The Sudan - 32

Take a look at Kassala on google maps.
The big north to south splash through the middle of it is the dried bed of the river Gash. Come July it will be gushing with water - Gash means torrential. The project here in Kassala is trying to manage 100km of this, to provide irrigation to 67000 households of which 90% are considered poor. The project is half way through its 8 year multi-million dollar programme.
As we drive out to one of the project blocks we pass through Kassala wholesale market. It is a center of extreme activity as people buy and sell fruit and vegetables of all kinds. Onions are large and plentiful, green oranges, mangoes, bananas, grapefruits and carts of grass like vegetation. Donkeys are laden with charcoal to be sold for cooking on.
On the sides of the road people are fixing mopeds or making bricks; one man pressing damp concrete mix into a cast iron box with a lever to eject the brick to be dried in the sun; another man is simply making rough patties of clay that once sun dried will also become bricks.
Soon our little convoy of white toyota land-cruisers are off the metaled road. We are driving on roads that people in England would pay good money to enjoy the off-road experience (i note that i haven’t seen a single Land Rover out here, only Toyota 4x4s and old Bedford trucks high on skinny knobbly tires) This is agriculture land, but it feels like a dessert. The camels (one-humped variety) only add to this feeling. So why do some people choose to have a camel rather than a donkey? Donkeys not only provide you with transport, but they have amazing cart-dragging capacity too. Camels are expensive and are sometimes considered an investment but always considered a status symbol.
Many of the fields appear lush and green; We pass through a banana plantation. Many of the fields are infested with a tree/bush plant called Mesquite. Other than for charcoal, this fast spreading plant is an increasing menace; originally introduced to Sudan as a device for creating windbreaks, this plant now dominates much of the agricultural land making it impossible to farm. In one project area alone $15M was spent in removing Mesquite.
We pass though a village of mud (well actually its clay) buildings. People smile and wave to us. kids play in the narrow sun-dried mud streets. I want to take a peek into one or two of the little square homes, but it not to be.
As we progress dodging in and out of potholes and bumps, we see in the distance 2 or 3 pickup trucks blocking our road. We draw closer. Maybe 15 men in Arab dress are standing in front of the trucks, shouting and waving their swords. We draw our convoy to a halt and within seconds we are out of the vehicles and engulfed by the noisy crowd touching each others shoulders and shaking hands. There are smiles and cheering and shouting “God is Great”. Our welcome party is here to meet us.
It turns out that they have come to the “front door” to meet us and now we must go to village. we all jump back into our respective vehicles and follow these excited men who stand crowded in the backs of their pickup trucks. Swords waving and shouting we speed off for another mile or two through the dust. We soon come to a halt again, this time to be met by maybe 10 men on camel back, We all race on, the camels at top speed, until we arrive at their village in the Makali block; a complicated network of round mud huts with straw roofs sitting in the baking sun in the middle of nowhere.
It transpires that one of the project team managers not only originates from this tribe - The Hadenduwa tribe - but is from tribal leader heritage. He has worked on this project for 4 years but is about to leave for a new job. Today is farewell to him from his tribe, which explains what happens next.
People clearly know we are coming and as the vehicles crawl through the village we emerge into a large open space (presumably a field during the rainy season) and are immediately surrounded by 200? maybe 300 men and boys, shouting and clearly very excited. Only their smiles and sparkling eyes let us know that this chaotic and noisy euphoria is not a threat. As we climb out of the car we are greeted with a sea of hands reaching to shake yours. I shake as many as i can - i soon realise that actually, two hands can shake twice as many. Old men and community leaders are first to get to the front and young boys bustle in watching intently. I shake the hand of one, and the “all-clear” is given, and floods of boys push forward to shake with you.
We are ushered toward a gazeebo-type sun shelter where 2 rows of chairs have been carefully arranged. A man with a microphone is whipping up the frenzy through a generator powered 200w mixing desk and speaker cabinet. I notice at least half a dozen men standing on the cab roof of a Bedford truck to get a view.
