Khartoum: A Recollection, Part 1

“As I followed a large contingent of UN representatives down the stairs towards the tarmac, I wondered at their numbers. Braced against the discomfort of temperatures I did not expect at midnight, even in Africa, the fact that these people were all males wasn’t lost on me, and I was uncertain as to what I’d encounter at passport control in a Muslim country. I and with a couple of Sudanese women dressed in colorful Sari-like clothes were the only female passengers. Although I was in summer business attire, modest by Western standards, I was well aware that my gender, what I wore, and how I looked would play a part in the passport clerk’s assessment. Still, I assured myself, I’ve handled difficult passport situations before, and hoped for the best.”—Helen Noakes

Waking Point

By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Hubris)—1 July 2023—The impact of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit slammed into me as I stepped out onto the Swiss Air airstair at Khartoum’s airport in the Sudan.

It was the mid-1980s, while I was still working for the Hilton in Athens, Greece, when I was asked by Hilton International to untangle a situation at their hotel in Khartoum. The management had been left in the lurch by another interior designer working for the corporation.

The situation was awkward, at best, since the designer in question was in charge of the design division and had been adamantly opposed to my being hired by Athens to complete a total refurbishment of their guestrooms, suites, and public areas. The request by Khartoum for another designer was not only surprising but inconvenient, given the scope of work I had undertaken in Athens. It was, however, an opportunity as well, and I agreed.

As I followed a large contingent of UN representatives down the stairs towards the tarmac, I wondered at their numbers. Braced against the discomfort of temperatures I did not expect at midnight, even in Africa, the fact that these people were all males wasn’t lost on me, and I was uncertain as to what I’d encounter at passport control in a Muslim country.

I and a couple of Sudanese women dressed in colorful Sari-like clothes were the only female passengers. Although I was in summer business attire, modest by Western standards, I was well aware that my gender, what I wore, and how I looked would play a part in the passport clerk’s assessment. Still, I assured myself, I’ve handled difficult passport situations before, and hoped for the best.

My concerns were instantly dispelled by the appearance of a neatly turned out Englishman who strode swiftly towards me and introduced himself as the general manager of the Hilton, Khartoum. He took my passport from me, handed it to a tall Sudanese gentleman who’d accompanied him, and instructed him to, “Take care of things, and have her bags delivered to the hotel immediately.” He then turned to me and politely said, “Come with me, Mrs. Noakes.”

The Sudanese gentleman to whom I was not introduced, protested, “But she must go through Customs with me!”

“Absolutely not!” was the manager’s retort. As he ushered me towards the exit, I looked back at the Sudanese man and shook my head in apology.

A gleaming black limousine waited for us at the curb. There was no traffic on the dimly lit streets of the city. The manager and I carried on a conversation which began with a few niceties followed by the agenda he’d planned for me during my brief stay. I gazed out the window at the passing scene.

Structures that had known better days stood three to four stories high, looming over sidewalks where people slept on cardboard or sheets laid directly onto the concrete. At my first sight of a group, peacefully slumbering next to one another, I turned to take a second look.

“Don’t be shocked, Mrs. Noakes,” said the manager. “It’s their way of life what with all their civil wars.” The dismissiveness of the man’s tone was disturbing, as was the plight of the people in the streets.

We soon arrived at the Hilton, a modern structure, floodlit and rising several stories above the landscape, it seemed incongruously luxurious, given what I had just seen. The manager quickly handled my check-in and escorted me to my room.

“You have a junior suite,” he said. “The dining table might come in handy as a desk.” We agreed to meet at eight, in the café, for a breakfast meeting.

I was surprised and pleased to find my bag in my room. Wondering how it managed to get here before me, I peered out the windows before I went to bed but saw nothing but darkness.

The next morning, before going down to my meeting, I opened the draperies and gasped. The hotel was situated at the confluence of the two Niles. What was it about the wide expanse of water that gleamed blue and was dotted with tiny verdant islands in some places, with trees that looked like green lollipops in others, their slender trunks disappearing beneath the gently rippling current, that mesmerized me? There was a power to that river, perhaps invoked by its history, which had always fascinated me.

The swathe of land between the hotel and the river was empty, except for what appeared to be a small farm, hovering at its banks. Consisting of a mud hut with a thatched roof, the farm was surrounded by a low fence made of sticks lashed together with rope. Within its confines were some chickens and a few sheep. Standing among them was a tall, thin man, clad in a white robe, leaning on a long staff, gazing out at the river. It was a scene drawn from the past when Pharaohs ruled in Egypt and coveted this land.

Still enchanted by what I’d seen, I came out of my room to find a young Sudanese man sitting on the floor next to my door.

“Good morning, Sir!” he said, jovially.

“Good morning,” I replied.

“I am Joseph. I clean your room now?” he asked, rising. I noticed that he was barefoot; his shoes, neatly lined up against the wall, were worn and lined with cardboard. He reacted with some alarm and grabbed for the shoes. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“It’s all right, Joseph. Please. Not to worry. And thank you, yes, you may clean my room.” I hoped to reassure him, but he stood staring at me, seemingly unsure as to what to do. Smiling, I said, “I, too, like to kick off my shoes whenever I get a chance.”

Joseph relaxed and gave me a bright grin. “Thank you, Sir. Happy New Year!”

There was no time to ask Joseph why he was wishing me a happy new year in September. I had a meeting to get to.

(To be continued.)