Jusqu'ici · Travel photography & writing

The Most Dubious Journey So Far “Go down to the souq and...

Thu, 27 May 2010 16:00:00 +0200

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.

A Portrait of Kadugli Despite being the provincial capital,...

Wed, 26 May 2010 18:00:00 +0200

A Portrait of 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” Said 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 Said, 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. Said 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 Said’s evening shift, but there is no electricity. Power cuts are common in the rainy season, he says.

Homebrew “Where are the people?” a staggering man...

Tue, 25 May 2010 11:00:00 +0200

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.”

» See the whole set.

A Long Day of Traveling It began at dawn, flagging down a...

Mon, 24 May 2010 10:00:00 +0200

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.

Sunt Forest An afternoon picnicking at Sunt Forest, lying...

Fri, 14 May 2010 17:00:00 +0200

Sunt Forest

An afternoon picnicking at Sunt Forest, lying between Khartoum the White Nile, a kilometre south of its confluence with Ethiopia’s Blue Nile.

In the sun-baked forest, monkeys ran around as the sound of guitar rang through the trees and men in djellaba watched on. Families milled around further towards the city, with tea-ladies plying their trade on the side of the dusty track.

Come sunset, the lush, verdant grasses of the Nile framed the silhouette of wooden shelters against the rose-tinted sky, buildings rising on the horizon.

The Interpreter It was a far way from the pressure of Nicole...

Thu, 13 May 2010 10:00:00 +0200

The Interpreter

It was a far way from the pressure of Nicole Kidman’s role as an interpreter for the UN, but for several days in May, my brain melted completely.

I was working as an interpreter for a conference with delegates from countries involved in the Nile Basin Initiative, hosted at the Ministry for Water & Irrigation in Sudan’s capital. Presentations were given in English, and two of us, wearing headphones whilst locked in a side-room, were regurgitating these words in French for the benefit of representatives from Rwanda, Burundi and other Francophone countries with a vested interest in the source of this mighty river. Two hour stints, without respite, left me exhausted.

The subject is rather pertinent at the moment, with a few articles and debates about the signing of treaties appearing in the international media. Egypt, through a mandate ratified in colonial times, yields the right to a lion’s share of the mighty river’s waters. It has threatened military action against any up-stream country that threatens its share of the waters. Sudan stands side-by-side with its neighbour — between the two countries they claim 87% — whilst the remaining countries are fighting for their right to exploit the Nile’s waters for irrigation and hydro-electric projects.

The conference also gave an interesting mind-set into the culture and workings of these African decision makers. Comments were never short, with lengthy introductions praising colleagues’ standing, before belittling their work or understanding of a problem. In workshops, less time was spent criticising a presentation than the presenter’s understanding of the question. Coffee and tea-breaks were accorded the utmost importance.

A Sudanese Wedding It was gone midnight and I had just left the...

Wed, 12 May 2010 15:00:00 +0200

A Sudanese Wedding

It was gone midnight and I had just left the Sudan Boombox party. In a pick-up truck speeding down Mohammed Najib street, tok-toks weaving past, my phone rang. I couldn’t hear the caller very well, but I made out the words “will you be my husband for the day?” from a friend working at Khartoum University. Without really thinking — the evening was treating me well — I agreed. Now was not the time to be asking questions. We carried on to a party.

Several days later, I was at the University of Khartoum, several students dressing me in a djellaba, pinning a traditional hat to my head and a scarf around my chest. What had I let myself in for? I was expecting this piece of theatre—part of the French department’s programme during Khartoum University’s Cultural Week—to be a small event. I was grossly mistaken. Girls dressed in their finest toobs were milling around, their hands covered in the intricate patterns of Sudanese henna. The male students had made an effort, donning djellaba for the day. Outside the sanctuary of this classroom-cum-dressing room, the building was filling up.

I was joined by their teacher, my friend who had asked me to participate, and we stepped out. The corridor was lined, nay, packed, with people. I led out my “bride”, her face completely covered by a golden veil, guiding her down the gauntlet of well-wishers thrusting out mobile phone cameras. As we reached the staircase spiralling down to the area reserved for the ceremony, the size of this event suddenly became evident. There were hundreds of people.

