Posts tagged: landscape

Far From the Madding Crowd

Driving out through the desert from Karima, the road passes by the pyramids that I had seen the day before, then crossing over the Nile to Merowe. Here, a bokasi (a pick-up truck) is the public transport that ferries people out to the villages, into the back of which I cram to drive out to the village of Nuri.

The pyramids at Nuri lie far from anything significant, bordered only by the small adobe houses of the neighbouring village. They sit, weathered, amongst the desert dunes, their small rounded bricks eroded by the millennia that have passed since their construction.

The scant information I had regarding this site mentioned that “tickets” to visit this site should be bought back in Karima, although there is rarely anyone to collect them. Standing in a never-ending expanse of sand, it’s hard to imagine anything as organised as ticket-sales for such a location. But as I walk back to the village, a man arrives on a motorcycle, asking in Arabic for my ticket, which—of course—I did not possess. As I claim ignorance, he kindly proposes to accompany me to the local police station to rectify the situation. Having heard stories of Sudanese police, and being not yet in possession of the photography permit that should accompany the camera stowed in my bag, I am keen to decline his kind offer. I thus try my luck with baksheesh (“bribe” or “tip”, in Arabic, depending on the situation), offering him half of the declared price of a ticket.

This baksheesh turns out to be quite the investment. He accepts it, and as we strike up a bit of a rapport in my broken Arabic, he invites me back to his place for lunch and to meet his family. I climb on the back of his motorcycle, we unsteadily traverse the desert sand and are soon speeding down a dirt-track to a collection of rustic houses.

He is in the final stages of the construction of another room for their house, and so I sit with his brother and a paint-covered friend as we eat a platter of local dishes. The water comes from a clay pot, which he describes as river water. Having exhausted my supply of water in the desert heat, I gladly accept, hoping that my stomach has obtained enough resistance with local water to not cause any problems.

Following lunch his brother—Rashid—insists that I visit his nursery, a project that he has been cultivating for the past three years. Rashid has constructed this haven from the arid environment that is filled with a variety of plants, as well as hosting some more “exhibition” pieces. A box contains a history of Sudanese money, birds are sculpted out of rocks, and he is building an enclosure for some animals. Signs are posted in Arabic & English amongst long grasses, and a seating area is shaded from the scorching sun by a parasol made from an old satellite dish covered by woven grass. I am astonished at what he has done to create this sanctuary, but at the same time question the purpose it will serve. Nuri is a small village, hardly known, far from anywhere, and I can’t imagine that this place, once opened (in one year, insha’Allah), will receive many visitors. It is, however, a great testament to both his imagination and dedication, and I wish Rashid & the Nuri Modern Nursery the best of luck.

For me that day, a little bit of baksheesh went a long way.

Climb Any Mountain

Standing atop Jebel Barkal looking east, lush green palm groves line the banks of the banks of the Nile as they cut a sweeping curve through the desert plains of Sudan’s Northern State. Looking west, these arid, dusty, rocky plains stretch to the horizon. I had heard talk of Jebel Barkal before getting to Karima, and with my basic grasp of Arabic, thought this might be a nice little opportunity for a bit of a ramble. Jebel in Arabic more or less translates as “mountain”.

What I didn’t factor into these plans were the fact that in Sudan, jebel equates more to what I would consider a hill, and that the mercury in the thermometer is rather averse to dipping below 40°. I had spent a hot, sweaty day traveling & running around Karima sorting out the bureaucracy that is innate to arriving in a new town in Sudan, but was still keen to see the gueule of this lump of rock. As the sun dropped to the horizon, hoping the temperatures would follow suit, I walked out of town towards the jebel, expecting to find solace in solitude.

All around is flat, slight undulations in the sand form rolling waves of sand, and then just before the desert reaches the green fortress protecting the Nile, a rock rises up as a watch-tower. At the base of this rock stand several pyramids, remnants of the 18th dynasty Pharaohs who held this ground as sacred, gate-keepers to the jebel.

Seclusion was not to be found. Atop a sandy hillock stood a rickshaw seemingly out of place, and at the base of Barkal several Sudanese families were picnicking. Sunset was rapidly approaching so I raced to the top of the rock, my lungs burning after months of shisha evenings & a growing unfamiliarity with physical exertion. The guys dressed in djellaba sliding down the sandy banks seemed slightly perplexed at this khawaaja striding up; they don’t get a lot of foreigners here.

From the plateaued peak the pyramids below were dwarfed, sticking out of the sand like blunt needles, separated from the setting sun by the desert plains.

As the last people left, I had the place to myself as darkness rapidly drew in. Getting closer to the equator, sunsets are periods to be snatched, not savoured.

To the Hills of South Hebron

It was as we were en-route to another night at Sheikh Jarrah that Ellen, another ISM volunteer, received a phone call. Three of us had just passed through the Qalandiya checkpoint and climbed back aboard the number 18 bus from Ramallah when the call came. We were told that two volunteers were needed to go down to the South Hebron hills for a few days to do some accompaniment work with the local shepherds who had recently faced increasing harassment from settlers and the Israeli army. Mary and I said we’d go.

Following a cold, sleepless night at Sheikh Jarrah, we met our contact, climbed into his 4x4 and left Jerusalem. “We have to pick-up some things in Israel to bring back; technically, it is illegal”, he told us as we headed West. “If we are stopped at a checkpoint, say that I hi-jacked you.” I hoped that he meant “hitch-hike” and that this was not a perverse warning.

We arrived at our first rendezvous; a secluded house where a wind-turbine whirled, overlooking the Israeli valley below. An Israeli man emerged from his workshop and greeted our contact warmly. “We used to steal water-melons together” came the reply as we asked how long these two friends had known each other. The “contraband” we would be driving back were parts for a wind-turbine and solar panels. Dangerous stuff.

We came back into the West Bank, making it through the check-point unhindered, and drove to a small, rural outpost to deliver our trafficked goods. Two families lived in a small, tented community, raising goats and sheep. The story is familiar: despite being in the Palestinian Territories, these people must submit to Israeli rules, which means that they cannot build upon their land. As such, there is no running water, no connection to the electricity grid, and no road to reach their tents.

Not far away stood an Israeli settlement, the power-lines and roads cutting through the hills to reach it. Our 4x4 was forced to struggle up a rocky track to make the delivery. These sources of alternative energy would bring electricity to the people here and improve their standard of living. And this is what makes a wind-turbine, or solar panel, “illegal”.

A Sarha Above Nablus

Whilst still in Syria I had read Palestinian Walks: Notes on a Vanishing Landscape by Rajah Shehadeh, the Palestinian lawyer-turned-writer. In his book, the struggles of the Palestinians facing eviction from their land is weaved into the winding wadis and mountains as he finds solace in his sarha amongst the hills of the West Bank. (In Arabic, wadi means “valley” and sarha means “walk”, or “roam”.)

I had been keen to hike a little in the region. Heading to the north of the West Bank, the hills in which Nablus is contained provided an opportunity to escape both the concrete of the cities, and the issues I had witnessed over the past few days.

Rocks litter the hillside here, and olive trees flourish in the limestone soils. From the vantage of the hillside, I counted the minarets poking above the rooftops of the city below.

But this sarha came with a caution. A local man warned about going too far up the hillside: up there are the Yahud. “Jews” in Arabic*. He was referring to the Israeli settlement that suddenly becomes visible as one climbs higher. It was time to turn back.

I get the impression that it is impossible to escape signs of the occupation.