Salaam,
On a whim we diverted to the Red Sea. Tom had found a diving resort – a small beachside campsite with hot showers, flush toilets and little cabins, clean and comfortable, to which we could upgrade for a small additional charge. It was definitely not Europe, but it wasn’t really Africa either. Be that as it may, we all needed a brief respite to steel ourselves for the next stages of our mission.
The complex, Dutch-owned but Sudanese-run, has cleanish toilets and warmish showers. It generates all its own electricity from windmills and photo-voltaic panels. The hot desert directly adjoins the sea, and so a stiff sea-breeze rarely fails. Nor does the sun.
On the way there we stopped to have a look at Suakin (once again please note that we didn't "do" it, we are now hardcore travellers, sunburnt, filthy, with resolute expressions and a far-away look in our eyes) where as so often we were the only visitors - possibly for days or weeks. This is Sudan's historic seaport built entirely of coral and comprising self-confident architecture from two millennia, with narrow winding streets and spacious squares. It's wealth was built on slavery - you've probably heard that about every seaside town in half of the world, but this time it is true. Unfortunately when the modern deep-water container port of Port Sudan was developed a few decades ago the Sudanese government started smashing it all to bits - for what reason it is unclear. Presumably someone advised them to stop, because instead of a nice cleared site for concrete apartment blocks with stinking toilets it now looks like the aftermath of the carpet bombing of Frankfurt - and they are trying to put it all back together again.
When we got to the photo-voltaic thingy, we were the only residents. However, some lunchtime visitors arrived - a group of quite affluent Sudanese. Our guide explained that this was the first stage in the process of an arranged marriage. Before long the happy couple were paddling in the sea and found the courage to hold hands under the watchful eyes of two sets of parents and two grandmothers. A bit different to my first date, and possibly yours.
Apparently this was an opportunity for the suitor to demonstrate both his affluence and his graciousness. This was achieved by massively over-ordering food and distributing the considerable surplus to a bunch of scruffy foreigners clearly in need of a good meal. Actually that's just what we were.
The women were beautifully dressed in the colourful saris worn by those who can afford them. The fathers were decked out in clean white djellabiahs and those little caps which seem to have been crotcheted by someone's grandmother. The putative bride was fashionably dressed in Western style, complete with Gucci sunglasses, and had that curvaceous plumpness which we were told is highly admired in these parts. Her (almost certainly, to my eyes) future husband had on a worn T-shirt with a silly English slogan, cut-off jeans and flip-flops. Maybe it's a fashion thing - I was never much good at appreciating that kind of thing. In any event it seemed clear that a deal was being struck.
We plunged back into the baking desert and, punctuated by another night of wild camping, we were the only visitors to more ruins. You may like to look them up sometime, my descriptive powers cannot do them justice. They are:
- the royal city of Meroe. This fabulously wealthy place was destroyed 1,800 years ago, and there is no trace of it, apart from 66 pyramids (66!) and a lot of sand. Many of the pyramids were dynamited by an Italian in search of treasure. Bastard.
- the Naqa temples. Whoa, dude! To get there we had a long off-r0ad drive, sitting up at the roof-hatches with the wind (and sand) in our hair - those of us who have any worth talking about. Rounding a dune we saw an air-conditioned modern charabanc, with it's company name in bold Arabic script, up to it's axles in soft sand and surrounded by a large group of excitable locals. The driver was looking a bit sheepish, and nobody seemed to be talking to him. Naturally we did the heroic thing, and were plied with many cans of beer. Beer, I hear you ask. In a country where mere possession results in 40 lashes. A cursory glance revealed it to be non-alcoholic. I guess it's the thought that counts.
We have all (all the men that is) started to grow moustaches:
- partly as a hommage to the universal practice of our host country. It seems that not wearing a moustache, which never happens, marks you out as gay. Wearing a frock and no jockeys is OK though. Being gay is a capital offence. Fortunately there are no gay people in Sudan - apparently;
- partly to observe the Australian tradition of growing an ironic moustache for the full month of November. This longstanding tradition dates back a good two years - quite a time in the history of Australia.
BFN
Chris
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