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SUDAN
The Land Rover roared up along the track, past the mud houses of Mehtema and started to descend. An Ethiopian Soldier leapt from beneath a tree, sprinted to the road, and brandished his AK47 in a signal to stop. Stuart stamped on the brakes and we came to a halt. In front of us was a shallow wadi and the second half of the village in the background.
“Hello Border” Said the bewildered soldier.
“What”
“Ethiopia finish” he replied.
“Oh, better go and find immigration then”
Immigration was located in another mud hut. The office had closed, but when the officer saw me running, he took pity, re-opened the office, stamped our passports, gave me a comments form, made me fill it in and then walked me back to the Soldier and the tree.
“If you return, we will re-accept you” smiled the urbane, polite immigration officer.
And with that the AK47 toting, grenade adorned, soldier waved us on like an enthusiastic child. The Land Rover descended into the wadi, crossed a small stream, powered up the other side, and halted at a pile of petrol drums.
“As salaam ualeikum” I yelled at an old man lounging by the drums. This was the Sudan. The country that had denied us entry, more through it’s incompetence than anything else, for six months. In fact, I think I still have two pending applications in two different countries as I write these words.
“Waaaleikum as salaaam he replied.
“Wayyyyn Al Gumroook?” (Where are the customs)
“Over there” he pointed.
We trundled twenty yards on and halted by what must have been the old Anglo-Egyptian Sudan customs house. This was a small stone building, with a large cage for storing goods. For me the customs house was symbolic of the change between Africa and Arabia. It was as though someone had put an invisible barrier at the border. All Ethiopian influence stopped at Mehtema, the Middle East started in Gallabat, and yet they were the same village divided by a trickle of water and an efficient Ethiopian.
“Welcome welcome, where are you from” Asked the long white robe clad officers”
“Netherlands”
“England”
“Well, Turkey really, but I have a British Passport”.
“Ahhh Turkey, Sultan Abdul Hamid, he was a good man” intoned another officer.
This is something I find curious, Arabs the world over remember Sultan Abdul Hamid for his refusal to sell Jerusalem to the Jews in return for gold equivalent to the Ottoman state’s national debt. His reply had been that such a holy place was not his to sell, it was merely in his trust. I wondered whether this was a sign of what was to come.
We had arrived in the Sudan at the end of Ramadan, the month long fast of the Islamic faith. This meant that Customs shut early and we had to sleep in Gallabat. We camped in the Immigration compound. The next morning I watched the dawn. The Sun was definitely rising from behind the hills of Ethiopia. This was a strange feeling, to be in one country and watch the sun rising from another.
The track from Gallabat to Gedaref was horrendous. I eventually drove on an earth track next to the pothole-ridden murram. Twice we hit holes too hard. The first time Stuart was winded and the second time his ribs badly bruised. I watched him clutch his sides in agony as he stomped off to groan in a ditch. When we finally made the 90 miles to Gedaref, I had had enough. I waited until Stuart had slurped a surreptitious beer that he had smuggled over in his bag, and then went to see him.
“Stu, I’ve had enough. If we continue west, all we will do is drive for 49 days, fix the truck for 10 days, and we’ll see nothing but dust and other trucks. I want to turn right in Khartoum, head north, that way we can drive back to London”
“Sound good to me, I’ve never been to Egypt, and DAR-London still sounds pretty impressive.”
That night we picked up a mad Swiss cyclist who was cycling from Cape Town to Zurich. He was taking years to achieve this monumental journey. He was unperturbed, and started and ended all of his sentences with yes.
“Jaaa, I haf time jaaa”
“We can see that.”
“Jaaa, when I get to Sudan border, I have expired visa by two days jaaaa. Jaaa I offer one hundred dollarrrrs bribe to the Immigration officaaaaa jaaa. Jaaaa he was very angry Jaaaa. Jaaaaa (different tone) I was very surprise, he was honest Jaaaaa.”
“Come on, let’s eat”
Iftaar, the breaking of the daily fast had begun. Reto the loony Swiss accompanied us to find food. The bazaars of Gedaref were packed with people. Vehicles could not move for the citizenry shopping, eating, buying presents, and generally enjoying the cool night air and other people’s company. Arab Music blared out from shops as people wandered arm I arm. The Sudan is supposed to be an Islamic state, but on closer inspection it seems to be an Arab Nation where a lot of people are Muslim.
The road to Khartoum may have been politically fraught, but from Gedaref, onwards we were treated to 411 kilometres of the finest Tarmac. For the first time since Tanzania, buses overtook us. We arrived in Khartoum that evening and camped on the banks of the Blue Nile. This majestic river wended its way past us on to the Mediterranean. If our plans all go smoothly we are destined to follow her mighty course up to Wadi Halfa, Aswan, Luxor and then on to Alexandria.
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