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.
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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.

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.

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.

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.

Cairo Transport: Taxis The meters in the old, black cabs of Cairo are obsolete. Calibrated in a time before a sharp rise in petrol prices, they are just ornaments for the vehicle, and somewhat of a design icon for people like me. At first, as a foreigner, haggling is a necessity before opening the door; we have an inherent fear of taxi-drivers the world-over. But as one gets to know the place, and more importantly the prices, it is possible to adopt the Egyptian method: name the destination & get-in. Knowledge of the fare is implicit, and upon reaching the final-point, handing over the correct sum with a shukran, and a ma salama is all that is required. Talking money is a nasty business.

Cairo Transport: Taxis

The meters in the old, black cabs of Cairo are obsolete. Calibrated in a time before a sharp rise in petrol prices, they are just ornaments for the vehicle, and somewhat of a design icon for people like me.

At first, as a foreigner, haggling is a necessity before opening the door; we have an inherent fear of taxi-drivers the world-over. But as one gets to know the place, and more importantly the prices, it is possible to adopt the Egyptian method: name the destination & get-in. Knowledge of the fare is implicit, and upon reaching the final-point, handing over the correct sum with a shukran, and a ma salama is all that is required. Talking money is a nasty business.

Cairo Transport: Buses Standing on Ahmed Orabi street in the Mohandiseen district of Cairo, I felt lost in the cries of “Giza! Giza!” that issued from the men hanging out of the passing buses. What is for most foreigners the name synonymous with Egypt’s most famous pyramids, is a densely populated place of travail for many of Cairo’s working-class commuters; a city that has virtually been engulfed by the capital’s sprawl. The buses that serve downtown Cairo are somewhat more infrequent; every morning it was a long wait for the number 91 that would take me into Cairo’s heart. The overcrowded metal carcass of this diesel-fuelled beast meant that my fingertips were often hanging on to the edge of the door, my toes clinging to the bottom step as we weaved through the interminable Cairo traffic. The reward for which was the breeze that relieved the stifling heat, and the views of the Nile as the bus coasted over the 26th of July bridge. And of course, the novelty of not being reprehended by some over-bearing health & safety official. Maximum occupancy means little here; this is Cairo.

Cairo Transport: Buses

Standing on Ahmed Orabi street in the Mohandiseen district of Cairo, I felt lost in the cries of “Giza! Giza!” that issued from the men hanging out of the passing buses. What is for most foreigners the name synonymous with Egypt’s most famous pyramids, is a densely populated place of travail for many of Cairo’s working-class commuters; a city that has virtually been engulfed by the capital’s sprawl.

The buses that serve downtown Cairo are somewhat more infrequent; every morning it was a long wait for the number 91 that would take me into Cairo’s heart. The overcrowded metal carcass of this diesel-fuelled beast meant that my fingertips were often hanging on to the edge of the door, my toes clinging to the bottom step as we weaved through the interminable Cairo traffic. The reward for which was the breeze that relieved the stifling heat, and the views of the Nile as the bus coasted over the 26th of July bridge. And of course, the novelty of not being reprehended by some over-bearing health & safety official. Maximum occupancy means little here; this is Cairo.