October 9-October 17 Bambudi - Omdurman Falata 1266 km

The hospitality of the Sudanese people can be felt from the moment one sets foot in Sudan.  On November 4 after nearly 6-weeks of battling the Ethiopian rapids, the Ethiopian food and the Ethiopian attitude we drifted over the border to Sudan and were met by a few surprised people.  We did not actually know we were in Sudan until we pulled over and spoke to the local militia that were brightly clad in immaculately pressed army fatigues with American automatic weapons.  I had already begun to be suspicious that we were no longer in Ethiopia as the army commander strolled up wearing sandals and we were hit with a sweet smell of cologne.

There are no signs on the river, no border patrol, no barbed wire fences or intimidating anti-aircraft guns.  One simply floats down the river and casually notices subtle differences.  Farmers cry out friendly greetings from the banks replacing constant calls in Amharic.  The green fabric and colourful headdress of the Ethiopians are soon replaced by white Jalabias and small white caps.    We did not have maps of the border and the GPS coordinates seemed to be pointing further west.

The military commander sauntered down to the water’s edge with a friendly smile, a neatly groomed moustache and a retinue of armed men that carried modern looking assault rifles that looked as through they might actually work.

“Denanarcho, Salam alecoum, hello” he said trying each of the three possible languages.

“Alecoum salam” Mark said enthusiastically, sensing we were now back in Sudan, “kef?”

“Tamum” the commander answered much impressed, smiling widely.

“Tamum” Mark reiterated, “are we in Sudan?”

“Yes, you are on the border of Sudan.  If you place one leg on this side of the river” he motioned to a small stream feeding into the Blue Nile, “then you are in Sudan, if you place one leg on this side you are in Ethiopia”. 

I began to wonder how this was all going to pan out.  Effectively by padding over the border into the Sudanese territory of the Southern Blue Nile State, we were in the heart of the contested zone – a fragile zone that only months earlier was the SPLA seat of Africa’s longest running war.  We were now surrounded by half a dozen military men sporting dangerous looking weapons. 

The military commander was eager to talk to us about this new situation.

“Come with me” he said.

“Is it safe to leave our boats down here?” Mark asked innocently

The commander chuckled to himself.  Indeed the question sounded absurd to me when surrounded by half a dozen men with guns.

“Yes, yes” he said good naturedly, “everything is safe in Sudan, you can leave anything anywhere, mafi mushkeyla – no problem”.

I suspected based on things I had read and the bureaucratic tangles we’d just encountered in Ethiopia, we’d be taken to the police station, asked a number of redundant questions, be asked to register and then either be asked to leave the country or be given permission to continue.  It seemed like a lot was riding on the next few minutes.  Instead, moments later we found ourselves in a tiny little village restaurant eating a local dish of fuul – baked beans with onions and spices, eaten with small loaves of bread.

I asked a number of questions about the “war zone”, about our safety in Sudan, the Darfur crisis, the incidence of crocodiles in the Roseires Reservoir.  Everything that had been haunting me for literally years now.

“You seem worried”, he observed casually, “but there is nothing to worry about.”  He waved his hand to dismiss the notion and dug into the communal bowl with a hefty chunk of bread.

“Nothing?” I intoned skeptically.  I was not used to military men in war zones taking one to dinner.  Perhaps there were protocols.

He thought for a moment.  His forehead furrowed.

“I give you guard”

“You’re gonna give us a guard?” Mark reiterated enthusiastically, “this gets better and better.  Put it there.”

He extended his arm and the two shook vigorously.  The commander was clearly enjoying his dinner and this enthusiastic conversation.

“Actually there is no reason to worry” he said at length, “but if you feel more comfortable I give you guard”.

He then paid for dinner and offered to help our team transport our gear back to Ethiopia or stay in his village if we did not want to camp by the river.  This first taste of Sudanese hospitality – literally one step over the border, was our introduction to Sudan and the start of a trend that continued literally day after day from that point on.

   
A typically hospitable Sudanese man wearing a traditional Jalabia

A day’s paddle had us, our boats and newly acquired guard arrive at Umdafur.  At Umdafur we were required to register at the official customs office, a quaint little office 20km inside the Sudanese border.  An office that could not recall the last ‘hawaja’ or westerner to come through their town.  After buying us lunch and registering us at the local police station and buying us bottles of mineral water, they let us carry on down the river, still marveling at the Sudanese hospitality.

Aside from one small hiccup in El Damazine where we were detained at the army base for several hours, things continued merrily along in this fashion until we reached Haroun.  

Haroun is a tiny little town inside the border that has no power, no running water and its only claim to fame is that it has managed to make it onto the map with a tiny little dot south of Singa.  It is by no means a medical centre, but Mark was sick.  A small bang with a rock back in Ethiopia had swollen up to the size of a fire hydrant.  The “medical facility” that Mark checked into was a one-room straw hut with a sand floor, scattered syringes and debris, a friendly donkey that poked his head in the window above the bed and chickens that scurried in and out the front door.  

