Kauda, South Kordofan

The rain is pouring down as I leave the fuul vendor. I have just been told that there is no lokanda — the Sudanese cheap, basic lodgings — in this village, but that I could try the Norwegian Church Aid school, or the UNICEF compound. I don’t have the heart to step back out into the rain dressed in an already drenched t-shirt, and so take respite with a tea-lady huddled under the overhanging tin roof of a shop, the percussion of the precipitation drowning out my desire for a hot drink.

“You mad bastard” is the reply I get from an Irish guy who drives past in a UN vehicle. I had flagged them down, wondering if they knew anywhere to stay around here. Explaining that I am not with “an organisation”, just traveling here independently, he says he’s never heard of a “tourist” in Kauda. From here on in, there are certain things that I cannot write about. Not right now. But I did find a place to lay my head…

Kauda was the base in the Nuba mountains for the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), the southern rebel force fighting the national army and militia groups during the civil war, and their influence is still strong. Fighting in the Nuba mountains was intense, and many of the region’s children were taken into slavery by the North, with villages here being raided for slaves and cattle.

The region is a strange one as Sudan goes. South Kordofan was the only state not to have voted during the recent legislatives due to contestations of the census. Whilst it lies steadfastly in Northern Sudan, there are deep links with the South, and although its native population will not be voting in the forthcoming referendum—that right is limited only to those in the geographical south—certain areas will take part in popular consultations.

They speak a sort of pidgin Arabic here, and during the war, the teaching of the Arabic script was forbidden in schools, favouring the Latin alphabet. Posters are dotted around the village for the program of Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration (DDR), being supported by the United Nations Development Program (UNDP). Approximately 180,000 soldiers in North and South Sudan are to form part of this. Here in Kauda and its environs, having given up their arms, soldiers are given money to tide them over, and a small amount of training to help them reintegrate into the community, finding another source of subsistence than their gun.

A couple of days later, I was sat in the front of a 4x4 as we weaved through the dramatic mountain slopes that form the landscape here. Veering off the main dirt-track to explore these hillsides, however, is out of the question. When faced with a small flooding of the track, the driver muttered “better to get muddy than blown up by a landline” — the region is still infested by the things.

Saturday is market day in Komo, the small village for which we were headed, lost amongst the spurs of the hills. For the first time since I had left Europe, I saw a pig. Northern Sudan is predominantly Muslim, and under Sharia law, pork is generally nowhere to be found. Yet here in the Nuba mountains, with its influence from the Christian and animist South, the sale of pig meat is unlikely to draw interest. The vibrant, colourful market had people walking from the neighbouring villages; en-route we had seen women draped in colourful toobs, their slender arms reaching up to bowls carried on their heads, negotiating the track. Butchers’ stands were awash with goat’s meat, smoke rising from nearby barbecues, mixing with the scent of tea and fuul. Under the shade of a thatched hut, a congregation of men are supping on merissa, the locally brewed sorghum-beer.

Whether this is North or South Sudan seems to have little importance in this remote outpost, but memories of the atrocities of the war are far from expunged. Information about the up-coming referendum is lacking, and the people hold a false-hope that they will have a say in whether the world’s newest nation will be formed from splitting Sudan in two. More so, if this split does happen, they believe that they will be part of the South. Yet these people lie far north of the demarcation, meaning that they will have neither vote, nor citizenship of Southern Sudan should the South vote for independence. For me, all eyes are on South Kordofan come early 2011.

The Most Dubious Journey So Far

“Go down to the souq and take the road on the right, you’ll see the bus station” a man directed me as I was searching for transport to Kauda, 115km east of Kadugli. Two days ago, I had never heard of this village, but as clouds began to amass overhead—the rainy season rolling in—I was walking down a nondescript dirt road trying to find a way to get there.

During the civil war Kauda was the base for the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), the southern rebel force opposing the national army, and I had been told that the population there was much more “Southern” than that of Kadugli, the influence of the SPLA still strong. My acquaintance in de-mining had been there a few days ago, where they had discovered cluster bombs and other unexploded ordinance on the main road, a route they used often.

Having walked past the “bus station” I was pointed back in the direction I had just come from until I realised that the crowd of people around an old open-backed Land Rover constituted the departure point for this remote village.

We were fourteen, crammed in the back of this Land Rover, ten adults and four children. Two others sharing the passenger seat were traveling first class, having paid a supplement of ten Sudanese pounds to be up front.

When an armed soldier climbed in next to me, I feared that I would have to produce my travel documents, thus marking the end of my journey. When registering with the authorities in Kadugli I had said that I would be staying only in town and hiking in the surrounding hills. By going to Kauda, I had gambled on that in not passing any major roads, and heading into SPLM territory, check-points would not be a problem. My fear, however, was unfounded as he muttered salaam alikoum, squeezing in beside me, just another passenger. Wa alikoum salaam.

