Three cups for welcome

Dawla sits on her haunches inside the tent, her dark red tobe folded beneath her as she patiently roasts the coffee beans over a small coal stove.

A Hendendowa woman from the nomadic Beja tribe, she wears the characteristic gold hoop through her nose, almost touching her lip.

Dawla, who is 20, was married at 14 and has a four-year-old daughter. The gold hoop, she explains was a present from her husband after their marriage.

Inhabiting eastern Sudan, Egypt and Eritrea, the Beja tribes largely continue to follow a traditional nomadic lifestyle, herding goats and camels.

They live in sturdy tents resembling a giant tortoise shell, with straw mats covering an elaborate wooden frame.

Constructed entirely by women, these can be easily dismantled whenever it is time to move on again.

Dawla’s husband is a caretaker at the nearby girls' school where I work on Tuesdays and a teacher friend has arranged the visit.

The ragged, wind-blown settlements of these hardy nomadic peoples are scattered around Ed Damer, the humps of their tents seemingly crouched over the ground in protection against the choking dust, blown across the desert.

I have often found myself wondering about the lives of the people inside those tents, scattered in clusters around the ugly concrete factories just out of town.

Dawla’s family and her in-laws occupy two nearby tents. A goat pen, small makeshift kitchen and shaded ziir (clay storage pots for drinking water) enclosure have also been constructed in the surrounding area.

The tent is a cool, dark sanctuary, compared to the glaring sunshine and early afternoon heat outside.

The interior is dominated by a raised platform for sleeping covered in special straw mats, which are specially made on the occasion of a woman’s marriage.

The wooden beams are covered by various colourful cloths, with traditional beaded jewellery, leather bags and camel whips hanging from the wall. Strips of dried meat are strung across the ceiling.

Dawla has an aloof, dignified manner and although she’s happy to show me around her home, she asks not to be photographed herself. Limited as we are by language and worlds, we observe each other with a kind of mutual fascination. 

Dawla removes the coffee beans from the heat and begins crushing them by hand, adding fresh ginger and other spices with a brisk efficiency.

She transfers the mix into the Jabana - a distinctive clay pot with a rounded shape, tapering into a narrow spout. She fills the pot with water before placing it over the hot coals, languidly fanning the embers at intermittent intervals.

Outside comes the sound of children’s laughter, as Dawla’s daughter and a young relative play nearby. With their ragged clothing and knotted hair, they seem almost to inhabit the dusty environment.

Dawla’s husband’s younger brother Mohammad returns home from school and crouches on the dirt floor, staring at me with a mix of incredulity and intensity. 

Later, he removes a small knife from the folds of his jellabiyah and begins sharpening it with a piece of sandpaper. Many adult tribesmen today still carry a sword, perhaps a throwback to their past, when the Beja earned a reputation as fearless warriors.

Dawla's mother-in-law - a small, thin woman, bearing the distinctive tribal facial scars, once performed as a sign of beauty - also enters the tent.

She talks in low tones to her daughter-in-law in their local Rotana language, indecipherable from Arabic, says Inayat. I ask them to teach me some basics and so I learn my first three words in Rotana.

The sweet aroma of ginger and coffee soon permeates the air as Dawla continues to fan the coals to keep the flame alive.

This ritualised coffee ceremony is performed by the Hadendowa to welcome guests as a sign of hospitality.

It is a languid and precise process, taking 20-30 minutes. The thinking being that the lengthy preparation time only magnifies the eventual enjoyment in the cup.

Once the coffee has been prepared, a small piece of loofah or similar material is inserted inside the spout to act as a filter when pouring the coffee.

Dawla arranges several tiny handless cups or fingan on a silver tray, spooning an alarming amount of sugar into each one despite their small size.

She pours the hot, dark liquid almost to overflowing and passes us the tray.

As my friend Inayat explains, the first cup of coffee is known as bikeri, followed immediately by the second round - tanee.

One thing’s for certain I must say, the patience and anticipation for this tiny cup is well worth the wait.

The coffee is spicy and delicious and surprisingly – considering the amount of sugar inside – not overly sweet. 

And no sooner have we finished, when Dawla again fills our cups to the top.

This third and (usually) final cup known as barakhe, continues Inayat is “for welcome and the happiness of meeting”.

I’ve never had a more poetic cup of coffee.

We drain the last cup and step outside into the bright afternoon sunshine again. Mohammad, Dawla and her mother-in-law remain standing at the entrance to their tent, waving briefly in farewell.

I feel as though I’m leaving behind another world.

“Debaako”, (goodbye) I call out with a wave of my hand, and suddenly the seriousness in their expressions slips. 

I can still hear the sound of their laughter as I walk away.

