Gatecrashing the Ed Damer boys’ club

Rooftop shisha den in Ed Damer.

Since returning to Ed Damer after an almost two-month absence, the time has passed in a whirlwind of social events, lunches, invitations and even a random wedding. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath.

While my visiting my friend Inayat today, we were joined by my teaching colleague Ahmed, who is also her relative.

As we sit down to a light meal together, Ahmed urges me to eat quickly as he wants to invite me for a coffee. I was slightly intrigued, but assumed he was bringing me to his family home as Ed Damer isn’t exactly over-run with cafes and the tea ladies that frequent the souq are off-limits to women.

Bidding Inayat farewell, we take off at a brisk pace towards the centre, with Ahmed’s small talk at almost the same speed. I’m having trouble keeping up on both fronts when we enter the gate of a nondescript white building. Ahmed pauses finally and explains that we are entering a Naadi (men’s sports club). He tells me that although Sudanese ladies cannot enter, it's no problem for me since I am a foreign woman. 

Although I’m hesitant, the idea of entering a forbidden zone is somewhat beguiling.

We climb a narrow, darkened staircase, arriving at a rooftop 'bar' serving juice and the usual assortment of tea and coffee. The only other women are two Ethiopian tea ladies. Men sit in large groups, smoking shisha and chatting. Inside a small adjoining hut, football blares from two TV screens.

It's decidedly downmarket; the outside bar furnished with little more than a haphazard assortment of plastic chairs, low tables and large, glass shisha pipes, positioned on the grimy floor next to each group.

Ahmed points out other neighbouring shisha dens from the balcony, explaining that such clubs operate under semi-legitimacy, as smoking shisha is periodically banned by the government and is still frowned upon by some sections of society.

The other men almost fall off their chairs when I enter. In fact, for a moment, I think some of them actually will. They look like they couldn't be any more surprised if a green alien had suddenly sat down in their midst and ordered coffee. Although it's not overcrowded, I cannot remember ever feeling more conspicuous or scrutinised than I do at this point.

None of the men make any pretence to hide their stares and when I move closer to the balcony for a moment to see the view, I feel every pair of eyes follow me.

Ahmed is one of the few male colleagues and acquaintances that I have met in Ed Damer that I feel comfortable around, with others tending towards veiled advances. In fact, if anything, he behaves with an almost exaggerated politeness and formality towards me.

I wonder aloud whether my reputation in Ed Damer will survive in tact after being seen in a place of such ill-repute, but he waves away my concerns.

“Anyway, you are a foreign woman. You shouldn’t mind for such things. You are quite free”, he says.

Foreign or not, I have to admit that it feels good to throw off the shackles of what I ‘should’ or shouldn’t be doing and, despite the intensity of attention I’m attracting, being in that half-forbidden place, suddenly feels liberating.

I tune out the eyes boring into me and start to enjoy the atmosphere around me. Although it is still light, the sun is beginning to dip below the roof tops and somewhere in the distance the guttural evening call to prayer rumbles to life. A mute Palestinian man with matted dreadlocks passes the tables, begging money with a bizarre imitation of a sideshow clown. As part of the act he tweaks his nose, earlobes and nipples, emitting a high-pitched squeak as he does so. I'm rather relieved when he moves on to the next group.

At the same moment, Ahmed conversely bemoans the lack of entertainment options in Ed Damer, saying the shisha bars are among the few social outlets available.

Although he’s a regular at the bars, Ahmed tells me it is the first time he has brought company. He says his close friends don’t approve of shisha smoking and that he prefers to sit alone from the other clientele – a rough and tumble mix of construction workers, desert nomads and camel traders.

Ahmed orders jebana for me - the sweetly spiced coffee sipped from tiny cups - and settles back in his chair to smoke.

“Since you are my friend, I want to speak freely to you, to tell you about my problems,” he begins by way of conversation, before launching into a detailed explanation of his latest marital woes.

Ahmed’s first wife and love of his life died in childbirth and he later remarried a second time to a woman he had three children with and is now divorced. He has another two children with his current wife.

Coffee with a lot of attention

Having recently reconciled with his second wife, he has decided he wants to remarry her so that he can bring his children together under the same roof. This news infuriated his third wife, who promptly packed her bags and moved back into her mother’s house with their children. He has not seen or spoken to her or the children in three weeks. 