We are invited to sit. I feel like the queen on an official visit, and we are treated to no less of a spectacle. Tribal leaders take the mic in turn, skillfully both whipping up and calming down the frenzy with religious callings. These guys are no less MC rappers than any of the celebrities we see on MTV.
I have no idea what they are saying or what the gathered crowd is chanting. It is clear that their departing tribal member is very special to them, and it is clear that they are very grateful for the work being done by the development agency that i am working with.
As I am offered another date I hear my name mentioned - i hope its in a good context.
We are asked to say something, and fortunately my colleague steps up to the mic. He makes a great job of his improvised speech which is translated into arabic to the great delight and cheering of the crowd.
I sit and look at the scene. In front of me the crowd must be 20 people deep (no, 20 men deep - there’s not a woman to be seen) small boys at the front, behind them, older men and behind them the taller men. Further back still are a row of camels with riders atop.
This tribe is known for their curly hair, not tight afro-Caribbean type curly, but big loopy locks; the older men wear it bushy like mad professors, and youths wear it like young Michael Jackson helmets. The colour of the scene is wonderful. Everyone is wearing grubby robes and waist-coats. I guess the robes were originally white, but now are a pale terracotta from the red clay dust; Skin is not black but a rich chocolate brown, and the sky is sky-blue.
The ceremony continues with a dance. The mic is placed in front of the speaker of a portable cassette player and men unsheathe their swords to do ceremonial dances. Those are well honed swords and im a little worried that the dance isn’t as tightly choreographed as it might have been. Different men with different swords and daggers step into the center to display their skills and for a terrible moment it appeared that it was all going to go off as some people wanted to dagger dance while others wanted to do more mic chanting.
Eventually we are lead through the crowd all with fists raised. we walk away toward an old colonial building leaving the mass to continue dancing and sword waving. It is clear that we are going to eat, and i having just shaken hands with a hundred men, i wish i hadn’t left my hand-wash in the car. We take our shoes and socks off and Im offered a glass of water. I see everyone sharing glasses - actually, is that man drinking from the jug as well? - and i quietly leave it untouched for someone else to pick up and drink. We sit on the floor on grass mats, and large trays of food are bought before us. We sit and talk and eat. There is piles of mutton (crudely chopped, bits of bone and all), chopped liver and some other meat and onions. There is enough bread for at least 4 loaves each. I cant wash my hands so i might as well enjoy the experience and besides everything looks well cooked. Picking the bones out of the mutton is a fag for me but our new friends clearly have no problem and spit bits of bone onto the floor. The meat is tasty but stringy and it catches between my teeth, but no way am i going to try and pick it out before i get home to give my hands a jolly good washing.
Soon we are satiated, but there appears to be heaps of food left over. I wonder what you say to kids here that don’t clear their plate? Do you have to remind them that there are children starving in Africa? I suspect that nothing is going to go to waste.

On our hour long drive back to our office, I reflect quietly in the car. The experience was amazing but I am slightly confused. So much effort and money is going into helping these people to develop a sustainable livelihood - and they appear to be very grateful for it. But i ask myself if we are really helping them? These people appear to be quite healthy and quite happy (remember this is not a project that is providing relief to starving refugees). The development project is massive and complex and designed by experts from around the world. Some of the component objectives of the project are not being met. I feel that there is difference of culture. Tribal cultures and complexities don’t necessarily dove-tail with developed world systems - Credit and micro-finance services (in the way that the developed world knows them right now) don’t seem to work for the people they are trying to help. Its far to complex for me to understand or work out, but in my simplistic way i ask myself “who am i to question wether grubby clothes are a bad thing, simply because i come from a world where its good to have a wardrobe of many clean shirts?” Which of us is happiest? which of us is most fulfilled? Its been a long long time since I’ve danced with as much enthusiasm as these guys did.... and I’ve certainly never had the excitement of doing it with a lethal weapon in hand.