BootsnAll Travel Network



The quest for the camel market of Omdurman

Khartoum, January1984
On the day of our planned departure, the sky over Dongola was grey and the streets were hazy. A sandstorm was blowing a dusty mist from the desert. Siggi refused to drive in these conditions. Gerd stopped us whinging by describing what it would be like to set up camp in a sand storm and trying to eat our freshly bought steaks with the sand grinding between our teeth.

A day later, all was calm and we reached Khartoum without incident on January 19th — on a Thursday evening.

Khartoum appeared as a grey silhouette in the dusk: the hottest, dustiest capital in the world. I removed my blanket, I had contracted a bad cold and it had been a chilly night-drive but Khartoum was hot. At least in that way it lived up to its reputation.

Our first duty was to report to the police. “There are seven days in the week but we always pick the wrong day to arrive,” Matt grumbled as we stood in front of the locked gates of the police HQ.

Back in the hostel where we were staying we met up with Eliane and Alex who had planned to join the trip from Kharthoum. They had been waiting for us for three weeks and their patience was at an end. Eliane had used up her yearly leave and Alex intended to travel to Nairobi on his own.

He told us that the road to Juba in the south was closed. It was still possible to fly there but it was hard to get hold of tickets:
Bukra, that is what they all say. Bukra, bukra Inshallah — you probably know already. But if you want to sell the lorry, Reinhold…”
“No way! We are going to drive. If there is no other way, we’ll go through Central Africa!”

I listened up. Through the jungle! Reinhold had told us much about the Southern Sudan and the many interesting tribes living there, but the land was harsh and dry.
“It takes everything just to survive there,” he had said: “The climate is murder. Sometimes literally.”
With a war to boot, I wasn’t particularly tempted to experience it. He had also told us about the diseases which were rampant in the area, such as Loa Loa and green monkey fever. I doubted Central Africa was any less dangerous, but I had always dreamt of seeing the rainforest.

Our change of plan necessitated a two-week stopover to arrange visas for the Central African Republic (which were not required for German citizens, but nobody told us at the time) and Zaïre. There was also a shortage of fuel which would take time to organise.

We did not mind at first, lazing around the swimming pool at the German Club (a swimming pool was quite a sight after weeks in the desert!) and exploring the markets in Khartoum and Omdurman with its ancient soukh and famous camel market. The camel market, the largest in Africa, was what I wanted to see the most. Various sources told me that it was held every Friday, once a month or on alternate Saturdays. Its alleged location varied from the centre of Omdurman to several miles out of town. Finding the mysterious camel market became something of a mission.

After reading through every single guide book, I was none the wiser but I was not so easily deterred. I explored the bazaar, the Soukh ash Shabi and the cattle market in front of the town gates where goats and sheep were offered for sale, but few camels.

On yet another day when Uschi had joined me on my quest, a car pulled up next to us and the driver asked where we were heading. He at first drove us to the cattle marked, then further out of town to an assembly of straw huts, built in long rows in the middle of the desert.

“This is the Lybian Market,” our friendly guide informed us: “There are several reasons for its name. In 1979, Gaddafi’s troups entered Khartoum from this direction — there is still a military post at the gates to Omdurman to look out for any further invasions. But mainly, this is where goods smuggled in from Lybia are sold. The marked has its own laws. The government has no control over it.”
We were driving over small alleys rimmed by tightly packed straw huts on either side. I gaped at the fashionable clothes and jeans displayed on countless rails, modern stereo equipment and the latest tapes which were piled onto tressle tables.
“Here is where the traders end their journeys,” the driver continued: “Most of them never set foot in Khartoum itself.”

Who would have guessed to find such riches in the desert not far from the mud hut slums of Omdurman? We passed tiny huts, most not bigger than a garden shed, hastily built and covered with corrugated metal.
“Whole families live in each of these,” our driver told us.
“Good God,” I exclaimed: “But why are the huts so small? Surely there enough room.”
“There is plenty of space, but the government does not permit people to settle here. Every now and then the whole lot gets bulldozed.”
“How mean!”
“Mean, yes, but not so bad. Do you see the size of the mud bricks with which the huts are built? When they are pulled down, the owners re-built them in a matter of hours.”
I wondered why the government did not simply leave the people in peace. Clearly they did not succeed in chasing them away.

The divide between rich and poor in Khartoum was extreme.
“Among any three families in this city,” the driver of a new Mercedes Benz told me: “you might find a millionaire, a reasonably well-off worker and a beggar.”

With time I got to know most of Omdurman and met many people who were all extremely friendly. I also learnt a fair bit about camels.
“How much is such an animal worth,” I asked one day, sitting in front of a hut at the cattle market pointing at a young, almost white dromedary that was tethered in the coutyard.
“One thousand pounds.”
What?! A thousand pounds for a young camel?”
I was told that these slender, almost white animals were racing camels which fetched high prices in Arabia. I saw two of them being raced in the distance across the desert, the long robes of their riders flying in the wind. The very best of these animals were bred in the area around Dongola. I guess it was these who would be sold on the famous camel market — which I had yet to find.

At the end of my tether after another fruitless search along the Soukh ash Shabi, I drew a camel on a sheet of paper and showed it to another driver.
“Ah, camels!” he exclaimed. “Sure, get in!”
I glanced at my companions and they nodded so we got into the car, although it was clear that the man was slightly drunk. The car veered along roads winding their way through town until we stopped in front of a medium-sized building. The man opened a door to a yard where six camels were tethered in a semi-circle. They belonged to his uncle who used them to work a sesame mill. He showed us to an old dusty shed. Chickens and pigeons fluttered away as we entered through a creaky wooden gate. The interior of the shed was almost taken over by a giant stone mill which may have been there for centuries. The man offered us some of the sweet sesame oil and Tahina paste his uncle produced.

I learned a lot, but I guess I have to return one day to find the mysterious camel market itself.

We had been in Khartoum for sixteen days before we had our visas and Reinhold managed to secure a permit to buy 200 gallons of fuel. Finally, our journey could resume.

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