More Sudan

I am having to post these entries in batches. I am writing them as I go along, but it is only when (rarely) I find a reliable internet connection that I can make new entries. This may be the last for a few more days.

I said I wouldn’t mention the sunrise again, but the other day I awoke before dawn with my mind whirring to try and process the sensory overload. I sat facing east across the river as the sun, the same one worshipped by successive dynasties of Pharoahs, rose. It climbed lazily once again over the horizon to face another new day, just as it has done for billions of years, and it gradually calmed my racing thoughts to a dawdle. The show never palls and it is difficult to resist the conditioned reflex to applaud and call for an encore. Of course it provides an encore every day, and will continue to do long after the brief flowering of our species is only evident from our fossilised remains.

My tent has two skylights of mosquito netting through which I can see the stars. My chronic insomnia is less of a burden when I can gaze at the night sky and try to take in the huge distances within our own galaxy and the years it takes for the light to reach us from even neighbouring stars. I try not to think about the distance of the visible galaxies for fear of a giddying sensation akin to vertigo. At night one is blissfully alone – a heady draught for a city dweller. Even insects cannot turn a profit here, and have decided to make their lives elsewhere.

On another yesterday, as we were travelling through an otherwise empty landscape, a vast ramshackle encampment appeared alongside the road. It took us several minutes to pass. The hundreds or thousands of rudimentary dwellings were constructed of random waste materials and the population, exclusively men, were engaged in focused activity – hardly glancing at us let alone giving the waves to which we have become so accustomed. Apparently they are gold prospectors. It would be interesting to find out how they organize themselves commercially to avoid murderous conflict and to provide the living necessary to keep them in that barren place. From the many amputees I saw, it must be dangerous work.

That night we set up camp beside the road, and received an unexpected visitor after dark. An armed man in uniform. Fortunately we have a Nubian guide with us for the duration of our travels through Sudan. He is essential for navigation, to organize the permits necessary to travel on the roads, and to negotiate roadblocks and other encounters with the military. By chance we had stopped opposite a hidden army base set well back from the road. I think they must regard all westerners as potential intelligence agents until proved otherwise – a fear which would have been readily stilled by a mere glance at our motley crew. There ensued a heated discussion, aggressive to western ears which gradually descended to a calmer tone, and ended with both parties smiling, clapping each other on the shoulders and exchanging affable farewells. Or so it seemed to me.

The following day we passed a convoy of 61 army lorries. Michelle counted them. They were packed with smiling waving black soldiers – maybe 50 to a truck. It is hard to imagine their lives. If privileged westerners are accommodated in something akin to Venezuelan prisons, what must their lives be like? These young men must never know what they may be ordered to do, when and to whom, or what other people may try to do to them – or even who the enemy will be tomorrow.

One night our local guide advised that our proposed camp site was unsafe because of recent bandit activity, so we drove on to the next significant settlement. He negotiated rooms in yet another South American-style penal establishment for less than the price of a take-away coffee in London. When we arrived, the chatelain refused us entry – apparently because our presence might be disruptive to the migrant workers who were his long-term residents. We found another khazi for the night and went out for dinner. The nearest restaurant had a tin roof, open sides, a dirt floor and plastic chairs. Beth, a former Peace Corps volunteer has reasonable Arabic, and knows something about Ethiopian food – for the restaurant was of that ilk. Instead of our usual diet of beans with oil and cheese we were served a dish which would not have been out of place in a British Indian restaurant – a spicy chicken curry accompanied by something very like rotis. The owner joined us at the table and watched with amusement as we ate. The staff and other diners lapsed into delighted laughter when we noticed chips being cooked and ordered a portion to accompany the meal. Chips – a luxury I haven’t seen since leaving Chiswick a lifetime ago.

Later, seated at an open-air tea stall, we slowly attracted a large part of the male populace looking at us in wonder, nudging each other and occasionally lapsing into good-natured laughter. The preparation of mint tea begins by half-filling the glass with sugar. When we communicated that we didn’t want sugar the stallholder almost gasped, then went about his work shaking his head bemusedly. It was as though an Arab entered an English teashop, ordered a pot of tea and requested that it be made without tea. We wondered how we must appear to them and came up with a scenario roughly as follows: a group of visibly rich Arabs in djellabiahs arrive in an English pub, chattering animatedly in an incomprehensible language, their lady companions wearing nothing above the waist, an outlandish vehicle visible outside with number plates and livery in Arabic script parked at a right angle to the kerb and completely blocking the pavement and half of the High Street. Using sign language and loud chunks of Arabic they order gin and tonics all round and then communicate that they should contain no gin. The landlord, spotting his opportunity, asks for £15 a drink. They hand over £20 notes and tell him to keep the change. Wouldn’t you call your friends and tell them to get round there quickly?

As we drank our sugarless tea, a goat pushed his way through the clientele, musing upon various concerns of his own - to the consternation of nobody but us.