As a result of a typical African cock-up, our plans to see the best-vaunted attractions of Khartoum - the old souk, and a display of whirling dervishes - did not work out entirely as we had hoped. We engaged a guide to take us there in his minibus, complete with luminous green nylon shag-pile roof lining.
Soon after we set off we arrived at the Mahdi's tomb, which we had not asked to see, and which was in any event closed. We reinforced our request to go the souk, and soon found ourselves in a sprawling retail area, where one can buy refrigerators, air conditioners, car parts, buckets, plastic chairs and just about everything we neither wanted to buy or even look at. We re-reinforced our earlier requests but became aware that we were now stuck fast in gridlocked traffic where we remained for best part of an hour. The start time for the whirling dervishes was steadily approaching, so we communicated our desire to abort the souk trip, and go straight to the dervish display.
Once free, and around two hours after we left our hotel, our hero set off with new determination. (Oh look, there goes the Mahdi's tomb again). We were dropped off at a dusty cemetery on the outskirts of town, and we hurried in the direction our guide had indicated, because the show was due to start. We were slightly mystified that there was no ticket office or seating. We were slightly disappointed that the show seemed to consist of two scruffy old men, one in sunglasses, banging drum and wailing in what appeared to be a car park. As it dawned on us that we might be in the wrong place, a crowd of white-robed men began to form a circle and grew rapidly. Then a procession of outlandishly-dressed men, young and old, broke into the arena and began to dance and chant, to the insistent rhythm of drums. The crowd swelled and the pace of the dancers became faster and faster. Their eyes began to roll, the jumping and whirling began, and more and more people broke into the circle and joined the dance - their costumes even wilder than the original performers. One dreadlocked devotee with the demeanour of an Old Testament king appeared to be wearing only a leopard-skin car seat cover. Somewhere in the middle of it all, we were drawn into the rhythmic chanting and the bowing shuffling dance of the worshippers - and we completely missed the stage show taking place at that moment in another part of town.
An old man put his magnificent walnut of a face, wreathed in joyful smiles, 3 inches from my own and chanted at the top of his voice "Allah, Allah, Allah" and, for my benefit, "God, God, God".
The upshot was that we saw, chanted and swayed with a horde of devout Muslims in a state of holy ecstasy - instead of going to a tourist show. I didn't come all this way in a rattling truck for tourist shows. And I saved the $10 admittance charge to boot. And frankly when you've seen one souk it's not a tragedy if you miss one or two.
I think the Sudanese authorities might need a little help organising their tourist industry. I have two suggestions:
1. try to make it a little easier for tourists to get into the country in the first place by making it slightly less than virtually impossible to get visas;
2. once they've got there, try to make sure that state-accredited tourist guides have some inkling of roughly where the two main visitor attractions in the capital city are located.
One little detail of the traffic jam may be of some interest. As I sat in the stationary traffic, I became aware that a surly youth was staring at me, and that his stare was full of bale. You get it sometimes in dodgy areas of London. It became impossible to ignore him, so eventually I tried to placate him with a weak smile and a thumbs' up. He immediately broke into a wide beaming grin rushed to get an accomplice, and together they smiled and waved at me until it became embarrassing - for me but clearly not for them.
I've been thinking about those dervishes, and I envy their faith, their constant reassurance and consolation, and their evident joy. I have felt this before, but I remain mystified by the certainties of both theists and atheists.
- Do I believe in God? Absolutely.
- What is it? God only knows.
- Where can I find it? God only knows that too.
- Can I tell myself or anybody else one single tiny thing about it? Of course not, we are talking here about the frigging supreme being and creator of the unimaginably vast universe, stretching to infinity and beyond.
- Does organised religion give me any insights? Absolutely not - the whole issue is far, far beyond anybody's comprehension.
- Does it care anything about me, one particle of a sort of parasitic virus destroying one infinitesimally tiny part of its infinity? I already said I don't know one single tiny thing about it.
You may add:
- Surely it's obvious it doesn't exist? Stop kidding yourself you can even begin to know one single tiny thing about it, you insignificant speck of virus from a minuscule corner of the back end of nowhere - you don't even know the questions to ask, and can't even guess at the answers, even if your insignificant pin-prick of self-consciousness could begin to handle them.
- You don't seem to think very highly of our species. Do you love your kids? Shall we just drop this now. My head always starts to spin when I am discussing matters I know nothing about.
Sorry about the rambling. Maybe I am spending too much time on my own.
Chris
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