Medically challenged

Ed Damer Hospital

Not to exaggerate my near demise in the north of Sudan ... but let's just say it's been a long eight days.

It started out as a typical upset belly and I dismissed it as being something I ate.

Over the next few days I was stuck in bed and unable to attend classes due to severe stomach cramps that made it almost impossible to stand up straight.

I would shuffle back and forth between the sitting room and the kitchen, doubled over and hair askew like a housewife gone to hell.

 ... I lost my appetite and my momentum.

The neighbours stopped by with cups of mint tea and kindness, but still it didn't pass.

I began research possible causes online, which bought up a long list of possible bacterial suspects, including the rather nasty sounding Helicobacter Pylori bug.

When I complained about my symptoms to my friend Rahel she announced she was taking me to hospital.

I'm not going to lie, an African hospital immediately inspired horror images of dingy, roach infested wards.

This image wasn't helped any either when Rahel informed me that the doctors at the hospital were not at the best time of their careers.

In truth, it looked as though people had turned up at the hospital for a social outing rather than because it was medically necessary.

White turbanned men squatted in the shade drinking tea and chatting, while on the other side women in traditional tobes greeted each other in typical Sudanese style - tapping the shoulder and then shaking hands.  

The women's colourful clothing adding a splash of colour to the otherwise drab surroundings and dirt-caked hospital walls.

We entered a nondescript room and Rahel translated my symptoms to a young, female doctor and without any further examination or consultation, she ordered a round of blood tests.

This involved me sticking my bare arm through a small slot in a window and a nurse stabbing at my forearm.

I squirmed and yelped while the lady manhandled my veins. Embarrassingly a line of people waiting behind were there to witness my lack of bravado.

Afterwards, Arm Stabber cackled loudly and suggested a tour of the hospital while we waited for the results

“Who is she?”

“Where did you find her?” , came the incredulous whispered enquiries as we passed through the corridor.

The hospital grounds comprise of the mud-splattered main building, thankfully cheered up by a small front garden lined by palm trees. 

We find a cafeteria located to the back and a dusty outdoor waiting area running parallel to the entrance.

It wasn't immediately clear, however, what people were waiting for exactly, as no-one seemed to be in pain or even in any particular hurry.

Women lazed on benches or on the ground, while nearby a family picniced together on a straw mat.

We snuck in a back door that was marked 'No Entry' and were greeted by a towering guard, who immediatley took on the role as tour guide.

Dressed in a white turban and flowing jellabiya, he had an imposing presence and a booming voice that echoed down the empty corridors.

Setting a brisk pace, the guard pointed out the specialists' offices, as well as the surgical and maternity wards.

The equipment and procedures were somewhat old-fashioned and haphazard, but the hospital itself was clean and well-kept in sharp contrast to my earlier visions.

Half-way down the hall the guard suddenly lowered his voice and quietly enquired about my marital status to Rahel.

When she translated for me, he roared with laughter, giving me a hearty whack on the back that in my newly emaciated state nearly sent me flying down the corridor.

He finished the whirlwind tour by parading me in front of a group of exhausted looking new mums, apparently unperturbed that one was in labour on the bed, before giving me another hearty whack on the back in farewell.

My tests were negative for malaria and typhoid and when I return to the patient's room with my results, I find two new doctors inside.

One says it could be the helicopter err ... helicopbacter thing, while the lady doctor declares it's gastro and promptly leaves the room.

Again there was no examination, although one advises me to drink milk - specifically cold milk and only in the evening.

In the end they send me home with a packet of meds that cost 2 pounds (about 35 euro cents).

Two days later I was at the house of Fadia and her husband Abdul Raheem for lunch only to collapse immediately following the meal.

It was at this point that I was truly grateful for the Sudanese custom of having beds, rather than couches in the living room.

Poor Fadia had to suddenly contend with a groaning, immobile house guest that kept dozing off.

She covered me with a sheet and did her best to take my mind off things with mint tea and discussions about literature.

