Nuba Wrestling

Carpets cordon-off the seemingly impromptu wrestling ring in the heart of Souq al-Sita in Khartoum’s Bahri district. The cries from the hundreds of djellaba-clad supporters mixes with the dust filling the air within its confines. The focus of their gaze is the two giants stood at the hub of it all, their sinews taught as they crouch facing each other, arms poised to lunge.

The Nuba mountains—from which I had not long returned—saw fierce fighting during the civil war causing many people to flee. With them, certain local traditions endure, such as the wrestling and here in Khartoum it is a big event. The attire may not be akin to what is still worn down in Kordofan for such bouts, but the spirit is the same.

Men squared up to each other, as well as to the crowd who were more than forthcoming with their like—or dislike—of a particular fighter. Old men in djellaba would have no qualms about standing up and hectoring these titans. When a wrestler, or even the commentator, did find favour with them, they would approach them, lick a five Sudanese pounds note, and stick it to their forehead.

Policemen lolled around the ring, their wooden batons loosely held. Young boys did the rounds, selling cigarettes, small bags of peanuts and seeds. The only women in the arena were those plying a similar trade.

The dust not only filled the air, but was smeared into cuts, and rubbed over the contact points of the body, aiding the friction when a hold was taken.

The wrestling itself was much like life in Sudan. Often slow, strained and contemplative, but with sudden bursts of speed and aggression lighting things up. Fighters would grapple, their hands clasped around their opponent’s neck or knee, and the two would stagger until the grip was released, or is forced to the ground. There is no pinning and no submission, the objective being to slam one’s opponent to the ground.

As dusk grew nearer, the babbling Arabic commentary meant that we were not aware that the bout that we were watching was the final. As the ground thundered to the falling combatant, the crowd erupted, dust filled the air, along with shouts and ululations. People would come up and shake our hands—the token khawaaja—nodding and grinning as they expressed their delight with the result. The carpets were dropped, the arena opened up, and everybody poured out into the souq, the orange sun hanging low.

A far cry from the stadiums of American wrestling that are, regrettably, broadcast on seemingly every long-distance bus that plies Sudan’s roads.

» See the full collection of images here.

Where and when

The wrestling takes place at Souq al-Seta in Khartoum’s Bahri district every Friday around the end of the afternoon.

Sleepless Nights Chasing Dreams

When I envisaged this journey, Sudan was just a country en-route to Kenya, a step between Egypt and Ethiopia, albeit an intriguing one. Following two months in the country, with much of it still to explore, its status was changing somewhat. I was—and still am—learning more about the culture, the people, the politics, and I am fascinated. This was a unique time to be in Africa’s largest country, which is on the cusp of dividing itself to produce the World’s newest nation, all whilst having a President who is the only serving head of state to be indicted by the International Criminal Court for such serious charges, accused of crimes against humanity.

It was a time of investing myself in the country. I had applied for a couple of jobs, and had been offered one with an NGO, but which was scuppered by mon ami, the visa. On reflection, this is a good thing. I would have taken it as a means to stay in the country, rather than doing something I was passionate about. As is often the way in my life, I can’t help but feel I’m “falling into” things. Do I ever make conscious decisions? Things just seem to happen to me. The chain of events that has brought me to this moment has relied so much on chance. But then, I suppose, also an openness to embrace those chances that do come along.

In these early days of June, I was hunched over my laptop for hours upon end, illuminated by the soft light of the screen as dawn creeped through the window, preparing a portfolio, producing a CV, and writing application letters. I was meeting with journalists here, some of which in a professional capacity but mostly on a personal level, I felt inspired. I remembered the initial incentive I had had; when doubts clouded my mind, my thoughts wandered back to Patrick Chauvel’s autobiographical Rapporteur de guerre, Ryszard Kapuściński’s notes on the his travels & coups d’états in Ebène, or Aiden Hartley’s memoirs “of love and war” in The Zanzibar Chest, all of whose pages had helped mould the motivation to come away.

The biggest bags under my eyes came in the days before the application deadline for an assignment with the UNDP in Southern Sudan. I was up all night for several days, finalising my portfolio and writing the letter. In the end, this led to nothing—total silence even—and I felt deflated, but consoled myself that the effort had not been in vain.

And so here I am, contemplating la suite. To stay in Sudan, and to do something. I just need the means.

And some sleep.

The Last Supper

Dawn, her saffron cloak preceding the glowing orb, rose to silence the frogs’ croaking and herald another humid day. I stepped out from the NGO guesthouse in which a mosquito net protected me from the night’s beasts, and boarded another vehicle. The previous day’s traveling, hampered by the onset of the rainy season, left me drained, but I was racing back to Khartoum. This was the final Sudanese sunrise for a very good friend, tonight being his Last Supper.