A cortège of girls dressed in white topped with pink veils, formed a corridor as we were seated, incense burning before us. A drum was being beaten with girls singing and ululating. The veil was lifted and draped over our shoulders, bands being tied around our wrists. A giant video-camera, a relic from the eighties, was filming everything. From out of nowhere, a photographer came, snapping away. I’m the one who likes to be behind a lens; I shy from being in front of them.

Unbeknownst to me, part of the Sudanese wedding ceremony involves the bride spitting milk in the face of the groom, its whiteness being a symbol of her purity. As I wiped the liquid from my face, we were urged to rise. An entourage of guys dressed in black shirts acted as security, shepherding us out of the building to parade around the campus. A wooden staff in my hand, I snapped my fingers to shouts of imshi arees!, raising it in celebration. My dressers had briefed me well.

Outside there were hundreds more people. To say I was intimidated was an understatement. As we toured the campus, a procession that seemed to take hours, the yuyuyuyuyu of the girls’ ululating and beating of the drum echoed across the courtyard. Further shouts from the men encouraged my fatigued arm to wave the staff, emulating the father of the bride I had seen some weeks previously at a real wedding.

With the event over, later walking around the campus, this khawaaja was immediately recognisable. Arees, “groom” in Arabic, was called out. I questioned whether people understood that this celebration was staged.

The following day, our photograph was on the front page of one of the Arabic, Khartoum dailies. The accompanying article made no mention of the fact that this was simply a performance. In Islam, I would still have the right to three more wives…

Sudan Boombox “Am I still in Sudan?” I asked myself...

Thu, 06 May 2010 23:00:00 +0200

Sudan Boombox

“Am I still in Sudan?” I asked myself as I was dancing, barefoot on green grass, to hip-hop. International DJs were on stage in front of me, lights issued over the crowd, and a circle formed with break-dancers at its centre.

This was thanks to the vision of Sayf and Mohammed, two friends who run the Sudan Boombox radio show. They had flown in DJs from the US, Europe and other African countries. Much of the crowd—and their dedicated following—was made up of Southern Sudanese.

House of Pain was mixed in, and the entire congregation followed when told to Jump Around.

I wondered where these people were during the day. Guys with big afros, girls dressed as though they were on a night out in London, not Khartoum. This was a long way from my habitual vision of the streets Sudan.

As the night wound up, cars were waiting outside to whisk people away. The dress of some of these girls would see them facing the police if they were on the street. In the sanctuary of this event, though, they could express themselves as they wished.

Sudanese Bureaucracy II: Patience I had been in Sudan just over...

Wed, 05 May 2010 11:00:00 +0200

Sudanese Bureaucracy II: Patience

I had been in Sudan just over a month, and my visa had just expired. Clandestino. Trying to renew it, I start out early to the Ministry for Humanitarian Affairs which I understood to be dealing with visa extensions. I am sent back over to the other side of Khartoum by a policeman, to the other Ministry for Humanitarian Affairs. “Are you sure?” I ask. He was.

Dusty and sweaty, having searched for it, traipsing for what seemed like hours, I arrive to be told that I need to go back to the building I had just come from. A series of incomprehensible protests in Arabic issued from my mouth and my mind is spinning with profanities.

Eventually, I get another address, somewhere out in eastern Khartoum, “just next to the Iraqi Embassy”. At least this one should be easier to find. Third tea-stop of the morning.

Less than a month previously I had been doing similar leg-work to register my presence in the country. Déjà-vu, with sweat trickling down my forehead.

As is often the way, one is sent from window to window, office to office, ping-ponging around the building. Having filled in the relevant forms, had them signed and stamped, I thought I was on the brink of securing my extension. There was just the general to see, who would sign it all off.

“You need a letter from your hotel”, he said. “I don’t have one”, I said. “Where are you staying?” he asked. “With friends”, I replied. “You need to bring a Sudanese person”, he said, “to guarantee you”. “Anyone?” I asked. “Anyone with an ID card.”

So I walked out of the office, grabbed the first man I saw, and stepped back into the office. He looked at me, looked at my Sudanese person, and looked back at me. “No.” His look was saying “don’t push your luck, sonny”.

