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The temperature in Khartoum peaked at 49°C this weekend, today in comparison it’s only a mild 43°. The heat is deceptive in that it’s dry and so hot that you don’t sweat so much as slowly desiccate. Hence the usual warning signs that you are being fried alive no longer manifest themselves. On the first day of this heat I happily thought I was dealing quite well with it since the only physical signs I noticed was the fact that my ears felt like someone was blowtorching them (in retrospect that seems like a fairly valid reason to worry).
That same day I went to join the usual suspects at the Khartoum race track to play mixed touch rugby (we usually play one field over from the Sudanese Polo team which presents a particularly surreal montage against the backdrop of the local mosque). The race track is around five or six km from Khartoum airport which is positioned in the dead centre of the city and means that most daily functions (including our game) are performed to the tune of the incoming and outgoing Sudan airways flights.
Ten minutes into the game I was bent double clutching my knees as if somehow I could rehydrate from my own sweat by osmosis through my palms. Twenty minutes in and I was unable to stand without spinning; the world was considerately staying still but inside my neurons were rearranging themselves in a giant game of musical chairs. If I concentrated mid hoarse breath I could hear them conga lining to “feeling hot hot hot”. The only thing that kept me going was sheer competitiveness, it was a tight game and we were losing by just one try.
Just as I was about to suggest a week’s hammock break before the next try, the munitions dump next to the airport exploded. It was quite impressive, deep booms punctuated by higher staccato bangs, going on continuously without pause. I’ve never been in a war zone but if I ever end up in one I will make sure to remark “this reminds me of the time I was playing rugby in Khartoum, terribly funny story you know…” Within a couple of minutes all the players had their security radios out, the contrast in agencies was marked, the UN in detail restricted staff movements to a two metre radius of their toilet bowls with orders to report any unexploded ordinances and to tie blankets over their heads and count to ten whereas the EC was punctuated by the lone voice of a woman saying “what is the situation? Over. Can anyone give me an update? Over”.
I in turn texted my work security officer but only received a text from a friend in Cape Town in reply, “the weather here is lovely” he said. I took it as a good sign. From the various radio traffic it turned out that rather than some sort of civil conflict (which was what was on everyone’s minds, there being a lot of SPLM militia in the city at the moment) that the munitions dump, placed near to the airport, had also been placed in close vicinity to a truck that was in the sort of state that led it to spontaneously combust. All of us were gathered round one UN radio holding the rugby balls and gulping down water as quickly as gravity allowed to hear this update. After careful consideration of the situation (explosions still ongoing in the background) we did the only logical responsible thing - we agreed to play to best of three.
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