Chapter 25

Crossroads of Khartoum

 

"Steven Spielberg couldn't have done better," Rob said.

Rob was the only other khawaga on the ferry and he was also a Canadian.  He was on his way back to Nairobi after backpacking his way overland to Damascus.  To get through the war zone in southern Sudan, he had bummed a ride north with a rebel convoy and they had driven through during the night.  His benefactors had put him in an empty cigarette crate and buried it under other goods.  He could see out.  What he saw lit up the night.  One of the trucks had hit a land mine and exploded in a great ball of fire.  This was the Spielberg-style spectacle he was referring to.  Rob leafed through a tattered loose-leaf journal to show me the notes he had made about the incident.  

As well as being tall and lean and blond-haired, Rob was bearded and tanned.  He wore a dull-coloured durable clothing.  He looked like a white African adventurer.  He had taken a year off from his university studies to be with his fiancée who had a degree in African studies.   She had gone on to China but would now have returned to Nairobi.  I wondered if she knew what Rob had been up to.

The ferry would take us to a dock a few miles from the relocated town of Wadi Halfa, inside the Sudanese border.  From there, we would catch a train for Khartoum, the capital of the Sudan, which was located at the confluence of the White and Blue Nile rivers.  This was to be a 26-hour trip, depending on how well the engine held up.

As Rob got back to writing in his journal, I wrote in mine, catching up with the times in Aswan.  I heard some live music coming from a table nearby.  It came from a group of young dark Sudanese guys who had begun to sing some rhythmic songs to the foot-stomping beat of a bongo.  I joined them and brought out my tape recorder.  They flashed big white-toothed grins and sang a little louder.  It was marvelous fun!  Afterwards they informed me that they were from Khartoum.  So that is what I called this group – The Boys from Khartoum.

I had already met Arabs from the north and Christians from the south and they were equally friendly. 

I began to think, Hey, it might not be so scary in the Sudan after all. 

(Of course, that was an extremely ignorant viewpoint.  And the civil war going on in southern Sudan was no Hollywood spectacle. People were being dying.  And there was no end in sight.

Americans could relate to bloody conflict that threatened to sever South from North.  Whereas slavery was the key issue dividing North and South in the US, it was religion in the Sudan.  The government in the Sudan is Muslim, based on the population of the Sudan which was about 70 percent Muslim, which resides mostly in the north.  The strict Islamic Shaira laws were being imposed on the people of tradtional and Christian religions that dominated the South.  The South was fighting for autonomy.

If peace in the Sudan hinged on religious tolerance, it seemed there was no easy answer.  Muslim life itself was governened by Islam and the Koran.  Muslims are commanded to wage an everlasting war – Jehad – against the unbelievers and are assured victory in the struggle.

It was the bitter and violent divisions between Hindus and Muslims that resulted in the partition of India at the time of its independence, and the assassination of Mohatma Gandhi.

 But I was here not to take sides in a nation's internal conflict, but simply to meet some of its people and find commonalities.)

 

I went outside on various decks and took photos in the dwindling light of evening.  Goods where pilled everywhere.  The decks will filled with dark-skinned passengers who milled together in small groups, looked out over the lake at the barren shore, or sat on carpets (with shoes off to one side) and played cards.  Most of them wore western-style clothes.  Many were Negro and some sported big Afro hairdos and sunglasses. 

On another deck, laying on the floor or leaning against the railing was a small group of Arabs.  They were covered in colourful patterned blankets – completely covered if they were sleeping or head propped up on a duffel bag if not.  Most were reading from the Koran.  One man was somewhat separate from the group, alone under the davits that supported one of the orange-painted lifeboats.  He saw me and beckoned me to come over.

His name was Ali Ahmed.  He was from Kassala, an agriculture-based city west of Khartoum, near the border with Ethiopia.  He was a well-groomed, bearded man with salt and pepper hair. He wore a dark green galabiyah with a matching headwrap that were made of high-quality fabric.  He sat upright on a pillow.  With an air of serene confidence on his face he seemed to be a man who was at peace with himself and the world. Without the shadowy features, Ali looked like the Ayatollah Khomeni (but only if you could picture him younger and with a kind, grandfatherly face and manner).   Ali was just 41 years old.

I took off my shoes and sat with him.  He asked where I was from and where I was going.

"Ah, you are Canadian and are travelling the world," he said.  "You are a good man."

We exchanged more introductory conversation.  As we did, Ali would see some of his friends go by and he would call to them.

"This is my good friend, Tom," he said.

"Ali, will you tell me of Allah?" I said.

"It will be my pleasure, Tom."

With this, Ali seemed to go into a state of tranquility, but in a much more relaxed way than had my aggravated instructor near the mosque in El Minya.   For a moment Ali closed his eyes and a smile of calm came to his face.  He waved at the sky, to the waters of Lake Nasser, to the people on deck – Allah had created all.  He closed his eyes and breathed in, raising his hands toward his lungs in a gesture of gathering.  He exhaled slowly, spreading his arms in kind as he slowly opened his eyes.  This was to show the tranquility of thoughts of and prayers to Allah.

He rose.  It was time for Isha, the fifth and last prayer of the day.  I would observe Ali and many other Muslims at dawn the next morning on deck, with carpets spread on the open deck.  Their shoes were off to one side.  This was Fajr, the first prayer of the day.  Ali and the others stood, bowed, knelt, touched their foreheads to the floor, stood again and said prayers softly, the sun bathing their faces in gold as the looked in the direction of Mecca.

 

*****************

 

I'll diverge a bit, dear reader, to give you more detail of the Muslim prayer ritual…

There are five prayers during a day:

·         Fajr         around sunrise

·         Zuhr        early afternoon

·         Asr          mid-late afternoon

·         Maghrib  around sunset

·         Isha         after sunset

The Imam is the prayer leader.

RITUAL:      

1.      It begins with raising the hands, palms forward to each side of his head, with thumbs parallel to or even touching the ear lobes.  He utters: "God is great."

2.      Then he recites the al-fatihah ("the opening" – first chapter from the Koran).

3.      He bows low, uttering words, "Glory be to my Lord most august."

4.      He straightens up, then kneels and touches his forehead to the ground and saying "Glory be to my Lord most high."

5.      He sits back on his heels, then prostrates himself once more.

6.      This is rak'ah – the basic sequence.  Obligatory prayers consists of 2 – 4 rak'ahs.

7.      It concludes by sitting back on his heels to recite a qira'ah – a recitation of passages from the Koran.

 

*****************

 

After my instruction by Ali, I roamed the decks until nightfall and then retired to the dining room.  Rob was explaining Christianity to Muhammad, a receptive Muslim from Somalia.  He was a look-alike for Clarence Williams III, the actor with the Afro-hairdo who played Linc Hayes on the 1969-1973 TV series, The Mod Squad.  I joined them for a late dinner (included with the price of my passenger ticket).  We had macaroni, chicken and pita bread, which we would dip in a tasty dark soup of greens.  Soon after, people began staking out places for the night on the padded benches.  This made for an uncomfortable bed. I slept restlessly, but without fear.

 "Tom, you'd better get up," Rob said.  "We're passing Abu Simbel."

It was 7:35 a.m.  I grabbed my gear and rushed up into the cool early-morning air on deck.  I raised my camera just in time to snap a couple of profile shots of the massive sitting images of Rameses II.  I thanked Rob for waking me, but admonished myself for having missed most of our passing of this archeological wonder.

There were two temples at Abu Simbel.  These were built around 1250 B.C., during the reign of Rameses II.   They had been carved into a sandstone cliff 210 feet (64 meters) below us on the old banks of the Nile River.  Rameses dedicated the smaller temple to his queen, Nefertari, and to the goddess Hathor.  Its façade had statues of Rameses II, Nefertari and their children.  The façade of the larger temple had four sitting images of Rameses II that were 65 feet (20 m) high.  And I had just barely caught the profiles of two of them in my viewfinder.

These temples had marked the southern gate of Egypt and were not seen by westerners until the Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt discovered them in 1812 (the same year that Fort Erie was besieged by American troops.) 

In 1964, with the coming of the High Dam, the temples were put under a Swedish plan to save them from a watery grave.  Italian stone cutters took on the job of cutting the poor quality limestone into 1,042 blocks.  Not one broke in transport.  They were reassembled in precisely the same orientation as before.  Concrete domes were built over the temples and new bluffs created to match the originals were placed over the domes.  The project was completed at the same time as the High Dam and cost $42 million.  It was quite possible that some my visa costs were used against what was left of the debt.

Three hours later, we pulled into the small jetty near Wadi Halfa.   The hallways on the ferry were already jammed with people and their goods, anxious to disembark through the doors in the side of the ship.  After the first group of people that stood in front of Melawend left the ship, two Customs officials kept the hallway clear so that Melawend could be brought out.

We wheeled up a maze of planks to a crude open customs office that was on one side of the covered disembarkation platform.  There were just a few simple questions, a modest fee to admit Melawend and a couple chalk marks on her packs and we were away.  Three Customs officials helped me lower Melawend ten inches to a long ramp that led us down to another ramp that took us to hill of rock and sand.  Two men helped me push Melawend up until the ground was solid enough for me to motor her over and down the steep bank to a narrow beach of hard-packed sand – in all, about 300 feet from the ship. 

Many people sat scattered on a barren rocky hillside with their goods.  I had to go back to the ship to get my packs.  There were lots of porters eager to help.  I found a stocky 30ish guy and he insisted on carrying the heavy-laden platform by himself on his back the whole way back to Melawend.  Several men stood by watching as I put the saddlebags on Melawend and bolted down the platform.  There were lots of smiles and waves as we rolled way.  We rode past refreshment kiosks and many old trucks on our way to find the road to Wadi Halfa.

But where was Wadi Halfa?  And where was the road?  Beyond the bustle around the jetty there was nothing but dark gray gravel, rocky outcroppings and distant low hills.  I followed what appeared to be a main track.  It was soft and Melawend almost dumped a couple times but I quickly got the hang of riding it.  I came to a place where the track forked every which way into the bleak empty countryside.  There was no "road" sign.  What to do?

