In our bush taxi from Sokoto to Kaduna, I was thrilled to find myself sharing the 'way back' with two Muslim girls my age who were both friendly and skinny (two precious qualities for seatmates in any Nigerian transport). When naptime came, as it did for all three of us about 20 minutes into the six-hour drive, the girl in the middle settled herself comfortably against my shoulder. The girl on her other side did likewise, and within half a minute the three of us were snuggled up like bugs in a rug - despite not having yet exchanged more than two words. David, looking back to our row, quipped to his seatmate, "It looks like a trio of dominos just went down."
While it might have been creepy to have a strange woman sleeping on my shoulder in an American bus, here it was totally okay, and even normal - an outgrowth of gender-segregation that has produced one of the most (to me) surprising things I've discovered on this trip.
In traditional Islam, men are not really supposed to talk to female strangers and vice versa, a taboo I found startling at first and alarming in theory, but soon came to appreciate. Moving cities every few days makes friendship of any sort difficult to maintain, and since dating is hardly an option for me on this trip I'm not missing any opportunities there, either. Instead, the ban on male-female friendship means that for the first time in my life, I don't have to give the time of day to every yahoo who hollers for it on the street. And the effect, I admit, is liberating. It is a uniquely blissful experience to be able - without violating any code of manners - to just flat-out ignore unwanted male overtures. In fact - and this is the best part - by my rudeness I'm really only following the rules!
(I should clarify, this is typical of traditional Islam as it is practiced in more conservative areas of Africa and possibly the Middle East; I know nothing about Islam as it is practiced in the West, and little of Islam at all that I haven't learned on this trip.)
Moreover, this restriction means that all friendship is necessarily limited to those of one's own gender. In a society where co-ed contact is strictly regulated, social networks will flourish in symmetric but unconnected patterns - and those looking for friendship will scout among their own gender. A friend of mine, visiting her boyfriend in Tunis, clicked instantly with a girl she met there, and the two self-segregated to show off and try out hairdos - a 'no-boys-allowed' procedure for the veiled Muslim girl. In a culture of gender segregation, boys won't be allowed for considerable portions of female social life, and the result can be a delightfully warm, uniquely female social space.
My friend's story is anecdotal, but I wonder if it is in fact typical - and something similar happened to me on my mid-March flight from Dar es Salaam to Paris, where I was headed for the weekend to take care of money issues. While I was thrilled for the unexpected chance to see friends and family, getting on that first plane I knew I was separated from them by fourteen flight hours and a looong overnight layover at Dubai International Airport. In other words, sleep was high on my in-flight agenda.
There's always that tension when you make first contact with your airplane seatmate; locked in for six hours with only the prospect of a bathroom trip to get up, you are deprived of all the normal resources for politely ending an unwanted conversation. Starting to talk at all is seriously a risk. So burned have I been by this in the past that now I typically don't say a thing until the end of the flight; I make use of that otherwise dull taxi-time to discover whether the person next to me all along was a fascinating individual or a sociopath.
When Fatma first sat down next to me on the first flight, this was all going through my head, but we ended up striking up a conversation anyway. In fact, we clicked effortlessly. The friendship that sprang up between us and lasted through the entire transcontinental flight was surely due in part to a natural similarity in minds or temperament or what have you, but I attribute the fact that it sprang up at all to my being in hijab. Fatma was not a terribly conservative Muslim, but that first connection - we're both hijabed - has the most interesting effect of solidarity. We started to talk, at first about the flight, then about ourselves, and finally about our countries - and the information that I'm not actually Muslim didn't alter our connection at all. On the contrary, when I explained that I veil in conservative areas out of respect for local custom, she seemed impressed.
Landing at Dubai International Airport should have been the normal occasion to part ways, but instead we found ourselves just... walking out of the plane together, and then.. going to the main terminal together, and then.. well, it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world to keep hanging out. (Six hours of chat hadn't been enough already.) So we walked around, looking for a belt for her too-big pants or a camera card for me or a watch for her boyfriend, and when we got tired we wandered into the private 'female religious area' (read: mosque) to sleep on the floor amid a set of other tired Muslim women. This was my first time being inside a mosque, and I was very much expecting to feel like a turnip in the carrots.. but I didn't. The same cordiality I had noticed from Muslim women in the past was strongly present here, despite it being a random assortment of exhausted strangers, and walking in behind Fatma I was warmly greeted as 'one of us'. The best part is that there was nothing specifically religious about it - Fatma liked me just as well after she found out I wasn't Muslim; the veiling acquaintance of my friend knew full well she was Jewish; and the other women in the airport mosque were hardly interested in sharing prayer stories with me - it was more an outgrowth out of a group consciousness of space 'just for us'.
This was an incredible revelation for me. I've always assumed that all-female spaces would promote cattiness at best and back-stabbing bitchiness at worst. When alumna of all-girls schools have insisted otherwise, I admit I was never quite able to believe them. I just assumed that they were too popular to have been affected. Even on this trip, I have cynically suspected that the female-specific friendliness I felt from Muslim women was motivated by conversion attempts. I was wrong - I would now rather hazard the opinion that Muslim women are too marginalized by their own religion to give a shit who's a part of Islam and who's not, at least not in the same way that Muslim men do. (I just pissed off a few people there, didn't I.) The friendliness of Muslim women is related to Islam, though - for what better than gender segregation to inspire female friendship?
This, my friends, is the consolation prize for putting up with what few Western women would - share your husband with other women, get no protection from divorce, very little agency in family affairs, DEFINITELY no pet dog, no more cocktails or pork either, and a relative non-role in the same religion making your life a dependent sober petless hell.
But it's a pretty good one.
Showing posts with label Sudan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sudan. Show all posts
Saturday, August 1
Wednesday, July 22
African One-Liners
Since I'm stuck recuperating in Conakry with the kind of internet connection that comes once in a lifetime in Africa, seems like as good a time as any to dump a collection of quotes that, over the past few months, have made me laugh.. or tilt my head and think: "?"
David, in Arusha, Tanzania, on finding a guide: "If we stand around and look white, sooner or later we'll find someone."
"Now we're full." -- the herder of a 14-passenger bus in Rwanda, on boarding his 26th passenger. (Several of us immediately protested amid general laughter that we could surely fit at least two more...)
Butros Butros Ghali, on being asked to distinguish between the Arabic bukra, insha'allah and the Spanish mañana: "The Arabic 'bukra' has none of 'mañana's sense of urgency."
David to me, haughtily, after I made a snarky remark about how unexpectedly luxurious our Congolese hotel room was: "Unlike you, I don't need to be in a nest of cockroaches to get a good night's sleep."
Debating whether or not Libya was a swell country, in response to my comment on the governmental status the (pro-Libya) Nigerien dude responded: "Well, yeah.. but who gives a fuck about democracy??"
On the mass of hair that came away from my head when I took out my braids from Zanzibar - "Man, you could stuff a pillow with that." And pressed as to the color of that still attached to my scalp: "Uh... if I had to say, I would probably say... indeterminate."
"Hey, it takes a lot of willpower to go through a can of tuna!" --David, defensively, to my stare of disgust as he tuna-stank up our squalid hotel room in Kenya.
Anna and Matt, two friendly Peace Corpsers, on the obstacles to tourism in coastal Benin and Togo: "The tourists come out here in the morning with their towels and there are like six to eight people shitting on the beach."
"And this is for.. grabbing and strangling something, I guess." --David, in all seriousness, describing an item at the label-less National Museum of Ethiopia.
(This one I can't claim to have seen myself, but it's good enough to merit repeating) On a billboard in Nigeria: Do you suffer from virginal drip?
From me to David, on a random street in Masindi, Uganda after leaping out of the way of yet another honking taxi: "You know, I'm getting kind of sick of people threatening me with vehicular homicide as a means of getting my attention."
An idealistic museum docent in Benin, showing a morality statue of a woman naked to the waist, explained to the assembled Beninese (and me) how female nudity to the waist is 'okay' in African culture. One of his countrywomen heartily disagreed, and a spot of bickering ensued. The man was persistent, but the woman soon won it beyond all claim with: "Now just what do you think would happen to me if I wandered around the street naked to the waist??"
On the crowds of people swarming around our huge bus and waving their arms madly as we attempted a cramped 3-pt-turn in congested Nairobi: "Gee, everyone here's a budding traffic director."
"Hm.. One minute." -- David's estimate for how roughly how long it would take to break down the rickety plywood-and-rusted-bolt combination ambitiously calling itself my hotel door.
(15 minutes - time spent relocating all furniture in my room to directly in front of said door.)
And finally, one more to make his parents proud: David, discussing my student health plan in the EG airport, in response to my apprehension about the insurance supplier: "Man, I would take Satan himself if he was offered to me at a 75% discount!"
(Which, with insurance companies, is more or less the same thing.)
David, in Arusha, Tanzania, on finding a guide: "If we stand around and look white, sooner or later we'll find someone."
"Now we're full." -- the herder of a 14-passenger bus in Rwanda, on boarding his 26th passenger. (Several of us immediately protested amid general laughter that we could surely fit at least two more...)
Butros Butros Ghali, on being asked to distinguish between the Arabic bukra, insha'allah and the Spanish mañana: "The Arabic 'bukra' has none of 'mañana's sense of urgency."
David to me, haughtily, after I made a snarky remark about how unexpectedly luxurious our Congolese hotel room was: "Unlike you, I don't need to be in a nest of cockroaches to get a good night's sleep."
Debating whether or not Libya was a swell country, in response to my comment on the governmental status the (pro-Libya) Nigerien dude responded: "Well, yeah.. but who gives a fuck about democracy??"
On the mass of hair that came away from my head when I took out my braids from Zanzibar - "Man, you could stuff a pillow with that." And pressed as to the color of that still attached to my scalp: "Uh... if I had to say, I would probably say... indeterminate."
"Hey, it takes a lot of willpower to go through a can of tuna!" --David, defensively, to my stare of disgust as he tuna-stank up our squalid hotel room in Kenya.
Anna and Matt, two friendly Peace Corpsers, on the obstacles to tourism in coastal Benin and Togo: "The tourists come out here in the morning with their towels and there are like six to eight people shitting on the beach."
"And this is for.. grabbing and strangling something, I guess." --David, in all seriousness, describing an item at the label-less National Museum of Ethiopia.
(This one I can't claim to have seen myself, but it's good enough to merit repeating) On a billboard in Nigeria: Do you suffer from virginal drip?
From me to David, on a random street in Masindi, Uganda after leaping out of the way of yet another honking taxi: "You know, I'm getting kind of sick of people threatening me with vehicular homicide as a means of getting my attention."
An idealistic museum docent in Benin, showing a morality statue of a woman naked to the waist, explained to the assembled Beninese (and me) how female nudity to the waist is 'okay' in African culture. One of his countrywomen heartily disagreed, and a spot of bickering ensued. The man was persistent, but the woman soon won it beyond all claim with: "Now just what do you think would happen to me if I wandered around the street naked to the waist??"
On the crowds of people swarming around our huge bus and waving their arms madly as we attempted a cramped 3-pt-turn in congested Nairobi: "Gee, everyone here's a budding traffic director."
"Hm.. One minute." -- David's estimate for how roughly how long it would take to break down the rickety plywood-and-rusted-bolt combination ambitiously calling itself my hotel door.
(15 minutes - time spent relocating all furniture in my room to directly in front of said door.)
And finally, one more to make his parents proud: David, discussing my student health plan in the EG airport, in response to my apprehension about the insurance supplier: "Man, I would take Satan himself if he was offered to me at a 75% discount!"
(Which, with insurance companies, is more or less the same thing.)
Thursday, May 28
Punch Buggy
When I was a child, one of the magical and increasingly rare highlights of any day was to land a victory punch on an unsuspecting companion in the classic game of Punch Bug Spotting.
Never would I have believed, until five months ago, that there existed Americans who did not know of this game; cautious in my recent experience of punch-bug ignorance, however, I will explain the rules. They are but two: that (1) Whosoever espies a true, original, Volkswagon bug in any recognizable state of repair has license to [gently] punch their companion, while informing the victim of the color of applicable punch-buggy for their verification. Naturally, rule (2) follows that since any spotter can punch, after revealing the presence of the bug in question the punch initiator had better protect him or herself from an eye-for-eye reprisal by calling "No back-tacks". These are the only two rules, rendering the entire planet a free-for-all for whoever has the quickest eye, fist, and claim-calling combination (which I usually didn't), and explaining why the game was so enormously attractive to the five, seven, or ten-year-old versions of myself.
I say five, seven, or ten, but in truth I have never really stopped playing the Punch Bug Game. It is more the sad disappearance of true VW bugs around the time of their modern replacement than any onset of maturity that caused bug-punching to peter out of my life in middle and high school. My assumption at the time was that true punch bugs were nearing extinction, and that I had better get used to their sleek, shiny, more highly evolved strain and relegate the days of the true Punch-Buggy and bug-punching glory to the fond memory archives of my childhood.
But not so.. punch-bugs, I have been delighted to discover, live on in their own unassuming afterlife.. for Africa is where punch-bugs come to die.
I first noticed this on a side street in Khartoum, probably not more than a week into the trip. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sight I hadn't seen in years, one that made my heart leap so suddenly with unexpected joy I almost forgot myself before leaping into action - had David already seen it?? - I flew to punch him first, hollering the triumphal cry of the puncher: "BLUE-PUNCH-BUGGY-NO-BACK-TACKS!!"
David stopped short, staring, bewildered at his lightning defeat. Well, of course I could sympathize with that - he had just missed the only punch-bug opportunity either one of us might see for the entire trip, and even in my impromptu victory dance I well understood that anyone would be upset.
David, however, was remarkably obtuse to the causes behind the swift and unexpected blow he had received. How foolish, to forget such a classic game - even in a ten-year lapse of punch-bug activity - or fail to apreciate the implicitly global nature of the playing field! I began to chide him mericlessly for it.
Difficult and slow was it for me to grasp that David - hold onto your hats here - had never played the punch-buggy game and - WORSE - did not even know of its existence. !!! The mind boggles. What about popular culture?? I demanded. Books, television, movies?? "Heck," I demanded in frightened defense of such a time-honored institution, "what'd you think we called them 'punch-buggies' for anyway??"
He denied ever even having heard such a term.
Well, I wasn't about to let his incomprehensible ignorance rain on my punch-bug parade; it was just too bad he was the only plausible victim within arm's reach for the next eight months and when we (incredibly!) saw another VW bug two weeks later, he was pummelled a second time. "Green-punch-buggy-no-back-tacks!"
The confusion of the first attack was now replaced with an annoyance that threatened to grow dangerous if my hit-and-runs were repeated. A small voice of reason piped that I should let it go; it wasn't worth it, it wasn't adult, and it wasn't fair in any case to play against an uninitiated. But punch-bugs were too deeply absorbed into my character - years of being punched by my quicker, smarter sisters and much quicker, smarter dad meant that a punch-bug victory was like a golden trophy, the pennant of glory for the youngest and slowest member of the family to wave in triumph for the few hours (or minutes) before it would inevitably be snatched back: the Holy Grail of my childhood. Despite losing almost every time, I had revered the Punch Bug Game with an ardency explicable only by my youth (but which the onset of adulthood has done little to erode). To let a VW-Bug pass quietly by with no comment, as if nothing had happened, was unthinkable.