The third cup for welcome :)

 

No Perfume for Single Ladies!

As the bottle I bought with me to Sudan is running low, I recently asked some colleagues if they could recommend me some traditional perfumes of the local variety.

Some disapproving head shaking ensued, followed by a hurried discussion in Arabic.

Perfume is only for married women, I was informed – and even then only for special occasions.

Apparently wearing perfume when unmarried, the ladies explained, sent the wrong signals and made it difficult for men to control their “strict urges”.

Dabbing on a bit of perfume in the mornings remains almost my sole concession to any beauty regime since moving to Sudan, so I was surprised to discover that I may have been inadvertently sending out alluring signals all this time.

And while I’m still not sure what actually defines “strict urges”, I reckon it's probably best not to find out!

Out of curiousity I also asked my colleagues about fragrant oils, my thinking being that these generally have a more subtle scent and hence might be more acceptable, but no, these are also reserved for married women.

By way of consolation the deputy headmistress offered to make me some traditional Sudanese perfumes on my wedding day.

Society here demands a strict code of etiquette between the sexes, with marriage deeply steeped in traditions and cultural protocols, so it’s not entirely surprising I guess that perfume falls within this bracket.

The second helpful piece of advice I recently received on potential Sudanese beauty errors concerned jeans.

I was recently helping a teacher prepare lunch when her younger, newly-married sister arrived for an unannounced visit.

As Gihan lamented her post-baby body while frying potatoes over the stove, her younger sister rather unsympathetically observed: “My sister fat”.

Some lighthearted banter subsequently ensued between the sisters about who was the weightier of the two.

Unexpectedly her younger sister suddenly turned to me and hoiked up her black abaya to reveal skinny jeans and a modern white t-shirt with lots of bling.

It took me a moment to reconcile this new modern appearance with the covered woman of just a moment ago.

Holding her abaya aloft she strode across the room and stood next to her sister, “OK, who is the more fat? Me or my sister?” she demanded.

For a moment I was lost for words and even with all my acrobatic attempts at diplomacy, she continued to press, insisting I tell her on a scale of one to 10 who was “more fat”.

Sudanese love to complete with each other in all aspects of life and I am frequently asked to provide a running comparative scorecard on anything from teaching ability, English levels and appearance. 

Distracted momentarily from the matter at hand, my friend's younger sister went on to explain that jeans can be problematic for women in Sudan and that’s why she covers up with the modest black dress. 

“Do you wear jeans,” she asked.

At this point I paused, trying to gauge the levels of any potential shock I might cause if I was honest and told her that I regularly wore jeans in public at home.

In the end I told her yes, but not in Sudan.

This seemed to satisfy them as they both nodded their heads rigorously in agreement.

“Jeans big problem in Sudan.

“If you wear jeans here,” she said gesturing outside to the souq (market), “men won’t leave you to rest.

“They will chase you down the street.”

                                                      Perfume’s out, henna’s in!

Henna designs on the feet and hands may be a sign of a married woman here in Sudan, but unlike perfumes the tradition is not entirely off-limits to unmarried ladies.

To celebrate special occasions, namely other people’s weddings, single girls may also decorate their hands with feminine, attractive designs.

A teacher friend recently invited me to her neighbour’s henna party. Significantly the bride-to-be’s hands and feet will be marked for the first time with the distinctive patterns of a married woman.

This ladies-only event - known as El-hinna, is the loose equivalent of the hen’s night and friends and family celebrate by dancing, singing, clicking their fingers and wailing loudly in joy.

Shortly after I arrived for the event, my friend informed me I was going to have my hands hennaed.

It’s not a short process and after the design is completed, you must remain still for some hours with your arms suspended while the henna dries.

After the dried top layer is removed with water and soap before rubbing the skin with oil.

The elegant black lines curving across my hand and stretching up my forearm are - if nothing else - visually arresting.

Waiting for the henna to dry ... slowly

But I still don’t know what to think about my new arm art. I keep looking down and stretching my hands out in front of me, wondering if they really do belong to me.

Is it beautiful or too much? I can’t decide.

I’ve come to the conclusion that beauty is often adapted and defined not just by culture, but by our environment. 

I’m sure if I hung out in downtown Coolangatta with hennaed hands like this people would probably think it was a bit much.

Just like the Sudanese would think a typical outfit for a Friday night out on the Gold Coast is a bit much.

But although henna might be a more acceptable beauty practice, I have to wonder if it’s any less alluring than perfume. 

In the end, I guess it’s a matter of opinion.

Teaching in Sudan: The Rewards, the Challenges, the Social

It's nearing my three-month anniversary in Sudan and I just realised I hadn't written anything yet about my impressions of teaching. So, here goes: the good, the bad, the social and the sometimes frustrating. This could be a long one ...

