Tuesday 31 August 2010

From Argo to Leicester Square


Sudan Studies, Number 7 (January 1990)

It was 3.30pm on a hot dusty day in the northern Sudanese village of Argo and it was my turn to make the tea. Mohammed Osman had broken into his usual banter about my status as an 'unbeliever' as soon as we'd left the school in which we taught. In his opinion, my atheistic Scottish soul was destined to join the shrieking hordes of other 'kaffirs' in Islam's everlasting bonfire. To those of my friends who had feared for my sanity when I left the cold comfort of dreich Edinburgh Saturdays, for the blast furnace of the Sudanese desert, my tenancy of hell was already an established reality.

Sudan's detractors for a glittering cast of thousands starting with the ancient Egyptians who refer to that part of the world still beyond their ken, south of present-day Wadi Halfa, as 'the land of the dead'. Centuries later, a passing explorer by the name of Ewart Grogan, described southern Sudan as, "God-forsaken" and a, "desolation of desolations". He felt his journey to be kind of apprenticeship for existence in the afterlife, taking a consolation of a sort in the words, "I have passed through it (southern Sudan) and now have no fear of the hereafter". The north did not escape criticism of this sort. The distinguished journalist, G W Steevens, writing at the turn of the (19th - 20th) century was eloquently damning in his appraisal of the north; describing it as, "a God-accursed wilderness, an empty limbo of torment forever and ever". Try as they might, commentators found it impossible to conjure up positive images of the 970,000 square miles which constitutes Africa's largest country. Even the Sudanese who are less vituperative about their homeland, than outsiders such as General Gordon, who called the country a, "useless possession", have a saying that 'when Allah made the Sudan, he laughed'.

I was not disposed to laughter when I learned that I had been transferred from my teaching post in Argo to a new one in the remote Nubian village of Abri. My journey began in the cold 6 o'clock morning air, some two hours after the most devout had ventured into the mosques for dawn prayers. I had to take a box from the centre of the village to Kerma, a breathtakingly beautiful village, where a weekly market day meant I could catch one of the Halfa-bound lorries. A box is a Toyota pickup with two benches for passengers in the back and often has a locally made roof which provides shade for those inside and extra space for luggage or passengers on top. The concept of transport is based on the principle of moving from A to B in Sudan. The comfort of the journey is of little importance. I was not put out when I found myself pinned to my seat, with restricted breathing by the presence of two very large Sudanese ladies on either side. People overcome the hardships of such travel by a wonderful act of will. They simply ignore all the signs of pain and irritation.

Dongola 'bus' prepares to leave Omdurman

The box took us through the streets of Argo, passing Arab-style houses constructed of mud bricks and largely left unpainted, giving the impression that they were natural outcrops rising out of the sandy ground. The world of Tarmac roads was some 300 miles south in Khartoum. Drivers here lived on their considerable skills, literally piloting their vehicles through the rutted sand. Capsized lorries were not uncommon and a journey in which the vehicle did not get bogged down in deep sand at least once was an almost unheard of rarity. As we slewed through the streets, boys would jump onto the back of the truck and hang on nonchalantly, with one foot on the back steps and one hand on the rear rail of the roof rack. In four years I never saw one of these exhibitionists come to grief.

By the time we reached Kerma most of my fellow travellers had got so engrossed in conversation with each other that they'd quite forgotten how uncomfortable they were; clutching at the seats and rails unthinkingly, when the pickup bounced over rough terrain, threatening to throw us up and slam our heads against the low ceiling which bristled with exposed screws and nails.

Kerma is effectively the gateway to the Mahas region of the north. From al Ghaba south of Dongola up to Burgeig - which lies between Kerma and Argo on the east bank of the river - the people speak a local language or 'rotana' called Donagla. On Badin island which sits in the Nile level with Kerma, local people often speak both Donagla and Mahasi, of which the latter is a form of the same basic dialect and extends from Kerma as far north as Akasha; after which, yet another refinement of the language known as Halfawi is prevalent. All of these groups form the original Nubian language and culture of the region (pre-dating Arabic considerably) which is dying out in the same way that Celtic culture and Gaelic language has lost ground in Scotland.