And besides, I had fully explained to him both rules. He was just as eligible as I to be the puncher instead of the punchee. As far as I was concerned, the playing field was level, and let the punching begin.
Not even I expected the massacre that awaited in the capital of Ethiopia, however. The streets of Addis Adeba were lined with '60s Volkswagons in all shapes and sizes, and classic punch-bugs proliferated in every color of the rainbow. (No, really - favorites were burnished gold, turquoise with white racing stripes, and iridescent purple.) After perhaps his 20th time getting punch-bug-punched, David announced in a voice that brooked no discusion that he was through, and declared a moratorium on the Punch Bug Game.
I was nettled. This was the punch-bug paradise I'd been waiting for since age 10, when true punch bugs began to melt out of the West like roaches at a Raid party. No Punch Bug Game? On what grounds?? "You know, you can play too," I charged. "I don't wanna play!" he snapped. I was pretty sure the maneuver was illegal but could think of no, and mutinously began to count up all the punches I was missing out on. I made it to 77 before we left the capital a day later.
It was well into March before I ventured another punch. I had let about a dozen beautiful opportunities slip by, quietly tacking them on to my embittered total of Denied Punch Bugs, but as the memory of the Addis VW Spree faded I began to hope for a gradual and perhaps unnoticeable punch-bug recussitation. My first tentative efforts, quiet and delicate, won looks of contempt but no damning decrees, and soon we were back to the normal pre-Addis level of a few punches a week. I'm not actually a terribly observant person, but after a decade of scouring streets for a punch bug even the chancest glimpse of one of those pastel rounded roofs has the effect of a mild electric shock. Before long, it had a similar effect on David, who began to associate old VWs with vague yet impending danger. He never attempted a counter-attack, though, preferring to retaliate with snide comments relating to his being engaged in some other task, such as finding a taxi or changing money, which might have trumped vintage-car spotting. Such remarks always carried the unmistakeable whiff of superiority; the implication, of course, was that perhaps I ought to restructure my priorities.
I knew better.
But as always happens when one's competition is sub-par, I too got slower, and lazy. No need to race to the punch, really. It would still be there, and let's face it - so would David.
And so it happened one watershed morning about four months into the trip that, as I drifted in and out of cognizance in a share-taxi station wagon, David caught sight of a punch bug and thought : Red-punch-bug. With a stroke of brilliance he identified the ready opportunity and a negligent victim, and spluttering "RED PUNCH BUG! RED PUNCH BUG!" he began to wail on my shoulder with the zeal of a beaten-down underdog suddenly clawing its way to the top. He was so excited that he punched me six or seven times. Irked at the unexpected reversal, I archly informed him that You're only allowed one punch per bug, before punching him back because he had neglected to preclude that possibility by calling no back-tacks. He was oblivious to anything but his triumph. The impossible had come; he had beat me at my own game; anything could happen. I was similarly affected and began to keep greater vigilance, getting him back with another one a few hours later.
At five months, I have now probably punched David close to five hundred times (not counting, of course, the Lost Bugs of Ethiopia). For his part, David claims 24 victories, a modest total until I add that 22 were in the last fortnight, and 21 of those this afternoon in a memorable drive through what could only have been the Final Resting-Place of Punchbugs while the other passengers leaned away from us with looks of alarm and disapproval. Then the moment came - a white bug loomed up suddenly by the side of the road. Instantaneously, we both whirled in our cramped seats, fists almost colliding on their way to target, blurting "WHITE PUN--" Recognition dawned of mutual victory and mutual defeat, and I realized: He is worthy of the Punch Bug Game.
I suppose every master worth her talent must one day come to see herself challenged by her prodigy... but I pity the next person he takes to Africa.
Never would I have believed, until five months ago, that there existed Americans who did not know of this game; cautious in my recent experience of punch-bug ignorance, however, I will explain the rules. They are but two: that (1) Whosoever espies a true, original, Volkswagon bug in any recognizable state of repair has license to [gently] punch their companion, while informing the victim of the color of applicable punch-buggy for their verification. Naturally, rule (2) follows that since any spotter can punch, after revealing the presence of the bug in question the punch initiator had better protect him or herself from an eye-for-eye reprisal by calling "No back-tacks". These are the only two rules, rendering the entire planet a free-for-all for whoever has the quickest eye, fist, and claim-calling combination (which I usually didn't), and explaining why the game was so enormously attractive to the five, seven, or ten-year-old versions of myself.
I say five, seven, or ten, but in truth I have never really stopped playing the Punch Bug Game. It is more the sad disappearance of true VW bugs around the time of their modern replacement than any onset of maturity that caused bug-punching to peter out of my life in middle and high school. My assumption at the time was that true punch bugs were nearing extinction, and that I had better get used to their sleek, shiny, more highly evolved strain and relegate the days of the true Punch-Buggy and bug-punching glory to the fond memory archives of my childhood.
But not so.. punch-bugs, I have been delighted to discover, live on in their own unassuming afterlife.. for Africa is where punch-bugs come to die.
I first noticed this on a side street in Khartoum, probably not more than a week into the trip. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sight I hadn't seen in years, one that made my heart leap so suddenly with unexpected joy I almost forgot myself before leaping into action - had David already seen it?? - I flew to punch him first, hollering the triumphal cry of the puncher: "BLUE-PUNCH-BUGGY-NO-BACK-TACKS!!"
David stopped short, staring, bewildered at his lightning defeat. Well, of course I could sympathize with that - he had just missed the only punch-bug opportunity either one of us might see for the entire trip, and even in my impromptu victory dance I well understood that anyone would be upset.
David, however, was remarkably obtuse to the causes behind the swift and unexpected blow he had received. How foolish, to forget such a classic game - even in a ten-year lapse of punch-bug activity - or fail to apreciate the implicitly global nature of the playing field! I began to chide him mericlessly for it.
Difficult and slow was it for me to grasp that David - hold onto your hats here - had never played the punch-buggy game and - WORSE - did not even know of its existence. !!! The mind boggles. What about popular culture?? I demanded. Books, television, movies?? "Heck," I demanded in frightened defense of such a time-honored institution, "what'd you think we called them 'punch-buggies' for anyway??"
He denied ever even having heard such a term.
Well, I wasn't about to let his incomprehensible ignorance rain on my punch-bug parade; it was just too bad he was the only plausible victim within arm's reach for the next eight months and when we (incredibly!) saw another VW bug two weeks later, he was pummelled a second time. "Green-punch-buggy-no-back-tacks!"
The confusion of the first attack was now replaced with an annoyance that threatened to grow dangerous if my hit-and-runs were repeated. A small voice of reason piped that I should let it go; it wasn't worth it, it wasn't adult, and it wasn't fair in any case to play against an uninitiated. But punch-bugs were too deeply absorbed into my character - years of being punched by my quicker, smarter sisters and much quicker, smarter dad meant that a punch-bug victory was like a golden trophy, the pennant of glory for the youngest and slowest member of the family to wave in triumph for the few hours (or minutes) before it would inevitably be snatched back: the Holy Grail of my childhood. Despite losing almost every time, I had revered the Punch Bug Game with an ardency explicable only by my youth (but which the onset of adulthood has done little to erode). To let a VW-Bug pass quietly by with no comment, as if nothing had happened, was unthinkable.
And besides, I had fully explained to him both rules. He was just as eligible as I to be the puncher instead of the punchee. As far as I was concerned, the playing field was level, and let the punching begin.
Not even I expected the massacre that awaited in the capital of Ethiopia, however. The streets of Addis Adeba were lined with '60s Volkswagons in all shapes and sizes, and classic punch-bugs proliferated in every color of the rainbow. (No, really - favorites were burnished gold, turquoise with white racing stripes, and iridescent purple.) After perhaps his 20th time getting punch-bug-punched, David announced in a voice that brooked no discusion that he was through, and declared a moratorium on the Punch Bug Game.
I was nettled. This was the punch-bug paradise I'd been waiting for since age 10, when true punch bugs began to melt out of the West like roaches at a Raid party. No Punch Bug Game? On what grounds?? "You know, you can play too," I charged. "I don't wanna play!" he snapped. I was pretty sure the maneuver was illegal but could think of no, and mutinously began to count up all the punches I was missing out on. I made it to 77 before we left the capital a day later.
It was well into March before I ventured another punch. I had let about a dozen beautiful opportunities slip by, quietly tacking them on to my embittered total of Denied Punch Bugs, but as the memory of the Addis VW Spree faded I began to hope for a gradual and perhaps unnoticeable punch-bug recussitation. My first tentative efforts, quiet and delicate, won looks of contempt but no damning decrees, and soon we were back to the normal pre-Addis level of a few punches a week. I'm not actually a terribly observant person, but after a decade of scouring streets for a punch bug even the chancest glimpse of one of those pastel rounded roofs has the effect of a mild electric shock. Before long, it had a similar effect on David, who began to associate old VWs with vague yet impending danger. He never attempted a counter-attack, though, preferring to retaliate with snide comments relating to his being engaged in some other task, such as finding a taxi or changing money, which might have trumped vintage-car spotting. Such remarks always carried the unmistakeable whiff of superiority; the implication, of course, was that perhaps I ought to restructure my priorities.
I knew better.
But as always happens when one's competition is sub-par, I too got slower, and lazy. No need to race to the punch, really. It would still be there, and let's face it - so would David.
And so it happened one watershed morning about four months into the trip that, as I drifted in and out of cognizance in a share-taxi station wagon, David caught sight of a punch bug and thought : Red-punch-bug. With a stroke of brilliance he identified the ready opportunity and a negligent victim, and spluttering "RED PUNCH BUG! RED PUNCH BUG!" he began to wail on my shoulder with the zeal of a beaten-down underdog suddenly clawing its way to the top. He was so excited that he punched me six or seven times. Irked at the unexpected reversal, I archly informed him that You're only allowed one punch per bug, before punching him back because he had neglected to preclude that possibility by calling no back-tacks. He was oblivious to anything but his triumph. The impossible had come; he had beat me at my own game; anything could happen. I was similarly affected and began to keep greater vigilance, getting him back with another one a few hours later.
At five months, I have now probably punched David close to five hundred times (not counting, of course, the Lost Bugs of Ethiopia). For his part, David claims 24 victories, a modest total until I add that 22 were in the last fortnight, and 21 of those this afternoon in a memorable drive through what could only have been the Final Resting-Place of Punchbugs while the other passengers leaned away from us with looks of alarm and disapproval. Then the moment came - a white bug loomed up suddenly by the side of the road. Instantaneously, we both whirled in our cramped seats, fists almost colliding on their way to target, blurting "WHITE PUN--" Recognition dawned of mutual victory and mutual defeat, and I realized: He is worthy of the Punch Bug Game.
I suppose every master worth her talent must one day come to see herself challenged by her prodigy... but I pity the next person he takes to Africa.
Wednesday, May 6
How to Eat a Street Mango
(A Step-by-Step Instruction for the Mango-naive)1.) Acquire tasty mango for a few dimes from a street vendor - either a man pushing a large wooden cart stacked with them, or perhaps a passing lady with a platter on her head supporting a mango pyramid. Note: It is important in this endeavor not to actually be looking for a mango, as mangoes only appear when one is not looking for them.
2.) Back in your Sudanese hotel room, take penknife and stab ambitiously into the center of the mango, discovering a large hard pit you never knew existed. Hack away at fruit, chopping off the skin, and attempt to cut some flesh off from the center. Meet remarkable slippery resistance. Try again with more force, smashing the fruit to a pulp without actually managing to remove any, and narrowly miss slicing your fingers.
3.) Eschew all decency and go at the fruit with your teeth in an inspired effort to actually get a bite. Get instead a sticky syrupy juice all over your face and both hands, and some pernicious mango threads tangled in your teeth which are impossible to remove. Notice with some dismay that the naked fruit seems, at this point, to be all pit. Regret removing peel so carelessly, and try to bite off some of the flesh clinging to it. Succeed in getting more threads stuck hopelessly in teeth. Swear never to eat a mango again.
4.) The most delicious mango lassi of your life in southern Kenya leads you back to temptation only a month later. Repeat steps 1-3 with new pit awareness and lowered expectations, but little variation. Renew anti-mango vow.
5.) An enterprising mango merchant brandishing a machete in central Tanzania convinces you to backslide once again into mango mania - by offering to do the cutting himself. A few swift and simple slices later, and the demonic pit-and-peel number masquerading as edibility is transformed into a series of easily plucked cubes inside a neat peel shell, detached from said pit. Eat, and rejoice.
6.) First-hand witness of the Mango Merchant's Machete Miracle inspires you to cautiously attempt replication of his feat at home with your penknife. Purchase another mango at the first opportunity, your discerning eye and fingers carefully selecting one with smooth, unblemished green skin, gently firm to the touch. You know the secret now - to separate the fruit as soon as possible from the fiendishly powerful pull of the pit.
7.) Upon first slice learn that “firm to the touch” is not actually ideal for mango-eating. Neither is green. The fruit inside is pale yellow, and hard. Be a good sport and try to eat it anyway. (When you do give up, the remainder may be pitched out your train window.)
8.) Weigh carefully your next mango purchase, taking care now to select one that is quite soft indeed and a rich peachy color. In a Nigerian car park, take your penknife and, holding the mango flat-side-up in your other hand, slice horizontally from the top down either edge to – but not quite through – the little stem-butt at the bottom. You should now have two shallow hemispheres of mango with an equatorial cut. Leave the 
bottom one be; the top is your first task. Shimmy the knife in as thinly as possible around the edges of the top, and peel away the skin – almost as you would a banana- to give you access to that crabby pit.
9.) The next part is the most important step of the whole mango ordeal. Using your equatorial cut as a guide, wiggle the knife in along the hard surface of the pit underneath. Your goal is to slice the entire top hemisphere of mango away from that pit. Cu
t through the tenacious pit fibers by breaking the first law of pen-knifery and cut towards yourself, from the pointed end of the fruit down to its stem. If you need to, you can dissect the mango-hemisphere to help you get the knife in along the face of the pit, but leaving the hemisphere as whole as possible will avoid that smashing problem you had earlier.
10.) Once the top half is liberated, you are almost in the mango-clear. Cut the lung-shaped flap of fruit into hunks with ease and stuff into face happily, or just bite them off like a pig. Resist the temptation to simply bite off those little clumps at the edges that yet cling to the pit, however; you will get naught but aforesaid sticky syrup and teeth-threads. The trickiest part in this step is actually to fend off those vultures that will now materialize out of thin air and clamor at your shoulder for a bite.
11.) After finishing the top hemisphere, you can begin on the bottom with more or less a repeat of steps 9-10. Unfortunately having to hold the naked pit for this will cause your left hand to become more or less covered with mango goo, but as you're actually getting to eat some, who cares? Consume mango with enthusiasm after tithing the vulture-beggars, and congratulate yourself on a Mango Well Enjoyed.
