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I finally came to the R&R portion of my trip, taking a flight from Cairo down to Sharm el Sheik, a city nestled on the tip of the Sinai Peninsula of Egypt, sitting between the base of sandy rock mountains and the clear blue-green bays of the Red Sea. It is one of those once hidden, now exposed locations in the world where divers and tourists flock, both so eco-sensitive that fishing is a bad world. It’s paradise without the lush green oasis, with great diving right off the desert into the surrounding reefs of the region. The area is unbelievably hot and you find yourself cooled by a layer of sweat at all hours. It’s become a popular vacation getaway for those from Europe and elsewhere in the region. British, Spanish, Russian, and Italian families are the main draw to the resorts lining the beaches but there are a number of global divers here as well. The city is overwhelmingly tourist oriented and so this does pose a drawback from Egypt’s uniqueness or feel of isolation, but there is a good nightlife and neat little Café de Mar type establishments on the beach with DJ’s spinning for the chill out crowd.

It’s fun to see various sorts of people stroll down the sidewalk, from very typical British families to rich Russian businessmen with high priced call girls. At my hotel watering hole, a local hotspot of sorts, England was playing some other team in a football friendly and there were an overwhelming amount of Brits catching it on satellite TV. Some of their kids were there as well. My eyebrows smiled when four of the tikes, probably 12 years old, do-ed up in David Beckham style mohawks, England jerseys, and british flair were up on the rooftop bar having races down the isle of the tables. A worker came up and asked them to stop as it was disturbing to the establishment and one of the 12 year olds promptly stomped on his foot and told him to ‘buggah off’. The worker’s response to the boy was ‘don’t be cheeky cheeky when you come to Sharm el Sheiky’. My points go to the lil’ Brit.

I’ve met several Americans here, one that works in Baghdad for the USG, one on an around-the-world ticket, and a couple from San Francisco that quit their jobs, sold their home, took their savings, and are traveling around the world together. They just sold the landcruiser they bought in South Africa after making the trek by vehicle up Africa. They had some great stories. Mostly it’s folks from this side of the world though.

No matter where you go in Egypt, the first line from vendors, waiters, taxi drivers, and locals to the tourist is “Where are you from?”. At times, it’s easier for me to just say I’m Canadian instead of dealing with the stereotypes of being American which I’ll go into later. I can generally pull it off and for grins try a botched Canadian accent that slides downhill fast. I catch myself and just add an “eh” at the end of my statement and those listening usually catch back on and nod in acceptance. But most of the folks here can’t tell the difference between the various accents of English.

Sharm has been the victim of three suicide bombs over the last few years, not even directed at mass tourists but more-so at damaging the tourist industry and you see the increased security around the area as a result. While people watching on a lounge sofa at a sidewalk café or just in public places you can’t help but keep your wits about you, taking a closer look for anything strange or out of the ordinary as the various government paddy wagons and taxi’s drive by. It’s sad that when I grab a spot, I look for the safest place of escape or place to dive in case of an attack, so I suppose the terrorist movement still lingers in people’s mind, at least for mine, but the place is packed and I would attribute it to the added security measures, so it seems that overall, Sharm has picked itself back up again.

I say that sometimes it’s easier to say you are not an American because, one, they think all are rich and do very much like to take advantage, and two, it somehow seems to stifle conversation. My 10 year old camel guide in Cairo said his name was Osama, and then laughed and repeated multiple times, Osama Bin Laden, Osama Bin Laden, Osama Bin Laden as if that was a role model. I was from Vancouver when he later asked.

I’ve spent these afternoons relaxing on the beach, snorkeling, taking up a little windsurfing, and then feeling more at home with some wakeboarding. Most here have never boarded before so I tried to finish cool when my time expired by jumping wake and gliding smoothly up to the beach but as soon as I landed and let go of the rope, I caught a front edge and it smacked me in a sudden and painful head first crash into the salt water that left me with a head ache and feeling stupid in front of the sun bathing crowd.

I’m headed back to Sudan today which is kind of a bummer. I could still travel for another couple of months without tire but that is out of the question. I’ve enjoyed the trip though, lots of cities. Sometimes I think it’s better to spend all the time in one place and really get to know it as power travel is so touristy and exhausting, but overall, I’d say this one was worth it.

