“You're crazy!” or “Khartoum is fantastic”: which is the real Sudan?

Aswan (Egypt) --> Wadi Halfa --> Abri --> Arbo (via Wawa and Soleb Temple) --> Dongola (with daytrip to Kawa) --> Karima (with daytrips to El Kuru and Nuri) --> Atbara --> Shendi --> Begrawiya --> Khartoum -->

Wadi Halfa is the sort of town that exists only because of the port: it has many hotels (all charging the same rate), whilst many larger towns have none, and an Alien Registration Authority, but no police station.

We complete visa registration the next day, a process which took an hour, cost 103 Sudanese pounds (about US$45 – 50) and required being bumped around a number of different offices getting stamps and signatures. Done and dusted, we were free to travel in Sudan.

We head to the bus station to catch a bus to Abri. The next bus is at 1.00 pm, we're informed. Not bad so we head to the internet cafe for a bit of use before the bus. We arrive back to where the bus should be at a quarter to one and find that it's gone. After a quick time check we find that, actually, Sudan is one hour ahead of Egypt. We wait. At about 5.00 pm another bus is ready to go and we're on it.

The bus ride is basically a 4X4 off-road experience not to be missed. A lot of the roads all along the Nile from Wadi Halfa to Dongola are being rebuilt and the alternative is a network of parallel dirt tracks. We spend a small amount of the four hour travel time driving on sealed roads.

We roll into Abri just after 9.00 pm and get a bed at the only hotel in town. Our aim is to go the next day to Soleb Temple a little to the south next to the hamlet of Wawa. After rising we find the bus stop – come back after midday we're told. So we potter around town until then and get a pickup (basically a ute with seating down each side of the outer tray) to Wawa, just an hour away. There we find the boatman (who speaks good English) and he takes us and a few other passengers across the river to Soleb.

When we walk up to Soleb one of the passengers – who claimed to be a policeman – wants 120 Sudanese pounds (almost US$60) for us to look around. If we were in Egypt the price there would have been about US$5 per person. “No way,” we explain and head back to the boat (but not without getting some photos). After a short argument amongst the locals – presumably someone was unhappy at missing out on a commission – we go back to Wawa on the boat.

Eventually we catch a lift with a truck for free (others wanted between 20 and 50 Sudanese pounds per person to carry us to where they were going) and, after nearly five hours, we reach the village of Argo. It's just after 11.00 pm and we're well short of our intended destination of Dongola because of the roads. We jump out anyway to look for some accommodation. A group of men over the road, hanging out in a small shelter with a donkey in what we later determined was the town centre, are the best people to ask. Before we can approach them one man, staggering and using the donkey for support, walks out to us. He's off his tits on some local weed and can barely speak. His friend, however, is in good shape, offers us a bed (for free) sleeping outside an unfinished house which, for some reason, fortuitously had two beds inside. Next morning he turns up at 8.30 with two cups of coffee and we're on our way to Dongola.

Arriving at Dongola we're on the east bank of the Nile and have to cross to the town itself on the west bank. Easily done: there's a frequent ferry service which takes passengers for 0.25 Sudanese pounds each.

Dongola is the big town of the region and that means that it has a police station which also means that police bureaucracy is in action. We find a hotel and, after a while of looking around and negotiating, decide on a hotel. “Right,” says the manager, “you need a police permission slip before you can stay here.” We spend a good hour slowly finding the “police station” - a little unmarked shed on the way out of town – and get our permission slip.

The next day we head back to catch the ferry across to the east bank to see the Temple of Hawa. “Sorry,” intones Ferry Ticket Man, “you need police permission to cross the river.” We explain that we came across the river yesterday. “Oh no, that's fine. If you come across the river to Dongola then you don't need police permission. If you leave Dongola then you need police permission.”

We head back to the same little shed in the same distant part of town and get our permission slip (for two trips – Kawa and one for our departure the next day) and, as it's already baking hot, postpone our daytrip until the late afternoon. It wasn't worth it either: described by Lonely Planet at least two years ago (our guide was published in 2007) as “half buried by sand” we couldn't see anything, assumed that it was fully buried by sand by now and went back. We later found that we had had only walked halfway to Kawa before starting to search for it. Oh well.