Monday, March 30
Porky the Pig and [the limits of] the Tailors' Talents
One of the most amazing institutions of quotidian African life has to be the Street Tailor.
This man (or woman) sets himself up by a curb or along one of the myriad alleyways of the town market, perched behind his trusty sewing machine. He might be an accessory to a larger clothing shop, or part of an informal fraternity of tailors all lined up along the same alleyway. He might have a table piled high with spare cloth next to him and more bolts behind to paw through, or simply one cardboard box of mending scraps at his feet. He might be an old man, a young woman, or even an adolescent boy. One quality, however, is invariable: he is good, and he is fast.
Long desiring to add a pocket to my favorite Shari'a-friendly skirt to make it travel-friendly as well, I finally accepted David's urging and visited one of these venerable masters of the cloth in Gedarref, Sudan. The fifteen-minute experience ranks among the most successful errands of my life, and I wear that skirt almost every other day.
It was with no hesitation, therefore, that I sought out the services of the talented tailors in Mombasa when I accidentally ripped my favorite brown pants. (I had perhaps enjoyed Ethiopian fare a bit TOO heartily; my wardrobe has become noticeably tighter. The pants in question were ripped in four places, all in that high-risk derriere area.) No matter though; a few Kenyan shillings and a quick patch put them back together again.
... Until four days and one country later when, in an Arusha hotel room, I abruptly fell on my rear. It seems not even the best efforts of Africa's seamstresses could stave off forever the consequences of indulging one too many times in chickpea-butter shiro, and the loud rip that trumpeted from the seat of my pants rendered explanation to David entirely unnecessarily. (Though he did inquire as to how I had so suddenly come to be sitting on the floor). The nickname "Kenya-kimbo" revealed itself to me as possessing new relevance for my present state, and by the time I finished laughing, I had already resolved upon the only rational course of action. From my ignoble sprawl on the floor, still chortling, I declared to David,
"Looks like Porker needs to lose some weight!"
This man (or woman) sets himself up by a curb or along one of the myriad alleyways of the town market, perched behind his trusty sewing machine. He might be an accessory to a larger clothing shop, or part of an informal fraternity of tailors all lined up along the same alleyway. He might have a table piled high with spare cloth next to him and more bolts behind to paw through, or simply one cardboard box of mending scraps at his feet. He might be an old man, a young woman, or even an adolescent boy. One quality, however, is invariable: he is good, and he is fast.
Long desiring to add a pocket to my favorite Shari'a-friendly skirt to make it travel-friendly as well, I finally accepted David's urging and visited one of these venerable masters of the cloth in Gedarref, Sudan. The fifteen-minute experience ranks among the most successful errands of my life, and I wear that skirt almost every other day.
It was with no hesitation, therefore, that I sought out the services of the talented tailors in Mombasa when I accidentally ripped my favorite brown pants. (I had perhaps enjoyed Ethiopian fare a bit TOO heartily; my wardrobe has become noticeably tighter. The pants in question were ripped in four places, all in that high-risk derriere area.) No matter though; a few Kenyan shillings and a quick patch put them back together again.
... Until four days and one country later when, in an Arusha hotel room, I abruptly fell on my rear. It seems not even the best efforts of Africa's seamstresses could stave off forever the consequences of indulging one too many times in chickpea-butter shiro, and the loud rip that trumpeted from the seat of my pants rendered explanation to David entirely unnecessarily. (Though he did inquire as to how I had so suddenly come to be sitting on the floor). The nickname "Kenya-kimbo" revealed itself to me as possessing new relevance for my present state, and by the time I finished laughing, I had already resolved upon the only rational course of action. From my ignoble sprawl on the floor, still chortling, I declared to David,
"Looks like Porker needs to lose some weight!"
Monday, March 16
24 ! ! !
(February 26th, 2009)
I spent my 21st birthday wandering the streets of Venice on the last day of Carnivale, en masque, ultimately getting serenaded by a flock of large, drunk Italian chickens.
The next year, though less of a Kodak moment, was no less joyous as I spent it in Texas’s best medical center getting the MRI that would prove my four-year-long (now six) hiccupping stint is not, in fact, indicative of a brain tumor.
Birthday 23, though I wasn’t expecting anything, turned out to be just as delightful, as my entire elementary school threw me surprise birthday celebrations, complete with Ingrish renditions of Haapi Baasudei from every staff, teacher, and child (and awesome homemade cards).
Given such a run of luck with birthdays, I hardly could have expected anything special from this year, but again I was wrong – and David truly made it memorable. From seeing my first zebra herds – UP CLOSE! – on white savannah grasses and managing to sneak past at least a dozen crocs in Lake Chamo of Ethiopia’s rift valley, to photographing pelicans, storks, herons, and eagles fishing and almost inciting a hippo charge, I’d be hard-pressed to say it didn’t set a new high for birthdays.
Even better, of course, was that the crocs didn’t decide to try out American flesh instead of pelican; that the hippo decided we weren’t worth the energy after his first warning leap; and that the huge tse-tse flies buzzing about us all day landed elsewhere than on me. In other words, that I successfully survived 24 complete years of seriously fantastic living on this planet. And to prove that survival effort (for which my parents do not give me nearly enough credit), here are 24 ways in which we have skirted probably-fine-but-potentially-really-unpleasant situations so far on this trip, such that I am alive.. to see my 24th.
1) avoiding the infamous Nile River parasites
2) not alarming or annoying the trigger-happy military guards outside Bashir’s palace in the capital
3) battling off in a four-day war the triple-attack eye/throat/stomach virus
4) extricating ourselves on the Day of Rage from the sudden angry mob in Omdurman
5) not getting bitten by the wild and possibly rabid dogs that charged us in the Kareima desert (they were chased away with rocks by locals)
6) sustaining 140 bug bites in a single night with no lasting infection
7) slipping under the radar of the ICC backlash in the Sudan that, despite the BBC’s warnings, didn’t result in nasty foreigner-targeted violence (for us, anyway)
8) keeping a cool head and a tight grip during the great Shihedi fistfight of the 18-year-old male population
9) not sliding off the seriously slippery rocks in my slippy flip-flops at the bottom of Tis Isat, the Smoking Waterfall and the source of the Blue Nile
10) managing with a great force of will to retain all of my body parts (and most of my things) in the 4 a.m. Lalibela bus-crush
11) walking away from the Great Bump of the Dire Dawa border bus that almost rearranged my spine
12) just barely managing to keep my footing on the sheer rock-faces we scaled to reach the Tirayan rock-hewn monasteries (or, more honestly, timing my fall so that when it happened, someone else was there to grab my hand)
13) not having to spend the night of February 10th out on the streets of Djibouti
14) getting hopelessly stuck in deep Somalian desert sand, but not without rescue in the form of the next LandRover
15) religiously using Purell to ward off Hepatitis for the first three weeks of this trip (during which my innoculation was not yet effective.. oops)
16) meeting only with the crappiest of aims from the glass-bottle-hurling kids in Berbera
17) not chancing upon the occasional suicide bomber or other interesting fanatical militant during our time in the Somaliland
18) feeding a half-wild Harar hyena mouth-to-mouth for the sake of a picture and David's amusement
19) not tipping over or crashing (miraculously enough) in any one of a number of crazy bush-taxi rides
20) not angering the defensive, nursing warthog upon whose den we stumbled in Bale Mountain National Park
21) remembering with remarkable reliability to take my malaria pill every Tuesday
22) not catching the malevolently squinting eye of the preying crocodiles of Lake Chamo as they floated by us in their deceptively innocent log-like way
23) quickly getting away from (and thus losing the interest of) the angry hippos who started to charge us
AND no. 24) surviving the last, the smallest, and probably the most serious threat yet of the trip, the huge black and yellow tse-tse flies who buzzed around us all day on my birthday, innocent bugs infamous for their coma-inducing and occasionally fatal bite.
Yessir, we have survived all these (and more).. and I'm officially 24 !
I spent my 21st birthday wandering the streets of Venice on the last day of Carnivale, en masque, ultimately getting serenaded by a flock of large, drunk Italian chickens.
The next year, though less of a Kodak moment, was no less joyous as I spent it in Texas’s best medical center getting the MRI that would prove my four-year-long (now six) hiccupping stint is not, in fact, indicative of a brain tumor.
Birthday 23, though I wasn’t expecting anything, turned out to be just as delightful, as my entire elementary school threw me surprise birthday celebrations, complete with Ingrish renditions of Haapi Baasudei from every staff, teacher, and child (and awesome homemade cards).
Given such a run of luck with birthdays, I hardly could have expected anything special from this year, but again I was wrong – and David truly made it memorable. From seeing my first zebra herds – UP CLOSE! – on white savannah grasses and managing to sneak past at least a dozen crocs in Lake Chamo of Ethiopia’s rift valley, to photographing pelicans, storks, herons, and eagles fishing and almost inciting a hippo charge, I’d be hard-pressed to say it didn’t set a new high for birthdays.
Even better, of course, was that the crocs didn’t decide to try out American flesh instead of pelican; that the hippo decided we weren’t worth the energy after his first warning leap; and that the huge tse-tse flies buzzing about us all day landed elsewhere than on me. In other words, that I successfully survived 24 complete years of seriously fantastic living on this planet. And to prove that survival effort (for which my parents do not give me nearly enough credit), here are 24 ways in which we have skirted probably-fine-but-potentially-really-unpleasant situations so far on this trip, such that I am alive.. to see my 24th.
1) avoiding the infamous Nile River parasites
2) not alarming or annoying the trigger-happy military guards outside Bashir’s palace in the capital
3) battling off in a four-day war the triple-attack eye/throat/stomach virus
4) extricating ourselves on the Day of Rage from the sudden angry mob in Omdurman
5) not getting bitten by the wild and possibly rabid dogs that charged us in the Kareima desert (they were chased away with rocks by locals)
6) sustaining 140 bug bites in a single night with no lasting infection
7) slipping under the radar of the ICC backlash in the Sudan that, despite the BBC’s warnings, didn’t result in nasty foreigner-targeted violence (for us, anyway)
8) keeping a cool head and a tight grip during the great Shihedi fistfight of the 18-year-old male population
9) not sliding off the seriously slippery rocks in my slippy flip-flops at the bottom of Tis Isat, the Smoking Waterfall and the source of the Blue Nile
10) managing with a great force of will to retain all of my body parts (and most of my things) in the 4 a.m. Lalibela bus-crush
11) walking away from the Great Bump of the Dire Dawa border bus that almost rearranged my spine
12) just barely managing to keep my footing on the sheer rock-faces we scaled to reach the Tirayan rock-hewn monasteries (or, more honestly, timing my fall so that when it happened, someone else was there to grab my hand)
13) not having to spend the night of February 10th out on the streets of Djibouti
14) getting hopelessly stuck in deep Somalian desert sand, but not without rescue in the form of the next LandRover
15) religiously using Purell to ward off Hepatitis for the first three weeks of this trip (during which my innoculation was not yet effective.. oops)
16) meeting only with the crappiest of aims from the glass-bottle-hurling kids in Berbera
17) not chancing upon the occasional suicide bomber or other interesting fanatical militant during our time in the Somaliland
18) feeding a half-wild Harar hyena mouth-to-mouth for the sake of a picture and David's amusement
19) not tipping over or crashing (miraculously enough) in any one of a number of crazy bush-taxi rides
20) not angering the defensive, nursing warthog upon whose den we stumbled in Bale Mountain National Park
21) remembering with remarkable reliability to take my malaria pill every Tuesday
22) not catching the malevolently squinting eye of the preying crocodiles of Lake Chamo as they floated by us in their deceptively innocent log-like way
23) quickly getting away from (and thus losing the interest of) the angry hippos who started to charge us
AND no. 24) surviving the last, the smallest, and probably the most serious threat yet of the trip, the huge black and yellow tse-tse flies who buzzed around us all day on my birthday, innocent bugs infamous for their coma-inducing and occasionally fatal bite.
Yessir, we have survived all these (and more).. and I'm officially 24 !
Tuesday, February 10
Al-Sudan
[original date: January 22, 2009]
Today is my last day in the Sudan. And despite my excitement to cross the border into Ethiopia tomorrow morning, I cannot hide that I am sincerely sad to leave this dusty, carefree, generous country that has shown me such an amazing welcome for the past few weeks. It is not a welcome I will soon forget.
Knowing my memory, though, I'd like to leave a fresh record of my impressions of this country while I'm still in it. I can't vouch for their implicit accuracy, other than that they accurately represent my experience while here. So take them with a pinch of salt.. or perhaps a pinch of sugar's more accurate.
The Scenery: A Dusty Faded Glory
Throughout much of the Sudan I have gotten an impression of past prosperity. The buildings look old and somewhat neglected, though many show signs of having once been somewhat luxurious. Everything is dusty, which I suppose is natural in a country situated at the end of the Saharan winds. The roads are paved, if a bit unevenly, in the largest cities and between them, but otherwise streets of packed dirt are rather common and a mouthful of dust with each passing car is a more common experience of pedestrianhood than I'd like.
Omar al-Bashir's face is everywhere in Khartoum, and is even quite common in city centers throughout the north and east. All the intellectuals who we've spoken to have referred to him quite frankly and without fear as a dictator, though, so I suppose the repression isn't complete (though it must be admitted that not all of our former interviewees are currently at liberty).
The landscape outside cities, not surprisingly, is mostly very flat (and sandy), populated by camels in the north and herds of goats, sheep, and occasionally cows in the east. The sheep - are you sitting for this? - have LONG, ROPY, FLUFFY, FLOPPY TAILS that remind me of a doggie-tail. They reach almost to the ground and caused me huge amounts of excitement that David struggled to understand when I first saw them. The sheep flip them around too, like horse tails, only they're not hair at all but fleshy, quite fluffy furry things well over 30 inches long. INSANE.
I've seen grass a few places, generally in small plots within more luxurious (usually governmental) complexes; each time I've gotten quite excited. It's no longer so strange to me to just see empty earth in places where there's no established human presence - or trash. Trash is everywhere. No, really. Everywhere. In the streets, in the buildings, in the hallways, in the desert stuck to bushes, in the hotel rooms. I long for a trash can. Don't ask me if I've littered here. Just don't. I cannot yet face the truth on that.
The Food: Tasty, Hearty Monotony
I have eaten very well here, but I'd be lying if I claimed not to be a bit excited about the prospect of a new country and new culinary options. The same staples of the Sudanese diet have largely comprised my own diet for the past few weeks:
* fuul, a dish of beans and spices, sometimes with a bit of meat included, eaten with a sort of bland but thick white bread bun instead of with silverware
* shwarma meat, deliciously spiced, but with little variety, always served in that same thick white bread bun
* falafel balls, also delicious, also universal no matter where you go, also served in aforementioned heavy white bread on any street corner in even the smallest city
* hard-boiled eggs, served alongside the falafel on streets
* the sweets: delicious, flaky pastry absolutely drenched in honey and further sweetened with unique, sometimes nutty flavors. Basbusa, kokha, baklawa (baklava), all delectable, all delightful, all worth a trip to the dentist
* peanuts, which we've snacked on repeatedly, and which I discovered (to my stomach's chagrin) CAN actually go bad. Don't eat black peanuts.
