I like (The) Sudan

Why doesn't the spell check work? This is embarrising.
Back by popular demand (one person said it was nice, thank you) and to you other 2 or 3 that read this crap, I cant be bothered to edit!


Skipping out of Ethiopia, I was hassled to the last. Boarder towns in the 3rd world aren't often nice. Normal people only want to get past them. I wonder at those who want to set up shop or work the streets. Malaba is a town of vice next to religiously puritanical Sudan. A long strip of bars, hotel that functioned as brothels and shops hawking black market goods. I arrived sooner than I had anticipated and had to idle till the next day before crossing. I have learn my lesson before and quickly found a cheap and disgusting room and locked my goods up. Before long I found myself cumming with a bunch of Sudanese business men who had scheduled 3 day in this hole for drinking and whoring. Not the best company and before long there hospitality and easy going natures disappeared I left them on bad terms all round. Still I had to change money and a considerable sum at that. Sudan is off the map as far as international banking is concerned. So many a Birr had to be converted to Pound. I did the usual. I asked the customs other respectable figures trying to get info on going exchange rate. Then I went shopping. Naturally everyone changes money or at least knows someone who does. Shopping, haggling, demanding, walking away. I was getting known.
I stopped to by some provisions at a little shop by the hotel and fell into a chat with the tender. He seemed like a nice enough chap. After a few minutes I enquired whether he changed money, replied yes, and haggled we did. We agreed on a rate that satisfied us both. I naturally wasn't carrying the cash on my person all this time so I re-enforced the agreed sums and when to my room counted the cash and headed to his shop. This is where I screwed up. Idiotically I thought I could trust him because we had a pleasant discussion. I handed him the cash in a plastic envelope without counting it myself in front of him. Bad move. He handed me the pounds which I counted out. When we finished counting he declared that I only gave him half the amount I said I would. I count the birr and in a span of 2 or 3 minutes half had vanished. So of to the police I go. I knew it with 95% certainty that it was a waste of time but that 5% remained. The hope that they would rough him up sufficently to induce him to confessing. I didn't win. I was furious and everyone else was wondering what the big problem was as I being white, had access to endless supplies of cash. They did lock him up though, probably as a gesture. He was convicted of no crime and would likely be out the next day when I was out of town. Fuming the evening away in the hotel "lobby" or dirt ally that led to the rooms. I found myself surrounded once again by a crowd. I couldn't quite determine what they wanted, all I could understand was that I must go to the police station with them the thief wouldn't be releiced. I had no intention to have him let out, the police mentioned no such thing, or go for a stroll at night with a gang of 20 something street thugs, husselers and thieves. I went to by room, locked the door and barracaded it best I could with my bike and chair.
Early next morning they were there again. I packed up giving them the stupid don't understand look and pushed my way to customs, where they followed me. I entered the compond of sorts. Just a blown over fence and a mud hut (litterally) served as the office. The cops prevented them from entering. Smack goes the stamper, thank God. Out I go, tell em all to starve (to say I was caloused at this point doesn't do it justice) and cross the bridge to Sudan.
Sudan, I felt good, great, relieved like when the end of a really shit work day ends. Sudan immediately gives a different impression that Ethiopia. The customs is a large white complex full of uniformed officers with shinny boots. The police emblem is freaky, Orwellian. A human eye and above it a hand resting on a outline of the earth. In Ethiopia the only article of uniform you can use to identify the cops is there klaznakovs, immigrations is mud hut. The Sudanese officer gave me sweets, tea and invited me to sit and rest, a harbinger of things to come.
First full day on the bike in Sudan and I set a record. 101.5 km pedaled by noon and by this time the heat came down.
HEAT
In Sudan I spent many days in 50 degree weather. Typically by 11 in the morning my world heated up to this point and would remain so till sun down. It didn't cause me to suffer as I have acclimatized to heat like this 40 degrees is a typical day elsewhere, and provided that it isn't oppressive with humidity as on the coast for example I take no notice of it. But 50 degrees demands ones attention. Once my watch read 54 and my other thermometer read 53. Its like opening the door of the oven to check the cookies and sticking your head a little to far in. Not painful but it get attention.
-My mind got sloppy and unglued.
-I couldn't double check the shopkeepers math to save a buck.
-Doing the figuring to determine how far I had cycled and how much further I have to go based on my map and cycle-computer became a branch of mathematics far beyond me.
-I would cycle expecting to arrive at a town immanently to latter realize that I had already passed it. I had cycled through it while it escaped my notice.
-I can cool my hands by sticking them into my armpits, crazy. As I breath out if feels cool as it passes my lips
-the water in the clear plastic bottles get so hot that I have to sip there contents like McDonalds coffee, which is dangerously hot
-my toes but like they are pointing to close to the fire
-I will occasionally, quickly develop headaches, nausea and soar muscles in my neck. But this all passes as quickly as they appear
-Sometimes I have a panicky need for shade and water
-I often see out of the corner of my eye a ditch full of water running next to the road. Once I looked left and saw a lake of brown muddy water doted with mangroves, I scanned around for the water line that must have been cracked to produce this body of water and when my eyes returned spot the water transformed to wavy sand dotted with desert brush.


