Boat to Wadi Halfa

I scarcely remember the uneventful and smooth journey from Cairo to Aswan, other than, a rather unrepresentative for those troubled times, encounter with Egyptian Armed Forces, embodied in a single friendly soldier who bought me my train ticket at the ‘residents’ counter, effectively decimating its price. 

The journey begins

The plan was to get a boat from Aswan to Wadi Halfa – the only way to cross the border between Sudan and Egypt. Why there is no border crossing anywhere else across the hundreds of miles of Egypto-Sudanese border, I shall never now. Perhaps it’s easier to police the one and only ferry that crosses Lake Nasser every week.

There are many myth and legends surrounding the logistics of getting the ferry. It is indeed a harrowing process so I will give my account of them in a separate post for any fellow travellers who are looking for clarification.

For the purpose of this account it suffices to say I miraculously managed to secure a ticket for my passage. Matthias, a fellow-traveller whose acquaintance I struck a few days earlier, also managed to get in and we settled comfortably under a life-raft on the top deck and awaited the boat’s departure while watching our surroundings with interest.

Ahmed in his fortress

The frenzied procedure of boat-loading is a sight not to be missed. It’s worth arriving early not only to secure a good spot, but also to behold it. Other passengers certainly didn’t believe in travelling light. It seemed as if every passenger was carrying a TV set as hand-luggage, in addition to the fridges and ovens sticking out of their bags.

The Sudanese go to Egypt to trade and bring back goods ill-available at home. Due to embargoes and poor state of domestic manufacturing many household appliances are beyond the means of many. Ahmed, a thirty-something teacher of English from Khartoum with whom I spoke during the slow hours of the passage, told me how he tries to go to Egypt every year, financing his journey through the sale of Egyptian T-shirts in Khartoum. He buys household items for himself and his mother. This time he bought a boom-box.

Thanks to this entrepreneurial spirit our boat got filled in no time, with boxes and cartons piled in every available corner, many of them forming impenetrable fortresses behind which lucky owners squatted, jealously guarding their space and belongings. Interestingly, right from the start a large space was enclosed with single wall of boxes – that formed the prayer square.

Extra barge almost loaded

Top-deck was certainly not enough to accommodate all those bags, boxes and baskets so soon a second barge had to be attached to our boat. Loading it looked uncannily like filling a dumpster. Luggage was thrown, protesting owners pushed, loaders yelled at, children lifted overhead, animals dragged under foot. There must have been a method to this madness but not one that I could discern during the six hours of observation.

When I got tired of watching I went back to lie down under my life-raft. I put my rucksack under my head and prepared to nap when suddenly suffocating darkness engulfed me. A big, warm blanket was thrown over my head and body. When I scrambled from under it I saw an excessively bearded face apologetically looming over me. It belonged to a man in a white embroided jellaba who made it clear with his gestures that he wished me to remain covered with it. Obviously, my feminine curves  - in my baggy khaki pants, dirty loose safari shirt and big trekking boots - were just too much to have to endure.

Some men preached, others fished

This was my first encounter with what turned out to be the Conversion Squad, a group of seven imams on their way from Cairo to Sudan on a religious mission. They did not speak English, and would not speak to me directly, so I did not manage to find out who and to what exactly they were trying to convert in Islamic Sudan but they certainly tried their best with my fellow-traveller Matthias.

While they would not address me, nor look at me for long they did however try to connect. Possibly aware of my opposition to the heavy blanket they tried to placate my anger with gifts. First, a piece of sweet candy landed on my blanket dropped by a passing imam. Second, came a little triangle of cheese-spread. Then another. Than a whole round box of cheese, followed by a whole bag of the same sweet candy. All thrown from a respectable distance by a messenger who would then scuttle away before I could make eye contact. Last was thrown a little vial of sweet-smelling perfume.

