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It's 10:30am and Hamid has done his day's work; he's on his way home. He opens a purple gate into a mud walled garden. There's colour everywhere: pink bougainvillea, blue water butt, yellow hosepipe, green leafy lemon tree, a red plastic ablutions watering-can and brilliant yellow sunflowers. I'm offered a chair in the garden while they hurriedly fuss in the fudulling room. There are sparrows busying themselves in the bushes, and up on the side of the house are metal cans inhabited by pigeons.
Inside I am offered Eid shortbread, sweets and dates. Coffee's coming - "tamam" I enthusiastically reply. Hamid introduces me to his son and goes off to get changed. Various daughters come to shake hands, giggle, and run off. They are cute. When the soldier returns he is wearing flip flops and jalabaya; looking much more at home and much more like someone's grandfather. Unusually, for such fudulling sessions, we are joined by his wife and two student daughters. We have a pleasant conversation. The girls are in their forth year at Dilling University studying Social Development (their grades were not good enough to get into Khartoum). They're just home for Eid, shortly to return to their boarding house for the final semester. They ask if I know Skye (another English volunteer teacher) and we agree she's "tamam" (perfect). The mother is interested that my parents are alive and well and living in the South of England. Seventy one is a fine old age, she tells me. I comment on the coffee, it's delicious, and she tells me the spices are habba haan (cardamom) and gilfa (cinnamon).
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