Instead of the usual handshake, I hug Fadia goodbye as I'm leaving - partly because I'm having standing up straight and partly because I'm so grateful for her mothering and kindness.

The following day Fadia and Abdul Raheem pick me up and take me to a private clinic in Atbara that was recommended by another SVP volunteer.

Ambulance at the ready

The clinic is run by the softly spoken Dr Wadia, the former Dean of the Medical faculty at Camboni College, who is also a supporter of SVP. 

His friend Dr Safiah, who is the current Dean, is also there.

They both speak near flawless English and have a friendly and reassuring approach - although I start to have a nagging concern that my 'condition' isn't nearly serious enough to warrant the attention of two medical deans.

They perform an examination, as well as a series of tests - which all come back negative - and refer me for an ultrasound.

Before leaving the clinic, I knock on Dr Wadia's office door to thank him and enquire about payment.

He looks up from his notes briefly and raises his hand, saying simply: “You are our guest” .

I am both humbled and touched by Dr Wadia's kindness. In fact, his gesture leaves me lost for words at the time.

I can't help thinking how unlikely a similar gesture would be repeated in Australia or other parts of the Western world.

Likewise, Fadia and Abdul Raheem gave up hours of their time to make the 24km round-trip from Ed Damer twice in one day - first to the clinic and then back again in the evening where we waited hours for an ultrasound appointment.

I can honestly say I have never experienced such genuine kindness, hospitality and generosity anywhere else in the world. It is a rare quality and a beautiful aspect of life in Sudan.

Oh...and the diagnosis in the end - gastritis brought on by the anti-malarial meds I was taking.

Turns out news of my medical woes has also been doing the local gossip rounds, with teachers at the various schools Rebecca and I teach at already well-informed about my diagnosis well before I returned to work.

Life in Ed Damer so far

Our courtyard

A home away from home

Our home in Ed Damer is a simple, yet comfortable sanctuary surrounded by mud brick walls, with a wide verandah and white-washed arches that lend a certain colonial elegance.

A hardy tree and several henna bushes also add an unexpected splash of green to the otherwise bare courtyard.

There is one tap in the bathroom, but water is only switched on at certain times of the day, so to ensure we have enough to keep us going, we fill a large barrel for use throughout the day.

Tap water...after boiling

These days I use a bucket for almost everything  - from showering, to flushing, laundry and washing up.

The water supply is pumped directly from the Nile and is brown in colour, with a slight muddy consistency, even when boiled. 

The locals say it’s safe to drink, but I’m not too keen to risk it.

Ed Damer itself is a biggish town with a village feel that on the surface seems rather unremarkable.

Wide dusty streets comprise of a series of low-level interconnected mud-brick houses distinguished by the brightly coloured metal gates so typical in Sudan.

There is little in the way of restaurants, cafes or entertainment. Even the omnipresent tea ladies so common in Khartoum are hard to come by.

Railway tracks cut through the centre of town, with a modest brick structure marking the station. The bustling rail industry during British colonial has long since faded and passenger services no longer operate.

The rhythm of life here beats at a constant and unhurried beat, driven by the ties of family, duty and faith.

Nights are mostly quiet and uneventful here, except for the distinctive braying of donkeys.

My bed, with improvised net

I sleep outside on the verandah under my mosquito net – and although it’s winter in Sudan at the moment, you’d hardly know it.

As I watch the stars just before falling asleep, I sometimes get the feeling I’ve fallen off the edge of the world.

Our neighbor and alarm clock every morning is the local Suhaili mosque next door, which sounds the morning call to prayer at about 4.30am each day.

Ed Damer sits on the Nile and this is undoubtedly the town's jewel and lifeblood, with the famed river's clear blue waters flowing through fertile farmlands on its way north to Cairo.

There is something majestical about watching the sunlight reflect off its glimmering surface as men in white jalabiyas walk stroll along its banks with donkeys in tow.

When cultures collide

I’m yet to start teaching as it has been a holiday since my arrival and my timetable arrangements are also still being decided.

