A return to war I had a growing sense of attachment to the Libyan revolution. Leaving for the first time, back in March, I had felt that I was letting down those I had met there, those who were embroiled in the struggle. I have no work lined up, but I find myself drawn back there. The end seems nowhere in sight, and a certain regularity of the conflict has caused a low in the coverage of it. But I feel I need to be back there. I need to witness these events, and document them. I need to see friends there. And so I return. Driving back through the desert. The crazy Libyan drivers. The excessive speeds. The vast expanses of nothingness. Back to Benghazi. Back to the revolution. Back to the conflict. Back to war.
Pop-up

A return to war

I had a growing sense of attachment to the Libyan revolution. Leaving for the first time, back in March, I had felt that I was letting down those I had met there, those who were embroiled in the struggle.

I have no work lined up, but I find myself drawn back there. The end seems nowhere in sight, and a certain regularity of the conflict has caused a low in the coverage of it.

But I feel I need to be back there. I need to witness these events, and document them. I need to see friends there.

And so I return. Driving back through the desert. The crazy Libyan drivers. The excessive speeds. The vast expanses of nothingness. Back to Benghazi. Back to the revolution. Back to the conflict. Back to war.

Into the Unknown It started at noon on a Friday in Khartoum. With the latest of the “Arab Spring” revolutions engulfing Libya, I’d looked at going there, but dismissed it due to the difficulty of obtaining a visa. Particularly as a freelance, the word that seems to instil fear into all bureaucrats in such regimes. On this fateful Friday, I was talking to a friend who had just arrived in Cairo, and was planning on driving to the Libyan border the following day. “The rebels have the border, and they’re letting journos in.” Thus ensued three hours of internal debate, pacing around the flat in Sudan’s capital, trying to decide if I should head north. It would mean giving up any chance of going to Darfur, for which I’d spent the last two weeks waiting on a travel permit. Three pm. I’d wrestled with my demons, and there began the process of figuring out the logistics of it all. Trying to buy a plane ticket—or anything—in Khartoum on a Friday, the Muslim holy day, is nigh-on impossible. Six pm. I had the mobile number of a travel agent who could get me on a flight. I wanted to fly immediately. She promised she’d get back to me, and I began to think about packing. Ten pm. The flight was confirmed, I would be leaving to Libya that night. One am. I was at Khartoum International airport, hoping my passport was in order, and saying goodbye to two of my closest friends there. I hoped that I would see them soon. Once in Cairo, the logistics of getting to Libya suddenly came into play. I couldn’t justify the $300 of a taxi to the border, and buses were no longer running there. The crisis in Libya had thrown regular transport into disarray. But there were buses to Marsa Matrouh, the Egyptian coastal resort town just two and a half hours drive from the border. In Marsa, shared taxis were driving to the border, and so I squeezed myself into a beat-up old Peugeot estate along with eight other people. During this drive at the edge of the desert, the question of what I was actually letting myself in for started to come to the fore of my mind. A Libyan man squeezed in beside me tried to explain what was happening in his homeland. I had never covered conflict before, and I knew nothing of Libya, nor of how easy it would be to operate there. A hand-full of journalists had already crossed, but their numbers were swelling rapidly. This could be my break, and I was keen to join their ranks. And so it began.
Pop-up

Into the Unknown

It started at noon on a Friday in Khartoum. With the latest of the “Arab Spring” revolutions engulfing Libya, I’d looked at going there, but dismissed it due to the difficulty of obtaining a visa. Particularly as a freelance, the word that seems to instil fear into all bureaucrats in such regimes.

On this fateful Friday, I was talking to a friend who had just arrived in Cairo, and was planning on driving to the Libyan border the following day. “The rebels have the border, and they’re letting journos in.”

Thus ensued three hours of internal debate, pacing around the flat in Sudan’s capital, trying to decide if I should head north. It would mean giving up any chance of going to Darfur, for which I’d spent the last two weeks waiting on a travel permit.

Three pm. I’d wrestled with my demons, and there began the process of figuring out the logistics of it all. Trying to buy a plane ticket—or anything—in Khartoum on a Friday, the Muslim holy day, is nigh-on impossible.

Six pm. I had the mobile number of a travel agent who could get me on a flight. I wanted to fly immediately. She promised she’d get back to me, and I began to think about packing.

Ten pm. The flight was confirmed, I would be leaving to Libya that night.

