North Sudan

The drive from Matema border to North Sudan’s capital Khartoum was a totally surreal experience. The harshness of our new environment was completely different to anything we had seen on the trip so far. The drive to the nearest town from the border was thirty minutes across the most arid of deserts. Sand and more sand as far as the eye can see, harsh, dry and lifeless yet as beautiful as the lush green highlands of Ethiopia we had left behind us.

With Sudan permanently on high security alert Police stops were frequent and found in the middle of nowhere. How people are even found is such places remains a mystery. Nevertheless, as the taxi would stop people would come running over dunes with buckets of homemade hibiscus juice, deep red in colour and freezing cold. Despite the unnecessary amount of sugar it contains, in the dry heat the refreshment it offers is priceless and everyone in the taxi helps them self to a glass or two... or three.

Despite being scolded for our short pants and Robs for wearing a vest we are deemed safe to travel onward but warned to buy some ‘proper clothes’. Still discussing the ridiculousness of wearing long pants in such a climate we realise that the dry wind gushing through the open window has absolutely no cooling value to it either, and so we shut it pulling closed the black curtains of the taxi: shade.  Having previously thought them unnecessary we realise that in Sudan shade is a precious commodity and that it may, along with copious amounts of water, be our only respite.

Something about the heat and dust, the lack of English, the robes worn, our ‘non- muslimness’ the many police stops, our insignificance in the vastness of such a desert and our complete reliance on something as simple as water finally makes us feel like we’re truly experiencing Africa.

When we stop we jump off, excited to see what are new food options are after three weeks of Njeera n Dibs (disgusting sour pancakey things and minced fillet). We wonder around looking at all the shops and rows of restaurants making sure we pick the right option and don’t land up regretfully walking past a delicious meal, full from a rushed choice of food.

All the shop owners try to coax us into their restaurants with tasters and by the time we settle we’re pretty full anyway. It seems as though foreigners and especially white people are a rarity in such an area and we end up having an absolute blast as everyone excitedly fusses over us. Our meals are paid for by a University lecturer and before we know it treat after treat is being place before us, “Taste this, taste this”. Deep fried crushed chickpeas, meats of all sorts, their version of falafels, more hibiscus juice, whole oranges liquidised into a tropica like juice, vegetables I’ve never seen and sweet pastries confuse our stomachs, leaving us feeling quite ill but. Perhaps the only disappointment was the fruit. Having spent all its time in the sun it reached us more stewed than anything else and rather displeasing to the palate.

From this wonderful market in Gardaref we had to take a seven hour bus to Khartoum. More sand, more flat desert into more dune desert. This may seem boring but the further you go the more you realise how huge the desert is and the more beautiful it becomes. The subtle changes from open planes to dunes, to thin coverings of scrub to strange black earth and little houses in the middle of nowhere creates a landscape in which your mind wonders up all sorts of possibilities and stories of life in such a country.

In perfect timing the old Jackie Chan film screened on the bus ends as we enter the outskirts of Khartoum and we open the windows, killing the aircon to see the city. From the nothingness of desert to a huge bustling city of tall high-rises and bustling markets; still thriving at two in the morning as people enjoy the coolness of night. People picnic along the green grass that runs parallel to the airstrip whilst others participate in a huge public session of yoga or something of that sort.

Another new city, completely different to the many we’ve passed through; each a unique mood, each as fascinating as the next.

Alone in Addis

It’s not often along our travels that the three of us have been separated, simply because Africa is a place where it may take months to find each other again. In our case with our lack of phones etc. perhaps never. Thus, it is quite a different feeling when you’re suddenly left gallivanting around a big city like Addis all by yourself:

Shouts of “you, you” are used to grab my attention, but I pull the ‘No English card’ and continue along my way. Beggars crowd the already packed streets, usually displaying some physical ailment or religious placard. An elderly man lies completely naked, blackened by the sun ahead of me. People step over and around him as they navigate their way through the obstacle course of bodies. Something about it shocks me. Seeing a man completely degraded and humiliated through poverty. Stripped bare, not only of his clothes but also his dignity.

A little girl runs up to me, tattoos along her arms and ankles, up her neck and on her forehead; family markings. She kisses my hand like a royal courtier. Her blinking eyes, sparkling like pools in the centre of her grubby face, look up at me; “money, money”.

I jump into a taxi, my directions home written on my arm so I can’t get lost. Addis is a huge city; 3.3 million people in a census done way back in 2007, divided into sub cities because of its size. Standing in a line for a Taxi is a non-existent practice, so I feel like I’ve won a game of ‘beach flags’ as I sit in my seat. Still having my wallet is also a bonus as pick pockets thrive in the mad scramble for taxis.

My first neighbour is ‘Small Mike’; a once public, now private taxi driver. He speaks with a ridiculously strong American accent, something I have found comical throughout the trip. English accents in Africa reflect their teachers, whether it be American TV or the British Learning Institute. Hence, one can find oneself in the middle of Africa speaking to someone with a classy British accent or an extremely twangy American one.

I learn how he is unhappy with Ethiopia and Addis in particular, sadly turned against his own country because of his brothers comfy lives in Washington and Chicago. He jumps off saying “if you ever need anything friend, come find me at Jupiter Hotel. Ask for small Mike, that’s me. They call me Small Mike because there’s another Mike. He’s big!”

My next partner is a middle aged man in smart pants and a pink pin striped collared shirt fitted tightly around his aging belly. He greets me asking if I’ve come to Addis for the African Unions 50^th Anniversary or if I’m just a tourist. He seems very interested in my travels as we talk about our journey and the progress, or lack thereof, in Africa. Inevitably he ask where I’m from; standard conversation in Africa. Mostly, Africans can’t believe we’re from Africa because we’re white and conversations usually go something like this:

Where are you from?
South Africa
But where do you live?
I live in South Africa
But where are you actually from?
No, I’m from South Africa
 Yes, but where are you born?
In South Africa, I am South African, that is my country!
So where are your parents from?
They are from South Africa (sensing the trend) and so are their parents and their parents and their parents and their parents.
So you are British or American?
No I don’t know. I think I have some Scottish, from my dad. My mom is maybe Irish, but I’m not sure, I know her dad grew up in India, but as long as I know I am African,  I’m from South Africa. 

Still unsure of my “Africaness” and even more sceptical of my lack of knowledge of my heritage, he accepts my answer, clearly unsatisfied.

I ask my standard questions and find out he is 46 years old, married for seventeen years and has two daughters of three and nine. Conversation dries up slightly until the next favourite question is dragged out: “Christian?” We talk about religion and churches in Ethiopia as well as our plan to perhaps try meet my parents in India. He was a minister in Lebanon for twelve years, returning to Addis to get his carpet business going and make some money. He says he’s returning to Lebanon as soon as his business is up and running. Our budding friendship is interrupted as he jumps off at our next stop. He wishes me well as I send greetings to his family and wish him luck in his business venture.

I have no partner for a while; my hoarse fluey throat appreciates the break and I stretch out my legs letting the blood tingle down to my toes as I enjoy the space. It doesn’t last long as the taxi is soon crowded again. Another partner, but this time no convo. His lack of English and my lack of Amharic leaves us at his greeting of “Salaam” and my reply of “Salaamno” and a smile.

This time I hop off first. I pass the familiar fruit sellers and the familiar shop keepers. Along the cobblestone path, past the kids who pull tongues at us daily, up the winding stairs and along the concrete corridor to the red door of the flat we’re all staying in. It’s locked; I’m home first. I lean on the balcony that overlooks the green courtyard in which all the boys play soccer, admiring the skill they display in their cumbersome 'crocs', I wait for the key bearer to return.