Submitted by: Julie, NM (Julie’s website can be found here)
I don’t remember his name. It must be Mohamed. Dr. Mohamed. When we met him, I was leaning against “El Jeepo,” our 2008 Jeep Wrangler, and sweating in the 115° heat.
I pulled down the brim of my floppy hat, squinting to see him approach in the midday sun. Sweat dripped down the inside of my conservative, long sleeve, navy blue top and onto my ankle-length black skirt. My husband Russ was underneath the truck in the dirt, neck craned thoughtfully, brow furrowed, greasy hands knowingly tending to El Jeepo’s clutch.
We were seventeen months into our overland journey through Africa — from Cape Town to Cairo. A half hour earlier, we’d set out north from Khartoum headed to the Sudanese border with Egypt, when the clutch suddenly went limp. Russ skillfully maneuvered our truck off the busy main road and roll onto a narrow residential side alley.
As I anxiously awaited Russ’s diagnosis, I tried to calm myself with a little prayer. “Please make this easy to fix.” Breakdowns are a hassle for anyone, but when living out of a rooftop tent while driving through Africa, they are potentially disastrous. We were in a foreign country where we knew next to no one — everything unfamiliar, from the language to the dress code. I was sweating from more than the heat.
Dr. Mohamed walked up to us, wearing khaki pants and a button-down shirt over a slight paunch. With his distinguished manner and graying hair, he looked to be about 60. He carried a small silver tray which held two large glasses of purple juice.
“Hello,” he introduced himself in perfect English, his eyes smiling through his wire-rimmed glasses. “I live just there.” He pointed to the building next door. “It’s so hot out, I thought you could use a cold drink.”
Russ emerged from underneath the Jeep, dusting off the back of his head and pants to greet our generous neighbor. We looked gratefully at the ice cubes bobbing in the cool liquid. As we accepted his offering, Dr. Mohamed joked, “Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about getting cars to work. I’m an obstetrician. I just know how to get a baby out of a woman.”
Among Americans, Sudan is better known for terrorism than hospitality. We hear about the horrors of Darfur and the secession of South Sudan. We are told that Osama bin Laden made his home there in the early ‘90s. But a government does not necessarily represent its people, and the news rarely reports the whole human story.
There’s another, more beautiful narrative to be told about the people of Sudan. We were taken aback by the kindness of Dr. Mohamed towards two complete strangers, but we probably shouldn’t have been surprised given our experiences during three weeks driving through the country. From the moment we crossed the Ethiopian border into Sudan, we were greeted with friendly waves and shouts of “Welcome! Can I help you?” When we’d walk on the sidewalks of Khartoum and stop at one of the ubiquitous “tea ladies,” we rarely paid for our own drinks. A local would treat us as his guest.
That sweltering day in Khartoum, one Sudanese after another selflessly helped us. After we’d enjoyed our cold drink and Russ had diagnosed El Jeepo’s problem as a burst hydraulic line to the clutch, we called Abdelsalam, the mechanic who’d recently replaced our broken suspension coils. Within thirty minutes he came to our rescue. He picked us up in his car and brought us to AFI, a high-tech hydraulic repair facility run by his friend Mohamed.
This Mohamed, a relaxed, middle-aged professional with a shaved head and a bit of gray in his beard, also welcomed us warmly and said he’d be happy to help. Minutes later, Russ and I found ourselves standing at a table, having lunch with the AFI team. We followed their lead, ripping pieces of flatbread to scoop up delicious ful—mashed fava beans mixed with garlic, onions and tomato—as well as Sudanese falafel, salad of chopped tomato and cucumber with feta, and halva (a blonde, crumbly, decadent sesame confection) for dessert. An hour later, Mohamed handed Russ a newly fabricated hose. No charge. Then an AFI employee drove us back to El Jeepo.
As it turns out, Russ wasn’t able to fit the new hydraulic hose to the clutch master cylinder because a rubber bushing the size of a pencil eraser was missing. He watched a YouTube video of the repair where the mechanic says that if you lose this little bushing, “you’re shit out of luck.” Lucky for us, we knew a place that could fabricate one: AFI. Mohamed and his team did just that for us the next day. Again, free of charge, lunch included.
Imagine if the whole world were this kind and hospitable to strangers. The Sudanese live from their hearts, put themselves in their neighbor’s shoes, give freely. It’s absolutely beautiful.
Russ and I visited 69 countries on our five-year journey around the world. Sudan is high on our list of favorites. It’s insanely hot there. But it’s the warmth we’ll remember.
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