Translation courtesy of Clara Bonfiglio
Several posts ago, as I wrote about our journey across Sudan, I have dedicated a great part of my tales to express the immeasurable hospitality of the Sudanese people, who in every corner of the country touched our hearts in such a way that made us stay there quite a lot more than we expected. Our stay in Sudan, as in every other country, started as one of ordinary travelers but ended up becoming pretty much like a family visit. Such is the case, that by the time we left Khartoum, we already knew we were going to return soon. Ahmed, our wonderful friend, was getting married in August, and considered that our presence in his wedding was essential. That's why he decided to treat us both with a plane ticket to Khartoum from wherever we were so we could attend his wedding. We accepted without hesitation because this is what travelling is all about, being surprised, changing direction, establishing bonds around the world and expanding our own family.
The PELNI*
experience
May began and
ended with trouble. As soon as we boarded the Bukit Siguntang at
23:00 hrs. in Makassar, we finally understood what that likeable member
of the crew that brought us from Kalimantan, had meant by saying "enjoy
that trip". It is unimaginable the chaos that was this boat when
we boarded. Thousands of people occupying every corner of it. The
overcrowded communal bedrooms, crammed with people sleeping next to
each other, intoxicating cigarette smoke floating in the air,
mountains of bags, packages, boxes with fruits and all kinds of crap.
People crowded into every available corner outside the bedroom, in
hallways, stairs, lying on cardboard or empty rice bags to separate
them from a grimy floor, crying children and babies everywhere,
bathrooms giving off corrosive smell…you can imagine, no? Surely
not. The only spot we found was on the floor of the corridor leading
to the kitchen, a permanent transit space with a bullhorn blasting
announcements directly above us with a piercing volume, especially at
4.30 am during the first daily call to pray. There, in that oppressive
space, we spent the next 36 hrs. sailing to Kupang in West Timor.