One am. I was at Khartoum International airport, hoping my passport was in order, and saying goodbye to two of my closest friends there. I hoped that I would see them soon.

Once in Cairo, the logistics of getting to Libya suddenly came into play. I couldn’t justify the $300 of a taxi to the border, and buses were no longer running there. The crisis in Libya had thrown regular transport into disarray. But there were buses to Marsa Matrouh, the Egyptian coastal resort town just two and a half hours drive from the border.

In Marsa, shared taxis were driving to the border, and so I squeezed myself into a beat-up old Peugeot estate along with eight other people. During this drive at the edge of the desert, the question of what I was actually letting myself in for started to come to the fore of my mind. A Libyan man squeezed in beside me tried to explain what was happening in his homeland.

I had never covered conflict before, and I knew nothing of Libya, nor of how easy it would be to operate there. A hand-full of journalists had already crossed, but their numbers were swelling rapidly. This could be my break, and I was keen to join their ranks.

And so it began.

Traversing the East The pot-holed road stretches along to the horizon, and on either side of it an expanse of flatness extends. Not a hill, nor even a rise, in sight, seemingly going on for ever. These were the vast agricultural plains of Gedaref State, en route from Ed-Damazine to Kassala. Eastern Sudan is plagued by drought and is chronically food insecure, the World Food Program puts malnutrition rates consistently above emergency levels. The previous day I had been visiting health centres and hospitals, on assignment for UNICEF, covering their nutrition projects there, seeing malnourished children receiving new treatment as part of UNICEF’s work in the region. But this was fertile land through which we were driving. The vast plains of land here are part of the largest agricultural area in Sudan. They used to grow enough sorghum to export to neighbouring Ethiopia; now Sudan is importing from Ethiopia, fields left bare. Something is going wrong. At times, we would wait as impossibly thin cattle crossed the road, driven by the pastoralists struggling to make a living. Tokuls occasionally appeared by the roadside in isolated communities. This was the most green I had seen for a very long time, having become habituated to the arid desert that surrounded Khartoum. Stopping at the Sudanese equivalent of a service station, tea ladies in wooden shacks plying their trade, a storm was rolling in behind us. As we continued towards Kassala, the force of the climate here became suddenly apparent. Without warning, torrential rain engulfed the desert, flooding the make-shift shelters that lined the road. Fifteen kilometres later, and less than twenty minutes drive, a haboob whipped sand and dust across the road—and our windscreen—turning the sky orange. Granted, the agriculturalists have a hard time cultivating this environment. It was now a race to reach Kassala before night-fall, the Taka mountains for which the city is famed, shrouded by the sand-storm in the darkening sky. » See more photos from Eastern Sudan.
Pop-up

Traversing the East

The pot-holed road stretches along to the horizon, and on either side of it an expanse of flatness extends. Not a hill, nor even a rise, in sight, seemingly going on for ever. These were the vast agricultural plains of Gedaref State, en route from Ed-Damazine to Kassala.

Eastern Sudan is plagued by drought and is chronically food insecure, the World Food Program puts malnutrition rates consistently above emergency levels. The previous day I had been visiting health centres and hospitals, on assignment for UNICEF, covering their nutrition projects there, seeing malnourished children receiving new treatment as part of UNICEF’s work in the region.

But this was fertile land through which we were driving. The vast plains of land here are part of the largest agricultural area in Sudan. They used to grow enough sorghum to export to neighbouring Ethiopia; now Sudan is importing from Ethiopia, fields left bare. Something is going wrong.

At times, we would wait as impossibly thin cattle crossed the road, driven by the pastoralists struggling to make a living. Tokuls occasionally appeared by the roadside in isolated communities. This was the most green I had seen for a very long time, having become habituated to the arid desert that surrounded Khartoum.

Stopping at the Sudanese equivalent of a service station, tea ladies in wooden shacks plying their trade, a storm was rolling in behind us. As we continued towards Kassala, the force of the climate here became suddenly apparent. Without warning, torrential rain engulfed the desert, flooding the make-shift shelters that lined the road. Fifteen kilometres later, and less than twenty minutes drive, a haboob whipped sand and dust across the road—and our windscreen—turning the sky orange. Granted, the agriculturalists have a hard time cultivating this environment.

It was now a race to reach Kassala before night-fall, the Taka mountains for which the city is famed, shrouded by the sand-storm in the darkening sky.

» See more photos from Eastern Sudan.

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.
Pop-up

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.

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.
Pop-up

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.