I must have single-handedly depleted their whole conversion fund for Sudan, they were very generous. I for one thought it better to stay on their good side: one, the blanket turned out to be very useful during the chilly night on the boat; two, someone listening to the radio brought news that the Americans killed Osama bin Laden that very day. There was no visible outburst of emotion at the news, but given the fact Osama used to live in Khartoum and Americans are not very popular in the country anyway Matthias and I decided to keep a low profile on the boat.

Abu Simbel seen from the boat

This did not stop me into the venturing in the hot belly of the boat, its lower decks. Women and children stay below deck, in cabins and open seated areas. This is deemed more decent than the top deck agora where men hold sway. It is also considered healthier than the chilly air. I have my doubts about that one. The humid, stifling, hot air, imbued with thousand smells of food and sweat, the murky water running down the corridors, the rubbish and sheer mass of people made the place a living hell. I went downstairs, exchanged my food voucher for a very dodgy looking gruel, ful and chapatti and resurfaced on the breezy deck again.

The night was peaceful and starry and I slept as soundly as one can while waking it every hour or so to check if my bag was still there. But the morning awakening was glorious for I was shook awake by fellow-passengers to witness the splendour of Ancient Egyptian ruins of Abu Simbel arising from morning haze. Spectacular.

Wadi Halfa Port

A few hours more and there we were, on the Sudanese side. The famous Wadi Halfa - proud outpost of British civilisation during the Mahdi Campaigns, the frontier town on the rail that stretched deep into the unknown, an oasis in the hostile desert. Well, in reality Wadi Halfa is a bit of a let down. Partly because the old Wadi Halfa is no more because of the building of the Nasser Dam and subsequent flooding, partly because the British and their rail are also long gone, the town is not quite the 'the sharp line between civilisation and savagery' that Churchill described in his River War. The port is in the middle of nowhere, nothing but a couple of customs buildings, one short jetty and empty ship carcasses strewn about. The little town is some way off, away from the lake and river, lost in all that blinding sandy whiteness.

But, hey, it’s still a gateway to the proud Sudan and I was very happy to have made it there at last.

Getting the Aswan - Wadi Halfa Ferry

Wadi Halfa Ferry

Some Traveler Tips 

The myths and legends circulating on the internet blogs and fora surrounding the purchase of the tickets are countless. Just in case some lost traveller is reading this in search of information I will authoritatively state that: the Wadi Halfa boat office is in Aswan proper - on the river front - not in the port. There is an office that opens in the port in the morning of the boat's departure - which is Monday -  but it is inadvisable to count on it – it seems to only issue food vouchers for the trip.

I managed to get my ticket there but this was only because the ubiquitous Mr. Saleh, the manager of the Aswan office (could be a bit more friendly, but efficient) had one set aside for me on my visit to the main office a few days before – two other foreigners that arrived in the morning hoping to get tickets were turned away. Ideally, arrive in Aswan by Thursday at the latest to have a greater chance.

There are only two classes at the ferry – cabin and deck – and their prices are EGP 500 and 320 respectively (up from 400 and 200 earlier this year). The locals were  paying 320 too and we have been repeatedly assured there are no 3^rd class tickets – I am inclined to believe that is the case. The customs are straightforward, but arrive early on Monday to secure a shaded and secluded place on the boat – we were let on around 10am and left by 4pm but by midday the boat was already quite full.

This info was correct as of May 2011.

Exiting Kenya, or How the Wealth of Nations is Built on Cabbage

I was very hopeful I would be able to get out of Loralang the very same day. After all, I reckoned, I smelled so badly of no-longer-so-dry fish that the villagers should be all too happy to set me off on my way ASAP. Loralang on the western shore of Lake Turkana is incomparably bigger and more advanced than Solicho. The main street boasts some fifteen brick buildings, including a number of little shops and a restaurant owned by Mama Habiba’s daughter, Sarah. Trucks bringing in supplies and carrying away the delicious, yet stinky, Tilapia fish (all the way to Rwanda apparently) are much more frequent. I was not disappointed and after a relatively short, four hour wait we set off in the direction of Lodwar, a big town on the Nairobi-Sudan road.

