Electoral Hopes in Dongola

Having hitched a ride south from Wadi Halfa, my new-found roadtrip friends dropped me in the Nile-side town of Dongola, capital of Sudan’s Northern state. They are headed straight for Khartoum before carrying on to Ethiopia the following day: they would be crossing the whole of north-east Sudan in two days.

Two asphalt roads run through the centre of town, criss-crossed by dirt streets where shops and market stalls offer shade to the people out in the afternoon sun. My first task would be to trek across these dirt-streets under this burning sun, laden with my backpack, in search of the police station.

Having first gone to a small lokanda (basic, Sudanese “hotels” offering a bed in a courtyard), I was informed that as a khawaaja I couldn’t snatch a bed until I had a letter of authorisation from the police. I was pointed in the general direction of the police office, the other side of town, and told that no, I couldn’t leave my bag here. Laden with more than twenty kilos, dehydrated and sweating profusely, I stumbled through the maze of dirt streets, lined by short, squat houses in search of something official.

The police station was a rather nondescript building as far away from the centre of town as possible. I was seated—nearly passing out—in a dusty office, a fan blowing warm air over the lethargic men sitting around, semi-paralysed by the heat. Details of my passport were copied into a ledger and I was handed a letter authorising me to stay in town. Utterly pointless, but at least there was no baksheesh involved.

Staggering back to the centre, I held my resolve to not give-in to the temptation of one of the many rickshaws that buzzed past. I found a more welcoming lokanda, unfettered my load, and went in search of nourishment and rehydration. A bowl of fuul and several gallons of orange juice later, I was appreciating the laid-back vibe of this town. Bustling, by Sudanese standards, but rather more relaxed than the Middle East.

My health has taken a bit of a battering since arriving in Sudan, my stomach adjusting to the food, water & heat with rather violent results. As I squat over the hole in the floor, discharging a rather obnoxious yellow goo, cockroaches scuttle across the walls. This is not a place of luxury. Add to that the mind-altering anti-malarial—Larium—that is due today, and exploring a new town becomes quite a task.

I appear to be the only Westerner in town. Walking through the streets, heads turn, and the familiar Arabic phrase Ahlan wa sahlan forms a vocal Mexican wave as I walk past shop-fronts. Against my better judgement, I make frequent stops to drink from the many clay pots of water that line the streets. “It’s character building for my immune system”, I tell myself; chances are, this is drawn directly from the Nile, but seeing the way in which refuse is disposed of in these countries, I am not keen to contribute to the pollution by imbibing from plastic bottles all day long…

Come nightfall, life picks up a little, pausing only with the muezzin call for the Maghrib prayer. As “Allah akhbar” echos through the dusty air, life stops and my two new Sudanese friends excuse themselves to join the large groups of people collecting outside mosques, praying en-masse on street corners. For ten minutes, there are no people, no cars, no rickshaws, only prayer. Islam is big.

Mohammed is a university teacher of English literature but is currently working as an official UN translator for a team of election observers. Conversation thus turns to the elections, and they are keen to know more about elections in Europe, and whether there is the same level of campaign posters being pasted in such highly-visible public places. Here in Sudan, they seem to cover every available wall; the green tree of the NCP is ubiquitous throughout Dongola.

Whilst al-Bashir does have a strong base of support in Northern Sudan, Amin talks of his hope for a different government to change the system in the country, but he doesn’t seem confident that these elections, the first multi-party vote in Sudan since 1986, will bring in another party. Nor that if they did, the level of corruption and mismanagement would improve. They explain that government-employed workers here receive a monthly salary of only 150 USD, barely enough to live on. I find life here in Sudan surprisingly expensive - things here seem to cost around twice as much as in Egypt. Many of the rickshaw drivers are university graduates.

» More photos from Dongola.

New Roads Through Sudan

Northern Sudan is going through a boom in infrastructure development, a large part of which is due to Chinese investment. There is a brand new road that follows the Nile from Wadi Halfa, south through Dongola and onto Khartoum, the freshly painted lines marred only by occasional drifts of sand that blow over it from the desert through which it cuts. A couple of years ago, this same route consisted of only a dirt track that is still visible as one speeds over the black asphalt.

Around the towns en route, huge billboards proclaim the partnerships between the Sudanese government and Chinese contractors for the neighbouring bridges and dams. It is the Sudanese who are responsible for the majority of construction of the roads, with the oil-wealth from the Southern oil-fields; the Chinese are more involved in the dams and bridges, the images of which are plastered all over NCP advertisements, encouraging support in the up-coming elections. The NCP are keen to promote the development for which they are responsible.