So I arrived into Cairo by plane on the 26^th where I had my first bout of reverse discrimination. A five child Sudanese family had all the seats next to me flying in from Istanbul. They were the last to board the plane so everyone was watching. As the children approached their seats they took one look at me but refused to move in to sit in my neighboring seat (I had window). The mom and dad both tried to force them but to no avail. Even after I greeted in their friendly tongue, they did not budge. The mother settled on holding her two small children two seats over so I had an extra one…feeling like I did something wrong.

I planned in advance and had my hostel have a person waiting for me when I arrived, which is definitely a must in a place like this. Heading to his car, we weaved through a nice lot which was kind of a tease, because we eventually plopped into a rickety old broken down taxi looking 86er that had torn carpets on the dash and a rigged starter. I tried to put my seatbelt on and the driver said in broken English, “No, do not, not in Cairo, I drive well”…the ever so comforting words. Kinda weird I thought, nodding casually as I put the belt on anyway.

When you think you’ve seen bad driving, you ultimately run into a new place that just magnifies sloppier. In Cairo, with four lane roads there are always a minimum of eight lanes taken, all jerking along in amoebic movements. When one car makes a bonehead squeeze creating a new lane, all just seem to absorb him like its no big deal. Honks and yelling at all through open windows are commonplace. There are few side walks or cross walks in this place so inevitably people are mixed into traffic on all streets, adding a new dimension of helter skelter. I saw horse drawn buggies on the highway and 8 year old girls standing and dancing in the back of their pseudo pickup truck moving in excess speeds.

We drove the 35 minutes to my hostel clinging onto the window seals in eye opening close calls, weaving through high-rise rundown neighborhoods and bazaars that just exemplify eclectic poverty. The people are as diverse, ranging from men in shorts to women in their black ‘ninja suits’. We pulled up to my hostel, which was by far the scariest one from the outside that I’ve ever stayed. My initial thinking is here for one night and then hotel it is.

We park after yelling Arabic niceties at lots of people and squeezing in between assorted nut stands, then get out. I’m kicking myself for carrying around a damn rug at this point as we navigate the sidewalk-less streets. We (my driver is with the hostel and so I find out later, my complimentary guide – which is cool) walk a couple of blocks to a tall high rise building that truly looks like it’s being renovated from a bomb. The lower floors are bare boned in concrete and there’s one long entrance through a glassless door leading to two tiny elevator shafts and some stairs. Rubbish is strewn about and the place is creaking and dusty old. We push the elevator button and my guide looks up the shaft and doesn’t see anything moving. About this time two guys drenched in charcoal soot carrying trays of tools come down the stairs and my driver says, “ahh, it must be maintenance time for the lift.” I smile and say, “stairs it is.”

We hike up the seven stories, with a rug, and he has to stop several times for a smoke break. I throw an exhausted ‘yella yella’, which is “lets go” in Arabic and he smiles and we keep on moving.

To my surprise, the hostel is not like other floors, rather cozy, and occupying the entire floor. Three locals are sitting on the couches in the entry way and offer me tea and we chat. I haven’t figured out if this place is a scam yet but it seems they are really really hospitable. I got a free pick up from the airport. They have helped me plan my next three days and offered pick ups and drop offs everywhere. They’ve book my trains to Luxor and have guides set up to take me around there and Giza when I arrive. They’ve told me the costs up front which are terribly reasonable and so all I can think is that they take a little off the top in the actual costs of the trip, but the hassle free set up is much appreciated. So I’m content with sticking them out for now.

I decided to do a Nile dinner boat cruise the first night and my driver/host accompanied me. All was well but there was somewhat odd entertainment – local sofi dancing. The first act out were male midgets (excuse me, little people) dressed in woman’s clothing doing twirly dances to the live mideastern band. More men dancers came out in follow up acts. I began to think woman weren’t allowed to entertain here until an actual female belly dancer came out. All was kosher (appropriate term for Egypt) until I went up to the deck after dinner and noticed something bulging (from behind) on a suited guy leaning on the railing. I got closer and thought to myself, jeez, so this is how the cruise boats work here. Nestled into a nice little holder was an uzzi machine gun. I snapped a pick, like a good tourist, to solidify the moment. I didn’t feel like taking the next step and finding out if he was security or not, just took word that since it hadn’t gone off, he was probably ‘the good guy’. I would be interested to see if could actually aim and hit a target (especially in a crowded river boat) if he had to with a sub machine gun.

I steered clear and planned on ending the night until I asked my driver how to say “I’m tired” in Arabic as we walked to the car. He grabbed my arm and we froggered across multiple lanes of traffic and then looked at me, told me the phrase, then repeated it on his behalf, handed me the keys, and said, “You drive back…”

Hello Egypt!

