Journal: Journey across the Nubian Desert
Paul rides in a boxi with 15 other people. The ride was about eight hours and stretched across the desert from Dongola, Sudan to Abri, Sudan.
Article
This article is part of a series of nine articles describing my Middle East trip during the fall of 2009. The journey lasted almost three months and included seven countries: Yemen, Oman, Sudan, Egypt, Jordan, Syria, and Turkey.
Time: 1:20pm Thursday, September 24 2009
Location:In a “boxi” (Toyota Hilux pickup with covering in back) on way from Dongola, Sudan to Abri, Sudan
This is probably as good a time as any to start the journal I have been procrastinating to start since I arrived in Sudan. Really I have nothing to say about the Phoenicia except that I will probably appreciate it one day. Once in Sudan, my perfectionistic side made writing difficult. My ideas for making a beautiful journal are out the window. People don’t seem to put the care and focus into their entries as I would have liked. I pictured meeting wise, old sages writing their epic tales and sharing their careful, balanced opinions from a quill pen in a mystical, smokey old room. Instead, I either can’t find people literate enough to write, or the ones that do merely jot an idea down, as if they were fifth graders trying to fullfill an assignment before recess. I’ve met a few “thinkers” who seem quite inspiring in their ideas, but they seem to prefer communicating orally. This, of course, makes sense in a n Arab society. The real travesty is my inability to understand them fast enough to record their thoughts. I fear, too, that the introduction of TV, radio, and other modern technology is turning the super–human collective memory of the Arabs into a mushroom. They don’t appear to care about retaining the wisdom and history of their forefathers. I think they do see the value in it, but I presume (perhaps wrongly) they think it just comes automatically. When they realize the stories are dead and gone it will be too late.
The setting in which I write is about as close to an excerpt from the tales of Ibn Battuta as one can get anymore. No one travels across the desert in camels anymore. Instead, there are 15 of us packed into a “boxi”. Three are sitting in the cab, while 12 of us are spread out (or, rather crammed in) between two benches in the bed. There were 11 of us at first, but we picked up a guy along the way.
Each bench is designed for five, but the new guy and a young girl make the fit just about right. The girl is spread out and sleeping on top of all of us. Most of her is right in my lap. My legs are numb, but as I look around me, I think I have the best position out of everyone, so I can’t complain. We are all surrounded by a metal frame supporting our luggage and protecting us from the sun…though not from the hot wind and sand billowing through the back. When we left Dongola, I was told this was a six–hour journey to Abri, but the guy next to me is hoping it is closer to five. At the current speed, it feels like we’ll arrive closer to 12 hours. But the odd thing is I wouldn’t trade this for the world—contrary to my feelings aboard the Phoenicia.
[We have just stopped at a “rest stop.” It is a thatched hut with nothing else in sight. There are six, 50–gallon drums and three large clay pots/jars filled with murky water from which the people drink. I asked the proprietor of this establishment whether the water comes from a nearby well, but there is none. Instead, they truck in water from the Nile. I find it amazing they also have two electric coolers/refrigerators with semi–cool drinks inside. I’d ask how they obtain the electricity, but I’d rather not stir up any suspicions. They’d probably think I’m a spy. There are also mats spread out for folks to pray on them. Just sitting in the shade seems 10° cooler. We’re back on the road and I found out they have an old generator behind the hut.]
Perhaps I should work backward in writing my experiences, since so much as transpired. I am on my way to Abri, the last major town before the border town Wadi Halfa, where I hope to catch the ferry to Aswan, Egypt. This morning I was actually in another “boxi” headed to nearby Kerma, but as we set out, I got to talking and found out the transport from Kerma to Wadi Halfa is nine hours. The ferry leaves tomorrow (Friday) at 5:00 pm. I was going to miss the ferry! So I stopped the Boxi and took a rickshaw back to town. The direct Boxi to Halfa had already left so I’m getting as close as I can to Halfa today. The locals assure me it will only take two hours to arrive in Halfa from Abri, though my guide book says six hours. I’m going with the locals since the paved roads are relatively new and the guidebook is two years old.
I must admit I couldn’t wait to get out of Dongola today. The Lonely Planet guide says of Dongola: “Famous for it’s palm groves, the relaxed little town of Dongola is full of character and boasts good amenities.” If Dongola is LP’s version of character, I can’t imagine a place they would describe as without character! Before arriving, I had fabulous ideas of a quaint village with pleasant Nile–side views and lots of shade, but instead I found a town completely devoid of character. All the hotels/lokundas were full except the worst one, and they charged 50% more (a whole US dollar! :) ) for a lokunda.
[At this point, we lost our paved road, which wreaked havoc on the truck. We had to stop a few times to fix or repair various things grinding, rattling or breaking off. Once someone’s luggage fell off and we had to retrieve it. One of our stops was in a tiny village with a gorgeous grove of palms next to the Nile. I kept thinking, “Perhaps the LP writer thought this was Dongola? While there I was the source of great amusement to the kids—one of which was a joker doing his best attempt at alien babel–talk while the others laughed. One girl asked for a “Qalam” (pen/pencil) which I was pleased to find again outside Yemen. I gave a whole box of pencils without a thank you. One came back asking for a gift. By the time we arrived in Abri, we had been traveling over eight hours. I’m convinced that if I were a Toyota pickup, the last place on Earth I would want to live is Arabia, where the motto is… “As long as you’re still moving, no need for preventative maintenance.]
I used a rickshaw (sometimes called a “Tut–Tut” to search for a room. During the ride, I witnessed a classic moment as my driver pulled over, took out a pair of pliers, opened the engine hatch behind me, and proceeded to whack away with a vengeance. Satisfied, he got back in and we were off again.
Like every other place in Sudan, Just when I had written off Dongola as a waste of time, it changed. I decided to splurge once I found out about a nice Egyptian restaurant not in the old town. It turned into a fun evening as I met and talked with Farsi and other folks. We discussed religion and language mostly. Farsi speaks Nubian and said it was the only language his mother speaks. They live near Kerma.
Beard...
Your beard isn't as bad as you seem to think...