   

I waited until a truck came by.  I let it go on probably a couple of miles until the white-gold dust it raised began to settle, then I simply followed the distant moving cloud of dust.  The going got extremely difficult in the sandy ruts left by more able vehicles.  The track had turned into sand and Melawend fishtailed wildly.  Still, there was no obvious sign of Wadi Halfa except for a place in the distance where the dust trail seemed to stop.  The track seemed to lead in a wide arc toward the spot, which was at least a few miles away. 

I thought, This is insane!

In a bold move, I drove Melawend off the track and across the virgin sand.  Don Travers had told me that the way to ride a bike over sand was to throttle up – to go fast.  The momentum would keep the bike upright.  First I had to get beyond the tendency to go slow and easy – this is actually what made riding in sand difficult. I thought, What the hell.  I throttled up.   Melawend began to stabilize.  I throttled still higher and Melawend seemed to float over the sand.  Al-riiiight! 

Soon, I saw what seemed to be a skyline of low squarish pastel-coloured buildings ahead. Melawend's wheels began to roll over more solid-packed sand and stones.  After several minutes, we reached the new town of Wadi Halfa. 

(The original Wadi Halfa was about 10 miles to the north where it was drowned by Lake Nasser.)

At the Nile Hotel, I met a gruff-looking girl from England.   This was Nikki.  She was short with bushy dirty brown hair and thick eyebrows and dark brown eyes.  She looked like she had been in the desert for some time.  In fact, she had been traveling in the Sudan for three months, alone.  Now she was heading back to Nottingham.  She told me she saw Rob in another hotel.

Melawend and I rode about a quarter mile further on and found him.   We ate beans, pita bread and some potatoes that were in a greasy liquid.  Nikki came in followed by a Swiss guy who was a singer now living in Vienna.  He was on his way to Aswan.  Rob left to find the immigration office.  Talk between Nikki and the Swiss guy got boring so I left. 

I had to find a place to sleep and someone had suggested that I try the railway station.  In a dark shop that was not much bigger than a kiosk, I bought biscuits and water.  I rode over the doorless railway station.  Rob was set up inside on the floor inside along with many other people.   I wheeled Melawend inside and found a spot for the night beside a vacant wall. 

Ahmed was here.  He was one of "The Boys from Khartoum.  He was tall and thin and dark and he worked with the Red Cross in Khartoum, an office that was headed by Canadians. There were now about forty people set up for the night on the concrete floor of the station.  Ahmed invited me to join his group and to share some tahina (a paste made from sesame seeds) which we fingered out of a tub.  I stayed for a few games of poker while we listened to some high-pitched Sudanese music that was their version of rock and roll.

I awoke at 7:00 a.m. to the crack of high-spirited whoops and shouts as third-class passengers mobbed the train, grabbed onto iron bars and stuffed themselves into doorways and windows.  The police kicked them off.  This happened again at 7:30 but they were allowed to stay.  Such a rush for a train that was not to leave for Khartoum until 5:00 p.m.! 

I had to get my travel permit first and then a ticket for the train.  There was more shuttling between buildings that were separated by wide areas of sandy land (there were no definable streets).  There were more chicken scratchings, this time on the photocopied hand-written Sudanese travel permit and the Foreign Currency Declaration.

I went to get my ticket and was informed that First and Second Class had sold out.  I bought a ticket to Third Class.  I met Ali Ahmed here and once again he affirmed that I was a good man.  He gave me a bag of balah, a sweet-tasting shell with a nut inside

I had to take Melawend over to an official who handed me a hose so I could suck all the gas out of the tank.  We put her on a scale and then wheeled her to the last car, which was the Baggage car.   It was a rickety cream-coloured carriage with wood louvers in the windows and a few missing boards in the wall so that you saw daylight coming in from may places.  I stepped aside as three men loaded her into double hung doors in the side of the car.  One man wore a windbreaker and a baseball cap; another wore a white galabiyah.  They were led by a brawny police officer who looked like the football player-turned-actor, Jim Brown.  He did most of the work.  They insisted on being photographed while touching Melawend for good luck.

I returned to the station.  I was about to take a photo, which would have included a tall lean black-skinned man who was wearing a dirty white galabiyah.  He was alone and he looked tense.  He saw me and my camera and became angry.  He came at me.  A slim man from Khartoum intervened and translated to the man that I was only trying to take a general shot of the station – that the black man just happened to be in the scene.  This pacified him and we ended up shaking hands.  My rescuer was Hashim, a graduate of a four-year agriculture program taken at a university about eight miles from Cairo.  He was on his way home.

One last hassle came as a police officer came confronted me.  

"Your passport, please," he said.  "You were to come at 8:00 am to the Customs Office to complete the forms for your motorcycle.  Why did you not come?

No one had told me about this.

I went with him to a small dark office.  I gulped when I was asked to sign the Payment of Duty Deposit.   This said that I had to pay 12,000 Sudanese pounds to import Melawend.   Fortunately, there was also a Form of Security by which I promised to re-export Melawend – this waived the duty deposit!

Finally, we boarded.  Ahmed was disappointed that I would not be able to join him in First Class.  I stepped over goods and passengers that were already crammed into the entrance and aisle and found an empty seat by a window.  The seats were thinly padded wood with backs that were rigidly upright.  Here I was joined by Hassim and James (he pronounced his name as "Jay-mis") who sat in the middle.  James' skin was virtually black.  His forehead bore the raised scar lines that were traditional in the Nuer tribe.  He lived in the area of Nasir in southern Sudan.  He was on his way home for a visit from his studies in Civil Engineering at Cairo University. 

There were three attractive dark-skinned girls seated across the isle from us.  I asked James about courting and marriage rituals where he came from.

"The father will advise his son about a girl to marry," he said.  "The son can refuse.  But if he accepts, his father will make a deal with the girl's father to pay him for the girl.  This would be perhaps 35 cows or such as the son's father could afford."

"How do they court each other?" I said.

"Oh, at first they talk with each other," he said  "Then they may go to a cinema or to dances and such things, get to know each other over some weeks or months."

And what of the wedding?"

"That is a big celebration with all their families and friends," he said.  "But sometimes they elope.  Afterwards, they will live with his parents until they can manage on their own." 

James was a modern Christian. 

I couldn't help noticing the beauty of the darkest of the girls across the isle.  She wore a pale pink loose-fitting gown of almost sheer material, something like a sari with a hood.  She looked exquisite with her high cheekbones, almond eyes, flawless skin and full lips.  She looked like a vision out of a exotic movie or fashion magazine.  But she looked bored or troubled by something.  She seemed to look our way a few times.

"James," I whispered.  "What do you think of that girl over there?"

"Hmm, she is pretty," he said.

"I'd like to photograph her," I said.

"If you know someone, it is alright," he said. "But girls would probably would not do this.  It is considered shameful."

James was a very handsome guy and I could imagine the two of them together.  And I still wanted to try to take her photograph.

"Would you ask her for her name?"

He looked down and was quiet for a moment.

"I cannot," he said quietly.  "She is Muslim.  I am Christian."

The 5:00 p.m. train finally pulled out of Wadi Halfa at 10:05 p.m.  There were no operable lights in the car (you saw the occasional burst of light from flashlights carried by some passengers).  The small fans in the ceiling did not work either.  There was a jolly short balding guy who wore an aviator-style cap who sat across the isle.  His name was Mohamed and he was from Kosti.  He appeared to be travelling with the three girls.  He was loud and out-spoken but full of laughter and good humour.  He was curious about Canada. 

You could hear other conversations as the train rumbled through the night.  Sometimes conversations mingled with exchanged comments and questions.  It was a convivial time and despite the uncomfortable seats, I was relaxed.   We talked into the night like old friends.   In the darkness, race was not noticed.

 

The next day, we rolled on through the Nubian Desert.  This railroad was born of war in 1897.  Then-correspondent 2^nd Lieutenant Winston Churchill wrote of the area:

"It is scarcely within the power of words to describe the savage desolation of the regions into which the line and its constructors plunged."

Sir Herbert Kitchener had it built and led his Anglo-Egyptian forces to victory over the Khalifa, avenging the 1885 massacre by the Mahdists at Khartoum that took the life of General Charles Gordon. 

(This violent era was portrayed in the movie Khartoum, which stared Charlton Heston as Gordon and Lawrence Oliver as the Mahdi.)

Churchill continued:

"The Khalifa was conquered on the railway."

This railway.

The victorious Anglo-Egyptians stayed in the Sudan until independence was gained in 1956.  On the day I turned three years old, the Republic of the Sudan was born again as a free nation. 

There was nothing out here except desert and distant mountains of barren rock.  Beside the railway was what was indicated as a road on the map – it was nothing more than vehicle tracks in the sand, running parallel to the railroad tracks.  This made me wonder how Don and Murray were doing in their desert travels.  From my window on the west side of the train, facing south, I saw the shadows of three men that were on the roof.  Two were standing up as the train rolled along.

As dust would sometimes filter in through the louvered windows, I rode on the rooftop through sunset and under the stars, up again for the sunrise.  The other rooftop riders were friendly but most preferred just to watch the countryside as we rolled along. 

There were several stops where, beside the tracks, women sold sandwiches and a ful mixture or eggs and children sold chai from large old pots.  We stopped at the town of Shendi where larger purchases of food were made.  Stops were made during the night and sales went on by the light of lanterns.  

We stopped in the late afternoon to watch the end of a soccer game (essentially to let the engine cool down).  On restarts, some would hang back until the train was moving, then dash across the sand to jump on, much to the delight of fellow passengers.  We passed through villages of clean-lined mud-brick, one level houses with clean yards surrounded by mud-brick walls.  In one of those yards, a television set was on.  People old and young would wave at the train with waves returned from inside and topside.  Many delighted to pose for a passing photograph – men on camels and donkeys, women and children by doorways and under acacias.

No matter that I was not in the right Arab country, I still amused myself to think that I was "on location" and that I would soon see Omar Sharif and Peter "Lawrence of Arabia" O'Toole riding camels out there and that David Lean would soon yell, "Cut!"  But all that I was seeing was real.

Between two of the stops, I rode with The Boys from Khartoum in First Class, and was glad I had had to take Third Class.   The seats in First Class were padded but were also hard and lumpy as you shifted position to keep from having broken springs poke you in the butt.  The toilet was nothing more than a hole in the floor.  But it was great to be with the group again.  It was also here that I met a solemn Palestinian guy who was about twenty-five years old. 