For those interested, my carpet buying story goes a little something like this….

My first day into the city I was tired off a 24 hour train ride and didn’t feel like seeing the sights, but also didn’t feel like sitting around. I didn’t know anyone to hang out with so I ended up going for a walk. I knew you had to ‘be in good spirits’ in order to take in any shopping near the Grand Bazaar because of the aggressive sales tactics, but I was still intrigued about seeing it. So on the way over, I walked off my mood and was feeling good as I hit the Bazaar, which is really like an indoor maze of sidewalk shops selling everything cheap, touristy, leathery, jewely-ry and gold. There are actually some good things there and of course, rug shops line the avenues and surrounding stores. It’s normally very crowded and loud and people are calling at you to step inside their shop, saying lines like…”You need something? My store has everything! I just have no customers? Come in, we’ll drink some tea.” The recruiters (those whose job is to stand outside and recruit people inside) have uncanny ways of reading the situation, playing the sympathy card puppy dog eyes with the girls and buddy buddy card with the guys…

I managed to negotiate my way through the entire bazaar without getting trapped into buying anything. I began to think to myself…you know none of this stuff appeals to me unless I have a home, one, or am an old man, two. The latter being because I think it would be neat to have a chest for major int’l cities, a treasure chest of sorts. You fill it with market stuff, jewelry for the girls, old knifes and masks for the boys, and then when the family comes over the kids get to dig in a chest and get something cool. (Thoughts of the lonely traveler)

Anyway, I made it out of the market to the final entrance and a guy my age, clean cut, comes up to me and says, “my friend are you interested in any rugs today?” Simple and direct.

I said “no, I’m not looking to buy.” He said, “Well have you seen what they are about, how they’re made, various patterns. If you don’t want to buy, come inside and at least let me show you this…so you have a better idea, learn something here at the market.” Well that hit the damn nerve. Everyone’s interested in learning a little about something famous like Istanbul Rugs.

So I said the famous last words….”OK”

Now subconsciously, coming to Istanbul, if you have the means, deep down most people want to buy a rug. Most don’t need a rug, most men especially could care less about owning a rug, but still there’s that excitement about the product and process. So walking into this shop, I did have the subconscious buzz going on inside me about actually following through. I just didn’t want to release it without good reason.

So we walk into the shop, him leading the way, saying “Oh are you from Texas? Austin? Houston? Where from? Oh San Antonio? You know my cousin married a girl from Corpus Christi and they own a shop there? Great place. Hot place I’m told?” I’m nodding.

We get into the shop and he snaps his fingers – his two brothers and him own the store – they come – he asks me Apple or Local Chai Tea? Chai is stronger. He says the tourists like the apple. I get the Chai – drink it in Sudan. He begins to tell me about the two types of rugs and quality and where they’re made and says lets look at a few. I tell him I like the thinner kind (more practical for me now) and we look at a couple. I’m not that interested and he says, “I have a slew of them over at my warehouse. Come with me, just around the corner – I promise you’ll like.”

I knew now it was a major cross roads I was taking going with him, but magically enough the tea had not arrived and I felt somewhat compelled to have his tea. So I went with him out of the shop up two blocks to his bigger shop and basement warehouse. In procession, he was ranting in Turkish to his brothers, Chai Chai… Chai Chai, as if to really order it now, and snapped his fingers to bring it to the shop.

As we walk, he says I am his first customer today (at 5:30pm) and that I’m about to see the best rugs he’s got. He says it’s a hard business with the competition and his is family owned, passed down to the three brothers from his deceased father. He’s 24 and been working it since 13…yada yada yada…

I mean, come on, but I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of his emotional appeal.

We walk into the shop and down into the basement and sit on a little couch and the tea finally arrives. He has two helpers start to unfold rugs after he asks me a few preference questions. I tell him I’m not interested in buying but he says, “that just fine, lets just find one’s you like and then narrow them down…”

So I acquiesce. He starts to pull some out and I don’t really like them and he pulls a few more. After showing about 20 I ask, “about what ballpark are we looking at for a rug of this type?” and he responds, “My friend, we will not talk such matters yet. Let’s find what you like first.”

I think, but am I going to buy?

So we go through another 20 and finally I say, I saw about five that were acceptable, and we narrow them down, then to two and finally one that stands out to me above the rest. He says this particular one is very old and has a unique pattern and isn’t made anymore. He’s just reading from a script.