So the summarized statement - very tasty, a bit heavy, and kind of .. always the same... is unfortunately pretty true. UNTIL you come to the tea.
The tea is too amazing for words.
Tea is a huge part of Sudanese culture, and women set themselves up on every corner and along every street, on little stools with rickety tables crammed with glass jars full of various different herbs they mix in with their tea. There's always a jar for sugar, too. Almost all the tea drinks are very, very sweet. Every woman's tea is a little different, and seems to be a matter of personal pride. For one sudanese pound (about fifty cents), or even less sometimes, you can go up to one of these ladies and order any kind of tea - mint tea with na'an, karkade tea with cranberry-like flavor, black tea with milk - and she'll prepare it piping hot for you right there on the spot. She's got a little charcoal fire going next to her with brass kettles simmering on it, and a bucket of soapy water for washing glasses in between customers. After she makes it, you can hunker down on one of the little stools she might have littered about her - of course anyone else already sitting with their own cup of tea will always insist you take their chair, at the very least - and use your fingertips to hold the very rim of the piping-hot glass to sip your tea. Which is always delicious, and (amazingly) always a little bit different. Needless to say, this tea culture has been one of my very favorite culinary experiences in the Sudan.
Tastiest thing eaten: a close call, but my sweet tooth prevails. The pastry.
Worst thing ingested: At each interview, we were invariably presented with hot tea. On one unfortunate afternoon, however, I was obliged to drink the greater part of the worst cup of instant coffee I have ever tasted or smelled in my life. Burnt, heavily sweetened, and reeking in flavor of strong, black pepper. PEPPER!! Why??
The Music: Beautiful and Touching
One of my best ideas yet was to hassle the students we met at Khartoum's Al-Nilein University for music recommendations, and to then follow those up. The CD I bought off the street for SDD4 (about $1.80) of Nadeer Khder is one of my favorites, and one of the few possessions I have with me that I really hope make it home.
The People: Effortless Dignity
The people here are by far Sudan's most wonderful resource. They're warm, generous, curious, friendly, funny, casual, hospitable, and overwhelmingly kind. People treat us to tea all the time. Strangers insist on sharing their fuul and bread with us. Everyone always asks where we're from, and no one seems to think less of us for being from a country whose government has hardly seen eye to eye with their own in recent past. Most of all, however, I must emphasize the inherent, unforced, natural dignity of the Sudanese people. They are fundamentally dignified.
There's an image that comes to mind when I think of the Sudanese.. it's an image of a personality I've seen in every city or town here, no matter how small. This personality is a man, middle-aged to older, dressed in the typical long white robe with the typical dusty bits at the bottom hem, striding very slowly with long steps around the trash-spotted streets with his arms folded behind his back and a bit of a paunch thrust out in front of him like a proud statement of self-worth. He is casually proud in manner, but warm, generous, and inquisitive when you speak to him. This man always carries with him a weighty sort of solemn dignity that I always think of now when I think of these wonderful people.
Sudanese coinage: Tattered but colorful
Sudanese money is minted in a series of vibrantly colored bills, in denominations of 1 pound (chartreuse), 2 (pale blue), 5 (red), 10 (peach and white), and 20 (red and purple), supplemented by three coins: a 50-piastre piece (golden rim with silver interior), a 20-piastre (the opposite), and a 10 (plain silver). The relatively modest value of the paper money, however, means that circulation of anything other than the "nuss-guinnea" (50-piastre) piece is uncommon, and indeed the coin-lover in me had to wait pretty patiently before I managed to get all three. I've never seen any coin lower than 10p, nor any bill higher than 20 pounds, though they may indeed exist.
I have had to conclude that either the minting authority of the Sudan has unusually low circulation standards, or the general population, an unusually low respect for the care of their own bills. It is extremely common, especially with the low 1-pound bills, to receive fraying, grimy currency severely ripped in one or more places; thankfully I've never had a problem when (somewhat guiltily) offering these bills to merchants. On at least one occasion a vendor busted out a roll of tape to literally piece together some small change for me, and on occasions where change cannot be made several enterprising taxidrivers have attempted to simply rip our larger bills in half - thus acquiring (presumably) exactly half their value.
Needless to say, we both put our feet down on that.
New Words Learned: some Arabic: greetings, basic questions, responses, my numbers 1-100. A pretty poor showing, I admit.
Telling phrases: If God wills it (Insha'allah), WHATEVER God wills (mash'allah), Everything's great! (Koolshi tamam), paradise (my name!)
It should go without saying I have had to learn the word for 'hiccup' (sha'kri).
Classic Quote: Booking ourselves into Wad Medani's Hotel Doha, we were repeatedly told to wait just a few minutes [more] for someone to come to bring us our room key.
After waiting half an hour, and receiving renewed assurances that someone would come "in thirty minutes", David wryly asked, "Is that a promise?"
The hotel manager's quick reply was classic: "In the Sudan, there are no promises."
New Hygienic Lows: As the Sudan represents my first real experience with the third world, there has understandably been a consistently plunging progress of my own admittedly lax standards of personal hygiene. Memorable slashings perhaps include: a much higher tolerance of dirt on my body, caked on my feet, and under my fingernails; a willingness to sleep on soiled bedding (previously absent from my character); a newfound, almost joyous appreciation for squat toilets, which I actually prefer now as the toilet requiring the least intimate interaction on my part.
Bizarre (and potentially unhealthy) Habits Acquired: To while away the hours on long-distance bus-rides (reading leads to vomit, and even I have to wake up from naps some time), I have begun to perform math calculations in my head. A crippling lifelong dependency on pen and paper to do any decent math at all means that even a minute's worth of long division can entertain me for the ten minutes it takes me to puzzle out the solution without mixing up any decimals. Consequently, I have calculated that, including end-dates, this trip comprises exactly 233 days, or 33.285714 (repeating from the tenth's place) weeks. I also discovered that January 20th represented the 25th day of this trip, at which sunset 10.729% lay behind us, and 89.281% of adventure was yet to come. (I couldn't be assed to work out the ten-thousanth's place.) Somebody get a calculator and check me. God, I'm a loser.
Worst experience in the Sudan: The mob moment comes to mind, or the Great Bug-Bivy Bedbug Bedevilment of Port Sudan in which I sustained no less than 141 itchy red lumps in a single night... but really, I've got to go with the black peanuts, or my five days of sick sick sickness
Best Experience in the Sudan: the competition for this prize is considerably stiffer, and the Sudanis themselves are to blame. My enriching and satisfying experiences interacting with them on issues both small and significant rival the number of different delicious teas I've tasted.
One experience does stand out a bit, however: in Gedaref we happened upon a rickshaw driver who was studying English, and who was more than enthusiastic to talk to us for practice. We ended up spending the afternoon together as Ahmed took us out to a lake from his childhood, and in strolling about its borders it came out that this very bright young man was a university graduate whose political differences with General B's National Congress Party (NCP) had made it all but impossible for him to find a proper job. Thus, the rickshaw. Upon my inquiring further, he revealed that he was alone in his views even among his family, who seemed to side with pragmatism over the luxury of political skepticism. I was touched by his quiet courage, and even more by his warm-hearted eagerness to treat us to his generosity.
It happened that Gedaref became our last stop in the Sudan before crossing the Ethiopian border, so we arranged to see Ahmed again as we passed back through. I cannot think of a better way to bring our Sudanese sojourn to a close than that final evening, spent sharing conversation and culture over honeyed sweets (that we had to fight to pay for) with an open-minded and intellectually curious Sudani. We left him with warm handshakes and photographs, and I hope he has a chance at a better life someday very, very soon. Like all Sudanis, and all people, he deserves better than dictatorship.
I will miss you, al-Sudan.
Today is my last day in the Sudan. And despite my excitement to cross the border into Ethiopia tomorrow morning, I cannot hide that I am sincerely sad to leave this dusty, carefree, generous country that has shown me such an amazing welcome for the past few weeks. It is not a welcome I will soon forget.
Knowing my memory, though, I'd like to leave a fresh record of my impressions of this country while I'm still in it. I can't vouch for their implicit accuracy, other than that they accurately represent my experience while here. So take them with a pinch of salt.. or perhaps a pinch of sugar's more accurate.
The Scenery: A Dusty Faded Glory
Throughout much of the Sudan I have gotten an impression of past prosperity. The buildings look old and somewhat neglected, though many show signs of having once been somewhat luxurious. Everything is dusty, which I suppose is natural in a country situated at the end of the Saharan winds. The roads are paved, if a bit unevenly, in the largest cities and between them, but otherwise streets of packed dirt are rather common and a mouthful of dust with each passing car is a more common experience of pedestrianhood than I'd like.
Omar al-Bashir's face is everywhere in Khartoum, and is even quite common in city centers throughout the north and east. All the intellectuals who we've spoken to have referred to him quite frankly and without fear as a dictator, though, so I suppose the repression isn't complete (though it must be admitted that not all of our former interviewees are currently at liberty).
The landscape outside cities, not surprisingly, is mostly very flat (and sandy), populated by camels in the north and herds of goats, sheep, and occasionally cows in the east. The sheep - are you sitting for this? - have LONG, ROPY, FLUFFY, FLOPPY TAILS that remind me of a doggie-tail. They reach almost to the ground and caused me huge amounts of excitement that David struggled to understand when I first saw them. The sheep flip them around too, like horse tails, only they're not hair at all but fleshy, quite fluffy furry things well over 30 inches long. INSANE.
I've seen grass a few places, generally in small plots within more luxurious (usually governmental) complexes; each time I've gotten quite excited. It's no longer so strange to me to just see empty earth in places where there's no established human presence - or trash. Trash is everywhere. No, really. Everywhere. In the streets, in the buildings, in the hallways, in the desert stuck to bushes, in the hotel rooms. I long for a trash can. Don't ask me if I've littered here. Just don't. I cannot yet face the truth on that.
The Food: Tasty, Hearty Monotony
I have eaten very well here, but I'd be lying if I claimed not to be a bit excited about the prospect of a new country and new culinary options. The same staples of the Sudanese diet have largely comprised my own diet for the past few weeks:
* fuul, a dish of beans and spices, sometimes with a bit of meat included, eaten with a sort of bland but thick white bread bun instead of with silverware
* shwarma meat, deliciously spiced, but with little variety, always served in that same thick white bread bun
* falafel balls, also delicious, also universal no matter where you go, also served in aforementioned heavy white bread on any street corner in even the smallest city
* hard-boiled eggs, served alongside the falafel on streets
* the sweets: delicious, flaky pastry absolutely drenched in honey and further sweetened with unique, sometimes nutty flavors. Basbusa, kokha, baklawa (baklava), all delectable, all delightful, all worth a trip to the dentist
* peanuts, which we've snacked on repeatedly, and which I discovered (to my stomach's chagrin) CAN actually go bad. Don't eat black peanuts.
So the summarized statement - very tasty, a bit heavy, and kind of .. always the same... is unfortunately pretty true. UNTIL you come to the tea.
The tea is too amazing for words.
Tea is a huge part of Sudanese culture, and women set themselves up on every corner and along every street, on little stools with rickety tables crammed with glass jars full of various different herbs they mix in with their tea. There's always a jar for sugar, too. Almost all the tea drinks are very, very sweet. Every woman's tea is a little different, and seems to be a matter of personal pride. For one sudanese pound (about fifty cents), or even less sometimes, you can go up to one of these ladies and order any kind of tea - mint tea with na'an, karkade tea with cranberry-like flavor, black tea with milk - and she'll prepare it piping hot for you right there on the spot. She's got a little charcoal fire going next to her with brass kettles simmering on it, and a bucket of soapy water for washing glasses in between customers. After she makes it, you can hunker down on one of the little stools she might have littered about her - of course anyone else already sitting with their own cup of tea will always insist you take their chair, at the very least - and use your fingertips to hold the very rim of the piping-hot glass to sip your tea. Which is always delicious, and (amazingly) always a little bit different. Needless to say, this tea culture has been one of my very favorite culinary experiences in the Sudan.
Tastiest thing eaten: a close call, but my sweet tooth prevails. The pastry.
Worst thing ingested: At each interview, we were invariably presented with hot tea. On one unfortunate afternoon, however, I was obliged to drink the greater part of the worst cup of instant coffee I have ever tasted or smelled in my life. Burnt, heavily sweetened, and reeking in flavor of strong, black pepper. PEPPER!! Why??
The Music: Beautiful and Touching
One of my best ideas yet was to hassle the students we met at Khartoum's Al-Nilein University for music recommendations, and to then follow those up. The CD I bought off the street for SDD4 (about $1.80) of Nadeer Khder is one of my favorites, and one of the few possessions I have with me that I really hope make it home.
The People: Effortless Dignity
The people here are by far Sudan's most wonderful resource. They're warm, generous, curious, friendly, funny, casual, hospitable, and overwhelmingly kind. People treat us to tea all the time. Strangers insist on sharing their fuul and bread with us. Everyone always asks where we're from, and no one seems to think less of us for being from a country whose government has hardly seen eye to eye with their own in recent past. Most of all, however, I must emphasize the inherent, unforced, natural dignity of the Sudanese people. They are fundamentally dignified.
There's an image that comes to mind when I think of the Sudanese.. it's an image of a personality I've seen in every city or town here, no matter how small. This personality is a man, middle-aged to older, dressed in the typical long white robe with the typical dusty bits at the bottom hem, striding very slowly with long steps around the trash-spotted streets with his arms folded behind his back and a bit of a paunch thrust out in front of him like a proud statement of self-worth. He is casually proud in manner, but warm, generous, and inquisitive when you speak to him. This man always carries with him a weighty sort of solemn dignity that I always think of now when I think of these wonderful people.
Sudanese coinage: Tattered but colorful
Sudanese money is minted in a series of vibrantly colored bills, in denominations of 1 pound (chartreuse), 2 (pale blue), 5 (red), 10 (peach and white), and 20 (red and purple), supplemented by three coins: a 50-piastre piece (golden rim with silver interior), a 20-piastre (the opposite), and a 10 (plain silver). The relatively modest value of the paper money, however, means that circulation of anything other than the "nuss-guinnea" (50-piastre) piece is uncommon, and indeed the coin-lover in me had to wait pretty patiently before I managed to get all three. I've never seen any coin lower than 10p, nor any bill higher than 20 pounds, though they may indeed exist.
I have had to conclude that either the minting authority of the Sudan has unusually low circulation standards, or the general population, an unusually low respect for the care of their own bills. It is extremely common, especially with the low 1-pound bills, to receive fraying, grimy currency severely ripped in one or more places; thankfully I've never had a problem when (somewhat guiltily) offering these bills to merchants. On at least one occasion a vendor busted out a roll of tape to literally piece together some small change for me, and on occasions where change cannot be made several enterprising taxidrivers have attempted to simply rip our larger bills in half - thus acquiring (presumably) exactly half their value.
