AK-47s and Shisha

Our protection, AK-47 wielding Sudanese police, took a break to lie against a sandy bank. They were smoking shisha and enjoying the day’s final rays of light. One waves their arm and invites me to join their shisha circle. They point to the Nile and say Kneel, the way Arabic pronounce Nile and then pointed to the water in the glass base. We’re filtering the shisha through the waters of the Nile. As the sun disappears behind the opposite bank of the Nile, we look towards camp and see a poorly staked tent blowing across camp and into the desert. Laughing, we take another puff and watch the frantic owner chase his home.

Walking the Shore

My feet trod the silty shores of the Nile. A combination of silt and sand, I feel as though I am walking atop black, sticky cotton. Sinking in slightly, it is a slight strain snap the suction and continue the step. Lush patches of cultivated crops, grass and palm trees patch the banks and the northbound Nile splits the shores. The silt shoals look like brewed finely ground coffee grinds. The lapping waves create a milky brown froth, not unlike the top of a cappuccino, which floats above both the sand and the water. Song birds chirp their cheery songs heavily contrasting the barren desert only 50 meters away.

Nile Child

The shores of the Nile support many villages, all brimming with children. Children are both the most enjoyable and the biggest obstacle of our ride as they offer support and encouragement, but also throw rocks, shout obscenities, and jab sticks into our spokes. Their curiosity intriguing, it is always a treat to find one afraid of foreigners.

In one particular settlement, I noticed a 5-year-old girl; having caught sight of me, she vanished behind her mother’s legs. Backlit by the sun, the eyes of the child shone white against her dark skin, intensifying her scared, curious stare. Her hair flames from her head in random sprouts and she wears dirtied clothes.

As her father brought her close, maybe to see that I meant no harm, her features balanced. Crusty snot shone beneath her nose and above her lip and she innocently nibbled on one of her fingers. The way she was hoisted, her serenity, and her casual scrutiny of me, it looked as though I was watching a commercial: For just one dollar a day, you too, can give a child like this, a bright future. Though her village was small and poor, I feel that this child and her family are content.

Two Little Birds, On My Door Step

Two Egyptian vultures wait just out of camp. They look like plump, scruffy seagulls with a searing orange beak and willy-nilly grey head feathers. I can imagine they are happy to see us move along, perhaps happier about what we have left behind.

In the hinterland of desert and Nile, unusual plants thrive. During a desert walk, I came across a plant unlike the rest, as it was lacking thorns and other typical defenses for such a ripe looking plant. Wrinkled branches independently extend from the soil and directly from the branches, grow thick plate-like leaves. A green or brown fruit grows beneath delicate white flowers beneath the shade of the leaves. The fruit looks like a plump wrinkled walnut.

After asking our driver about the plant, he explained is not local. It is an invasive alien species. The fruits are actually seed pods filled with white, fuzzy seeds that burst upon maturity, sending seeds across the desert. It lacks thorns as the plant is poisonous to animals. Also an alien species here, I think to myself, I hope my impact is not as destructive.

Road to Dongala

The stucco clouds above complement the texture of our new riding environment. Steep, rock strewn hills surround us and ecru sand is everywhere; the sand licking towards the crests of the sinister looking mounds. It is as if we are visiting a distant moon or roving across some unknown planet.

Shaken to the bone, we cycle along the heavily rutted road leaving Wadi Halfa. The deep sand and gravel strewn route was an immediate sign that we are no longer in Egypt. Sudanese roads are rough. Patches of sand inhaled tires, slinging some riders to the ground or leaving others fishtailing to safety. Unavoidable ruts, caused by infrequent flooding, punished those without front suspension. We spent the better part of the day keeping a keen eye ten meters ahead and choosing the most solid patches of road. We see only as far as the hills and continue the ride across the craggy, tortuous road to Dongola.

Entering Waldi Halfa

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. 

 

A Local Restaurant

We visited a local restaurant for a coffee and a shisha.  Prancing around the bar in his robe, the owner encourages us to chant with him.  Su-dan, Su-dan, Su-dan.  There is a soccer match on television and we are cheering the home team.  After a goal, the owner grabs a large soup ladle filled with incense and topped with reddened coals.  Proving the theory of centrifugal force, the owner manically swings the ladle running inside and out of the restaurant continuing his incantation.  The owner notices me, sunken in my chair, and perhaps senses my uneasiness of burning coals swinging around the restaurant.  He approaches me, pauses, and with the ladle in front of my face, blows on the coals completely dwarfing the smoke from my shisha.  I am coughing, he is laughing while a trio of minute embers drift from the ladle, extinguishing just before landing on my jacket.