Well, it was time to head back, on foot. To show respect to local Muslim culture, which prohibits the showing of flesh and skin, I did not wear shorts, even though it was a scorching day and I was sweating like a pig (not a good metaphor in a Muslim country). But it felt good to get a bit of exercise.
As I walked back to my hotel I was struck by all the development taking place in and around the area where the Blue Nile and White Nile meet. Many construction and earthmoving vehicles were parked on building sites and lots of scaffolding was either being put up or was up already. I was convinced that Khartoum – where there were no signs of war – was a city marching into the future.
It was a long way back to my hotel. It took me over two hours to cover the same three and a half kilometres along the Nile. Not bad for someone with a snapped Achilles tendon and a two-centimetre built-up right shoe who was suffering from extreme heat.
The next day was Friday, which in Khartoum is like Sunday in a staunchly Christian country. Khartoum becomes a ghost town: almost all businesses are closed and there is only a handful of people on the streets. There was not much to do except to go back to Omdurman and watch wrestling, a solid Nubian tradition. As I hate wrestling I was not going to pretend, now that I was in Sudan, that I loved it. In fact, I have always believed that wrestling, like rugby, is for men who would never dream of doing anything like skydiving but are desperately trying to prove something to themselves.
I spent most of the day in my hotel room taking some time out. Lying on the bed and looking at a map of Africa, it felt good to see not only how much distance I had already covered but also that Cairo was just up the road. Practically.
Since Sudanese currency was very confusing for me I used that leisure time to try to master it. On average, US$1 equals SDD250. Therefore, anything above US$4 would cost over a thousand dinars. As in Zambia, Zimbabwe and Tanzania, almost everything was quoted in thousands. What compounded the problem in Sudan was that the locals still quoted prices in Sudanese pounds (S£), one Sudanese dinar equalling ten Sudanese pounds.
For instance, a cab driver would quote you S£30 000 when he meant SDD3 000. More often than not I was told the price in pounds but paid in dinars, pounds being no longer in circulation. The Sudanese pound was replaced by the Sudanese dinar in 1992 and, as I recently discovered, was officially reintroduced as the currency of Southern Sudan in January 2007. So, how about this scenario: SDD1=S£10 (original) but S£1 (new)=SDD100. Therefore, if you can do sums, you will conclude that S£1=S£1 000. If you happen to visit Sudan, please, asseblief, ngiyakucela, bring a calculator.
On another note (excuse the pun), Sudanese men are known to have the longest middle leg in Africa. Obviously, if they are indeed African champions, it goes without saying that they are world champions too. It made me think of one of my handful of ex-girlfriends who I knew would have been thrilled to visit Sudan. In general, however, most women get involved in a relationship because they are focused on one thing: marriage. Men, on the other hand, become involved in relationships for one thing and one thing only: sex. After a while, a woman will start asking herself, What type of a husband will this guy be? A man will just be thinking of one thing: Is she still a great lay?
All my ex-girlfriends had one quirk in common – they would wake me up in the middle of the night to ask, ‘Where is this relationship going?’ ‘How am I supposed to know, I’m sleeping’ was my usual answer. A few days later the relationship would simply crumble.
Thinking about Sudanese men being better endowed than their South African counterparts made me – for the first time – not feel good about being a South African male. Not that it mattered much right then. There were no beautiful women in Khartoum, at least that I could see, because if you did see a woman, she was usually covered from top to toe. Even if there were any, I would not have tried my luck. Given what those women are used to.
Tickets for the weekly train from Khartoum to Wadi Halfa, Sudan’s inland port on the Nile, are sold only two days in advance of your journey. Since I did not know how much demand there would be for train tickets, it was imperative for me to go to the train station early. In Dar es Salaam I complained that the bus station was as far from the city centre as the airport; in Khartoum it is the other way around. Passenger trains depart from Khartoum North while the airport is on the periphery of the city centre. To kill time I decided to tackle the three kilometres to the train station on foot. Because Friday had been a rest day, Saturday felt like Monday.