After an uneventful, eight hour journey through the arid wastelands (the road runs parallel to the lake shore for a while but, unfortunately, a little distance from it so the views are not as spectacular as they could be) we arrived in Lodwar after midnight. The sight of a sure signs of civilisation that greeted me in this sizable crossroad town, i.e. tarmac and a petrol station, would have brought tears of joy into my eyes if I had not been so tired, sleepy and confused as to what to do next.

Arriving on your own to a new town at night is never a pleasant experience and one of the few things in travelling I dread. Streets are usually abandoned or full of, what seems like, shady characters. If they are quiet it’s spooky, and if they are full of noises, these usually sound threatening. Distances seem longer and topography is unclear. To ask for directions is to betray your confusion, manifest your vulnerability and invite trouble. With that wisdom in mind and without the faintest clue as to where any lodgings might be, I walked decisively and purposefully in a random direction, away from the few boda-boda drivers, touts and soldiers loitering in the dark around the trucks.

As I describe here (no. 5) a stroke of luck and the kindness of a boda driver got me to a hotel, where I could for the first time in over a week be alone, enjoy a shower and electricity. If it wasn’t for that all-pervasive smell of fish, I would have been very happy indeed.

The next day brought further luxuries such as coke, internet and even a bookshop where I bought the only book on Sudan they had in hope it would contain even the sketchiest map of the country I was about to venture into. It didn’t and it was quite unreadable.

Lodwar, in addition to the two petrol stations and the bookshop, also boasts a supermarket and a very popular juice shop. These kept me entertained while I waited in vain for a matatu to Kakuma, a UN refugee camp at the boarder with Sudan, to fill up. After two hours of waiting I got fed up and decided to try my luck with the lorries which I saw passing every now and again.

In bigger places, such as Lodwar there is usually a place where lorry touts gather and hail down passing vehicles to arrange passage for anyone who wants it. They get a percentage of the fare the passenger pays to the lorry driver. In theory it is an efficient system but the negotiations and shouting before the departure always takes a while and it is never entirely clear how much and to whom you need to pay, if at all. But if the driver waves the fee, as it happened to me on a number of occasions, he has to face the touts who often still demand a fee either from the passenger or the driver, as they had, after all, helped one to find a transport. These situations require quite a lot of patience, negotiating skills and tact – luckily almost invariably fellow passengers guide you as to what the appropriate response to the demands is.

I was lucky again and in no time at all secured a place in the cabin of a cabbage truck. In London, I have attended a number of lectures at the LSE, but it was on board of that truck that I have had my most informative and fun lesson in micro-economics. During the four hour drive I was being entertained by the owner of the truck with stories about his budding cabbage and charcoal business. As my only experience with supply-demand chain, logistics, price differentials and fright routes had up to that point come from sending virtual goods caravans in Civilisation II games, I listened enchanted as he explained that there he can sell his cabbage in the barren Kakuma camp for 60Ksh per head, while in his native Eldoret, the capital of cabbage commerce, only for 30Ksh, making a profit of over 50 000Ksh per trip on cabbage only. We would discuss the fuel costs, frequency of cargo shipments and the fluctuations of the cabbage prices. It was fascinating.

I would see the business in action as we stopped in the tiny nomadic villages of the famously fierce Toposa people and my cabbage cicerone would negotiate prices – ever increasing as we approached Kakuma. Conversely, the price of charcoal, the tall sacks of which line the road in most villages, would drop with the diminishing distance but my mercantile mentor was adamant it would be foolish to buy it en route while the real charcoal Eldorado waited in Kakuma.