Back out on the dusty streets, more profanities are being muttered. Oh, what I would give for the mild bureaucracy of Syria.

Three days later, I am back in his office with a genuine Sudanese friend. I had just been told my the administrators downstairs that my visa had expired almost a week ago and there was a fine to be paid. This could get expensive, I fear.

“Only six days?” my general asks rhetorically. With a flash of his hand, a signature exempting me from the fine, he waves us away. Corruption isn’t as bad as they make out.

“Come back tomorrow for your passport” says the veiled administrator, handing me a receipt in her black silk gloved hands.

The next day, my wallet $70 lighter for the experience, I had leave to stay in the Republic of the Sudan for another month.

Nuit Blanche au Nil Blanc* We drove in convoy from Khartoum,...

Thu, 29 Apr 2010 23:30:00 +0200

Nuit Blanche au Nil Blanc*

We drove in convoy from Khartoum, heading south. A UN Land-Cruiser, NGO pick-ups and a couple of cars; Italians, French, Germans, a Palestinian, an Egyptian, several Sudanese, and me, an Englishman. The only lights were those of oncoming vehicles, and the bright, full-moon above. After an hour and a half of driving into the desert night, we turned off the road. A dirt-track led through a village and onto our friends’ friend’s farm.

We had to leave a vehicle on the road for some stragglers, and so I jumped in the back of one of the pick-ups. As we sped over the bumpy ground, dust & sand filled the air, an arid fog in the light of the head-lamps. My nose, hair and eyes are filled with it.

Two steel gates were swung open and we drove into the farm, mango trees on one side, citrus groves on the other. Emerging through the trees into a clearing, the White Nile stood like a lake before us, reflecting the moon, its water softly lapping against the shore. Mohammed immediately wades in, catching a fish for the barbecue, leaving it gasping for air as we unload the vehicles.

Shish-kebabs are brought out, followed by the shisha, obligatory for a Sudanese soirée. Cristiano is playing guitar, and a group forms around his feet, still not mastering il gatto e la volpe, his party-piece.

As dawn breaks, acacia trees become visible across the milky water on the opposite bank, and the sun begins to prepare itself for another toiling day of oppressive heat. At this time of the morning, though, the air is pleasant as we breakfast on watermelon.

And then we had to leave. There were fears of the police coming to break up the party.

That was Jebel al-Alwiya.

* “White night (all-nighter) on the White Nile”

Allons en France Ten Sudanese students compete for the chance...

Wed, 28 Apr 2010 20:30:00 +0200

Allons en France

Ten Sudanese students compete for the chance to go to France this summer in a competition organised by the Centre Culturel Français.

This is Mohammed and Mohayed, keeping the audience going as the judges make their decision.

A Night on the Nile An afternoon spent cooking, an evening...

Tue, 27 Apr 2010 22:30:00 +0200

A Night on the Nile

An afternoon spent cooking, an evening spent chugging up the Nile, Khartoum on one side, Bahri the other. We talked, we sang, we ate, we drank (Coke).

In the heat of a Khartoum night, the slightest breeze can instigate a feeling of euphoria.

And to hell with the mosquitos. I will always have Larium.

Election Results Sat on Sharia al-Nil, Tuti Island lies behind...

Mon, 26 Apr 2010 15:30:00 +0200

Election Results

Sat on Sharia al-Nil, Tuti Island lies behind me, where people sit under the shade of the imposing bridge, drinking tea as the Blue Nile flows between them and Khartoum. In front of me stands Friendship Hall, the venue of the official announcement of the results of Sudan’s “step towards democracy”. Pick-up trucks surround the building with armed soldiers crammed into the back, both clad in blue camouflage.

Everybody knew the result already, but today Omar al-Bashir was declared winner of the elections, remaining President of Sudan, claiming 68% of the vote and with his National Congress Party (NCP) sweeping the North. Chairman of the Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM), Salva Kiir, won 93% of the Southern votes, making him President of the Government of Southern Sudan, and the Republic’s vice-president.

As the results were announced, passing vehicles sounded their horns, with some drivers brandishing tree branches—the symbol for the NCP—out of their windows. Policemen in the street were shouting Allahu akbar, “God is great”, in celebration.

