Sudan

A partially nomadic Bedouin Camp resides far in the desert, outside of town. Part of the camp treks south every year by camel caravan to follow seasonal rains along established trade routes, while other menfolk are employed across the Red Sea in Saudi Arabia – their families are required to remain in Sudan.

Under decorative tents, adorned in beadwork inside, women lead a traditional life without the aid of mechanical amenities, much like their ancestors before them.

The school headmaster served us tea, while translating our questions and negotiating a beadwork trade for me. Separate from the others sat a woman with a baby that was nestled inside a beautiful basket of goat leather, and decorated with beaded tassels. Cheerful youngsters eyed us inquisitively, as we supped hot, sweet mint tea. When the headmaster recited their English lessons, they answered aggressively, eager to gain his praise and our appreciation.

By the time we left, hot desert winds were howling; it was apparent how the womens' veils serve as an excellent filter to block invading sands. We suffered through more than one sandstorm in the Red Sea.

The old quarter of Suakin whisper of a traumatic period in history: A former slave trading center beginning as early as the 10th century BCE. It was the last slave-trading post in the world and used as recently as 1945. Crumbling hallways lay in ruin, and rusty slave ships lay stranded in gooey mud nearby, as ghostly reminders of former inhumane acts of trade.

The ruins today are a popular site for Sudanese villagers to frequent. Men in flowing robes wandered empty dirt paths, and young girls gathered late in the day to share secrets, free of the accompaniment of younger siblings or inquiring adults. Pete and I could hear their animated whispers echo off the soaring walls of bleached coral, as they strolled between the ruins. I used my frayed bits of Arabic, and they liked practicing their English.

We departed Aden, Yemen, in light south-easterlies, which quickly gusted to 30 knots when we entered the narrow straits into the Red Sea. The Straits of Baobab are barely 15 nautical miles wide, and are notorious for rough weather: Winds bottleneck at the entrance, squeezed from both sides of the Red Sea. Heavy shipping traffic race through en route to the Suez Canal. We kept a sharp look-out for uncharted reef, and unlit craft or obstructions. Adam deftly navigated around an unlit vessel towing a barge on a particularly dark, moonless night.

Our days drifted by: we landed a delicious tuna, passed a night in a secluded anchorage where men came down from the hot desert to bathe in the oasis, and rustic dhows plied the waters for fish.

As we entered Sudan, old slaving ships and dhows littered the foreground of an ancient village. We found the townspeople lively, fun, and endearing.

The local Sudanese bread is the unleavened chapattis, a doughy pita-like bread that is often used as a ‘spoon’ to dip into rich, savory curries. To bake them, I purchased the wheat berries, and had the merchant ground them for me, but the harbor policeman had a real laugh when I returned, telling me I’d purchased donkey grain. Second time around, I found the chapattis baker - hot and steamy, straight from the oven. The guys devoured my basketful.

I loaded my basket with pumpkins and melons to overflowing, but still needed to hunt for grains, so I hired a boy to follow me around town. He tied my basket to his seat. The load grew, and after a spill, I moved the load onto a donkey-cart. The only three-wheel taxi in town was available, but …nah, too boring; I didn't have any spare change anyway, having given it all to beggars.

The boys who helped me don't attend school, and probably can’t read or write, but they work hard to help bring home the bread. A sweet boy was waiting for me at the harbor when I returned, having netted a blue crab. I left it, preferring him to present it to his mother, as the people are very poor.

Eager to sell their wares, merchants shout, beckoning to ‘make the deal of the day’ - a normal Arabic way of passing time and creating entertainment. It takes getting used to, but debating saves the merchant's face, and is an art to be enjoyed with flare.

While Pete and Adam maintained the engines on “Scud”, I wandered the cafes and shops in town, getting to know the people. Women beckoned me to join them for mint tea, and we sat on straw mats in front of tiny clapboard shops run by their menfolk, as desert winds often shrouded us in light sand.

Since few Sudanese speak English - or myself Arabic! – we used gestures to communicate. They showed me how to prepare spicy Sudanese dishes with local herbs and spices, and how to cement a silky robe in place while sipping tea. My clumsy effort in tying the robe ended in hilarious disaster, which created an eruption of smiles.

The men, who were more inclined to speak English, enlightened me on the lack of their employment opportunities, country politics, and ethical wartime issues, which are more often related to oil revenues.