I found the place where the lorries began their journeys in Kerma on the bank of the river. By this time the sun had begun to beat down mercilessly and it was a blessing that a row of large leafy neem trees lined the river bank offering luxurious shade to market goers, lorry drivers and loiterers alike. Behind the trees I could see large, locally-made feluccas ferrying groups of women to and from Badin island, their white patchwork sails hardly unfurled at all as they glided with silent, swan-like, majesty across the face of the Nile. A clamour rose from a line of sacking shelters in which bands of blacksmiths hammered away, sweating copiously from the combined heat of the sun and their fires, which were sustained by young men pumping bellows at their sides.

During the course of that journey (to Abri) I was treated regally by my fellow travellers. A handful of dates extended from the press of bodies; a house in a tiny Nubian village providing tea for forty of us; countless offers of water from roadside houses; invitations to share travelling meals in a tiny mosque - traditionally the place to receive strangers. Such treatment was not given exclusively to me. Some unspoken understanding meant that all present gave each other equal consideration. The Sudanese proverb, "ar-raffiq gubl at-tariq" (travelling companions are more important than the journey itself) has rung resoundingly true on every trip I have ever made in Sudan.


Puncture? 'ma fi mush killa'

If anything I grew more agitated and 'hellbound' on the homeward UK-bound journey, the further Sudan Airways took me from one of the hottest parts of the world. Heathrow engulfed me and I was again amongst a sea of fixed expressions, cold and uncommunicative; in a world where an extended kindness to a stranger could be interpreted as some kind of assault. I entered the maw of the Underground as I would the portals of the infernal regions. A passenger bumped into me neither hearing nor expecting my muttered apology and below on the platform, the guards were demons wielding the train doors as instruments of torment. I could almost detect a whiff of sulphur as I stepped onto the next train for Leicester Square.


Abu Nakhla - as smoked on Sudanese public transport

A Well and a Bucket


Sudan Studies, Number 6 (June 1989)

Despite a year in the north already under my belt, my 'Sudan skills' were still very poor in some areas. A case in point was my laborious technique for drawing water out of the well in the grounds of Merowe mosque. Faced with the 'bakra', a contraption made out of welded iron spars which resembled a large skeletal cotton reel fixed over the mouth of the well, I would attach the handle of my bucket to the rope and feed it centimetre by centimetre into the black hole.

The mosque well was a focal point for small children who were sent to get water. These children would usually transfer their water into my bucket, totally ignoring my protestations; sometimes I would reach the well alone and the children would catch me in the middle of my clumsy pantomime. On these occasions the young water carriers could sit back and enjoy the spectacle and I could practise my Arabic on them, while coaxing my prize out of the abyss.

An embarrassing incident at the well forced me to learn the Arabic word, 'jardal' which means bucket. I had for several weeks been aware of the gulf in style which existed between my timid approach to the art of drawing water and the bold, all or nothing method of the local infants. the boys and girls of Merowe would throw the bucket and rope into the gaping maw of the well, letting the take-up reel spin freely as the rope was paid out. At the last moment a childish hand was applied to the axle in the manner of a brake, slowing the hurtling bucket to a stop just before it crashed into the water.


Inevitably, the day came when I felt irresponsible enough to try this flamboyant technique for myself. My bucket was already in free-fall when a small boy appeared on the scene in time to catch the finalé. Judging that the bucket was near its destination, I grabbed the metal axle intending to stop its movement. I was unprepared for the searing heat of the metal bar which was exposed to sunlight all day long and leapt back from the well head as if I'd received a jolt of electricity.
I could feel the critical eyes of the boy drilling into my back as I went up to the slack rope and began rewinding. It was with little surprise and supreme embarrassment that I reached the end of the rope to find nothing more than the bucket's handle attached there. The boy rather pointlessly tried to comfort me with the words, "ta'al bukra" (come back tomorrow).
My mortification was only complete when the shopkeeper, who later taught me the word 'jardal', followed me down the row of shops to listen in on my transaction with another merchant, so anxious was he that I got my pronunciation correct when I bought my replacement.




Bumper sticker for camels