In truth, teaching in Sudan sometimes feels more like a social event than education.

There is an unhurried pace to the day, and in-between lessons there are long stretches of sitting around doing nothing or chatting over several cups of tea.

The school day typically gets underway between 8.00-8.30am and after morning classes there is a break for breakfast - an inordinately long interruption considering the simple fare of fuul (bean stew) or tamiya (falafel) usually served up.

It can be a lively affair, with discussions ranging from the married ladies' latest henna designs, children, food, health ailments, lesson topics and personal problems.

Needless to say my marital status and future prospects also occupies a considerable part of breakfast time discussion.

Even when the bell does finally sound, there is little urgency to get to the next class and it's not uncommon for teachers to pour another cup of tea and continue their conversation.

Pilot program

SVP volunteers were last year placed at a number of secondary schools in regional areas as part of a pilot program established by the Ministry of General Education.

The Sudanese education system is characterised by a rigid adherence to curriculum, rote learning and exam preparation, with English levels across the board remaining low.

The program is aimed at improving students' speaking and listening skills, as well as encouraging more interactive teaching methods in schools.

We were asked to establish regular conversational sessions or ‘English Clubs’ within schools as a platform for students to develop and practice speaking in an informal environment, as well as conduct teacher training workshops. 

The Students' low levels, however, means even the most simple discussion topics are beyond their reach. Instead I tend to focus on simple grammar exercises, games and speaking activities to try and boost their confidence and encourage the everyday use of the language.

The four schools Rebecca and I attend in Atbara and Ed Damer were selected at random and none were given any advance warning about our arrival.

Further follow-up from the local ministry departments to date has been almost non-existent.

While the program certainly has merit, implementing such initiatives in any meaningful way would conversely involve a dramatic shift away from the current syllabus as it stands.

English language instruction in Sudan is facilitated by ministry-issued SPINE textbooks - and honestly it's hard to imagine a more uninspiring method of instruction.

Lessons are generally devoid of any creativity and almost all class time is devoted to complicated grammar explanations, with teachers doing all the talking and often translating whole passages word for word into Arabic.

Exam cram

Exam results speak volumes here in Sudan and may also impact on the amount of government funding individual schools ultimately receive.

Intensive cram sessions are held in the lead-up to exam periods in which teachers drill students on coursework, right down to the order and nature of questions and topics contained in the exam papers.

The English exam does not contain any listening or speaking components, so while many students might eventually manage to scrape through with a pass on paper, they will nonetheless graduate well below the standards required for higher education or employment in the private sector.

And while teachers almost uniformly acknowledge the problems in the curriculum and the low level of their students, few are willing to actually do anything about it.

The thinking being that if it’s not in the exam and not in the curriculum – it doesn’t matter.

As a result it is an ongoing battle to get any meaningful class time with students and most schools have informed me there is simply no space in the timetable available.

Rather, teachers will randomly summons me without warning to a class to “say something” or “teach literature”.

At the same time, schools have completely unrealistic expectations and seem to think that students will miraculously develop English fluency simply by being in proximity to the Khawaja (foreigner). 

Good days, bad days 

For all the challenges though, teaching in Sudan has its many joys and rewards, and there is little in the way of severe behavioural problems that you might typically encounter in the West. 

Aside from the possibility of an early marriage while still in their teens, the female students in particular have an endearing innocence and naivety about the world, with exposure to popular culture limited at best.

I once struggled to get a game of Who am I? going after my choice of Hollywood celebrities and international sporting stars drew a complete blank with students.

On the advice of another local teacher, I instead switched to the names of prophets and WWE (wrestling) superstars, which proved much more successful.

I have assumed a kind of celebrity status amongst my students and am often mobbed on arrival.

When walking through the school grounds, several female students will invariably stick their heads out their classroom window and shout my name by way of greeting.

Often groups of students will appear at my side, jostling for the nearest position next to me, while others grab my my hand spontaneously or compliment me on my fashion sense. Invariably they will tell me how much they love me and missed me even if it has been no more than a week since I saw them last.

Rather belatedly in life I have suddenly become the 'most popular girl in the school'.

During pre-Independence Day celebrations at an Atbara boys’ school recently, a Nuba Mountains student took to the microphone to welcome me to the event.

In a touching speech delivered in near faultless English, he wished that I should “feel at home in your second home: Sudan”.

Schools in Sudan 

Schools here typically comprise a series of low-lying concrete buildings laid out around a central dusty courtyard (or sometimes a garden if they're lucky).

Modern facilities, such as computers, projectors or visual aids are almost non-existent, with outdated class textbooks the only resource for students and teachers alike.

