Kandahar Camel Market

We were five, sat in the back of a pick-up driving out of Khartoum by Sharia al-Nil, speeding along the bank of the Blue Nile. Through Omdurman, and Souq Libya we drove, out through the desert that surrounds Sudan’s capital—and most other towns in the north of the country—mountains visible on the horizon. We were headed for Kandahar, a village sharing its name with the Afghani city that was briefly its capital at the end of the 18th century. The sun was beating down on us, starting to envy the three in the front of the pick-up who were shielded from its searing heat and the dust of the Sudanese roads.

Turning off the road past the shells of old army trucks we enter souq Moowaileh, known for its camel market. Meat hangs from hooks in front of open restaurants as the call of the muezzin issues from the minaret of the mosque behind.

Sudan is known for its camel trade; many of the camels in Egypt come from here to this day. They used to travel along the Forty Day Road through the Libyan Desert from Sudan’s now infamous Darfur region.

Just outside of the market, small, squat, square buildings stand, their courtyards full of sheep and goats. Between them, groups of men dressed in their traditional djellaba stand with herds of camels, their livelihoods. The joking on the way out here, about how many camels we could procure in exchange for the girls present, was no longer a joke. Offers were made.

Back in the souq, we go to eat their meat. We are seated just as the Friday prayers start, and so everything stops for half an hour. Once over, the meat is brought down from the hooks and chopped on a well-worn slice of tree trunk, the axe glimmering in the sun. Women in toobs sit around perforated metal woks that sizzle over charcoals, frying the meat. Vast trays of it are placed before us, served with shutta (a spicy, chilli sauce) and delicious duqwa salad, comprising tomatoes, red onion and peanut paste. For most meals in Sudan, the round loaves of eshi act not only as the carbohydrate of a meal, but as cutlery, too, used to scoop up the food.

The Turning Point

In the labyrinth of the corridors of the Ministry of Information—a name that conjures up illusions of Orwell’s 1984—I could not quite believe that it was actually happening. Something I had aspired to since I began this trip was suddenly starting to take form, to become real.

I sat in a deep, leather armchair in one of the offices, filled out a form and handed over my passport with two passport photographs, expecting this dream to crumble away with refusal.

A little over a year ago, I was laying in a refuge on the slopes of Mount Toubkal*. For the past eight months, I have been traveling through the Middle East, learning, practicing, meeting people who are doing what I want to do, and dreaming.

Then, one hot afternoon in Khartoum, I received an e-mail asking me if I would work on an assignment for a German magazine as a photographer. Two days later, I am with the bureau chief for AFP as he introduces me to the official who will decide whether I can step into this world.

As the question was leaving my mouth about whether my tourist visa would bar entry to the world of journalism, I checked myself. It is better to not ask questions to which you do not want to hear the answer.

Twenty minutes later, I had a press-card in my hand, and two days later I was in an Ethiopian restaurant, meeting the German journalist with whom I would be working.

I spent the best part of a week with her and some Eritrean refugees, documenting the story of Zekarias, who had fled his homeland eight years previously. Khartoum was part of his clandestine route to Europe, where he now lives. He had not seen his mother since he left, and now, back in the hot, dusty streets of Khartoum, he would be reunited with her.

On the days when I was shooting, I would wake up clogged by anticipation and fear. Was I capable of this? - the feeling of being out of my depth ever-present. But this was the turning point, the first step towards realising this ambition. Sat in a boat on the Blue Nile, touring Tuti Island, I knew that this was the path I wanted to take.

And so it starts…

» Read more about the story of Zekarias in my portfolio.

À la mode

Sudan and fashion are not usually two words that go together. At a recent competition for African designers, several Sudanese students entered, but were not selected. The new director of the Goethe Institut heard about this, and wanted to know why. Surely it could not only be a question of talent if not one single designer was chosen?

It turns out that fashion students here know how to design, but not to present their work. And so another workshop was born, focusing on portfolios, CVs and marketing oneself. A spin-off for this was a night show-casing their work, where a small collection of people in the industry were invited. “You do not need to search abroad to find product and talent”, being the message.