We passed camel and goat shepherds who would eye us suspiciously from the sides of the road. Toposa women would walk go God knows where to and where from along the road carrying loads of charcoal on their heads. They would stop to let us pass and sometimes they would raise their tiny water jerry-jugs in pleading gesture. They were asking for water to ease their long journeys but the lorry never stopped. We stopped briefly at the only crossroads where the C47 from Lokitaung near the Turkana lake joins the Lodwar-Loki road. This place, with three brick buildings and absolutely nothing else, exists only because tiny amounts of gold are found in the creeks nearby. The locals sieve its sands for the precious metal which then they exchange for, presumably cabbage, at the crossroads.

The landscapes would grow more interesting as we made our way North. It is a land of harsh but stunning beauty. The road winds among the scrubby, yet green acacia-like trees, which my guides described as Mrumbaini, and the ubiquitous , three-meter tall termite mounds. The land is vast and flat, timeless and primordial. After all, the Lokitipi Plain, which we were passing, is the cradle of mankind - and it is without the slightest effort that one can imagine oneself transported through time when gazing upon these limitless spaces under the ever-blue sky.

The vistas get progressively more mountainous as the road approaches the rocky ranges which flank it on both sides. The hills are superbly picturesque: with sharp, lofty pinnacles; hollow, winding gorges or inaccessible, flat table-tops. Their sides are cut with scars of dry river beds - the sites of flush floods in rainly season, now just a mocking promise of moisture in the arid air. In the distance, far away in the direction of the Ugandan boarder one can see even taller ranges, both menacing and mysteriously alluring. The remotness, serenity and vastness of this beutiful landscape is without doubt worth returning to one day.

We arrived at Kakuma in good time. Kakuma, a refuggee camp for the Sudanese affected by the civil war, is a vibrant, yet depressing place. It's very name, meaning 'nowhere' in Swahili is depressing and life in this camp was famously harsh. In its hayday the camp hosted 70,000 refugees; now thanks to the CPA substantially fewer. I was tempted to stay with my cabbage truck and observe the trade in the camp the next day. It might have made for a very interesting reportage. But as it was Sunday and the next day was Kenyan holiday I would have had to wait two days without a guarantee the camp commander will grant me access when he gets back on Tuesday. So I bid my cabbage companions farewell and good luck and went to get a transport further on to Lokkichoggio, the last Kenyan town on the Sudan boarder.

It took nine hours to cover the 200kms from Lodwar to Loki and I was tired after a comfortable, yet lengthy journey. We approached the ‘suburbs’ of Loki as the last rays of sun disappeared on the horizon. Once again I found myself in an unknown town, tired, alone and after dark. But once again I was lucky – one of my fellow passengers was a softly spoken Methodist missionary. He offered my lodgings free of charge in their teaching compound, now abandoned for holidays. I accepted graciously and found myself in what certainly must have been the cleanest and most comfortable abode in the whole of Loki. Not only I had a huge room with en-suite warm shower at my disposal, not only was I treated to delicious meal in the company of talkative Sudanese Dinka missionaries, but joy of joys of the modern man, I had internet access in my room throughout the night.

I was clean, safe and finally, after a week of craziest adventures of my life, on the boarder with Sudan, which I was about to enter the next day.

African Christmas Carol III

The list of selfless, kind acts bestowed upon me by Africans and Mzungus alike continues to continue:

29. Assaska, a friend of Jedrek and Kate’s immediately took me under her wing. Not only did she take care of me in Nairobi, showing me nice places, introducing to her friends and helping out when I could not find the PIN to my card, but also invited to a fascinating event, the Rendille traditional wedding. She organised the whole trip to her home village and, together with her mum, hosted us royally making sure we notice, understand and appreciate all the local customs and traditions. Her boyfriend, Jeff, an anthropologist by training, was especially helpful in the latter task.

30. I was very much impressed with the amount of time and effort Albert, a local Ngo worker, with whom I sat trembling from cold and fright during an incredibly fast and rough ride on the back of a pick-up truck with no number plates driven by a Sudanese soldier on the way between Gulu and Pakwach, put into helping me get into the Murchinson Falls park and then, when the attempts failed, to organise me a lodgings for the night and transport for the next day. He spent over two hours just sitting with me and calling his various friends and relatives in the vain hope that someone knows someone who might let me into the park after nightfall. We talked to a dozen people but none of them were able to help and Albert was as inconsolable as if it was him that wanted to get to the park, and very apologetic that I had to spend the night in a local hotel, which he also organised.