So I’m entertaining the idea and say, “well how much?” He snaps his fingers and his helpers bring over a big calculator and he starts to punch numbers as if he didn’t already have the conversions and margins memorized and said…”since this carpet is unique, I could charge you a higher price. But because you have been good and are an honest American I think I can do better.

The price of the rug is “900 but I will offer it to you for”….and he shows me the calculator with $800 USD typed into it.

He then says, as if to hit me in the negotiating belly, “I tried selling one to an Italian last week and he was soo cheap. He thought he could negotiate and I offered him a price and he said only 20% of the price. I laughed at him and then got mad because it was disrespectful to me and my business. 20%, Ha!”.

I was truly laughing inside. This whole thing was just too much. But I thought to myself, for a lifetime rug, I would probably be willing to do $500. So I told him, “That’s just more than I’m willing to spend. $500 is what I was looking to pay today.”

He laughed, and said “my friend, that is at cost to me. There is no way.”

He then proceeds “how about you try the apple tea (as if it’s laced with “relaxed decision making”) and snaps his fingers. He smiles at me (and we lock eyes knowing the dance has began.) He knows he has me at this point but I know I can get him to. Now it’s not even about the rug anymore. It’s about who can get a better end of the negotiation.

He pauses for a moment, looks at me says definitively, “your best price.” I say $500. He says, “Can’t happen”. He pauses and says again “ Best Price”. I smile and say, Okay 550. He says, “My friend, this is still not enough to cover the cost of the carpet. I have rent and employees and overhead and it is simply not the value of the rug. I was thinking more like $750.”

I said, “I am not even here to buy a carpet, but if I was, I can truly only afford 500. I’m willing to go 550 but you still say this is not enough. If you want your purchase, I will go no higher than $600.”

He shakes his head, lets the silence kick in. I know the first person to talk in this situation looses so I keep my mouth shut.

He tries again, “Your best price”. I smile and it’s 600.

“Best price?”

“600”

He reaches out to shake my hand and says, “we will agree on 650, okay? Deal?” and shakes my hand as if to firm it up. I say “I can only do 600. I’m not going to pay anymore”.

He looks at the ground, then looks me in the eyes, reaches out his hand, smiles and says “okay, 600 but only if you tip my two guys 10 euros each”. (Which was kind of a cheap slap in my face for accepting my offer because I can’t say no to his subservient helpers who probably make $3 an hour.)

And so the deal was done. And I guess if you think about who won, it was really him, because he got a person who wasn’t going to purchase to actually make the purchase. But I win too because I got the story and the rug.

And so we went to seal the deal and pay and he tried even more….”have you seen our silks. They are the most beautiful we have to offer. Very best Quality..” This while we get more tea and the payment is taking time away from the shop. I sit down and exhale, thinking we’re not going through a round two.

So I say, “Show me some silks. Let’s see what they’re all about.” And so round two begins. His brother goes and gets some small silks – I told him I didn’t want large ones… And he tells me about the two different qualities and shows me the difference and throws about 30 on the ground, saying which one do you like best? I say, I don’t know I’m 27. This doesn’t really appeal to me.” He says, “It’s for your mother. Pick a nice silk for your mother.” I ask, just to get a complete picture, what the costs are for silks of this size and he again refuses to answer. Finally I actually find one that is very beautiful and would go nice somewhere but definitely not in my house in the next 20 years… and he continues to use the mother card to lure me in of which is kind of working. He asks me, “for your mother, how much would you pay?” I say, (no offense mom), I can afford $200. He laughs and again says this is way to low as the value of the carpet is $500. I say, “Well I just bought a carpet and don’t need another” and he again responds with “Best Price…your best price” We haggle and finally I don’t budge from $250 which he wont agree to. I grab my bag and walk out of the store and he chases after me saying, at $250 he makes nothing, please $300.

We have gotten to the phase of begging now of which takes the fun out of the game and I say no, I’m leaving with my rug. He finally says Ok ok $250. But I say it’s too late, I don’t need a tiny silk rug and cant afford a tiny silk rug and he says “but it’s a nice gift for your mother” and I just laugh and walk away.

And so I wasn’t sure whether to feel as good about my purchase after he took it too far, but the first round was fun. Anyway, that is my rug buying story. Something everyone should go through once or twice in their life.