"You sit here, please," he said, gesturing to the seat beside him.  When I told him about my journey, he said he had heard about me in Cairo on a BBC Radio broadcast. 

"It is my pleasure to meet you, Tom Smith," he said.

"Where are you going," I asked.

"Just to visit friends in Khartoum," he said.  "I often go back and forth between Khartoum and Cairo."

 He looked tired and forlorn. 

"All this back and forth travel must be tiring for you," I said.

"It is," he said. 

"Do you live in Cairo?" I said.

"For now.  What I really want is a place to call home.  A homeland."

(During the First World War, during which "Lawrence of Arabia" had helped in the victory over the Ottoman Turks, Zionists found a diplomatic opening for their claim to Palestine as a national home.  In 1917, British Foreign Secretary Arthur Balfour declared his country's support for the idea of a Jewish homeland in Palestine, although without prejudice to the rights of its Arab inhabitants.  That concept was incorporated into the mandate over Palestine granted to Britain by the League of Nations in 1922 – the Balfour Declaration.  And so began the plight of the dispossessed Palestinians, culminating in the partitioning of the area by the UN General Assembly in 1947.  There had not been peace in the Middle East since.)

That afternoon and evening, Rob and I rode together on top of the train.  As we rumbled under the stars, he said he had been a bit more that good friends four years earlier with the girl who was now his fiancée.  They went to different universities that were over a thousand miles apart.  She had taken up with someone else where she was.  She eventually learned the guy was a jerk, he said, and called Rob to see if he wanted to go to Africa with her.  It would mean that he would have to postpone taking the last year of his degree program.  He went for it.

"The sparks were still there," he said.

Finally, we arrived in Khartoum.   It was full night.  I had returned to my seat in Third Class and hastily exchanged addresses with Hashim, James and a guy named Abdalla.  I climbed out of the window and James handed my blue daypack down to me.  He passed out his battered old suitcase and climbed out.   Third Class was near the back of this long train and there was no platform here: we got out right on the tracks.  We shook hands and James disappeared into the hastily departing crowd.  In the darkness, Rob was nowhere to be seen.  My tall lean friend Ahmed who was with the Red Cross came and found me to say good-bye.  He helped me to get Melawend out of the baggage car.  She was covered in dust.  With much struggling, we got her down to the tracks.  I thanked him and he too was away.  I went back in for the platform, which still bore most of my belongings under the orange tarp.  I went back one last time for the saddlebags.  With a blast of the whistle, the train started to move away.  I threw my bags to the ground and jumped off as the train gathered speed. 

A young Arab in a white galabiyah seemed to appear from nowhere and urged me to make haste – the police would be coming.  I finished loading Melawend and was grateful she still had a little gas in the tank.  I had to power her over the first few sets of tracks but had to make little ramps of dirt to get Melawend over the last one, much to the impatience of this young guy.  He took off.  As I was finishing the ramp, a skinny policeman showed up but he was simply interested in Melawend rather than in causing me trouble or lending a hand.  I finally got her onto solid ground and over to the main road to Khartoum. 

At a small shop just down the road, the proprietor said there were no gas stations open and there was no place nearby to sleep.  A tall skinny customer in casual western clothes overheard this and promptly went about sucking about half a gallon of gas out of his small car through a plastic hose, gagging on it as he did so.   He refused payment.

The Port of Sudan Hotel was on a stony street near the station. Rob's gear was there.  He had left to get something to eat.  The manager was a short, thin Ethiopian with a small head.  He took me up a main street to a restaurant where he bought me a kebab sandwich.  I bought milk for us.   He bought me a piece of cake.     When we returned, Rob was back and we shared tales of our trip.  Within an hour, I fell asleep on a cot in the open courtyard, happy to be in Khartoum.

The next day was orientation – reporting to the Alien Registration Centre, admiring the scenery along the tree-lined Corniche along the Nile and the white-painted bases on the trees near the palace.   It might have been the Niagara Boulevard except that the White Nile was muddy.  Tuti Island could have been Grand Island, but was not so grand. 

(It's funny how you sometimes look for familiarity in strange places.)

I ventured over to the American Club and learned that a guest had to be signed in by a member.

"Why don't you wait for a member to come along," one of the guards said.

Several arrived – all white Americans, Europeans and Canadians including a blond-haired girl who came on a motorcycle.  Other girls came holding infants.  Finally a tall lean dark-featured Dutch guy named Robert Taen rode in on a Yamaha 175 and readily offered to sign me in.  He was with the United Nations Development Program (UNDP).  Robert also paid my entrance fee.  I followed Robert to some chairs and tables around a large swimming pool.   Everyone here was white.  And for the first time since the Mediterranean, I saw girls in bikinis.  We were joined by a blond Dutch couple.  Food was ordered and we all shared a pitcher of karkadet.  Robert went to swim some laps in the pool.  The Dutch couple drifted into private conversation and I sat and admired the girls in bikinis.  This was not part of my diplomatic mission.  It was simply restful.  And it helped me to forget about Audrey.

Robert had told me about the WUSC (World Universities Services, Canada).

"They might be interested in giving you a story about their work and perhaps some accommodation."

I thanked Robert for his hospitality and the directions to the WUSC house. 

Then I experienced one of those extremely fortunate bits of timing.  On a pot-holed residential street near the house, I met a lean red-haired guy with glasses as he was jogging toward me.  His eyes widened in amazement to see a Canadian scooter and rider.  His name was David Pluth and he was the Chief of Party for an American energy and development firm that was headquartered in Washington, D.C.  He was 41 and was from Calgary.  He was a friend of Paul Ziff, the son of Louis Ziff who was a prominent lawyer in Fort Erie with whom I was well acquainted. 

Small world!

"If they won't let you stay at WUSC, come over and have a beer and crash at my place," he said.

I thought he might also like to meet Rob.  Bringing another guest was fine.

The WUSC house was white and had a wall around it, like most homes in the area.  The walls were usually concrete, about five to seven feet high, with steel doors.   Inside I met an attractive petite Negro girl who was wearing a short dark robe.  She spoke perfect English and explained that this was the WUSC staff house and that the office, where I would need to get permission to stay, was nearby.  On the wall nearest her were many 8-by-10-inch photographs of Canadian scenes.  In the living room, I saw a young guy walk across the room wearing what looked like under-shorts.  David's offer was too hard to pass up.

I went back to the Port of Sudan Hotel, picked up Rob and we talked with David over Heinekens on his rooftop patio.   Afterwards, David played host to an executive from Atlanta, Georgia who was a technical advisor on a 6-million-dollar project to bring brikett stoves to the Sudan. 

Rob and I went back at the Port of Sudan Hotel.  He had already arranged a flight for himself to Juba, a major government-held city in southern Sudan.   All he needed now was to obtain a travel permit and a security clearance.  We had dinner that evening in an open-air restaurant in the company of Muhammad (the guy from Somalia) and Daniel, a friendly, small-featured man from Ethiopia who had a permit to work in Khartoum, but no job.  As we ate our kebabs, foul, salads and bread in the typical dirty, market atmosphere, Rob pointed out a tall skeletal building that was under construction across the road.

"That could be the set for Hollywood Squares," he said.

(That was a popular TV game show that had its original run from 1965 to 1981.  I was revived in 1984 and 1984, 1986-1989, and 1998-2004.)

We grabbed our gear from the hotel and went over to David's place.  Rob had long legs that stuck out at the sides as we rode through traffic.  As in England, I split-laned my way through and this made Rob, the hide-in-the-cigarette-case, "Spielberg-could-not-have-done-better" Rob, nervous as his knees came close to touching other vehicles.  He would call this “the Khartoum syndrome” aspect of our times in Sudan.

David's house was surrounded by a high concrete wall that was topped with barbed wire.  Two guards helped me get Melawend up two steps and into the courtyard by the front door.  The house was large with spacious rooms that had wooden and upholstered furniture.  The downstairs rooms had 11-foot-high ceilings.  In the living room, there was a Sudanese sword on a wall.   On another was a poster of the Calgary Stampede.  In tall modern bookcases were volumes on Africa, Canada and economics.  All the windows on the main floor were barred with decorative iron.

David employed two refugees from Ethiopia's northern province of Eritrea where a long and bloody civil war was still raging.   Tzehai (sa-hai) was a fine-featured soft-spoken girl of twenty-five who had escaped, leaving behind her family, including her ten-year-old daughter.  Her husband had been in the Ethiopian Air Force but had been killed six years earlier.  Afwerki, whom David called Fred, had been imprisoned and tortured in Ethiopia for over two years.  David was trying to get Fred sponsored to live in Canada.  Plans were in the works to try to get Tzehai's daughter to the Sudan. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Dear reader: here is some background to the hardships that were being faced in this region of Africa:

 

Though this was not obvious to tourists, including me, Khartoum was a city that was flooded with refugees – from the civil wars and the famines in Ethiopia and southern Sudan. 

A 1988 article in Time magazine would call Eritrea "A Crucible of Misery".  I was next door when Ethiopia was in the 25^th year of its civil war.  The Soviets had been supporting the Ethiopian army to the tune of $500 million per year.  Both sides had used regions of chronic hunger as a weapon.  Rebels had been attacking relief convoys and most foreign aid workers were ordered out of Eritrea.

During Ethiopia's famine of 1984 – 1985, the world poured aid into the country: 1.5 million tons of food and $1.3 billion worth of non-food relief.  Still, as many as 1 million people died.  Bob Geldof, the Irish rock musician whose Band Aid – Live Aid organization raised $182 million in relief aid since 1985, was frustrated because the situation was about to repeat itself in 1987 with the Ethiopian government pouring money into fighting insurgency instead of preparing for famine.

I was in the Sudan in the 18^th year of a drought that had devastated the semi-arid sub-Sahara regions right across Africa, hitting Ethiopia, Sudan, Malia and Chad the hardest.  I read in a 1986 report in Maclean's magazine that UN officials had said food shortages in southern Sudan were caused in part by a savage civil war.  Since 1983, the civil war in southern Sudan had displaced hundreds of thousands of people and destroyed the agricultural base in the vast and largely inaccessible interior.  Earlier in 1986, the Sudan People's Liberation army (SPLA) – Christians and Animists fighting for southern autonomy – began attacking convoys of donated food.  After Sudanese rebels shot down a Sudan Airways passenger plane on August 16, 1986, killing all 60 people on board, the International Committee of the Red Cross indefinitely halted its emergency flights of food and aid to this strife-torn country. 