This time, I was walking along the scenic Nile road in the opposite direction. As to be expected, most government ministries, including the Ministry of Council of Ministers (yes, that is what they called it) and the Presidential Palace, are located on the Nile road. I crossed the Blue Nile over the Blue Nile bridge, which separates Khartoum North from the city centre. The traffic on the bridge – one-way only – was heavy, with hundreds of people travelling to the city centre from the northern part of the city in cars and a few buses to snarl up the traffic even more. The terrible congestion reminded me of one of the reasons why I had (temporarily) left the corporate world.
As on the White Nile bridge, there was a strong military presence – not that the populace seemed to react in any way to the men in uniform.
The queue at the train station consisted of seven people only and things were a lot better organised than at the station at Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. The queue moved smoothly. Before leaving the hotel, I had asked the receptionist to write my request for a train ticket (first class) from Khartoum to Wadi Halfa, and a ferry ticket from Wadi Halfa to the port of Aswan in Egypt, in Arabic on a piece of paper. When I presented the paper to the lady at the ticket counter, she wrote SDD14 000 – which was exactly the amount of money I had budgeted for. Although it felt very strange that they would sell both ferry and train tickets from the same office, I was sure from the number of papers (read ‘tickets’) I was handed that I had both tickets. In fact, there was a photo of a ferry on the biggest piece of paper.
After dawdling around the station, the tickets safely deposited in the side pocket of my cargo pants, I decided to explore the streets nearby. It was then that I observed for myself that Khartoum is built on/in a desert that stretches northwards as far as the eye can see, and beyond. I knew that the North was an arid desert, plagued by dust storms and suffering from a shortage of drinkable water, unlike the South with its tropical climate, but somehow I didn’t expect to see desert sand seeping up into the suburbs.
Just after midday, I decided to walk back to the city centre. As I crossed the bridge – the same Blue Nile bridge – something looked different: the one-way traffic was now flowing in the opposite direction, from the city centre to Khartoum North. Back at the hotel the waiter explained to me that everyone was used to this way of doing things. People used the bridge to travel from home to work in the mornings, at that time one-way in the direction of the city centre; in the afternoons they used the same bridge, one-way after 12:00 in the other direction, to return home. Traffic officials monitored the situation, he assured me, reminding me that there was a permanently two-way bridge, further east.
While crossing the bridge I could not let a good photo opportunity pass me by again. Although I could see police at the other end, I took out my camera and started clicking away as I was walking, hiding the camera inside my Lonely Planet – Africa on a Shoestring. I knew I was taking a huge risk; it could look like espionage. When I walked past the police I greeted them. It was only then that I realised that they were unlikely to have seen me taking photos; they were all busy reading newspapers. From back to front, left to right.
I was starting to love Khartoum. The only thing I could not get used to was the heat. It was so hot and dry that all I wanted to do was spend my time in my air-conditioned room. It being my last full day in Khartoum, I was tempted to go and see the merging of the Blue and White Nile again, but I was discouraged by the heat. Instead, it being Sunday, I thought I would surf the Net to find out what
was cooking back home.
I was totally shocked to read that Gabriel Siyabonga Ndabandaba, one of the few black pilots in South Africa, had died in an air crash on 10 September during an aerobatic display at an airshow at Vereeniging near Johannesburg. Although I had never met him personally, the fact that he had piloted the fighter jet that flew over the Union Buildings during President Mbeki’s inauguration and was a first officer in our national airline, meant he was living my dream. People like him who manage to overcome trying circumstances really motivate me.
The death of a person is always a tragic event, but if we accept death not as the end of life but as an end to the experience-gathering stage in our spiritual journey, I cannot think of a better way to die than while doing something you have a passion for. Gabriel took part in a sport that is by its nature risky, but it is those very risks, I have discovered, that attract people to adrenalin sports. He had a short but intense life, unlike most people, who live long and boring lives, or even short and boring lives. People who die never having taken risks in their lifetime have never truly been alive.
