Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'Gold. Nub means Gold. Like my guiding company - Nub Kush. And the Nuba moun-
tains - the Golden Mountains. This is where the Ancient Egyptians came to find gold, and
then the Phoenicians, and then the Arabs, and then the English. And now . . . the Chinese.
Sudan is a golden country.'
I looked at Moez as he poured the sugary black tea into two small, chipped glasses on
a silver Chinese tray. He looked to be in his late thirties, with curly black hair. His face,
finely featured, with big almond eyes, looked almost feminine and complemented his high
cheekbones and rather large ears. He didn't look Arabic, but nor did he look black. He was
pure Nubian, an ancient Semitic people who have been the fathers of Sudan since ancient
times, and whose homelands are in northern Sudan and southern Egypt. In the half-light
of the room, I wondered how this man might fare as my guide. I didn't have the luxury of
time to decide. The plan was to be at the southern border tomorrow, back with the river. It
had been too long.
I asked him outright: 'Can you walk?'
'Yes.' He smiled. 'But where are we walking?'
I had presumed Mazar had told him. It seemed inconceivable that he hadn't - and I
began to wonder if this was all a practical joke between the brothers.
'I'm walking the Nile. I have been ever since Rwanda. Only . . . the fighting in the South
drove me out. I'm here to start again. Tomorrow, I'm going south to the border and, from
there, I'm following the river - all the way into Egypt.'
With a studious air, Moez wandered across the room and consulted his diary. 'How long
will this take?'
'Two months,' I said, 'more or less.'
He contemplated it further, lost in the diary. 'I'm free,' he said with bewildering non-
chalance, 'but I'll need to pack a bag first.'
The deal was done, whether I liked it or not. I had a new guide - one, I suspected, who
would be as different from Ndoole Boston as water from sand.
The mountain at Al Jabalain loomed like a giant black hand over the arid savannah. Step-
ping out of the car, palming payment to Salaah, the fat Nubian driver who had driven us the
two hundred miles from Khartoum, I stared into the south. Only two hundred kilometres
further south lay the northernmost edge of the great Sudd. I must have been staring at it
too long, because as soon as Moez had lifted the cheap bicycles we had bought from the
back of the van, he came to my side.
'At least you're still alive.' He smiled. 'If you'd gone into that place, you'd be dead by
now - and I'd still be looking for work. Do you know how few travellers come to Sudan
in the summer?'
