When I was 17, I rather foolishly went to see the then recently re-released horror film The Exorcist at the cinema at midnight on Halloween. I was so terrified I had to stop the car on the way home and chain-smoke a couple of a friend's cigarrettes just to stop my hands from shaking. I slept with the lights on for about a week. Though I own the film on dvd and have watched it dozens of times, it still never fails to scare me senseless.
With this in mind then, imagine my horror when my Sudanese dive trip concluded with noxious green liquid began oozing from my aural cavity. This delightful discharge was accompanied by the kind of searing pain I'd only previously encountered in hospital beds shortly before some kindly nurse began dishing out the intravenous opiates. While I was almost certain I was not the victim of diabolic possession, I was undeniably in some considerable discomfort. Such discomfort, in fact, that I was forced to take my life in my hands and take drastic measures indeed. I went to the doctors in Sudan.
Given the quality of food, hotels, roads (not to mention the prison cells) in Sudan, this was certainly not an adventure upon which I embarked lightly. Maybe it is evidence of how far the NHS has fallen on hard times, or perhaps my negative experiences of the British medical system are skewed because of my long residence in 3rd world east London, but I was pleasantly surprised by my exposure to Sudanese primary care. Admittedly my waiting time was reduced somewhat by my skin colour and nationality (a not uncommon example of the positive discrimination which is often experienced as a white man abroad), not to mention the fifty dollar bill in my hand, but the service was exceptional. The doctor spoke impeccable English, superior certainly to that of anyone in my own GP's surgery in Bow (not once did he say "innit"), his office was spotlessly clean, and the equipment included a striking array of shiny new plasma screen monitors on which I was able to view the live ultrasound of a young Beja tribeswoman taking place behind a curtain. (While the Qu'ran clearly forbids both craven images of living things and women from showing uncovered skin in public, I'm not at all sure of the ruling on random passers-by staring intently at digital images of a foetus swimming around the womb.)
I'm not sure either whether the doctor had seen Linda Blair's fluourescent green oozings in the scariest film of 1973, but his reaction upon peering into my ear was certainly similar to my response to The Exorcist. For a second I was tempted to grab the crucifix from his wall and do something unspeakable while exclaiming " fuck me Jesus!", just to see what'd he say, but the urge thankfully passed. According to the good doctor (as the sign above his desk proudly annoucned, the esteemed recipient of a "degree from the prestigious University of Khartoum") no less) I was not the victim of Satanic visitation after all, but in fact had an ear infection of some unusual severity, for which he prescribed a rockstar-esque cocktail of potions and pills.
And here's where the trouble started. Due to a US trade embargo dating from the Khartoum government's rather ill-advised decision to back Saddam Hussein in the Mother of All Battles in 1991, Sudan is not connected to the international banking system. There are no international ATMs or credit card machines in the country; even the Khartoum and Port Sudan Hiltons only accept payment in hard currency. Consequently visitors must carry all funds necessary for the duration of their visit in cash, and hope that they don't become an unfortunate exception to Sudan's generally negligible crime rate and scrupulously honest people. I myself spent the first two and a half weeks of my stay carrying the best part of two thousand dollars, in fifty dollar bills, in a money belt down my trousers. However, having spent most of that on my dive trip, I was left with a mere $150 for my last three days. After forking out $50 for a bus ticket back to Khartoum, $50 for a doctor's appointment and a $39 dollar charge for medicines was not exactly ideal.
And thus, with $11 to survive on for three days, I found myself sneaking into the Blue Nile Sailing Club in the dead of night, and unfurling my sleeping bag on the lawn. While camping is a generally-accepted holiday and leisure pastime, it usually involves one or both of a) a tent and b) a rural location. People who spend nights in sleeping bags in parks are usually described as "homeless" rather than "camping", though to my shame I must admit it's not the first time I've slept rough in an urban setting. (NB: getting shit-faced and trying to find a hotel room in Brighton at 4am on a Bank Holiday weekend is not a good idea. Nor is trying to sleep on a gravelly beach when the tide is coming in, nor indeed is attempting to find repose in a "secluded" corner of a 24 hour convenience store, using a family size packet of dried pasta as a pillow.) At least the Sudanese don't much care where you sleep - given the extraordinary heat, many of them pull their beds into the street anyway. Unfortunately the downside of the balmy tropical nights which make outdoor sleeping so pleasant in Sudan are the scorching daytime temperatures, which meant that all of my precious $11 (yes, I survived 72 hours on just over a fiver at the prevailing dollar-sterling exchange rate) was spent on liquid refreshment. Say what you want about the evils of global capitalism, but when the mercury is pushing 45 degree Centigrade, the ability to procure an ice-cold bottle of Pepsi in deepest darkest Africa should not be underestimated.
Accordingly, I spent my last evening in Sudan, literally penniless, enjoying a 5 mile stroll through the southeastern suburbs of the capital to Khartoum International Airport. I'm not sure I can pay more glowing a tribute to the hospitality, friendliness, and honesty of the good people of Africa's largest country than to say I was able to sleep in a park for two nights, leave all my possessions under a tree for two whole days, and then wander aimlessly through the outlying slums of the capital with no danger my health or wellbeing whatsoever. It might be a total shithole with minimal infrastructure and precious little of interest to actually see, but of the forty or so countries I have visited in all corners of the globe, Sudan must rank as the safest and friendliest, bar none. Which sort of begs the question of how and why they've spent almost the entire fifty years since independence committing bloody genocide against each other. But that's another story...