The land that I rode though in the first few days wasn't sandy it was more of a savanna. The veg steadily thinning as I wheeled north. After 100km or so I was surrounded by vistas of clumpy sun scorched dirt, absolutely flat. Never before have I seen anything like it. Folks smile and wave. Its odd how differently I react to the different greeting of Ethiopia and Sudan. The Ethiopian endlessly shouting YOU! YOU! YOU! made me pray that it would rain hand grenades. It Sudan folks simply smile and wave, it makes me happy so I smile and wave and botch a Arabic greeting, with in turn makes them smile more.
By 2:00 I am fine, but drinking water like mad, 12L are all ready down and this isn't forced drinking at all. I found 1L every half hour I is ideal and natural as I am thirst 20 minutes after sipping down one bottle.
The first major town is Gederif a windy spread out farm community. Its huge concrete silos "the biggest in Africa" according to one resident reminded my of the prarrirres.
I had to catch a bus from Gedaref all the way to Khartoum. Cycling it would have taken 6 days at least and I had to register with the police tomorrow. But the dreadful act of waiting for the bus to fill up was pleasurable and relaxing to the credit of the locals. It took a full 3 hours to get underway. I spent the time slurping tea that others insisted I drink with them and wilded away in pleasent conversation. Sudan is such a big country with such a (reletive to it neighbours) low pop density that even the dreaded bus station wasn't the cramped, caiotic, stressfull affair is usually is. There were a couple of hawkers that displayed there goods but never harrassed and a bunch of polite people clumped around waiting for the bus. It was like I was at the greyhound in Red Deer or something. Two honks that I correctly interpreted as "all aboard" got me climbing into a vehical that was full on one side and empty on the other. Strange, but no matter. I pick from the empties and sat down.
Soon the late comers joined me on the left side and off we went. The sun. Off course the sun is a big, powerfull, boasting animal in a Sudanes summer. I was on the left, window seat, going north, in the afternoon. The sunblazed away us all the while, burning us and turning the the scrolling landscape white. Shining like a cool yukon blizzard, a patagonian breeze, a Ethiopians curiosity. A complementry thermos of ice water was at the back and a communal cup was in constant circulation and I drank a lions share.
When we arrived at some bus station in Khartoum it was already dark. I had to figure out where I was, get my bearings, find the blue nine and then find the "Blue Nile Sailing Club" where I could pitch my tent for free. I got there slick and easy, it turned out to be a straight shot north and the few people I asked for help went through consitterble trouble to make sure I would be making progress. Only one interesting thing that happened on a night that could have been really interesting, as I was cycling through a huge unknow city in the middle of the night. I cycled into a no go zone of some sort. Sudan has lots of these. The army guys got a bit excited, made a galliant effort at interigating me in arabic. They also through through hand gestures insisted that I unpack all the contents of my backs and place them on the road. I feigned misunderstanding by sitting on the road, lying my bike on road, lying my self on the road, pushing my bike around in circles and so on. They grew tired of it and told me to keep a moving. I found the campground soon after.
Khartoum, fine place. In the the morning I stumble from one lady sitting in the street selling tea and fried donut things to anouther, as the heat powers up. Then I go back to the campground drink like a camel from the water cooler, filter machine and stumble around some more. Khartoum is a big city but kind of sleepy. Its so damn hot that no one moves away from the fan unless it is absolutely nessisary. Its just senseless me clopping around downtown in the 50 degree heat trying to get a "feel" for the city, ie traffic flow and forgetable utilitarian buildings). In the heat everyone just does there best not to collapes. Late evening, early night is when people start coming out. Khartoum like the rest of the Sudan that I saw is spread out. Open, its a nice change from all the conjestion of most African cities. Everything is the color of sand the building seam to be mad of stone of sand, sand stone perhaps. The streets are sand, in its free state or bound by some adhesive. Sand is the basic partical of which all things are made. Eat anything in Sudan and you quickly learn not to fully shut your jaw less you crunch the sand of which the food is composed. Sand in the air, yellowy air with great sunsets. Its not the pollution that creates that eyecandy my friend, yes, its the sand.
The Nile, the life blood of both Sudan and Egypt strangely is not made of sand but water. The Blue Nile bashes out of Lake Tana in Ethiopia to tango with the white Nile from somewhere south (still to this day the source of the white Nile has yet to be determined). They join in the middle of greater Khartoum but it has never been photoed as this geological phenomenon is a state secret and photographing the confluence is famously forbidden. So the flow of White Nile, like the flow time itself, an enigma. We will forever puzzle over its origins and conclusion. It just is, a entity that we tie ourselves to for stability. Even if both are a fiction, a collective hallucination what would the Sudanese or Egyptian or anyone for that matter have to organize their lives by? Nothing but a desert, a barren, horizoned hell.