Now, my only fear was whether he had put on the safety-catch of his Kalashnikov that was rattling between his legs as we bounced over the rutted dirt track, the barrel pointing upwards inclined at an angle somewhere in line with my head.

Driving out into the savannah we passed villages of tokuls, the Nuba mountains encircling this vast, arid plain. Crossing dry river beds, the implications of travel during the four-month long rainy season suddenly become apparent. Good luck with the upcoming census.

And then the rains thundered in. Tarpaulin was wrapped around the side of our open-backed Land Rover but did little to keep out the storm, driven in by a fierce cross-wind, whipping the blue sheeting. The tin roof was depositing heavy splashes of water on the man next to me; the child on my lap began to cry, my efforts to shelter him from the worst of the rain evidently not enough. None of us were dressed for this, and for the first time since being in Sudan, I felt bitterly cold to the bone as the biting wind blew over us.

The river-beds we were now crossing were no longer dry and the driver bounded over submerged rocks, veiled by the silty waters, wheels spinning in the mud as we mounted the opposite bank. At one crossing the gear-box jams, and we remain motionless for a while. Later, the engine stalls and fails to restart. I see the driver in the sanctuary of his dry cab, his head pressed against the steering wheel, inspiring little confidence. We sit motionless for half an hour like that, the wind still thrashing us with rain, losing hope. And then the engine splutters back into life.

Crossing deepening and quickening rivers, my legs and buttocks are numb. We pass more tokuls, and as their density increases, I feel respite is near. A UNICEF compound confirms this, and we have reached Kauda. The journey should have taken around three and a half hours, but we now arrive six and a half hours after having set off.

I head straight for a straw hut with smoke emanating from it, the scent of fuul in the air. I haven’t eaten all day; the search for accommodation can wait.

Kadugli

Despite being the provincial capital, Kadugli is still rather rustic. Walking down the main-street, a herd of cows lazily plod past the single—or at most, double-storey buildings. Three-or-so concrete roads run through town, the rest are dirt streets. The newspapers here are the previous day’s edition, and sold for 50% more than their cover price; “transport from Khartoum” the vendor tells me.

The Nuba mountains were the scene of intense fighting between the armies of the North and South during the civil war, and Kadugli a major stage for this. “Everybody knew how to use a gun very well” Hassan* tells me as we walk back to his home on the outskirts of town. I had met him an hour previously.

When he was a young boy, the civil war still raging, the road that he would use to go to school—a road we had just taken—was mined. It was not uncommon for him to see fresh bodies along the way, victims of the previous night’s fighting. As we cross some open ground, he points out two schools, one run by the National Congress Party (NCP), the party of President Bashir, the other by the Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM), the ruling party in Southern Sudan. “I hate them both” he says.

For young men like him, finding a job is difficult. We are talking French, a language he speaks rather fluently, having studied at the University of Omdurman. Despite his university education, he is now working in a photocopy shop, and feels désespéré, “hopeless”. “Unless you are with the NCP, you cannot find a job” he says. He is currently studying English in his spare time, here in Kadugli “it is more important than Arabic” he claims, with many international NGOs being based here.

Investment in the town is now growing, though. Peace was signed here in 2003, two years before the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) that officially ended the Second Sudanese Civil War in 2005. Sat in the market drinking coffee talking to a Kadugli veteran, John, who has been working here for the last few years in de-mining, he says that two years ago, there were only two or three shops in town. The now bustling shops that surround us as we drink tea from a street-side tea-lady were just empty shells. Now, in the town centre, there are several restaurants and the foundations for a new bank are being dug, which will give a new face to the place. But I can’t help but think that shining glass will somewhat ruin the town’s humid charm.

But echoes of the fighting are still resonating. Whilst one can now walk safely in the hills immediately surrounding the town—they have all been cleared—many other areas are still littered with mines and unexploded ordinance. And walking through town, many a soldier, dressed in camouflaged fatigues, will cycle past on a decrepit bicycle, a Kalashnikov slung over his soldier.

South Kordofan was the only state not to vote in the recent legislatives as there was disagreement about the recent census. With such a divided population — Northerners, Southerners and native Nuba — having an accurate representation of eligible voters is crucial. A new census is planned soon, although with the onset of the rainy season, which is starting now, many villages will be inaccessible. Voting for the legislatives is scheduled for November, seven months after the rest of the country cast their ballot.

Sitting atop a hill overlooking the town, a tokul and the thick, knotted trunk of a baobab tree beside us, the problems of Kadugli seem far. The mines have gone, and life seems not to have changed since before the colonial era. Walking in the hills, two ladies carry bundles of firewood on their head, their long, slender arms forming an elegant arc. Hassan explains to me the legends of the mountains in the distance. How one is cursed and in which diamonds are to be found, pointing to the horizon. Another, steep-sided pinnacle has a tree clinging on to its steep side; the alchemic leaf from which gives eternal life and turns anything into gold.

