Now this is something worth writing home about. I am currently wearing what can only be described as a tablecloth!
I am not quite sure how to begin, finding myself uncharacteristically short of words. The Sudanese are inspirationally friendly and hospitable people.
We cycled out of Khartoum before half eight – a true record marred only by the necessary bike mechanics 7 kilometres later. Gareth’s back wheel was completely out of alignment and it saw us camped out at a petrol station for an hour and a half while he painstakingly adjusted his spokes to realign his wheel.
So with a fairly slow start we did an easy 43km to a lunch stop of bread and coke. It was at this stop that we met Abdelramin, a lecturer from Khartoum who did his PhD in Food Science and Nutrition in Kuala Lumpur. He welcomed us back to his home for some tea.
Abdel’s family all have dual US and Sudanese citizenship, and there are five little children running around his large, simple home. He has been back in Sudan for six months and was quick to highlight the lifestyle differences between the States and Sudan. We had “English” tea from white china as opposed to traditional Sudanese shai from double shot glasses. His wife sat on the bed changing the diaper of the six month old.
Despite our best efforts, the conversation was stilted. He speaks excellent English, but we were so tired. It was an absolute scorcher of a day and Gareth, Grant and I soaked up the cool air from the fans in the airy white room, whilst secretly dreading the impending return to the asphalt. 2 o’clock ticked by and we started to move again. 45 degrees.
It is difficult to cycle in this heat. We started off at pace, and with the boys not realising their strength, aerobic exercise was suddenly a good cardio workout! My heart rate hit 180 and I called for a quick rest! The heat is madness.
And so, after a long and tiring 98km on the clock, Grant got a flat tyre and we needed to start looking for a spot to settle down for the night. Unfortunately, camping didn’t look like an option in the more populated area beside the Blue Nile. Rural farm buildings, countless goats, women collecting wood and boys riding donkeys – We have had no threat of theft, but for peace of mind we choose to camp in more secluded areas.
I suggested we go to the largest blue door on the largest house and ask where we can set up our tents. A young woman and her father greeted us and after a few gestures and some reasonable English, they understand we are looking for a place to sleep and offer “Welcome.” Gareth and Grant are to follow Mustafa and I am to follow the woman. “Men and women separate” I am told. She wasn’t kidding.
I was ushered inside into a courtyard enclosing a block of Sudanese-blue buildings. Inside the courtyard there were numerous women sitting by the far left wall. They didn’t really acknowledge me and I was directed to a back right room with three beds and matching side tables lining the walls. I was told to bring my luggage inside and rest. 10 minutes later, as I sat on the bed, questioning my next move, Julula returned with traditional Sudanese clothes and asked me if I would like to wash. I followed her to a detached mud cubicle that was the shower. Inside was a bucket and a chair and she handed me the end of the hosepipe, wedging the wooden door behind me with a rock.
It was at this point that I badly needed to workout how these clothes worked! In a couple of minutes, I needed to walk out past the twenty-odd women in the courtyard, dressed in Sudanese garb! Three items: a pink towelled skirt that could only be a petticoat; a floral cotton dress to the floor with neat buttons down the front; and a third piece of fabric – the head scarf. I have worn a fair few scarves in my time and have met many a disapproving look from an embarrassed brother as a silken lime green becomes my latest fashion accessory – but this! It was in a league of its own. In fact, there was nothing really remarkable about the scarf; it was the nature of wearing it such that it covered both hair and neck that left me flawed.
Dressed eventually (looking simply stunning dahl!) I realised how inappropriate my clothing has been to date. Immediately I was married again, but despite their insurmountable kindness, I still felt that they believed me to be morally reprehensible and in need of some help. To go one further, I am told that riding a bicycle is seen by some in some form of sexual light… and here I was, dressed in “toit pant” and leg warmers, riding a bicycle across Africa with 5 men… My view of them could hardly be more bizarre than theirs of me.
Julula returned asking if I would like some dinner. Within minutes dinner arrived: Baked brinjal, ful (bean dish), bread and some form of paste that I couldn’t recognise but tasted great. Cleaned, fed and clothed, I was now ready for guests. And guests there were. I am not sure exactly how many women lived in the female house, but during the course of the evening thirty odd women visited me.
Conversation was largely limited to “What is your name?” and “She is jameel” (Beautiful) as I met the children. A young girl of fifteen named Muna spoke better English than her English teacher sister Julula, and was deemed translator for the evening. This resulted in the women erupting into school girl hysteria every couple of minutes. I have no idea what they were laughing about, but don’t feel too self-absorbed in saying that I’m pretty sure it involved me!
We had a few moments of mutual amusement as I brought out the universal entertainer – my camera. Photographs of women and children, often asking for an individual photograph, and then lunging for the camera to see the result! I taught Muna how to take a photo and so managed to catch a snap of myself decked out in Sudanese garb!
A fan was ceremoniously carried into the room – it scared me that this was perhaps stolen from the grandmother’s bedside, but thought it impolite to decline given the maddening heat. I then realised that the bed I was sitting on was probably someone else’s and that the other two beds would no doubt be occupied too. I was even disturbed to wake at 2am to find Julula sitting on the bed opposite me, and for all appearances, watching over me as I slept.
I must sound so incredibly ungrateful for the incredible hospitality, but I find it the most draining experience trying to communicate with people when one has no common language, culture or beliefs. I could not return to the guy’s universal topic of football, and smiling becomes insincere too quickly.
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