Rebecca has introduced me to some of the local English teachers at a nearby girls’ boarding school.

Local ladies

They are enthusiastic and welcoming, although their language abilities are limited.

I find myself experiencing a collision of worlds when a discussion begins about polygamy. 

For me the idea is unthinkable, but the women here are pragmatic.

As the head of the English department explains, while ladies certainly don’t like sharing their husbands, under Islam men are permitted up to four wives and if their husband decides to take another woman as his wife it is their duty to accept it.

Later the conversation turns to life in Ed Damer. I ask one of the young ladies about a camel market I have heard about it, and her eyes widen in surprise.

Women aren’t allowed, she explains, it’s only for men. I ask if I can go if I am accompanied by a local man, but she says even that is not permitted.

Girls' boarding school

In fact I soon discover that women are not allowed at any of the markets – with the exception of the ladies souk on Saturday.

If women need something during the week they must send their husband or a male relative to fetch it.

This seems ridiculous given that women in Sudanese households manage all of the cooking and domestic chores.

I can't imagine Sudanese men have a particular love of grocery shopping either.

The teacher also tells me that as a young, unmarried woman she never goes to the souk herself, sending instead her mother or sister in her place - even on Saturdays.

Market handicrafts

She recommends I do the same myself, although I’m not sure of how the logistics of that would work given that my mother isn't exactly living in the same neighbourhood.

When I ask the young lady why she doesn’t go to the market to get the things she needs herself … she shrugs and says that’s the way it is.

I bite my tongue at the time….but I still can’t completely shake off my feeling of annoyance at what feels like an imposed restriction on women from going about what is essentially a normal daily routine.

My Sudanese family

Fadia and her family have taken us under their wing since our arrival in Ed Damer and have been very helpful in settling us into our new home.

Their house opens out onto a lovely green courtyard and has a comfortable, lived-in feel.

The Nile in all its loveliness

Fadia's children Sheza and Ali also speak English and have been very welcoming. I feel as though I have already started to consider them my Sudanese family.  

They invited us for lunch at their home on the weekend, and we passed a lovely afternoon that turned into evening as we sat chatting, drinking iced karkade  (a sweet drink made from hibiscus flowers) and milk tea.

After lunch we set out for a short walk through the neighbouring farmland to the banks of the Nile. Along the way we bump into some local brick builders, who oblige by posing for a photo.

We reach the Nile just as the sun is setting. It’s a beautiful site as the orange and pink hues converge and sink below the horizon.

The moon is nothing more than a thin sliver and Fadia clasps her hands in front of her sends a short prayer into the sky, a special hadith said at this time of year to mark Al-Hijra (the Islamic New Year).

Local brick workers

When we return Griselda recites a limerick verse she composed for me while we were out concerning my encounters with the vagaries of Sudanese bureaucracy. 

It’s the first time someone has written a limerick for me and I’m quite chuffed to say the least.

The following day we picnic on the banks of the Nile a short distance from home. 

I play marbles and Scrabble in probably the first time since high school and somehow manage to fail convincingly at both.

Fadia also takes us to the ladies souk to shop for weekly supplies. It’s a noisy, assault-on-the-senses, but easily laid out with all the essentials. 

Fadia helps with bargaining and I memorise the prices of things so I can try out my own negotiating skills next time.

I’m still pretty shy when it comes to bargaining, but it’s a way of life here, so it’s something I’ll just have to get used to.

Picnic by the Nile

The traders are wide-eyed to see Griselda and two other Khawajias (foreigners) wandering amongst them and words soon spreads around the souk like a game of Chinese whispers. 

Of course everyone wants to know what we are doing and why we are here.

After the hustle and bustle of the souq Rebecca plays us all a tune on her viola back at the house. 

There are tears in Griselda’s eyes at the end as she tells us how much her late husband would have loved to have been here to hear music played in their home and how glad she is to see it come alive again.

On the wall hanging opposite us a portrait shows a reclining Abdullah Tayib laughing and relaxed, so in some way it feels as if his presence is here after all.

“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.”