The elections have taken place under varying degrees of condemnation, with opposition parties claiming wide-spread fraud, Western observers criticising them as “not meeting international standards” whilst the Russians saying that they were fair “by African standards”.

With all eyes now on the referendum, where the South will vote on secession to form a new, independent country, many feel that the West does not want to rock the boat. The referendum was drafted as part of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement which ended the second Sudanese Civil War in 2005. Both North and South have obligations to work to make unity attractive to Southern voters, although traces of this seem to be minimal. Bashir has stated that whatever the outcome, he will respect the results, and that the referendum will take place on schedule. Last weekend, however, tensions were rising on the north-south border, with clashes reported.

Back in Khartoum’s centre following the announcement of the results, all was calm. Mass public demonstrations, which were feared by embassies and their security advice, never materialised. During the whole period, there was never any need for the “stockpiling of food and water”. Walking through the streets was just like any other day.

So now the elections are over, I guess I need to find another excuse for my stay in Khartoum…

» More photos: Sudanese Elections.

Khartoum Nights As a singer from Southern Sudan was swinging on...

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 23:30:00 +0200

Khartoum Nights

As a singer from Southern Sudan was swinging on stage at a concert for World Music Day in Omdurman, a Sudanese friend commented “What is he doing? We Sudanese don’t dance. Just stay still and sing”, giving an insight into her countrymen’s attitudes towards frolicking. Whilst I don’t whole-heartedly agree with her opinion, the city is lacking when it comes to evening entertainment. More importance is accorded to the people you are with than the activity that engages the group; people sit in homes or restaurants, or smoking shisha in cafés, talking. Night-clubs and dancehalls don’t exist.

For those accustomed to intoxication, Sudan—or at least Northern Sudan—is dry. Alcohol is illegal under the strict imposition of Islamic sharia law, applied in 1991. That is not to say it cannot be found. In expatriate parties around the city, beer will often flow, and if you know the right places to ask, locally brewed merissa (a muddy-looking sorghum-based beer) or ereegi (“gin” distilled from dates that can turn you blind) can be procured. Sat in a rather dubious Ethiopian café with a Darfuri I had met, I was offered Heineken (at extortionate prices) by his acquaintance; presumably smuggled from Ethiopia. Getting caught with the stuff will bring about a heavy penalty.

Excepting a couple of slips, I stayed on the dry-side of life. On the occasions where I succumbed, I was left the next day with much to regret, less from a hang-over, and more from the what-if, had I been caught. It didn’t cross my mind as I stumbled home, but waking in the morning to a text-message saying “Did you make it home safely last night, or are you in a police-cell in need of biscuits?” put things in perspective somewhat.

The problem, too, with alcohol-fuelled parties is that it often leads to an khawaaja-only crowd. Not always, but often. At one soirée, I was given a brief history of Sudanese parties.

“Six or seven years ago, we used to party all the time. We’d drive out into the desert, party ‘til dawn, and then come back in the morning.”

He explained that novel ways were devised to smuggle the alcohol out there. Not all Sudanese are Muslims, and not all those that are, don’t drink. At one point, my friend’s windscreen-washer reservoir was filled with whisky, with a tube feeding it discreetly into the dashboard. A concealed cup would be filled with liquor whenever the lever on the steering column was pulled to “wash” the windscreen.

There was a time when khawaaja parties would be left alone, and they could do whatever they wanted, I was told. Then came a period when the locals started to attend, too, and this caused problems. You can do what you like in your buildings, but keep it to yourselves. He was at a party when it was raided by the police; foreigners were lined-up on one side of the room, Sudanese on the other side. The former were warned, the latter carted off to the cells. My friend was given lashes, and for three years afterwards, had to register at the police station every month. “Now I don’t go to any more “big” khawaaja parties.”

Happily, at the smaller gatherings, there is still a good mix. I loathe the vision of the “ex-pat world”, with embassy staff stay holed-up in their compounds, not mixing with the society in which they ostensibly live.

