In prison

The prisons in Africa are at least as famous as Africas showers. Not because they are so clean and not for their general condition. In contrary. A nice animating shower which attracts for a great adventure like an icecold longdrink on an evening after a sunny day I experienced most seldom in the last twenty month. The watertemperature though is not so important. Often its so hot that one would only open the coldwatertap anyway. Very often there is no shower. In that case one asks for a bucket of water from where with a cup one pours the water over his head.

Something one has to get used to but throughout functional. Like the prisons. One has to get used to them but throughout functional. In Beira in Mozambique the prison is in the middle of town. A bit like a city hall. A big white colonial building with black massive steelbars in the windows. Overcrowded rooms with no sanitary facilities in tropical climate make it difficult to breathe. One has a limited time for being at the window. Limited by the fists of ones roommates. Through the grid: Arms, hands and sometimes a dick. Behind the grid: faces. The badboys. Black faces.

Never during this trip I've seen a whiteman in prison. If they hadn't taken the mirror off me I could have seen one: myself.

Jail in the Sudan. Not a good idea.

30.10.98 I am in Atbara. A dusty deserttown on the Nile north of Khartoum. From here I'm gonna proceed 300Km along the railway towards Port Sudan. Not a comfortable trip. There is very little traffic on this route and if something happens I can only rely on my very own. I trust the motorbike though. But I'm a bit afraid to fall off. What do I do if I'm lying somewhere in the sand with a broken bone? It happened to me before in the jungle of Cameroon but then I wasn't on my own. In spite of all the advantages sometimes its a big disadvantage to travel alone. I consider to drive slow and very carefully but especially driving slow is not the right technique in deep desertsand. So I don't start something new and I'll drive through like I always did. There is a trainstation after 200Km. If the worst case would come through and I'd get stuck in the middle I'd have to walk for 100Km. -This is possible to realize although not nice.

I take 6l water with me and enough fuel to arrive even if I mistake my way for 100Km. If I can drive 80Km/h I reach the middle in a bit more than an hour. -Nothing compared to the crossing of the Sahara which took about two months with the longest period we haven't seen other people for about a week. But also there I was not on my own. The first part I can drive 80Km/h. Standing on the footpegs and crossing this sea of sand without any tracks I'm feeling like that lady in the movie standing on the front of Titanic. Even better! I'm faster and I am the captain. There isn't much I can imagine to feel more free than this. But it doesn't last for longtime. There are some tracks. And soon I appear to the traffic they are left behind from.

Chinese are building a pipeline. A huge project. 2000Km long. The advantage: If something happens it's less to walk. (If I still could walk)

The disadvantage is that there are now tracks. Deep tracks of big trucks. Difficult to drive because they are filled up with fine sand and so deep that if once you're driving in them its almost impossible to get out again. Like if you drive with a bicycle into the rail of a tram. I slow down and therefore never fall off but it takes full concentration and it's exhausting. But what is worse: I don't enjoy it. You cannot go fast and not to slow. It's difficult and I'm still under the pressure of the fact that if I break my bones there will hardly be somebody coming along in a comfortable time.

A strong wind starts blowing. In the middle of nothing I find the containercamp of the Chinese. In the sandblast we have a cup of tea behind one of the containers they live in and they tell me about another camp where I might be able to stay for the night if I don't reach Port Sudan before sunset. And the sun sets and I reach the chinese camp. A containercamp too. Airconditioned containers with warmwatershowers, satelite TV Video and fax. Surrounded by a 3m high barbwirefence and guarded by Sudanese securitypolice. I can stay.