The next day, heading for the east bank to catch our minibus, we chat with our new friend the ferry ticket seller before jumping on the next barge across the river. Captain pulls out and executes a turn before motoring to the far bank ... except he beaches his boat on a sandbank just out of the port during the turn so has to postpone the motoring to the far bank. Not to be deterred by such trivial issues Captain puts the boat into reverse and guns the engines. Some minutes later the barge hasn't moved an inch. Captain then wiggles the boat from side to side but can't get it to go forward. After about twenty minutes of waiting we grab our bags, jump off and, with a few other passengers, wade to shore. The vast majority of the passengers seem to be unflustered and unhurried and just sit there. We caught the other barge across the river and caught our minibus to Karima.

There's not much in Karima although it is close to two different archaeological sites of such note that LP mention them. Like in Dongola we need to register with security to stay there and we hunker down in a small hostel in the middle of town. Starting at a leisurely pace the next day we finally get going at about 10.30 am but find that it's already so hot that even just walking into town is exhausting. Back to the hotel (with lots of drink).

Take 2: rising at 5.00 am the next day we head out just after first light for the town and temple ruins of El Kuru. It's 20 km away (says LP) but, as we are strapping young lads, we start to walk it. Hours later, hot and exhausted, but fueled by purchases from local shops and aided with a short ride from a truck driver, we reach the town of El Kurru. There's a small pyramid there which is so dilapidated it passes as a hill. We pay our 20 SP (about US$8.30) each to enter the site and have a little old man guide us with his torch, along with a group of university art students who arrived at the same time, to the bottom of two ancient tombs. As we're not in Egypt flash photography in the tombs is not only allowed but keenly encouraged.

Not enthusiastic to walk all the way back – it's 11.00 am now and a cauldron out there – we ask the art teacher if we can cadge a ride. “No worries”, says Teacher, in Arabic, “jump in”. The students' bus took us most of the way to Karima and, as they stopped we were invited to eat with them too. So we tucked into some goat meat and a vegetable soup with chunks of bread mixed in. One of the students also “liked my face” so he and two of his colleagues asked me to model for them – results are in the photos.

The next day we started early again and headed by road to the pyramid site of Nuri. We make slow progress and through a combination of a kind man giving us a lift part of the way and pure bloody mindedness we eventually arrive. The ticket seller is away, says a policeman, but we can pay now and get the ticket later. Surely this is a classic case of putting the money straight into their pockets. Thirty minutes later none other than Mahatma Gandhi himself, riding a donkey, approached us from around the pyramids. Actually it was Ticket Man who had more than a passing resemblence to the great man. He patiently filled out the ticket then left. The pyramids themselves were interesting enough although a little variable in quality. We returned by river boat, rather than road, shunning the possibility of hitching for the shortest possible route.

The next day we headed to across the river to catch the bus to Atbara, our next stop, but found that ... there were no more buses. We made the foolish error of not getting up early enough and everyone left without us.

The day afterwards we got up early and caught a minibus to Atbara which Lonely Planet intimates is a dump with its main purpose in life providing transport connections so that people can leave to other places. We found a loqanda next to the fruit and vege market - giving us a sterling view of the cardboard roofing used by the market vendors through the broken windows - and spent the rest of the day relaxing. Its shower didn't work - not good considering the heat - but there wasn't much in the way of alternatives so we coughed up our five pounds and settled in. Atbara actually turned out to be quite a bustling wee town and, if there wasn't so much litter, potentially a quite attractive one too.

Our next aim is to get to the highlight of Sudan tourism: the pyramids at Begrawiya. The easiest way to get there is to go to the main town of Shendi, just to the south, and backtrack. Shendi it is and, organised and early, we roll into Shendi and head to the only loqanda in town. We have to register our presence at the security office before moving in and then head back to the loqanda. The price? 50 Sudanese pounds (five times what we normally pay at similar places) says Greedy Manager With Monopoly On Cheap Accommodation (GMWMOCA). There's one other hotel in town and it has three stars by its name and charges commensurate prices. We bargain. GMWMOCA insists that for security reasons we have to take one of his stupidly overpriced double rooms rather than a single bed outside. Eventually a Congolese chap also staying there helps get the price down to seven per person but, keen to avoid GMWMOCA we leave anyway. Where to sleep?

