Halgt Zikr in Omdurman

The White Nile separates Khartoum from Sudan’s largest city, Omdurman, which was the country’s capital during the brief Mahdist rule at the end of the 19th century. The capital was moved back across the Nile to Khartoum when the British brutally defeated the Mahdists at the Battle of Omdurman, heralding over fifty years of effective colonial rule, A traditional Muslim city, the atmosphere here is very different to that of the neighbouring capital, dotted with colonial architecture.

For visitors to the region, Omdurman is reputed as having the country’s largest souq, and every Friday, for the congregation of whirling dervishes practicing their devotion to Allah at the Hamed el-Nil mosque.

My first taste of Sufism, the mystical dimension of Islam, was just three weeks previously, as the colourful Al-Tannoura Traditional Troup presented their choreographed performance in Cairo. Walking past the small cemetery at Hamed el-Nil, the chanting of la illaha ila-llah (“there is no god but Allah”) filled the air. The dhikr is a very different affair than the seated performance in Khan al-Khalili, as a large group of men dressed in white djellabas stood, almost trance-like, forming a large circle.

Dust filling the air as the ground reverberated with the beating of drums and the dervishes danced and whirled, “turning [their heart] away from all else but God”. Many carry ceremonial canes as they parade around the circle. Another devotee, in almost priest-like attire, scented the air with incense, before himself spinning barefoot on the dusty ground, his beads splaying out and smoke issuing from his hands.

Sudan—reputed for its adherence to Sharia law—and its people are heavily influenced by religion; the country is, by name, an Islamic Republic. Walking down the street at one of the five prayer times, the muezzin fills the air and swathes of men are out on the pavement kneeling towards Mecca. Yet the lives of normal people here are far from the strict, oppressive stereotypes that many hold in the West, this Sufi display being a facet of the story. The majority of women observe Islamic dress code, but their coverings are rarely muted burkas, often influenced by the traditional African toob, and they have no qualms about extending a hand to greet a scruffy looking foreigner.

At Hamed el-Nil, in a country where alcohol is forbidden by law, an occasional waft of marijuana floats by. Elsewhere in the capital, home-brewed merissa and erigi (a sorghum-based beer and a strong gin of fermented dates, respectively) can be obtained if one knows the right places to ask. A Sudanese friend described her compatriots as a very liberal people, “it’s just that they don’t like to show it”.

It is easy to dismiss these differences as a north-south divide, particularly pertinent with the current focus on the referendum scheduled for January 2011, where the people of the south will decide whether they wish to succeed from north. Yet with such a display in the heart of a traditional, Muslim city bordering the capital, I found the line is not so clearly cut.

» More images: Hamed el-Nil Sufis.

Hommage à Amigo

The Orchestre des amis d’amigo, conducted by Dr. Kamal Youssif, perform on the rooftop terrace of the Centre Culturel Français, Khartoum.

Sudanese Bureaucracy I: Tenacity

The entry stamp at the border, along with the paperwork that goes with it, is not the end of the paper-trail one must accumulate upon arriving in Sudan. Nor is the immigration process in Wadi Halfa. Arriving in Khartoum, another page in the passport must be claimed by one final stamp.

As the city is heating up in the morning sun, I walk across central Khartoum to the Aliens’ Registration Building, as marked on a photocopy of an old Lonely Planet map. Passing the supreme court, numerous ministries and approaching the Republican Palace, police presence is high, and they tell me that the office is no longer housed here. Some sketchy directions later and I am walking back across town, eventually locating the (unsigned) building in a small dirt street.

I obtain & complete the relevant form, photocopy it, and queue again to obtain my stamp. An ageing, uniformed man sat behind a pane of glass tells me that I need a guarantor to be here, without which I cannot register. My supplications lead nowhere, despite having already registered sans-guarantor in Wadi Halfa; I am faced with an impasse. A letter from my hotel would suffice, except that I have none as I am staying in a private residence; what’s more, my host is not Sudanese.

More leg-work, passing-by my initial port of call, and I enter into the office of the manager of the Blue Nile Sailing Club. In this city of high-priced hotels, it is reputed amongst over-landers as the place to camp in Khartoum, and thus the cheapest. The office is located on the beached gunboat of Lord Kitchener, the leader of the Anglo-Egyptian army who defeated the Mahdists at the end of the 19th century, thus returning Sudan to British colonial rule for over fifty years. This boat was now the location of a sole, British traveller fighting Sudanese bureaucracy and it is here that I obtained the required letter; a small battle won.

Crossing the city for the third time that day, it is 41°, and the aforementioned uniformed bureaucrat tells me that I should now go to a different office, seemingly unwilling to cede defeat. I follow increasingly vague directions to find a square, grey, concrete building, where I am met by puzzled looks. They send me to a neighbouring construction, where I am told that here, they only deal with Sudanese applicants.

Cue the vaguest directions of the day, and I am walking down a street where the tar is melting beneath my sandals, leaving its black, viscid marks on my feet. I walk into the “Investment Building” — a strange name for an office dealing with immigration.

I am dehydrated, tired and my patience has long since evaporated as the official inside tries to charge me the registration fee again. I explode, exclaiming in something resembling Arabic that I was told in Wadi Halfa that I should not have to pay again, and that I am adamant that I will not do so. His colleague tries to coerce me, saying “just give this man the money…” — my refusal sees me sent to the office of his superior. With a stack of Chinese passports on his desk — presumably oil and construction workers — he takes a harder line, saying that I’ll get nowhere in Sudan, not even to the border, without this registration. So be it, I retort.

