Supposedly Midhat Mahir, our Sudanese fixer has organized an early morning  taxi to take Christi and I to South Khartoum bus station. It never arrives, leaving Christi and I scrambling to find a ride. Fortunately the hotel concierge intervenes and arranges everything on our behalf. I should just state here and now that the people of Sudan are actually very friendly. There is the possibility, unlike with mature tourist destinations like Morocco and Egypt, to have authentic conversations that don’t involve trying to sell us some tourist junk. It’s a 20-minute ride through busy streets of Khartoum to the bus station. We arrive at 7.45 am, which is cutting it fine for our 8 am departure, and judging by the sheer size of the station and the melee of people who are gathered there finding the right bus might be a challenge. This challenge is made harder (or easier depending on your point of view) as the surprised crowd wants to know where we are going. ‘Gallabat – and then across the border to Metemma in Ethiopia,’ I yell above the noise. The locals try to be helpful and most of them point in the same direction, so we hoist our bags onto our shoulders and trudge onwards. Our progress is soon stopped by station security. They check us and our bags and charge us for the privilege. Once through the security cordon our bags are collected by a porter and placed in his wheelbarrow. He is most insistent that he wheel our luggage to the Gallabat bus and together with a few other Good Samaritans we dash off in what we hope is the right direction. It isn’t. The Good Samaritans stare at our ticket – some of them look at it upside down; they ask station officials for directions and we’re off again. Still no luck. Finally, it is suggested that we go to the bus company itself. And they know exactly where the bus is: It’s already on its way to Gallabat.

Undeterred, our coterie of helpers burst out of the bus station with our bags in tow and Christi and I struggling to keep up. We are urged to jump into a tuk-tuk and the porter throws our luggage on top of us. He then holds on to the side of the vehicle and the tuk-tuk driver speeds away. Christi and I still have no idea where what is happening or where we are going – hopefully not the whole way by tuk-tuk because it’s at least an 8-hour ride. Five minutes later we come across a bus parked on the side of the road. Our porter grabs our luggage and starts hurling it into the bus, while a conductor scrutinizes our tickets. The conductor then waves us onboard and we clamber up the steps. Hopefully we are going to Gallabat. I just have time to throw a 20 SP note to the porter and then we are gone.

This is only the beginning of the adventure, however. We are aghast to see every inch of the aisle is covered in suitcases – and our bags have just been added to the dump.  More painful still is the fact that we need to climb over these bags to reach a couple of single seats in the dim and distant recesses of the coach.  The looks we receive range from glares to bewilderment and occasionally smiles. I have an aisle seat next to a wary young Muslim girl, while Christi finds herself seated next to a guy with a hacking cough who sounds nearer to death than life.  Adjacent to my seat is a huge vat of water and a cooler full of bottles of mango juice.  Most of the windows have their drapes closed, presumably to keep out the hot sun. This is a shame because we can’t see any of the scenery in this part of Sudan. The girl who I’m sitting next to actually has her suitcase in the space where my feet should be and she seems disinclined to move it. She is also mightily offended when I put my feet on it and only very reluctantly does she remove it. She does not talk to me for the rest of the 9-hour journey.

There is no toilet on board, so we stop a couple of times in utterly remote one-street towns for bathroom breaks. We still have no sense as to whether we are heading in the right direction. Back on the bus there is a TV and DVD player.  We begin with a Jean-Claude Van Damme flick, followed by Slam Down (American Wrestling).  Sudan definitely has a love-hate relationship with the Great Satan. Even though English is commonly spoken in Sudan, it’s not commonly spoken on the bus so Christi and I have no clue as to where we are and if we are truly going to Gallabat. Very occasionally I catch glimpses of the surrounding scenery, which appears to be thatched villages and more flat monotonous desert.  Amazingly we’re served lunch and drinks and the conductor has to climb over the bags repeatedly to serve everyone. By the time we reach our destination after 9 long, miserable hours, I no longer care where we are I just want off the damn bus.

Barely have we set foot in Gallabat (yes we actually arrived at the correct destination) when a cocky 22-year-old guy attached himself to us and we become ‘his foreigners’. He is quite protective of us and while wheeling our luggage around he directs us to the various customs and immigration offices. The Sudanese officials are very surprised to see Christi at this border and ask her lots of questions about her time in Sudan. She assures them she thoroughly enjoyed herself. Ethiopian customs are particularly fastidious, though, and check every item in our packs before allowing us to step 7 years back in time (Ethiopia follows the Julian rather than the Gregorian calendar and can therefore boast 13 months of sunshine every year). By the way does that make Christi and me 7 years younger. Now that is a great sales pitch.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart - a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes. 

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