Rebels claimed that food aid from UN agencies intended for as many as two million starving southerners was being seized by the Sudanese army.  The area was threatened by war, drought, famine and locust invasion.  In recent months, thousands of southern Sudanese fled the war-torn countryside in search of food and safety in the North, neighbouring countries or in government-held towns such as Juba.  The southern part of Sudan had the largest refugee population in Africa – over half a million people.

From Senegal on the Atlantic to Ethiopia on the Red Sea, famine and civil wars tore apart lives, families and countries right across the sub-Sahara regions of Africa – the Sahel – an area that encompassed 2.3 million square miles (about nine times the size of Texas).  Most people of the Sahel sustained themselves by herding cattle on the natural grasslands or by farming subsistence grains.  They were dependent on seasonal rains that fell chiefly from June to September.  Traditional life was harsh and infant mortality was high.   A premium was placed on large families for labour and to support aging parents.  Their salvation was viewed through their fecundity, which was also their curse – over-population. 

Over-cultivation of soil already taxed by grazing made the land more vulnerable to erosion of precious topsoil.  Cooking meant open wood fires, which meant stripping the land of soil preserving trees.    The droughts that began in 1968 were alleviated by modest rains in the 70's, but returned in early 1980's.  Rivers dried up.   Lake Chad in the heart of the Sahel, which had 10,000 square miles of water in the 1960’s, lost almost 90% of its area by 1985.   Satellite photographs revealed that Senegal lost more than 95% of its plant life since 1981. 

With no herds and no crops, of course people starved.  Village life disintegrated, populations shifted and families broke apart.  Parched fields were abandoned, topsoil was lost to dust storms and flowing sand dunes.    The media of 1984-1985 had brought these images, especially from Ethiopia, to wealthy countries.  Two million people died during that time, half from Ethiopia.  This had led to the outpouring of aid from Europe, the US and other countries.  However much of the shipments of grain were diverted by corrupt local officials or blocked by civil strife.  This also undermined the income of local farmers. 

All this turmoil was intensified by the greenhouse effect, which was heating up the world and drying up these areas.  (But the green house monster was not created here.)

So the mid 1980's were hell in the central regions of Africa.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tzehai made Ethiopian coffee for us outside the wood frame quarters that had been built for her on the back patio.   She used a small charcoal stove that was made of aluminum to heat an earthenware pot.  It was a round ball at the bottom with a tall spout and handle at the top.  David admired how frequent use had turned the patina of the pot a deep rich brown.  To make the coffee, Tzehai took raw cream-colored beans that had been roasted black in a frying pan on the stove and put them into a tall mortar with some ginger.  She pounded the contents into grounds with a steel pestle.  The grounds were then put into the small pot with some water.   A screen was put in the open end of the spout and the pot was placed on the hot coals to boil.  Tzehai poured the brew into tiny cups.  The result was a grainy dark coffee with a robust taste.

I awoke in the night wondering how I was going to get through the Sudan.  I had talked with other travelers about possibilities.  To go overland on Melawend south of Khartoum would be impossible, I was told.

"The rebels would probably kill you and steal your scooter and supplies," a Swiss guy had said.

There was a remote chance of getting a flight to Juba and from there hitching a ride with a military convoy that would take Melawend and me into Uganda.  But there was danger from bandits in both countries.  And having the scooter would be an added burden.  This was the route Rob had chosen because it was the way he had come north. 

Then there was the "Western Loop" – through the Central African Republic, Zaire, Rwanda, Tanzania and up into Kenya.  That route required a lot of time and money as there were no roads in many places, demanding transport by water, four-wheel drive or whatever, and "probably a lot of payoffs along the way."  I was down to $66 and no advances against my VISA card were to be had in Khartoum.  (Since 1985, the establishment of foreign banks in the Sudan had been prohibited.)

(I can't really tell you the name of the transport company that was to take Rob to Juba.  Though their business was to transport goods by air, they had helped other struggling tourists get out for free.  I don't want to start a stampede to their door, especially if peace and many more tourists should come to the Sudan.  So I have invented a name.)

"Why don't you try African Air Transport," Rob said.  It was the company that was flying him to Juba.  "I saw one of their big cargo planes in Nairobi – they could surely get you and your scooter there."

Air was certainly the best way out.

Rob awoke about an hour later.   I took him on Melawend over to the company's office at the airport for his 5:30 a.m. flight.  In the way of new acquaintances, there was that notion that maybe we would meet again someday.

"See ya, buddy," he said.

Back at David's, I slept until David awoke at 6:15.  We had a quick breakfast of Grape Nuts cereal, bananas and juice.  David then settled in a love seat in the living room and tuned a BBC stock market broadcast, making notes as he listened.  He was planning to go to Europe when his contract was finished here.  His wife was currently in Paris.

"Europe is going to be the place to be," he said.

After the broadcast, David left for his office downtown.  He had said that the British ambassador to the Sudan was a nice guy and that a letter of support from him might help me win a government sponsored flight to Nairobi.  I rode Melawend over to the British Embassy.  Its foyer was a large octagonal room with a vaulted ceiling and walls of dark brown exterior brick.  An octagonal fountain was spurting in the center of the room.  There were a few dark gray upholstered wall bench chairs and a phone.  The ambassador was out until Monday, his secretary told me.   I was put through to the Vice Counselor.   He sounded very British, very aristocratic and very disinterested in my project.  He had no time to spare for a face-to-face meeting.

"You should have no problem in making direct contact with the Khartoum government," he said. 

Since the British Embassy represented Canadian interests in the Sudan (there was no Canadian embassy in the Sudan), I felt obliged to seek their help in getting an appointment with one of Khartoum's top officials.   But like most embassies, they had little to do with the country's capital city government.  So he saw no point in providing me with a letter of introduction from his embassy.   I saw no point in asking for a letter to the national government for possible help with onward passage.   I was on my own.

Maybe they had been just too damn busy to deal with me. I would be told later that the British Embassy received over 30,000 refugee applications annually for Canada, alone, and that only 300 would be accepted.

I stopped at David's office and made photocopies of my diplomatic papers and took these to the Ministry of Information where a woman who pronounced her name as "Joe-whur" produced a letter of introduction from them.  The Director of Information came out and said he would meet me the next day to provide me with photos and a photography permit. 

(I had said I was a journalist.) 

I took the letter to the Khartoum government office.  This was a decrepit, dark red-brown building with a typically dingy interior.  I was taken to Ali Saad Ali who was the Executive Director of the Commissioner's Office.  He was a trim young man in a lightweight suit that was a compromise between east and west and was apparently typical here.  The top was usually tapered, had four pockets, went down to the thighs, had short sleeves and was split at the seam either in at the bottom of the back or sides.  Some had epaulets.  Ali's suit was tan-coloured.  They looked comfortable.

I've got to get myself one of those.

We talked of my project and of the structure of the Khartoum government.

 

Khartoum was divided into four districts:

1.     Khartoum (included the area between the two Nile rivers)

2.     Omdurman (including the barren area west of the Nile)

3.     Khartoum North (the main part of the city itself)

4.     Rural Khartoum (the agricultural and industrial district to the west of the Nile)

 

And so I knew a little of the geo-political divisions of Khartoum.  Ali seemed quite interested in my tour and said he would arrange meetings for me tomorrow.   He accompanied me back to Melawend.

To further acquaint myself with the goings on in the Sudan, I picked up a copy of the Sudan Times.  I was pleased that it criticized the Sudanese government for devoting too much of its energies to the problems in Chad and bringing an end to the Gulf War than to ending its own civil war.   The article went on to indirectly acknowledge some validity to the civil war.   Though it referred to it as "the rat hole of the Southern Sudan civil war", it did say this: "Nor is it any more convincing to think that if Ethiopia could be persuaded to stop arming the S.P.L.A. and providing it with sanctuary, that the struggle, and all the real economic, social and political causes that gave rise to it, would somehow disappear."   (The italics are mine.)

There was an article in which Israel was referred to as "The Teflon Country" because it seemed protected from criticism from the US over such issues as the Iran arms scandal by all the "violence, the religious fanaticism and the hatred of Western values that now consumes the Middle East." The article quoted Eytan Gilbon, a Hebrew University political scientist: "The anti-American terrorism in Lebanon has been so vicious and brutal that Israel unavoidably emerged in the U.S. public view as an oasis of friendship and democracy."

In international news, a man became the first known South Korean to die of AIDS.  Korean doctors suspected the man became infected when he received a blood transfusion two years earlier in a Kenyan hospital.  An earthquake measuring 5.4 on the Richter scale rocked Tokyo.  In Mobile, Alabama, a $7 million judgement against members of the white-supremacist United Klans of America was awarded by an all-white jury to the family of a Black teenager who was beaten, strangled and left hanging in a tree.  In Marseilles, a gang robbed a bank of 200 million francs (US$33.3 million) and vanished.  As a rouse against the 500 heavily-armed police that surrounded the bank, they had taken hostages and demanded ransom while making good their getaway down a prepared tunnel. 

In India, Rajiv Gandhi was described as "directionless" for not keeping promises, for not being in control, for being prone to "smart-aleck responses", and for (prophetically) being "paralyzed by his well-grounded fear of assassination." 

Locally, the Governor of Bahr El Ghalzal Region met with the Commissioner of Khartoum to discuss the problems of Southerners who had migrated from his region after fighting there.  They discussed chances for their employment in the North and in Khartoum in particular.

As mentioned, Khartoum was a city that was flooded with refugees.

 

The next day I met the Director of the Photographic Section of the Ministry of Information.  He was a dignified middle-aged man and wore the typical lightweight suit.  We talked of my journey and he asked that I return after my appointment with the Commissioner of Khartoum so I could select some photographs for my records.