Many would say that going on a vacation does not often live up to the definition of the word. I interpret a vacation as a getaway, something to take your mind off of the rigors of normal life and hopefully provide relaxation and recharge. But vacations are often so full of planning, execution, timetables and agendas, compromise, occasional hassles, (in other countries) language barriers, and the worst, the actual travel to and fro. I’ve been pretty good at getting past these frustrations in most of my trips. I would say there’s a honest correlation between loving to travel and the successful navigation of the mentioned struggles.

I mention this because many times vacations are not vacations but rather work. You return more tired that when you started. I can see this trip headed in that direction. So I may adjust. If not, I’m going to take a different approach. Waking up early, navigating the sites and taking in the hustle of each city is wearing. Therefore, I’ve decided to take advantage of my single selfish status and approach each day as a clean slate, leaving it open for my mood of the moment. I’m not going to navigate a museum or parliament building just because it’s the thing to do in that city. I get more enjoyment out of the culture of a place anyway, so I may just focus on discovering that avenue.

In Budapest, I initiated this approach and missed out on the famous healing hot baths but those are for the women and it was hot outside anyway. I did sleep late though, drank too much at the Hungarian Wine Festival, and now know many of the blackjack dealers’ names at the city’s best casino – the real culture…

I did see the city though and walked around a lot. It is beautiful. I’ve heard it compared as the bastard stepbrother to Prague but I wouldn’t say so. It’s genuine in its own right mind. Like Prague, a river (the Danube) runs down the middle. Buda is the government side and Pest is the party side (from my eyes).

The weekend I was there happened to be on a national holiday (St Stephens Day) and the downtown was swelling in people. I had a hotel room on the river and had a perfect view from my balcony for the fireworks celebration over the water. It’s fun to be there on a national holiday, especially one that celebrates a country’s heritage, but at the same time it doesn’t help to squash any stereotypes you might have about Eastern Europeans.

The weather was hot and I took in an overdose of European summer fashion. White Capri pants were worn by all and you could very easily tell that g-strings were worn by both men and women as their Capri underwear of choice.

The food is heavy. Meat and potatoes, Gulash (soup), pastries, sausages, and cold beer draped the streets in booths during the celebration. As you would expect with a heavy diet, there were heavy people. I normally would not think anything of it if it hadn’t been for the sun. Women frequently pulled their shirts up, tucking them in, to expose their belly’s and lower backs to the rays. This produced some good results and some bad. What was worse though is that men did this too, large men, many large men, many large hairy men, as if it were an accepted norm. Not a visual worth recalling anymore.

Oompa music played on the stages while stockings and suspenders danced in circles. And of course the best stereotype confirmed was the astonishingly healthy difference in gender inequality….yes the girls. One of our [former] employees in Sudan, a 22 year old American, fresh out of school and new to the world, took his first break to Eastern Europe – Romania. He told me it was a great place and I had to check it out. Others confirmed. What he did not tell me (or anyone) is that while he was there he met a girl. He went there on his second break, promptly asked her to marry him and quit his job. All of us in Sudan shook our heads with amazement. Either he is just a sucker (she gets the visa!!) or he met one hell of a girl. I’m going to meet up with him and get the scoop here shortly, aiming to avoid that trap.

One thing I’ve confirmed in traveling is that everyone has a duplication of themselves on the other side of the world. The explanation must lie in nature’s balance, yin and yang, who knows? But I’ve noticed this in Russia and now in Hungary as well. I can’t count the number of times my eyebrows have raised in excitement thinking I’ve run into this person or that. Of course the easterners have a look that is unique from their western counterparts but seeing the near perfect resemblance is still very uncanny and weird. Yes, if you’re wondering I have run into myself before. We were going to fight over territory until I found out he was a model of which I always knew was my calling – apparently on this side short and hairy is the thing….We took in beers and would have remained friends had he not been wearing a g-string with his white capris….

I feel that traveling alone does have its advantages (some mentioned above) and it does do a lot for self reflection. But I won’t say I’m never lonely when I’m by myself. I know how I travel and yet I still often fall into the anticipation trap, the one where you envision yourself doing so much more, meeting interesting people, having remarkable experiences, living out the movie moments.

The hard truth for me is that those experiences are the exception, not the rule (aside from New York City, she never lets me down). I’ve had plenty of them over time and I suppose you normally recall the good vice the bad when using as a basis for planning and anticipation. But they rarely compound over a trip like you imagine may occur when you travel alone. Budapest was fun, but it didn’t recharge. Let’s hope one of the other cities can.

I type this entry while on an overnight train, headed East to Romania. I took a first class sleeper (Eastern European standards – think communist railcars) and have a bottle of wine along with a laptop to type myself some company as the countryside passes me by.