Needless to say, we both put our feet down on that.
New Words Learned: some Arabic: greetings, basic questions, responses, my numbers 1-100. A pretty poor showing, I admit.
Telling phrases: If God wills it (Insha'allah), WHATEVER God wills (mash'allah), Everything's great! (Koolshi tamam), paradise (my name!)
It should go without saying I have had to learn the word for 'hiccup' (sha'kri).
Classic Quote: Booking ourselves into Wad Medani's Hotel Doha, we were repeatedly told to wait just a few minutes [more] for someone to come to bring us our room key.
After waiting half an hour, and receiving renewed assurances that someone would come "in thirty minutes", David wryly asked, "Is that a promise?"
The hotel manager's quick reply was classic: "In the Sudan, there are no promises."
New Hygienic Lows: As the Sudan represents my first real experience with the third world, there has understandably been a consistently plunging progress of my own admittedly lax standards of personal hygiene. Memorable slashings perhaps include: a much higher tolerance of dirt on my body, caked on my feet, and under my fingernails; a willingness to sleep on soiled bedding (previously absent from my character); a newfound, almost joyous appreciation for squat toilets, which I actually prefer now as the toilet requiring the least intimate interaction on my part.
Bizarre (and potentially unhealthy) Habits Acquired: To while away the hours on long-distance bus-rides (reading leads to vomit, and even I have to wake up from naps some time), I have begun to perform math calculations in my head. A crippling lifelong dependency on pen and paper to do any decent math at all means that even a minute's worth of long division can entertain me for the ten minutes it takes me to puzzle out the solution without mixing up any decimals. Consequently, I have calculated that, including end-dates, this trip comprises exactly 233 days, or 33.285714 (repeating from the tenth's place) weeks. I also discovered that January 20th represented the 25th day of this trip, at which sunset 10.729% lay behind us, and 89.281% of adventure was yet to come. (I couldn't be assed to work out the ten-thousanth's place.) Somebody get a calculator and check me. God, I'm a loser.
Worst experience in the Sudan: The mob moment comes to mind, or the Great Bug-Bivy Bedbug Bedevilment of Port Sudan in which I sustained no less than 141 itchy red lumps in a single night... but really, I've got to go with the black peanuts, or my five days of sick sick sickness
Best Experience in the Sudan: the competition for this prize is considerably stiffer, and the Sudanis themselves are to blame. My enriching and satisfying experiences interacting with them on issues both small and significant rival the number of different delicious teas I've tasted.
One experience does stand out a bit, however: in Gedaref we happened upon a rickshaw driver who was studying English, and who was more than enthusiastic to talk to us for practice. We ended up spending the afternoon together as Ahmed took us out to a lake from his childhood, and in strolling about its borders it came out that this very bright young man was a university graduate whose political differences with General B's National Congress Party (NCP) had made it all but impossible for him to find a proper job. Thus, the rickshaw. Upon my inquiring further, he revealed that he was alone in his views even among his family, who seemed to side with pragmatism over the luxury of political skepticism. I was touched by his quiet courage, and even more by his warm-hearted eagerness to treat us to his generosity.
It happened that Gedaref became our last stop in the Sudan before crossing the Ethiopian border, so we arranged to see Ahmed again as we passed back through. I cannot think of a better way to bring our Sudanese sojourn to a close than that final evening, spent sharing conversation and culture over honeyed sweets (that we had to fight to pay for) with an open-minded and intellectually curious Sudani. We left him with warm handshakes and photographs, and I hope he has a chance at a better life someday very, very soon. Like all Sudanis, and all people, he deserves better than dictatorship.
I will miss you, al-Sudan.
Sunday, February 8
The Sudanese Security Forces.. at their finest
[real date: January 21, 2009]
Though our time in the Sudan is drawing to a close, it is perhaps fitting to tell one last adventure before we head to Ethiopia.. not to return (sniff).
This particular adventure involved an encounter with the police, and constitutes my most extensive experience with the security forces of another country. (Though that record may not hold up for long here.)
It started with the travel permits. David has often quipped, very aptly, that here in the Sudan we have "The best visas money can buy!" .. that is, the most expensive. What with the visas themselves, the registrations, various permissions and other fees, we have probably donated about USD$1,100 to the government of Sudan just for the privilege of getting in the door. (And no, that doesn't include taking any pictures - too much of a skinflint to purchase the scam-esque
'Photographer's Permit', I have chosen simply to snap my shots as surreptitiously as possible.)
Part of that sum went to finagling city-specific 'Travel Permits' to allow us to get out from the capital. In each city or town, we've had to produce these papers alongside our visas, with their explicit endorsement of our legality in the area, and register ourselves - me usually just as "Jana" or under David's name because the harassed police officers lose heart when they see my surname. [Side note added later: There would be no record whatsoever of Jana Marie Hutchinson ever exiting the Sudan for this same reason.]
In only one city did we have problems: one plainclothes officer in Sennar, after struggling to find a hole in our documentation, finally hit upon the one town that was just outside the border of our included provinces, Kosti. We had planned to make a day-trip there from Sennar, but the officer
explicitly forbade it.
After he left, David and I discussed the possibilities. We both really wanted to see Kosti, and if we hired a taxi to take us there and back we might easily slip under the radar of the next town, whose security forces might not be so finicky, and we could get away with not registering as we wouldn't stay the night. Ultimately we abandoned this idea for its costliness (resisting a pun for "Kosti" here), and glad we were that we did: not an hour after we left our hotel to innocently walk about Sennar's market, we realized that we were being tailed. Subtlety was unfortunately beyond the grasp of the local kid obviously assigned to spy on us, and as the (three) of us meandered together through the town we couldn't help being a bit pleased with ourselves for having decided to keep it legal.
Ironically, for all our legality, we were to spend the next night in a police compound anyway.
Making our way to the tiny town of Dinder the next morning, we immediately became the most exciting thing to be seen in weeks- and the best entertainment to be had in at least as long- for the good but bored men of Dinder's provincial security headquarters. Registering upon arrival, we received only dumbfounded stares in reply to our inquiries after a hotel. There was no hotel. There was no hostel. There was no guesthouse. There was, in fact, no tourism at all, and running shy of ideas about what to do with us, the kind officers decided to put us up themselves (free of charge) in their own headquarters.
For the rest of that day, spent in an elaborate but fruitless quest for a bank, moneychanger, or other person able to offer forex services, we enjoyed a full escort of several delighted members of Sudan's finest. Though the grimy, tired faces of David and myself that day may have betrayed fatigue and frustration with our vain attempts to do, really, ANYTHING in tiny Dinder OR its vicinity, the officers were positively radiant with the responsibility of guarding us. Don't let the stern, official-looking expressions they both immediately adopted for the sake of my forbidden (but joyously-welcomed) photo-taking fool you: they were thrilled to be along for the ride. And what a ride it was..
Day over, settling into our quarters at Dinder's police compound, I reflected on the somewhat satisfying symmetrical irony of it all. We may have narrowly escaped official arrestation that morning.. but we didn't get out of spending the night under governmental guard. Mash'allah..
Tuesday, January 20
In- if not Honor, at least Respect- for Hasan al-Turabi
I REALIZE THAT it might seem (particularly to those who talk to me on Gchat) that I am traipsing about this continent on a rollicking expenses-paid tourist trip that constitutes without question the most benevolent and interesting act of random generosity in my life thus far.
HOWEVER, I must establish that this characterization is not entirely true. (Mostly it is, yes.) But technically I am doing Busy and Important Work for Important Religious Studies Research. And to prove it to those detractors who know my foolishness all too well, I'll blog all about one of the most interesting interviews we've done here: an evening chat with none other than Sheikh Hasan al-Turabi.
The elderly sheikh has a long and convoluted history in Sudanese politics and the radical Islam movement; this former mentor to General B himself later broke with the dictator in the legislature and was repeatedly imprisoned by the regime throughout the 2000s for his noisy criticism. In arranging to meet him, David and I were told just to show up at his house in Khartoum, just to walk right in after 7 p.m., and that he would be happy to talk to us. Needless to say, we were both skeptical, but we figured we'd try it anyway, and around 7:30 on a Wednesday night we showed up on the posh doorstop of the politician's semi-suburbian residence.
We were immediately shown into one of the poshest rooms I have seen yet or since in the Sudan, a sort of reception room for greeting guests. While we waited to hear whether the sheikh was available, I very surreptitiously snapped a secret photo (for later publication on this blog, of course- please enjoy).
To our surprise, al-Turabi pushed aside whatever prior evening arrangements he had, and after a few minutes we were ushered into a more intimate reception room to meet with him. Having prepared myself to meet (and perhaps not be acknowledged whatsoever by) an austere champion of radical Islam, I was blown away by the elderly chap who came out to greet us. Hasan al-Turabi is, in a word, charming. He's warm, witty, chatty, gregarious, hilarious, and in many respects, charming. I could see right away the politician in him: the three solid hours we were to spend in his house that evening were not so much an interview, or even really a discussion, but an incredible stream-of-consciousness-style flow of energetic speech from him to us, his more or less captive (and silent) audience. His English was flawless, as was his French and (I'm assuming) his German, fluency he attributed with a good-natured chortle to long years of political detainment with only books for company. (Al-Turabi on prison: it's quite the ideal setting for quiet and uninterrupted study!)
David came to talk about Islam, the Sudan, and the future of both, but al-Turabi was obviously much more excited about the opportunity to discourse at length on the West and Western history for the past thousand years. His unsolicited, definitive summary of our own [Connecticut-born-and-bred] * former * president Bush - that he was fundamentally a Southern product and "never could have come from New England" - provides a good example of how his interpretation of the world, though interesting, is not always factually accurate. (Readers who know me can imagine the polite strain I suffered when he uttered those words, but really, I needn't have worried about how to respond to such nonsense. Even his pauses for breath were so rare and brief as to preclude any expectation of comment from his audience.) The polite hints from my professor friend, thrust into the scanty pauses Turabi used to suck in new breath, that he (David) was already "familiar" with the material- "Yes, I did my doctoral dissertation on the Umayyads"- did not perterb our chatty host in the slightest. Or even affect him. They also unfortunately failed to steer him whatsoever from his chosen topic.
The nature of our host's conversational style - intellectual excitement to talk to us, expressed flamboyanty through gestures and words that surged forth as if from a dam - led both David and I to privately wonder if this respected and learned sheikh was not a bit lonely for intellectual companionship. Sure, he's surrounded by people all the time, but never any who are interested in more than just hearing him spout wisdom. (Which he is obviously accustomed to doing.) He could barely let us go even after three hours, past the time when we should have left, even when troops of other men in white robes were obviously waiting for him to attend their previous appointment, talking with us right up to the door and into the hallway.
All in all, I liked him. I accept that, intellectually, I might have next to nothing in common with him, but I couldn't help it. I liked him right away, and found him immensely entertaining. He joked with me in French and David in Arabic, but respected me enough to suggest we do the entire interview in English, which remains David's and my only common language. (Not having another one is definitely a severe drawback, as it has repeatedly interfered with our ability to gossip discretely about those around us. I've suggested Pig Latin. David is skeptical.)
David and I both left the sumptuous residence a bit overwhelmed and (I have to admit it) relieved to be free, but we still both enjoyed talking him over a bit on the way home.
One week later, the BBC reported in this article that Hasan al-Turabi has been arrested for his criticism against General B. (He had been making statements to the effect that Gen. B should face his genocidal guilt before the ICC.) The article, which includes an action-shot style picture of the face still fresh in my memory, describes how al-Turabi is now in interrogation and solitary confinement, and that his family is worried about him. Thinking back to our meeting a few days before, David hazarded the opinion that perhaps al-Turabi knew it was coming, and that it might explain a bit his eagerness to talk to us.
Although I have no sympathies for Hasan al-Turabi's politics or his cause, I do for him as an individual. He is the only person I have ever known personally who is now a political prisoner. While I cannot in good conscience honor him with this post, I will dedicate it to my respect for him - as I respect anyone who has the courage to speak out against a dictator.
To Hasan al-Turabi, 76 years old and in interrogation: ganbatte kudasai.
HOWEVER, I must establish that this characterization is not entirely true. (Mostly it is, yes.) But technically I am doing Busy and Important Work for Important Religious Studies Research. And to prove it to those detractors who know my foolishness all too well, I'll blog all about one of the most interesting interviews we've done here: an evening chat with none other than Sheikh Hasan al-Turabi.
The elderly sheikh has a long and convoluted history in Sudanese politics and the radical Islam movement; this former mentor to General B himself later broke with the dictator in the legislature and was repeatedly imprisoned by the regime throughout the 2000s for his noisy criticism. In arranging to meet him, David and I were told just to show up at his house in Khartoum, just to walk right in after 7 p.m., and that he would be happy to talk to us. Needless to say, we were both skeptical, but we figured we'd try it anyway, and around 7:30 on a Wednesday night we showed up on the posh doorstop of the politician's semi-suburbian residence.
We were immediately shown into one of the poshest rooms I have seen yet or since in the Sudan, a sort of reception room for greeting guests. While we waited to hear whether the sheikh was available, I very surreptitiously snapped a secret photo (for later publication on this blog, of course- please enjoy).To our surprise, al-Turabi pushed aside whatever prior evening arrangements he had, and after a few minutes we were ushered into a more intimate reception room to meet with him. Having prepared myself to meet (and perhaps not be acknowledged whatsoever by) an austere champion of radical Islam, I was blown away by the elderly chap who came out to greet us. Hasan al-Turabi is, in a word, charming. He's warm, witty, chatty, gregarious, hilarious, and in many respects, charming. I could see right away the politician in him: the three solid hours we were to spend in his house that evening were not so much an interview, or even really a discussion, but an incredible stream-of-consciousness-style flow of energetic speech from him to us, his more or less captive (and silent) audience. His English was flawless, as was his French and (I'm assuming) his German, fluency he attributed with a good-natured chortle to long years of political detainment with only books for company. (Al-Turabi on prison: it's quite the ideal setting for quiet and uninterrupted study!)
David came to talk about Islam, the Sudan, and the future of both, but al-Turabi was obviously much more excited about the opportunity to discourse at length on the West and Western history for the past thousand years. His unsolicited, definitive summary of our own [Connecticut-born-and-bred] * former * president Bush - that he was fundamentally a Southern product and "never could have come from New England" - provides a good example of how his interpretation of the world, though interesting, is not always factually accurate. (Readers who know me can imagine the polite strain I suffered when he uttered those words, but really, I needn't have worried about how to respond to such nonsense. Even his pauses for breath were so rare and brief as to preclude any expectation of comment from his audience.) The polite hints from my professor friend, thrust into the scanty pauses Turabi used to suck in new breath, that he (David) was already "familiar" with the material- "Yes, I did my doctoral dissertation on the Umayyads"- did not perterb our chatty host in the slightest. Or even affect him. They also unfortunately failed to steer him whatsoever from his chosen topic.