Gabriel, because he lived, qualified to die.
Thanks for being an inspiration, Gabriel, mfowethu,
thanks for making us proud,
thanks for being one of a kind.
Hey, keep flying,
fly even higher,
soar like a bird.
Flap those wings,
make those holes in the sky,
blue skies ...
Ngiyabonga, Siyabonga.
Gabriel’s death reminded me of something that used to worry me during my skydiving days: if I were to die while skydiving, white people would turn around and say I could not do it because I was black; and black people would turn around and say it served me right because I was a coconut who was trying too hard to be white.
It’s not easy being black. Nor is it easy to be white: white people are for ever worrying about whether they will, again, receive above-average returns on their investments.
The day to leave Khartoum had finally arrived. I got to the station just as the train for Wadi Halfa was pulling in. Since the train is the best way of travelling in northern Sudan, I was not surprised to see so many people waiting on the platform.
As all the writing on my ticket was in Arabic, I asked the security guard for assistance. When I handed him the pile of papers I had been issued two days earlier, he asked nonchalantly, ‘Where is your train ticket?’
Thinking there was something wrong with him, I went to another guard and showed him my papers. He replied, ‘No, my friend, this is a ferry ticket together with a meal and drink voucher.’
I almost fainted.
‘So where can I buy a ticket?’ I asked, pretending to be calm.
The man told me to follow him to the ticket office. By then, the train had started to blow its whistle. I was cursing myself for having been so stupid and thoughtless. I knew I was supposed to double-check everything. I could not even start contemplating the possibility of spending another week in Khartoum. The worst was that I was running out of cash and in Khartoum there is only one way of settling your bills – with cash. If I end up with grey hair before turning 40, it’ll be because of that moment in Khartoum. I was so mad at myself. I was a nervous wreck.
Five minutes later the ticket officer pitched up and issued me a first-class ticket. All this time I was standing, hoping that – by some miracle – if I remained standing in the office and did not sit down the train would not leave.
When I eventually found the right wagon, five other gentlemen had already occupied five of the six seats in the small compartment I was to share with them: three on one side, two on the other. I more or less collapsed into the only free seat.
It turned out that three of the men were also going to Cairo.
As the train pulled away from the platform the unthinkable happened: many people, especially women, started crying. Those on the train as well as those on the platform were weeping uncontrollably. Being emotional when leaving your loved ones is fine. Having tears roll down your cheeks is also acceptable. But, in my book, lamenting so loudly when parting, as if someone has died, is totally unacceptable. To my great relief the crying subsided a few minutes after the train had left the station.
About an hour from Khartoum, the train stopped for no apparent reason. People disembarked and started eating their rolls, eggs and other padkos, or what we call umphako in Zulu. It must be breakfast time, I thought. After half an hour, just out of curiosity, I asked one of the guys I was sharing a compartment with when the train was going to start moving again.
‘This train is no good,’ was his reply.
It seemed that the train’s diesel tank was leaking. The driver was talking on a citizen-band (CB) radio, so I assumed we would be on our way in no time. Two hours went by without anything happening and, just to pass the time, I decided to see how far I could walk on the railway track without losing balance. I was bored stiff.
It amazed me that the Sudanese men did not think twice about stretching out on the sand in their white jalabiyas, just lying there relaxing. Time passed excruciatingly slowly. After midday, the temperature started to climb even higher and still nothing happened. Since we were more or less stuck in the middle of the desert, the sand was getting uncomfortably hot, and so was the train. Everyone looked relaxed. I seemed to be the only one who was worried.