So many nights were spent in other pursuits. Boats were hired on the Nile, everybody cooking and contributing to the buffet. We ate out often. Countless evenings were spent at Lord Café, drinking sahleb and smoking shisha.
Two Italian friends—il gatto e la volpe—made the social scene here. One raising the bar each time with home-cooked desserts, the other inspiring terrible singing as he strummed the guitar.
I was invited to traditional Sudanese weddings, trying to keep up with the traditional dancing. At the other end of the scale, I danced in the middle of a haboob (strong winds bringing sand from the desert) as techno blasted over the sound-system, a Sudanese friend DJing.

And then there were parties, the soirées…

Khartoum Days: Omdom Khartoum is a hot, dusty place....

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 17:30:00 +0200

Khartoum Days: Omdom

Khartoum is a hot, dusty place. Oppressively so, much of the time. Many expatriates headed for The Greek Club at the weekend, crowding into their pool. I must admit, this wasn’t my scene.

What was my scene was jumping into a friend’s 4x4, driving east of the city and crossing the hot sands next to Omdom, a small, sleepy village just outside the capital. Donkeys wandered the streets amid the needle-like minarets poking up from the dirt-streets.

We could usually muster-up a small group to go out there, laden with falafel, watermelon and a healthy disrespect for water quality. For on the other side of the scalding hot sand was the Blue Nile, its waters flowing from their Ethiopian source.

Djellaba dressed men stroll along the sand, youths splash in the water, and a group of khawaaja arrive, submerging themselves in the headwaters of the world’s longest river.

For the females of the group, the experience is somewhat tarnished - parading around in a swimming costume is somewhat culturally insensitive. A moment to relish being born a male.

Many a Sudanese has tales of friends that have been lost at the “wrong” season of the Nile. There is a fish that arrives with the rainy season up-stream, electrocuting swimmers, paralysing them and causing them to drown.

On my first visit there, a few of us remained following sunset, laying on the sand as the day drifted into night. The sun drops rapidly below the horizon as one approaches the equator. The stars filled the black sky and my thoughts turned to my future. I resolved to prolong my stay in Sudan and look for a job here. The moment—and the people—seemed too good.

The Problems Facing a Postman The address on the envelope was a...

Tue, 20 Apr 2010 15:00:00 +0200

The Problems Facing a Postman

The address on the envelope was a series of street names—written in Arabic, narrowing down from the main road to smaller lanes. This was not going to be an easy task — we were without a map, and in any case, here in Sudan, street names aren’t a common occurrence. People know roads by the district they are in and by directions, not by name. Often when taking a rickshaw home, saying the name of even a major thoroughfare would draw blank looks from the driver.

So here we stood in Omdurman, bearing a letter of someone who had visited Sudan six years ago and who had entrusted it to a friend working in Sudan to deliver. With embargoes, sanctions and the state of the Sudanese postal service, popping a stamp on the envelope makes post a less viable option than back home.

Asking around, people gave us blank or puzzled looks as we tried to explain the address in broken Arabic. “Where does your friend live?” we would be asked as we showed the envelope. “We were hoping this address would tell us” we thought, silently. At times, this lead to an uncomfortable moment when we realised that the person to whom we were showing this letter could not read the address. Illiteracy rates in Sudan are somewhere around 39%.

Another problem facing those with questions in Sudan is that no-one will ever simply say “sorry, I don’t know”. If looking for something and the person doesn’t know it, there will be a hesitation and then vague pointing in some direction. After some time wandering the streets of Khartoum, I came to realise that the length of the pause dictates the surety of a reply. More than a couple of seconds, and the response can be dismissed completely.

In the baking sun, walking off the main road following directions from a man exuding confidence and without pause, we felt as though we were getting somewhere. A group of men were stood outside a shop, welding together bedsteads on the street side. Another was weaving colourful cord forming the base of the bed, a style popular amongst the lokandas of my journey to Khartoum.

A debate ensued about in which direction our sought-after road lay. I couldn’t follow it all, but at one point three men were all pointing in completely opposite ways. Following the route of the wisest looking man, we asked at the next junction, at which point we were directed back in the way we just came. Flagging down rickshaw drivers drew more blank looks.

