Selling The Big Issue In Khartoum

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...

Mother of Sharks

"3-2-1, Go!"

On Marco's command we roll backwards out of the zodiac and into the water. As we begin free-falling into the depths I look down, my eyes straining for some kind of visual reference with which to judge the clarity and depth of the water. I see the rough outline of the edge of the reef plateau some 80 feet below, and beyond that, nothing but inky darkness. As we sink further the water suddenly drops, only by a couple of degrees, but enough to be noticeable nevertheless. I shiver involuntarily; partly from the cold, though mostly from excitement. Cold water means one thing in these parts: sharks.

When we reach the plateau, we briefly halt our descent to swim horizontally for a short distance. As we reach the edge of the shelf, the sheer depth of the water beyond becomes apparent. I don't ever recall seeing water this dark before, and for a second I'm gripped by fear. I swim over the edge anyway.

As I drop deeper and deeper into the blackness my fears are eased by the reassuring buzz of nitrogen bubbling through my veins. Nitrogen Narcosis, "Rapture of the Deep", is an occupational hazard of diving beyond about 70 or 80 feet, at which point the usually inert gas (which makes up some 70% of the air we breathe) suddenly becomes powerfully intoxicating. The effect is hard to describe, though personally I'd compare it to a cross between alcohol and morphine; the relaxation and confidence of the drink twinned with the euphoria of the opiate, all the while underpinned with a barely contained terror. For despite the narcotic thrill from the tank on my back, diving this deep is a potentially hazardous endeavour, especially with the dulling of reaction times that goes with getting "narced". I try to breathe slowly to restrain my pounding heart and conserve the precious supply of air I carry.

I'm startled from my reverie by the sudden bleeping of an alarm; it takes me a moment to realise that it's the computer on my own wrist which is making the racket. I stare at the screen, for a moment not comprehending what is happening. The number "130" flashes repeatedly, alerting me to the fact that I have now reached the internationally- accepted depth limit for recreational diving. I push a button to silence the infernal beeping and kick myself downwards.

Ten feet below me Marco, the divemaster, points into the distance. Slowly an unmistakable shape emerges from the gloom. A shark. As it swims lazily towards us, its colouration becomes apparent, glistening in what little light penetrates these murky depths, the dark upperside contrasts beautifully with the pure white underbelly. It approaches to within fifteen feet, then turns to flank us, all the time keeping one eye focussed on these strange intruders into its world. As it moves past, great tail slowly flicking from side to side, I try to make a mental measurement of size: somewhere in the region of 7 or 8 feet. At this point I realise with a start that the shark's head is grotesquely deformed. This is no reef shark, it is a scalloped hammerhead. My joy is unbridled. After some 300 dives across the globe, in locations as diverse as Australia, The Bahamas, Egypt, Tahiti and Thailand, I have finally seen this most beautiful and mysterious of sharks. And what's more, two more of the majestic fish appear in the gloom, circling in evident curiosity. "Just like buses", I think to myself, "I wait ages for one, and then three come at once."

Before I can fully savour the nitrogen-enhanced euphoria of the hammerheads, however, I am once again startled by the alarm bells ringing on my wrist. The computer tells me I am now at 152 feet, and have incurred seven minutes of decompression time. In short, this means I cannot return to the surface, even in the event of an emergency, for at least seven minutes, or I will almost certainly suffer decompression sickness: "The Bends". This is not a scenario I wish to consider: the bends is an excruciatingly painful condition, often leading to paralysis or death, particularly in the absence of immediate remedial treatment in a recompression chamber. There is no functioning chamber in Sudan. I swiftly obey the computer's instruction and start to move to shallower depths. I look down and realise with horror that I can no longer see Marco, some fifty feet below; only the trail of bubbles from his regulator betrays his position.

As I drift back to shallower water, and head towards the plateau, I spot two more hammerheads below. One is a juvenile, no larger than two feet, and is dwarfed by what I presume to be its mother, swimming protectively alongside. The two swim directly beneath me, and I marvel at the perfectly formed miniature version of this beautiful animal. While I explore the shallower reaches of the reef wall as part of my decompression time, I keep one eye to the blue in search of more sharks. While there are no more hammerheads, the water being too warm at these depths, a few grey reef sharks cruise casually past, sometimes coming closer for an inquisitive look at the divers. While not as exciting as their bizarrely-headed cousins - I have seen reef sharks countless tiems before - there is always something special about every encounter with a shark. Their power, beauty, and mystery never fails to inspire awe among divers, and though few would admit to feeling actual fear, there is always a certain increase in heartrate associated with the sight of that unmistakable shape in the water.

Sharks are the main attraction of diving in Sudan; the reefs may be pristine and relatively unexplored, and this may be the site of Hans Hass and Jacques Cousteau's pioneering forays into the underwater realm back in the 1950s and 60s, but ask any diver why they are in Sudan, and the answer is invariably the same. One site in Sudanese waters even bears the name Um Gerosh: "Mother of Sharks". This being the wrong seson, however, I did not visit that particular location; in many ways though it is an apt description of Sudanese diving as whole, this being one of the increasingly few areas of the world where it is still possible to view sharks in relative abundance. For despite the widespread perception of sharks, due in no small measure to Steven Spielberg's Jaws, sharks have much more to fear from us than we do from them.

Nobody actually knows how many sharks are killed globally each year, though estimates range from 25 to 100 million. What is not in doubt is that shark populations are declining at breathtaking speed. The Shark Trust, a British charity which campaigns for shark conservation around the world, estimates that the populations of most of the 300+ species of shark have declined by a staggering 70% in the last 20 years. Some species have been reduced to 2% of their original size; many individual populations have been decimated even further. The culprit is not hard to identify: shark fishing is largely unregulated, particularly in Asian waters. The Chinese, ever-rapacious in their wanton destruction of the planet's resources, have a seemingly insatiable appetite for shark fin soup, and a simarily mystifying obsession with the non-existent medicinal and aphrodisiac properties of sharks. A single whale shark fin can fetch $20,000 on the Chinese market; there are no shortage of fishermen willing to hunt such valuable fish. Perhaps most disgustingly, the Chinese do not eat the rest of the shark, only its fins, and thus millions of sharks are subjected to the gruesome process of "finning": hauled aboard a floating fish processing plant on longlines, the sharks, still very much alive, have their fins sawn off with a hot metal blade before being thrown back into the water to drown.

Yet the plight of sharks is widely ignored, as environmentalists strive to protect more photogenic, ie "cuddly", species, or jump on the bandwagon of Al Gore's crusade against global warming. Within a few years there will be no sharks left, and few will mourn their passing. They will be just one more sad casualty of mankind's relentless destruction of the planet. It's entirely possible I will never be lucky enough to see hammerheads again. In which case, at least I will always have the memory of the sharks of Sanganeb; I have absolutely no doubt that the next generation of divers will not be so fortunate.