Under “Arrest”
Sudan 1984
On that day we set a new distance record of three kilometres. We arrived at a large village with a police station where we would have to register according to the law, a custom which has its advantages as the local police is usually very helpful towards travellers.
(That was then…)
We were welcomed with open arms. None of the officers took any notice of our visas, some of which had expired by now, and they invited us to have breakfast with them. True, it was twelve thirty and according to our guide books most Sudanese eat breakfast no later than nine, but according to the book caravans also travelled before sunrise so perhaps the locals hadn’t read the guide books. Breakfast it was.
We were shown to a pleasantly cool and shady room. A beam of sunlight fell through a tiny window in the adobe wall onto a wooden table groaning under a load of delicacies. There were patties of white unleavened bread, bowls of beans (Ful Sudani), chicken stew, goats cheese, Tahina (sesame paste), Gibta (liver fried in oil) and, to Harald’s particular delight, pickled gherkins and a dark date syrup reminiscent of the sugarbeet syrup of home.
Imagine the feast after our potato diet of late — we ate unashamedly until everything was gone.
The Chief of Police made a suggestion: that afternoon, a landrover would depart for Abri which was on the other side of the Nile, fifteen km from our current location, a good 200 km from Dongola. In Abri it would be possible to buy fuel. Some of us could go on the landrover and in the meantime the rest of us could stay in the village of Hamed as his guests.
Udo and Walter as volunteered to go to Abri and we began to unload our luggage. We were shown to our quarters in the coutyard of the police station, but just as we had carried our stuff across it turned out that the landrover would not be leaving after all that day.
“Bukra, Inshalla!” — Tomorrow, if Allah wishes.
Reinhold said the first thing you unlearn in the Sudan is to hurry.
The landrover left that afternoon after all and we settled down to wait for our friends’ return.
The villagers plied us with dates. Kids swarmed around us whenever we emerged from the coutyard and each of them gave us a small handfull of dates as well. No sooner did we make a dent in the mountains of which by now piled up on our table that people would arrive with more trays. We were living like kings. We were invited to dinner and again served a lavish breakfast around noon the next day.
Gerd grumbled that we did not show sufficient restraint with the food. Hungry as we may have been after crossing the desert, there was no excuse for greed. We must have made a bad impact on the village’s resources because less food was forthcoming after that. We all knew the old adage: “A guest is like a fish — after three days it starts to stink.” However, we had not assumed that we would stay for so long.
Two days later there was still no sign of our friends. Another day dawned. We whiled away the morning hours chewing dates and reading. In the early afternoon, Harald asked me if I wanted to join him as he was invited for tea. An old lady led us halfway across the village to a big house. The interior was freshly painted and verses of the Koran decorated the walls.
We were soon joined by children looking curiously at us from the doorway. The lady showed each of us to a chair then disappeared into one of the side rooms which obviously was the kitchen. I followed to see if I could lend a hand. Okra was spread across the floor to dry. The woman handed me a bowl of dates then we went back to where by now the entire family had gathered. Our hostess proudly presented her five months old grandchild. I took the girl into my arms but she was terrified and promptly peed into her trousers which made everybody laugh.
One of the older sons, a student in Kharthoum, spoke excellent English and answered our questions about the local way of life. The villagers get up at dawn at six in the morning and have tea together before the women go to cut fodder for the animals and return for their daily chores. The men, those that remain in the villages, work the fields. A wedding is a big occasion lasting anything from 7 to 15 days. We compared this with our life back in Germany. The time flew by and soon it was early evening. We said a hurried but cordial good-bye and rushed back to camp, but our friends in Abri had not returned.
It was not until the following day that the two finally arrived back with enough fuel to get us to Dongola. We left the village with many happy memories.
We had a knack of unerringly arriving at the larger towns on a Friday when everything was closed. However, we did manage to contact the Immigration Officer who took a fleeting glance at our expired visas and placed us all under arrest. Stefan and I remained at large because we had applied for our visas later and they were still valid, but we had to account for our illegal entry into Sudan through an “unofficial border crossing”.