While I'm having my rice two securitymen come in, for as they call it, a securitycheck. Their questioning gets more and more detailed and takes more than an hour until I end it myself. I get up excuse myself and go for a wonderfull working warm shower. When I come out there are five securitymen waiting for me. They take my passport and order me to pack my things and follow them. The Chinese also don't know what's going on but there is nothing they can do against the Sudanese securitypolice. We leave the camp at night and drive to the building of the securitypolice where they take my luggage of me and most of my clothes. Then they lock me up. The cell is big. 3m wide 4m long and 3m high. And empty. No bed no chair. Nothing. A concrete floor. A door of steelgrid. On the other side a padlock. It's like the imagination of a jail in comics. Behind the door: Me ! I refused to open my luggage when they wanted to search it. The pockets of my jacket now get emptied and there is nothing I can do from behind the steelbars... I could explode! I call one of those bastards and tell him that I need to go to the toilet. With a kalashnikov in my back I get led to a sort of shithole but with a rifle in my back I can't piss. The gun remains and my protest disappears.

Then after I'm back in my cell they all disappear with my luggage inside the building. Sleep well, sweet dreams. Until late at night I can hear the clickings of their ancient typewriter. My thoughts are running crazy. What happens if they find the undeclared dollars? The book I'm reading about the Sudan tells about disappeared people. Disappeared foreigners. Journalists. Dead journalists. Nobody knows where I am. Of course that book is written 15 years ago but did it get better?

Here in the Sudan for the first time during this trip I registered myself at the Dutch embassy. Clever move. But who will look for me here? A prison in the desert.

I'm prepared for questioning. The worst is the unsureness. You think about what will happen next. They don't tell you when it goes on. They give you hope and then they set you off. They make promises which they are not going to keep. They try to destroy you.
There will be one good man and one bad man who will question you. Don't trust both of them. They belong to the same party.
The good one will offer you coffee and cigarettes. The bad one will try to scare you off and maybe beat you. The wall around the building is not very high. I could climb over. The door though is not to open from my side. I could try it during a walk to the toilet. Turn around and hit the guy as hard as I can on his nose. My about four years of Karate experience should be enough to manage that. Then I take the rifle. The others didn't have guns. Only the general carries a pistol. He is first. Then 360° on serialfire. I let myself be given a demonstration of a kalashnikov by an ethiopian soldier. Just in case. JUST FOR THIS CASE!

Clever move! Ratatatatatatatatah... what a satisfaction! Ahh! Over the wall with the gun shouldered and the first car will stop.

"What is your name?"

I drifted away in my thoughts... a new face appeared. Or better a new silhouette. It's night and there is no electricity. I can't recognize faces.

"Your name... your name!"

"Paul" I say. "Paul Noy..." Is he the good man?

"Swessra?"

Where the hell does he know that from? No, I'm not Swiss. I only live in Switzerland. I can't imagine that he recognized the swiss numberplate on my bike so where does he know that from? I explain to him: "Nationality: Holland, my house Switzerland"

"Aiowah" he goes. "You! Newspaper!"

Shit no! During my stay in Khartoum I could publish three articles in newspapers where with I covered my expenses. In one of these articles I gave an impression of my view on the political situation in Sudan as a traveller. The Sudanese government is islamic fundamentalistic and took over by force. I didn't loose a good word about it. I tried though to put it in a nice way. Did they take that as opposition? Am I wanted because of that? How does that man know about the article? I thought that newspaper was a little Khartoum local paper that only comes out twice a week. Later I found out that it's about the second biggest newspaper of the Sudan. Yes. Now they know it for sure. They caught that foreign journalist that wrote badly about the government. In that article I also talk about the declarationform for foreign currency. Since the cruisemissiles on Khartoum, American Express Travellerscheques are no longer accepted by Sudanese banks. That means that therefore I have to rely on the blackmarket. What else can I do? I didn't expect the journalist to put this in the article.

They couldn't prove me being a spy. Although all this great camerastuff... the photographs of russian tanks in the desert of Libya and Chad... all these pictures of ammunition and minefields... They pulled the GPS (Satelite-navigation-system) out of my jacket... and then all these questions: What languages do you speak? What is your profession? Well... there are some excellent skills for being a spy. And to who do they need to prove that? It's probably enough if they think I could be a spy to get me into deep shit. At least I don't have any american stamps in my passport. I try to think about something else. Think about the silent night I'd have had in the chinese 'Videocontainer'. The worst thing is your running thoughts.