When we finally found a tuk-tuk that seemed confident he could render us to our desired location, we jumped in, speeding through the dusty, potholed streets of Omdurman. He knocked on the steel gate to a large house, and a slit opened, the eye of a veiled girl was perceivable as she hid behind the doorway. When her father came out, he knocked on his neighbour’s door and they tried to decipher the address. Perhaps our tuk-tuk driver was confident he knew somebody who would know where the house was located. And “no, we don’t have their phone number…”

We soon found ourself back in the rickshaw, driving back across town. Evidently not pressed for time, we stopped at the driver’s favourite tea-lady, an Ethiopian with whom he flirted outrageously, before once-again entering the labyrinth of Omdurman’s smaller lanes.

Children in the street wondered what these two khawaaja were doing here, and intimated that our addressee had moved to El-Obeid, a city seven hour’s drive from here; or perhaps he was just away on business. More gates were knocked, and a woman came out of a house, saying she knew the guy, and perhaps even our sender. “The French man, yes I remember him.”

Handing over the envelope, we were not sure if we had really accomplished our mission or not. The insha’Allah factor would play a big part in this envelope finding its way from sender to receiver, six years after their acquaintance.

I wouldn’t want to be a postie here.

Waiting for News The polls in Sudan officially closed last...

Mon, 19 Apr 2010 15:00:00 +0200

Waiting for News

The polls in Sudan officially closed last Thursday following a two-day extension to voting. The counting of the ballots began the following day, with results initially scheduled for tomorrow, Tuesday 20 April. Everybody here believed that to be rather optimistic. The National Election Commission announced today that results would be delayed, unable to set a definite date.

“We cannot set a definite date to announce the results because (the counting) is a very complicated process”

— Hadi Mohammed Ahmed, head the NEC’s technical committee

Preliminary results based on counts from several polling stations (of the tens of thousands around the country) all favour the incumbent president, Omar al-Bashir. This has come as little surprise.

During the election period I have been reading several of the national papers on a daily basis, and the impression one gets is largely of confusion. The quality of these publications leaves much to be desired.

In the run-up to the elections, conflicting stories often appeared in the same publication regarding boycotts of the process. The messages reporting the extension of the voting period, and the subsequent announcement of the results, have also been tainted by uncertainty.

This is without mentioning the often poor level of English, sometimes atrocious type-setting, and at times evangelical tone of certain pieces.

Former US President Jimmy Carter has made the headlines several times, leading a team of election observers from the Carter Centre. Over the weekend a Sudan rights group urged the group to leave the country “before the expected declaration of victory for the National Congress Party (NCP) and its indicted President”, calling on Carter to salvage his reputation.

Both the Carter Centre and the European Union election monitors say that the elections failed to meet full international standards, but concluded that they were a significant step towards democracy.

It’ll be interesting to see how the results will be accepted by the Sudanese here. One gets the impression that many in the West, who are often keen to criticise poor practices (ex. Zimbabwe two years ago), are somewhat holding their tongues during the Sudanese process, presumably not wanting to rock the boat ahead of the referendum next January. All eyes are looking south, and the prospect of the creation of the world’s newest state. If the Southerners want independence — and vote for it — then they will soon be rid of Mr. Bashir. But this leaves the Northerners who don’t want the NCP somewhat in the lurch for the next five years, as the President consolidates his power, the winning of the election giving him some sort of mandate for his policies.

» More photos: Sudanese Elections.

From Colonial Times Much of the architecture of the University...

Sun, 18 Apr 2010 16:00:00 +0200

From Colonial Times

Much of the architecture of the University of Khartoum resembles a Sudanese take on an Oxford college, having been built by the British under their colonial rule in 1902.

It seemed slightly ironic that I, as a subject of Her Majesty, should be here in the University of Khartoum now speaking the Gallic language to a group of its students.

Hidden in a wing of one of the smaller libraries are some books that date from the British rule; I couldn’t help but wonder if people knew exactly what was amongst the stacks here. Would titles such as Romance in India be now banned? And surely, some of these historical pieces would fetch several guineas now, such as old illustrations from the Bonaparte era.

Skimming through some titles pertaining to the Middle East, the world has changed quite a bit since Wilber’s Iran, Past and Present, and the Earl of Cromer’s Modern Egypt makes no mention of Mubarak.