At the Commissioner's office, Ali had me fill out what he called a "civee" – a short résumé and a summary of the purpose of my project.  He had this typed up in Arabic and submitted it to the Commissioner.   While I was waiting, I sat by an open window.  From the parking lot below, I heard one of those programmable car horns – it was bizarre to hear in this strange remote place such a tuneful rendition of Walt Disney's "It's a Small, Small World".  Ali emerged a few minutes later and escorted me in.

The Commissioner's office was brighter but had the same dignified look and quietness about it, as did the office of Governor Badr in Aswan.  Ali introduced me to "His Excellency, Karam Mohamed Karam, General Commissioner of Khartoum."

"Welcome, Mr. Smith," he said.  His voice was deep and subdued.  "Won't you please have a seat."

Mr. Karam was an average-built man in his early fifty's, I guessed, dressed in a grey-blue Sudanese suit.  He received and examined the letters of greeting that I brought and the trinkets from Fort Erie.  He was a relaxed, stern-faced man but kind in his manner and he looked at me every moment that I explained my journey to him.

"I admire your goals, Mr. Smith," he said.  "We have arranged programs of your choice for tomorrow.  Would you would like to tour one of our new sanitation projects or perhaps visit one of our schools?

I chose the school.

"You are welcome to join the council in our meeting this morning."

I thanked him and asked if I could take a photo of the council.  He gave his permission.

Mr. Karam presented me with a metal plaque of the National Capital, which featured the head of an elephant.  With this, he said, "Welcome to Khartoum."

He signed the Odyssey book:  "Knowing much about people helps in more understanding and promoting peace.  Your mission fulfills this."

 

Ali was summoned and told of my wishes.  We left Mr. Karam.   Ali was pleased that my meeting with the Commissioner had gone well.  He then had another letter typed up in Arabic that was directed to the Commissioner of Education, Mr. Ibrihim Mohamed Arbab.  It explained my visit and the General Commissioner's support for this request.

The Council Chambers was a small room that barely held a large simple wood veneer table and the spindly wooden chairs that the twelve members sat in.  On the wall behind Mr. Karam who sat at the head of the table, there were a couple of small pictures of former members, I assumed, an art image of an open Koran with glittering type.  There we a modest hotel-style air conditioner built into the wall.   Another wall had a display case with built into it.  I think the gentlemen were a little uncomfortable with me standing at the other end of the table from Mr. Karam with my camera and flash held up.  They all looked down toward the table and the notes they had in front of them as I took the shot.   I left after that.

Back at the Photographic Section of the Ministry of Information, the Director introduced me to Hassan, a young assistant who laid out several photo albums for me to examine.

"You may choose as many photographs as you wish," Hassan said.

All the images were positive in content: a shot of a smiling Prime Minister Sadig El Mahdi with entourage walking along a hallway; a popular female singer; a ceremonial charge by Sudanese horsemen near a grove of acacias; a relief truck brimming with food that was being sorted by troops; an officer supervising distribution of what looked like small pizzas from a large platter; a healthy-looking woman refugee cradling a chubby baby to which she was proffering a nipple from a well-rounded breast; and a staged wedding of an attractive little girl and boy.

The next day at the Office of Education for the District of Khartoum, I talked with Ahmed Mohammed Ahmed Subr, Manager of the Directorate Office of Education – I might as well have been talking with someone on a North American school board.  He was a friendly man who went into great detail of the structure of schools (Pre-school, Kindergarten, Elementary, Intermediate, Secondary, College and University) and the school curriculums: Arabic, religion, geography, science, history, mathematics, sports and arts.  Home Economics and Industrial Arts, English and Music were added at the Intermediate level; French instruction came at the Secondary level.  The school year ran from July to March.  I was most struck by the size of the classes: 55 was the accepted level.

"With the influx of refugees, some classes have over 100 now," he said.  "Foreigners, the British for example, have their own schools and curriculums."

After I was shown some of the various departmental offices, I was taken to the office of Mr. Arbab, the Commissioner of Education.  He was a short round man who was bald except for a fringe of gray hair.  He had a sober but friendly demeanor.  He said that a tour of a local school had been arranged for me the following day, he said. 

On the way back to David's, I stopped on a bridge over the Blue Nile and beheld a spectacle unique to Khartoum and to my life.  In the distance, I saw where the dark blue waters of the Blue Nile met and were mostly overcome by the ivory-colored waters of the White Nile.  There was a thin spit of land at this union of rivers, which resembled an elephant's trunk.  

(The name "Khartoum" is derived from khurtum – "elephant's trunk".)

  Sometimes help came when you least expected it.  The next morning I stopped by David's office to make some photocopies.  He told me that he had asked a colleague of his who use to work for Sudan Airways if a sponsored flight might be able to be worked out for me.  It looked possible.

I met Mohamed El Karim who took me to meet Fatima Mukther, a school administrator and social worker.  She was a slim woman and wore the now familiar white sheer material over her clothes.  I followed her and the driver of a Toyota pickup truck (after they had offered to put Melawend in the back), to Khartoum North School.  This was an all-boys school of about 400 students (Arab boys and girls went to separate schools).  The classes ranged from Form One to Form Six. 

I was taken to the Form Three classroom where a tall, rounded teacher with thick but receding hair instructed the boys to pretend that I was not there.  They were in the midst of one of their final exams.  Under florescent lights and a ceiling fan, about fifty boys sat on wooden benches at chipped gray-painted wooden tables, two boys to each.  Most of them wore white or blue short-sleeved shirts, a few wore sweaters – it could have been a classroom in a poorer section of New York City.  Most of them were dark-skinned Arabs and there were several black-skinned boys that might have been from the south.  With just a few exceptions, they did a splendid job of ignoring me and I was able to get several good photos.   Many had expressions deep concentration or worry on their faces as they wrote their exam.  With an elbow on his desktop, one boy leaned his forehead against his upright hand.

I was then taken to a yard that was surrounded by a high, brightly-painted concrete wall where there were several garden plots that had been sewn with crops and attended by the boys.  Fatima and I took a break in Principal Abdelegadr Albrae's office for some karkadet and then we went to the Form Six class where the students were fewer and rowdy.  Then I shared a mid-morning breakfast with the teachers – dippings of ful and beef and tomato sauce for sandwiches, and water from a cooler.  Then it was back to the Principal's office for some chai (tea), and on for some photos of boys playing soccer in the dusty outer yard. 

 

Back in the main courtyard (all the classrooms of the one-level school opened onto it), a multitude of boys and teachers gathered for a school portrait with and to say goodbye to a rather unusual visitor and his fascinating motorscooter.  All of us gathered around the flag pole with the colors of Sudan (green, red and white) fluttering softly just above our heads.  I took a few shots by setting my Minolta X700 on the tripod on a desk in one of the classrooms, pointing it out the window, setting the timer and running back through the crowd to sit on Melawend under the flag.  Then Melawend and I were away.

Though there was nothing really unique or exotic about my experience at the school, I was warmed by the reception and the cooperation and was pleased for having done something to meet Sudanese people in a typical environment.

 

For the most part, my diplomatic mission in the Sudan was done.  I had to work on getting onward passage to Kenya or find my own way out.  I decided to try African Air Transport, the company with which Rob had so quickly got a free flight to Juba.  I was about to turn down the street toward the company's offices when a shout broke the air.

"Tom!"

It was Murray Biedler!  He and Don and the German couple in their MAN army truck had made it through!  I told him what I was up to.  I remembered Kipling's quote about travelling alone, but I thought, what the hell, and asked him to jump on.  We went to the air transport company and talked with John, the Vice President.  He was a friendly man in his mid-forties and he listened to our stories with a slightly jaundiced ear – I got the impression that he had heard many such pleadings.  He said to come back again and talk with his brother who was in charge of cargo.

Murray and I headed downtown to a drink and sandwich place where we had a mango juice and a strawberry milkshake, respectively.  He told me how they had spent ten days running through the desert.  They began by backtracking about 10 miles toward Aswan then cut off the road that led to Abu Simbel.  They drove west into the desert about 30 miles and then headed south across the border and drove all the way to Dongola on the Nile in the Sudan.  They drove on to Khartoum where they were now getting their motorcycle carnets stamped out of Egypt by the Egyptian embassy here – they had obviously not sold them in Egypt and that would satisfy the government's need for proof of export. 

"Once you got your bike up to 100 k's (100 kph), the going was great," he said.  "The bikes were stable.  I hit a rock under the sand once and it threw me off the seat but I was able to maintain control.   Our skid plates took a beating, especially Don's.  His bike got a fork bent."

I took Murray back to their camp inside the walled compound of the Khartoum International Youth Hostel on El-Tabia Street, near the railroad station.  El-Tablia was a quiet tree-lined residential street.  The hostel had a large lawn, trees, shrubs, a patio and a gate that was scraped by the MAN truck as it was barely able to fit through.  Don was washing his BMW.  After a brief reunion, Murray got his BMW and followed me back to David's to discuss with him employment prospects in Khartoum.

(After his forces sacked Khartoum in 1898, Kitchener began to rebuild the city, and designed the streets in the way of the British flag – the Union Jack – which he hoped would make the city easier to defend.) 

With Tzehai tending to chores the next day and with me having no particular place to go, I tinkered with David's stereo.   He had said that in no matter what mode, it automatically shut off in six seconds.  I took the spring out of the shutoff mechanism and replaced it with a solid wire.  That did the trick and allowed me to binge on the music tapes I had been carrying with me since I left Canada.

On the next visit to the air transport company, I met Cameron Crawford, a lean guy who was a bit younger than I.  He had brown frame glasses under thick sand-coloured hair that was neatly styled forward and then swept back at the temples.  He was from Toronto and worked at a pro photo lab – which was across the hall from Ivor Sharp's studio! 

(All I remembered about the hallway outside Ivor's studio were the beautiful models who were going to and from the various studios.)

Cameron had been traveling and writing articles for a magazine and a newspaper.

"The lab work pays for the travelling," he said.

He had been here at African Air Transport before and he too was here now to see the brother who managed cargo.  We met Joseph who was not only in charge of cargo, but was the president of the company.  As I was there first, I was called in but Cameron tagged along.  (I thought it would have been better for us to go in and ask for a free flight separately.)  He seemed to have a better disposition than his brother and he managed a smile.  I thought, He must get this stuff all the time.  Joseph barely looked at my papers.

