, rickety metal staircase to the deck. Whoever estimated the quota of tickets was very optimistic. The cramped seating area below deck is full, as legs extend over bags through the narrow aisles between benches. Above deck in the blistering sun, bodies and boxes are crammed-in over every square inch. Walls of luggage are erected, cordoning off parts of the deck to their occupants. People huddle under the lifeboats for shade. Whoever estimated the quote for these lifeboats was very optimistic.

A choice has to be made between the hot, stuffy air from so many bodies being crammed in below deck, or the heat from the blazing afternoon sun on the shade-less deck. Either option seems unbearable, and we are still firmly docked in Egypt. Hauling up my bag, I opt to spend the night on deck, sharing some space with a group of Egyptians going to work in Sudan, and a small group of fellow khawaaja, who are all over-landing it down to South Africa in two 4x4s. There aren’t many of us Westerners on this boat, and the low numbers of our visas indicate that we won’t cross many more once we arrive.

It is it around 6pm when the loud rumble of the engines increased in pitch and we start out over the darkening waters of Lake Nasser, ten hours after I was told to arrive. When the muezzin’s call blasts over the ship’s speaker, the scores of Muslim men are initially disorientated, trying to determine in which direction lies Mecca for the Maghrib prayer.

Later in the evening, with the moonlight reflecting over the lake’s water, we are called below deck to complete part of the Sudanese registration, clambering across the limbs strewn everywhere. A thermometer is promptly shoved into our ears, ostensibly testing for signs of H5N1; I pity the poor Ozzie who opted to register for all of his compatriots - he received the ear inspection three times.

Thomas, a Belgian guy, strings up his hammock much to the intrigue of our Egyptian buddies. The rest of us lay out sleeping bags on the hard, metal deck, trying to avoid involuntary bouts of footsie as we squeeze into the available space. As my back cracks on the hard metal floor, I fall asleep feeling very content with life. Tomorrow, I will be in the Republic of the Sudan.

Waking at dawn, the ruins of Abu Simbel loom on the desertic banks of the lake, meaning that we have traveled 280km south of Aswan and are only 40km from the Sudanese border. The overlanders have a GPS unit and so a count-down ensues to the frontier; the occasional fishermen that row past in small boats are oblivious to the sense of excitement we feel.

We have to fight our way through the increasing bustle below deck in order to perform a second part of the Sudanese entry process. Three men faithfully copy out the details of passports, profession and intentions for visiting the country into three separate notebooks. Carbon paper provides duplicates of the forms we fill out. A step-back in time, and a small introduction to the infamy of Sudanese bureaucracy.

Arriving in the port, a pontoon lies between us and the shore. Impromptu steps are made from crates, and the men working there seem to be improvising our exit strategy. One could imagine that this is the first time this boat has docked here with the level of disorganisation, but this scene must play itself out every week. A scrum forms to leave the boat, and despite my intentions to just sit it out on the deck and wait for people to disperse, we are ushered off and into the heart—and heat—of it all, wielding backpacks down the steep metal steps as a uniformed Sudanese police officer shoves people back.

And with that, I set foot onto Sudanese soil.

» See all photos from the Aswan - Wadi Halfa ferry.

Journey to Nowhere

My time in Egypt had been, at times, somewhat amorphous. I was still trying to come to terms with everything I had lived in the West Bank, and was writing quite extensively on the subject. I was also preoccupied by what would await me in Sudan, and the feeling that I was taking a big step forward in reaching Kenya, really entering Africa, so to speak.

I had met some very interesting people in Egypt, and as a result had spent longer in fewer places, getting to know them better. This was great, but they were all the “big” places. I loved my time in Cairo, but I didn’t explore Egypt in the same way that I saw the smaller, rural communities of Syria, for example.

On my last day in Aswan, I went to the train station and caught the oldest, most decrepit looking train to wherever it was going. The old men on the plastic seats opposite me were surprised to see a foreigner on their daily service and asked where I was going. “Mo baref” I replied. I don’t know. And peu importe.

The train paused at various points along the desolate track, and people jumped out into the little villages that dotted the route. We eventually stopped somewhere. I don’t know where. Half an hour south of Aswan.

Children were coming out of school as I walked down the dirt streets that ran through the village, and I soon found myself with a gaggle of them around me, “what’s your name?” they repeated. I felt slightly embarrassed as the older folk of the village looked on, observing the scene. As I walked out into the desert, I was warned against going further, “police will shoot you” I was told.