I try to concentrate on the Chinese. A sort of trying to get myself hypnotized. And it works. I fall asleep. My body needs a rest. But it doesn't last for long. I wake up. What happened? Where am I... steelgrid? ...oh yes... shit! The typewriter is still going on. Do they write down all my luggage? Maybe I get questioned afterwards in the middle of the night. That would suit them. Sometimes the typing ends and I fall asleep again but already before dawn I'm awake again. How will it continue?

A little Ghaddaffi with Ray-Ban like glasses and a kalashnikov comes to look after me. We go for the toiletwalk. This time I can piss. Somehow he feels sorry to put me back behind the bars again.

Like that we remain standing outside in the middle of the open place between the four walls. Him with his kalashnikov and myself in my Tshirt and underwear and we talk about the Sudan. Yes yes it's a beautiful country.

-'Quaaaays' (good [arabic]), friendly people. If you can't beat them join them. The walls are not really high. I can see a car passing outside. A car with a Chineseman! I stare at him but he doesn't notice me. Another chance to take the attention of somebody. The Chinese would wonder if there comes a stone flying out of the securitybuilding towards his car. I look around. This time in daylite very carefully.

I can see a door towards the street and on the ground there are plenty stones lying around. Stones make excellent weapons. The securityman notices me starring at the Chinese and with his gun he waves me back into the cell. Like in ancient movies with my back against the wall I'm sitting on the floor behind the bars. Don't even have a toy to play with. Little ants are transporting a dead bug home and outside there is a bird flying around. I'm hungry. And I have time. Time to overthink it all 2 million times. Most probably they call me for questioning later. Somehow I want to put it behind me as fast as possible but so far nothing is decided yet.

So far I can imagine three points they could possibly try to charge me for:

1. Opposition against the government.
2. Illegal moneychange and use of blackmarket.
3. Being a spy.

There is nothing more I can imagine. I'm very lucky having no alcohol in my luggage. Trade of alcohol is punished by at least two monthes in prison. Consume of alcohol is punished by flogging. Forty lashes with a whip in public.

Three of the Chinese have some experience. They got caught but they were lucky to carry their lives away. Their punishment got reduced because they are not muslims. They didn't get beaten in public. But behind the walls of the prison not one of lashes was saved on them. Behind these walls? What kind of people are they that beat other people with a whip? Maybe these guys that call me for questioning later?

A new face walks over the place. A friendly face. It comes towards me. Sits down on the sandy ground on the other side of the steel bars and starts to apologize. They all feel sorry for the mistake they've made he starts. I don't trust him for no penny. I smile at him. No, man you're kidding. He lets him bring the keys. He opens the door and I walk out. I smile at all of them. All these assholes of last night. I wish them a good morning in arabic and ask them how they are. Thereby I count them. I need to know how many bullets per head I can spoil. They offer me a chair and may it be coffee rather than tea? The bike is still where I left it. Untouched. And then they lead me to the office.

Questioning now anyway? They have the newspaperarticle and show it around. They are impressed. The only questions are the usual ones: Name, Nationality and how I like the Sudan. Everyone has a look at the passport for about ten times every page. Then I'm released into freedom.
They never mentioned why they took me in and I didn't ask. I don't loose one more second here. I load the bike and take off. I stop again at the chinese camp.

The securitymen look a bit puzzled at me as I show up here again and get into radiocontact immediately. I remain seated on the bike in case I'd have to escape. I ask for Mr. Kamal, the bold relaxed Malaysian.

He is around. Loud I tell him that I came to say good-bye. I still carry this false smile in my face which seems to calm the Sudanese down. Whispering I tell him what happend. Then I say good-bye. "Sudan quays!" I shout. Mr. Kamal understands the irony. The Sudanese don't but they are happy with it too. If I was a cowboy I'd fire my gun in the air two or three times. Then I ride off. Soon I'll be in Egypt.

by Paul Noy