While he busied himself with the papers, the IO asked about our journey. He was equally amazed and amused when we told him about our escapades in the desert, especially how we managed to miss the Selima Oasis which all the tracks led to. He shook his head but if he thought we were all mad he did not say so and told us to speak to the District Governor.
The Governor’s residence was directly across from the immigration office on the other side of a big courtyard. We stepped into a lavishly decorated hall. The Governor was seated at an imposing table in front of a wall decorated with a huge patriotic painting outlining the duties of the people: work, education, defense. We gathered in a silent semi-circle while the Governor talked on the phone without paying us any notice. I felt nervous and giggly, rather like being called to the Headmistress’ office but with all my mates around. Ulrike bent her head towards me and whispered a brief sarcastic comment about the painting into my ear. I desperately tried to surpress a giggle but to no awail: a snicker escaped. I placed my hand in front of my mouth, holding my breath until I was red in the face and tears started to form in my eyes.
(Bear in mind, we were both teenagers then!)
Ulrike, herself trying to keep it together, prodded me sharply, but I was nearly hysterical with the urge to laugh. I swallowed deeply and ground my teeth. Sweat started to form on my brow. As soon as I thought I had regained my composure, a glance at the painting would set me off again. When Ulrike released a snicker, it was too much. We exploded with laughter.
This did not bode well for our hearing. Just as we had managed to calm down a little, the Governor replaced the receiver and looked at us.
“Welcome to the Sudan,” he said curtly: “You have a choice. We have two prisons in this town, one of which has a facility for female prisoners. Or,” he looked straight at Ulrike and myself: “I can send you all back to Egypt.”
This sobered us up. We listened intendly, a little paler around the gills.
The Governor stated that we had violated several of the laws of his country. We had not entered through Wadi Halfa as required by our visas, we did not have a permit to cross the desert and most of our visas had expired. He delivered a long speech which, hard as I tried, I eventually stopped listening to. I almost wished he would deport us just to get it over with. But at long last he finished. One of the large doors leading into the hall opened and a boy stepped through with a tray of tea. He poured a glass for everybody, then the Governor sent us on our way.
What would happen now depended on the IO. The reason that we received our entry stamps and permits to travel to Khartoum the very next day was as follows:
That evening, Annette, Reinhold, Ulrike and Matt walked through town searching for a restaurant which served something other than Ful Sudani and bread. They met a kind and portly fellow who invited them to dinner at his hotel. On the way he talked about the customs in the Sudan, especially the importance of hospitality. They arrived at a reasonably luxurious hotel, doubtlessly the top hotel in Dongola. Their host looked like a wealthy businessman and from the way he talked, he appeared to own the hotel, so my friends did not hold back, ordering large portions of eggs and meat. Annette asked for seconds and to her amazement their host, by now grinning nervously, went out to fetch the dish himself.
“Do you want to come?” he asked Annette and Ulrike: “I’ll show you my harem.”
The two of them stepped into a room where three beautiful women sat around a table. The host walked to a large suitcase which stood in one of the corners and took out — food.
“What is this?” Ulrike asked increduously: “This can’t be the kitchen! I thought you owned…oh!”
Meanwhile, another guest had joined the dining table — no other than the IO himself. By the time the others returned, he was deep in conversation with Reinhold who held him spellbound with tales of his escapades all over the globe. He briefly interrupted his narrative to light his pipe, shielding the flame with the hand that held the box of matches. There was a spark, and the box burst into flame with a loud hiss. Startled, Reinhold sat with his mouth open and his beard singed. Then they all burst into laughter.
When they had quietened down, Ulrike asked innocently whether the women next door were our host’s wife, illustrating her point with a gesture of pushing a ring onto a finger. Everybody exploded with laughter once again.
After the laughter subsided, our host eventually introduced himself. He was not the owner of hotel but the chief of customs and excise for the region.
As embarrassing as it had been, it was an evening none of the participants would forget in a hurry. The IO gave us an appointment for the following morning and hastily issued the permits, occasionaly looking at us like a long-suffering teacher trying to control an unruly class of primary school children.
At the police station, we learnt about the fate of our convoy companions. They had followed the track all the way to Selima Oasis, asked the way at the border post and arrived in Dongola a week ahead of us without running into any problems about missing permits.
Denni