"Your scooter, how much does it weigh?' he said.

"About 400 pounds," I said.

"No problem," he said.

With that, it seemed I had my flight.  I only had to decide if I wanted to go to Juba or Nairobi.  Then it was Cameron's turn.

"I can write a story for you about the problems of transport," Cameron said.

Joseph said he didn't care much about that but he would help him with a flight to Juba, as that was where Cameron wanted to go.

"Come back tomorrow," Joseph said.

We went to the youth hostel, where Cameron was also staying.  We played Frisbee on the quiet residential street in front with Murray and Hendrick, the German guy who had the MAN army truck.  Some local guys would join in with a toss when passing by.

 

In the mid-afternoon, six of us piled into a tiny Pugeot taxi and rode out to a graveyard on the outskirts of Omdurman.   It was a well-known spot where members of the Tariqa, a religious order of Hamed El Nil (a saint) danced.  A crowd of local people, most of who were wearing white galabiyahs and white headwraps, was gathering around a pole that was topped by the crescent moon.  Looking rather conspicuous, some westerners stood on the fringes.   I found a spot on a low wall of a mosque beside the graveyard and had a great elevated view.  This was a regular local event; not something that was staged for tourists.

When I was a boy and played about, my mother would sometimes say, "You're like a whirling Dervish!"  I had not known what she meant until now. 

Two lines of men about two deep stretched between the pole to the circle of observers, like spokes on a wheel, and began to make their way counterclockwise around the circle, chanting and bowing slightly as they went.  Most carried canes.   Cymbal-like music built up in speed and intensity.  A few men wore jibbah gowns of green and red or colourful patchwork. 

In 1613, an intrepid traveler named Thomas Coryate had seen Dervish dancers in Allepo, Turkey, wearing similar clothes:   "..exceedingly patched, and mended with a great multitude of several peeces " (sic).  Here in Omdurman, they began to dance and whirl around slowly and then in a dizzying way between the lines.  Said Coryate: "Afterward they redoubled their force and turned with such incredible swiftness, that I could not chuse but admire it." (sic)

One particular Dervish emerged within the crowd of men who were dressed in white.  He wore dark green and had a thick mane of long braided hair and what looked like many strands of thin brown rope criss-crossed over his chest.  There was an excitement blazing in his eyes and his brilliant white smile.  He jumped and spun and chanted and smiled in the same building momentum as the music.  The sensation he conveyed was radiant joy.  Many people, including a couple of westerners, closed in toward the centre as the dancing reached its climax.  This was a most lively time in a graveyard in Omdurman.

As the crowd began to drift back to their trucks and busses, I caught a ride with Don and Venzie (met back in Camping Voula, Greece) and many others on a flatbed truck to United Nations Square.  This was little more than a parking lot that was used as a bus terminal.  We caught a bus that took us close to a Chinese restaurant near the railway station.  With us was Murray, a Swiss couple that carried a baby (they had a four-wheel-drive vehicle and had come with Don, Murray and the German couple on the desert run from Aswan), a 60ish woman from Cleveland, Don and Ulke (the German girl who was travelling with Hendrik in the MAN army truck).  Don and Ulke made eyes at each other and walked close together with their arms around each other.  We all gabbed over fried rice, sweet and sour chicken, noodles with beef, and jasmine tea.

 

"We will take you and your scooter for free to Juba but we will need $300 for the flight from Juba to Nairobi."

This was Joseph at the offices of African Air Transport the next day.

"I have no money," I said.

"That is a problem," he said.

"Perhaps I can speak to John for a moment," I said.

"What for?"

"Because I had asked him about the flight to Nairobi."

Joseph's eyes narrowed.

"First you ask for a flight to Juba, now Nairobi!"

I explained that I had asked for Nairobi in the first place.  This was the problem of having been together with Cameron when I first talked with John.   Things had become confused.  What the hell, I thought, I might as well get a security clearance to go to Juba and figure things out from there.  Joseph gave us a letter that confirmed we were booked to fly to Juba with his company.  So I took Cameron over to the Internal Security office.  My visa was accepted: Cameron's was expired and he'd have to renew his.  The young official that dealt with my visa spoke English very well, was pleasant, and asked me about the French / English problems in Canada. 

I took Cameron over to the Alien's Registration Office where he became frustrated and impatient with the officials – not a good thing to do.  The system of going from office to office was time-consuming but you had to do it their way – go with the flow.  We had to go back to the Internal Security Office to get his clearance certificate and back again the Alien's Registration Office to get our travel permits to Juba. 

Then it was back once again to see John at African Air Transport.  Cameron was annoyingly antsy as we waited but he ended up getting his flight cleared for Juba.  John said we would see what might be able to be worked out for Melawend and me – I was to come back in a couple of days.

Under normal conditions, I think Cameron would have been great company.  As writers and photographers, we had a lot of stories to share.  But frankly, trying for onward passage with someone else around was, how else can I say it, a pain in the ass!  I was reminded again of what Rudyard Kipling had said:  "He travels fastest who travels alone."  Maybe that was one reason Paul Theroux chose to travel alone.  I was glad to drop Cameron off back at the youth hostel, return to David's house and enjoy another music binge, and, being alone, I could, for once, crank up the volume.

The next day, I made publicity proposals for African Air Transport and for Sudan Airways and delivered them to the respective offices.  I was then to see Mr. El-Tayeb, Sales Manager of Sudan Airways the next afternoon and John the next evening.   There was nothing like playing two fishing lines at the same time, with two huge fish at each end! – and being pulled every which way in the process!  I talked later with Cameron and learned that Don and Murray had gone to see John that day too about a free flight to Nairobi.  In my mind, I envisioned John and Joseph throwing all of us out the door!  It seemed travelers could stumble over each other.

Cameron and I rode to Omdurman to see the Mahdi's domed tomb and the Khalifa's House, adjacent to it.   The house was a museum and it was closed as this was Monday.  We managed to do our respective photographic things before Cameron left to shop in the souq, which was the largest in Sudan.

I returned to David's home and began writing the next dispatch for The Times-Review.  Tzehai asked me to join her and Fred on the patio for some Ethiopian coffee.  Fred and Tzehai seemed close but it was difficult to tell if there was any meaningful relationship there (there was no open affection).  Fred said that if you were caught trying to escape from the civil war in Ethiopia, by either side, your captors would force you into the military against the other side.  Tzehai said she would not remarry.  Her concern was for the daughter she had not seen since she left her with her mother and escaped to Khartoum two years ago.  Tzehai's mother and daughter were planning to come to Khartoum.  They would get out of Ethiopia under cover of night by camel.  Once in the Sudan, vehicular transport would be arranged to bring them to Khartoum.  Both wanted to come to live in Canada but Tzehai would not be coming anytime soon because she wanted to emigrate with her mother and daughter.  As I downed the strong Ethiopian coffee, my heart went out to them and their families.  

Why was life so cruel to so many people? 

I retired to the comfortable bed in the guestroom.  I missed my family and I felt guilty for being here.

The next day, I met Salah Abbas, David's colleague, at the offices of Sudan Airways, which were in a small old building.  Salah was a friendly guy in his thirties.  I had been nervous but when I saw former male co-workers in the office greet Salah with hugs and handshakes, I thought, Maybe there's a chance for a flight. 

"They will want something in writing," Salah had said earlier.  "They might offer you a discount, but there are no guarantees."  He had said this the night before when I called him as I was typing the proposal for Sudan Airways.

We met Mr. El-Tayeb in his office.   Two men came in and shook my hand.  The tall, heavy one was Omer Abdala.  He something in Arabic to Salah.  (Salah later said that this was the Commercial Director of Sudan Airways and he had said, "Is this the man?")  The men left and Mr. El-Tayeb went to the Advertising Manager's office to submit my papers.  He emerged a few moments and said she would see me in a few minutes.  I was left to wait in a chair in a little nook.  The cramped offices that seemed more like the rooms of a small house than the offices of a national airline.   I didn't wait long.

Igbal Mohamed El Bashir, about thirty years old, came out of her office and escorted me to Mr. Tayeb's office.  She was a round attractive woman, a little young, I thought, to have such a high position, but she was friendly and calmly official.    She was dressed in one of those sheer flowing wraps.  Her hair was jet-black and she had a warm smile.     We were seated and she presented my project to him with high praises, calling me a very brave man.  I was floored.

"This would be a wonderful opportunity for Sudan Airways," she said.

Mr. El-Tayeb was nodding approvingly.

We then went to Igbal's office.   She heaped more praise on me and welcomed my idea of mentioning Sudan Airways in an article.  She did not have a business card but she gave me a book she had had printed about Henna and the art of hand painting that was popular with married women.  In it were sketches of many intricate designs illustrated on fingers and hands. Henna, she explained, was shrub.  Its leaves were mixed with water to form a paste-dye that was used to stain the nails and tips of the fingers and feet in these intricate designs.  She asked one of the girls in the office to show me her fingernails and hands, which were partially covered with this artwork. 

(An example of this will be found in a photograph of the hands of Mai Yamani, daughter of the former Saudi oil minister – on page 445 of the October 1987 issue of National Geographic.)

I left the modest offices of Sudan Airways just as I had left the offices of Peace Bridge Brokerage about ten months ago – like a bona fide man-with-a-mission, a credentialled traveler – I could not believe my good fortune!  My self-confidence was rejuvenated!   I was to return in two days to get my ticket, a Sudan Airways crest for the Odyssey Jacket, and to make arrangements to take publicity photos at the airport.  As I got on Melawend, I noticed that the sky was the color of creamed coffee.   It was windy and a dust storm had begun.   Visibility was down to about a half a mile.  

Now I had to let down John and Joseph. 

"I've come to thank you for the offer of the flight to Juba, John," I said.

He seemed disappointed.  He had been working out the details for my flight to Nairobi.  I tried to leave the door open by saying I did not take anything for granted with Sudan Airways.  He said he understood.

When I returned to see Igbal, she was unconcerned about any publicity for Sudan Airways.  She simply wished for me to have a good flight and to take away good memories of the Sudan.  A man downstairs made out two tickets.  The ticket for Melawend and the extra gear was classified as "excess baggage only".  Even holding the tickets in my hand, I could hardly believe I was set to fly to Kenya!

