Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'Denial ain't just a river in Egypt.' Mark Twain

At the hotel, I am restless, and feel claustrophobic in my quarters. Somewhere in this country, several people know exactly what has happened, and are doing nothing about it. Someone is going to get away with murder.

I am meeting badminton Shelley and Rob this afternoon at a souq. I will receive my travel instructions from her, and an update on the investigation from Rob, who works in security. I shower, and then head downstairs to the lobby.

Khartoum is split into three pie pieces. The borders are Niles; Blue, White, and when the merge, the Great Nile. Khartoum occupies the south, between the smaller rivers. Bahri (Khartoum  North) lies east of the Great Nile.

My destination is the west side, Omdurman, which is too far for a tuk-tuk. I flag the nearest yellow taxi, an old Datsun B210 that is an unmemorable car, except for the reaction of a 'Price Is Right' contestant; jumping, screaming, and maybe crying because they might win one if they can guess the price of a toaster. That was forty years ago.

I am off to the Ivory market. The name is historical, leftover from the days when the market was a hub for the endless supply of elephant and rhino tusks. Of course, unofficially, no ivory is sold there today, but 'Ivory Market' sticks like an old high school nickname, and it remains the largest souq in Sudan for everything else.

To get there, I pass two important landmarks. One is the ornate circular Nilian Mosque, for which I am sad that I can't stay and have a closer look, considering my fascination with places of worship.

The other, is the Mausoleum of the Mahdi.

The  Berlin Conference in 1884 divvied up Africa into colonial european chunks. This would define their army's jurisdiction, and avoid inadvertent encounters and hostilities between overseas forces.

Britain retained a large region called The Sudan; it was administered by their ally Egypt. In 1884, Muhammad Ahmad led a revolt that ousted them from Khartoum. The rebellion spread throughout North Africa. He was then named Mahdi; the Guided one, and he moved the region's capital from Khartoum, across the Nile to Omdurman.

The British took The Sudan back under Commander Kitchener, which earned him the title Lord. That chunk of doctorate data was easy to remember; I once worked in the city of Kitchener, Ontario, which was originally named Berlin by the German Mennonite immigrants. Then World War 1 erupted, and Berlin was not an acceptable name in North America. It was renamed Kitchener, in honor of the man who was now the Secretary of State for War. I try not to get caught up in the small details and accuracy of this history, because although I don't agree with Napoleon that "History is a set of lies agreed upon", that shouldn't also mean that everything historical is a lie. Besides, it might be another useful tidbit in the Final Jeopardy round, when I finally make it there.

The Mausoleum of the Mahdi is in Omdurman, the self-proclaimed capital, but is closed to non-Muslims; I won't be able to have a closer look. As we drive by, I catch sight of the tiered, elongated domed brown and silver structure, nestled within a large park.

After a few more minutes turning down random streets, we come to the edge of the market, which is basically a wall of booths and kiosks.

As the taxi chugs away, I take in the crowds at the market. Badminton Shelley is easy to find. I also recognize Rob beside her, but only because we had rallied earlier; he blends in easily with the crowd.

Shelley wastes no time,

"This is the edge of the market, if there is anything you specifically need, let me know, otherwise, we will just go down this way." I nod. She continues,

"You are booked on the nine a.m. flight from Geneina to El-Fasher in two days. Here is the reservation," she hands me a piece of paper as we walk, "and on it is the address of the helicopter group. I sent their base manager an email, he should be expecting you." I fold the paper without looking at it, and store it I my pocket.

The souq is an enormous array of crammed stalls in aisles, in sections like an outside department store. The first part we enter is a zone of textiles; with several vendors and thousands of material rolls. Not far are tailors and their sewing machines, handily available to stitch your new material into something wearable. Down another aisle are fresh produce, spices, nuts, apples, and of course, regional dates. The next aisle, housewares, pots, pans, mixers, plates, just as you would find in a Sears or Wal-Mart.

There was even a haircut section, and a young man was having his semi-afro trimmed into the widely accepted thin layer of black fuzz.

At the next stall, a young man is leaning back in the barber's chair for a shave. I watch it like a street show.

I have never had a hot shave with a straight razor. That blade, as steady and as adept as an experienced barber is, still scares me. I would be terrified that as the blade clears the foam up to my chin, the slightest movement, a breath or a swallow, could slice open my neck. The thought not to cough would immediately make me need one. I would have to close my eyes, and try not to flinch as the steel scrapes my throat and I wish I had never seen 'Sweeny Todd'.

I follow Shelley and Rob to a café, and wait outside as she talks to the owner, who takes off his apron. We follow him down another narrow laneway, then through a door, descending some stairs. We duck under a narrow archway, and enter a tunnel; the walls are dirt. We pass a few small nooks, and then come to a larger one, and I follow their lead as they sit on pillows on the floor in a semi-circle around a small wooden table. We are not alone in this room; it is crowded with other small groups smoking hooka pipes. I've heard of this, but in my milieu, it is associated with illicit drug use.

Rob sees me stare at the pipes.

"It's called Shisha, just flavored tobacco, in case you're worried. Shelley placed an order; one tangerine, and one apple."

The pipes come, and they offer it to me. I decline, wanting to watch them first to see how it's done, rather than confirm my ignorance.

When my turn returns, I inhale, and note the burning tobacco, and the bubbling water. The exhale revealed an apple taste on my mouth, but it was unsatisfying; I would rather eat one.

Rob is also terrible at small talk, but makes an effort

"What do you think?'

I do not like smoking; nevertheless, I nod politely. He continues,

"As an update there is no new information from Geneina except that the police are calling the crime unsolved; they are not actively investigating it anymore. Unfortunately, that's all I can say."

I thank him, and then try the tangerine.