The nature of our host's conversational style - intellectual excitement to talk to us, expressed flamboyanty through gestures and words that surged forth as if from a dam - led both David and I to privately wonder if this respected and learned sheikh was not a bit lonely for intellectual companionship. Sure, he's surrounded by people all the time, but never any who are interested in more than just hearing him spout wisdom. (Which he is obviously accustomed to doing.) He could barely let us go even after three hours, past the time when we should have left, even when troops of other men in white robes were obviously waiting for him to attend their previous appointment, talking with us right up to the door and into the hallway.
All in all, I liked him. I accept that, intellectually, I might have next to nothing in common with him, but I couldn't help it. I liked him right away, and found him immensely entertaining. He joked with me in French and David in Arabic, but respected me enough to suggest we do the entire interview in English, which remains David's and my only common language. (Not having another one is definitely a severe drawback, as it has repeatedly interfered with our ability to gossip discretely about those around us. I've suggested Pig Latin. David is skeptical.)
David and I both left the sumptuous residence a bit overwhelmed and (I have to admit it) relieved to be free, but we still both enjoyed talking him over a bit on the way home.
One week later, the BBC reported in this article that Hasan al-Turabi has been arrested for his criticism against General B. (He had been making statements to the effect that Gen. B should face his genocidal guilt before the ICC.) The article, which includes an action-shot style picture of the face still fresh in my memory, describes how al-Turabi is now in interrogation and solitary confinement, and that his family is worried about him. Thinking back to our meeting a few days before, David hazarded the opinion that perhaps al-Turabi knew it was coming, and that it might explain a bit his eagerness to talk to us.
Although I have no sympathies for Hasan al-Turabi's politics or his cause, I do for him as an individual. He is the only person I have ever known personally who is now a political prisoner. While I cannot in good conscience honor him with this post, I will dedicate it to my respect for him - as I respect anyone who has the courage to speak out against a dictator.
To Hasan al-Turabi, 76 years old and in interrogation: ganbatte kudasai.
Sunday, January 18
The Day of Rage
So to continue my tale from yesterday.. This dude Qaradawi (Preacher Q) decided to declare Friday, January 9th an international "Day of Rage" for all Muslims against what was happening vis-a-vis Israel and Gaza. David warned me about this that morning, just mentioning it as something to be aware of, so we could both keep a bit of a lower profile.
That day, we had also had plans to go to the traditional Muslim quarter of the capital, Omduraman, for the sufi religious Hamda'nile Festival (spelling?). This is a delightful, noisy, frolicsome celebration held every evening (but especially on Fridays) in conjunction with the evening mass. The festival's quite a hoot, with all kinds of people drumming and chanting and praying and (in some memorable cases) cavorting wildly around a large circle. We both thorougly enjoyed it, even though it was hardly David's first time seeing it.
The negativity began quite suddenly; I was talking in English to a Sudani after the ceremony ended when another man came up to me and began speaking incoherently in English. David and I, on comparing notes later, were both reminded of those odd paragraphs of almost randomly-chosen English words or phrases that appear inexplicably at the bottom of spam emails offering certain personal enhancements for men. This dude's speech was similar- he was loud and he was nonsensical, and he was up in my face so intensely and suddenly that I was almost too bewildered to reply. When I came to understand that he wanted to know my country of origin, and explained that I was American, he got yet noisier and began trying to determine which part of the country I harked from. As I began to try to explain that I was not from Washington D.C. or Chicago (the places he guessed), I very suddenly noticed that he was flanked on both sides by sullen-looking men. Confused, I looked around to see more and more men arriving every moment, and the hostility emanated from them in waves. Before I knew it, I was completely surrounded by sullen, silent men who towered over me with scowls on their faces even as I stammered to try to answer the nonsensical questions put to me by the rabblerouser.
Thank goodness David is a faster thinker than I am, and he grabbed my arm and yanked us both out of there. We walked quickly away from the men and the crowd, robbed of its curio, fizzled out and dissipated. My heart was pounding and neither of us really relaxed until we were considerably away from anyone else, at which point I exhaled a huge amount of air that I abruptly realized I had been holding captive in my lungs. Oh my goodness, I thought. So that's how mob violence begins.
Unfortunately the would-be mob-leader had not even begin to lose interest in us, and when I turned around he was right there again, this time getting up in my face about the "occasional preposition" or some similarly unintelligible subject that I believe was vaguely grammar-related.
David and I kept walking away from him, but gradually it became more and more obvious that he was following us. Night was falling, we needed to find a way to get back to Khartoum, the streets were beginning to empty, and every time I looked back the same lone figure was ambling along after us. I took out my kubaton, and David and I walked faster. Ahead of us, we glimsped the safety of a public bus, and after bolting across the street, we hid behind one bus, and then leapt aboard another just as it was beginning to leave. I leaned out to look back, and just managed to catch the sight of that same figure, still on the opposite side of the street, peering at the buses behind us. We had lost him. And I laughed. David laughed too. We laughed with the sheer joy of life, of safety, of being alive. I laughed and laughed and laughed.
Ultimately, what stayed with either of us was not the brief, scary moment of hostility we felt in that crowd, or the alarming realization that we were being persistently followed by a weirdo. The night had more to offer for us.
Perhaps our crazy laughter endeared us to the old jolly busdriver, for we ended up befriending him along the bumpy ride back to the city center. Such a friendly chap he was that upon our arrival, he invited us to a spot of tea right there in the bus, as it was the end of his routes for the day, and so we all sat around the gearshift for a bit drinking lovely na'na mint tea prepared by one of the many tea-ladies who always set up around Sudanese bus stations. Of course he insisted on paying for all of us. (In truth, neither David or I were much amazed at any of this somewhat amazing and unlooked-for generosity; it had happened so many times before, and would continue to happen throughout our time in the Sudan.)
Then we all said goodnight, and David and I went back to our hotel.. full of tea, full of the joy of life, and full of the contentment that comes from being in a country of- despite anything Preacher Q or the occasional rabblerousing psycho tries to incite- fundamentally warm, hospitable, and generous people.
Thank you, Sudan.
That day, we had also had plans to go to the traditional Muslim quarter of the capital, Omduraman, for the sufi religious Hamda'nile Festival (spelling?). This is a delightful, noisy, frolicsome celebration held every evening (but especially on Fridays) in conjunction with the evening mass. The festival's quite a hoot, with all kinds of people drumming and chanting and praying and (in some memorable cases) cavorting wildly around a large circle. We both thorougly enjoyed it, even though it was hardly David's first time seeing it.
The negativity began quite suddenly; I was talking in English to a Sudani after the ceremony ended when another man came up to me and began speaking incoherently in English. David and I, on comparing notes later, were both reminded of those odd paragraphs of almost randomly-chosen English words or phrases that appear inexplicably at the bottom of spam emails offering certain personal enhancements for men. This dude's speech was similar- he was loud and he was nonsensical, and he was up in my face so intensely and suddenly that I was almost too bewildered to reply. When I came to understand that he wanted to know my country of origin, and explained that I was American, he got yet noisier and began trying to determine which part of the country I harked from. As I began to try to explain that I was not from Washington D.C. or Chicago (the places he guessed), I very suddenly noticed that he was flanked on both sides by sullen-looking men. Confused, I looked around to see more and more men arriving every moment, and the hostility emanated from them in waves. Before I knew it, I was completely surrounded by sullen, silent men who towered over me with scowls on their faces even as I stammered to try to answer the nonsensical questions put to me by the rabblerouser.
Thank goodness David is a faster thinker than I am, and he grabbed my arm and yanked us both out of there. We walked quickly away from the men and the crowd, robbed of its curio, fizzled out and dissipated. My heart was pounding and neither of us really relaxed until we were considerably away from anyone else, at which point I exhaled a huge amount of air that I abruptly realized I had been holding captive in my lungs. Oh my goodness, I thought. So that's how mob violence begins.
Unfortunately the would-be mob-leader had not even begin to lose interest in us, and when I turned around he was right there again, this time getting up in my face about the "occasional preposition" or some similarly unintelligible subject that I believe was vaguely grammar-related.
David and I kept walking away from him, but gradually it became more and more obvious that he was following us. Night was falling, we needed to find a way to get back to Khartoum, the streets were beginning to empty, and every time I looked back the same lone figure was ambling along after us. I took out my kubaton, and David and I walked faster. Ahead of us, we glimsped the safety of a public bus, and after bolting across the street, we hid behind one bus, and then leapt aboard another just as it was beginning to leave. I leaned out to look back, and just managed to catch the sight of that same figure, still on the opposite side of the street, peering at the buses behind us. We had lost him. And I laughed. David laughed too. We laughed with the sheer joy of life, of safety, of being alive. I laughed and laughed and laughed.
Ultimately, what stayed with either of us was not the brief, scary moment of hostility we felt in that crowd, or the alarming realization that we were being persistently followed by a weirdo. The night had more to offer for us.
Perhaps our crazy laughter endeared us to the old jolly busdriver, for we ended up befriending him along the bumpy ride back to the city center. Such a friendly chap he was that upon our arrival, he invited us to a spot of tea right there in the bus, as it was the end of his routes for the day, and so we all sat around the gearshift for a bit drinking lovely na'na mint tea prepared by one of the many tea-ladies who always set up around Sudanese bus stations. Of course he insisted on paying for all of us. (In truth, neither David or I were much amazed at any of this somewhat amazing and unlooked-for generosity; it had happened so many times before, and would continue to happen throughout our time in the Sudan.)
Then we all said goodnight, and David and I went back to our hotel.. full of tea, full of the joy of life, and full of the contentment that comes from being in a country of- despite anything Preacher Q or the occasional rabblerousing psycho tries to incite- fundamentally warm, hospitable, and generous people.
Thank you, Sudan.
Saturday, January 17
As the world turns.. (taking a look outside my cocoon of ignorance)
So I suppose I owe it to the trip to deliver a comment or two about the phenomenon of traveling in a Muslim country as a Westerner in the present political climate, and that it is my responsibility to at least acknowledge a skeleton of current-events context.
Unfortunately, my current events knowledge tends to be highly patchy, and vast tracts of information exist outside the scope of my rather limited understanding. So PLEASE add your two-cents' worth to correct or explain anything I do badly here. Comments below.
The most important global event in the Sudan's consciousness is of course the fighting going on in the Gaza strip. Regardless of any of my readers' particular political sympathies, it is my general impression that the Sudanese people support Palestine (despite the official positions of several governments in the Arab world). As David and I travel, every time we see a television it seems to be tuned to Al-Gezira news media channel, with extensive footage of the destruction caused by Israeli bombings. There are occasionally broadcasted speeches by various political or religious figures condemning Israel's actions, and it seems fairly clear (even to non-Arabic-speaking me) which side of the table Al-Gezira news sits on.
As for Sudan news in particular, there are a few special things going on that have made our visit more interesting. Most particularly, Sudan's general-dictator Omar al-Bashir could potentially face an International Criminal Court arrest warrant. The ICC prosecutor has recommended issing this warrant due to the genocide and humanitarian crimes that have been and are being perpetrated in the western Sudanese states of Darfur.
The ICC met to begin deliberating on this on or around January 7th. Any arrest action on their part has already been officially condemned by the Sudan as masking a political agenda, but governmental forces here have nonetheless gotten a bit testy about it. Walking around the capital of Khartoum on January 6th and 7th, David and I noticed an increased military and security presence. (I really wanted to get a closer look at the freakin-huge light-bedecked presidential palace that preens itself at the end of a major avenue, but ultimately followed David's recommendation that we give security forces a bit of space at this particular junction in time.)
The increased security is also a reflection of the global current events, as the city held a large demonstration January 8th, the purpose of which was apparently to 'demonstrate' to Israel how cranky they are with it. (I'm not sure whether PM Olmert was listening, but they can always say they tried.)
The anti-Israeli demonstration and the ICC case have not necessarily informed my own experience of the Sudan, but it's definitely important to be aware of both situations. Atrocity of ignorance aside, it's not an impossibility that current events could come to play a role, however small, in my largely-tourist experience of the Sudan. For example, the head of Sudan's intelligence agency warned last weekend that if General B (my euphamism for the ol' dictator)'s warrant comes through, foreigners in the Sudan could be targeted for violence.
In a similar trend, a certain religious figure in the Arab world, Qaradayi (Preacher Q), called for a "Day of Rage" on the part of Muslims over what's going on in Gaza. Unlike the ICC business, this DID come to slightly affect David and I, but we both managed to get out of the situation quickly and painlessly. (More on that tomorrow.)Still, it's worth being aware of things like that.. and I'm very happy that at least one of us (David) is!
Unfortunately, my current events knowledge tends to be highly patchy, and vast tracts of information exist outside the scope of my rather limited understanding. So PLEASE add your two-cents' worth to correct or explain anything I do badly here. Comments below.
The most important global event in the Sudan's consciousness is of course the fighting going on in the Gaza strip. Regardless of any of my readers' particular political sympathies, it is my general impression that the Sudanese people support Palestine (despite the official positions of several governments in the Arab world). As David and I travel, every time we see a television it seems to be tuned to Al-Gezira news media channel, with extensive footage of the destruction caused by Israeli bombings. There are occasionally broadcasted speeches by various political or religious figures condemning Israel's actions, and it seems fairly clear (even to non-Arabic-speaking me) which side of the table Al-Gezira news sits on.
As for Sudan news in particular, there are a few special things going on that have made our visit more interesting. Most particularly, Sudan's general-dictator Omar al-Bashir could potentially face an International Criminal Court arrest warrant. The ICC prosecutor has recommended issing this warrant due to the genocide and humanitarian crimes that have been and are being perpetrated in the western Sudanese states of Darfur.
The ICC met to begin deliberating on this on or around January 7th. Any arrest action on their part has already been officially condemned by the Sudan as masking a political agenda, but governmental forces here have nonetheless gotten a bit testy about it. Walking around the capital of Khartoum on January 6th and 7th, David and I noticed an increased military and security presence. (I really wanted to get a closer look at the freakin-huge light-bedecked presidential palace that preens itself at the end of a major avenue, but ultimately followed David's recommendation that we give security forces a bit of space at this particular junction in time.)
The increased security is also a reflection of the global current events, as the city held a large demonstration January 8th, the purpose of which was apparently to 'demonstrate' to Israel how cranky they are with it. (I'm not sure whether PM Olmert was listening, but they can always say they tried.)
The anti-Israeli demonstration and the ICC case have not necessarily informed my own experience of the Sudan, but it's definitely important to be aware of both situations. Atrocity of ignorance aside, it's not an impossibility that current events could come to play a role, however small, in my largely-tourist experience of the Sudan. For example, the head of Sudan's intelligence agency warned last weekend that if General B (my euphamism for the ol' dictator)'s warrant comes through, foreigners in the Sudan could be targeted for violence.
In a similar trend, a certain religious figure in the Arab world, Qaradayi (Preacher Q), called for a "Day of Rage" on the part of Muslims over what's going on in Gaza. Unlike the ICC business, this DID come to slightly affect David and I, but we both managed to get out of the situation quickly and painlessly. (More on that tomorrow.)Still, it's worth being aware of things like that.. and I'm very happy that at least one of us (David) is!