A guy I met at the poker tables who happens to be working in Afghanistan, training their army, told me I should feel good that I am getting these experiences while most people back home don’t have the way or means. This lifestyle does fill a certain void, one that I value. But there is an obvious element missing which I must face up to at some point.

I leave for my break tomorrow and as normal in leaving before trips, the day is always cramped, stressful, and hectic. Inevitably, you never finish everything you want to accomplish before leaving so you just do your best. Turning over all my responsibilities at the drop of a dime, while a thing of regular occurrence on a contract, makes you feel dizzy and underwater. Regardless, I received two positive signs of good things to come, one of them actually drew such a positive reaction from me that during an ear to ear grin of discovery, I actually inadvertently blurted out the absurdly toddler phrase, “OH BOY!”

My first sign didn’t start out so positive. I was finishing lunch in the mess hall and walked out to head back to the car. I looked over and people were running in all directions. I saw smoke billowing from the adjacent building. It was the laundry room and it was on fire. The first thing that blurted out of my mouth into the smoke filled wind was not, “Is everyone OK?” or “How can I help put the fire out?”, but more appropriately, “Oh S**T, all my clothes are in there!!!” I had put them in the day before, at least 75% of what I owed down here, to clean before my trip. I knew they were gone, and if not, smoke infested beyond salvage. So for the rest of the day I figured I would be buying new clothes when I arrived in Budapest.

The fire was put out shortly after. A local cleaning lady had left the iron face down on the counter, plugged in and on, and had taken a nap. (It’s Sudan; it’s just not surprising anymore.) She had to be treated for smoke inhalation. The place didn’t burn down, but the building did take a beating.

After work, I went over to check if any of my clothes were still alive. I walked around the mess and couldn’t find any trace. My hopes sunk deeper until I looked and saw the lone dryer sitting untouched in the corner. I went over to open it, thinking, ‘this would be some luck’. Wouldn’t you know my clothes were in the dryer, washed and dry, and bounty fresh. The sealed drier had protected them from the smoke and fire. Yes, indeed.

My second sign of fortuity came as I was cleaning out my desk drawer and found a stray $100 bill hiding in the back. I keep my per diem (and poker winnings) elsewhere so this one I had not expected. (Insert absurdly toddler phrase here.)

So I’m off tomorrow for my trip, flying in a mix of aircraft (Sudan Air, Lufthansa, Turkish Airlines, EgyptAir) (paid in full by the company – I guess I get the return by the quality of aircraft), as I circle Eastern Europe, The (Northwest) Middle East, and Northern Africa on this leave. (Budapest, Bucharest, Istanbul, Cairo, Sharm el Shiek).

As a farewell, to keep me grounded in these journeys (and offer another Sudanese commonplace absurdity) there was huge buzz today in El Fasher and on our radios about the arrest of an American. Apparently, a boy, an 18 year old boy, got the itch to come see what war and poverty was all about first hand. Probably a little bit more off beat than Jill Carroll, but still a little whack, he decided that he would make a trip into Chad, then border hop into Sudan, make some personal introductions with the involved parties, and have an adventure. Who knows how he even got from America into Chad on his own but I suppose he was one of the few determined.

He was first picked up by the SLA inside the Sudan border, who promptly took his laptop, GPS, phone, camera, luggage, the whole shebang, after extensive close door sessions. They were kind enough to drop him off with the African Union, who nursed him somewhat back to health. He then made his way on a military aircraft into El Fasher (where I am), but had an unfortunate waiting party at the airport. He was swiftly packed into the back of a highly armed Sudanese Government pickup truck and taken into oblivion. (Makings of a setup – they knew he was coming) Grounds of charge, I don’t know, being stupid? Not having a Sudan visa (illegal entry into the country)? Spying (they will most definitely claim.) This guy is screwed. A year ago, there was a European caught doing the same thing here (meandering around Darfur illegally with no real reason) and he got off lucky – a two year prison sentence in the middle of ReallyWishIWasn’tHere, Sudan. US embassy efforts to claim the young lad have so far been unsuccessful.

Oh well, lesson – don’t make those big mistakes…

So here are a few pics, not really encompassing, but something to go on for the text impaired.

August 7, 2006

Dreams, NGOs, Girls and Poker

July 29, 2006

One Mans Trash is another Mans Treasure

July 17, 2006

The Locals

June 20, 2006

Sudan Justice

June 7, 2006

A Ban