Eventually, he tells me to sit down, takes my passport and disappears with it. Ten minutes later, it is handed back to me with the registration stamp and I am told khalas — finished. My battle was over, for now.

“I’ll just be here a few days”

It was sat on a Lithuanian guy’s sofa in Vilnius whilst hitch-hiking to Latvia that I first heard about couch-surfing, a website providing a formal framework for what I was doing by chance at that exact moment. I noted it, signed up, and subsequently more-or-less forgot about it.

Four years later, sat (rather more uncomfortably) on the ferry from Egypt to Sudan, I meet an American girl traveling with a Belgian guy whom she had met via the site several weeks previously. She extolled its virtues, suggesting I should use it in Khartoum; her new-found travel companion being testament to its merits. I hesitated over the likelihood of finding users registered in Sudan, but in an internet café in Dongola—itself, surprising and improbable in existence—I discovered that the community in Sudan’s capital seemed both rather large and active.

Fast-forward a few days and I find myself sitting in the air-conditioned lobby of Afra mall, waiting for an Italian ex-patriate who has offered me a bed for the night. Having spent the afternoon walking around the dusty streets of Khartoum with over twenty kilos on my back and the mercury rising over 40°, I am dirty and sweaty, feeling rather out of place.

I climb into the front-seat of an NGO pick-up truck and am whisked through the streets of al-Amarat to a house my host shares with several Eritrean refugees. As we sit on the terrace, the call to prayer sounds from a nearby mosque, interrupted by the deafening sound of aircraft landing at the nearby Khartoum airport. The evening air is hot as I struggle to remember peoples’ names and which international organisations they work for. Unlike other countries in which I have traveled on this trip, the question in Khartoum is not “where are you traveling?” but rather “which organisation are you with?” — travellers are few here, but certainly not unheard of. (In the coming week, I would meet a couple of others, vying for the same bed.)

I had initially thought I would spend just a few days in the city, enough time to be around for the elections before moving on. Talking about the elections, the group says that nobody knows how things will pan-out. Regarding my visit during this period, the advice is to stay in Khartoum, or better still, leave the country. I am unwilling to do the latter; doing so would forfeit my visa (for which I had dearly paid) without having seen anything of Sudan. I was told that NGOs were calling their staff around the country to return to the capital during this period. Others were sending people back to their respective countries for fear of what may happen. Embassies advised stocking-up on food & water, with the possibility of disruption in the streets.

As people left that night, I was asked if I would be around for a birthday party in a few days’ time. “I should still be here”, I replied, imagining it to be the period around the end of my sojourn in the city. This answer seems ridiculous now, thirteen weeks on, still in Khartoum. The question “so how long are you sticking around for?” became a running joke. “Blame it on the elections.”

These people that I initially struggled to place, I now count amongst my very good friends. There are people who bid me bon voyage in April, who’s farewell parties I have since attended, bidding them adieu. Vive Sudan.

To Khartoum

It was a strange sensation to feel a bit nippy. I hadn’t felt cold since that night in Sheik Jarrah in East Jerusalem, three countries and many weeks previous.

I had woken early to catch the bus to Khartoum, and as the sun was rising on the other side of the Nile, the air was pleasant, far from the stifling heat to which I had become accustomed. Sat in one of the coaches that plies the new Chinese/oil funded roads in North Sudan, the air conditioning was pumping out cold air. Only when the driver opened a window briefly was one brought back to the reality of the interminable heat of this country, reinforced by the desert landscape that unfolded the other side of the smoked glass. I was alone in keeping a crack open between the curtains, watching the expanse of sand and rocks stretch to the horizon, occasionally spilling out onto the road. My fellow passengers were well aware of the monotonous landscape through which the tarmac traced, and it held little interest for them, looking out only at the occasional army checkpoint.

Despite the vast expanse of glass that constitutes the front of a modern bus, the view the driver had of the road was small, peering in-between plastic flowers, numerous Tweetie Pi’s, empty gift bags and other trinkets. Faith was put in the Masha’Allah (approximately “God has willed it”) sticker that adorns all public transport, as the bus swung around corners and overtaking wildly, all the time leaning on the horn. Time seems to hold little value in this part of the world, except when behind a steering wheel.

Arriving into Omdurman, the city neighbouring the Sudanese capital, separated by the confluence of the Blue & White Nile, the first image I had was of a lorry driving past full of armed soldiers. It seemed the archetypal cliché of Africa. I wondered what to expect in Khartoum — the name conjuring up many images — and what the atmosphere would be like with the elections looming.

The bus stopped at the edge of the giant Omdurman souq, where boys carrying blocks of ice weaved between tea-ladies and water coolers. Within two minutes of stepping into the stifling air of the city, three men had proffered the “traditional” Sudanese faux-leopard skin shoes. There seemed an odd juxtaposition between the midday, heat-induced lethargy as men lay under vehicles, napping in their shade, and the bustle of the souq.

Taking another, local bus to Khartoum itself, we crossed the Nile and I found myself in the dusty streets of downtown Khartoum, wandering around in the mid-afternoon sun with more than twenty kilos on my back, wondering where I would be spending the night. Once the afternoon power-cut had subsided, my question was answered by an Italian Cooperation worker. Couch-surfing in Khartoum.