To Khartoum

It was a strange sensation to feel a bit nippy. I hadn’t felt cold since that night in Sheik Jarrah in East Jerusalem, three countries and many weeks previous.

I had woken early to catch the bus to Khartoum, and as the sun was rising on the other side of the Nile, the air was pleasant, far from the stifling heat to which I had become accustomed. Sat in one of the coaches that plies the new Chinese/oil funded roads in North Sudan, the air conditioning was pumping out cold air. Only when the driver opened a window briefly was one brought back to the reality of the interminable heat of this country, reinforced by the desert landscape that unfolded the other side of the smoked glass. I was alone in keeping a crack open between the curtains, watching the expanse of sand and rocks stretch to the horizon, occasionally spilling out onto the road. My fellow passengers were well aware of the monotonous landscape through which the tarmac traced, and it held little interest for them, looking out only at the occasional army checkpoint.

Despite the vast expanse of glass that constitutes the front of a modern bus, the view the driver had of the road was small, peering in-between plastic flowers, numerous Tweetie Pi’s, empty gift bags and other trinkets. Faith was put in the Masha’Allah (approximately “God has willed it”) sticker that adorns all public transport, as the bus swung around corners and overtaking wildly, all the time leaning on the horn. Time seems to hold little value in this part of the world, except when behind a steering wheel.

Arriving into Omdurman, the city neighbouring the Sudanese capital, separated by the confluence of the Blue & White Nile, the first image I had was of a lorry driving past full of armed soldiers. It seemed the archetypal cliché of Africa. I wondered what to expect in Khartoum — the name conjuring up many images — and what the atmosphere would be like with the elections looming.

The bus stopped at the edge of the giant Omdurman souq, where boys carrying blocks of ice weaved between tea-ladies and water coolers. Within two minutes of stepping into the stifling air of the city, three men had proffered the “traditional” Sudanese faux-leopard skin shoes. There seemed an odd juxtaposition between the midday, heat-induced lethargy as men lay under vehicles, napping in their shade, and the bustle of the souq.

Taking another, local bus to Khartoum itself, we crossed the Nile and I found myself in the dusty streets of downtown Khartoum, wandering around in the mid-afternoon sun with more than twenty kilos on my back, wondering where I would be spending the night. Once the afternoon power-cut had subsided, my question was answered by an Italian Cooperation worker. Couch-surfing in Khartoum.

Far From the Madding Crowd

Driving out through the desert from Karima, the road passes by the pyramids that I had seen the day before, then crossing over the Nile to Merowe. Here, a bokasi (a pick-up truck) is the public transport that ferries people out to the villages, into the back of which I cram to drive out to the village of Nuri.

The pyramids at Nuri lie far from anything significant, bordered only by the small adobe houses of the neighbouring village. They sit, weathered, amongst the desert dunes, their small rounded bricks eroded by the millennia that have passed since their construction.

The scant information I had regarding this site mentioned that “tickets” to visit this site should be bought back in Karima, although there is rarely anyone to collect them. Standing in a never-ending expanse of sand, it’s hard to imagine anything as organised as ticket-sales for such a location. But as I walk back to the village, a man arrives on a motorcycle, asking in Arabic for my ticket, which—of course—I did not possess. As I claim ignorance, he kindly proposes to accompany me to the local police station to rectify the situation. Having heard stories of Sudanese police, and being not yet in possession of the photography permit that should accompany the camera stowed in my bag, I am keen to decline his kind offer. I thus try my luck with baksheesh (“bribe” or “tip”, in Arabic, depending on the situation), offering him half of the declared price of a ticket.

This baksheesh turns out to be quite the investment. He accepts it, and as we strike up a bit of a rapport in my broken Arabic, he invites me back to his place for lunch and to meet his family. I climb on the back of his motorcycle, we unsteadily traverse the desert sand and are soon speeding down a dirt-track to a collection of rustic houses.

He is in the final stages of the construction of another room for their house, and so I sit with his brother and a paint-covered friend as we eat a platter of local dishes. The water comes from a clay pot, which he describes as river water. Having exhausted my supply of water in the desert heat, I gladly accept, hoping that my stomach has obtained enough resistance with local water to not cause any problems.

Following lunch his brother—Rashid—insists that I visit his nursery, a project that he has been cultivating for the past three years. Rashid has constructed this haven from the arid environment that is filled with a variety of plants, as well as hosting some more “exhibition” pieces. A box contains a history of Sudanese money, birds are sculpted out of rocks, and he is building an enclosure for some animals. Signs are posted in Arabic & English amongst long grasses, and a seating area is shaded from the scorching sun by a parasol made from an old satellite dish covered by woven grass. I am astonished at what he has done to create this sanctuary, but at the same time question the purpose it will serve. Nuri is a small village, hardly known, far from anywhere, and I can’t imagine that this place, once opened (in one year, insha’Allah), will receive many visitors. It is, however, a great testament to both his imagination and dedication, and I wish Rashid & the Nuri Modern Nursery the best of luck.

For me that day, a little bit of baksheesh went a long way.

Life Blood

Leaving the coffee houses of Cairo, I postponed the trip south to Sudan by a brief séjour north to the fish of Alexandria. I wanted to make the most of one last opportunity for fresh sea-food on the Mediterranean before heading into the arid heart of Sudan, and then east to Ethiopia. I presumed that good fish would be off the menu until (or if) I reached the Kenyan coastline.

