On our crazy passage through the Gulf of Aden, we had fended off a pirate attack, fled from a hail of Yemeni bullets, battled Poseidon and been confronted by helicopter gunships and navy frigates. But we had escaped from all that madness, and now the treasures of the Red Sea lay before us. The reward would be a journey in time back to medieval Arabia.
Having put four days of rough weather between us and the Yemenis, we finally reached the respite of southern Sudan. Exhausted and thoroughly beaten, we pulled into a large bay at midnight. Bedouin camp fires were the only flickering lights. The anchor fell away into darkness, leaving us in the quiet bliss of safe shelter and still waters.
Sunrise unveiled a landscape of soft golden dunes and tinted mountains. Bedouin women were collecting clams in the shallows, and their rhythmic singing drifted out to us on the breeze. Every now and then, men on camels would ride around the bay, laden for market. There is something majestic and timeless about the Arabs, and here we found ourselves in their ancient land.
First Encounter
We lowered the dinghy and made our way to shore, as a Bedu was striding past on his camel. He disappeared behind the sands, and by the time we had dragged the dinghy over the shallows and I had reached the top of a dune, I saw him far off along the opposite lake shore. I wanted to talk to that man! So I set off running, staying conspicuous along the top of the dunes so I wouldn’t run up on him. With the trigger-happy Yemenis still fresh in my mind, I was aware that this was a true Bedouin and I was a stranger in his territory.
I ran nearly two kilometres catching up with that energetic camel, and as I drew close I kept a good distance to his side. Finally he heard my call, but didn’t stop, so I kept a keen eye for a raised rifle or threatening gesture. I waved to him, and he raised his hand in greeting. Good – so he wasn’t going to shoot me, and I could approach. He steered his camel to a clear ground for our meeting, then slid nimbly from its side and stood waiting. It was a vision straight from Lawrence of Arabia.
“A’ salamu alaykum” I said – peace be upon you. And he returned with a more flowery and religious reply.
His name is Salem; an older man, with kind eyes and friendly wrinkles. I ask him where he’s going. “The souk”, he says, gesturing to the far mountains. His camel is laden with an empty oil drum, plastic jerry cans and a bag with fabric scraps and a football poking out the top. I figure these are treasures of the sea, but my mind wanders to this far-off souk in deep-south Sudan. I want to follow him to this magical market, where Bedouins arrive by camel to bustle and barter for goats, fish, fragrant spices, and old footballs to take home for their sons.
He stands proudly by his camel as I take a photo, and as we part, he smiles at me a little bemused – I had run a long way just to meet with him. He leads the camel on a little way, then draws his head down and mounts the hump. As the camel lurches to its feet, raising the Bedu on its back, they become a timeless Arabian image. It feels like seeing a knight in medieval Britain. He turns, smiling, holding his hand up high, and they stride off along the shore, towards the souk.
Lobsters and Falcons
The following day we decided to try and trade with the women for their fresh clams. Something other than canned food for dinner sounded appealing, and maybe we could offer them a little variety in return. We put some concentrated juice and canned pineapple in the dinghy and headed for the shallows.
As we neared, two men on camels rode out from behind the dunes on their way around the bay. Rather than intrude on the women, we decided it best to speak with the men first. They saw us approaching, so they dismounted their camels and sat down on the beach to wait.
Their names were Salem and Nafeh, and after our introduction, I asked (in Arabic) what the women were catching. Conch, they said, but it would take a lot of work to extract a little meat. Instead, perhaps, were we interested in trading for their flour? Well, we had no need of flour, and having never seen pineapple they had no interest in that either. But they did want sugar, so we offered to go and get them some from the boat.
By the time we returned, I was amazed to see they had a fire going. Ah… Arabic hospitality! The camels had been turned out to graze, blankets laid down and Nafeh was roasting coffee beans in the embers. Salem invited us to sit, and we shared around the curious pineapple while Nafeh continued with his coffee ritual; pounding on the beans with a tall mortar and pestle, pouring them into the small kettle and returning it to the embers.
We chatted until it was brewed, and Nafeh poured out two shot-sized cups, half filled already with sugar. Salem, being the elder, offered them to us first. It was incredible coffee – strong, and fragrant, with hints of wood smoke, far-off souks and camel caravans!
I met Salem and Nafeh again a number of times during our weather hold in Marsa Navarat. They caught us a mother lode of lobster for 100DHS, which we lapped up with garlic butter. On our last meeting, when I saw them waiting on shore preparing coffee, they had with them a falcon. I bought the two fish they had caught, but they insisted that I take the falcon as a gift! They seemed quite disappointed that I couldn’t take it on the boat; and so was I.
Time and Tide
The winds finally calmed and we continued on through the Middle Ages, navigating between tight coral passages to reach the ancient port of Suakin. As far back as Ramesses III, this island town had been a central hub for Red Sea merchants, trading in slaves, ivory, gold, and gems. Thousand-strong camel caravans would set out from Suakin with great fanfare, distributing European and Asian imports into Abyssinia (present day Ethiopia). It faded from greatness when the British built Port Sudan as its replacement in 1906. Combined with the last 20 years of international embargoes on Sudan, Suakin has lingered as a relic of times gone by.
Donkey-carts are the main form of transport, hee-hawing through the dirt streets. Dusty alleyways wind between the coral-brick merchant houses, which were once ornate and balconied, but are now slowly crumbling, or have already fallen into ruin; the lower floors have become make-shift restaurants, bakeries, and goat pens. Wooden coffee shacks host friendly faces who sit together sharing the news, playing dominoes and smoking shisha. In the wooden bazaars, men can still be seen carrying long-swords – but they also carry broad smiles and big welcomes. It is a quiet town, apart from the donkeys, and the Imam calls from the minaret for Friday prayers.
Though time had stopped in Suakin, we eventually had to move on. It had been incredible to see this ancient life undiluted by the modern world; it was the treasure that we had fought pirates to discover. And Sudan hadn’t given up all her treasures yet…
Words + Photos By: Will Pardoe
