The weekly ferry from Aswan (in Egypt) to Wadi Halfa (in Sudan) sails tomorrow. A first class cabin is being held for us, but before the manager of the Nile Ferry Company, Mr. Salah, will issue the tickets he says we need to have a Sudanese visa in our passports. That is not a problem for me (being British), but Christi is American and Sudan is not so keen on allowing citizens of the Great Satan across its borders. To circumvent Sudanese bureaucracy or at least nudge it in the right direction we have enlisted the help of a Sudanese fixer by the name of Midhat Mahir. He has contacts in the Interior Ministry in Khartoum and for a little backsheesh (actually a lot of backsheesh) Christi and I have been issued with travel permits, which gives us the right to enter Sudan. And once we get to Khartoum, Christi and I will pop along to the Interior Ministry where our passports will be formally stamped. Only it’s not that easy. Mr. Salah wants Christi and I to get the tourist visas from the Sudanese consulate in Aswan before issuing us with ferry tickets. Today is the day. We have to somehow persuade Sudanese Officialdom to grant us tourist visas and be willing to issue them the today. If our visa application is denied (again) or there is a delay in receiving the visa we will miss the ferry. The ferry schedule is actually fairly unpredictable and the temperature in the Sudan is becoming hotter by the day. We have also committed ourselves to some tourists activities in East Africa and a week’s delay here will put those activities in jeopardy and Africa has yet to embrace the concept of a refund.
The Sudanese consulate is located in a truly ugly concrete block just north of the train station in a low-end residential area. The only identification is a Sudanese flag, which hangs limp and insipid on a makeshift pole. Christi and I are ushered into the consular section dealing with visas and told to complete a visa application form. The staff then scrutinize our applications. They stare at our travel permits with a mixture of amazement and skepticism. One thing is abundantly clear immediately: the staff are not simply going to issue us with visas just because we have a travel permit. After much heated discussion among the staff we are punted to the Head of the Consular Section in Aswan, a Mr. Awad. He studies our paperwork and then asks politely how we came by the travel permits. We immediately blame everything on Midhat Mahir whose name goes into a notebook. Oops. Why do we want to visit Sudan? Do we have enough money? How long will we stay and how will we leave? We answer honestly. Mr. Awad then asks about our jobs. He shows no interest in my answer of scientist and our application looks to be heading into the bin. But then Christi explains she is a pharmacist and suddenly Mr. Awad becomes very excited. He has been smoking for 22 years and wants to quit but has been unable to do so. His family does not know about his addiction and he never smokes in front of his children. Still he is worried that he is setting a bad example for them and he wants to quit. Can Christi help? Unfortunately her portable pharmacy does not contain medication to quit smoking, but she tells him to buy Nicoderm patches off the internet. Mr. Awad open his computer and between him and Christi they start surfing the net looking for information on Nicoderm patches. Absentmindedly, he scrawls his signature on our visa application forms and a paean is instructed to take the paperwork and complete the process. I sit very quiet and metaphorically open-mouthed. That’s not quite the end, though. After Mr. Awad bids us safe travels, Christi and I are escorted to the finance department where we pay US$250 cash (the Great Satan’s money is in demand even if its citizens are not). And then we wait. The staff huff and puff for a further hour, but finally the stamp comes down in our passport and we are in! Yippee!
I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re in if we can secure passage to Wadi Halfa aboard tomorrow’s ferry so it’s back to the offices of the Nile Ferry Company and Mr. Salah. He gazes at our newly stamped passports, smiles, and pronounces himself satisfied. A first-class cabin costs a whopping US$200, but first-class is a relative term. Finally we can relax.
Relaxing means taking a felucca ride out on the Nile River. Our boat is called ‘Michael Palin‘ after the British actor, python, and traveler. He had his own adventures in Sudan, so perhaps this bodes well for the next leg of our Year of Wonder. A pleasant breeze brings the temperatures down to a bearable level as the felucca zig zags gently down the Nile. For a brief moment, Christi and I have nowhere else we need to be and we can take the time to simply enjoy the scenery of urban Aswan and rustic Elephantine Island. The whole experience is much more intimate than being aboard a luxury houseboat, although I’ve a feeling that tomorrow’s over-crowded ferry ride might offer the most intimate experience of all regarding life on the Nile. We ask the felucca captain to put us ashore by the local McDonald’s, one of the Great Satan’s most successful exports, and Christi enjoys a rather decadent Big Mac while I munch on chicken McNuggets. The easy living ends here, though, and whether we’re ready for it or not uncharted Africa beckons.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes.
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