Class sizes range from anything between 30 to 70 or more students, with often four or five students crowded around a single desk.

It is a constant battle to be heard above the combined din of archaic fans, student chatter and the scraping of metal chairs and desks.

One of the single most depressing features of Sudanese schools however, is the total absence of any of the students’ work on display or adorning the walls.

Corporal punishment is openly practiced, with ex-soldiers typically employed as disciplinarians in boys' schools.

Often dressed in army fatigues and carrying wooden sticks or thick plastic tubing, these imposing men are a ubiquitous site in the hallways as they patrol for wayward students.

When I asked some local teachers to help me with some disruptive classroom behaviour I was experiencing recently they laughed and told me to take a cane with me next time to beat the students.

Getting teacher training workshops/and or brainstorming sessions off the ground has also proved to be a futile exercise.

Many teachers initially expressed an interest in the idea, however later when I tried to pin them down, they came up with the same series of tired excuses, even acting as though it was the first time they had ever heard me mention the idea.

In the end, I gave up.

It's not entirely their fault of course. There is not adequate time during school hours and holding workshops outside these hours poses problems as most teachers are women and have household duties and other social obligations to meet.

Many teachers are also working second jobs to make ends meet and simply don't have the time or energy for other things.

Any opportunities for professional development obviously take a backseat when you're just trying to get by.

Sweeping reforms

In the past schooling consisted of 12 years of formal education - six in basic (primary), three in middle school and three in secondary.

During colonial rule the curriculum beyond primary school was based on British educational models and the language of instruction at university was in English.

In 1990 the president masterminded a sweeping policy of Arabisation in the educational system.

Under these reforms the language of instruction changed from English to Arabic and an Islamic curriculum was adopted by all schools, colleges and universities.

Formal education was reduced from 12 to 11 years and middle schools were reorganised, with students now attending eight years in basic school and three in secondary.

After completing their basic education students now sit entrance exams to compete for secondary school placements.

The best students end up at so-called model schools, which are generally better resourced, while those in the middle will attend standard government schools.

At the bottom of the heap are the technical schools, where the worst performing students are sent to learn trades and other menial jobs.

Another disturbing aspect in Sudanese schools is the presence of teen brides, not always obvious as the decorative henna art typical for married ladies on the hands and feet is not permitted for students.

Although girls typically continue their education after marriage, the drop-out rates significantly increases if they fall pregnant.

However, it is the male students who particularly struggle and many start working from an early age to subsidise their family's meagre income.

In a trend right across Sudan, girls are now outshining their male counterparts in academic performance and significantly outnumber boys in higher education.

Making a difference

Even faced with the staid nature of the current curriculum and lack of resources, there are teachers who are willing to go the extra mile.

It’s not included on my timetable, but I recently started teaching at an Ed Damer basic school for boys, after being introduced to one of the English teacher’s at a dinner.

Ahmed still reminisces fondly about an English teacher he had during his university days called Kenny and his positive impact on the students' language abilities and morale.

The school where Ahmed teaches is the most obviously poor I have seen. One textbook is shared between three to four students as there are no funds for more I'm told.

The students' uniforms have a tattered appearance, with buttons missing and holes in the trousers. Their hair has a wild, dusty look.

Ahmed is one of the few teachers that lets me have free rein in the classroom, nor does he interrupt or translate my every word.

After this week’s class he asked me to give a short career pep talk in private to the best students as a way of driving home the importance of education and encouraging their English studies. Ahmed will provide translation.

Several students are marched in front of me while I frantically try to think of something inspiring and eloquent to say. They stare down at their shoes awkwardly, but thankfully overcome their shyness half way through, looking up to meet my gaze.

At the end some nod their heads solemnly, while others utter a simple kwayys (good) before shuffling out of the dirt-floored office. They look touchingly comical in their flip-flops and oversized winter jackets.

As Ahmed explained after they had left, all of the school's students live in the same impoverished area in Ed Damer, with many facing a complex variety of family and social problems.

After school, boys typically work in the fields or in other menial jobs. Little value is placed on education as families are often illiterate themselves.

Ahmed himself sells clothes and other goods imported from Egypt to subsidise his teaching salary.

What the school really needs is a student welfare officer or counsellor, he says, although given the obvious shortfall in funds available, it would seem an almost impossible dream.

Top of the class Mohammad, he continues is a kind, but lonely boy, who has seen his father – who works in Saudi Arabia - only once in the last four years.

His father has taken a second wife and even when he is in town, prefers to spend his time with his new family.

Ahmed says he considers Mohammad like his own son and wants him to do well in his education so that he can improve his situation.

However, given the lack of resources and vision in his country’s educational system, it will be an uphill struggle for Mohammad - and others like him - to break out of poverty and claim a brighter future.