New Roads Through Sudan

Northern Sudan is going through a boom in infrastructure development, a large part of which is due to Chinese investment. There is a brand new road that follows the Nile from Wadi Halfa, south through Dongola and onto Khartoum, the freshly painted lines marred only by occasional drifts of sand that blow over it from the desert through which it cuts. A couple of years ago, this same route consisted of only a dirt track that is still visible as one speeds over the black asphalt.

Around the towns en route, huge billboards proclaim the partnerships between the Sudanese government and Chinese contractors for the neighbouring bridges and dams. It is the Sudanese who are responsible for the majority of construction of the roads, with the oil-wealth from the Southern oil-fields; the Chinese are more involved in the dams and bridges, the images of which are plastered all over NCP advertisements, encouraging support in the up-coming elections. The NCP are keen to promote the development for which they are responsible.

Near Karima, a billboard detailed the Merowean “Friendship” Bridge project, costing $25M. Funds had been “donated” by the Chinese National Petroleum Cooperation, it was managed by Sudanese companies, but sub-contracted out to Chinese constructors. The links between China & Sudan are strong; China funds construction of bridges & dams, in (implicit) return for drilling rights in the south, as well as contracts for Chinese construction companies and workers.

The investment in the road system will also aid the logistics of moving the huge amount of Chinese imported products into the country, thus increasing the opportunities of consumerism. The new roads have halved, if not reduced to a third, journey times, as well as reducing the petrol costs for operators running these routes. The price of bus-tickets, however, has remained the same.

Cheating Death

I had intended on catching the bus south from Wadi Halfa to Dongola, but when the guys from 2Cape—a couple of Swedes over-londing it from Sweden to South Africa—offered me a lift with them, I jumped at the chance. We had met on the ferry from Egypt, forming part of the small group of khawaaja traveling this way into Sudan. They had already picked-up an American girl and a Belgian guy who were going as far as Tanzania with them, and we had all got on well over the last few days.

Had I not met them, it is likely I would be currently lying in a Sudanese hospital, or traveling back home in a coffin. I learned that the bus I would have taken had crashed en route, killing eleven of its passengers. Road accidents, particularly involving buses, are very common in Sudan.

A year ago, it would have taken around fourteen hours to drive to Dongola; the desert road being nothing more than a dusty track. Sudan is currently undergoing massive development in its road network, largely due to oil-money and Chinese investment. As a result, it is now possible to drive to Dongola on tarmac roads in less than half the time, the route skirting along the Nile. Every now and then the black asphalt cuts across the old route, a reminder of the comfort in which one now travels; we were spared a slow, bone-shaking endeavour.

The Sudanese drivers, however, are not used to the now limitless speed in which they can take these roads. I counted at least three bus carcasses lining the road, one of which being the bus I should have been on. For a people so relaxed in their everyday life, for whom time never seems to be an issue, behind the wheel they are transformed, never hesitating in overtaking at the most inopportune moment.

The passage itself is stunning. Setting off before dawn, at times we followed a seemingly endless, straight road cutting through desert that stretches to the horizon; at times winding through rocky mountains that rise from the plains. The route generally follows the Nile, along which small villages crop up, sustained by the Nile’s irrigating waters.

Stopping in Abri, the market was in full-swing. One local man accosted me, keen to talk about the up-coming elections here, and keen to know how the process takes place in England. I had come from the country that had “given democracy to the world”, and was about to witness it in its newest form. If the buses don’t get me first.

An Ever Diminishing Wardrobe

I had been given a t-shirt in Jordan bearing a green English oak. In the West Bank, people saw it and shouted out “Lubnaan”; the resemblance to the green cedar of Lebanon’s national emblem was slight, but sufficient.

Wearing it on the ferry from Egypt, some Sudanese had commented on it, but what they said was lost on me. When I arrived in Wadi Halfa, the campaign posters for the up-coming election were everywhere, practically all for the National Congress Party (NCP), for which the incumbent president, Omar al-Bashir, is head. The increasing comments about this green tree on my chest suddenly became clear. “Bashir!” they shouted. In the corner of these party posters was printed a logo of a green, bushy tree. I was inadvertently supporting the president.