How naïve I was. The Nile is a huge source of fish, and the Sudanese know how to serve it.

“England. Fish & chips?” other travellers would often say to me when talking about British cuisine. In spite of my societal roots, I shy away from the floppy, fried offerings that many a street corner proposes, hunting out the fresher, grilled fare with a dash of spice & plenty of freshly squeezed lime.

The river is being tamed, though. Oil revenues mean investment in infrastructure is booming, with new roads, bridges and dams being built. The bridge that now links Karima & Merowe, the town on the opposing bank of the Nile, has rendered the ferries obsolete. They now stand aground, rusting amongst the verdure of the river’s banks and the fishermen repairing their nets.

Climb Any Mountain

Standing atop Jebel Barkal looking east, lush green palm groves line the banks of the banks of the Nile as they cut a sweeping curve through the desert plains of Sudan’s Northern State. Looking west, these arid, dusty, rocky plains stretch to the horizon. I had heard talk of Jebel Barkal before getting to Karima, and with my basic grasp of Arabic, thought this might be a nice little opportunity for a bit of a ramble. Jebel in Arabic more or less translates as “mountain”.

What I didn’t factor into these plans were the fact that in Sudan, jebel equates more to what I would consider a hill, and that the mercury in the thermometer is rather averse to dipping below 40°. I had spent a hot, sweaty day traveling & running around Karima sorting out the bureaucracy that is innate to arriving in a new town in Sudan, but was still keen to see the gueule of this lump of rock. As the sun dropped to the horizon, hoping the temperatures would follow suit, I walked out of town towards the jebel, expecting to find solace in solitude.

All around is flat, slight undulations in the sand form rolling waves of sand, and then just before the desert reaches the green fortress protecting the Nile, a rock rises up as a watch-tower. At the base of this rock stand several pyramids, remnants of the 18th dynasty Pharaohs who held this ground as sacred, gate-keepers to the jebel.

Seclusion was not to be found. Atop a sandy hillock stood a rickshaw seemingly out of place, and at the base of Barkal several Sudanese families were picnicking. Sunset was rapidly approaching so I raced to the top of the rock, my lungs burning after months of shisha evenings & a growing unfamiliarity with physical exertion. The guys dressed in djellaba sliding down the sandy banks seemed slightly perplexed at this khawaaja striding up; they don’t get a lot of foreigners here.

From the plateaued peak the pyramids below were dwarfed, sticking out of the sand like blunt needles, separated from the setting sun by the desert plains.

As the last people left, I had the place to myself as darkness rapidly drew in. Getting closer to the equator, sunsets are periods to be snatched, not savoured.

Karima

I squeeze myself into the back of a small bus in Dongola, my backpack strapped to the roof, and put my life in the hands of the bus driver as he cuts across the vast desert of northern Sudan. As with most towns in Northern State, Karima & Dongola both sit on the banks of the Nile, but the road that joins them cuts through vast swathes of nothing but desert as the river performs a big U-bend to the south. The only things breaking the monotony of sand & black rocks are the occasional, confidence-inspiring, shells of buses or blown-out tyres…

Karima itself is a small little town, with a lively souk at the heart of it. The town houses a railway station, but the tracks no longer support the rumbling wheels of locomotives; the influx of oil-revenue & subsequent investment in road building have replaced the trains by competing bus companies.

Arriving in the peak of the afternoon heat, as the sun reached its zenith, I once again had to endure the ordeal of locating the police registration office before I could dump my bag and nab a bed for the night. Despite Karima’s small size, they managed to hide it well; as I walked through an unmarked entrance into what seemed like a family’s garden, it was only the framed picture of President Omar al-Bashir hanging in a room that gave the game away. The local tea-ladies (who are prevalent throughout Sudan) kick me back into life with a spicy coffee, prepared on the side of the dusty street before I take a rickety bed in a dilapidated lokanda.

In town, I meet Mahmoud who, over the course of the following couple of days, in between contradictory talk of the corruption of the ruling NCP party & the benefits of incumbent president Bashir, would try to enamour me the ways of Islam. He runs a couple of mobile phone shops in town, having moved north from Khartoum, and is trying to save enough money to “escape” Sudan, pinning his hopes the (illegal) people trafficking routes of Ethiopia to Turkey, and then into Europe.

At night, sat outside his shop with a computer, he seems to hold the monopoly on the local music business. People arrive at his shop, hand him the SD card from their mobile phones to have it charged with a new selection of Arabic & western MP3s. Part of my reason for leaving Europe had been to evade the mindless consumerism that prevails on the high street; but here in a dusty African village, as people with little “spare cash” to spend hand over 5 SDG for a change of music to play through the tinny speakers, it seems it is perhaps innate to human nature. Mahmoud wants to go the other way. He can’t wait to “leave this goddamn country” and “get the fuck out”; each download of an MP3 takes him a step further to reaching his goal, although I question how many of his dreams will be realised as an illegal worker in a Greek restaurant… But in the mean-time, as a Muslim, he will accept his fate & destiny — it is “God’s will” — and he would pray that I would find enlightenment in Islam.