I met Salah at David's office and thanked him for all his help.  I returned to David's house and wrote letters to my family and to Charlton Heston (thinking he might like a letter postmarked from the city for which the film he starred in was named.)  Later that afternoon, I followed up on my thoughts of the movie Khartoum in which Heston had starred at General Charles Gordon, by going back to the Mahdi's tomb and the Khalifa's house. 

Built of mud and brick for the Mahdi’s successor opposite his tomb was Beit al-Khalifa.  The house was 100 years old this year and was now a museum.   It contained relics from Mahdiyya battles, including guns, war banners and suits of mail.  There were photographs of Khartoum at the time of the Mahdi's revolt and its subsequent occupation by the British.

The exhibits included original furniture including the Khalfia's bed, an Arrol motor car (a wooden vehicle that, in 1902, was the first car brought into the Sudan), the cover of Gordon's camel saddle, a coat of silk worn by Gordon during the Taiping campaign in China, and some photos of Gordon Pasha, as he was called (and as one photo was entitled), wearing and ornate uniform and the red fez Tarboosh.  In this, I saw a great resemblance to General Gordon in Charlton Heston.

(Most of the interior scenes for the movie Khartoum (1965) were shot in London.  The exterior scenes were not filmed in the real Khartoum but on a set constructed in a village in Egypt called Mazghouna.  In his 1976 book, The Actor's Life, Heston said that between shots, "…tiny boys prance about imitating their elders, crying "Gor-doon!  Gor-doon" at me."  He added that his career afforded him the opportunity to experience, if only secondhand, "the sweet triumph of the savior, borne on the shouts of the adoring multitude." – referring to role he'd played including Gordon, El Cid, Andrew Jackson and Moses.  He said that such an experience was "a rare and deeply stirring feeling.")

Gordon was slain in the siege of Khartoum after holding the Mahdi at bay for ten months.  Though Heston, as Gordon, was filmed as entering the city on October 4^th, in the movie's shooting schedule, he was actually slain on August 19 at the studio in England.  He said this in The Actor's Life:

"I spent the day being hacked to death by tribesmen's spears.  How many violent deaths have I suffered, in one medium or another?  This year alone, I've been speared, beheaded, and sickled to death."

 

Dear reader, to give you some historical details of the actual siege, and in a departure from my norm, I'm going to quote a well-written account directly from Microsoft Encarta 97:

The Siege of Khartoum

Gordon served the British government in India, China, Mauritius, and South Africa from 1880 to 1883.  He was in England in November 1883 when rebellious forces under the Sudanese religious leader Muhammad Ahead, called the Mahdi, inflicted a disastrous defeat on Anglo-Egyptian forces in the Sudan.   The British Prime Minister William Gladstone ordered the Egyptians to abandon the Sudan, and Gordon was charged with supervising the evacuation and setting up a government.  He arrived in Khartoum, the Sudanese capital, in February 1884, evacuating about 2500 women and children, as well as the sick and wounded, before the Mahdi's forces surrounded the city.  In March Gordon requested that the forces of Zubayr Rahama Pasha, the brilliant Sudanese military leader and slave trader whose power Gordon had previously crushed, be brought to bear against the Mahdi. The British government refused the request as too controversial. Gordon's requests for other military aid were also rejected because of Britain's vacillation about its role in the Sudan.  As a result, Gordon was isolated.  Despite weak fortifications, insufficient food, and an understaffed garrison, he withstood the siege for ten months.  In November 1884 Gladstone finally sent an expeditionary force to relieve him; it arrived two days after Gordon's death during the fall of Khartoum on January 26, 1885.

Some historians regard Gordon as one of Britain's greatest military leaders, and by others as charismatic, yet quixotic and impulsive.[1]

 

(Thank you, dear reader.  Now back to the story… )

 

In the sand-colored cobbled courtyard of the Khalifa's house, four Sudanese men in white galabiyahs and headwraps saw me taking photographs of a monument of the Muslim crescent and gladly included themselves with waves at the camera. 

I went over to the road in front of the ornate silver-domed tomb of the Mahdi.  I persuaded a passing student, who looked much like James, who I had met on the train, to don one of Hiker's Haven's sweatshirts and pose for some publicity shots in front of the dome.

The Mahdi was entombed here in 1885, but not for long.  When Kitchener and his forces defeated the Madhists in1898, they sacked the city. The Mahdi’s body was removed from the tomb, burned, and his ashes were thrown into the river.   With cannons blazing, they blasted huge holes into the dome (a photo of the damage could be seen in the Khalifa’s house).  In 1947, his son had the mosque and the tomb rebuilt.  As a foreigner, I was not permitted to go inside.

I returned to David's house and wrote a letter to the Expeditions Editor of National Geographic magazine. I thought, Surely by now I have proven the seriousness of my project.  I've got a lot to offer for an article or two already and they just might want more…  A postmark from Khartoum should help verify all of this. 

(The reply, which was forwarded to me much later, was typical – "The suggestion was given careful consideration, but it does not meet our editorial needs…"  Indeed.  I did not hold out much hope anyway – a magazine such as the Geographic could be booked ahead for a couple of years for upcoming articles.   Oh well.  For now, though, sending the letter gave me something to hope for. 

I looked upon hope as an inspiration to strive to make good things happen.)

 

I also sent off a letter to Audrey.  The embers were burning low and it was more of a too-bad-things-didn't-work-out kind of letter, but it left the door open for further contact, leaving it up to her to make the next move. 

Melawend and I rolled over to the youth hostel so I could say goodbye, but everyone was gone.

I returned to David's house and took Melawend's fender off to clean the filter and a lot of grit off the engine.  I was proud of this little machine that had carried me and too much gear all the way to the Sudan, so far.   I was feeling feverish and sick to my stomach. Fred and Tzehai were attentive company with conversation and help with Melawend.   When I went inside to rest, Fred washed Melawend thoroughly – the first time she had been bathed since I left Canada.  Later, a very attractive Negro girl who worked at David's office came by and talked for a while with Tzehai.  David was due home on Monday – too late for me to see him before I was to leave.   That night, I felt as if my stomach was trying to digest a burning lump of coal.

I rode out to the airport the next day and met with Alawia Yassin Yousif, the Traffic Supervisor for Sudan Airways, a girl who reminded me of a feisty but friendly petite girl back home.  She took me over to where some aircraft were loading to take some photos, but the supervisor there would have none of it.  We found one of Sudan Airways 707's sitting by itself and a flight officer who volunteered to be photographed with me in front of the aircraft.  The tripod held my Minolta X-700.  An assistant took me to a supply room where I was given crests and a flight pin.  In taking him back to his post aboard Melawend, he waved wildly at his friends.  Good old Melawend gave her passengers more than a ride to her passengers – she gave them a stage.

 

One thing I forgot to mention was that in the evenings, a "radio check" was provided by USAID radio telecommunications for various personnel who were residing in Khartoum, and David's home was on the network.  You would hear weird signal tones come over the radio around 6:10 p.m., then a voice:

"CR 251…Radio check."

"251 loud and clear," a woman replied.

"CR 252…radio check." 

"252 here," a man said.

On one such evening shortly after radio check, I decided to go out for a walk.  I had not realized the house had an alarm system.  (So why was I surprised? – the windows had iron bars, there was a ten-foot wall topped by barbed wire around the house and the property was guarded at night).  I opened the front door and an alarm went off.  It was so loud!  How loud, you say?   So loud that I thought surely my father would call me from Canada: "What's going on over there?"  Fred came to the rescue and shut it off.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dear reader: here's some background to the dark side of Khartoum in 1987…

There was good reason for such security measures.  When I reached Singapore, I received an article dated May 9, 1987, that Dad had clipped from a newspaper.   (I was in Khartoum from February 17 to March 9, 1987.)   It was titled: "Khartoum: free zone for terrorism"  It said "Only Beirut tops Sudan capital in U.S. ranking of dangerous outposts."   Following the April 15^th 1986 bombing of Libya by the U.S., there were demonstrations in Khartoum.  That night, a communications specialist from the U.S. Embassy had been shot and seriously wounded while driving home – this had happened near David's house.   Sudan's president, Jaafar Numeiri, prior to his overthrow in 1985, had been pro-West.  The U.S. was concerned that Sudan was harbouring terrorists from Libya. "Among the most notorious is Libya's Colonel Hassan Ali Kasih, who arrived early in 1986…British intelligence identified Col Hassan as one of those involved in the 1984 slaying in London of a policewoman…"   But, "In March, Prime Minister Sadeq Mahdi ordered all Libyan troops out of western Sudan…However, a diplomatic crisis over the incursion seems to have been averted with the Libyan gift of two MIG-23 fighter planes earlier this month."

 

So there were much bigger things going on behind the everyday scenes of Khartoum when I was there.  But for all appearances, no one I had met was involved with terrorism nor had anyone spoken of it.  Like people I had met from Northern Ireland, it seemed most people where not really aware of or did not want to be aware of such activities going on in their countries. Their greatest concerns were everyday needs and desires, usually centered around their families.  Everyone that I met – Muslim and Christian – was amenable to friendship.

But I had not raised any controversial issues with anyone.  I was looking for the common good between people, positive things that could be strengthened.   With that attitude, I thought, it might be easier to reach peaceful solutions to our differences.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The next day was to be my last in Khartoum.  Once again Tzehai made Ethiopian coffee for me, and for a girlfriend who had come to visit her.  We drank and talked in the room that had been made out of chipboard for her on the patio.  Be it everso utterly humble, Tezehai's temporary home was no more than a wooden box, approximately 8-foot by 8-foot, with high whitewashed walls and no windows.  Inside, she had a three-quarter bed and a dresser.  She sat on a stool to make the coffee.  On a wall, there was a map of London and a travel brochure of the mountains around Banff, Alberta.

David had told me how he admired the patina of the small pot, how heat had turned it from a creamy red colour to dark brown, like old stained oak and how heat had brought out the etched design.  I told Tzehai how I too admired it.

"Would you like to sell it?" I asked.

"But this one is old, not good," she said.