Near Karima, a billboard detailed the Merowean “Friendship” Bridge project, costing $25M. Funds had been “donated” by the Chinese National Petroleum Cooperation, it was managed by Sudanese companies, but sub-contracted out to Chinese constructors. The links between China & Sudan are strong; China funds construction of bridges & dams, in (implicit) return for drilling rights in the south, as well as contracts for Chinese construction companies and workers.

The investment in the road system will also aid the logistics of moving the huge amount of Chinese imported products into the country, thus increasing the opportunities of consumerism. The new roads have halved, if not reduced to a third, journey times, as well as reducing the petrol costs for operators running these routes. The price of bus-tickets, however, has remained the same.

Cheating Death

I had intended on catching the bus south from Wadi Halfa to Dongola, but when the guys from 2Cape—a couple of Swedes over-londing it from Sweden to South Africa—offered me a lift with them, I jumped at the chance. We had met on the ferry from Egypt, forming part of the small group of khawaaja traveling this way into Sudan. They had already picked-up an American girl and a Belgian guy who were going as far as Tanzania with them, and we had all got on well over the last few days.

Had I not met them, it is likely I would be currently lying in a Sudanese hospital, or traveling back home in a coffin. I learned that the bus I would have taken had crashed en route, killing eleven of its passengers. Road accidents, particularly involving buses, are very common in Sudan.

A year ago, it would have taken around fourteen hours to drive to Dongola; the desert road being nothing more than a dusty track. Sudan is currently undergoing massive development in its road network, largely due to oil-money and Chinese investment. As a result, it is now possible to drive to Dongola on tarmac roads in less than half the time, the route skirting along the Nile. Every now and then the black asphalt cuts across the old route, a reminder of the comfort in which one now travels; we were spared a slow, bone-shaking endeavour.

The Sudanese drivers, however, are not used to the now limitless speed in which they can take these roads. I counted at least three bus carcasses lining the road, one of which being the bus I should have been on. For a people so relaxed in their everyday life, for whom time never seems to be an issue, behind the wheel they are transformed, never hesitating in overtaking at the most inopportune moment.

The passage itself is stunning. Setting off before dawn, at times we followed a seemingly endless, straight road cutting through desert that stretches to the horizon; at times winding through rocky mountains that rise from the plains. The route generally follows the Nile, along which small villages crop up, sustained by the Nile’s irrigating waters.

Stopping in Abri, the market was in full-swing. One local man accosted me, keen to talk about the up-coming elections here, and keen to know how the process takes place in England. I had come from the country that had “given democracy to the world”, and was about to witness it in its newest form. If the buses don’t get me first.

An Ever Diminishing Wardrobe

I had been given a t-shirt in Jordan bearing a green English oak. In the West Bank, people saw it and shouted out “Lubnaan”; the resemblance to the green cedar of Lebanon’s national emblem was slight, but sufficient.

Wearing it on the ferry from Egypt, some Sudanese had commented on it, but what they said was lost on me. When I arrived in Wadi Halfa, the campaign posters for the up-coming election were everywhere, practically all for the National Congress Party (NCP), for which the incumbent president, Omar al-Bashir, is head. The increasing comments about this green tree on my chest suddenly became clear. “Bashir!” they shouted. In the corner of these party posters was printed a logo of a green, bushy tree. I was inadvertently supporting the president.

As I passed from office to office as part of the grinding immigration process, collecting stamps, and forms, signatures, and inspections, the government-employed staff showed approval of my attire. Out in the market, people were keener to criticise. As soon as I got back to my room, this t-shirt would be relegated to the bottom of my backpack. My supply of clothes was already limited, but in this political climate, I was keen to avoid any extra attention than my khawaaja status already granted me.

That evening, I met a couple of travellers coming north from Khartoum where, they explained, they had heard that somebody had been killed a few days previously for wearing a t-shirt supporting al-Bashir. My English oak would stay firmly put at the bottom of my bag…

Wadi Halfa

A rickety, old Land Rover bounces off the road from the port and over the dirt to a collection of short, squat buildings, drowned in the midday sun. The dusty streets are empty, people huddle in the shade to avoid the scorching heat. We sit about in the open restaurants, fuul simmering away. It is not until the shadows grow longer that men in djellabas begin to venture out and activity begins. Rickshaws chug across the sandy plains that separate the collection of houses where Wadi Halfa’s inhabitants live and the commercial part of town that caters for the influx of passengers leaving to and from Egypt on the weekly ferry.

On the edge of town at dusk, dusty football pitches fill-up as the locals take advantage of the retreating heat, silhouetted against the setting sun as dust is kicked up into the air. From the vantage of the local jebel, we were rooting for our chosen team, the Nile forming the backdrop of their game.

» A few more photos from Wadi Halfa on Flickr.