31. In Malindi, a sea-side “Italian” resort, a friendly girl working at my campsite offered to show me the way to the beach, which was surprisingly difficult to find. She did not want to swim so she just sat at the shore watching over my things as I negotiated my way through the disgusting brown weeds to take a quick dip in the sea.

32. Politicians are rarely credited with selflessness and altruism, and in this case too the motives of Ugandan politicians I met in Gulu might have not been entirely pure. No matter why they did it, the contacts they provided and the rides they gave me during my chase after Museveni were very helpful.

33. One afternoon I was walking back to Bros Camp in Juba, when a motorcyclist pulled up, said he works at Bros and saw me there and can take me back with him if I want to save myself the 10 minute walk. And why not?
Joy, also from Bros, is a singer at a local band. I met her at a birthday party and pronounced my admiration for her African dress. She immediately offered to take me to the market the next day so that we can choose the material and find a tailor to make me one. We did that the next day and she was very patient with my fussiness over the colours and prices, as well as very helpful with some pattern tips.

34. In Lokkichoggio a friendly Methodist missionary met on the bus offered me shelter for the night in their surprisingly fancy teaching compound. He left me his room, spick and span, with shower and internet, while he slept in the dorm. Did not expect such comforts in the friendless North. I was fed, entertained with conversation and then transported to the bus stage from where I could cross over to Sudan.

35. Although I have already covered “transport kindness”, these guys need a special mention, as they have not only provided a vehicle, but also lunch and a hassle-free border transport. I am talking of the ‘governor’s men’ a group of constructors and businessmen who were leaving Lokichoggio for Torrit. There is not much transport from Loki, so their decision to take me to their already nearly full car was much appreciated. Thanks to the fact we were travelling in the car of the governor of the Eastern Equatoria province I had no problems at the border – as a matter of fact I did not even have to see a border-clark but gave my passport to our driver who arranged a stamp for me. Once on the other side, we stopped in Kapoeta, where they were building a hotel, for lunch which they kindly shared with me and then proceeded to Torrit, to report at the Governor’s residence.

36. The Governor turned out to be a very nice man, who was only a little surprised to see me roll in onto his yard with his men, but who did not let his astonishment affect his hospitality. We all sat at a table in the garden, just as if I was also one of his men returning from fieldwork. We were treated to cold drinks and later to buffet dinner, also in the garden, during which the governor kept insisting I take one helping after another. The food was delicious, so after a couple of hours and shaking the Gov’s hand goodbye, I rolled out on my fat belly into the night.

37. Tea and cattle break.


38. Again, this is but a transport rescue but it came just in time to save me from being eaten alive by tsetse flies. I was walking back from Murchinson Falls NP in the early hours of the morning. There is but one road out so the idea was that I walk until someone comes and picks me up. The air was cool, my luggage not too heavy so for the first half an hour I thoroughly enjoyed my walk. But as the sun warmed the air those little bastards appeared out of nowhere and started feasting on me. Mind you, they no longer carry sleeping sickness (I think) so there was no immediate risk of death. But had I not covered every inch of my skin, I swear, I would have died from thousands of painful bites. I found myself practically running, with a 18kg backpack, not to outrun the swarms but to make the bites that little bit less frequent. The appearance of a jeep with two American girls who decided to stop at pick me up was a saving grace and I owe them if not my life, then certainly my sanity (such as it is).

