“No thanks for duty”.
“La shukran al-awajib”, Ishmael pronounces as he
resolutely brushes away my outstretched hand of money, determined that he will
pay for my groceries, and the additional 4kg of mangoes and bananas he has
directed the grocer to add to our bags.
This is the same grocer that each week lavishes us with
discounted and ‘complementary’ vegetables, yet decisively deflects my thanks
and gratitude with that same understated, unassuming utterance “la shukran
al-awajib”, or ‘no thanks for duty’.
This Arabic dictum always
curtails my attempts to express gratitude, as though my feelings of
appreciation and sense of indebtedness are unnecessary, even insulting to those
who see serving me as their duty. ‘La shukran al-awajib’ is a sacred,
almost unbreakable maxim of extreme hospitality.
In most societies the
traveller is equivalent to a ‘visitor’. Hospitality is extended only so far as
contractual obligations compel; only so long as the pleasure of the host
persists. The purpose of serving a visitor is essentially economic. Value
derives from exploiting the visitor’s consumer mentality.
It follows that travellers
become engulfed by a tourist industry exclusively preoccupied with enticing
them to buy into certain products or services. One is not compelled to be
hospitable. Rather, the extension of hospitality is dependent upon the
intrinsic, material value that a host may receive from choosing to be so.
In contrast the
Sudanese host sees it as a moral responsibility to be hospitable. The notion
that this hospitality should be reciprocated, let alone paid for, is not merely
alien but damn right rude. In this vein the traveller is equivalent to a
‘guest’ for whom every effort should be made to make life that little less
burdensome, that little less costly.
A visit to the market in Sudan is characteristic of this
approach. In virtually every other country I have visited (with the exception
of Pakistan) it is inevitable that I, as a white foreigner, will be charged a
significantly inflated price, however vigorously I barter. Predatory pricing is
common practice. Market vendors are advantageous, viewing travellers less as
guests to be welcomed and cherished, than naïve and credulous fools primed for
exploitation.
 |
| The Souq |
Tourism is non-existent in Sudan. Selfishly I hope this
remains the case (although this is not to say that the lack of tourism investment
and initiative is not a grievous missed opportunity). The total absence of a
tourist industry, allows the traveller to enter into a far deeper, more
personal relationship with Sudan and Sudanese people. Unfettered by the dollar
signs which equate each traveller with financial gain, Sudanese people welcome
you into their homes; not merely allowing but urging you to experience life
from their perspective.
Mother of Ashes.
Our trip to the village of Um-Ramad was
testament to this spirit of generosity and sincerity. Meaning ‘mother of ashes’,
the name Um-Ramad allegedly symbolizes the burnt coals of the ceaseless
cooking provided by female villagers to passing travellers.
As the duration of the journey from El Obeid to Um-Ramad passed 90
minutes - confirming that the 30 minute approximation had indeed been calculated
by Sudanese valuations- and the heady smell of leaking oil was inducing
delirium, this promise of food was alluring.
Roughly an hour and a
half to the West of El Obeid, our journey to Um-Ramad took us along dusty
tracks linking the little known, oasis like villages of the Southern reaches of
the Sahel. Heading in the opposite direction were nomadic camel and cow herds, aiming
to reach Souq al-Nagar (the Camel Market) on the Western fringes of El
Obeid, in time for the Saturday market. After journeying by foot from South
Darfur for over three months, livestock in tow, the final destination must have
seemed elusive, despite its relative proximity.
At the journey’s half-way point the vast flatness
of the landscape was briefly interrupted by the small mound of the Greater Nile
oil pipeline, stretching from South Sudan, and the war-torn border regions, to Port
Sudan on the Red Sea Coast. Crossing the pipeline I was struck by the stark dichotomy
of this simple and bare region of scattered subsistence villages against the
international significance of the oil pipeline. Soon enough the vast emptiness unravelled,
revealing a few customary mud and stick houses that marked the near edge of Um-Ramad.
Arriving in Um-Ramad,
we were met by Mohammed , a colleague and friend who had kindly
invited us to come to his home. Quite
possibly slaughtering a sheep to mark our coming, Mohammed and his family had
gone all out to meet his village’s reputation for unparalleled hospitality. Joining
us for breakfast were numerous cousins and neighbours, eager to both greet us
and underline that we were free to visit their homes at any time. Exclamations
of ‘Marhab’ (welcome) echoed from every direction and with each new visitor.
 |
| Um-Ramad |
After breakfast
Mohammed and some male members of his family gave us a tour of the village.
Considering its size, Um-Ramad has a large Souq selling many
locally sourced products such as simsim (sesame) oil, cackadai (hibiscus),
dried bamir (okra) and tomatoes. During the week the majority of these
traders switch their operations to the larger market of Souq Wadi Keifa in
El Obeid. Our progress negotiating the Saturday market crowd was slow; made yet
slower by the relentless handshakes and small talk customary of Sudanese social
etiquette.
Escaping the throngs,
Mohammed led us to the Western perimeter of the village and the ‘animal
reservoir’ used by nomadic herds. Recuperating around the dwindling pool was a
sizeable caravan of camels- perhaps 50 in number- owned by the Shanabla tribe.
Understandably, the Shanabla ‘herder’ and his son, were initially reluctant
to let us linger around their camels.
Nowadays most of
these nomadic tribes carry guns as a means to ensure the safety of their livestock
in the increasingly lawless regions of West Kordofan, South Kordofan and
Darfur. The sizeable risks they face inevitably encourages a mind-set of suspicion
towards strangers. Nevertheless, once our Sudanese company had established that
their tribes actually shared an amicable relationship with the Shanabla, the
man’s demeanour softened considerably, such that he even ushered his son into
our photo-shot!
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| 'Shanabla' Camels |
Before leaving Um-Ramad, the women of the village had gathered to dance and wail
us goodbye. Unfortunately Adam, our driver and security escort, was growing restless,
worried that if we did not leave soon his lightless 1982 Toyota Pickup truck would
not be able to navigate us home. Thus, loaded with us as well as 10
villagers looking to hitch a lift to El Obeid, the pick-up truck hastily
started up again.
Our race against the
sun was a close run thing; we just about made it to the tarmac road, where we
could hitch a lift back to town, before the darkness completely enveloped us.
As a final gesture of generosity from the ‘Mother of Ashes’, the villagers
handed us a sack of tomatoes; inevitably far in excess of what we could consume.
 |
| Romance in the desert |
Conditional or unconditional hospitality?
Every effort is made to impress. Not only are we served up a
feast at each new home we visit, but our
hosts, perhaps conscious of the overwhelmingly negative image of Sudan shown to
the world, seem determined to reassure us that there is a kind, generous,
welcoming, tolerant, rich, vibrant, traditional and youthful side of Sudan
snubbed by the Western media.
No doubt they have a
point. Yet, the cynical side of me still wonders whether this hospitality would
be so ubiquitous of our time in Sudan if I was not a (non-Jewish/ Israeli) ‘Khawaja’….
I am convinced that hospitality in Sudan is not always as unconditional as
Sudanese people, and for that matter some non-Sudanese observers, like to
think.
The kindness and generosity
rendered to us embodies an unspoken acknowledgment of the Khawja’s pre-eminence;
an internalization of an implicit racial hierarchy that frames the white man as
the VIP. If one views unconditional hospitality as ‘supporting the transition
of newcomers into the community without conditions’, I am afraid that I have received
the red-carpet treatment while non-white travellers have been disregarded.
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