Thursday, January 15
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 14
A Cocoon Found.. and Lost
A few days before I was preparing to leave for this trip, amid the bustle of the holidays, David called to remind me to bring along some mosquito netting. Happy-inducing malaria pills aside, no one likes mosquito bites, and he was quite right in suggesting I might occasionally like to get some peace at night in mosquitoey areas.
My mum quite generously offered to pick up this last item from our local outdooring store, to give me a bit of extra time packing and getting myself together. I was quite grateful and expected her to bring home a simple, small, light-weight and easily stuffable ball of mosquito netting, to be draped over myself or slept in with the edges tucked under in just the fashion David is currently sporting over on his cot. However, such primitive expectations far underestimated my mother's creativity and her dedication, and it was with great pride that she presented me that night with an Outdoor Explorers BugBivvy (TM) 2000.
I'm afraid it was with less enthusiasm, and only due to the lateness of the game, that I accepted the BugBivvy (TM). It was large, bulky, weighty and of alarmingly low stuffability, but I did my best to stuff it all the same into the one tiny suitcase that would come with me to Africa.
The BugBivvy was first produced about four nights into the trip at one particularly mosquito-friendly hotel, pulled out of my bag to the shock and great entertainment of David. The thing looked like a half mesh, half plastic sleeping bag with enough volume for five people and a single inexplicable collapsing stick that poked its way awkwardly through a paucity of badly-organized loops for about seven seconds before demonstrating its definitive quality and collapsing on itself. Much to the continued merriment of David, happily ensconced beneath his own simple net in roughly the same amount of time. I set the pole aright again and again, if only for the sake of photographing the pathetic construction for my review at a later date when I would presumably find it funny as well, before admitting defeat and clamboring inside its zippered depths, fabric pooling on my face and feeble pole poking one or the other of my arms whichever way I turned.
I have slept in this way three times now, the most recent of which was characterized by David as a battle between myself and the 'cocoon', his moniker for the miserable set of mesh and pole that I spent much of my pre-dawn hours thrashing about in. My mother's dedication shall always be appreciated, but the BugBivvy was not exactly a success.
IT IS THE MISERABLE FATE of a miserable traveling Murphy's Law that the night I
finally realized how to properly put together my cocoon, the night I declared I would spend the rest of my nights abroad comfortably ensconced in its protective zippered depths, a night that should have remained one of unbridled elation and triumph, was the same night that I discovered I had, with the introduction of an unsavory bedsheet the night before, invited into said cocoon an army of the hungriest bedbugs the third world has ever seen. By 2 a.m., I had 47 new bites. Unable to sleep with frantic scratching, I spent from 2:15 to 2:25 a.m. locating and cataloguing all my various new bites. I then spent from 2:25 to 2:50 ruefully reflecting on the bitterness of irony to the regular respiration sounds of the enviably slumbering David in the next cot. I then spent from 2:50 to 3:16 a.m. writing this very blog post, scribbling it out on my notepad between scratching sessions, and deciding upon its title: truly, a Cocoon Found and Lost.
My mum quite generously offered to pick up this last item from our local outdooring store, to give me a bit of extra time packing and getting myself together. I was quite grateful and expected her to bring home a simple, small, light-weight and easily stuffable ball of mosquito netting, to be draped over myself or slept in with the edges tucked under in just the fashion David is currently sporting over on his cot. However, such primitive expectations far underestimated my mother's creativity and her dedication, and it was with great pride that she presented me that night with an Outdoor Explorers BugBivvy (TM) 2000.
I'm afraid it was with less enthusiasm, and only due to the lateness of the game, that I accepted the BugBivvy (TM). It was large, bulky, weighty and of alarmingly low stuffability, but I did my best to stuff it all the same into the one tiny suitcase that would come with me to Africa.
The BugBivvy was first produced about four nights into the trip at one particularly mosquito-friendly hotel, pulled out of my bag to the shock and great entertainment of David. The thing looked like a half mesh, half plastic sleeping bag with enough volume for five people and a single inexplicable collapsing stick that poked its way awkwardly through a paucity of badly-organized loops for about seven seconds before demonstrating its definitive quality and collapsing on itself. Much to the continued merriment of David, happily ensconced beneath his own simple net in roughly the same amount of time. I set the pole aright again and again, if only for the sake of photographing the pathetic construction for my review at a later date when I would presumably find it funny as well, before admitting defeat and clamboring inside its zippered depths, fabric pooling on my face and feeble pole poking one or the other of my arms whichever way I turned.
I have slept in this way three times now, the most recent of which was characterized by David as a battle between myself and the 'cocoon', his moniker for the miserable set of mesh and pole that I spent much of my pre-dawn hours thrashing about in. My mother's dedication shall always be appreciated, but the BugBivvy was not exactly a success.
IT IS THE MISERABLE FATE of a miserable traveling Murphy's Law that the night I
finally realized how to properly put together my cocoon, the night I declared I would spend the rest of my nights abroad comfortably ensconced in its protective zippered depths, a night that should have remained one of unbridled elation and triumph, was the same night that I discovered I had, with the introduction of an unsavory bedsheet the night before, invited into said cocoon an army of the hungriest bedbugs the third world has ever seen. By 2 a.m., I had 47 new bites. Unable to sleep with frantic scratching, I spent from 2:15 to 2:25 a.m. locating and cataloguing all my various new bites. I then spent from 2:25 to 2:50 ruefully reflecting on the bitterness of irony to the regular respiration sounds of the enviably slumbering David in the next cot. I then spent from 2:50 to 3:16 a.m. writing this very blog post, scribbling it out on my notepad between scratching sessions, and deciding upon its title: truly, a Cocoon Found and Lost.
Tuesday, January 13
Sick, Sick, Sick !
KHARTOUM, SUDAN: I might occasionally include a week of silence in this blogging trip, but I hadn't planned on taking one quite so early. Allow me to explain, I've been taken a bit out of commission. One of the several dooms foretold me- the medical doom I would deserve for pursuing these foolish travel plans- has come to pass. Africa got me!
I suppose I knew it would happen, sooner or later, but it turned out to happen a lot sooner than later, about eight days into the trip in fact. 0.4% complete for statisticians. Depressing for me. During the six days (six!!) that I spent suffering from what I can only describe as a battalion of medical ills, my uppermost worry was often that David, knowing me for only a week prior, would by lack of information be forced to conclude that I'm a sickly, whining, low-energy weakling who prefers her own sagging hotel cot to the excitement of Sudan's dusty capital. A horrible representation of myself, one I can hardly bear, but one that was not so far from the truth this past week.
In my defense, I would like to stress that it took the aforementioned battalion of ailments to bring me down. Viral influenza paired up with a foul, pus-draining eye infection and the worst case of asthma problems I have ever had; I spent a week discovering the unique combination of headaches/ bodyaches/ chest tightness/ nausea/ coughing/ eye pus/ sore throat/ exhaustion/ inability to see and the madcap fun of alternating fever and chills. A veritable battalion of disease. My phrasing it such to David prompted him to wax poetic, and he proposed the following metaphor: Like an elephant pursued by an entire village of hunters, only brought down in stages, so I (and my effervescent spirits) were brought down, slowly but truly, over days, to a self-pitying state of cranky pain.
I think it's a remarkably accurate metaphor, and I archly told him so over the snorts of laughter that accompanied his poetic recitation. (Humph.)
I suppose I knew it would happen, sooner or later, but it turned out to happen a lot sooner than later, about eight days into the trip in fact. 0.4% complete for statisticians. Depressing for me. During the six days (six!!) that I spent suffering from what I can only describe as a battalion of medical ills, my uppermost worry was often that David, knowing me for only a week prior, would by lack of information be forced to conclude that I'm a sickly, whining, low-energy weakling who prefers her own sagging hotel cot to the excitement of Sudan's dusty capital. A horrible representation of myself, one I can hardly bear, but one that was not so far from the truth this past week.
In my defense, I would like to stress that it took the aforementioned battalion of ailments to bring me down. Viral influenza paired up with a foul, pus-draining eye infection and the worst case of asthma problems I have ever had; I spent a week discovering the unique combination of headaches/ bodyaches/ chest tightness/ nausea/ coughing/ eye pus/ sore throat/ exhaustion/ inability to see and the madcap fun of alternating fever and chills. A veritable battalion of disease. My phrasing it such to David prompted him to wax poetic, and he proposed the following metaphor: Like an elephant pursued by an entire village of hunters, only brought down in stages, so I (and my effervescent spirits) were brought down, slowly but truly, over days, to a self-pitying state of cranky pain.
I think it's a remarkably accurate metaphor, and I archly told him so over the snorts of laughter that accompanied his poetic recitation. (Humph.)
Tuesday, January 6
It's the Small Triumphs
I discovered my hatred of flies on a (short) long-distance bus today.
We were traisping from Dongola to Kareima across North Sudan, out to see some sights and have a bit of fun while we were at it, and the lots of bits of accumulative fun already had thus far had tuckered me out. I desperately wanted to spend the four hours in our quiet, dark and comfortable bus taking a nice little nap, and few things short of celestial wrath could have prevented me.
I was shocked to discover that an insolent creature no larger or more significant than A Common Fly could stand in my way.
You didn't notice it at first. You'd be drifting off, you were almost gone, and you could barely feel the little tickle on the back of your hand. But then SUDDENLY you felt it - you'd make an involuntary flap with your hand to get it off - and then you would start to drift back to that warm place. Drift, drift.. and there it'd be again. The tickle. You'd slap your hand again, more violently, more uselessly, and tuck it somewhere else as you curled back up to go back to that nap. The fly would find the other hand. Again, the tickle.. the almost ignorable.. you try to ignore it.. you could feel it moving around, exploring, until you JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. You flap that hand too. You open your eyes to find the offending creature. It's zooming around stupidly in the square foot of air right in front of you, waiting for you to settle down so it can too. You swat at it and miss. You sigh. You are too tired for this game. You tuck both hands under your arms, Sharia law means the rest of you is pretty much covered anyway, you smirk to yourself, and you close your eyes to go back to sleep. Let it land where it wants.
At which point it lands ON YOUR FACE.
You want to scream with rage. You flap both of your hands madly at your face. The fly resumes its orbiting of your head. You have rarely hated something so intensely in your life. You NEED this nap. You have a stroke of genius. Despite the relative warmth of the bus, you flop your entire sweatshirt over your head.
Darkness.
And Triumph.
And, you notice a moment later, Stinkiness.
(This sweatshirt has not yet been washed, and has lately shared a lot in common with your body.)
(This also might explain the fly.)
You decide you can bear the stinkiness and set about trying to fall asleep anyway.
Ten minutes later, gasping desperately for air, you emerge from the dark, hot, stinky, airless environment created by your sweatshirt-tent. Perhaps the fly is gone. You close your eyes and take in huge quantities of the delicious stale bus air. But within two minutes of tent dismantling.. there it is again ON YOUR CHEEK.
You swat at your face. You open your tired, red eyes, which perceive the Cursed Fly perched on the window curtain. As a spectator you watch your same fly-tortured hand sail through the air with a cat-like precision born of rage, and land with lightning swiftness upon the Bastard Fly before it has time to perceive that for one sorry sucker's life it is (quite appropriately): Curtains.
You watch the dead fly drop to the floor.
And you know the meaning of Bliss.
We were traisping from Dongola to Kareima across North Sudan, out to see some sights and have a bit of fun while we were at it, and the lots of bits of accumulative fun already had thus far had tuckered me out. I desperately wanted to spend the four hours in our quiet, dark and comfortable bus taking a nice little nap, and few things short of celestial wrath could have prevented me.
I was shocked to discover that an insolent creature no larger or more significant than A Common Fly could stand in my way.
You didn't notice it at first. You'd be drifting off, you were almost gone, and you could barely feel the little tickle on the back of your hand. But then SUDDENLY you felt it - you'd make an involuntary flap with your hand to get it off - and then you would start to drift back to that warm place. Drift, drift.. and there it'd be again. The tickle. You'd slap your hand again, more violently, more uselessly, and tuck it somewhere else as you curled back up to go back to that nap. The fly would find the other hand. Again, the tickle.. the almost ignorable.. you try to ignore it.. you could feel it moving around, exploring, until you JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. You flap that hand too. You open your eyes to find the offending creature. It's zooming around stupidly in the square foot of air right in front of you, waiting for you to settle down so it can too. You swat at it and miss. You sigh. You are too tired for this game. You tuck both hands under your arms, Sharia law means the rest of you is pretty much covered anyway, you smirk to yourself, and you close your eyes to go back to sleep. Let it land where it wants.
At which point it lands ON YOUR FACE.
You want to scream with rage. You flap both of your hands madly at your face. The fly resumes its orbiting of your head. You have rarely hated something so intensely in your life. You NEED this nap. You have a stroke of genius. Despite the relative warmth of the bus, you flop your entire sweatshirt over your head.
Darkness.
And Triumph.
And, you notice a moment later, Stinkiness.
(This sweatshirt has not yet been washed, and has lately shared a lot in common with your body.)
(This also might explain the fly.)
You decide you can bear the stinkiness and set about trying to fall asleep anyway.
Ten minutes later, gasping desperately for air, you emerge from the dark, hot, stinky, airless environment created by your sweatshirt-tent. Perhaps the fly is gone. You close your eyes and take in huge quantities of the delicious stale bus air. But within two minutes of tent dismantling.. there it is again ON YOUR CHEEK.
You swat at your face. You open your tired, red eyes, which perceive the Cursed Fly perched on the window curtain. As a spectator you watch your same fly-tortured hand sail through the air with a cat-like precision born of rage, and land with lightning swiftness upon the Bastard Fly before it has time to perceive that for one sorry sucker's life it is (quite appropriately): Curtains.
You watch the dead fly drop to the floor.
And you know the meaning of Bliss.
Monday, January 5
That old-time religion
ATBARA, SUDAN:
I'm a non-Christian
with no religious tendencies
in an overwhelmingly Muslim area
of a nation currently under Sharia Islamic law,
yet I'm in church.
Sometimes, god impresses even me.
It's actually my fault that we're in here, not David's, though he is the only one of religious bent (intellectual or otherwise) between the two of us; despite my wicked lack of faith there's something I've always loved about all religious places. I love churches in America, and cathedrals in Europe, and shrines in Japan, and it's been the great tragedy of my time in the Sudan thus far that I haven't been able to go into a mosque. (That, and not yet having a shower.)
So we were walking by, and the huge cross said to me what all the arabic signage in the world couldn't have, and I was just drawn like a magnet. As luck would have it it's Sunday, and the evening mass was already going on; I never would have dreamed of barging into it, but as soon as someone noticed us in the courtyard we were excitedly ushered in and shown a pew. I didn't understand the sermon, but I liked listening to the voice of the pastor and looking around the bare little building. One high-ceilinged room, whitewashed walls and cement floor, fluorescent bulbs paired up to form crosses on each side of a large fresco at the back of the room. Wooden bookcase stacked with old hymnals by the door. Dusty wooden pews in three columns facing a lone wooden podium, with a few smaller sideways pews at the front where eight or nine bescarved women sat. Presumably the choir. Choir, preacher, and ushers included, there were not more than five dozen parishoners, most of them children squirming in the five pews in front of me, twisting around to get a better look.