As I passed from office to office as part of the grinding immigration process, collecting stamps, and forms, signatures, and inspections, the government-employed staff showed approval of my attire. Out in the market, people were keener to criticise. As soon as I got back to my room, this t-shirt would be relegated to the bottom of my backpack. My supply of clothes was already limited, but in this political climate, I was keen to avoid any extra attention than my khawaaja status already granted me.

That evening, I met a couple of travellers coming north from Khartoum where, they explained, they had heard that somebody had been killed a few days previously for wearing a t-shirt supporting al-Bashir. My English oak would stay firmly put at the bottom of my bag…

Wadi Halfa

A rickety, old Land Rover bounces off the road from the port and over the dirt to a collection of short, squat buildings, drowned in the midday sun. The dusty streets are empty, people huddle in the shade to avoid the scorching heat. We sit about in the open restaurants, fuul simmering away. It is not until the shadows grow longer that men in djellabas begin to venture out and activity begins. Rickshaws chug across the sandy plains that separate the collection of houses where Wadi Halfa’s inhabitants live and the commercial part of town that caters for the influx of passengers leaving to and from Egypt on the weekly ferry.

On the edge of town at dusk, dusty football pitches fill-up as the locals take advantage of the retreating heat, silhouetted against the setting sun as dust is kicked up into the air. From the vantage of the local jebel, we were rooting for our chosen team, the Nile forming the backdrop of their game.

» A few more photos from Wadi Halfa on Flickr.

The Road to Khartoum

A year after the International Criminal Court in the Hague issued an arrest warrant for Sudan’s president, Omar Bashir, I crossed the border into his country. He has ruled for the past 21 years since a coup in 1989, and my arrival coincided with the immediate run-up to the first multi-party elections in Sudan since 1986. Popular opinion was that he would walk away with the elections, having a firm grip on the country, and that such a win would “legitimise” his rule and counteract the indictment by the ICC.

I was unsure what to expect in Sudan. Most reactions regarding passage through the country were one of surprise, closely followed by questions of sanity. The coverage that the country receives in the international media is virtually wholly negative, between the situation in Darfur and the civil war between the north and south. The UK foreign office website is pretty damning in its advice on travel in the country.

There is a general threat from terrorism. Attacks could be indiscriminate, including in places frequented by expatriates and foreign travellers.

On the other hand, the rare stories of people who have traveled in (northern) Sudan are glowing. People have said that Khartoum is one of the “safest places on Earth”, and the generosity and friendliness that the Sudanese people extend is astounding. I found this easy to believe, having previously visited countries with similarly “dangerous” reputations; my travels in Syria and Iran have been heavily marked by the welcome I received there.

I arrived by boat in Wadi Halfa, the border town 40km south of the Egyptian frontier that cuts across Lake Nasser. South of here, the whole of Sudan stretches out. The FCO websites charts the country by its dangers, ranging from the conflict in Darfur to the West, to the risks of banditry linked to smuggling in the Red Sea state (bordering Eritrea) to the East. The south is the land of the 22-year long north-south civil war that was ended five years ago by the Comprehensive Peace Agreement, but where travel is to be strongly avoided. Khartoum is the stage for political rallies and anti-government demonstrations, “some have turned violent”. To complete the negative image that surrounds Sudan, in the early 1990s it was the base for Osama Bin Laden, “from where he directed some of his first terrorist attacks”.

These are the cons. But my attitude is rather that I refuse to believe that whole populations of such countries can live in such hate and violence, and that whilst certain precautions should to be taken, much of this can be avoided. Tales of the friendliness of people throughout the country, of little explored villages, the archeological legacy of the northern pyramids, the lush banks of the Nile, and the fascinating political landscape meant that the merits of spending some time here outweighed these issues.

I was eager to see where this road would take me.