The doctor himself was an old man making do with the tools that he had at his disposal which amounted to some low grade antibiotics and gauze.  Checking into the hospital was easy enough, but we soon found out that he would not let Mark leave.  The conditions were not good.  We had to get out.  In the evening Mark feigned thirst and said he was going for water, soon beating a hasty retreat to the river.  

Having narrowly escaped the Haroun clinic, it was still obvious that Mark’s leg was getting worse with what was now looking like a crisis situation.  2 days later we ended up in Omdurman Falata Hospital.  A larger and better equipped hospital with one doctor that had been trained in Khartoum.  He looked at Mark’s leg and ordered both of us to be admitted to the hospital.  Mark for his leg and me because they wanted me to write a report.

“A report?” I asked.

“Yes, a report” the administrative staff confirmed.

“What kind of report?” I inquired.

“Anything you like, whatever you find, whatever you like”

“You want me to write a hospital assessment?” I asked rather dubiously.

“Ah yes, assessment, perfect, exactly what we need”

This was a first, being admitted to the hospital to do an assessment.  I was going to have some fun with this, or so I thought.  I quickly took off my adventurers cap and replaced it with my Medical Facilities Examiner’s headband.  Originally I had intended to lay back and test out all of the hospital’s various narcotics, sedatives and tranquilizers and write a glowing report on the wonderful time I had spent there, but as the days progressed I realized this was not really part of the game plan.

The report was serious stuff, the laying back almost impossible.  I was under so much pressure to prepare the report that I began having nightmares almost in the same fashion as I’d had on the river.  One night saw me stand upright on my bed tangled up in my mosquito net yelling “help” at the top of my lungs.  Nobody came.  Everyone assumed it must be the Larium.  I was not on Larium.

The Greek hernia patient - the only one on the ward who spoke English – thought it was wonderfully funny laughing audibly until his stitches caused him too much pain to continue.  In the morning he was holding up a dead scorpion in my face asking feverishly “What’s this?”  I did not look up.  I had gone into the hospital perfectly healthy and now I was turning into a nervous wreck.  Half the hospital had been admitted with malaria and there were bugs flying around the ward and I had found an IV drip under my bed.

In the morning I had to use the washroom.  On the way out across the courtyard I counted 4 spent syringes lying in the dirt.  I tiptoed through the dust terrified at what kind of sharp objects might be lying just beneath the surface.  These trips were becoming something more like navigating through a mine field.  Back in the ward I consulted Mark.  He looked rather grim as the new patient that had replaced the Greek in the course of casual chit chat had made sawing motions suggesting Mark might be better to have just cut it off.

“I can’t stay here” I announced rather callously, ignoring all this nonsense about amputations, “ I am about a million miles outside of my comfort zone".

Mark began laughing, suddenly seeing the irony.

 “You are the only well one on the ward and you’ve been having a tougher time than any of these poor patients”

“Well its not exactly a country club is it?”

With that I stormed out attempting to leave the hospital for good.  Unfortunately I had not yet completed my report.  It was apparent that I would not be able to leave without first finishing the report.

Back in the ward Mark was getting yet another injection.  Night and day they seemed to deliver antibiotics at an unusually high frequency.  I noted this in my report and went to speak to the doctor about it.  This was an area of concern, injections that were supposed to be spread out every 4 hours seemed to be delivered with alarming frequency by lads who came with flashlights in the night and did not seem to be at all familiar with giving injections.  The doctor came around to speak to Mark surprised to hear that in less than 9 hours he had received all four of his injections that were supposed to be spread out over 15 hours.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to put this in my report,” I announced.

The doctor looked very nervous and began fidgeting.

“I hate to interrupt,” Mark cut in, “but what about the pills I was supposed to get once the injections were finished?”

“Ah yes, I’ll get the pills now”

He then ran out and the pills promptly arrived moments later.

After 2 days in the hospital Mark was discharged and I delivered the completed report.  They seemed quite nervous when I delivered the final copy quickly scanning to the bottom of the last page where I had written the heading “Summary”.  He quickly scanned the English reading the final words that stated if they were to properly dispose of spent syringes, offer patients effective mosquito nets, eradicate the scorpions, give injections according to prescribed schedules by trained professionals and not accidentally fire up the power generator in the middle of the night, they could quite conceivably become one of the finest Medical Facilities in North Africa.

“You are too kind” he announced, visibly pleased with the assessment. “Really, you are too kind.”

	Different river craft.  Top left: Sudani fisherman in a wooden boat.  Bottom left: Ferry crossing the Nile between villages  Bottom: Les in a folding kayak.

World Water Monitoring Day Water Test VII
Location: El Damazine, Sudan (Site of the Roseires Dam)
Dissolved Oxygen: 4PPM, 49% saturation
pH: 8
Turbidity: 100+ JTU (completely opaque)

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© Mark Tanner and Les Jickling 2004