A trip on the river Nile

Walking down a red runner carpet laid across a beach of clay, discarded oil barrels, motor engines and another older boat, we embarked on a short trip on the nile. It’s a riverboat of sorts, the kind you book for wedding parties or for outings for business people.

It was a slow morning. The night before we were exposed to a side of Khartoum that’s more or less hidden, but still prevalent. The German Guest House. Alcohol is prohibited in Sudan, so to have a drink you have to visit one of the local establishments that smuggles in alcohol and sells it off (with huge profits). The place itself was somewhere in between a tacky holiday resort and a never ending sleazy hotel party. 

I know I’m supposed to write about the boat trip on the nile, but it’s important to describe The German Guest House, as the experience definitely set the tone for the morning on the Nile.

In our program, the boat trip on the Nile read as follows: “10:00 trip by boat on the river Nile and meeting with local artist.”

The previous day we had our self-presentations at the Goethe Institute in Khartoum and a whopping 4 people showed up for this event. Of these four people, three of them came along for our boat trip. Sokohn from South Sudan, Ibrahim from Khartoum and a guy whose name I can’t recall. He wore a huge rastafari-esque hat, and a couple of medallions with pictures of Bob Marley hung from his neck.

Along for our trip was also our friend/spy from the Sudanese government, a woman I presume was his wife and fourteen tired art students.

It was a nice morning. The boat sets off at a leisurely tempo and soon we pass under a noteworthy bridge, brought here by the British from India during British rule. Other sights include different water pumping systems, water towers and some fancy houses. Being interested in heavy industry and pipes, I learn the Arabic word for “pipes” as we pass by some of them. Later I learn that this word is also used to describe someone who does nefarious deeds. The word is now forgotten.

Most of our gang sit on the upper deck and, well, chill out. Our “meeting with local artist” seems to be on hold. After some time, a few people grew restless and gravitate downstairs to a table in the shadows by the bow of the boat. Of these people there are three local artists (actually two local artists and one guy working at the Goethe Institute) and three of us. A meeting of sorts takes place.

The conversation goes back and forth via Ibrahim, the only one who spoke any English. Since my knowledge of Arabic was limited to words like “pipes”, “art”, “art student” and “you are crazy!”, we had to go by English. It was a slow and pleasant conversation - probably influenced by the motion and atmosphere of our boat.

We talked about what they did in Khartoum, what they did at the Goethe Institute and what kind of art scene existed in Khartoum. Not surprisingly, it turns out to be incredibly tiny. Sokohn apparently is also a director of theatre plays as well as a draughtsman. But he rarely gets to put up his plays anywhere. He makes a drawing for me while we sit there. A drawing of Khartoum with some seemingly cryptic numbers to one of the sides.

For a short while we get onto the topic of my art, and Sokohn makes the following judgment relayed via Ibrahim: “I think your art is very good, but if you made it here in Sudan - people would say you were crazy!” Suddenly my Arabic seemed sufficient after all. 

Pretty pleased with this review, I go to eat some lunch with our friendly Sudanese Government spy who I reckon likes me because he can pronounce my name as “Osman” after Osman I, the first ruler of the Ottoman Empire. How can I resist such an appealing moniker? “Osman!” he says and smiles broadly as he pulls up a chair for me. There the conversation stops, as his English skills are practically non-existent - a doubtful asset for a spy.

After lunch we have our picture taken together, and it’s a nice moment. I wonder what will become of this photograph. Maybe he will show it to his superiors and say “look at this crazy white man! He said his name was Osman!” Or maybe it will just land in some indistinct folder of pictures quizzically entitled “Norwegian art students on study trip to Sudan”.