Perhaps as testament to the aged looking telephone masts that lined the streets, Vodafone was the only encroachment of the West here. The Arabic version of their logo was emblazoned on the white walls of many of the houses.

A falafel vendor provided lunch at half the price of what I had hitherto paid. At 50 piastres (approximately 7 euro cents) this had to be my cheapest meal yet, and with none of the dishonesty of his counterparts in Aswan. This was the real Egypt.

Felucca

The power of the wind that filled our sails could be felt in the tension of the boat as we tacked up-wind, each traverse of the Nile pitched us further from horizontal. We were traveling down-stream, but up-wind. The wooden mast creaked as Aymen, the captain, swung the sail round to tack further.

Around sun-set we moor up to the Nile’s lush green west-bank that contrasts so strongly against the arid, desert hills behind it. You can see why the Nile is called the life-source of Egypt. Tamer, Aymen’s mate, shimmies up the mast, gathering together the sail as he sways in the wind several meters above this small, wooden vessel.

As we drift back across the Nile to the opposite bank, Aymen sings a soft song in his Nubian Arabic into the silence as the water forms the percussion as it laps against the boat. That night, the six of us in the boat sleep under the stars as we rock with the water.

The smell of cooking eggs fill the air as I wake up, bread being fried to go with it. The other guests on this boat leave by minibus to head further north to Luxor, I stay on-board for another day on the Nile. Aymen and Tamer change the tone of the conversation now the others have left; they have had a lot of fun on this river it seems.

Back in Aswan, the police board the boat but our offer of lunch avoids any question of baksheesh. “The police are no good” I am later told. Some things are the same the world over.

The Problems of a Tourism-Based Economy

Having spent five months in the Middle East, I had become enamoured by the friendliness, openness and honesty of the people. Before I came away, upon mentioning places like “Syria” I was met by quite strong, bordering upon violent, reactions. “Are you crazy?” I was asked. But Syria was a very safe, pleasant place. Wherever you were, at whatever time, people would offer heartfelt welcomes and were keen to show you the positive side of their country, far from its “axis of evil” status. Of course, this autocratic country has a lot of problems, but the people have a lot to teach us isolated westerners about generally being nice to one-another.

Here in Egypt, however, I was forced to shed this degree of trust, bordering on naïvety, on what people said, and adopt a sense of cynicism that increased the further in I traveled. Upon arriving in Nuweiba, I was given the rather useful piece of that everything in Egypt has to be negotiated, particularly as an khawaaja. Bartering in a souq is commonplace throughout the region, but in Egypt as a foreigner, even “fixed-price” items would see their price elevated when asking bikam? - “how much?”. Everyday events, such as taking a shay in a café or buying supplies in a shop, became a loathsome task as one is forced to negotiate the “real” price.

Speaking a little Arabic helped me a little with the rapport, and being able to read the menus & prices in Arabic gave me another bargaining tool. Yet the prices fixed to the wall were often claimed to be “no longer valid”. The phrase “no, everywhere in Egypt the price is …” became an everyday muttering as I was faced with a juice-vendor trying to charge me three times what I knew the real price to be. This was particularly prevalent in Aswan.

In a country with an economy based so heavily on tourism, and admittedly, having only visited the “big-hitters” of cities in Egypt, I had a very different view on the types of rencontres that I had experienced elsewhere. But even in the most touristy establishments of Damascus, I could not envisage the same level of exploitation that I had seen in seemingly local cafés in Aswan.

In Egypt’s defence, not everybody is like this. Upon arriving in Cairo, a young guy insisted on accompanying me to the centre of town, showing me the buses and trying to pay for every fare. From where I was staying in Mohandiseen in Cairo, the very friendly lady selling fruit would not let me pay for my morning banana as I left the house; she was not accustomed to seeing tourists & so her livelihood didn’t depend on them. It is those who depend on tourists for their income that give the country a bad name.

With a Nubian inhabitant of Elephantine Island, which sits between the Nile’s east & west banks at Aswan, a conversation offered further respite. Even though he worked in the tourism industry — a usual warning sign — he was very reproachful of his dishonest compatriots. “This is wrong” he told me when talking of this exploitative behaviour, citing an exchange he had witness in a local restaurant where the price had been elevated for two visiting foreigners.

Egypt has a reputation of being one of the “safer” countries in the Middle East and receives millions of tourists every year. If more of the countrymen of my Nubian rencontre would adopt his attitude, Egypt could use its status to portray a different image of the Middle East, exemplifying the positive sides of the culture which sit with such contrast against those that we often read about.