Customs officials greet us in Waldi Halfa. Between our filming equipment and my communication instruments, we could be considered a professional news crew—and not allowed in Sudan. As planned, we hid our equipment deep within a mass of baggage. The customs official began opening bags. The first eight bags were opened and the official fussed through the top layer. The next eight bags arrive, zippers are opened and the official nods his head. The next eight arrive and are not even opened. Now it is a race of customs officials slapping inspection stickers on every bag and bike. Our bags are inspected last and after no more than a glance by the customs agents, we stepped pass the boarder, entering Sudan.
Our trucks voyage was longer than ours, their ferry having yet to arrive so we put together a basic camp and then took a short stroll into Wadi Halfa. The late afternoon sun behind us, our shadows stretched across the barren, desert landscape. This place is much different from Egypt, I thought to myself, even the desert looks different. We return to camp and do our best without two of our three trucks.
Tonight’s full moon casts a white glow over camp. During the night, the effulgent disc drifted its way across the night sky, its brightness extinguishing all but a handful of stars. Sudan is still except for several clusters of locals. They are huddled around one of three televisions, all broadcasting the Egypt football match. An Egyptian goal sends the spectators into a craze and they jubilantly pump dark fists and cheers into the night.
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