Khartoum, Sudan: On The Commute To Work
By Matthew Scott

The large, dysfunctional air-conditioning unit above the door taunts me in the heat; it is almost 100 degrees but there is nothing but hot air and dust blowing into the room. I look through the thin mosquito net that hangs over my bed towards the clock. It’s six in the morning, and dawn is creeping through the hole where the window should be. The air-conditioning has never worked properly, but I often turn it on in a vain hope that it will.

Unable to take the heat any longer, I step into the shower; a broken ceramic tray with a metal bucket next to it; holding the brown, cool, water that I collected the night before. After a brief drenching I feel a little refreshed, only for the heat to hit me again within minutes.

I share the house with Colin, who also teaches at El Neilin University, I can hear his snoring in the next room, so I leave the door ajar to let in some of the breeze.

The house has its own enclosed terrace, which allows us to relax without offending the cultural sensitivities of the country; in the evening we can sit outside in shorts, shirtless, and entertain visitors without causing gossip among our Sudanese colleagues. However, the bustling street that runs next to our house is a constant reminder that we shouldn’t dwell on how we used to live.

I walk out of the courtyard, locking the gate to keep out the goats that wander the streets eating the trash.

The smell of freshly cooked fish fills the air as I walk past the small restaurant just behind the house. Fish, fresh from the Nile, quickly turn a crisp golden brown as they are placed in pans of boiling oil. There are only a few tables, under a decaying tin roof, which is supported by a few wooden poles. Most diners just squat on the floor, wherever there is space.

A samak breakfast is one of my favorite meals. The hot fish, served with fresh bread often entices me out of bed early. I still do not understand if I have a choice of what I can order. Upon recognizing me, the child waiter gives me a cheery ‘good morning’ and places a few fish in front of me. I wrap the fish in bread forming a kind of makeshift sandwich.

After I’ve picked the last flesh from the bones I give the boy a 100-dinar note (about 30c) and move on.

Walking up the dusty street, I see many familiar faces: the lady who begs with her daughter outside the bank, the boy with a pair of ancient weighing scales, the man in a dirty jellabeah who covers a blanket with ancient, second hand electronics and the old man whose legs are so bent and deformed by rickets he walks with flip flops strapped to his knees. There is also Isa, the shopkeeper, whom I always buy my bread and cheese from. I wave to him from across the street, but he appears to be too busy stacking up the loaves of flatbread to notice.

The center of Khartoum is a busy place. One of the many markets in the city borders a large bus station, yet with no discernable boundary people weave in and out of the traffic, carrying wares and food as busses and passengers noisily make their way through the crowds. Several restaurants surround the square, mixed in with the shops, food stores and butchers.

The waste from all these places runs though the open drains at the side of the road. The stench is particularly pungent this morning, and I wonder how the people that are sitting down to breakfast can have any kind of appetite.

People often approach me while I walk through the city, inviting me to join them for a bite to eat or something to drink. At first I was weary of being greeted so warmly, but after just a few days I saw this was not a ploy, simply a way to welcome, and get to know, one of the few foreigners in the city.

This morning however, no one approaches me. I am simply another face in the crowd, trying to make my way thorough one of the busiest parts of the city.

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