She would not take money but she agreed to trade it for a new one.  Fred took me to a nearby sandy souq where there was a kiosk with dozens of new orange-brown clay coffeepots of identical design.  I bought one and returned.  I guess she took the beauty of her pot for granted because she was pleased to have a new one, so pleased that she threw in another one that had been hand-painted and she included two hand-made bases in which they could sit when hot or not in use.  I would put this in a shipment that I would send home from Nairobi. 

(After I left the Sudan, I regretted this transaction.  That pot truly should belong to David.  And David, if you are reading this, please contact me so I can send it to you.  Just do a web search under "Melawend" and you should find me.)

(NOTE:  Thanks to the Internet, David and I have renewed our friendship.  He has since become a much-in-demand global photographer, especially of images of Africa.  He has produced many books.  His clients include airlines, governments, tourist boards, development and environmental organizations, and numerous magazines including Newsweek, CNN Traveller, and National Geographic.  He and his company – FotoGrafx, which also provides tourism marketing and development consulting services, video, website design, etc – are based in Switzerland.  Check out David's impressive work at his website: http://www.fotografx.biz/home.htm.  I will get Tzehai’s coffee pot to David, personally if possible. )

I sorted and packed gear until 8:30, typed up a letter to David and had a shower.  Tzehai was on her way out with her friend and was all dressed up.   With smiles and handshakes, we parted – I should have hugged her.  I went to bed, as I would have to be up before the sun to be at the airport.  But I couldn’t sleep.  I thought of Melanie and Wendy. 

(I would later learn that Melanie gave an oral presentation in one of her school classes based on my tour of the Sudan.  Later still, Melanie said that she credited my odyssey in part for her choice of career – in December 1998, she graduated from university as an anthropologist.)  

My thoughts turned to Audrey and imaginings of how things might have been.  But I realized that that would not become a reality.  I fluffed the other pillow and cuddled it as I drifted off to sleep, imagining it was Her.  And I thought of the uncertainties of the road ahead.

 

I was up at 3:00 a.m. Fred packed my gear into David's Jeep and I followed him on Melawend to the airport.   We were there by 3:40 a.m.  Using a length of hose, I sucked what I thought was all of the gas out of the tank.  Fred had a better idea.  He packed a towel around the hose at the opening in the tank, leaving a hole just big enough to blow into.   More gas gushed out.  He helped me carry my gear up to the main entrance.  He shook my hand and promptly left.  There were no good-byes.  I thought that he probably had had too many sad good-byes in his life.

I had to wait at the entrance to the small terminal until it was opened at 5:00 a.m.  A man came over to talk with me.  He was dressed in a light coloured casual western suit.  He was about 55, with thin graying hair that was slicked back.   But it was his swarthy face that was remarkable.  It looked hard, like chiseled stone, with a muscular and stern, almost menacing expression.  He had deep-set brown eyes with deeply etched crowsfeet.   He had a primal look – try to imagine face of the comic-book character “The Hulk” with brown skin.  Yet there was a pride in his bearing that also made him look very distinguished, like a general.

He was with a young girl that was perhaps 12 years old, the same age as Melanie. 

"Can you guess my nationality?" he said.

He said this as if it was an opening for a bigger challenge that I should prepare for.  I hedged and said nothing.  Fortunately, he did not wait for an answer.

"I am Libyan.   I am a writer for the government and this is my daughter.  We are on our way home."

"What do you write about?" I said.

"Transportation issues," he said.  "Are you American?" he said.

He said this in the way that one prepares for confrontation.

"I'm Canadian," I said.

"Ah, I have not been to Canada, but I believe Canadians have a better attitude than Americans," he said.  "I have been to the United States several times.  To Washington, D.C., and to Florida.  Is your family from England?"

"Yes, my ancestors are from…" I said.  I was trapped.   He cut me off.

"The British!   Their colonization was bad for Africa," he said.  "They would convert Muslims to Christianity or they would try to mix the two.  In 1917, they gave Arab land to the Israelis for a homeland!  We will always fight!  Even if it takes 100 years and half the Arab population, we will get our Holy Land back!"

For the second time on the journey, fear had entered a conversation – I was afraid of a confrontation.   My ignorance of the Middle East tied my tongue – I did not know how to respond to him.  I knew that I dared not cross him.  I felt that both sides had valid points and there was room for negotiation.  But he was not in a negotiable frame of mind.  I wanted to talk more with him about the conflict but I was ashamed of my ignorance.

We talked a bit more about his work for the Libyan government before the entrance doors were opened.  Inside, he sat with his and talked lovingly with his daughter as I took my huge load to the check-in counter.

Since I was on a sponsored flight, I was taken to a back room to check in with an airline official.  We processed several forms together as the sun began to rise outside.

"You must also bring the scooter inside," he said.

I have to tell you it was weird – taking Melawend inside the front door of an air terminal.  I walked her across the floor to the scale that was used to weigh luggage.  Then I was instructed to wheel her through the back room and right out to the aircraft!   Melawend sat beside a cart full of baggage from which men in galabiyahs were off loading luggage onto the airplane.  Other passengers came out and began to board.  Suddenly, we were ushered off and told to board a nearby plane. 

My God, I hope they remember to move our luggage and Melawend too!

 

The wheels of the Sudan Airways Boeing 707 left Sudanese ground at 7:05 a.m.  It was a comfortable flight and the attendants were courteous.   I had imaginings that the poorest country in Africa would have antiquated prop-engine aircraft for their airline.  These were clean sleek white birds, American-made, with bold blue and gold stripes, the same colours of Ridgeway-Crystal Beach High School.  I relaxed in the grateful knowledge that I was being spared the arduous, time-consuming and expensive "Western Loop" route to Kenya, which would have taken about four weeks.  I would be In Nairobi in a little over two hours!

We flew over the confluence of the White and Blue Nile rivers.  Below us, to the east of this crossroads, was a large area green cultivated fields abutted by desert and by subdivisions of mud-brick houses.  An hour into the flight and the land below still looked arid.  We seemed to be following the path of the Nile, the Blue, I guessed. (Source of the Blue Nile: it seeps out of an Ethiopian swamp called Ghish Abbai, about 70 miles south of Lake Tana.) Below, the Nile looked imbedded in the brown skin of the land, like a huge dark vein with many capillaries in the body of the Sudan.  Shortly after this, the land turned green.  I caught up with my journals as we flew south over the Sudan at 500 miles per hour.  The next time I looked out the window, I saw the green dots of acacias on savannah grasslands below, and they began to get larger.  We were on our descent into Nairobi.

Again, I was at a precipice.  Kenya was Ernest Hemingway and Isak Dinesen country – or was it?  I began to think of animals roaming freely across the land – and the roads.    What if, like the dogs of Greece, the lions of Kenya decided to chase after Melawend and me?  Somehow I did not think I would see their tails wagging.  And what about rhinos, elephants, and laughing hyenas?  And what were the natives like today?  I had movie images of the Mau Mau rebellion running in my head.  Would I find another David Pluth in Nairobi?  Or Fred and Tzehai? 

And I would be going out of Africa from Kenya. 

How the hell am I going to get a passage to India?

But I could not worry about that now.  I did not know anyone in Kenya and it had been close to a year since I had sent my letters to our embassies around the world telling them of my project.   I felt I was going in cold to one of the "hottest" (popular) countries in Africa. 

 

---

[1]  "Gordon, Charles George," Microsoft® Encarta® 97 Encyclopedia. © 1993-1996 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

 

 

Chapter 26

Of Man and Beast:

A Story of Kenya

YOUR feedback is important!

(It is the main reason I'm doing this.)

As you read the story, please send an e-mail to me with any questions or comments you have.

For example,

What things in the story do you find useful to you?  What is your opinion of the writing?
Do you find the story entertaining?  Informative?  Motivational?

Back to
TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dear Reader, 

• Are you enjoying the story?  If so, please SPREAD THE WORD!
  
  Tell 5 friends, family members, colleagues...
  Here is a blank e-mail, and another, and another, and another, and another...
  
  He or she just might thank you for this! 
  Be sure to give them the address:  http://www.melawend.com

• Do you have any questions or comments?  If so, let me know: tom@melawend.com  
  For questions, please first check the FAQs

• Would you like to help the author - and help yourself and others at the same time? 
  Your help is needed.

 

Now for the somewhat boring but fundamental part...

Copyright Notice & Agreement

Here is what you can and cannot do with this story, website, photos, etc.:

Copyright © 1984 - 2008 by Thomas Martin Smith. All rights are reserved.
All text and photographs, and associated HTML code - on this website or on any other website where they have been used and in any other form they take or place they exist - are protected by Canadian and International Copyright Laws, and may not be copied, reprinted, published, translated, altered, hosted, or otherwise distributed in whole or in part, by any means without explicit written permission from me, Thomas Martin Smith, currently of Victoria, BC, Canada.

You are hereby permitted to retrieve, print, and store a single copy of any part or the entire book (IN THE LONG RUN: A Hopeful World Odyssey) contents as made available here, for personal use only. This permission does NOT extend to producing hard copies or electronic copies for any manner of (1) distribution, (2) promotion, (3) creating works, (4) resale, or (5) any uses other than personal use.  Nor does this extend to making the book contents available yourself (for example, you may not post or distribute in any way any portion of IN THE LONG RUN: A Hopeful World Odyssey or this website on your website or any other website, bulletin boards, nor by in any place or by any means online or off-line - without written permsision from me.)

This Copyright Notice & Agreement supercedes the Copyright Notice on this page: http://www.melawend.com/copyrigh.htm

In other words, if you want to do anything beyond what is permitted here, you must contact me first and receive my written permission.

|  HOME   |  Site Map   |  The Odyssey Newsletter  |   Resources  |  The journey: Why?   |  The Odyssey Book   | Sample Chapters  |   Reviews   |
 |   Order the book   |  Photo Gallery  |   Gift Shop  |  FAQ   |   About Tom    |  References    |  Contact Tom  |    E-mail    |   Press   |

Copyright © 1984 - 2010 by Thomas Martin Smith. All rights are reserved.
All text and photographs, and associated HTML code are protected by Canadian and International Copyright Laws, and may not be copied, reprinted, published, translated, altered, hosted, or otherwise distributed in whole or in part, by any means
without explicit written permission.
See Copyright Notice

PRIVACY STATEMENT:
No information you send to me about yourself will be sold or distributed in any way.