Sunt Forest

An afternoon picnicking at Sunt Forest, lying between Khartoum the White Nile, a kilometre south of its confluence with Ethiopia’s Blue Nile.

In the sun-baked forest, monkeys ran around as the sound of guitar rang through the trees and men in djellaba watched on. Families milled around further towards the city, with tea-ladies plying their trade on the side of the dusty track.

Come sunset, the lush, verdant grasses of the Nile framed the silhouette of wooden shelters against the rose-tinted sky, buildings rising on the horizon.

The Interpreter

It was a far way from the pressure of Nicole Kidman’s role as an interpreter for the UN, but for several days in May, my brain melted completely.

I was working as an interpreter for a conference with delegates from countries involved in the Nile Basin Initiative, hosted at the Ministry for Water & Irrigation in Sudan’s capital. Presentations were given in English, and two of us, wearing headphones whilst locked in a side-room, were regurgitating these words in French for the benefit of representatives from Rwanda, Burundi and other Francophone countries with a vested interest in the source of this mighty river. Two hour stints, without respite, left me exhausted.

The subject is rather pertinent at the moment, with a few articles and debates about the signing of treaties appearing in the international media. Egypt, through a mandate ratified in colonial times, yields the right to a lion’s share of the mighty river’s waters. It has threatened military action against any up-stream country that threatens its share of the waters. Sudan stands side-by-side with its neighbour — between the two countries they claim 87% — whilst the remaining countries are fighting for their right to exploit the Nile’s waters for irrigation and hydro-electric projects.

The conference also gave an interesting mind-set into the culture and workings of these African decision makers. Comments were never short, with lengthy introductions praising colleagues’ standing, before belittling their work or understanding of a problem. In workshops, less time was spent criticising a presentation than the presenter’s understanding of the question. Coffee and tea-breaks were accorded the utmost importance.

A Sudanese Wedding

It was gone midnight and I had just left the Sudan Boombox party. In a pick-up truck speeding down Mohammed Najib street, tok-toks weaving past, my phone rang. I couldn’t hear the caller very well, but I made out the words “will you be my husband for the day?” from a friend working at Khartoum University. Without really thinking — the evening was treating me well — I agreed. Now was not the time to be asking questions. We carried on to a party.

Several days later, I was at the University of Khartoum, several students dressing me in a djellaba, pinning a traditional hat to my head and a scarf around my chest. What had I let myself in for? I was expecting this piece of theatre—part of the French department’s programme during Khartoum University’s Cultural Week—to be a small event. I was grossly mistaken. Girls dressed in their finest toobs were milling around, their hands covered in the intricate patterns of Sudanese henna. The male students had made an effort, donning djellaba for the day. Outside the sanctuary of this classroom-cum-dressing room, the building was filling up.

I was joined by their teacher, my friend who had asked me to participate, and we stepped out. The corridor was lined, nay, packed, with people. I led out my “bride”, her face completely covered by a golden veil, guiding her down the gauntlet of well-wishers thrusting out mobile phone cameras. As we reached the staircase spiralling down to the area reserved for the ceremony, the size of this event suddenly became evident. There were hundreds of people.

A cortège of girls dressed in white topped with pink veils, formed a corridor as we were seated, incense burning before us. A drum was being beaten with girls singing and ululating. The veil was lifted and draped over our shoulders, bands being tied around our wrists. A giant video-camera, a relic from the eighties, was filming everything. From out of nowhere, a photographer came, snapping away. I’m the one who likes to be behind a lens; I shy from being in front of them.

Unbeknownst to me, part of the Sudanese wedding ceremony involves the bride spitting milk in the face of the groom, its whiteness being a symbol of her purity. As I wiped the liquid from my face, we were urged to rise. An entourage of guys dressed in black shirts acted as security, shepherding us out of the building to parade around the campus. A wooden staff in my hand, I snapped my fingers to shouts of imshi arees!, raising it in celebration. My dressers had briefed me well.

Outside there were hundreds more people. To say I was intimidated was an understatement. As we toured the campus, a procession that seemed to take hours, the yuyuyuyuyu of the girls’ ululating and beating of the drum echoed across the courtyard. Further shouts from the men encouraged my fatigued arm to wave the staff, emulating the father of the bride I had seen some weeks previously at a real wedding.

With the event over, later walking around the campus, this khawaaja was immediately recognisable. Arees, “groom” in Arabic, was called out. I questioned whether people understood that this celebration was staged.

The following day, our photograph was on the front page of one of the Arabic, Khartoum dailies. The accompanying article made no mention of the fact that this was simply a performance. In Islam, I would still have the right to three more wives…

Sudan Boombox

“Am I still in Sudan?” I asked myself as I was dancing, barefoot on green grass, to hip-hop. International DJs were on stage in front of me, lights issued over the crowd, and a circle formed with break-dancers at its centre.

This was thanks to the vision of Sayf and Mohammed, two friends who run the Sudan Boombox radio show. They had flown in DJs from the US, Europe and other African countries. Much of the crowd—and their dedicated following—was made up of Southern Sudanese.

House of Pain was mixed in, and the entire congregation followed when told to Jump Around.

I wondered where these people were during the day. Guys with big afros, girls dressed as though they were on a night out in London, not Khartoum. This was a long way from my habitual vision of the streets Sudan.

As the night wound up, cars were waiting outside to whisk people away. The dress of some of these girls would see them facing the police if they were on the street. In the sanctuary of this event, though, they could express themselves as they wished.

Sudanese Bureaucracy II: Patience

I had been in Sudan just over a month, and my visa had just expired. Clandestino. Trying to renew it, I start out early to the Ministry for Humanitarian Affairs which I understood to be dealing with visa extensions. I am sent back over to the other side of Khartoum by a policeman, to the other Ministry for Humanitarian Affairs. “Are you sure?” I ask. He was.

Dusty and sweaty, having searched for it, traipsing for what seemed like hours, I arrive to be told that I need to go back to the building I had just come from. A series of incomprehensible protests in Arabic issued from my mouth and my mind is spinning with profanities.

Eventually, I get another address, somewhere out in eastern Khartoum, “just next to the Iraqi Embassy”. At least this one should be easier to find. Third tea-stop of the morning.

Less than a month previously I had been doing similar leg-work to register my presence in the country. Déjà-vu, with sweat trickling down my forehead.

As is often the way, one is sent from window to window, office to office, ping-ponging around the building. Having filled in the relevant forms, had them signed and stamped, I thought I was on the brink of securing my extension. There was just the general to see, who would sign it all off.

“You need a letter from your hotel”, he said. “I don’t have one”, I said. “Where are you staying?” he asked. “With friends”, I replied. “You need to bring a Sudanese person”, he said, “to guarantee you”. “Anyone?” I asked. “Anyone with an ID card.”

So I walked out of the office, grabbed the first man I saw, and stepped back into the office. He looked at me, looked at my Sudanese person, and looked back at me. “No.” His look was saying “don’t push your luck, sonny”.

Back out on the dusty streets, more profanities are being muttered. Oh, what I would give for the mild bureaucracy of Syria.

Three days later, I am back in his office with a genuine Sudanese friend. I had just been told my the administrators downstairs that my visa had expired almost a week ago and there was a fine to be paid. This could get expensive, I fear.

“Only six days?” my general asks rhetorically. With a flash of his hand, a signature exempting me from the fine, he waves us away. Corruption isn’t as bad as they make out.

“Come back tomorrow for your passport” says the veiled administrator, handing me a receipt in her black silk gloved hands.

The next day, my wallet $70 lighter for the experience, I had leave to stay in the Republic of the Sudan for another month.