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Our place of residence, impregnable in its distinctly castle-like walls, lies a few hundred meters from the main road (which is the only paved road in the town), beginning at the airport and leading through the town before heading south. In between the road and our compound is an old dirt soccer field where locals and AU military soldiers practice in the afternoons. Directly across from us is a dilapidated stadium. When I first arrived, horse races occurred at this stadium on Fridays (which was an experience in itself, the Darfur horse gallantly galloping in constant circles on a miniature horse track built more the size of a soccer pitch). In the past I have used this stadium as sanctity for exercise. To my surprise, the run-down stadium has recently undergone major renovations, turning it into a real place for sporting.

Before the renovation, when entering I would pass an old man camped in the shade who spent his days and nights methodically weaving old scraps of cloth into braided rope to sell. Slouching over his work, wearing the same traditional white local dress and a thousand wrinkles, he always grumbled a mellow hello to me in Arabic. I returned the greeting as I walked by, thinking about the distinct clash between his clothing and mine, a sleeveless bright red Coca-Cola running shirt and New Balance tennis shoes. For some reason to me he epitomizes Darfur, living through a storied history, being pushed out of a once prosperous profession, and now barely skimming a living off homemade rope.

It was in this stadium that I (occasionally) ran late afternoon laps, dodging the donkey-doo, stray goats, overgrowth in the rocky dirt path and using the five or six stadium steps for ‘bleacher training’.

About the time I returned from my last leave in June, I noticed the town started cleaning up the place. I was uncertain why, other than I heard soccer games would soon be played. Grass was planted and frequently watered (not an easy commodity to come by). Two weeks ago, an uncanny amount of people joined in the effort and built higher walls, evenly surrounding the stadium. They built an inner fence around the field, added new concrete seating, a curiously local VIP area, and even painted the place white. (Painting everything white in the desert is an anomaly to me. Of course white is cooler, but it also attracts the orange-brown dust which immediately stains and ruins the newness (a look Hollywood tries to mimic when creating authentic ancient Middle East backdrops.) To top off the renovation, four giant light towers were set up for night events. It was eye opening to see so much work occur here in such a short period of time. The stadium underwent a huge transformation in just 10 days. Why? Who was paying for it?

I soon found out that Sudan’s President Bashir was scheduled to visit my town of El Fasher. All this work was a part of a monetary advance he gave the community to spruce up the place before he arrived. He was coming to speak as a part of a ceremony opening the newly renovated stadium. No doubt the timely donations would be used as leverage, claiming Khartoum actually does contribute money into the region.

Inside the Stadium sitting in the Sudanese Style VIP Seating

The procession leading up to his arrival and speech was busy. The stadium is, like I said, right across from our housing compound. By 3pm in the afternoon, the stadium was packed with people and the entire area was flooded with interested parties and military police and special Sudan Forces (who wore red bandanas as an accessory to their desert camo -symbolizing their commitment to die for the president). We were all convoyed back into our compound and told not to leave, the gates locked tight.

We instead climbed the inside of our compound walls and sat on sea containers, peaking over as people, horses, and vehicles lined the dirt road that the president and his entourage would soon come down.

We watched as cars paraded past with giant bullhorns resting on the hoods repetitively blaring “Allah is great”. Animal skin drums were rhythmically pounded by locals in the back of trucks and locals carried political signs. Ornately decorated camels in the brightest of colors strutted past carrying covered thrones. I’m told this type of flair is only showcased by the Janjaweed tribe members. It is typically used in wedding ceremonies where the bride is ‘introduced’ to her new groom. Various tribes’ colors were also worn by groups of women who were ceremoniously dancing.

One of our Sudanese staff told a story about how the president enjoys dancing in the local ceremonies. Before one of his speeches he joined in dancing with a crowd of tribal women. As it livened, he reached over to grab one of his body guard’s guns and fire it off into the air in celebration. As he raised up the gun he shot too soon and accidentally hit and killed one of the dancing women. This, while he was president of this crazy country. A quick $10,000 apology payment and he was cleared from the ‘accident’.

One of the interesting things about the scene was the motivation of the crowd. I’ve mentioned it was diverse and lively. But in reality the people of El Fasher and most in Darfur actually dislike the president. I don’t need to reiterate why. Most of the people at this event were either Janjaweed, students, curious, or simply paid by the government to attend.

As we sat and looked out into the crowd, the people took a fascination at looking at us through our razor wire and gates. Some would wave and others would stare, but we felt like true caged animals as curious eyes gazed from the outside in.
About 30 minutes before the president arrived, we were told by the event police to get down from our perch inside our compound as it posed a security threat. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to us or the president but I guessed the latter, as the guard later came over to invite us as a group into a special area reserved for us in the stadium.

Probably not a good idea to be a group of westerners trapped inside a stadium if demonstrations occurred or if we were singled out by the president or a rogue anti-westerner, so we declined the invite.

The president finally arrived, entered the stadium, and spoke to the crowd, asserting in an Arabic diatribe the lies told by the western world, typically making promises and spinning truths. (He had the gall to announce to the people of Darfur that peace has come into the region.)

Overall, it was an entertaining change from our normal routine. And it opened up a stadium where we can now watch daily soccer matches and run in a nicer place. Thank you President Bashir. Isn’t it the little things that are supposed to make a difference?

I just wonder what happened to the old rope-making man who used to reside at the stadium. He is nowhere to be seen.