Resting at a juice bar (and quenching our thirst with some fantastic ice-cold guava juice and low, low prices) we chat to a couple of locals and tell them how crap the accommodation scene in their town is. One guy, a tuk-tuk driver offers to help, for free, so we jump in as he fires up his two-stroke beast and heads for various local places he knows. No luck. He makes some calls. We visit some locals in the suburbs. Night falls. We're about to give up, envisaging a night by the Nile, when he tries one more place, a friend of his. "No worries," they say, "come on in." So we stayed with a local for free, had a good chat, a high quality shower, donuts and coffee and an invitation to come back whenever we wanted.

Waking early the next day we headed for the bus station to catch the bus to Begrawiya. "Easy," say the locals, "go to Begrawiya station." Which we do. Bus Ticket Man wants to charge us the full price - six Sudanese pounds - to Atbara (about 120km away) for the ride to the pyramids (about 20km). Not good enough. We try to bargain: he's not budging. We wait. It starts to get really hot. He offers us five each. Not good enough. After a while Paul spots a policeman and, recalling advice that if someone is trying to rip us off we should see the police. Policeman explains that Bus Ticket Man is right but if we don't want to pay full price, why don't we just catch the local bus to Begrawiya village from the souk bus station for two pounds? Policeman then gives us a lift to the bus station and we do just that. The bus drops us off in Begrawiya village, a few kilometres from the pyramids in the midday heat. We walk across some of the desert until we find a shady tree, rest there for a few hours and then continue.

Approaching the pyramids a small local boy living nearby offers us free accommodation (thus saving us the hassle of getting to Shendi or Khartoum the same evening) and so we spend a good deal of time pottering around. We cooked our own rice (I carry some food and utensils with me) on a fire. Next morning we get up early, catch the sunset and leave - we would have given the little kid money but he spoiled it by demanding some anyway.

To Khartoum! The big city! Well, kind of. It's easily the biggest city we've seen in Sudan but it's ramshackle, a big suburban mishmash of low-rise buildings. It certainly has its charm but lacks a bit of the pizzaz or bustle that capitals normally have. We look around for low-cost accommodation but nothing's available so we stay at a tatty hotel in their cheapest room: no air conditioning and no TV. Not a problem about the TV but it was like trying sleeping in an oven.

The next day we check out, leave our bags and head for the Eritrean embassy which - according to Lonely Planet - is right next to the French embassy. Can't find it so we ask at the French embassy. I dust off my conversational French and ask the gendarme: he doesn't understand. I repeat myself several times. "Oh, ERRRRitrea," he says, correctly pronouncing the French 'R' and giving us directions in English much to my disgust :(. Except the Eritrean embassy has moved. Back at the French embassy Gendarme finds a guy who not only knows where the embassy is but takes us there in his car. Allez les bleus!

At the Eritrean embassy we're told that 'the rules' say that we should have applied in our country of residence. Still, he lets us fill out a form for him to send to Asmara so some suit can review it and give a response. How long will that take? Expect a response in "two to ten days". Next stop, the Ethiopia embassy. Compare and contrast: for $20 each we get a visa the same day.

We decide to try looking up the camping ground (and sailing club) called the Blue Nile Sailing Club which, brilliantly, happens to have comandeered Lord Kitchener's old gunboat, El Malek, to use as an office. As we don't have a tent they let us sleep on cushions on the mid-deck.

Time slows down as, waiting for a response for our Eritrean visa application, we get some genuine relaxation time to catch up on sleep, blogs and photos.

After finally deciding not to go to Eritrea (due to the long wait for the visa and, during this wait, the discovery that travel in Eritrea was highly restricted and subject to delays waiting for government permission) Paul sorted out a money transfer and we were on our way to Ethiopia.