Upstairs in the main library, I had a more modern cultural lesson. The library is split into two wings, males segregated from females, presumably to prevent any improper thoughts or temptations. As I sat working amongst the studious menfolk, a wrap at the barred window made me look up. A veiled girl stood outside, beckoning me over. She slipped me a note, told me to read it, to call her, and promptly disappeared.

Esfahani memories of Iranian dating initiation flooded my mind, whereby a girl discretely slips her number to a guy she likes the look of whilst leaving a café. The onus is then on the aforementioned subject of this wooing to phone her and arrange a sequestered rendezvous.

Was this note, which ostensibly showed an interest in my mother tongue^* from a purely linguistic point of view, hiding such covert connotations? Only a phone-call would tell…

^* And how did she know I was English?

Hanging with the Kids With time to kill waiting for election...

Sun, 18 Apr 2010 15:00:00 +0200

Hanging with the Kids

With time to kill waiting for election results, I hung-out in Khartoum, meeting people here. A friend who works at the University of Khartoum as French teacher invited me over to the campus, and through her I met some of the students, all of whom spoke French incredibly well. They were from all over the country and were a fascinating bunch, all showing the paradoxical wish to leave Sudan to seek life elsewhere, but while loving their country, expounding its qualities.

The student-teacher relationship that exists here is rather different to that of Europe. Gibes about their work, and the attention a certain student pays to his poulettes, help her reach a near perfect attendance rate, she says, and is part of the reason why she loves teaching in Sudan, as opposed to back in France.

Later, sat on a woven string stool drinking coffee outside the French Cultural Centre, Mohammed & Mohayed were rapping in French & English—as fluidly as they would in Arabic—to the beat they had written themselves, playing through the tinny speaker of a mobile phone. Whilst they are keen to criticise love, claiming it “doesn’t exist”, the attention they pay it in their rhymes, rings of that Sudanese paradox again.

St. Joseph’s VTC Behind a large, steel gate off a dusty...

Sat, 17 Apr 2010 10:00:00 +0200

St. Joseph’s VTC

Behind a large, steel gate off a dusty street in Khartoum 3 lies St. Joseph’s Vocational Training Centre, a school whose students are largely made up of Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) from Southern Sudan. Four trucks pass through these gates every morning, bringing the students from their IDP camps which lie on the outskirts of Northern Sudan’s capital.

I visited the school with a friend who works for VIS (Volontariato Internazionale per lo Sviluppo), an Italian NGO that has written the Y.E.S. project — Youth Empowerment in Sudan. The Y.E.S. project is implemented by the Salesians of Don Bosco, a Roman Catholic religious order working largely with the young and the poor, and posters of Saint John Bosco are dotted around the school. Whilst many of the students are Christian, religious instruction is not part of their work here, and Muslim students are given equal opportunity to pray.

Southern Sudan has been racked by nearly forty years of civil war with the North, the second war running from 1983, ended by the 2005 Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA). It is estimated that more than 4 million of the South’s civilians were forced to flee their homes, many of whom now live in or around Khartoum. With the signing of the CPA, several objectives were defined, including the forthcoming referendum for the independence of the South, scheduled for January 2011. Part of the work of VIS, through the Salesians, is to support & aid the graduated students who are interested in returning to the South, through cooperation with international agencies such as the International Organisation for Migration (IOM).

Much of the funding for the work here comes from the European Commission through the FOOD budget-line, and part of the work of VIS is to provide a more nourishing meal to the students here. As I saw bread & fuul handed out, it was explained that for many of these students, this is their only meal of the day; this Sudanese staple has been supplemented by other food groups, trying to improve the diet of the students.

Several classrooms-cum-workshops surround the dusty recreational area, inside of which I found students studying subjects varying from car-mechanics to carpentry. Inside the graphic design & printing workshop, the guys were particularly keen to pose whilst leaning over the huge printing presses. To supplement the income of the school, much of the students’ work is sold in varying applications, from designing business cards, building furniture and repairing cars. The progression of this is vital if the school will become self-sufficient once the NGO funding ends in June 2011.

» More photos here: St. Joseph’s VTC.