Travel is signposted by new beginnings. On our journey through Africa in 1976, each new country held promise, but each border-post held fears: would the officials decide to wield some power over these scruffy backpackers? Ten months into our journey north from Cape Town, we had the vast expanse of Sudan to cross before arriving in Egypt and Cairo, our destination.
Ethiopia had been exceptionally testing and we were tired. Sudan was just a country on the way; a country in the way. Not the real Africa, with its savanna teeming with zebra and wildebeest, but our first Muslim country with few iconic sights. Our expectations were low.
I recall so well the day we crossed into Sudan. I remember the colours. Metemma, the Ethiopian border town, was brown: sandy-brown streets, mud-brown huts and beige rags. Even the fleas were brown and we scratched ourselves in our brown hotel room as we prepared for the border crossing.
We’d had enough of Ethiopia. It had given us the highest highs (Lalibela, the Simien Mountains, Gonda) and the lowest lows (arrest and interrogation, stone-throwing kids, constant and aggressive demands for money). Now we were keen to move on. We dressed carefully in our smartest clothes – not easy after months of living out of a backpack – and I trimmed George’s beard and hair. Then we checked our passports, trying to imagine if there was anything that the border officials would take exception to.
“Faranji!” (foreigners) yelled a group of children as we stepped out of our hotel, conspicuous in our backpacks. A skeletal dog towed two hungry puppies from her swollen teats as she scavenged in the garbage at the side of the road. Through the doorway of the immigration office we could see a man wearing a brown uniform sitting behind a brown desk. He jerked his head to indicate that we should leave our packs at the door, then flicked through our passports. All in order. Thump went the stamp and he motioned us to a footbridge across a small stream into Sudan.
Gallabat was like Metemma in size and architecture, but that was all. The sandy streets were swept clean and there was an air of ordered calm. Where Ethiopia was brown, our first impression of Sudan was of black and white.
The glaring sun put the huts in their own puddles of black shade; the men who strolled the streets wore robes of dazzling white. “Salaam alaikum!” smiled the immigration officer as we entered his office. Formalities accomplished, we stepped back into the sunlight and stood wandering what to do next.
“Can I be of assistance?” The tall man unfolded himself from the stool where he was chatting to his friends in the shade of a house and walked over.
“No, we’re all right, thank you.” Our response was automatic: we had no local currency to give the expected tip.
“Then may I invite you to partake of a drink?” He led us to a hut with a couple of tables – a café of sorts. Two tall glasses of fresh lemonade appeared in front of us. Our new friend introduced himself and asked about our plans. “You know there has been much rain and the road to Gedaref is very bad,” he said. “There are no buses. Please wait here.”
We sipped our lemonade and anxiously discussed what payment he would be expecting for his help; we needed to change our dollars.
Two tall figures approached: our helper and another man. “My friend will change money for you and he will take you to your transport. Goodbye, and welcome to Sudan!”
Now that we had Sudanese pounds, we could pay for our lemonade. “How much?” we asked. “Nothing”, the money-changer gestured, pointing to the retreating back of his friend.
He led us to the edge of the village where a 1950s Massey Ferguson tractor was parked, hitched to a flat wooden trailer. Women moved over to make room for us. It was going to be a slow, uncomfortable – and wonderful – ride.
