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.

“You're not in Paris, you know!”

The streets of Paris ...?

After almost a month in Khartoum, my paperwork is all finally in order and it’s time to move on to Ed Damer and what will be my new home for the next seven months.

There are some nerves about what I can expect there, but I’m also looking forward to settling in and being able to unpack after living essentially a transit lifestyle for more than three months – first in Rome and then in Khartoum.

Ed Damer is the capital of the River Nile State in north-eastern Sudan and about 300km from Khartoum. 

It lies across the bridge from neighbouring city Atbara, which sits at the junction of the Atbara and Nile rivers and was once the centre of the Sudanese railway industry, which has now fallen into decay.

Home away from home

I made the trip to Ed Damer by bus with Griselda – the British widow of famed Sudanese scholar Abdullah Tayib – who has kindly offered her vacant house for me and Rebecca’s use during our stay in Ed Damer.

Now in her 80s, Griselda has lived in Sudan since the 1950s and is somewhat of a minor celebrity here.

While we were buying bus tickets, locals snapped photos on their phones and watched on half in amusement, half in open admiration as she fired off orders to her entourage in rapid Arabic.

She might rely on a walking stick to get around, but there was nothing feeble about her scathing dismissal of the hawkers stubbornly haranguing us.

“Isn’t this just ghastly?” she says with posh British aplomb as she cuts a pass through the bustling marketplace and we board the bus. 

Despite the madness and chaos at the bus station, the journey itself was surprisingly civilized.

There’s perfumed air conditioning and light snacks and drinks were even provided. 

Farmlands around Ed Damer

Admittedly, there were some genuine moments of terror - most notably when the bus swerved - not once, but twice - to avoid an oncoming vehicle.

At this point rather than slowing down, the driver inexplicably accelerated, causing the bus to lurch dangerously off-road and almost tip over.

There were also several stops along the way for the men to pray and pee (women must hold on) and in the end it takes about five hours to cover the 300km distance.

Griselda is a lively conversationalist nevertheless and keeps me entertained me with stories of her and her husband's early life, as well as pointing out archaeology sites and other points of interest along the way.

The terrain for the large part is unrelentingly flat and dusty – empty except for a few nomadic goat herders and the spindly low-lying trees that somehow survive in the harsh desert environment.

The junction of the Atbara and Nile rivers

Later, some remarkable rocky outcrops break up the flatness of the landscape and the scenery becomes more dramatic.

As we pass close to the Meroë pyramids, orange-hued sand dunes rise out of the desert and the road suddenly cuts briefly through a small mountain pass.

Griselda’s niece Fadia and her husband Abdul-Raheem are waiting to pick us up at the station in Ed Damer.

It is already starting to get dark when we arrive, but in the distance I can see the familiar gait of camels moving nochalently across the shadows, as well as the distinctive tents of the nomadic tribal people scattered along the outskirts.

As we drive towards the town centre, Griselda turns to face me in the backseat: “So Katie, what do you think?” she asks gruffly … “You’re not in Paris, you know.”

Showers and loos: the new optional luxury

Now, I’m not adverse to a bit of roughing it from roughing it from time to time, but even so, the last few days have been somewhat trying for the SVP household here in Khartoum. 

After a fantastic few days away for the Muslim holiday Eid (more about that here), we returned to discover the water had been off for the last three days. 

A former volunteer, who was manning the fort so to speak, had contracted the chicken pox while we were away, and thus the general the state of the flat had also rapidly deteriorated - most notably the toilet situation, which had begun to rival the nightmarish loo as seen in Trainspotting.

Everyone was tired, dusty and generally in need of a good bath after our long journey back to Khartoum, which involved several stops along the way for mechanical problems.

Unsurprisingly, news of the shower situation and the general state of the flat put everyone on a bit of a downer. 

On a rooftop in Riyad

 Although we all wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed, we soon escape en masse to the posh suburb of Riyad after being invited to a small birthday gathering for Anika, an intern at the German cultural institute here.  


This is my first visit to the so-called Beverley Hills of Khartoum and it really does feel like a world away from the dusty, rubbish-strewn streets downtown. 

Compared to the dismal state of our own abode, Anika's apartment - complete with air conditioning, tasteful décor, comfortable floor lounges and a wonderful roof terrace - feels like the pinnacle of luxury.

We arrive at her door like ragged desert urchins with an assortment of cakes, tea and soft drink, partly as birthday gifts and partly as bribes for the use of her shower.

Later the grim situation back at the flat almost melts away as we sit chatting on Anika's rooftop terrace, a soft breeze kissing freshly-showered skin and the lights of Khartoum spread out around us.

It's almost enjoyable to lose track of time in our comfortable new surroundings, that's the problem.

It's almost 1am when we finally manage to get an amjad back to the flat, but Abdul the doormen has already locked the gates and no-one is able to track down the after-hours number. 