39. This story actually happened not during my current trip but during an equally crazy venture onto Mt Kenya with my mum, some 13 years ago. With not much preparation, inappropriate gear, no guides or porters we elected to climb this imposing mountain on the Chogoria – Naro-Moru route. We succeeded and rushed down to get some transport on the way back. On the way down, we met out first fellow-climber. A tall British guy, immaculately dressed in Bergson-wear, carrying a light day pack and a bottle of water and stepping daintily. We, on the other hand, were exhausted, sun-scorched, dehydrated, mal-nourished and, in my case, altitude-sick and were running and stumbling to get down fast. Really, in these circumstances my dry lips were the least of my problems but I still very much appreciate that, after some greetings and comments about the weather (treacherous, very treacherous), he looked at me with concern, produced a lip-balm from his pocket and would not let me go until I made sure my lips were properly re-hydrated.

40. Another generic group of helpers are those who have kindly been showing me the way. I have never been in a country with people hostile enough to refuse giving directions, but East Africans go out of their way to make sure you don’t get lost, often walking with you up to your target. Don’t try to ask boda-boda drivers about directions though – they might be best informed but, unlike the London cabbies, they will insist on taking you there even if it’s a few meters away!

41. During my ascent up the Jbel in Juba, I had the help and guidance of a little boy by the name of Monday. He nimbly climbed in front of me, waited for me to catch up and then run ahead further. I did not want a guide but his company was quite pleasant so we climbed the mountain together, then sat on the top and ate bananas, whose skins we would throw onto the rocks in frost of us and watch the falcons swoop and pick them up, only to throw them down from lofty heights with disdain once they figured what that was. Luckily, not onto our heads.

42. and 43. In Loralang I was treated to lunch, a place to nap and invaluable advice by Sarah, Mama Habiba’s daughter who runs a hotel on the other side of the lake. In the very same place I was first greeted by the chief of village himself who admitted me to his kraal, seated in the shade, treated to sodas and then escorted to my onward transport.

44. This point is less of a single act of charity but more of a charitable phenomenon which I find very touching. African obligatorily wash their hands before meals and, given the lack of running water, it is often done at the table with water, soap, bowl and towel being brought to the diners. Sometimes the waitress or hostess does it but more often the water in a jug and the utensils are left to the guests, who help each other pour the water over their hands, pass the soap and hand the towel. It is moving and humbling to see strangers render this small service onto each other. Part-taking in the ritual made me think of the biblical foot-washing and was a deep bond experience.

45. Deeply touching were those occasions when local people after a few moments of conversation offered me a piece of their jewellery as a token of remembrance. I have already described my encounter with Halima, but another memory I treasure if of a girl from Soricho who I met when I was trying to explore the local church. Or at least I was told it was a church (it was the only 2-storey structure in the village), but when I very confidently strode in opening the heavy metal door wide, it turned out it is actually someone house. Lilly, was one of the inhabitants but she unabashedly came up to me, took me by the hand and showed me around the house. Then, all the time holding hands, we went outside to find her father, who spoke a little English and told me that the girl was one of his 6 and 17 years old. We strolled around the village for a while, went back to my kraal where she was reluctant to enter. But she took a string of beads with a single white shell from her neck and hung it on mine. This time I felt both compelled and able to reciprocate so I gave her my sunglasses in return. She was overjoyed.

46. Deeply grateful to Fasel and his family for hosting me on Iddi Ahdua day. Their hospitality was overwhelming and I had an amazing time in their house.

47. I feel a little bad about this one. After 2 days of waiting I was desperate to cross lake Turkana. When a boat finally appeared I was overjoyed. I went to the owner to discuss the price of passage. He quoted me a price 5 times higher than what I had been told by other villagers is fair. I was tired (it was 6am), impatient and very anxious to go, I really did not want to haggle. But in a moment of divine inspiration I said: “Very well, I will pay whatever you say. But you look into your heart and ask yourself if this is a fair price. If it is, god will undoubtedly reward you, if not, well..”. He looked at me carefully, seemed to think about it and then…. took me for free.

48. Last but not least, I have to thank my family and Tom, even though their links with Africa are tenuous at best. Yet without their support, both emotional and material, I would never have made it to Africa in the first place.