I was under the impression that we were waiting for a repair man to arrive, but I discovered – five hours later – we had been waiting for another locomotive. Since the other locomotive came from behind, and as there was only one line, we had to be pulled back to Badaru on the outskirts of Khartoum. The unhooking of the faulty locomotive and the hooking up of a (hopefully) reliable locomotive took another hour. As we were about to leave, another problem was discovered: the air-compression (braking) system of some wagons was not working. That took almost another hour to fix.
More than eight hours later, we left Khartoum for the second time. Although we had been delayed for such a long time, it felt good to be taking a ride on a train. There is something extremely relaxing and soothing about a train journey. As you pass through different places you feel as if you are part of the environment – unlike travel by car, not to mention flying.
In no time it began to get dark. Instead of remaining in the crammed compartment, I decided to sit on the steps of the wagon and enjoy the wind on my face. Sitting out there that night as the train gently headed north, I felt I was truly living my dream of travelling through different countries on my own – even though at times under very difficult conditions. Northern Sudan may be a desert; at that moment it felt like a dust-borne dream.
It turned out to be a very long, hot, dry and dust-filled night. Imagine dust settling on your wet and sweaty skin, clogging your pores, creeping up your nostrils. That was exactly what was happening.
After midnight, I returned to my compartment, only to find one of the men sleeping on the floor between the seats. I had to squeeze myself in between two of the others who were slumped in their seats, one of them snoring as if there were no tomorrow. The noise was hard to take. But the worst part for me was the sand dust. It was unbearable.
Fairly early the following morning, the train stopped at a small station for the passengers to enjoy a breakfast of bean burgers. For more than 24 hours I had not consumed anything other than five litres of water I had bought in Khartoum. And dust. I did not feel like eating. Least of all, bean burgers.
Except for that long break, we spent the day in the train, stopping only to pick up passengers who would have been waiting for eight hours and more at small stations in a desert with no sign of life. Throughout the entire day I drank cup after cup of very sweet tea offered to me by the other five passengers sharing the compartment with me. I had little choice: Sudanese do not take no for an answer when they offer you something.
The railway line ran parallel to the Nile for many kilometres. Here, the waters of the Nile wer
e not choppy and dirty but calm and clean, sliding gently north to the Mediterranean. It was ironic to see the old train running parallel to the magnificent river. When I raised my eyes and looked beyond the water, all I could see was an endless desert. It was a splendid sight: a vast wide river cutting through and bringing life to otherwise uninhabitable terrain. I could not help but think of the business potential in running luxury trains in that part of Sudan, and I would not be surprised if the Chinese, in the foreseeable future, end up doing just that. (I have since discovered that more than 70 per cent of Sudan’s export commodities – oil and petroleum products, cotton, sesame seed, livestock, groundnuts – go to China while more than 20 per cent of Sudan’s imports come from China, mainly foodstuffs and manufactured goods.)
Just before sunset, the braking system developed a problem, which caused another hold-up. By now we were in the Nubian Desert in the eastern part of the Sahara, by and large a sandstone plateau between the Nile and the Red Sea where there is virtually no rainfall, no oases; but lots of wadis (dry riverbeds) flowing towards the Nile. Most passengers disembarked and used the enforced break to pray (about 70 per cent of Sudan’s population is Muslim). A red sun was setting, a beautiful sight that I could not appreciate because, as it got darker and darker, I could feel my blood pressure go up and up. Sitting on the hot sand looking at the Sudan Railway Corporation logo, I thought it would look and read so much better if they were to add FUCKED UP right above that red emblem.
After three hours we headed off northwards again. Not for long. Within 20 minutes or so we came to a dead stop. I was beginning to dream of air-conditioned offices, boardrooms and cars, and, especially, cold beers after work. The train had broken down again.
Sudanese are such nice people. Every time the train came to a standstill, someone would come to me and explain that I should not worry because eventually we’d get to Wadi Halfa. I was so gatvol of that shitty train I was seriously starting to doubt whether we would ever reach our destination. But each time they would get the train going again.
Dark Continent my Black Arse Page 20