Random notes
-Pushing into the damn wind for days, twisting and turning on tract of sand I found myself dreaming of breakfast cereal. When things get really demanding I often muse about ice cream. I love to fantase about washing dishes in a sink under flowing safe water, carefully placing them on a drying rack and later returning to put them in there special little spot arranged in the cupboard. I also like constructing long draw out dreams about sitting on the couch and watch in whatevers on the TV. This time I was eating cereal, expensive sugary stuff. At the kitchen table. Reading a magazine I rented from the library. God that would be nice. Normally my mind pursues tales of food I am hunger and just haven't realized it yet. If I am lost in my own little world of water fausets, lakes and water parks, I am thirsty. I have to listen to these thoughts, because if I don't I will be hurting before long.
Cereal, turning the milk sugary, cereal, divine. On I go past little towns in northern Sudan, past irrigation ditches, rock outcroppings, house compounds, around trees past a fellow that says "welcome!", like everyone else in Sudan. Still no food to be found and I am getting close to desperation. I him if there is a place to buy food near by. He replies with something to the effect of "no problem, wait a minute, rest here for a bit." It not what I want to do damn it, rest no, food yes. Some other guy comes by and tells me to say put and I reluctantly submit. Gentleman number one goes and five minutes later he returns running with a big stainless steel tray. Get this he brought me a bole of sweetened milk, sugar lining the bottom and a stack of crispy flat bread, kind of like a tortia rap but thinner. I break up the local bread and drop it in the milk and almost started crying.
-The arab Sudanese have a low opinion of their neighbours to the south. The "Africans" the "blacks", "they seem to rather live like animals in the forest rather than as men" One fellow expressed. Travelling I often get lazy and just tell people what I know what they want to hear. With the Sudanese I would regale them with my experiences of the poverty, disarray and insucurity I saw experience. Yes, Yes they would agree. I should stop this though, saying what they already believe, telling half truths. Its disshonest, usually sanderouse, an insult to those fine people I have met and befriended and it derailes real productive learning. Egyptians have on occation tried to set me into a Sudanese bad! Egyptian good! statement but I fusterate them as tackfully as I am able.

-I failed to phone both Samai and Mustatha as I had promised. I tried, I hadn't the time in Wadi Halfa with all the convoluted questing to authorise my boarder crossing and the numbers they gave me didn't connect me in the government Tele central in Aswan. From now on I will always refuse to call someone from down the road as I have yet to make good on a promise.




Sand storm vs. dust storm
I like sand storms a lot more than dust storms. Yes in sand storms you can't see a damn thing and opening your eyes is a action quickly punished, it is painfull to exposed skin and is toxic to my bikes moving bits as well. But when it is over it is over. All I have to do is shake myself of and clean my gears and chain. Clean sand seems to be good for washing anyways. When I give my oily hands (petroleum based) a good sand scrub they come out better. It the evening when I give my oily body (body based) a good sand wallow its refreshing. The sand just brushes of and takes most of the crud with it. Dust storms are a different thing. Everything gets coated and says that way. I'll blow black out of my nose for days. It finds it way into everything and coats it and stays there untill it is washed off with water. I can keep my eyes open during dust storms but the visibility is so low that it isn't worth it. I just have to shut down and waite it out.

-If it wasn't for the rest stops that are placed 20-50km along the highway I would have never had made it. The towns, if I noticed their existance, were often far off the road just visible, glued to the nile while the highway was a few km inland. There is no designed turnoffs to these settlements. No signs or roads of any kind. Judging from the tire tracks people seem to just steer of the road, hit the sand and aim for their destination. So I was never clear how I actually get to one. Was it worth pushing my bike 5 km across the sand towards what kind of looks like mosque mirianet? The rest stops were just big 3 walled shacks. But for me they were paradise or gardens or palaces. Cots to sleep through the afternoon heat. Free water from pourous clay jugs that through the physics of evaporation kept the liquid cool, soda, tea, snacks. But most importantly respite from the wind and sun.

-No one could seem to discipher the code on the damn visa sticker. When did it activate? How long was it good for? Did the entry date, or exit date for that matter, have any relevence? The police were perplexed, officalls all told me different things. So I sided with causion and made sure I was out in 2 weeks.

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