He tells me he is shocked by her “bad” behaviour and angry reaction and asks for my opinion on the matter. As I explain to him that for most women the idea of sharing a husband is an untenable situation, regardless of what religion or tradition dictates, he listens intently, ruminating on my words as though I am offering him the holy grail of a happy home and marriage. But I wonder if he can really be that clueless about his wife’s feelings.

In any case, Ahmed tells me he still wants to forge ahead with plans to remarry in June, even if his idea to bring his families 'together' means the destruction of his existing relationship.

The story only adds to my general confusion about the nature of Sudanese relationships, which seem to be conducted at turns with an idealistic romanticism and a staggering business-like impersonality.

I sip the last of the coffee, feeling the delicious hot liquid go straight to my head, like an electric jolt. We head back down the same darkened staircase, leaving behind the men's stares and the billowing, perfumed smoke. On our way out we pass a uniformed guard asleep on a rope bed near the front gate still clutching a half-full cup of shai in his hand ...

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.

Let's talk about marriage

Marriage is everyone's favourite topic in Sudan, followed closely by food, football and WWE.

Yes, you read right .... the popularity of the theatrical and kitsch world of professional wrestling may have waned elsewhere, but here in Sudan it still reigns supreme. 

Much like the flamboyant displays of wrestling prowess, Sudanese weddings are also a spectacle to behold.

Bound by a fascinating series of rituals and unique traditions, weddings are a central element of life here and unsurprisingly one's marital status is the first line of enquiry whenever meeting someone for the first time.  

Usually you're barely past the shaking hands stage before someone fires that blunt, inescapable question:

“Married?” 

Since arriving here I have been subject to an odd variety of marriage proposals - some joking, some half-serious - often accompanied by spontaneous confessions of love within days or even moments of meeting. 

One colleague told me that although he already had two wives, they displeased him and were too lazy to help him tend to his henna bushes. 

Would I be interested? 

On another occasion one ministry official lamented long and hard about his search for love in Sudan and his inability to find 'the one'. 

After dropping none-too-subtle hints throughout the conversation, he finally asked if he could
“enjoy” me.

I later discovered that the man in question already had two wives and several children - a fact strangely ommitted from his soliloquy on love. 

It is a tiring - and at times annoying aspect of life here that discussions with the opposite sex often centre around probing marital questions laced with awkward sexual undertones.

Local women on the other hand are more likely to embrace me in their conspiratorial girly fold, confessing heartache, romantic ideals, seduction techniques and secret loves.

This has afforded me a fascinating insight into the often complex protocols that go along with marital arrangements here in Sudan. 

Many women I have met are pragmatic about the notion of marriage. They want children and financial security, and romantic love is not necessarily a priority.

“There is freedom in marriage,” one young woman tells me.

A recent university graduate, she says that she has been unable to find work in her hometown. 

She wants to travel to Khartoum and search for work there, but her family has forbidden it as they do not want her moving away or abandoning her domestic responsibilities.

“A lot of Sudanese women want to get married because they are chasing the money - and I am one of them,” she says frankly.

She believes that once she is married she will be able to work and live more freely.  

“I want to be able to travel. It is my dream; at the moment I am trapped in this house.” 

Curiously she dismisses my questions about the possibility of marrying an unsuitable match or that marriage itself may also limit her personal freedoms and ambitions. 

Her elder unmarried sister, who is sitting nearby, concedes that she is increasingly worried about her own marriage prospects as she becomes older. 

However, unlike her sister she wants to marry for love and is not willing to compromise on that. 

“It is my life. If there wasn't love, I couldn't live with him,” she says. 

When it comes to marriage, many families literally prefer to 'keep it in the family', arranging unions between cousins or other near relatives. 

At the very least marriage should be between members of the same tribe and social class.

In rural areas in particular, marriage outside this close-knit fold is frowned upon or at best considered highly unusual. 

Marriage negotiations are typically carried out by the parents of the couple and it is the man that must make the initial approach.

One friend of mine fears that she will ultimately be prevented from marrying the man she loves as his family is pressuring him to take a female relative as his bride. 

She keeps the relationship a secret from her own family and constantly worries about the future of their relationship.