The desert with his fiercely searing wiles, had other ideas, the spluttering Chinese bus veering off the tarmac road, coming to a stop in the vast, desolate sands. The sun was unforgiving as we stood outside, but the temperature inside rising to intolerable levels.

The driver inspired little confidence as he inspected the engine, a dumbfounded look spreading across his face. To my trained ear, the engine sounded “proper fucked”, like the rabbit. And so I stuck out my thumb. I knew not where I was, but I knew the direction in which we were headed, and where I wanted to be. Hitch-hiking in the Sudanese desert.

And thus I arrived—my clothes still smeared in the mud of yesterday’s adventures—to bid adieu to the first of the fold who would withdraw from this country of ephemeral employment. Many more would follow his leave, and those whom I expected only to be passing acquaintances as I traveled through Sudan would board their flights as good friends. All the time my feet firmly planted on Sudanese soil.

Bon courage, à tous.

First Rains’ First Victims

I was hitching a ride back from Kauda to Kadugli. If I thought the journey to Kauda was arduous, the return would raise things up a notch.

Already, I was a day later than I had hoped. As a storm pitched its lightening into the earth the previous day, any chance to travel was dead. I woke hoping for a reprieve.

We were the first vehicle out that day, attempting the journey to Kadugli, separated by 115km of roads untouched by man’s concrete conquest. As we started out, the mud was already thick, nourished by the previous night’s storm. Every now and then, we were forced to stop to inspect its depth, ahead, before continuing.

At one of the early river crossings, we soon ran into trouble. Wading out into the middle of the thigh-deep waters, the silt did not inspire confidence, and so the decision was made to try a different crossing point. Dropping down to the river bank, the vehicle soon became entrenched in the river sand. We were axle deep, the chassis resting on the sand, the wheels just spinning.

At one point, I was under the vehicle as far as my waist, scooping out wet sand with my hands, trying to free the suspension. Drift wood was collected to jam under the wheels to provide some traction. We were in a sorry state.

After an hour or so, the vehicle was moving. But it was towards the river that our calamitous driver was headed, and as soon as he hit the water, the Land Cruiser was sunk unto the axles — there would be no digging our way out this time.

One of our party had already gone to a nearby village in search of a tractor, but the driver—and the keys—were not there. We waited in the unforgiving sun. We could see a slow stream of vehicles approaching the crossing that we had avoided, some making it through. Others, on foot, ventured towards us, following our ruinous tracks, a tragic look on their faces as they raised their hands to their heads wondering what fate was upon our vehicle. Local boys stood around, stripping the orange flesh from freshly fallen fruit, bemused at our plight.

Some hours later, the sound of an agricultural engine filled my heart with hope. The tractor driver appeared, his shirt stained with blood and the hairs of a freshly hunted deer dotting his face. He had taken one shot with his AK-47 to win his prize.

We placed more wood under the wheels, attached the frayed steel cabling, and were knee deep in the river as we pushed the vehicle, the tractor being pulled onto its rear wheels as it heaved. It took several attempts, but we were finally free, ready to face the crossing we had initially eschewed.

The scene before us was ominous. Two vehicles were already stuck in the river, and the churned banks made each crossing increasingly precarious. NGO vehicles also plying the route dotted the scene, with one preparing to tow out a decrepit pick-up. The UN vehicle would soon take its turn in helping the community.

Passenger vehicles would arrive, their passengers alighting before the vehicle tried its luck. For those in the pick-ups, their journey was a dirty one. The local children looked on.

We forced our way across, and were soon negotiating the muddy road ahead, hoping to make Kadugli before sun-down. Our greatest challenge lay ahead.

A flash flood at Omsurtiba had wiped out the crossing, as well as some of the neighbouring buildings. One vehicle stood stranded in the river, having attempted the crossing. This would soon be commonplace as tens of people hauled on tow-ropes, heaving them to shore.

An SPLM pick-up arrived, and soon the assembled crowd was intermingled with armed men, benignly watching the scene unfold. In reflection, I am surprised at how unperturbed I have become to the presence of AK-47s, somewhat accustomed and desensitised to these objects of death.

For our vehicle, this was the end of the road. Those that did manage to cross exited the other side with water draining from the doors. My compadres were heading back to Kauda. For me, I had to press on. Staying longer in Kauda was not an option, and I felt close to Kadugli, and thus the route home to Khartoum the following day.

So I crossed the river by foot, the late afternoon sun casting an orange light on the djellaba-clad men who did likewise. Facing us on the opposite bank was a line of vehicles stood contemplating the crossing, headed for Kauda. I hoped that amongst them there would lie those who had not the heart for the crossing, and so were heading back to Kadugli, whence they came.

And so we were eight to cram into the boot of a Land Cruiser, myself and other nomads, sitting atop each other as the vehicle bounced over ruts and rocks. My whole body went numb as night set in, violent forks of lightening illuminating the plains that surrounded Kadugli. We would soon be home.

» See all the images here.

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.