Not for those with weak stomachs

PORT SUDAN: I think I'm beginning to realize that this trip is going to be a lesson in cheerful, resigned acceptance of my own dirt.

In the last two hotels we've been in, the shower was too repulsive for me to bring myself to use it, with the result that it's actually been about five days since I've showered. I don't actually mind it that much however, because I continue to get so very dirty with each successive day that attempting to shower would be an exercise in futility. Wind blows the Sahara sand into my hair; my feet have black lines from dirty sandals and dirtier streets; my fingernails are caked with black gunk; my entire body has not seen soap in days.

My feet probably deserve their own paragraph. By black, I do mean actually black; black-and-tan, if you count the upper bit, sort of like a Guinness. Only not that pale a shade of tan. And the tan has stripes in it where my sandal straps go. And it's not actually a tan. This morning a piece of beans from my fuul breakfast fell between my toes and, as usual, I had no way to clean it off. I kind of flicked it away with one fingernail but the mashed residue remained to more or less become a part of the next layer on that foot. (Hey - you're reading this far, you obviously ignored the warning in the title.)

I have to admit, it's kind of entertaining on a disturbing level to see how very shockingly I can smash my own hygenic tolerances with these things attached to my legs. I now fully understand and appreciate the traditional Muslim abhorrence of feet. The Muslims have got it right. Feet are dirty things. They are not necessarily so if certain implements (socks, close-toed shoes, paved roads, clean sidewalks) are a part of your daily life, but otherwise, they really shouldn't ever be seen or touched. By anybody. Ew.