Suddenly we all stood to pray; one woman's quiet voice rose over us in song from the front choir corner. I peeked with one eye, but every woman's head was bowed, there was no sign who was singing. Even as I peeked, her delicate voice was joined by another, and several others, until there was a chorus of women's voices swelling in song. Without a sign but in apparent coordination, like the gentle, slow pooling of water, the singing spread around us from pew to pew until five dozen voices, male and female, deep and high, were lifted up in a beautiful song I had never heard, and will never hear again. The richness of the sound, the depth of it bloomed like warm dough in an oven. Standing among singers but not singing myself, I had the unusual impression of being inside the song, as if the power of these voices was a phsyical force that could lift you and expand you with every chorus.
It was beautiful.
I'm a non-Christian
with no religious tendencies
in an overwhelmingly Muslim area
of a nation currently under Sharia Islamic law,
yet I'm in church.
Sometimes, god impresses even me.
It's actually my fault that we're in here, not David's, though he is the only one of religious bent (intellectual or otherwise) between the two of us; despite my wicked lack of faith there's something I've always loved about all religious places. I love churches in America, and cathedrals in Europe, and shrines in Japan, and it's been the great tragedy of my time in the Sudan thus far that I haven't been able to go into a mosque. (That, and not yet having a shower.)
So we were walking by, and the huge cross said to me what all the arabic signage in the world couldn't have, and I was just drawn like a magnet. As luck would have it it's Sunday, and the evening mass was already going on; I never would have dreamed of barging into it, but as soon as someone noticed us in the courtyard we were excitedly ushered in and shown a pew. I didn't understand the sermon, but I liked listening to the voice of the pastor and looking around the bare little building. One high-ceilinged room, whitewashed walls and cement floor, fluorescent bulbs paired up to form crosses on each side of a large fresco at the back of the room. Wooden bookcase stacked with old hymnals by the door. Dusty wooden pews in three columns facing a lone wooden podium, with a few smaller sideways pews at the front where eight or nine bescarved women sat. Presumably the choir. Choir, preacher, and ushers included, there were not more than five dozen parishoners, most of them children squirming in the five pews in front of me, twisting around to get a better look.
Suddenly we all stood to pray; one woman's quiet voice rose over us in song from the front choir corner. I peeked with one eye, but every woman's head was bowed, there was no sign who was singing. Even as I peeked, her delicate voice was joined by another, and several others, until there was a chorus of women's voices swelling in song. Without a sign but in apparent coordination, like the gentle, slow pooling of water, the singing spread around us from pew to pew until five dozen voices, male and female, deep and high, were lifted up in a beautiful song I had never heard, and will never hear again. The richness of the sound, the depth of it bloomed like warm dough in an oven. Standing among singers but not singing myself, I had the unusual impression of being inside the song, as if the power of these voices was a phsyical force that could lift you and expand you with every chorus.
It was beautiful.
Sunday, January 4
Sweeping Generalizations
As I have now been in the Sudan for more than one cycle of 24 hours, and have managed to wrangle my way into other parts of the country, I feel justified in making a few summarial comments:
(a) the Sudan is sunny
(b) the Sudanese are fantastically friendly
(c) the Sudan is poor
(d) there are not very many white people/ foreigners here
(While I suppose I could gather most or all of these facts from a variety of easily available information sources, I would venture to say I feel them to be true much more than I knew them to be before. And in this derive my justification for expounding them so grandiosly.)
(a) the Sudan is sunny
(b) the Sudanese are fantastically friendly
(c) the Sudan is poor
(d) there are not very many white people/ foreigners here
(While I suppose I could gather most or all of these facts from a variety of easily available information sources, I would venture to say I feel them to be true much more than I knew them to be before. And in this derive my justification for expounding them so grandiosly.)
Saturday, January 3
The Tale of Yasser Arafat and the Sado Okesa
Warning: following tangential dribble has nothing to do with the Sudan, Africa, or really anything important and/or factual.
SO sleeping in a new bed makes me have really vivid dreams, and the shuffling around we've been doing here means that my head has been the setting for some very unusual visions lately. One in particular could possibly deserve recounting.
In this dream, I was telling prof. David about the island where I lived in Japan, and getting really into it; I even went so far as to hum the Sado Okesa, a traditional folk song and dance famous for being a part of Sado's unique culture. Before I even finished my hum, however, David got a sort of wry look on his face and quipped that he was surprised to hear I was blindly singing such a song, as it was the Official Theme Song of Yasser Arafat.
I was dumbfounded.
It is a testament to the level of my respect for David that I did not for a moment consider that he was mistaken. If he was saying it, it must be so. However the concept that this crooned tune, taught to me by little old ladies of an isolated island in rural Japan, could simultaneously represent some sort of political message in a different part of the world, was difficult to swallow. As I sat there, unable to believe that the professor was lying or wrong but equally unable to buy that the Sado Okesa had anything to do with Yasser Arafat, Palestine, or the Middle East, I decided that logically the situation itself was an impossibility, and I must therefore be having a dream. And I promptly woke up.
Vivid as it was, only the extent of David's hearty laughs as I recounted it to him later really convinced me it was only fiction.
(but when I think of the song now, who comes to mind but Yasser...)
SO sleeping in a new bed makes me have really vivid dreams, and the shuffling around we've been doing here means that my head has been the setting for some very unusual visions lately. One in particular could possibly deserve recounting.
In this dream, I was telling prof. David about the island where I lived in Japan, and getting really into it; I even went so far as to hum the Sado Okesa, a traditional folk song and dance famous for being a part of Sado's unique culture. Before I even finished my hum, however, David got a sort of wry look on his face and quipped that he was surprised to hear I was blindly singing such a song, as it was the Official Theme Song of Yasser Arafat.
I was dumbfounded.
It is a testament to the level of my respect for David that I did not for a moment consider that he was mistaken. If he was saying it, it must be so. However the concept that this crooned tune, taught to me by little old ladies of an isolated island in rural Japan, could simultaneously represent some sort of political message in a different part of the world, was difficult to swallow. As I sat there, unable to believe that the professor was lying or wrong but equally unable to buy that the Sado Okesa had anything to do with Yasser Arafat, Palestine, or the Middle East, I decided that logically the situation itself was an impossibility, and I must therefore be having a dream. And I promptly woke up.
Vivid as it was, only the extent of David's hearty laughs as I recounted it to him later really convinced me it was only fiction.
(but when I think of the song now, who comes to mind but Yasser...)
Friday, January 2
Recording My Spoiled Naivete
Well, all my harassment about unfulfilled promises has had an effect, and David has finally managed to deliver a satisfactorially-sketchy hotel room. He's actually described it as 'very nice' comparatively speaking, so I've understood that this hotel is among the nicer that I will be calling home over the course of the next eight months.
Nevertheless, it has managed to set a new low for my personal experience. (And I have pretty low standards.)
While complaining isn't going to make anything any better, and I don't really feel the need to vent, in the interest of preserving a record of this initial innocent disdain for the benefit of my presumably jaded later self, I'll record my various grievances here:
* floors, wall, ceiling, furniture and all facilities are in a general dumpster-level state of age and disrepair, though not offensively
* the bathroom rivals that featured in Trainspotting, offensively: no counter, soap, separate shower, flooring, covered drain, or door handle; the toilet lacks a seat, back cover, flusher, and toilet paper; extensive leaking, dripping, and consequent splashing everywhere from hanging showerhead/ faucet/ toilet/ wall leads to a sticky and wet floor and generally wet experience while using the loo; large hole in the ceiling leads to a wide and dusty metal duct
(perks must be acknowleged: operational door lock; water present in the toilet bowl, if foul; functional flush and tap; apparently functional showerhead- though temperature control would be a fantasy, and accidentally inserting one's naked foot into the toilet bowl, a risk)
* the only bedding provided on my bed is a faded sheet adorned with multiple small bloodstains
* the metal duct leading out of the bathroom 'ceiling' traverses the top of the room to exit presumably outside, and has played host several times in the past few hours to either the death or mating of a loud, heavy, and madly scrambling rat and/or other animal. We considered throwing a shoe at it to stop it but I was mildly concerned that such an assault might completely rupture the rickety duct, or otherwise upset the rat's stability on the gently sloping path leading directly to the aforementioned large hole in bathroom ceiling (said hole's merits as an escape route in the event of a zombie apocalypse have duly been noted and explained to David, the zombie-risk-uninitiated. I will do my best to enlighten him.)
Despite all this, the room is large and high-ceilinged, making it spacious, and quite comfortably generally speaking due to the two strong fans. There are also two patio chairs and a relatively new color television for our use, which blows my mind: for me, television rates far lower on the scale of hotel priorities than, say, a presumably-cheaper toilet seat.
POSTSCRIPT (next day): my failure to duly acknowledge the functional bathroom light earlier has duly been punished, as it now no longer works. flashlights ain't just for camping..
Nevertheless, it has managed to set a new low for my personal experience. (And I have pretty low standards.)
While complaining isn't going to make anything any better, and I don't really feel the need to vent, in the interest of preserving a record of this initial innocent disdain for the benefit of my presumably jaded later self, I'll record my various grievances here:
* floors, wall, ceiling, furniture and all facilities are in a general dumpster-level state of age and disrepair, though not offensively
* the bathroom rivals that featured in Trainspotting, offensively: no counter, soap, separate shower, flooring, covered drain, or door handle; the toilet lacks a seat, back cover, flusher, and toilet paper; extensive leaking, dripping, and consequent splashing everywhere from hanging showerhead/ faucet/ toilet/ wall leads to a sticky and wet floor and generally wet experience while using the loo; large hole in the ceiling leads to a wide and dusty metal duct
(perks must be acknowleged: operational door lock; water present in the toilet bowl, if foul; functional flush and tap; apparently functional showerhead- though temperature control would be a fantasy, and accidentally inserting one's naked foot into the toilet bowl, a risk)
* the only bedding provided on my bed is a faded sheet adorned with multiple small bloodstains
* the metal duct leading out of the bathroom 'ceiling' traverses the top of the room to exit presumably outside, and has played host several times in the past few hours to either the death or mating of a loud, heavy, and madly scrambling rat and/or other animal. We considered throwing a shoe at it to stop it but I was mildly concerned that such an assault might completely rupture the rickety duct, or otherwise upset the rat's stability on the gently sloping path leading directly to the aforementioned large hole in bathroom ceiling (said hole's merits as an escape route in the event of a zombie apocalypse have duly been noted and explained to David, the zombie-risk-uninitiated. I will do my best to enlighten him.)
Despite all this, the room is large and high-ceilinged, making it spacious, and quite comfortably generally speaking due to the two strong fans. There are also two patio chairs and a relatively new color television for our use, which blows my mind: for me, television rates far lower on the scale of hotel priorities than, say, a presumably-cheaper toilet seat.
POSTSCRIPT (next day): my failure to duly acknowledge the functional bathroom light earlier has duly been punished, as it now no longer works. flashlights ain't just for camping..
Wednesday, December 31
Al-Sudan !
WE
have at long last ARRIVED
in the SUDAN.
Such satisfaction has rarely been seen on the faces of two travellers. I hope Omar al-Bashir sincerely appreciates what lengths- and continents- we have gone to just to get here. Though somehow, disappointingly, I doubt his omnipotent Generalness is even interested.
Governmental indifference aside, we have accidentally checked ourselves into a nicer (and more expensive) hotel than David originally intended. I'm beginning to lose faith in his repeated yet thus-far empty promises of hole-in-wall hotel rooms.
While this hotel technically does have a few holes in the wall, it's really otherwise just fine, if a bit in disrepair. My room has a functional bathroom, complete with toilet paper; the bed has sheets and a pillow; there is even a fridge with sodas in it. Really, the only thing lacking is the assurance that the hotel manager will not try to become better friends with me at midnight via certain persuasive tools and his own copy of my room key, but luckily, I am (a) forewarned (b) prudish and (c) resourceful. Every piece of furniture available in my room is thus currently stacked against my door, and fortified by the bed itself and my own added weight. I look forward to sleeping peacefully tonight.
Generally speaking, this hotel is really quite nice, if suffering a bit from inattention and the passage of time. The phrase 'faded glory' comes to mind. Apparently certain regime policies and current events haven't done wonders for the tourism industry in the lovely capital.
Which we've noticed in more than one way.. though I have seen two or three other uncovered female heads, we've yet to see any other foreigners, or any other white people. I'm conservatively dressed, but nonetheless I seem to stand out anyway. Memories of rural Japan are renewed, but I'd be lying if I said I was as comfortable: not possessing any familiarity with the culture or language, I'm not sure how to interact with anyone, and the continual overtures from Khartoum's considerably-less-shy population tend to throw me a bit.
But perhaps I'm devaluing my abilities. I suppose I did learn how to count in Qatar, so the next time a stranger comes up and yells "WELCOME TO SUDAN!" at me, I could express my appreciation by yelling back to him, "ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE!"
It might make for an interesting interaction, anyway.
have at long last ARRIVED
in the SUDAN.
Such satisfaction has rarely been seen on the faces of two travellers. I hope Omar al-Bashir sincerely appreciates what lengths- and continents- we have gone to just to get here. Though somehow, disappointingly, I doubt his omnipotent Generalness is even interested.
Governmental indifference aside, we have accidentally checked ourselves into a nicer (and more expensive) hotel than David originally intended. I'm beginning to lose faith in his repeated yet thus-far empty promises of hole-in-wall hotel rooms.
While this hotel technically does have a few holes in the wall, it's really otherwise just fine, if a bit in disrepair. My room has a functional bathroom, complete with toilet paper; the bed has sheets and a pillow; there is even a fridge with sodas in it. Really, the only thing lacking is the assurance that the hotel manager will not try to become better friends with me at midnight via certain persuasive tools and his own copy of my room key, but luckily, I am (a) forewarned (b) prudish and (c) resourceful. Every piece of furniture available in my room is thus currently stacked against my door, and fortified by the bed itself and my own added weight. I look forward to sleeping peacefully tonight.Generally speaking, this hotel is really quite nice, if suffering a bit from inattention and the passage of time. The phrase 'faded glory' comes to mind. Apparently certain regime policies and current events haven't done wonders for the tourism industry in the lovely capital.
Which we've noticed in more than one way.. though I have seen two or three other uncovered female heads, we've yet to see any other foreigners, or any other white people. I'm conservatively dressed, but nonetheless I seem to stand out anyway. Memories of rural Japan are renewed, but I'd be lying if I said I was as comfortable: not possessing any familiarity with the culture or language, I'm not sure how to interact with anyone, and the continual overtures from Khartoum's considerably-less-shy population tend to throw me a bit.
But perhaps I'm devaluing my abilities. I suppose I did learn how to count in Qatar, so the next time a stranger comes up and yells "WELCOME TO SUDAN!" at me, I could express my appreciation by yelling back to him, "ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE!"
It might make for an interesting interaction, anyway.
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