As Miss South Sudan took to the catwalk, marking the culmination of the night, the organisers were checking their watches. The previous night, another fashion show—virtually unheard of in Khartoum—had been raided by the police and people arrested for indecency. The morning’s papers had run the story and reactions from Sudanese acquaintances ranged from understanding of why they were arrested to indignation of the cultural state of the country. “I just want to get out of this place”, one friend said in exasperation.

Freedoms do seem to be opening up, although at times the police flex their muscle and restrictions close in. With the Southern Sudan referendum on the horizon, certain liberties would make unity much more attractive, a goal that the governments of both North- and South-Sudan are at least nominally committed to. Should independence occur, what will become of these events and will the country tighten further, without its Southern influence?

Tonight, at least, the police stayed away.

Fête de la Musique

It was during my three years living in Paris that I was first exposed to the Fête de la musique, an annual event that fills the air in the France’s towns and villages with music. Brass bands play on street corners a few metres away from rappers performing outside restaurants. Inside small bars, guitarists entertain. Cafés, parks and monuments are all full of performances on the northern hemisphere’s longest day of the year.

If you told me one year ago today, listening to bands play in Paris, that in twelve months time I would be reliving a slice of this in Sudan’s capital, still fêting la musique, it would have been a struggle to believe.

But the francophones of Centre Culturel Français in Khartoum did good - the roof of the centre was filled by a mix of Sudanese & expatriates. A mix of bands & students took to the stage, breaking many stereotypes of the country. The music was a mix of Western classics, improvised slam and Sudanese songs that brought the assembled crowd to their feet. A solitary fan provided little respite from the unrelenting heat of the day’s sun, blowing air in the direction of the French ambassador and his wife.

Ça va ou quoi ? shouted one rather vocal rapper. Ça va bien.

And they say the English drink tea

On plastic or string-woven stools by the side of the dusty road, a group of men can inevitably be found, engaged in conversation. At the centre of the circle they circumscribe, a painted metal cabinet sits, an array of jars of spices lined along its top, the smoke from burning sandalwood emanating from smouldering coals. Seated behind this one finds the Tea Lady, an essential part of Sudanese street culture. Beside her, charcoals boil water in enormous kettles, and coffee pots made out of old tins of ghee—or even aircraft oil—bubble away.

As a visitor to Sudan, these ladies are one of the first things that one notices, a quaint constant found in every town. They seem to keep the country going, blood-sugar levels sustained by sweet, thick shai (tea) or spiced jebbana (coffee) in scorching heat that kills the appetite.

In the early morning, they serve doughnuts from iron pans filled with oil, keeping hunger at bay until the eleven o’clock fittur (breakfast). Come late afternoon, the drink of choice is shai bil-laban, tea with milk powder. Their incense is burning into the night, and in restaurants, it is a tea-lady that provides post-meal coffee, franchised into the corner of the establishment.

Yet a rumble of discontent rolled through government not so long ago. A female minister made a move to diminish the tea-ladies from the streets of Khartoum, claiming that they represented poverty, gender issues and they are not a civilised feature of the country, stimulating prostitution and drug use. Luckily, a group of intellectuals rallied behind their cause with a counter-campaign, saying that they formed a vital part of Sudanese culture. A student at the Documentary Film Workshop at the Goethe Institut had wanted to make a film about them, but was denied permission by the relevant ministry. “It was the perfect story”, she said.

These ladies, many of who are migrants from Ethiopia, do come from the lower end of the economic scale, struggling to make a living. But they form a great hub of society, a social lynchpin. Under the great bridge to Tuti Island, the groups of people sat beside the Nile are all supping tea. On the shores of the island, where Khartoum “heads to the beach” come weekend, it is the tea-lady that provides the only refreshment. Outside a major hospital in Khartoum 2, visiting relatives sit waiting, engaged in discussion around these stands. On the street in front of the French Cultural Centre, staff and students alike sit in the late afternoon, the tea-lady serving with her notions of French. And in a delicious fish-restaurant in al-Amarat, it is an Ethiopian tea-lady that provides the after-meal drinks.

Mine will be a shai bil-nana, shukran.

» See more photos: Tea Ladies.