Jerry Flay negotiates Sudan in the course of driving a Land Rover from Johannesburg to London.
As we entered Sudan at the southeastern crossing of Gallabat, a group of tall men clad in long and incredibly white robes waved cheerily at us. One came to the car and offered his hand.
As two fingers of my right hand were broken, I offered my left in return. Big mistake. He shouted and waved my hand away angrily.
Although truly African, Sudan has strong Arabian influences among which, it transpired, was the custom of designating the left hand for dunny duty.
Unintentionally, I had insulted him and, as he turned out to be the customs officer, we were rather slower than might be hoped in crossing the border.
The largest country in Africa, Sudan is presented in two diametrically opposed parts, neatly punctuated by the capital, Khartoum. During the journey from the southeast border towards Khartoum, flat semi-arid plains roll out before you, mirage oases shimmering in the midday heat.
Small, stockaded villages punctuate these sparse grasslands, herds of goats and cattle are tended by small children and the dry, hot wind burns your face.
Heading north, you encounter the first towns, bustling with activity. Yards stacked full of logs from the fast diminishing rainforests, men hurrying hither and thither on dilapidated bicycles, lorries thundering along the new tarmac roads crammed with thousands of watermelons.
Outside most towns are what appear to be miniature ruined fortresses, built of mud and sand. The desert is never far away, and you could be forgiven for thinking you had stumbled across a disused set for a remake of Beau Geste.
Every five kilometres, another roadblock, another request to surrender a copy of your travel documents. The requests are polite, yet insistent and, as the soldiers who make them are heavily armed, you accede with a smile.
Inevitably in a country at war with itself, Sudan has its fair share of men with guns. In the south they are war veterans. At the border you first meet these scarred, rugged men - boys really - of 18 for whom armed service is necessarily active and bloody combat.
As a tourist you pose no threat, and by and large will be ignored, unless you fail to produce the paperwork. We drove near the battle-lines without trouble but once, when we declined to surrender a copy of our travel documents in Atbara, Neil, our driver, was held at gunpoint until the documents were produced.
If you are lucky enough to find a working photocopier in the south, book it for a couple of hours. The Sudanese administration is swamped by a desire to see things in triplicate.
Approaching Khartoum, the ancient city at the confluence of the Blue and White Niles, the land is again bare, save for the green strip along the river banks.
With the prospect of large oil revenues, Khartoum attracts business people from all over the world, and they lurk by day in their smart hotels that have cropped up along the Nile, a stark contrast to the remainder of the city, a low-rise, amorphous mass of crumbling, sunbaked buildings.
In the suburbs, trees line the mud roads and provide a modicum of shade from the intensity of the sun. Across the river is one of Africa's most famous markets, the Omdurman Souk, but for authenticity, the Khartoum Souk is unrivalled.
Cheap and plentiful gold crowds every dark and twisting alleyway, evoking fantasies of a piratical horde.
Butchers, their wares hanging raw in the suffocating heat of the midday sun, provide some shade for the many spice and fruit stalls. Only a strange melee of footwear and photographic shops betray the incursion of the 21st century.
Along the roads that skirt the periphery of the market sit hundreds of taxis, ageing Fords and Mercedes. Taxi travel is cheap at the asking price in Khartoum, and even cheaper at the 90 per cent discount most cabbies will happily negotiate.
With a population that is 70 per cent Sunni Muslim, and edging ever closer to the strict values of the Koran, Khartoum is not a city for the sinner. Alcohol is strictly banned.
Our tentative inquiries at the embassy produced a stern rebuke, and even the Hilton serves non-alcoholic beer and delicious but innocuous cocktails. Night is a time for feasting on delicious grilled meats and spicy savouries, not for hedonism.
This lack of stimulant has not dulled the spirits of the Sudanese. Even those charged with relieving you of your dinar for yet another spurious visitor tax do so with a grin. If you refuse to pay, they shrug their shoulders and wave you on with a sportingly friendly gesture. Bribery and corruption are inevitable, but in Sudan we experienced less menace than further south.
Heading north from Khartoum, the land turns yellow, and vegetation becomes less frequent. We were staggered by the sight of a giant oil rig, rising out of the semi-desert like an alien creation, its silver superstructure glittering in the sun, dwarfing the small, ruined pyramids scattered at its feet.
Passing Atbara, you are confronted with 1000km of nothing, the Nubian Desert. Only the Nile and railway line remind you there is a limit to this seemingly endless expanse of sand. Once famous for its railways, Sudan still offers 1km of rail for every 2km of road, but economic decline has meant they have fallen into disrepair. The trains are old, rusted and infrequent, and the lines, half covered by drifting sands, a monument to former glory.
Only those who have been detained at the pleasure of the desert know its majesty, and the fear it induces. With no apparent end to the ochre plains and wind-carved dunes, there seems to be no way out and, for a moment its claustrophobic captivity is intense.
Driving only on sand, you navigate by the railway line and eventually, after several nights camping on the banks of the Nile under a rich, star-filled sky beside an old tree, you will come to Wadi Halfa, Sudan's most northerly town.
Originally a prosperous town with a grand hotel, Wadi Halfa was flooded to create Lake Nasser, and now lies beneath its azure waters. In its place, a motley collection of single-storey mud huts serve as the terminus for the Khartoum Train and the Aswan ferry, both weekly affairs.
It has not rained there since 1983, and the often unbearable heat, usually between 45 and 50 degrees, induces a torpor which is all-embracing.
Wadi Halfa is a place where you cry twice, once when you arrive and again when you leave. To understand the charm of its barren, dirty alleys, its tawdry market and its elemental accommodation you must go there and feel the purity which comes only from absence of all things Western; it offers a magic that for me is more cleansing than any soap.
By day you sit and sip coffee, brewed at the roadside by tiny wizened women in silver samovars, a dark sludgy muddy concoction of aromatic spices, heady and intoxicating as I imagine a cocktail of hashish might be. It is very strong, and best avoided if your stomach is weak.
The facilities leave much to be desired, especially running water. Here, you avoid washing, as cleanliness makes everything else seem appallingly dirty.
Luxury is unlikely in the $2-a-night Halfa Nile Hotel. What pass for showers are indeed basic, small dark stone closets with gourds of brackish water.
You fill an old bucket from these and drench yourself with this dubious liquid. The hotels segregate men and women; a courtyard each. You lie on an old string bed under the stars and yarn the night away with your neighbours.
Any visit to Halfa means an encounter with Midhat, the town's self-appointed one-man tourist industry. The locals guide you to him and he will watch over you during your stay. He owns a pet monkey, a crocodile and a small mountain which he may let you climb.
Trust him and give him what remains of your dinar when you leave; he is excellent with officialdom. If you see him, say, "Hi from Mr Jerry and the Beautiful Lady Rose".
Sudan instills unshakeable images in the memory: the oppressive and ever-present heat, the shimmering mirages in the pampas of the southern grasslands and then the north, a land of peace and vast emptiness, the dark plodding presence of the Nile cutting her way through the sandy wastes, leaving behind a trail of green vegetation that marks her narrow path.
We spent 28 days there, which at times seemed an eternity, and then you blinked and the days had passed. A place of extraordinary appeal, of romance and of tranquillity. Somewhere to return to, I thought, as I waved goodbye, carefully using my right hand.
CHECKLIST
Visas: New Zealand citizens require visas which are available at all Sudanese embassies. Alien and Travel Permits will be granted on entry but must be renewed in Khartoum after three days.
Health: Take malarial prophylactics, immunise against typhoid, yellow fever and hepatitis and do not drink tap water.