The setting sun silhouettes the mountains and flora as we walk back to town, the muezzin’s call to evening prayer echoing from the rock. It is time for Hassan’s evening shift, but there is no electricity. Power cuts are common in the rainy season, he says.

* Name changed

Homebrew

“Where are the people?” a staggering man asks, rhetorically, as he walks alongside me. “In the houses. Asleep.” he answers himself, slurring somewhat. Brick and concrete constructions had given way to grass and straw houses in this small village, bordering the hills that surround Kadugli. In a country where alcohol is illegal, it didn’t register at first that this man was blotto, but as the morning drew on, his walking turned to stumbling and the amount of spittle ejected from his mouth made the hot air even more humid.

He led me from hut to hut, perhaps to parade around this khawaaja—they don’t get many here—to other members of his community, but more likely to procure further moonshine en route. We entered one tokul where a lady was crouched over a small wood-fire, making kisra, the sour Sudanese injerra, a sort of galette. One of her children was summoned away from playing in the dirt to fetch a drink. I initially mistook it—rather optimistically—for water. On taking a mouthful it turned out to be ereegi, the locally brewed liquor, an extremely potent gin distilled from dates. It was eleven in the morning and I was already dehydrated; I could have done without that tipple.

Guided to another tokul, a its conical thatched roof providing shelter from the sun, more women were sat around preparing food for a later meal. In a mud-walled adjacent room sat the men-folk, all swigging from wooden bowls as they hunched around a radio from which issued traditional Nuba music. The subject of their thirst-quenching was merissa, a muddy-looking beer brewed from sorghum, a long cry from the stuff of Belgian breweries. Here in Sudan, they take what they can get, and my new “friend” was eager to indulge; when we left, him staggering through the doorway, his movement—and mood—became even more erratic. It was time to slip away, hoping he wouldn’t follow me back to town: being caught drunk in Sudan carries lashes as punishment. “Ma salaama, mon pote.”

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A Long Day of Traveling

It began at dawn, flagging down a rickshaw in the cool morning air, the sun not yet pressing its thumb on this arid, African country. This is the best time of the day, but it doesn’t last long.

Fighting through the touts at Mina Buri, I secured a bus to El-Obeid. That morning, there were none to Kadugli, South Kordofan’s provincial capital in the heart of the Nuba mountains. I needed time out of the city and wanted to see more of Sudan. Any region that has “mountains” in its title merits a look.

After a long, lolloping ride in an impossibly hot old bus, it reached El-Obeid an hour and a half later than planned, not bad for Sudan. The day was already well advanced, and when asking around for transport, some said that I would have to wait until tomorrow, others spoke of a bus station the other side of town. A long trek ensued, traversing the souq in the afternoon heat, until at the outskirts, buses were leaving.

These transpired to be the same style of bus as the Khartoum “city” buses, small affairs where 30-or-so people cram in. String-tied boxes lay in the dirt, waiting to be attached to the roof by a posse of youths, hoping to scrape together some money for a day’s work. Crammed in to the front seat, sharing it with another passenger, we crossed the check-point to the exit of the town. I expected problems as traveling in this part of the country raises eyebrows; I hoped my permit was in order. It was dusk, and I still had many miles to cover.

In the last throes of the day’s pink light, the thick, winding trunks of baobab trees lined the route. Ahead, a haboob was blowing strong, an orange mist covering the road reflecting the light of oncoming vehicles.

A collection of thatched huts appeared—a Sudanese service station—gas lights providing a little illumination to the stands of fried fish and falafel. The closer we got to Kadugli, the more the road deteriorated. At times, the driver took to the dirt by the side of the road, preferring this than the tarmac road. Looking across, he was looking sleepy; intermittently jarred back to life as we bounced over pot-holes.

It was past midnight when we arrived. I had no idea where I would be sleeping and the town was black and deserted. Armed police stood outside the occasional building, and seemed to know little of the town’s accommodation. Eventually finding a locked door with lokanda written in Arabic, indicated by a man with a Kalashnikov slung across his lap. The proprietor, disturbed from his sleep told me I couldn’t stay until I registered with the police. “At this time?” I queried. With a snap of his fingers, his friend was called over and I was on the back of a motorbike speeding down the dirt streets. “Come back tomorrow for your passport” the policeman told me, weary with sleep. I felt uneasy leaving him my passport, but seemed to have little choice.

Back at the lokanda, the mosquitos were biting as I slept in the communal courtyard, sweat covering my body in the humid night air.

Welcome to South Kordofan.