Another friend met her husband-to-be on a bus while returning to her hometown. A devout Muslim, who wears the niqab, exposing only her eyes, Nagla refused his request to give him her phone number even though in her heart she wanted to see him again. 

In the end, he gave her his phone number, but on the advice of her family she never called.

Despite her reticence, Nagla continued to think of him and nine months later he finally tracked her down. 

The engagement was finalised after negotiations between the families and Nagla revealed her face to her suitor for the first time.

She concedes that her engagement is unusual in that her husband-to-be is from a different city and the two families were unknown to each other. 

However, despite this rather unconventional beginning, she says her family have been largely supportive of her decision.

“A lot of girls are too shy to admit to their fathers that they love this man and that this is what they want,” she tells me. 

“I have always been honest. My father respects my decision and didn't try to stop me, but he said I had to be sure because at the end of the day, I will be the one who will have to live with him.”

For all of her obvious affection for her husband-to-be, Nagla has seen him briefly just a handful of times since theat first chance meeting on the bus and they have never been alone in each other's company.

According to Sudanese custom, the man is required to pay a sizeable bride price before the wedding can go ahead. This covers wedding costs, jewellery, bridal accessories, perfumes, makeup, shoes and clothes.

“The woman brings herself to the wedding; that is all,” a male colleague tells me wryly.

For this reason, men tend to marry at an older age when they are more financially secure, while women can marry much earlier - even in their teens. 

It was a shocking revelation to discover that some of my students included teen brides - some of whom were married off as young as 12. 

All the Sudanese women I have spoken to have told me that women now have veto rights over any marriage proposal, however, that being said, I can't help wondering how much awareness a teenager would have about the realities and possible impacts of such a decision on their future. 

Ed Damer remains an incredibly insular society and contact with the outside world is scarce or via textbook and films. 

For many people the existence of different languages, cultures, faiths and lifestyles is a completely abstract - even alien concept. 

Many of the teachers were openly surprised when I told them that in the West near relatives are hardly considered a prize catch - never mind the fact that adult-teen relationships are a criminal offence. 

I find personal discussions about marriage and relationships particularly tricky in Sudan - I am torn between being open about myself and attitudes in the West and staying silent for fear of offending or shocking. 

Sometimes I wish I could speak more freely, without the need for constant self-censorship, but more often than not I find myself opting for the latter approach.

I briefly attended my first Sudanese wedding in Bagarawiyah during Eid celebrations in October. 

I had never met the bride and groom before, who were relatives of a friend of mine - but that's of minor significance, because in Sudan at least there's no such thing as a gate crasher...it's more the merrier!

We arrived late, but just in time for the dancing - or rather shoulder shaking and finger clicking. 

Wedding celebrations in Sudan generally continue for about three days, but preparations begin months in advance.

Women are subject to a punishing beauty regime prior to their 'big day' - the most unique of these rituals being dokhan - daily smoke baths, which a bride continues for up to two months. 

As part of the process, the woman must cover her naked body with a blanket and sit over a small hole in the ground containing the burning embers of talih a fragrant acacia wood that gives the skin a yellow glow and alluring musty smell.

The bride's body hair will also be removed using a special mixture of sugar and lime juice heated to form thick, caramelised paste, rather like a traditional body wax.

The Sudanese equivalent of the hen's party is the El-hinna or henna party. 

Friends and family gather to dance, eat sweets and sing traditional wedding songs, all to a soundtrack of women's celebratory wailing, known as zagreet.

The occasion marks the first time the woman's hands and feet will be decorated in henna, which is the symbol of a married woman in Sudan. 

Covering the bride's fingertips and the entire soles of her feet, the elaborate designs often continue on her her ankles and forearms. 

After marriage it is the woman's responsibility to continue this procedure and ensure the henna remains fresh. 

A friend once told me that if a married woman allows her henna fade for reasons other than a family bereavement, people will start to gossip that there are problems in the marriage or that she is unhappy. 

Although I initially found the constant marital banter intrusive and irritating, I have come to accept its central position in the fabric of society. 

I even enjoy learning more about the intricate customs of marriage - snippets and small details revealed during conversations with friends over a cup of tea or meal. 

Although, as they keep telling me, I'll have to fatten myself up first if I'm to have any chance of having my own Sudanese dream wedding.

Apparently big really is beautiful in Sudan!