We explore jumping over the back concrete fence (fail), kicking the doors (fail), shouting (fail) and finally waking up the receptionist of a nearby hotel (fail again). 

It soon becomes apparent that instead of falling into bed as we had all been wanting to do several hours ago, we must instead roam the streets of Khartoum until morning. 

This sentence is no doubt going to give my mother heart palpitations, but in reality the streets of Khartoum are probably safer than most of the European capital cities (although I’m sure no-one will ever believe that).

At this time of night, the city is almost eerily deserted, apart from the odd pack of stray dogs and some bored looking security guards.

We kill some time walking around; chatting about other challenging experiences we’ve faced in our lives as a way of convincing ourselves that the current situation really isn't that bad after all.

A couple of hours before dawn we wind our way back to the flat and gather some bricks together as makeshift seats and wait for the doormen to rouse.

A couple of hours doesn’t seem that long, but when you’re being systematically attacked by mosquitoes, a rat is scurrying behind in the darkness and a curious policemen with a rather large rifle comes to investigate, two hours can seem like a lifetime.

The gates are finally unlocked just as the morning call to prayer sounds, with Abdul more than a little surprised to find four sleepy khawadjas on the doorstep.

That was three days ago and this morning the water was finally switched back on again … Thank goodness for a shower and a functioning loo: I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated the simple things in life quite as much as I do right now.

Sleepless in Khartoum

The Ministry of Dance

If someone had of told me a few months ago that I will wind up in Sudan dancing in a ministry office during the middle of the day, I would have laughed out loud.

But life in Sudan so far has been already filled with many wonderfully bizarre and unexpected moments.

Rebecca and I accompanied SVP coordinator Becca to a meeting at the Ministry of Education today, where we were introduced to SVP champion Aifa.

A former English teacher herself before taking up her position in the ministry's planning department, Aifa tells us frankly that she became disillusioned with teaching after realising she was merely talking to her students rather than teaching.

Teacher-student interaction in class is almost unheard of in Sudan and one of the big failings of the country's education system remains it's adherence to a rigid curriculum, focusing largely on rote learning and exam preparation.

A friendly, quietly-determined woman, Aifa visited all 60 of Khartoum's schools, including the city's elite private institutions after accepting her position at the ministry.

She is also the driving force behind a new pilot program that the ministry is implementing in conjunction with SVP to help improve English language standards in secondary schools and provide more opportunities for teacher training.

As part of the new program both Rebecca and I will initially be teaching in secondary schools in Ed Damer, although it's hoped the program will be expanded further in the future.

For such lofty goals, the meeting began rather informally and after some small talk we sat down for a shared bowl of fuul (mashed fava beans) and sweet tea with Aifa and the other office ladies.

Quite unexpectedly Aifa told us that if we waited for an hour we could also meet the Minister herself.

We returned to the ministry later, but there was still no sign of the minister.

Aifa, however, seemed determined to keep us there, if somewhat unsure of what to do with us in the meantime.

After awhile she suggested we go upstairs to see a “program”.

We were all unsure of what exactly she meant by “program”, but nevertheless we headed upstairs to a large auditorium.

The heavy doors opened to reveal a loud party in full swing. Plates of peanuts and dates were laid out and a surprisingly good two-piece band were playing as the crowd clapped along enthusiastically.

A bevy of photographers and a cameraman covering the proceedings almost fell over themselves to capture the arrival of the khawadjas (foreigners).

More music and speeches followed and Aifa explained that a young man called Ahmed - who works in the Special Needs department and suffers from a physical disability himself - had recently graduated with his Masters in Special Needs Education.

To celebrate the occasion his colleagues had thrown a party in his honour.

Ahmed, who was also flanked by his mother and sister, was practically beaming as his colleagues lined up to shake his hand and present congratulatory gifts.

The men heartily slapped his shoulder, while women embraced his mother.

Rebecca and I were also whisked to the front of the line to offer our own congratulations to a rather bashful looking Ahmed, as the team of photographers again came running to snap our photos.

It was an incredibly moving and joyous moment to witness and one I suspect will always remain with me.

As the music started back up again, some ladies put their arms around Rebecca and I and we joined in as the crowd spontaneously began to dance.

Sudanese dancing involves bouncing rhythmically on the one spot, with hands raised above your head while clicking your fingers in time to the music.

The women also began to let out a series of high-pitched whistles - a practice typically used to express happiness.

After all, we do meet the Minister. Dr Suad Abdulrazak comes across as a sincere and down-to-earth woman.

She shakes our hands and speaks about her enthusiasm for the pilot program and the benefits she thinks it will bring.

As she farewells us, she tells us to visit her office anytime or call her if we needed anything.

Still, in the end our meeting with the hierarchy of education pales in comparison to the joyous celebrations of Ahmed’s achievements that we were so lucky to be a part of.